If Brenda was the Mother of the House, then Ben Oakley was the Father. Aged 52, a widowed market trader from Birmingham, he was so close to Brenda in terms of age and outlook, that for a brief moment she even considered a meeting in the Romping Room when he suggested it. She changed her mind after he let slip the news that Ursula had lured him, too and, like Marc, Ursula had made him pay for the pleasure (of her company and chat only, Ben had insisted) often referring to the way “younger men have more going for them.”
During the four full days they had been resident in the I-Spy house, Ursula had managed to alienate just about everyone other than Dylan. She had turned what should have been an enjoyable, knockabout week, into a trial by innuendo and insult, and Brenda found herself counting the hours to D-Day. Any thoughts of what she might do with the £25,000 prize (which she had never considered much of a possibility anyway) were pushed to the back of her mind in the simple desire to be out, home and with good, honest folk she knew and could trust.
Her Wednesday evening one to one with Master Spy took her mind from some of it, when the disembodied voice asked, “Have you received all the ingredients for your Thursday evening dinner, Brenda?”
“Yes thank you.”
“You’re under no obligation to do so, but would you like to tell Master Spy what the meal will be?”
“I gave this a lot of consideration before I came into the house,” Brenda admitted. “I enjoyed Anne’s apple pie, Marc’s vegetarian lasagne and Dylan’s beef goulash, but I come from a mining area in the north of England, where traditionally hard working men and women needed solid, nourishing food which wasn’t hard to prepare and came within their limited budgets, so I’ve chosen to make a meat and potato pie.”
“It sounds delicious, but does it come within the remit of nourishing, inexpensive and relatively simple to prepare?” Master Spy asked.
Brenda wondered about the actor behind the voice, how old (s)he was and whether (s)he had ever even heard of such plain food.
“Yes,” she replied at length. “In fact, when I was a child, it would be considered something of a treat, usually enjoyed on a weekend when money was too tight to buy a roast. And I have my own way of doing it, and I like to spread a light dusting of flour on the crust after it’s done.”
She felt a thrill of good humour run through her when she said it, her mind’s eye focussing on an image of Joe applauding her. She almost laughed aloud when that mental vision changed to one of Joe screaming at her for her habit of dusting the finished pie with flour.
“You’re wasting flour,” he would shout. “This is a meat and tater, not a bloody summer fruit pie, and the lorry drivers don’t care whether it has a pretty dusting of snow on it or not.”
Master Spy’s voice brought her back to the reality of the cramped video room. “Alcohol is banned in the house, Brenda, but what wine would you normally serve with this meal?”
Brenda could not help herself this time she laughed aloud. “Bottled beer,” she said. “Brown ale, light ale, milk stout, maybe even a bottle of Guinness.”
“You’re not a lover of wine?” Master Spy asked.
“I love a glass of wine, but you have to consider this meal in context. In a mining town such as Sanford, during the fifties and sixties, wine would not have been on the weekly shopping list.”
She came out of the video room feeling a little brighter, having educated Master Spy (whom she saw as a young, cultured actor whose life had been a constant round of cocktail parties) on the finer points of colliery life in the mid-20th century. The news that her popularity had risen a point or two helped.
***
Watching Brenda’s performance in the video room as it fed to the network, Scott Naughton shook his head. “Where the hell do we get these actresses to play Master Spy?”
Alongside him, Katy followed Brenda’s progress back to the living room and a potential confrontation with Ursula. “Try 8. Looks like there’s a row brewing up.”
“Cut to 8,” Naughton ordered.
“What do you mean about our Master Spy actresses?” Katy inquired.
“Brenda is how old? Fifty-five? She comes from a working class area in the north of England. What would they know about wines back then?”
Katy shrugged. “Search me. I know nothing about wines, now.”
“So why did Master Spy ask the question?” Naughton grumbled. “It’s time we got some people on this show who’ve lived a little.” With an eye on the main feed, he said into his microphone, “Master Spy, get ready to intervene if this turns nasty.”
“Lived like you, you mean?” Katy asked. “Shot a few baddies in the Falklands?”
“It was Bosnia, not the Falklands,” Naughton snapped, “and I didn’t shoot up a few baddies, as you put it. We were part of the UN peace-keeping mission.” He narrowed his eyes on the screen once more. “Go to 12. This is hotting up.”
***
“Good long session in there. Pouring your heart out, were you, Granny?”
Coming from anyone but Ursula, the remark would have been teasing, jocular, but with the addition of the ridiculous title and uttered by the shapely blonde, it finally got to Brenda.
“Can I ask what your problem is, Ursula?”
The baby blue eyes stared innocently into one of the cameras (and Naughton ordered a quick switch to 13). “I don’t have a problem, Brenda.”
Cheeks colouring, her gorge rising, Brenda rounded on her. “Aside from the pole sticking out of your backside.” Her voice became a hiss. “In my job, I meet plenty of objectionable men and women. People who have no patience to wait their turn, people who are never satisfied no matter what you do for them. But I have never come across anyone as arrogant, spiteful and vindictive as you. I don’t know where you went wrong in life, lady, but someone should have put you over their knee and tanned your arse until it was raw.”
***
In the control room, Helen blanched. “Should we bleep that out?”
“What? Arse?” Katy demanded. “That’s nothing.”
“I still think we should bleep it out.”
***
Back in the living room, the argument quickly became more heated.
“At least I’m not trying to live my fifteen minutes of fame before I snuff it,” Ursula shouted.
“No? You could have fooled me,” Brenda snapped.
In the background, Ben could be heard muttering “hear, hear,” and Ursula turned her fury on him.
“And what is it with you? A pair of crumblies sticking together, or are you hoping to get her knickers off?”
Dylan laughed, Ben blushed.
“Hey cool it, gals,” Dylan suggested. “We don’t wanna be coming to blows.”
“And you can shut it, too, you gormless sod,” Brenda snapped. “You’ve been jumping her since we got here.”
“Hey, Granny, this is a free country and it ain’t like I forced her.”
“And less of the granny,” Brenda retorted. She turned her fire on Ursula once more. “You’re little better than a whore, tarting yourself for the cameras.”
“You can’t speak to me like that,” Ursula screamed. “I’m under the doctor.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Brenda growled. “You’ve been under all the men in this house at one time or another.”
Tanya cackled, Anne Willis applauded (back in Sanford, half the town, including Joe and his crew, cheered Brenda on) and the men tried to look away.
The voice of Master Spy filled the room. “Ladies, this argument is getting personal. May I suggest you back off and chill out a little?”
Brenda glowered into the nearest camera. “And you can bugger off, too, you half-wit.”
She turned on her heels and marched out of the room.
***
In the control room, Naughton breathed a loud sigh of relief. “Thank god for that. For a minute I thought they’d come to blows.”
“It would have been an interesting scenario,” Katy commented
. “The old mare against the young viper. My money would be on Ursula.”
Naughton snorted. “You think? I’ve met women like Brenda many times. She may be getting on a bit, but never bet against experience. She would have made mincemeat of that little tramp.”
From her seat, Helen shook her head. “Can she speak like that to Master Spy?”
Naughton shrugged. “I don’t see why not. The rules say that the Housies are obliged to respond to Master Spy. They don’t say anything about telling her to bugger off, or calling her a half-wit.” He removed his head set, and leaned back in his seat, allowing Katy to take over direction. “Besides, I don’t know who we have on as Master Spy today, but she is a half-wit. And quite frankly, Helen, Brenda had a point. Ursula has been winding everyone up since day one. Everyone except Dylan, and she’s been getting him up.”
“It’s what I-Spy is about,” Helen pointed out. “Showing the Housies, warts and all, to the public.”
“Then we shouldn’t complain when one of them snaps.”
“Hey up,” Katy interrupted. “Look at Brenda.”
They watched the monitor where Brenda appeared on the upper landing and marched past the ladies’ dorm.
“What’s she up to?” Naughton asked, slipping on his headset. “Go to 58 and track her.”
Katy smiled. “She’s going to the Romping Room.”
“Stick with that feed. See if anyone follows her.”
***
“You’re charging me for the room?” Joe’s disbelief was several decibels higher than normal.
Mick Chadwick, licensee of the Miner’s Arms, nodded. “It’s not my fault your members aren’t interested in your disco.”
“Yes it is,” Joe argued. “You put up that TV for them to follow Brenda.” He gestured across the room at the flatscreen TV hung on the wall.
“And you’re playing that crappy music you all listen to,” Mick responded, “but they’re all more interested in Brenda than dancing, and that’s not my fault. Besides, you put a telly up in your café for Brenda’s I-Spy week.”
“Yes, but I don’t charge people to come in and watch. They buy food.”
“And they buy ale here, but I still can’t make them dance to your rubbish. I’m sorry, Joe, as far as I’m concerned, you’re renting the room, the same as you always do.”
Joe left the bar and rejoined Sheila at their table on the podium where his disco music poured from the laptop computer and through the room’s speakers.
Ever since the formation of the Sanford 3rd Age Club, Wednesday evenings had seen the Miner’s Arms host the weekly disco, with Joe as DJ, Sheila and Brenda his assistants. It was well-supported, and Mick’s takings were guaranteed to be higher than any other weekday evening, as a consequence of which, he charged Joe only a nominal fee for the hire of the room and the sound set up.
Joe played music exclusively from the fifties, sixties and early seventies, the kind of music most of the club members had grown up with, and under normal circumstances, while Kathy Kirby blared Secret Love from the speakers, the dance floor would be packed.
Interest in Brenda’s progress at a peak, everyone sat down, filling the tables around the dance floor, all eyes on the TV set where their favourite lady was tearing into Ursula, Dylan and Master Spy with a vengeance.
“Usually, I don’t mind,” Joe complained to Sheila, “but no one’s taking a blind bit of notice of the music this week.”
“They will,” Sheila promised. “As soon as I-Spy’s focus switches from Brenda to one of the other Housies.”
“Gerra load of this,” George Robson guffawed loudly. “Brenda off to the Romping Room. What’s the betting Ben or Greg turns up in a minute?”
Sheila tutted her disapproval. “Idiot,” she said to Joe.
“Yea, George is an idiot, but not as big a fool as that Ursula for taking Brenda on.” Joe sipped his lager. “You don’t think Brenda has something on with one of the men?”
“Jealous?” Sipping daintily at a gin and tonic, Sheila gave him a teasing glance. “Of course not. She may be a little free and easy, but she’s not a tart.” She put her glass down. “You don’t know her as well as I do, Joe. She’s not as rude or abrupt as you, but she can be very outspoken and when she loses her temper as she has with that Ursula Kenney, she needs to get out of everyone’s way and cool off. That’s why she’s going to the Romping Room. It’s the only place in that appalling house where they’re guaranteed absolute privacy, and right now, she needs to be on her own, away from everyone, so she can cool down. You see if I’m not right.”
A cheer went up from the floor. Checking the TV, Joe saw Ben Oakley making his way along the landing towards the Romping Room.
“Gerrin there, Ben,” George Robson urged, and a ripple of laughter ran through the audience.
The crowd watched, their attention riveted, while Ben knocked on the Romping Room door. “Brenda,” they heard him say. “Are you all right, Brenda?”
Her reply was muffled, as if she had removed her radio mike, but subtitles appeared at the bottom of the screen. “Go away, and leave me alone.”
Sheila nodded her satisfaction. “See. I told you so.”
***
Locking the door of the Romping Room and switching the ‘engaged’ light on, Brenda threw herself on the freshly made bed and stared up, concentrating her gaze on the ceiling light, breathing deeply until she could feel the virulent anger subsiding and her true self coming to the fore.
The process was underway when Ben knocked on the door, succeeding only in disturbing her concentration and irritating her again. She wanted to ask, “Where the hell were you when I needed you downstairs?” She refrained. Another argument would harm no one but her.
With him gone, calm overtook her once more, and as she came down from her raging high, she gradually began to take in her surroundings.
The crew had been quite particular when describing the place as the Private Room, stressing that it was not a ‘Romping Room’ as everyone called it. But the description, like so many other aspects of I-Spy, did not match the reality. The video room was more in keeping with Brenda’s idea of a private room. In here there was nothing but the bed, a few hangers on the wall where Housies could hang their clothing, and the ubiquitous hatch which, so legend had it, was where the backroom staff left fresh bed linen for users.
It may not be known officially as the Romping Room, but the overall ambience was of exactly that. A room where men and women could do little but get together on the king sized divan bed. A room where they could romp.
The thought only ignited her anger once more. Not for the first time, she considered taking part in I-Spy to be a mistake of the highest magnitude. She and her fellow Housies had ceased to be human beings; Joe had said they were animals and he was right. They had become exhibits in a zoo, with their pluses, minuses, highs and lows, foibles and frailties on display to the media and the millions following the programme.
Chapter Five
By three o’clock Thursday afternoon, Brenda felt slightly better.
Ambling around the gardens, enjoying the sun, talking with Anne Willis, she candidly admitted her relief that they had less than forty-eight hours of the nightmare to endure.
“I shall be glad to get back to my life and friends,” she said. “Don’t you feel the same?”
“It depends on what you call a life,” Anne replied. “Where I come from unemployment is rocketing and car rentals are down. We’re never quite sure if we’ll be in business from one month to another.” She sighed. “That twenty-five thousand would have been useful, but I reckon the serious betting is on Ursula.”
They reached the high, waney lap screens which cut this part of the garden off from the crew’s access, and turned back towards the topiary exhibits.
“Don’t they have the same statues on the other side of the screens?” Anne asked.
“Can’t remember,” Brenda said, chewing her lip. In truth, overnight events were still playing o
n her mind and she was not interested in the garden landscaping. “Yesterday didn’t help matters. I had to see Master Spy early today because I’m cooking dinner, and according to him or her, my popularity took a bit of a dip, probably because of the argument. I just wonder if that’s a polite way of hinting that Ursula picked up a few sympathy votes.”
Anne laughed. “What we need is someone to come along and bump Ursula off. Give the rest of us a fighting chance.”
“Now, now,” Brenda said, frowning her disapproval. “For all that I don’t like her, we can’t blame her for the way she behaves. It’s par for the course these days, isn’t it? Any and every celebrity, no matter how small, behaves like they own the world, and we shouldn’t wish any harm on her.” She, too, laughed. “You couldn’t kill her anyway. My boss, Joe Murray would be on the case in no time.”
Alarm spread across Anne’s face. “Your boss? Are you with the police, or something?”
Brenda chuckled. “The law? Not likely. Joe’s too short for the police. No, he owns the café where I work, and he’s an old, old friend. He’s also the best amateur detective in the country. He’s helped the police solve loads of crimes, including a few murders.” Brenda’s smile faded to wistful. “He’s a very clever man, and trust me, nothing gets past Joe.” They walked on. “He’s one of those I’m so looking forward to seeing at the weekend,” Brenda went on as they skirted the ballerina-shaped bush. “Dear friends; lots of them, and they’re all coming to Chester for D-Day.”
Anne laughed. “A reception committee?” Her smile faded, too, but not all the way. “You’re lucky. My old man’s coming down with the kids, but that’s about it.”
Brenda’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re married? I never realised. I’m sorry.”
“Nay bother. I don’t think I’ve mentioned it to anyone. Been wed twelve years now. Three kids, too. It’ll be nice to see ’em again, but I was hoping I might have seen them with a bit more money in me pocket.”
The I-Spy Murders Page 6
