'Checked with whom?' enquired Deirdre. 'The Kennel Club?'
There's no need to be silly about this,' said Amaryllis.
'In any case, you're about to lose your licence again after I report this,’ said Deirdre.
'For driving a giant apple without due care and attention?' said Amaryllis.
'So you admit you weren't looking where you were going?'
'No - on the contrary, I was looking very closely at where I was going. Everyone who was in the street at the time was completely fed up with the noise you were making through that thing. I was performing a valuable social service.'
Deirdre folded her arms and drew her mouth down at the corners, triggering a whole host of memories in Christopher's mind. 'Go now,' he advised Amaryllis. ‘You might just avoid getting caught in the fallout.'
Amaryllis turned away, got back in the cab of the apple and drove off, causing a little group of oranges to run for cover.
'Well!' said Deirdre. 'You must be getting really desperate, Christopher, if that's the kind of person you associate with these days.'
She stormed off down the street in the direction of the Cultural Centre, pausing only to throw the megaphone in the bin outside the newsagent's.
As soon as she had gone, Christopher thought up five possible rejoinders he could have made if only he had thought of them in time. He was rather glad he hadn't been able to think of anything to say. It had never been worthwhile arguing with Deirdre, and now that seemed to be the case in spades. Eric was welcome to her.
Although Christopher knew he wasn't as old as the other man, he suddenly felt as if he were at least a hundred. He was tempted to go down to the Queen of Scots and spend the entire day drinking, but at the same time he knew with a deep certainty that what he was going to do next was to make his way to the Cultural Centre, though not so fast that it looked as if he was following Deirdre, and supervise things so that no permanent damage would be done to the place.
It was difficult being grown-up sometimes.
Chapter 9 Amaryllis's Post-Apple Activities
Amaryllis parked the apple neatly outside the supermarket and set off from there on foot. Someone else could drive the thing during the real procession. She had had enough of it.
Deirdre was probably in the Cultural Centre, so there was no point in going there. Amaryllis wasn’t cowardly by any stretch of the imagination, but like a cat she preferred to avoid trouble if at all possible, and certainly not to invite it in for a cup of tea and a custard cream biscuit. Apart from anything else, she had never knowingly purchased custard cream biscuits, preferring to leave that to others.
She did what all her friends did when they didn’t know what to do. She went round to the Queen of Scots.
Charlie Smith was just opening up as she arrived. ‘You’re very prompt today,’ he remarked, jingling his keys. ‘Coffee? Or something stronger?’
‘I’ve been driving the apple,’ she said. ‘I need strong coffee and lots of it.’
‘Well, that’s a coincidence,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ve just this minute put the kettle on.’
‘How’s your car?’ she asked, leaning on the bar while he got out two mugs. ‘I hear it was the victim of a Dave attack. Funny, he usually only picks on Pandas.’
‘Hmph,’ muttered Charlie. ‘If that man doesn’t get banned from driving before Christmas, I don’t know what the law in this town is coming to. You’d think he had the chief constable in his pocket.’
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that contempt of court or something?’
‘Slander,’ he replied. ‘But I know it won’t go any further than you, me and the dog.’
‘The dog?’
There was a muted bark from behind the bar. Amaryllis leaned over and peered downwards. There was a fleecy dog-bed near the fridge, and the dog was curled up in it. He looked up at her apologetically.
‘Is he supposed to be in there?’
‘I won’t report him if you don’t,’ said Charlie.
She pondered for a while on how much more relaxed Charlie was since he had given up on the police force. He had probably increased his life expectancy by several years already. It was odd, because she had thought being a pub landlord would be even more stressful. She imagined she would find it more difficult than being a spy, although perhaps some of the same skills were required for both.
‘Do you know how this thing’s going?’ he asked, pouring out the coffee.
‘There’s been a rehearsal for the procession,’ she said. ‘That’s why I was driving the apple. I assume the rest’s going ahead as planned. Insofar as there was a plan, that is.’
‘I could put the television on if you like,’ said Charlie. ‘The whole thing’s meant to be going out live on the local Fife channel, if you know how to find it.’ He pushed one mug across the bar to her.
Amaryllis laughed scornfully. ‘The Fife channel won’t last long if they show this kind of stuff on it.’
‘They’re really meant to just cover local events,’ said Charlie, fiddling with the remote control. ‘The Open Kitchen thing is over-stepping the boundaries a bit, but I suppose they can call it news if they want, even if they’ve manufactured it themselves.’
‘It’s as much news as some of the rest,’ she said.
A picture appeared and, a bit later, some sound.
‘It’s Christopher’s office!’ said Amaryllis.
Deirdre and Oscar were sitting behind the desk, with a backdrop that made the office at the Cultural Centre look like a busy studio, talking to each other about the things they said they could see happening, which began to appear on another screen. After a while the other screen expanded to fill the whole picture and Jemima was seen, serenely chopping up courgettes with all the appearance of somebody who was confident that courgettes were a viable cake ingredient.
‘I’m glad I don’t have to do the tasting,’ said Charlie.
‘It’ll be all right – Jemima can make cake out of anything,’ said Amaryllis. She noticed Eric had now appeared, interviewing Jemima as she chopped. It would be more fun if Eric got in the way and had his hand chopped off or something, but that would never happen in Jemima’s kitchen of course.
‘Is this a private party, or can anybody join in?’
Jan from the wool-shop had just come into the bar. Normally Amaryllis would have claimed that it was indeed a private party – just her, Charlie and the dog, in fact – but even with her slightly sub-standard powers of empathy she could tell there was something wrong. Perhaps it was the red rims round Jan’s eyes or the choke in her voice...
‘Coffee all right for you?’ said Charlie Smith, bringing out another cup.
Amaryllis felt a bit irritated with Jan. She hadn’t felt quite comfortable with the woman ever since she had found out about Jan’s infatuation with Neil Macrae. Even before that she had sensed that she and Jan might as well have been from different planets. Me from the Planet Zog, she reflected, and Jan from boring old Earth. No, that was unfair. Jan had been very helpful when Amaryllis had attempted to learn to knit a couple of years before. It wasn’t her fault that Amaryllis had taken to knitting like a cat to water.
‘Thanks,’ said Jan. She glanced at the television. ‘My goodness, is that Jemima’s kitchen?’
‘They’ve only just started.’
‘I was asked to leave Tricia’s house,’ said Jan. ‘One of these television people told me they didn’t want anybody who looked as miserable as me to appear in the live show.’
‘The cheek of it!’ said Charlie Smith. ‘Those media people think they own the place.’
The camera zoomed in on Jemima’s frown as she chopped. She was probably getting annoyed with Eric’s prattling, thought Amaryllis.
‘... so, as I used to get the audience to say when I was in panto, look out, he’s behind you!’ said Eric. He paused, apparently waiting for audience reaction, as the camera panned round to show Dave lifting a baking tin down from the cupboard and placing it on the t
able.
‘It’s sad to see Eric McLaughlin coming down so much in the world,’ said Jan. ‘We always used to go over to the Royal Albert to see the panto. He seemed to play Buttons every year - even when they weren’t doing Cinderella. It was a wee bit strange. But of course, that was years ago. I suppose if I’d thought about him since then I would have assumed he was dead.’
Blimey, thought Amaryllis, she really is a ray of sunshine. No wonder they didn’t want to feature her in the show, even by accident.
She said out loud, ‘I suppose some people might say he hasn’t really come down in the world, though. TV star and everything.’
Charlie shot her a surprised look. She realised it wasn’t the kind of thing she would usually say. What was it about Jan that made her so uncomfortable?
Jemima peeled some potatoes and grated them with the courgettes.
‘This is looking like a recipe for vegetable soup,’ commented Eric, staring at it with disfavour. ‘Are you sure it’s going to turn into a cake?’
‘I’ve still to add the oranges. And the treacle. And a wee bit of sugar,’ said Jemima, lifting a massive bag of granulated sugar from the table and holding it up to the camera.’
‘Any chance of a wee dip into the treacle tin?’ said Eric in an irritatingly wheedling voice.
‘No,’ said Jemima. ‘No tasting until this afternoon.’
‘Aw,’ said Eric, and put on a sad clown face.
He literally put it on, taking a mask from behind his back and holding it up in front of him. Amaryllis didn’t see how this programme could possibly be saved from disaster, but Jan had suddenly started to giggle, and even Charlie was smiling.
‘This is great,’ said Jan. ‘It’s just like being at the panto all over again.’
Deirdre and Oscar appeared on the screen again, still sitting at the desk in Christopher’s office.
‘Now tell me, Eric,’ said Oscar. ‘What has Jemima decided to name her cake?’
‘She says she’ll call it the Doodlebug Surprise,’ said Eric, looking serious.
‘Is that Doodlebug after the infamous whistling bombs of the Second World War, Eric?’
‘I think so, Deirdre.’
‘So do you think it’ll whistle when it’s ready?’ said Deirdre, looking surprised to hear herself say this – as well she might, thought Amaryllis.
‘No, but she’ll whistle for first place!’ said Eric, and almost bent double laughing.
The next moment he had grated potato and courgette mixture in his hair.
‘Sorry,’ said Jemima, moving into shot. ‘My hand slipped... By the way, my recipe is called Pink Parfait Surprise. You must have misheard, Eric.’
There was a brief glimpse of Eric shaking his head frantically and then they switched back to Deirdre and Oscar.
‘Well, it’s all good, clean fun,’ said Oscar.
‘I’m not sure that Eric will see it like that, Oscar,’ said Deirdre sweetly. ‘Eric, are you ready to move on and see how Penelope’s getting on?’
‘I’ve got a fast car waiting, Deirdre,’ said Eric, making a commendably swift recovery. He appeared on the screen for a moment, drying his hair off with what looked like Jemima’s I Love Pitkirtly tea-towel – a limited edition creation Amaryllis had ordered for her the previous Christmas. Eric was honoured to be allowed to use it.
‘That’s good, Eric,’ said Oscar. He turned back to face the front again. ‘While Eric’s making his way to the next venue, we have some exclusive footage of the children preparing to start the Five a Day procession through the town centre.’
‘We apologise that the giant apple will not appear as advertised,’ said Deirdre crossly. ‘It appears to have run out of petrol after being misused by certain people who shall remain nameless.’
‘We’ll be looking for these people to be prosecuted with the full force of the law,’ said Oscar, glaring.
‘Whoops,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Oh, well, at least I’ve done some good today.’
She felt happier suddenly. Being in trouble with the authorities suited her temperament much better than watching from the sidelines as people made idiots of themselves. She could see that Jan was quite different from her in this respect.
‘It’s a lot better than I thought it would be,’ said Jan.
Amaryllis thought that was a bit of an exaggeration. Well, a huge exaggeration. She wasn’t sure what Charlie Smith thought. He was still smiling as he washed and dried the coffee mugs. Did his smile have anything to do with Jan’s summer dress and the neckline that was cut so low that parts of her that in Amaryllis’s opinion should have remained discreetly hidden were practically resting on the bar in front of her? She had always thought of Charlie as an asexual creature – no, to be more accurate, she hadn’t even thought of this aspect of him at all – but she supposed that under his shy and sometimes forbidding façade he had the same drives as most other men.
She didn’t approve or disapprove of this. But she had a feeling he could do better than Jan from the wool-shop if he really put his mind to it.
Chapter 10 Jock and the kitchen table
Jock felt a bit left-out when he had to abandon Jemima’s kitchen because it was almost time for the programme to start. Only Dave was allowed to stay, and that was only because, flying in the face of good sense, Jemima had nominated him as her assistant. Jock wished he could have taken part in some way, perhaps by acting as Tricia Laidlaw’s assistant. He assumed Tricia’s son Darren or one of her female friends was filling that role. Probably not Jan from the wool-shop, about whose culinary abilities he now recalled hearing rumours. Maybe she had just been going to Tricia’s to wish her luck, he thought.
As he wandered away from Jemima’s house, kicking the kerb as he went like a mutinous teenager, he mulled over what role he would like to play in Tricia’s life. Of course, he realised that as a mere man it wasn’t up to him to decide that. But it would be nice to mean something to her – or would it?
For heaven’s sake, he had definitely been spending too much time with Christopher! He couldn’t remember ever being so woolly and indecisive in his life.
He turned his steps firmly in the direction of Tricia’s house. He should have gone there in the first place, if only to show moral support. After all, he wasn’t exactly on Jemima’s side, no matter how long he had known her. And Tricia’s practice cake had been just as good. The one thing he was determined about was that he wouldn’t go near Penelope’s attempts to bake ever again, even if her creations turned out to contain some magic ingredient that would result in anybody who ate them developing super-powers and living forever.
He laughed to himself as he walked along, unaware that two teenagers had just crossed the road to avoid him, and that a dog being taken for its morning walk had dug its heels in and refused to pass him.
As he approached Tricia’s house, he thought he heard a voice in the hedge. Maybe laughing to himself had just been the start of it. Hearing voices seemed like a big and rather sudden step towards senility, though.
The hedge parted slightly and Darren Laidlaw’s face appeared, surrounded by leaves which did nothing to make his square freckled face any more attractive. But Jock knew the boy well. He worked hard at Rosie’s cattery, loved animals and was fiercely protective of his mother. He had come a long way since setting fire to the village hall.
‘Hey, Mr McLean,’ hissed Darren. ‘Are you going to see my mum?’
‘That’s the idea,’ said Jock. ‘What are you doing in there?’
‘Sssh, keep your voice down! They’ll hear you and come out.’
‘Who’s that, then?’
‘Those TV people. They’re waiting to film her. They won’t let anybody else in the house except that stupid Eric man. They’re waiting for him just now.’
‘Can’t we get in after they’ve finished?’
‘They said not even then... I want to see my mum – I know she’s nervous.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Jock. ‘Anybody would
be.’
‘If we can get them to come outside for a minute we can sneak in the back door. Maybe you could raise a fire alarm or something, Mr McLean. Just to get them out of the way.’
Jock stared at Darren’s earnest face. He shook his head. ‘You’re an evil influence, Darren Laidlaw.’
In the end they compromised. Jock would ring the front door-bell and play the part of an irate neighbour whose car was blocked in, while Darren sneaked round and opened the back door. Jock would run round to the back once he had finished play-acting on the doorstep, and they would both get into the kitchen while the television crew were moving their car. It was so scrappy a plan that Jock didn’t think it had a hope of working, but at least he felt as if he was doing something to help. If indeed it would help Tricia to have her son in the kitchen for a few minutes. That was a matter of opinion.
‘Right, then,’ said Darren once they had worked this out. ‘Cleared for lift-off, Mr McLean?’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that,’ said Jock, who had been thinking along the lines of ‘Thunderbirds are Go’, except that he knew that phrase was hopelessly old-fashioned. ‘Well, get round to the back garden then. We’ll only have a few seconds to do this.’
He walked up the path and rang the door-bell.
One of the television crew opened the door. Fortunately it was Charlotte, who had seemed slightly less threatening than the rest. On the other hand, having faced up to plenty of school bullies in his time, both among the pupils and on the staff, Jock couldn’t really bring himself to feel threatened by anybody in what he thought of as civilian life.
‘What’s that thing doing parked across my driveway?’ he demanded, trying to model himself on Christopher’s annoying neighbour, Mr Browning, who was always complaining about something. ‘It’s nearly time for church and I can’t get my car out! It’s very inconsiderate. Mrs Laidlaw’s usually so careful about these things.’
He harangued Charlotte until she called to Ken to come out. He harangued them both until they were just out of Tricia’s gate and then scurried up the drive of the house next-door, squeezed through a convenient gap in the fence and reached the Laidlaws’ back garden. He hoped they wouldn’t think it odd that he hadn’t waited to make sure they did what he had asked.
7 A Tasteful Crime Page 6
