by Niamh Greene
‘It was the funniest thing – guess who she wanted the other one for!’
‘I have no idea,’ I reply.
Or maybe he keeps it under the counter – in the invisible fridge with the milk? I doubt if he has anything good but I don’t really care – I’ll drink any old plonk right now. Maybe he has some poitín somewhere. I’ve heard these country villages are awash with that stuff – maybe there’s some sort of code I need to know before he’ll sell it to me. I wonder what it could be.
‘Ah, go on. Take a guess. Guess who she wanted it for!’
Is this guy for real? I don’t have time to be playing these sorts of silly games with him – I just want to pay for my milk and go. And maybe get some wine. Or poitín. Or anything alcohol-related. Mouthwash?
‘Go on, guess!’ he insists.
If I don’t make some sort of effort I’m never going to escape. ‘Her sister?’ I try. Would Polly buy an ice cream for Matilda? I doubt it – but then again, who knows how that crazy family works?
‘Matilda? Poor child – she’s had it tough and no mistake. But it’s not her, no. Guess again.’
This man seems to like Matilda – maybe there’s more to Her Sulkiness than meets the eye. I suppose it’s pretty hard to be a teenager and it must be even harder to be a teenager when you have no mother to look out for you. That said, the girl does need a serious attitude adjustment. Maybe even a spell in a teenage boot camp – that might sort her out. I try to imagine Matilda being told to drop and do fifty press-ups – she’d probably tell the drill sergeant where to get off.
‘Her father?’ I try.
‘No.’ He beams at me, enjoying the game.
‘Her grandmother?’
‘Her? No, that one wouldn’t need an ice cream – she’s already the Ice Queen of the Village!’
He cackles madly at his own joke and I suddenly warm to him – obviously Edward’s mother-in-law isn’t Mrs Popularity. That’s a relief – so it’s not just me.
‘Go on, take another guess.’
‘I really don’t know,’ I reply, feeling defeated. ‘I don’t know anyone else here.’
‘OK, I’ll tell you then. The second ice cream was for … her pony! Isn’t that gas? The child was getting an ice cream for her pony!’
He cackles madly again, and I can’t help but grin back at him. ‘She is pony mad,’ I say. ‘She’s crazy about Saffy.’
‘Yes,’ he wipes tears of mirth from his eyes with the edge of his apron, ‘she’s exactly like her mother, God rest her. Fiery and headstrong, just the same. Everyone knew that Drya was a danger, but June couldn’t be told. It was a tragedy waiting to happen …’ He shakes his head.
Drya? Edward’s wife was killed when she fell off Drya? Now I understand fully. No wonder he doesn’t want anyone to touch that horse.
‘Yes, well.’ I suddenly feel uncomfortable. ‘I’d better get going, thanks.’ I push the money towards him and scoop up my milk carton.
But before I can run, the shopkeeper is off again. ‘So, what do you do, then?’ he asks, planting his elbows on the counter and leaning in closer to me.
‘What do you mean?’ I spy a tin of corned beef behind his head – I didn’t know that stuff was still available. I haven’t seen it since I was a child. Mind you, the tin looks as if it could have been here since then.
‘For a living – what do you do for a living? No one in the village has been able to find out – you’re a proper little mystery!’
‘Oh.’ I pause. I don’t particularly want to tell him that I’m an estate agent. In my experience, this never makes people feel at ease. Especially now times have changed – everyone seems to think that estate agents made so much money in the good years that now they deserve to die slow, painful deaths. In any case, calling myself an estate agent isn’t true any more – not now that I’m unemployed. My stomach does a little flip when I think about that. I’ve been managing to push the unemployment spectre out of my mind quite successfully so far, but the truth of the situation is that I’m living in a strange village, where almost everyone I’ve met dislikes me, shovelling horse crap every day. It’s utterly depressing.
‘I’m a … I’m an artist,’ I say quickly, plucking the occupation from thin air. Where did that come from? True, I’ve been thinking about painting a lot, but I can’t call myself an artist. It really is appalling how many lies I’ve told recently – I lied to Edward about running and now I’m lying to this perfectly nice man about my occupation. Of course, Edward lied to me too: he said I was good with the horses and then slated me to Matilda. But, still, that’s no excuse. What’s happening to me? Is the country air scrambling my brain? Maybe I’m having some sort of nervous breakdown. I’ll have to call Theresa later and list my symptoms, get her diagnosis. Theresa loves nothing more than a threatened breakdown. She can spot one a mile off. One of her favourite pastimes is sitting in Starbucks, earmarking which of the frazzled mothers will crack next. She’s almost always right.
‘An artist?’ The shop owner is impressed. ‘Hear that, Peg?’
A small wiry woman with tightly curled hair suddenly pops her head up from underneath the counter and I jump with fright. Where has she been hiding? In the invisible fridge with the milk?
‘What’s that, Ted?’
Ted and Peg? Are they having me on? This is like something out of a badly written TV sitcom.
‘This is the girl who’s renting Rose Cottage from Edward – Maggie Baxter. She’s an artist!’
Wow. He knows my full name too. That’s pretty impressive.
‘Maggie!’ Peg calls, as if I’m some sort of long-lost relative. ‘Let me have a look at you.’ She eyes me from head to toe, taking me in. ‘Well, they were right, Ted – she’s a looker!’
‘She is that!’ Ted is now happily munching a Mars Bar.
‘Ted,’ Peg scolds him, ‘where are your manners?’
‘Sorry, Maggie,’ he says, chocolate seeping from the corners of his mouth. ‘Will you have a Mars Bar?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ I say.
‘Not everyone wants to eat Mars Bars, Ted,’ Peg says. ‘He’s not supposed to have them, Maggie. Addicted to them, he is. Eats half a dozen a day and him a martyr to his cholesterol.’
‘My cholesterol is fine!’ Ted protests.
‘Dr Martin doesn’t think so!’ Peg argues hotly.
‘Ah, what does he know? A harmless little Mars Bar won’t kill me.’
‘Maybe one wouldn’t, Ted. But half a dozen? He just won’t listen to me, Maggie.’ Peg sighs. ‘Any excuse and he’s munching – is it any wonder that his cholesterol is through the roof? Dr Martin says it’s a medical mystery he’s survived this long.’
‘Now, Peg,’ Ted says, ‘Maggie here doesn’t want to be hearing about my insides.’
‘You’re right.’ Peg pauses mid-rant. ‘I’m sorry, Maggie. We’re being very rude. Now, an artist, are you? Isn’t that very exotic! No one thought that, did they, Ted?’
‘No, they didn’t,’ Ted agrees. ‘Betty in the butcher’s was sure you were on the run.’
‘On the run?’ I gulp.
‘Yes – you know, from some sort of tragedy. A broken relationship, maybe.’ Peg’s eyes light up at the thought and then she composes herself again. ‘But don’t mind Betty, she’s a nosy article – she’ll know your business before you know it yourself. Hear the grass grow, that one would!’
‘She won’t like that we’ve found out before she has – will she, Peg?’ Ted says.
‘No, she won’t!’ Peg rubs her hands together with glee. ‘She’ll be green with envy! Serves her right, too – she’s been lording it over us ever since she was the first to find out about the supermarket.’ Her face suddenly darkens and the shop goes deathly quiet. I have no idea why.
‘So, Maggie,’ Ted says, breaking the tense silence, ‘what do you use?’
‘How do you mean?’ I sidle closer to the door, eager to make my escape. I don’t want to be rude – they see
m nice, but I don’t want to make any more chit-chat. Making chit-chat is dangerous: it leads to lies, lies and more lies. Am I becoming a compulsive liar, perhaps? It isn’t beyond the realms of possibility.
‘To paint – what medium do you use, oils or watercolours, like?’ Ted isn’t letting me go.
I try to think what would sound legitimate. ‘Um, a bit of both,’ I say.
‘A bit of both!’ Peg is delighted with this news. ‘That’s mighty altogether. And have you had many?’
‘Many?’ I struggle to decide what she means by that. Why is it that everything she says seems to be some sort of riddle? Is that normal practice round here?
‘Many exhibitions? Of your work?’
‘Oh, right. Yes, a few,’ I say, finally understanding what she means. ‘You know how it is.’ God, I’m being so dishonest – what’s happening to me?
‘That’s fantastic!’ Ted says, beaming, and I blush.
It’s terrible to lie like this, but I don’t want to hurt their feelings now – they’re so enthusiastic.
‘Do you think you’ll have an exhibition here? Oh, my God, Ted! What will I wear?’ Peg’s face falls. ‘I’ll never fit into that dress I got for Billy Nolan’s wedding. And you! That’s it!’ She grabs the Mars Bar from his hand. ‘You have to give up those things. You can’t make a show of poor Maggie here – she’ll expect us to look the part when all her city friends come for the exhibition. Won’t you, Maggie?’
‘Um, I …’ I’m stuck for words.
‘Everyone will be delighted when we tell them,’ Ted says, eyeing the Mars Bar in Peg’s grip. He’s definitely trying to figure out how to get it back.
‘They will. They’ll be delighted!’ Peg echoes.
‘Everyone?’
‘The villagers, of course! We’ve all been wondering about you – it’s a real privilege to have an artist here.’
‘Edward wouldn’t tell us a thing about you,’ Ted says sorrowfully. ‘He’s a lovely fellow, but he’s useless for news.’
‘Not a thing!’ Peg agrees. ‘Not what age you were, what you did – nothing! Wait till I tell them all!’ She’s almost dancing with excitement.
‘Ah, don’t go telling anyone,’ I say. It’ll be too awful if people think I’m a real artist. Why couldn’t I have said I was something else – something less interesting?
Peg’s face falls. ‘Not tell them? But sure that’ll be no fun, no fun at all. What’s the point in knowing you’re a real live artist if I can’t tell anyone?’
‘Not tell anyone? Why not?’ Ted asks.
This pair is a proper double-act – one stops and the other starts. ‘Well, you know …’ I try to dodge the question. This has gone too far – I can’t have the whole village believing I’m something I’m not.
‘I know why she doesn’t want anyone to find out!’ Ted suddenly bangs his fist on the countertop and I flinch, the milk carton jumping in my hand.
‘You do?’ Peg looks bewildered.
‘It’s obvious!’ Ted roars, his fleshy cheeks wobbling with mirth and his handlebar moustache quivering with his un-bridled excitement.
‘Ah, Ted, stop leading me on!’ Peg begs. ‘Tell me why.’
‘She’s obviously working on something top secret!’ He whispers the last bit – like he’s some sort of CIA agent. I get the feeling Ted probably likes to watch CSI.
‘Are you?’ Peg breathes, her face changing visibly as she gazes at me. She looks almost … almost awestruck.
I blink rapidly, trying to decide what to do. If I confess that I’m not an artist working on a secret assignment, I’ll look very foolish and they’ll be disappointed. They want a little drama to brighten up their lives. Plus, I don’t want them to think I’m a barefaced liar – even if they are complete strangers. Maybe I’ll just go along with it, let them believe this untruth. What harm can it do, really? It’s not like I’m some sort of con woman or anything.
‘You caught me!’ I smile at them both. ‘I’m working on a top-secret commission and I’m hiding out in the cottage to get some peace and quiet.’
‘I knew it!’ Ted bangs the countertop again and I grip my milk carton tightly this time. ‘I just knew it!’
‘You have a psychic streak, Ted.’ Peg slaps him on the back, thrilled. ‘You definitely do. I always said it, didn’t I?’
‘You did, girl.’ Ted beams at her.
I get the distinct feeling they want to embrace – they look like they could hop on each other with the pure thrill of it all.
‘He foresaw poor Blackie Dempsey’s death,’ Peg informs me, her delighted little face suddenly solemn once more. ‘Isn’t that right, Ted?’
‘It is. More’s the pity,’ Ted says, solemn too. ‘Poor old Blackie.’
‘He had a dream that Blackie was going to die, didn’t you?’ Peg pats Ted’s hand and Ted nods. ‘He met a terrible end,’ Peg says to me. ‘Really gruesome it was.’
‘What happened?’ I ask, almost afraid to enquire.
‘Jean Dolan reversed over him. Decapitated he was, Lord have mercy on his soul.’
Peg and Ted drop their heads in respect to poor Blackie.
‘Decapitated?’ I’m appalled. ‘That’s awful!’
‘It was, Maggie, it was,’ Peg says. ‘His little head rolled down Pender’s Hill and Johnny Ryan found it in the gutter, didn’t he, Ted? He was only eight, the poor cratur.’
‘He was that,’ Ted agrees. ‘The poor child was never right after it.’
I grip the counter, feeling faint. An eight-year-old child found a man’s head rolling down the street? This is horrific – why didn’t I ever hear any of this on the news? ‘A man’s head?’ I stutter. ‘A man’s head rolled down Pender’s Hill?’
Peg and Ted look at each other, then roar with laughter. ‘Where did you get that cracked idea from?’ Ted guffaws.
‘Well, you said …’ I look from one to the other in confusion. Are they completely insane? ‘You just said that Jean Dolan reversed over Blackie Dempsey and decapitated him and then his head rolled down Pender’s Hill.’
‘Oh, oh …’ Peg and Ted are convulsing with laughter. They’re gripping each other and rocking back and forth with glee.
‘Blackie wasn’t a man, Maggie,’ Ted gasps. ‘He was a tom cat!’
They fall against each other again, shaking with mirth.
‘Aye, a randy old tom at that – every cat in the parish celebrated when he went to his Maker!’ Peg roars. ‘You’re priceless, Maggie – you really are a howl a minute!’
A tom cat. Right. How the hell was I supposed to know that? They called him by a first and last name. Who gives a cat a last name? It’s ridiculous!
‘I can’t believe –’ Peg pants ‘– I can’t believe you thought Blackie was a – a man!’
They both collapse into more fits of giggles. ‘That’s the best one I’ve ever heard!’
‘Well, ’bye, then,’ I blurt, feeling like a prize idiot for the millionth time in just a few days. How could I have been so stupid? I have to get out of this twilight zone, quick. Yanking the shop door open, I rush outside gripping my milk, the sound of Peg and Ted roaring with laughter ringing in my ears as the door swings behind me.
Rule Eleven: Appearances can be deceptive
‘Well, excuse me!’
I gasp as my carton of hard-won milk bounces off a pair of pointy bosoms encased in a pale pink cashmere twinset and hits the path with a splat. ‘I’m very sorry.’ I stoop to pick it up. ‘I didn’t see you there.’ Luckily, the carton is still in one piece because I don’t fancy going back in and starting all over again with Peg and Ted. Even the thought terrifies me. Who knows what other insane stories they’ll tell me?
Miss Twinset smooths herself down and adjusts the strand of pearls at her neck. I can tell they’re real – they’re exactly like some I saw once in a swanky city-centre jeweller’s: gorgeous. In fact, with one glance, I see that this woman has completely nailed that whole prim-and-proper look – that Mad
Men vibe is very in right now but I can’t believe Glacken society has embraced such a high-fashion concept. Maybe I should pull out some of my best outfits and stop slobbing about in smelly things that are smeared with horse manure. After all, I wouldn’t be seen dead looking like this in the city – I’d rather die. I should have showered and changed before I came into the village – why did I just assume that everyone would be grubby and old-fashioned and no one would notice? How have I let my standards slip so badly? The truth of the matter is I hadn’t expected to meet anyone like this, not in a million years. It serves me right for making that presumption, I suppose.
‘That’s quite all right,’ Miss Twinset says. ‘No real harm done.’
She smiles coldly at me, her gaze penetrating. I know instantly that she doesn’t believe there’s no harm done – she looks like she’d happily skin me alive for so much as touching her. She’s certainly not sweet and innocent, like her image suggests.
I go to make my way past her, not wanting to engage in any more conversation, but she subtly blocks my path. ‘You must be the new tenant in Edward’s cottage. Maggie, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ I mutter. Wow! Word really does travel fast in this neck of the woods. Everyone seems to know who I am.
‘I thought so. My name is Odette Ffrench. Two fs. I’m the vet here in Glacken.’ She announces this with an air of supreme authority – as if by being a country vet she should be regarded as some sort of royalty.
I take her proffered hand – she has a bone-crushing grip and I wince as she clasps my fingers briefly, yet agonizingly in her palm. How can she look so ladylike and be so freakishly strong? What does she do – work out with some sort of handheld device to build up her muscle strength?
‘So, how do you like Glacken so far?’
Her eyes drift from my scraped-back hair to my filthy clothes. I can tell she thinks I’m some sort of riff-raff by my grubby attire and I cringe under her gaze – I must look a proper state and I probably smell even worse. I’m almost sure I see her nose wrinkle in distaste. ‘It’s very nice,’ I reply carefully.
