by Simon Brett
Mrs Pargeter was just assessing which of these methods of improving Jasmine Angold’s financial situation would be most apposite, when the object of her charity rang her. As ever unsurprised by such synchronicity, she greeted her friend warmly.
Jasmine was ringing, it soon became clear, because she had only just heard the news of Doreen Grange’s death. ‘Isn’t it terrible?’ she said. ‘A harmless old lady like that. And we only met her a few days ago. And she crocheted those lovely little cats, didn’t she? I’ll treasure mine even more now, knowing that it was probably one of the last ones she ever made. You didn’t buy one, did you?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Bad luck. I bet you’re regretting it now, aren’t you?’
Mrs Pargeter let that pass without comment, as Jasmine went on, ‘Actually, it wasn’t only about Doreen Grange that I was ringing.’
‘Oh?’ Maybe Jasmine was going to talk about her finances. That would give a perfect cue for Mrs Pargeter to take action.
But no, the woman was too proud to do that. Instead, she said, ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about Edna.’
‘Oh?’ At that moment Mrs Pargeter couldn’t for the life of her think who Edna might be.
Fortunately, Jasmine elucidated. ‘You know, my cat. The one who died in January.’
‘Oh yes. Yes, of course.’
‘Well, I think I am ready to get a replacement for her. Obviously it’ll never be the same with a different cat, but I dare say in time I could learn to love her.’
‘Got to be a her, has it?’
‘Oh yes. Toms can be tricky. Spraying all over the furniture, that kind of thing.’
Mrs Pargeter, who knew little of feline behaviour, took Jasmine’s word for that.
‘And I really think the best place to look for a new cat would be PhiliPussies.’
Mrs Pargeter greeted this idea with enthusiasm. She needed a reason to find out more about Mendy Farstairs’ charity, and Jasmine Angold was providing it on a plate.
‘And I wondered …’ Jasmine hesitated, ‘… because I’m still not very confident … you know, since Silver died … about going to places on my own … I wondered if you’d mind coming with me …?’
Mrs Pargeter couldn’t have asked for a more attractive or timely invitation.
THIRTEEN
Gary picked up Mrs Pargeter from Chigwell in the Lexus, then drove to Romford to get Jasmine Angold, who wasn’t quite ready when they arrived. The chauffeur waited while Mrs Pargeter went inside. Jasmine introduced her daughter Charley, saying, ‘She’ll get you a cup of coffee if you like. Just got to finish my make-up. I daren’t be seen out without the full warpaint these days.’ Then she rushed upstairs.
Charley Angold had her mother’s sharp features, but her colouring was all from her father. Mrs Pargeter had never met ‘Silver’ Angold, but there were enough family photographs around the sitting room to show him to have been a rosy-cheeked man with almost Nordic blond hair and piercing blue eyes. These characteristics he had bequeathed to his daughter.
Charley had risen on Mrs Pargeter’s arrival from the laptop on which she had been working. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘No, thanks, love. Had some just before I went out.’ She gestured towards the computer. ‘Can I ask what you’re working on?’
Charley grimaced wryly. ‘Trying to write a book.’
‘Oh? What kind of book? A novel?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘No, I’m not.’ Mrs Pargeter waited. She could always tell when someone had more confidences to share. And sure enough the girl went on, ‘It’s something I sort of promised my dad.’
‘Oh?’ Mrs Pargeter knew only the smallest of prompts would be required.
‘Yes, he was very keen on my writing.’
‘Really?’
‘At school I always did well at English. Dad was very proud of that. I mean, as someone who’d never had much education himself, he did value academic achievement … perhaps more than it should be valued.’
‘Oh?’
‘I wrote some stories in my teens and he just loved them, said that one day I’d have a book published.’
‘And that hasn’t happened yet?’
‘No, I’m not sure that it ever will. You see, in spite of his lack of education, my dad loved the English language. He had great respect for people who could use it brilliantly. Loved words, Dad did. He taught himself how to do crosswords when he was inside for …’ She corrected herself ‘… when he had a period of enforced leisure. Quite tricky crosswords he did, used to sometimes finish The Times. He tried to get me interested in them, but I couldn’t see the point. I mean, I tried to understand the attraction of it, but it just seemed like playing with words. I think my brain’s differently wired from the way Dad’s was.’
‘But you were very close to him?’
The girl nodded. Even after more than a year, her eyes glistened at the memory. ‘Yeah, I’d do anything for Dad. I’m an only child and, well, there’s always a strong bond between fathers and daughters. My first memories are of being with him. He used to take me on walks and make up stories for me. There was one particular walk we’d do in Epping Forest. Took me there when I was tiny in my buggy, and the last time we went it was the other way round, me pushing him in a wheelchair, only about a week before he passed.’ She brushed away a tear forming on her eyelid. ‘He called that walk “The Fairy Path”, and he always told me stories about fairies when we went along there. There was a “Fairy Ring” where he said they danced through the night.’ She sniffed forcibly to break her mood. ‘Oh well, he’s gone,’ she said flatly.
Mrs Pargeter was intrigued. ‘And you say he wanted you to write a book?’
‘Yeah. Like his dying wish. Left a letter for me, sealed up, to be read after his death.’
Mrs Pargeter still couldn’t get her head around the strange request. ‘And the letter said that you should write a book?’
‘Yes. You can see it if you like.’ Charley gestured to a much-handled envelope on the table. ‘I keep it here and when I get really stuck on the writing – which is quite often – I have another look at the letter to convince myself that Dad really wanted me to write the bloody thing.’
‘It’s awfully nosy of me, but do you mind if I read the letter?’
Charley Angold handed the envelope across. ‘Be my guest. Maybe you can see some let-out in it for me, so that I don’t have to pretend to be a writer.’
The letter which Mrs Pargeter extracted was as much handled as its envelope. And this is what she read:
Dear Charley,
Might your old father give you a word of advice?
Might your old father point you in a useful direction?
Ask who always loved you from when you were a tiny baby?
The champion who stood up for you against everyone?
Only me.
You stirred in me emotions I did not know I had.
I did not expect to feel such total love,
Such a subtle change in my personality
From a rough, uncaring man to a helpless father,
Hopelessly enthralled by this perfect person
Whose tiny life had suddenly become so important to me.
So know my love is there forever,
Whether I live a reasonably long time or die young.
But there’s a last thing I want you to do for me,
Do not think me terrible to ask this …
But I always felt pleased when you did well at English.
So, for me, your old Dad, please write a book,
Get it published, into major bookstores
And other outlets, even e-books if you must,
So long as it is out there existing for the general public to read,
You will know for sure that you have done the right thing by your poor old Dad
And I will be able to rest easy wherever it is I end up.
Wh
at kind of book you write … it doesn’t matter to me,
So long as the thing is published in some form or other,
Be it hardback, paperback or presentation copy.
I know you may find it’s hard but, if you ever loved me,
Do as this letter tells you and lo – all your wishes for future prosperity
For you and for your mother should instantly come true.
Follow my instructions – into your writing
Go line by line and progress letter by letter
Until you at last attain the moment of publication.
Then my vast fortune will be yours – and Jasmine
Will benefit too from that vast, vast fortune.
My blessings always will support you both.
When she finished reading, she saw that Charley was looking at her expectantly. ‘Well, you see anything in there that says I don’t have to write a book?’
Mrs Pargeter shook her head wryly. ‘Sorry, I don’t. It’s a strange letter, though.’
‘I agree. Strange thing for any father to ask his daughter to do. I mean, it’d be different if I’d ever expressed any interest in writing a book.’
‘That wasn’t why I said it was strange.’
‘Oh?’
‘I mean, it’s laid out in a strange way. And the language is quite sophisticated.’
‘For an uneducated crook, are you saying?’
Ice frosted over Mrs Pargeter’s violet eyes. ‘No, Charley, that is certainly not what I’m saying.’ But the froideur only lasted a moment. ‘It’s laid out more like a poem than a letter. Don’t you find that odd?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Not really. My dad educated himself. As I say, he loved language and while he was ins—’ She saw a warning look and made the correction ‘… when my father found he had time on his hands, he read a lot. He had a big vocabulary, but I don’t think he ever got round to learning rules of grammar or how writing should be laid out properly. He would have loved to have written a book himself. Maybe that’s why he’s inflicted this wretched task on to me.’
‘Do you really have to do it, Charley? I know you loved your father very much and would have wanted to please him, but you do have your own free will. Would it be so terrible if you were to give up the book and go back to your job?’
The girl grimaced. ‘Trouble is, Mum’s now got rather obsessed by it.’
‘By the idea of you having a book published?’
‘Yes. She keeps saying it’s something that I’ve got to do in my father’s memory.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘You’re right. It is a bit of a bind. I had a perfectly good job in retail. Ladies’ dress shop, you know. I loved it, but Mum said I really ought to give it up and concentrate on my writing. Which is daft, because it means I’m not contributing anything to the family finances, which are always pretty rocky. Income was erratic enough when Dad was alive, but now Mum’s on her own …’ Charley blushed. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you all this. Mum’s very proud about things to do with money.’
‘Don’t you worry about a thing,’ Mrs Pargeter soothed. Already plans were forming in her head about ways of alleviating Jasmine Angold’s financial insecurity. If a publisher could be found for Charley’s book, then perhaps the advance paid could be augmented by the Pargeter millions … It was a thought …
But not a thought that could be pursued at that moment, because Jasmine, warpainted up to her most exacting standards, had just appeared in the doorway.
The English end of the PhiliPussies operation, Bailey Dalrymple’s clinic in Leigh-on-Sea, was very smart. But then the residents of Leigh-on-Sea reckoned everything there was smart; certainly a cut above anything to be found in its rather raffish neighbour, Southend-on-Sea.
The clinic was probably a converted house, Mrs Pargeter guessed, with four or five bedrooms. Though they stayed on the ground floor, sounds from upstairs suggested that the whole space was used for veterinary purposes rather than as residential accommodation.
Bailey Dalrymple was as beamingly bonhomous as he had been at the PhiliPussies reception. Mrs Pargeter, who had rung to make the appointment, and Jasmine Angold had been ushered into his office by a young woman in a nurse-like green uniform. The reception area could have been that of a five-star hotel, the only giveaways to its real function being the proliferation of dog leads, cat collars and other pet impedimenta hanging from the walls behind the welcome desk. And Bailey Dalrymple’s domain, with its panelled walls and brown leather chairs, could have been a private room in a gentleman’s club. His tweed jacket, striped tie and burgundy corduroys reinforced the image.
It was clear that PhiliPussies was a high-end operation. Mendy Farstairs subsidized it a great deal, Mrs Pargeter surmised, but she could also see why the fundraising services of Rochelle Brighouse might also be required.
‘So …’ said the vet, when they had done the introductions and been supplied with coffee, ‘you’re after a cat, Mrs Pargeter?’
‘No, no, sorry. I booked the appointment, but in fact it’s Jasmine who wants a cat.’
‘Oh, apologies for the confusion. Well, Mrs Angold, you’ve certainly come to the right place. We have a wide variety of cats for you to choose from.’
‘And are they … you know …’ Jasmine asked tentatively, ‘I mean, considering the fact that they’ve come from Greece, where they may have just been wandering around without a proper owner … are they house-trained?’
‘They certainly are, Mrs Angold. True, a lot of them aren’t when they arrive here. And some of them are quite wild, almost feral. But it’s our policy here at PhiliPussies not to give the cats to new owners until they’ve spent a couple of months here doing all those necessary things – learning to use the litter tray, being neutered, microchipped and so on.’
‘And do you have any kittens?’
‘Ah, Mrs Angold. No, I’m afraid we don’t. Or very rarely. It sometimes happens that one of the cats is expecting when she arrives here. But usually termination is part of the neutering process. So I’m afraid what you’ll be getting here is a mature cat. And of course we can’t be precise about the age, but if you’ve been dealing with cats for as long as I have, you can make a pretty good guess at it.’
‘I see. That sounds fine.’ If Jasmine had really had her heart set on a kitten, she was hiding her disappointment very well.
‘So, given the fact that you can have virtually anything so long as it’s not a kitten, do you have any specific requirements in the cat you get?’
‘Well, it would be a replacement for a much-loved pussy who died of old age in January.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said Bailey Dalrymple, with the professional solicitude that Mrs Pargeter felt sure he used when he had to put down someone’s precious pet. ‘And what was your cat’s name?’
‘Edna.’
‘Ah. A female, I take it?’
‘Yes. And I think I would like another female. I know they’d be neutered, but I’ve never really taken to toms.’
‘No worries, Mrs Angold. I have almost equal numbers of males and females.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘Any other specifications?’
‘Well, I don’t know … I’m never going to replace Edna, so I’m not sure whether to go for a cat that will remind me of her or plump for something completely different which won’t raise memories and comparisons.’
‘And what colouring was Edna?’
‘She was tortoiseshell. Beautiful tortoiseshell.’
‘Ah. Well, of course it is completely your decision, Mrs Angold, but I do have a particularly beautiful tortoiseshell cat who’s about two years old and with whom I think you might immediately fall in love.’
Excitement sparkled in Jasmine’s eyes. ‘Ooh, can I see her?’
‘Of course. If you’d both like to follow me …’
Bailey Dalrymple’s prediction was correct. Jasmine Angold did fall instantly in love with the tortoiseshell he showed her. T
hough on some of them the ginger can be very ginger and the black and white very black and white, on this cat the markings were muted, pale, almost as if they had been painted in watercolours rather than oils.
She was thin, like the other Greek cats on display, but would no doubt soon be fattened up by an indulgent British owner. Some of the cats were in cages – ‘those are the most recent arrivals,’ Bailey Dalrymple said, ‘not quite civilized yet’ – but most seemed to have the freedom of the house’s large back garden. It was walled in wire netting and roofed in the same material, so that not even the most determined and devious of cats could escape.
Though there was a certain amount of mewling and the occasional mock-battle going on, the residents of the garden seemed mostly placid and well behaved. The cages were spotlessly clean and no smell emanated from the rows of litter trays. Two girls dressed in the same green uniforms as the one who’d let the visitors in wandered among their charges, tending to their various needs.
The tortoiseshell endeared herself to Jasmine by coming straight up and coiling her slender body around the potential owner’s legs. She submitted happily to being picked up. An experienced cat-lover, Jasmine tickled the creature under its chin and then ruffled the loose skin on the back of its neck.
As she did so, her finger caught on something. She looked closer and saw that a thin line of the fur had been shaved and three or four stitches closed over a wound. ‘What happened? Was she in a fight with another cat?’
‘No,’ the vet replied. ‘That’s where she’s been microchipped.’
‘But surely a microchip is tiny. Only about the size of a grain of rice. It doesn’t need a cut like that to install it.’
Bailey Dalrymple grimaced. ‘I agree. And if I were microchipping a cat I’d inject the thing and not leave a mark. Sadly, the Greek vets seem to be rather clumsier than I am. With a lot of the cats that arrive I have to do a bit of remedial surgery – sometimes even replace the microchip. But don’t worry about it, Mrs Angold. That scar’ll have cleared up in a few days.’
‘Oh, I know it will.’ As she continued to be stroked, the cat began purring like a road drill. She knew which side her bread was buttered, and recognized in Jasmine a devoted owner who would be obedient to her tiniest feline whim.
