by David Wilson
‘I think you’ll find we do have some issues to resolve, far be it for me to dim Mrs Mills’ moment in the spotlight.’ Sophie was determined to be the bigger person.
‘No problem Bridget, fire away.’
‘We have a letter of concern from a local resident, who feels the bouncy castle is somewhat inappropriate.’ Bridget passed the letter down the table to Peter Finchburgh, who scanned over it while Sophie looked confused.
‘What do they mean? It’s just a bouncy castle for the kids. We cover it in white sheeting to look like icing and then place a space hopper on top to look like a cherry. Surely someone can’t complain about that?’
Peter stroked his chin as he read. ‘Blah blah blah … have concerns that the bouncy castle has the appearance of a large breast and is not in keeping with the tone of the area let alone the event. Hah! What a load of nonsense!’ He threw the letter down on the table. Sophie picked it up and read it over as well.
‘Bridget, don’t you stay in the same street as this person?’
‘Yes, she’s a neighbour of mine, but I don’t see what that has to do with it.’ Sophie was about to say something she might regret when someone else chipped in.
‘Well, we should take a vote and see if the committee requires a change. All those in favour of the current proposal, say Aye.’ A chorus of ‘Aye’ went up from the table, which brought a smile to Sophie’s face and a deepening scowl to Bridget’s. ‘Thank you all,’ Sophie said. ‘What a relief! So, Bridget is there anything else?’ Bridget shook her head and Sophie breathed a calming sigh as Bridget got up from the table.
‘Oh, sorry Mrs Mills, I forgot to mention. The Provost has had to cancel due to a family illness, so you have no guest of honour to do the opening and closing addresses. Dear me, you’ll never find a suitable replacement at this stage.’ The smug expression on Bridget’s face nearly made Sophie get up and go for her, but she bit her tongue.
‘You couldn’t have mentioned this sooner? When did you find out?’
‘Oh, he called me first thing this morning. I would have been in touch but I know you’re very busy so I thought it could wait until tonight.’
‘Yes giving me even less time to find a replacement.’ Peter Finchburgh banged the table with his fist.
‘Nonsense Sophie, we’ll find someone else to do it. There are plenty of upstanding people we can ask.’ He turned to Bridget; ‘That’s a bit mean Bridget, waiting to tell us about that. You’ve given us a mountain to climb now.’ As soon as he said it, there was a stifled snigger around the table, causing Bridget to gasp in a breath of air.
‘I think it’s just …’ she stammered.
‘No,’ Peter came back, ‘we’re not going to lose our foothold on things here, and we’ll still make sure we peak at the right time. If need be we’ll hold a further summit tomorrow to sort this out.’ The stifled sniggers grew to a laugh with Sophie just amazed at the outburst. Bridget threw them all a scowl and then marched out of the room, the sound of laughter following her into the corridor.
Sophie tried to quieten them down. ‘Stop it! You’ll get me hung with old Bridget. How did you all know anyway?’
‘Oh, you can’t keep a secret around here; a man from the Pru told us!’
Chapter Six
Alasdair skipped up the steps of the Smith Art Gallery with Abigail following behind, ‘I think I can hear a crowd inside Abby, we’re in for a busy night!’ Abigail herself couldn’t hear any such crowd but assumed Alasdair must have more highly attuned hearing than she did. They walked through the foyer and turned the corner into the small ante room just off and Alasdair stopped dead in his tracks, catching Abigail off guard and nearly causing her to walk into the back of him. Bruce looked up and gave a weak smile as Alasdair surveyed the rows of empty chairs. ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked.
Bruce shrugged his shoulders. ‘This is it I’m afraid, and I just came to tell you the news. We’ve started another club, on Facebook.’ He glanced towards Abigail, assuming an introduction would be forthcoming, but Alasdair was having a palpitation.
‘Another club? How can you start another club, there’s only one Stirling Collectors’ Club. What’s this Facebook thing anyway?’
Abigail tutted behind him. ‘For goodness sake Alasdair, don’t you keep up with anything? It’s a website where people can meet and become friends and share their interests from anywhere in the world.’
He looked at her and then turned to Bruce again. ‘Are you sure? Everyone has joined your new group?’
‘Yes. I tweeted everyone yesterday to let them know there was a meeting here but they were much happier with the Facebook club. They were, apparently, finding it a little too limiting just speaking to each other here so we’ve linked up with collectors in other parts of the country and even some overseas. It’s the future, much more opportunity.’
‘Tweeted?’ Alasdair’s mouth was agape.
‘That’s right.’ Bruce’s face flushed. ‘I tweeted them. You know, on Twitter.’
‘Is that, may I ask, a website for twits?’
‘Erm, no. It’s just a way of keeping in touch on the internet. People add you to their list and everyone can see what you’re thinking each time you post a new message.’
Alasdair turned to Abigail again. ‘Have you heard of this?’
‘Oh yes, it’s all the rage at the moment. We have the computers in the library for people to access the internet and people are always coming in to check their Facebook pages or to update their Twitters. It’s just the modern way – you can even do it on your phone now if I recall?’ She looked towards Bruce for confirmation.
‘That’s right it’s quite easy, look.’ He took his phone out of his pocket and was about to get up when Alasdair, who had started pacing around in front of the chairs, erupted.
‘We don’t want to know how to do it Bruce! This is outrageous, they can’t just start another club and abandon this one. Right, I’m going to have a word with them about this.’ He stormed off outside to phone a few of the other members, as Abigail sat down.
‘It’s Bruce isn’t it? I’m Abigail Craig, a friend of Alasdair and his wife.’ Bruce smiled, ‘I came along to join the club and meet some new people but there don’t seem to be any. Apart from you of course, although I think Alasdair was expecting a much bigger turnout.’
Bruce shrugged again. ‘It’s nothing personal, we just decided that while there were no meetings we might be as well to meet online and it’s turned out to be quite good so no one felt it was worth coming back.’
‘I see. It seems to have come as somewhat of a shock to Alasdair, although I suppose things do move on don’t they? Tomorrow’s World always told us days like this would come, although I think only the compact disc really took off the way they said it would. No jetpacks in sight yet in any case.’ Abigail could sense Bruce was not the least bit relaxed. ‘What is it that you collect Bruce?’
‘Well stamps mainly, although I’ve branched out into anything to do with films and television.’
‘Oh? Such as?’
‘Posters, props, autographs – that type of thing.’ Abigail waited for the usual reciprocal question, which never came, so she offered the information anyway.
‘That sounds interesting. I’m just starting out in collecting. It’s stamps for me too, although the collection belongs to my husband,’ she caught herself, ‘Belonged I should say. He died and I had a look through and found a list of stamps he wanted to get hold of and decided it might be nice to try and finish it for him. We’ll see. Although if we’ve now disbanded then I’ll need to go elsewhere, maybe even on this Facebook.’
Bruce grimaced. ‘Don’t let Alasdair hear you say that.’
‘No, perhaps not,’ Abigail laughed. ‘I suppose I can see why you’ve started it. It won’t be much fun for your generation hanging around with us old fogies when everything is done on the internet nowadays. It was decent that you came here tonight.’
‘I just thought someone shoul
d come and tell Alasdair in person about it, that’s still the fair way to give someone bad news.’ Abigail put a finger to her lips as Alasdair came back in. Alasdair sat down and threw his arms in the air, ‘It’s true. They’ve jumped ship and gone into hyperspace.’
‘I think you mean cyberspace,’ Bruce offered.
‘It doesn’t really matter, they’ve deserted me. It’s like a cull. Et tu Bruce,’ he said, glowering at Bruce menacingly, although Bruce did not appear to be overly concerned.
Sophie Mills was poring over the local paper when Alasdair got home, flipping through the pages scanning each one. Alasdair slumped down into his chair, ‘You won’t believe what happened tonight. Treason of the highest order at the club; we’ve been decimated to only two members, and that’s me and Abby. Can you believe it?’ Sophie didn’t respond, ‘Sophie?’
She glanced up. ‘Sorry I wasn’t quite listening, yes, terrible news. I’m afraid I’ve got a big problem for Sunday.’ She explained what had happened at her committee meeting, ‘I’m hoping there’ll be someone in the newspaper that I can contact to act as guest of honour.’
‘I’m sure you might find someone in there who’s held a position of some respect in the community, and is regarded as somewhat of an elder statesman in the city. Although it may be difficult to get them on such short notice.’
Sophie kept scanning the paper. ‘Well, I have to try. We can’t have a …’ she glanced up at him. He was smiling at her innocently. ‘Obviously we thought of you immediately Alasdair but since you’re married to the person organising the event it might look a bit improper if you were suddenly thrust into such a position. After all, we wouldn’t want any scandal or impropriety would we, not with your good name in the community?’
He nodded. ‘I suppose not. It is a fine line to walk when you’re a man of my position.’ Sophie lowered her head to the paper again, rolling her eyes as she did so.
‘It certainly is,’ she said.
Alasdair wandered off towards his study when Sophie shouted after him, ‘By the way, you left the back door open when you went out. I had to close it when I came in, it was freezing in here.’
He stopped. ‘But I wasn’t at the back door, it must have been you.’
‘I wasn’t out there either! You’re getting forgetful in your retirement, but you can’t go out leaving the doors open.’
He carried on out of the lounge towards his study, ‘It’s not me who’s forgetful,’ he muttered, ‘I didn’t leave the door open. Must have been you, too much of a hurry that’s the trouble. I wouldn’t have been a very good solicitor if I just forgot about things here and there!’ He walked into his study and went to have a look at his slippers to calm him down, stopping dead as he noticed the empty glass case. ‘Sophie!’ he yelled, waiting for her to come through.
‘What is it? There’s no need to shout.’
He pointed towards the glass case. ‘Did you move the slippers?’
‘No, I wouldn’t dream of touching those things. Are you sure you put them back again?’
He looked around the study desperately. ‘Of course I did but they’re not here now. You must have … oh hell,’ he noticed his wastepaper basket had been kicked over and a large boot print on one of the sheets of paper on the floor. ‘We didn’t forget to close the back door. We’ve been burgled!’
Chapter Seven
At seven thirty on Tuesday morning Emma Harris carefully zipped up the holdall which contained as many of her clothes and possessions as she could carry, and put it down by the front door. She looked down the hallway of the flat which, for the last two years and for the next five minutes, she shared with her husband. They had known each other for just over the two years and had been married for the last eighteen months. Her family had told her she was marrying too quickly, that he wasn’t quite the right one for her and she should wait but, being twenty-one and determined to go her own way, she had married John at a Registry Office wedding and then had moved to Stirling to live with him in his flat. If only I had listened to them, she thought; still, I suppose we all have to live and learn. Things had started off well enough but then he had started behaving a little strangely, working long hours, unexplained gaps in what he was doing. He was either having an affair or was being systematically abducted by aliens. As it turned out the former was correct. Even then her stubborn streak wouldn’t let her leave him and the rift between her and her family became a gulf.
They say that once a cheat always a cheat, and yes there may be the odd exception but it seemed to her that John was happy to be typecast. After catching him out a week ago with some text messages on his phone, and after a good few blazing arguments and sleepless nights since, she had decided that for her own sanity she had to leave. She just hadn’t told John about her plans.
The last thing she needed before she could leave was her mobile phone. She cursed herself for leaving it lying on the fireplace in the lounge where John was sleeping on the couch. I don’t know how he can sleep so soundly, she thought, maybe he’s nothing to feel guilty about? No, more like it that he just doesn’t care. Creeping quietly through the room she stalked her phone, carefully sliding it off the fireplace and putting it into her pocket. Turning around to leave, she stopped to have a last look at her husband. I could leave you a note I suppose or even do the decent thing and wake you and tell you face to face but I really don’t think you deserve that level of consideration. You’ve certainly not shown me any so, no, you sleep on and when you wake up you can do what the hell you like.
With that she walked back out of the room along the hall and, picking up her bag on the way out, drew the door closed quietly behind her.
Abigail always made a point of getting to the library early before anyone else arrived, as she loved the complete silence inside. She pushed open the heavy wooden door, locking it behind her and then took the few steps up to the lending library where she glanced around at the rows of books. As part of her morning routine she went upstairs to the reference section, which was her favourite part of the library. The smell from all the antiquated books just seemed to hit her on a primal level and she sometimes enjoyed sitting up here after the library was closed, just reading through some of these old volumes. Since Arthur had died she had never been in much of a hurry to go back to an empty house so this gave her a nice escape from the loneliness of home. As the other staff arrived, the library slowly came to life and they all set about the business of the day. Abigail had been a librarian for many years and had watched some of the visitors grow up – not only in years, she had seen their level of reading grow with them too. People who came in as children and borrowed their first books, developed to the teenage novels, then perhaps to educational books and then inevitably they might move upstairs to the reference library when they were working on projects for college or university. Abigail found that she had a unique position to have a window on some people’s lives depending on which books they borrowed. You could get a feel for people from the type of fiction they read, or the people who took out travel books, and then those that took out self-help books to try to address some problem they may be facing. Whatever you needed to know in life, it was in the library, although nowadays many people would just Google it and not bother with the library at all. What will we do when there are no more libraries, she thought; we’ll be in a predicament then, I can tell you.
Abigail was tidying through the reserved books shelf when her work experience trainee Emma Harris came in and pushed a large holdall under the counter. She gave Abigail a brief smile and Abigail smiled back, ‘Morning Emma, how are you?’ Then pointing to the holdall she said, ‘Are you staying for the week?’
Emma smiled nervously. ‘Oh fine, no just a few things to take to the charity shop later. Thought I might pop round at lunchtime.’ Then she grabbed a pile of books from the counter and headed to the shelves, clearly keen to avoid any further discussion on the subject. Abigail watched her as she worked and she seemed her usual distracted way, but toda
y something was different. Abigail didn’t know her that well, but there seemed to be the weight of the world on her shoulders today.
Emma’s mind was racing as she beavered about the library, scarcely believing that she had walked out on her home, such as it was, and her life. How could I have been so stupid, she thought, where am I going to go? I can’t live on the streets and I can’t go to my family. I can’t bear a large chorus of ‘we told you so’. By half past eleven she couldn’t take any more. She felt claustrophobic in the library, the silence seeming to just let her thoughts shout even louder in her head. She grabbed her coat and shouted over to Abigail, ‘Just taking an early lunch, won’t be long.’
Abigail raised her head from the computer to reply, but Emma was already on her way out of the door. Valerie Stewart, one of the other librarians, came over and stood next to Abigail.
‘She’s not going to last long here, Abby, if she keeps doing things like this. She was late three times last week as well, which is not the sign of someone who wants the work experience!’
Abigail pondered for a moment. ‘There’s something not quite right with her.’
‘You can say that again,’ Valerie snorted and then she was off putting more books back on shelves. Abigail went over to one of the windows and watched Emma head over to the park benches on the hill leading to the Albert Halls and slump down onto one of them, her head in her hands.
Chapter Eight
Police Constable Chris Buchan looked around as he waited outside the elegant Victorian house for someone to answer the door. His gaze travelled along the houses across the road and he noticed an old woman waving at him, so he waved back. She shook her head and gestured him to come over, but as he was pondering this the door opened behind him and he was faced by an angry-looking man, ‘Good morning sir, are you Mr Mills?’
