Snake in the Grass

by Dominic Luke

‘The same as what?’

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly … boyfriend material … or however you want to put it.’

  ‘Do you want to be boyfriend material?’

  ‘No. Course not. Don’t be daft. Well … maybe. Sometimes. If I met the right girl, I’d like to … to know I had it in me.’

  ‘Well, you do. You do have it in you.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘That day at your flat: I saw a different side to you.’

  ‘I thought we’d agreed never to mention that again? Anyway, that was with you. I can talk to you. Most girls wouldn’t be interested in … in all that stuff.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’ Lydia pressed the button one last time, stood up. ‘There. I’ve finished.’

  ‘Thank fuck for that.’ Richard could not get into his clothes quick enough. ‘Remind me,’ he said from inside his T-shirt, searching for the arm holes, ‘never, ever to come visiting you ever again.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  GWEN RESISTED ONCE more the urge to pinch herself, making do instead with a sidelong glance at Basil pushing the shopping trolley beside her.

  Basil in Waitrose. Basil pushing the trolley. Basil helping with the shopping.

  What on earth was going on?

  The only drawback was that his presence was so discombobulating that she was making a hash of her slick and well-practised Waitrose routine. On a good day she could be up and down the aisles and out in twenty minutes. Today she was having to go back for things – they’d skipped one aisle completely – and she found herself comparing price labels uneasily, wondering if Basil would notice that she occasionally preferred brand names to own-label.

  She nudged the trolley, steering Basil surreptitiously back towards the aisle they had missed, wondering what people would think, seeing them together. Notice would be taken. Comments would be made. It would be all round the village. ‘Did you see … could you believe your eyes … Basil in Waitrose … well I never, what is the world coming to?’ They would assume it was down to her, assume that she was a fish-wife, had nagged her poor husband into submission.

  They had already run into Mr Wetherby, although he had been more interested in his own woes than in Basil. The staff in Waitrose, he complained, insisted on moving everything around. They did it to annoy him. They probably thought it was funny. It wasn’t. Where, for instance, were the tins of baked beans? They used to be here. Now they weren’t. It was a disgrace. He had a good mind to complain to the manager or write to the papers: he wasn’t going to stand for it.

  ‘That man,’ Basil had said, watching as Mr Wetherby scuttled off to buttonhole a passing assistant, ‘is a menace.’

  But Gwen had thought that Mr Wetherby looked rather pitiable today: a forlorn figure haunting the aisles like a lost soul, searching for baked beans as if they were the Holy Grail. ‘Twenty minutes,’ he’d wailed, ‘twenty minutes I’ve been in here, and blow me if I can find them. I really don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Gwen! Just the person!’

  A trumpeting voice jolted Gwen back into the present. A tall, imposing figure came swooping down on her like a vast black bat. Even Basil flinched.

  ‘Have you heard the latest, Gwen? You must have heard!’

  ‘Hello, Imelda. Have I heard what?’

  ‘It’s inconceivable, that’s what it is. Who do they think they are? I’ve never known the like, people putting themselves forward for the parish council without so much as a by-your-leave!’

  ‘Oh, that…’ Lady Darkley’s booming voice caused heads to turn, eyes to stare. It was most discomfiting. But, flanked by Basil, protected by the ramparts of the shopping trolley, Gwen felt unusually bold. She ventured to say, ‘I suppose you won’t need me, now that there are more than enough people to fill the vacancy?’

  ‘Oh no. No, no, no. You must stand. I insist. Surely you’ve handed in your nomination papers by now? No? I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll pop round later and collect them, save you a job.’

  ‘Well, if you think—’

  ‘It’s horrendous, Gwen, absolutely horrendous. As if Smithson retiring wasn’t bad enough, now I’ve got Pendleton being awkward. “I haven’t got time to go canvassing and delivering leaflets,” he said. “My dear Ronald,” I told him, “we won’t be canvassing, don’t be ridiculous. It’s not a popularity contest. Everyone knows that we are the fit and proper people to run the parish council. We’ve been doing it for years. We are ordained.” But no, he won’t have it, silly little man. The upshot is, I shall probably need two replacements. You, of course. And for the other, I’ve told Margaret Pole she will have to step in. Whatever happens, I am not – I repeat not – having those people on my parish council: that arty-farty woman who looks like she gets her clothes from a jumble sale, and that public house woman – so common. She’s only been in the village five minutes—’

  ‘That’s democracy for you!’ said Basil, breaking into the monologue impatiently.

  Gwen drew breath. How reckless, interrupting Imelda Darkley! Did Basil realize he was taking his life in his hands?

  ‘Democracy, Basil? Piffle! What’s democracy got to do with it? We don’t need democracy on the parish council. It’s a nonsense!’ Lady Darkley fixed her eyes on him. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do? Put a stop to this pantomime? It’s a criminal waste of money as much as anything, all those ballot papers and so on and so forth.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t be seen to interfere,’ said Basil loftily. ‘Everything has to be done according to procedure. Elections have to be conducted properly, all correct and above board.’

  ‘What you mean is, you can’t be bothered. You don’t want the trouble. Well. You are always quick enough to interfere when it suits you. What about that swimming pool? It didn’t even belong to you. It was paid for by public subscription. There was a covenant on the land. But that didn’t stop you. You bulldozed the pool and built a car park, and to the devil with procedure!’

  ‘That was completely different. Covenants are not worth the paper they’re written on—’

  ‘There was the old museum, too,’ Lady Darkley went on, ignoring him. ‘You closed that without consulting anyone—’

  ‘The museum wasn’t paying its way, it was surplus—’

  ‘You closed it down and then – surprise, surprise – it burnt to the ground just as people were trying to get it listed. Very convenient for you, I must say.’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting….’ Basil spluttered and stuttered, going red in the face.

  Gwen felt faint. Basil going red was an ominous sign. There was going to be the most terrible scene, right here in public, in Waitrose, next to the fresh fruit and veg – unless she did something quick! She looked round desperately for inspiration. All she could come up with were some laminated boards under Imelda Darkley’s arm.

  ‘What are those?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘What are what? Oh, these.’ Lady Darkley, who seemed quite impervious to Basil’s wrath, held the boards up. Written on the first one, in large capital letters, was WARNING: BULL IN FIELD. ‘I’ve just collected these. I’m going to put them up in Stonepit Meadow to discourage the ramblers. I’ve tried chaining up the kissing gates but they just climb over the fences.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Basil’s voice was rather strangulated. ‘You can’t chain up gates and put up notices! It’s a public right of way!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Basil. I’m not having people traipsing across Stonepit Meadow where I can see them from my lounge. They can walk on the roads, if they must walk at all. Now, Gwen, about those nomination papers.’

  ‘I’ll have them ready, Imelda.’

  Basil cleared his throat, a sign of imminent danger.

  Gwen jumped in again, wishing she could think of some way of terminating the conversation. ‘How is Cally?’

  ‘My dear woman, how would I know? That gal is a law unto herself. Now, another thing while I remember: about this Exhibition—’

&nbs
p; Gwen felt a chill of fear. What was coming next?

  ‘Am I right in thinking that jumble-sale woman is involved in all that nonsense? The public house woman, too, from what one hears.’

  ‘They have helped out a little—’

  ‘Yes, I thought so. Well, I’ve a good mind to put a stop to it. It’s not the sort of thing we want to encourage in the village.’

  ‘You can’t, you mustn’t!’ Gwen was appalled: appalled at Imelda Darkley’s suggestion, appalled too at her own brass neck, daring to contradict the queen of the village. But she had no choice. She couldn’t rely on Basil, who wouldn’t have defended the Exhibition even if he hadn’t been choking with rage. If the Exhibition was to be saved, it would be down to her – if she could only find the nerve.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid … I mean, it’s all arranged now, the notices have gone out and it’s been advertised in the local paper. The tickets have been printed, too.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Lady Darkley’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, if you’re sure. I don’t suppose there can be too much harm in it if you’re involved, Gwen. But you can tell that jumble-sale woman that I’ve got my eye on her – the public house woman, too. You can tell them just what I think of this parish council business. I haven’t finished with them yet, you can be sure of that!’

  With that final warning, Lady Darkley swept off, cutting a swathe through the other shoppers, swatting them aside with her laminated signs.

  Gwen’s heart was doing somersaults. She needed to sit down – to lie down. A darkened room. A cold compress. But there was the shopping to do, Basil to deal with, nowhere to hide in the wide vistas of Waitrose.

  Steam was coming out of Basil’s ears. ‘That woman! Who does she think she is? What she said about the museum: that was slander!’

  ‘Well, Basil, it was your own fault,’ said Gwen impetuously, not having the strength to pick her words carefully. ‘You wouldn’t keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘Me! Me, keep my mouth shut!’ Basil glowered at her, eyes nearly popping out of his head.

  This is quite ridiculous, thought Gwen. Rowing in public – in Waitrose – by the cauliflowers. Which reminds me….

  She reached out, plucked a cauliflower, dropped it in the trolley. This simple, practical act calmed her. She began to breathe again.

  ‘This parish council business,’ Basil said. ‘I absolutely forbid it. I won’t let you do it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Basil.’ She rather liked the sound of that: don’t be silly, Basil. If it was good enough for Lady Darkley, why should it not be good enough for her? ‘Don’t be silly, Basil. There’s no way I can get out of it now. Anyway, I shan’t get elected so there’s no need to worry.’ (Who would vote for a newcomer, twice married; a fishwife who bullied her husband into going shopping?)

  Easing Basil aside, Gwen took control of the shopping trolley, wheeled it up the fruit and veg aisle, paused, picked over the Golden Delicious, decided against them, set off again, all the while bracing herself for the inevitable outburst. But to her surprise, Basil – stomping along beside her – kept his peace. Basil showing forbearance? Whatever next!

  ‘This way, Basil. Come along.’ Gwen turned into another aisle, back on track now, slipping into the well-worn groove of her shopping routine. She reached for some tins of Heinz baked beans (they were in the same pace they’d always been – Mr Wetherby must be going potty in his old age), ignoring the discount brand, waited for Basil to pass comment, daring him.

  But all he said as they moved on again was, ‘You are becoming very bossy, Gwendolen.’

  He sounded (and looked) sulky, resentful, but was there something else too, some other element in his tone of voice, in the way he was plodding along beside her. One might almost have thought that he was quite pleased beneath that bluff exterior, as if he quite liked her being bossy once in a while. But that couldn’t be right; she must be imagining it.

  Gwen slowly got her breathing back under control, felt her heart slowing to its normal rate. The dizziness faded away. She must gainsay Basil more often if this was the effect it had. And had she not saved the Exhibition single-handedly? She was actually looking forward to the Exhibition. She had not realized how much until now. And there was not long to go, Easter almost upon them, the opening ceremony just round the corner.

  She experienced a surge of excitement, felt like hopping and skipping around the aisles, singing too. But of course she didn’t. One couldn’t very well do something like that in Waitrose.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THEY CALLED IT Good Friday, but Dean could not see anything good about it. For one thing, he’d been bullied into turning out and dancing with the Morris men in honour of the Exhibition. Dean didn’t give a fig for the poxy Exhibition. He had better things to do with his time, like staying in bed (this was meant to be a holiday) or thinking about Cally.

  Actually, he was thinking about Cally. He couldn’t not think about Cally: he’d tried and it didn’t work.

  On the whole, though, he was rather proud of himself. He’d gritted his teeth, got on with the job; hadn’t sulked like a little kid, hadn’t said do I have to even once. Quite a crowd had gathered in front of the village hall and he hated being stared at, but he had acquitted himself well, proved there was something he was good at, something that the gawpers wouldn’t have the first clue about. Plus, he looked good in his Morris kit. Cally had said so. Fit, she had said: fit.

  Cally! Why wasn’t she here?

  Amanda, of course, had to do her best to burst his bubble. ‘You were out of sync in the middle section, Dean. The others were waving their handkerchiefs when you were still twizzling.’ She sounded smug. He despised her.

  ‘I wasn’t out of sync. It was the others. What do you know about it anyway?’

  ‘She’s right, though.’ Another know-all butted in. ‘Even I could see it – once she’d pointed it out, like.’

  Dean glowered at Old George. It was none of his business. He was just an old curmudgeon, the sort who shouted at kids playing in the street and claimed they were making too much noise (Dean had a long memory). Why was George talking to Amanda anyway? Was he some sort of paedophile? Serve Amanda right if he was.

  Dean wiped his face on his sleeve. He was hot and sweaty after his exertions, and it was a warm day. The sun was shining, making his head ache. He needed a drink and a rest. Why were they all standing around like lemons? Where was Cally? She’d said she’d be here. But then Lady Darkley hadn’t shown up yet, either.

  Another time he’d have gone home and changed, but he desperately wanted Cally to see him in his Morris kit again – although, now he came to think about it, she’d been quite drunk when she’d said that stuff about him looking fit: drunk and stoned. What if she—

  But the kiss! The kiss! He couldn’t be mistaken about that, could he?

  Only why hadn’t she called or texted since then? Was she really not here yet – really, really, really not?

  He looked round, searching the crowd. His mother was waving to him (God, how embarrassing); Basil had shown up too (you didn’t like to even begin imagining what he was thinking: the word sissified probably came into it somewhere). Sandra was nearby (he was so over Sandra, she was nothing compared to Cally). The squire, perspiring freely, looked like a dumpling in his white Morris kit. The panther was wearing some sort of poncho, it looked ridiculous (but best not to think about the panther). Mr Armitage from college was with her; you’d have thought he’d have known better (though he was a bit weird). The withered old Wetherbys had staggered down from their house on Well Lane (shouldn’t they be in a home at their age?). Mrs nosey-parker Pole was ear-bending the vicar. A girl reporter from the local paper was making notes: there was a photographer with her (he hadn’t taken any pictures of the dancing, had he?). There were people, people, people everywhere you looked (it was almost as if this stupid Exhibition was actually important), but there was no sign of the one person he most wanted to see. Cally really, really, really wasn’t
there.

  No Richard, either, but that was a bonus. Perhaps he was avoiding Sandra. Rumour was they’d split up.

  All heads turned at the sound of a car engine. A massive four-by-four came hurtling down High Street and screeched to a halt outside the pub, all but blocking the road. Lady Darkley got out on one side, done up in her best tweed and green wellies, a chunky handbag dangling off her arm. Cally got out on the other side.

  Cally.

  Dean broke out in a fresh sweat. His heart moved up a gear.

  Cally.

  And she was looking at him – smiling at him. Oh shit! Surely the human body wasn’t designed to cope with such stress. All his systems were overloading.

  ‘Nice of her to show up,’ said Old George drily.

  ‘Nice of who to show up?’ Dean couldn’t take his eyes off Cally.

  ‘Her. Lady Darkness. Kept us waiting long enough.’

  ‘Cally’s had her hair done,’ said Amanda. ‘It doesn’t suit her.’

  Dean ignored this. Amanda didn’t know what she was talking about. Cally’s hair looked brilliant, just like a pop star’s. He would tell her so when he got the chance (good job Amanda had pointed it out).

  But it was impossible to get near Cally in the crush. The crowd was surging towards the village hall where there was a ribbon tied across the doorway. Lady Darkley moved up to it, flanked by Dick Emery on one side, Mrs Pole on the other. The Stasi was elbowed out of the way, the panther was ignored. Silence fell. Dick Emery stepped forward.

  ‘A short prayer.’

  The prayer ended. ‘And now,’ said Dick Emery, ‘if I might ask Lady Darkley to say a few words.’

  ‘A few words, my arse,’ said Old George at Dean’s side. ‘Why don’t they just get on with it?’

  Lady Darkley’s voice boomed out, so loud it rocked you back on your heels. Dean tried to make out what she was going on about. ‘I will begin, if I may, by saying what a great honour it is for you to have me here today….’ Dean blinked. She hadn’t really said that, had she?