Fear on Friday

by Ann Purser

  Howard Jenkinson, sixty-eight and still handsome in a heavy, thick-set fashion, stood at his window looking out at neatly landscaped gardens, and smiled. How fortunate he was! Lately retired from a successful timber merchant business, he and his wife were able to remain in their large Tudor-style house in the best part of town with no financial worries about the future. Howard had, of course, a down-to-earth watchful nature, and had been brought up not to neglect the pennies. But now his concern with matters financial was a close interest in observing the stock market, making shrewd moves where necessary.

  His wife now, as in all their married years, took no interest in money. “I always leave money matters to Howard,” she would say comfortably, and then laugh. “I’ve not much alternative, actually …”

  Doreen Jenkinson was, most of her friends agreed, the perfect wife, mother and Lady Mayoress. Her two daughters were suitably married, had provided both grandsons and granddaughters, and apart from a few creaky joints and a growing reluctance to tackle energetic jobs around the house, Doreen was in the best of health.

  A knock at the parlour door brought Howard out of his reverie; his smile widened as he saw Jean Slater, his old friend Ken’s wife, bearing cups of steaming coffee. How fortunate he was. His school friend still his best mate, and Jean an efficient and, at one time, very attractive secretary who had worked for him for years in the timber business, and whose transfer to the Town Hall he’d been able to arrange with little trouble. A lot to be said for the old boys’ network!

  “Doreen’s been on the telephone,” she said. “Asking me about finding help in the house. Seems old Edna’s given in her notice. I looked in Yellow Pages and came up with a cleaning service that sounds good. New Brooms, with a Long Farnden number. Doreen says she’ll give them a ring.”

  “You’re a wonder, Jean,” Howard Jenkinson said. “What would I do without you?”

  His secretary nodded. “Not very well,” she said, with a smile.

  “Anyway,” continued Howard, “I’m glad Edna’s finally packed it in. She’s been worse than useless since her op. ‘ ’Ad it all out, dear,’ as she embarrassingly told me. We didn’t like to give her the old heave-ho, but now she’s going, so great. Well done! What else have you got for me? The St. Christopher’s School fête? Right. All set. Doreen loves fêtes, so no doubt I shall be footing the bill for a new hat.”

  The telephone rang from the outer office, and Jean disappeared. Now, said Howard to himself, what had she said? New Brooms? Good name. Let’s see what I can find out about them. He reached for his dark blue blazer and set off for the County Club, where he could find a few old chums and have a good lunch.

  THE COUNTY CLUB HAD BEEN ESTABLISHED MORE THAN a hundred years ago by the solid citizens of Tresham, and still exuded an air of conservatism in business, recreation and life in general. Originally for men only, it had been more or less forced to add a ladies section, and this had added a frivolous touch to the décor. Pastel colours had crept in, spectacular flower arrangements, perhaps a little rigid, were placed at strategic corners, and pleasant toilet facilities had been installed.

  Howard seldom brought Doreen here. He liked to think of it still as a male sanctuary from domesticity. “I love my home,” he’d say waggishly to Ken Slater, “but I love to get away from it too! These women … sometimes a bit of peace and quiet and sensible conversation is very welcome.”

  Ken and Howard had not only been at school together, they now played golf together, and, with their wives, they occasionally made up a foursome on the course. Every year the four went on holiday together to a leisure development in Spain, where they were happily insulated from all things Spanish, except the hot sun and cheap Spanish wine.

  Now Howard ordered himself a pint of best and settled at a small table in the bar to wait for Ken, who was joining him for lunch. Ken would know about New Brooms. He managed the Tourist Information Office in town, though there was precious little tourism in Tresham, and as a result was a mine of information. It was not a job with prestige, nor an impressive salary, but Ken had leaflets on everything. He’d be certain to have one on New Brooms, and be able to update Howard on their reputation.

  “Ah, here we are then, boy!” he said, beaming at Ken, who had walked silently into the bar. The very reverse of Howard, Ken was balding, and wore rimless glasses that gave him an unmerited air of studious abstraction. He had left school with Howard when they were fifteen, and worked for the County Council ever since. He too approached retirement, but was hoping to extend his working life by becoming a freelance tourist agent. A certain low cunning and ability to see the way the wind was blowing in any situation involving the Council, had stood him in good stead, and he had connections. Although Howard was in a different wealth league from him, on the surface they remained at ease with one another.

  “New Brooms?” he said now, as they sat down in the dining room. “That cleaning business over in Long Farnden? Yes, I know it. Been going for a quite a while. Run by a woman … now, what was her name? Meade, it is. Louise, or something like that. Why d’you want to know? Some deal you’re cooking up?”

  Howard laughed. “Questions, questions,” he said. “No, it’s very simple. Our Edna is leaving, thank God, and we need a new cleaner. New Brooms sounds professional. Might be a good idea. Edna’s been off sick more than she’s cleaned for us lately. I presume this lot would send a replacement if the regular couldn’t come.”

  Ken nodded. “Friend of ours in Long Farnden uses them. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Long Farnden?” Howard frowned. “Isn’t that where the vicarage went up in smoke a while back? Nasty business, that. I hope New Brooms had no part in that!”

  They both laughed, and picked up the menu. “Ah, good,” said Howard. “Apple pie and custard. Only place in town where you can still get proper Bird’s custard. I shall have the roast, then, followed by apple pie.”

  “Your usual, then,” said Ken, without the trace of a smile.

  LUNCH WITH HOWARD ALWAYS PUT KEN IN A BAD MOOD. He supposed it was Howard’s obvious superiority in position and wealth which chafed on a raw spot that had never really healed since they had been a pair of lads at school with similar ambitions and equal skills. In fact, if anything, Ken had been the cleverer of the two. Howard’s cunning streak had come in useful at exam time, and he had learned fast how to manipulate friends to his own advantage. That included Ken, of course, whose memory was infinitely better than Howard’s. Oh yes, Ken remembered only too well the history exam where he and Howard worked out a hand signal code that supplied Howard with necessary dates and names. He’d been so busy keeping Howard happy that he’d not had time to finish his own paper, and the rotten sod had got better marks.

  Then there was a matter of personality. Howard had been a bluff, confident businessman by the age of twenty-five. And then there had been a business to step into, founded by his grandfather and growing with each generation.

  Ken walked down the High Street towards the Tourist Office, but stopped suddenly. No, he could not go straight back to his cramped office, where there were never any surprises. He took out his mobile and spoke to his assistant. “Raging toothache, dear,” he said. “Got an emergency appointment with the dentist, so I’ll take the rest of the day off. Looks like the tooth has to come out, so I shall be in no fit state to work! Back tomorrow, without fail. Cheers.”

  He retrieved his car, and drove off, but not to the dentist. He headed out of town towards the pleasant premises of Tresham Gun Club. He had been a member for years, was an excellent shot and had won many competitions. Target shooting was his forte, and he enjoyed superimposing faces of his enemies on the one-dimensional targets in his sights. He boasted to his patient wife Jean that far from diminishing with the passing years, his skill seemed to be ever better.

  “Lucky old you,” she had said. “Such a constructive hobby … shooting at targets. Some men build cupboards, dig vegetable plots, construct cars from kits, paint their hous
es. But mine? He shoots at targets, and very good he is too. Wins cups. Has a jolly social life with other shooters. Family days are fun too, with everybody talking about shooting at targets and who is the best. Often it is my Ken!”

  “All right, all right,” he had replied. “I get the message. But we do play golf, too, and you like that, don’t you?”

  Jean had nodded. “Especially in the winter,” she’d said, “when the wind freezes your fingers and feet, and your glasses steam up so you can’t see where the little white ball is going. I suppose it is marginally better than lawnmower racing.”

  He sighed now, wishing Jean was a little more pleasant about his enthusiasms. Like Doreen, Howard’s wife. Nice little woman, that one. Seemed to take pleasure in everything Howard did, and was very cuddly into the bargain.

  He parked his car and joined a friend heading for the clubhouse. “Lovely day,” the friend said.

  “Very,” said Ken, his mind elsewhere.

  “Taking the day off, or are you on leave?” His friend was also a civil servant, and used the old jargon.

  Ken nodded. “Officially at the dentist,” he said, suddenly grinning. “How about you?”

  “Business trip up north,” said his friend, smiling in return, and together they went in to enjoy an afternoon in complete harmony.

  FOUR

  THE NEXT DAY THE POST WAS DELAYED, AND JOSIE finished cleaning the shop early. She wondered if there was time for a quick coffee, but no, the door opened and she moved behind the counter to greet her first customer.

  “Morning, Mrs. Reading,” she said. She smiled warmly at Bridie Reading, mother of Hazel and fellow member of New Brooms. “How’s the little one today?” Bridie had heaved a three-wheeled pushchair up the shop steps and now proudly leaned over and drew back the cover to reveal her sleeping grandchild.

  “Isn’t she a poppet!” Josie said. Babies were not much to her liking, though she trusted she would grow to them later on. But she knew what was good for business, and Bridie was a regular customer. Lois and Bridie had been at school together, and seen some hairy patches during their respective marriages. Bridie looked now at Josie, a very attractive young woman, and remembered when she’d been a rebellious teenager. Always loyal to Lois, Bridie had decided to patronise the village shop more than before, to give Josie a chance of making a success of it.

  “What’s her name again?” said Josie, weighing out potatoes.

  “Elizabeth. Lizzie for short,” said Bridie. “Hazel named her after her grandmother on my side … Hazel’s grandmother, that is, not Lizzie’s … ‘cause that’s me!”

  Now losing interest rapidly, Josie decided to change the subject. “Where’s Hazel today? Is she back working for Mum?”

  “Yes, just started. They’re off to Tresham to look at a possible office. Your Mum’s hoping to get it going soon, and Hazel might help run it.”

  “It’ll soon be New Brooms Euro,” said Josie caustically. “I hope Mum’s not overreaching herself.”

  Bridie was about to leap to Lois’s defence, when the shop door jangled open to reveal Rupert Forsyth, out of breath and red in the face.

  “Where’s my post?” He elbowed Bridie to one side and slapped his hand on the counter.

  “Excuse me!” said Bridie. “I was here first, and I haven’t finished my shopping!”

  Rupert Forsyth stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “Oh, oh dear,” he said, deflating like a pricked balloon. “I’m so sorry, my dear. It was just that … oh dear, I do apologise.”

  “S’all right,” Bridie said huffily. “If you’re in a hurry, you can go ahead.”

  “No, no. I just wondered what has happened to my post, Josie? I am expecting a very important letter.”

  “It came late,” said Josie calmly. “Strike in Tresham. He’s sorting it in the back right now. As soon as Gran gets down here, I’ll be out delivering.” She looked at Rupert Forsyth and noticed his hands were shaking and now he had gone very pale. “Here,” she said. “Sit down on this stool for a minute. You shouldn’t’ve run so fast at your age.”

  For a moment Rupert considered challenging this, but instead perched himself gratefully on the edge of the stool. “My letters are my business, you see,” he added. “The wife and I have only the state pension, and without supplementing it we’d have trouble managing.”

  Most do, thought Josie. But she nodded and offered him a cup of tea to calm him if he was feeling shaky.

  “No, no thanks,” he said. “Must be getting back. The wife will be worried. We shall see you soon, then, with the post.” He looked at Bridie, and said again, “So sorry, my dear. Do forgive me.”

  “Smarmy bugger,” said Bridie, when he’d left the shop. “And what business, anyway?”

  Josie shrugged. She had her own idea of what was in those letters, but kept it to herself. It was more than her postmistress job was worth to discuss letters with anybody. This did not stop her listening, however, and she looked encouragingly at Bridie.

  “If you ask me,” the older woman said, “from my experience … letters of that sort—an’ he gets a lot, doesn’ he?—are up to no good. Plain brown wrapping, an’ that. You know what I mean, Josie. That’s what most people in the village think, anyway.”

  Josie laughed. “Not my place to guess,” she said lightly. But she knew exactly what Bridie meant, and had come to much the same conclusion herself.

  DAISY FORSYTH WATCHED HER HUSBAND WALKING slowly up the path and sighed. If only he wouldn’t lose his rag so easily! He’d always been the same. Calm and reasonable most of the time, but now and then a sudden burst of rage that terrified her. It was the letters, of course. She wished he’d never started the business! But that was years ago, when they were both fairly young and still foolish. She had helped him then, doing all kinds of things that were new and sometimes scary. It had all changed now, but she still helped with the admin, sending out stuff and being a general dogsbody. She laughed at that thought, and relaxed. He’d be fine now, once the storm had passed. Josie Meade would have calmed him down. She was a nice girl, and worked hard. Very like her mother, village people said. Straightforward and honest. You knew where you were with her, even if sometimes she was a bit sharp.

  “Hello, dear,” she said, opening the door to her panting husband. “Come and sit down and have a nice cup of tea. Just made. Did you sort it out?”

  Rupert collapsed on to the sofa. “Yep,” he said. “I made it quite clear we required our post first thing in the morning. A strike at Tresham, apparently. Fellers don’t know when they’re well off,” he added, and took his tea. “Sugared?” he said, eyebrows lifted.

  “Yes dear,” she answered. “Just as you like it.”

  FIVE

  LOIS DREW UP OUTSIDE THE TO LET SIGN IN SEbastopol Street, and turned off the engine.

  “That’s one plus, anyway,” said Hazel, “you can park outside without having to pay a fortune.”

  “You get what you pay for,” said Lois. “This is not exactly a town centre site, is it? Still, you’re right. It could be a point in its favour.” She looked at the dingy shopfront, with its fly-blown window and peeling paint. “Not too promising, is it?” she said.

  “Let’s get out, Mrs. M,” Hazel said. “Walk around a bit. Get a feel of the area. After all, you don’t want a scruffy image for a cleaning business.” She was not at all sure at first sight. The street was narrow and quiet, with long terraces of red-brick Victorian buildings either side. Hazel knew Tresham very well, since at one time she had worked with the police as an expert—from personal experience—on the never-ending war against drugs. This part of town was known for being the haunt of dodgy dealers, but it had been cleaned up and the houses were being bought and restored by young couples with not much money but high ambitions.

  The shop to let had sold electrical supplies, but had clearly gone out of business some time ago. Lois and Hazel peered through into an interior littered with lengths of cable and ancient electric fire
s. “Brought in for repairs, I expect,” said Hazel. Lois, whose Derek would have shuddered at the sight of these dangerous objects, replied that they’d need a skip for that lot.

  “Hazel Reading!” A loud voice interrupted their gloomy thoughts, and Hazel turned to see a girl with a pushchair grinning broadly at her. “It is, isn’t it?” the girl continued. “God, I haven’t seen you since school!”

  Hazel stared, and then gave an answering smile of recognition. “Maureen! Fancy seeing you! D’you live round here? And is this … ?”

  “Robert,” the girl said. “Six months old and a holy terror. Yep, I live next door to the shop. You married?”

  Hazel nodded. “Hazel Thornbull now,” she said.

  “Blimey!” said the girl. “Very rural!”

  After this, Lois walked tactfully away, and let them get on with reminiscing. She was expecting the estate agent to meet her, and glanced about for a sign of him. She looked at her watch. She had deliberately arrived early, but now he should be here. A small, jazzy car approached and pulled up behind Lois’s van.

  “Mrs. Meade?” The agent was young and confident. “Very pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand vigorously. Lois nodded, and said she didn’t have too much time, so could they please get on with it.

  Hazel heard this, and parted from her friend with promises to keep in touch. “She lives next door,” she muttered to Lois. “Could be useful.”

  Lois’s spirits did not rise as they picked their way through the shop to the “excellent facilities”—even the agent had difficulty making this sound convincing—at the rear. A small storeroom and disgusting toilet occupied the rest of the ground floor, and up a narrow stairway they came to a largish front room with a boxroom behind. A window, so dirty that Lois had to rub a patch with old newspaper in order to see out, looked over a small backyard and behind that a derelict warehouse.