Welcome to My World

by Miranda Dickinson

‘Thanks. See you, Freddie.’

  ‘No probs, Miss Langton. You just stay there and I’ll bring the others in from the van.’

  Shock rooted Harri to the doorstep. ‘The others?’

  But Freddie had already skipped down the path to his red Royal Mail van, and was flinging open the back doors with great gusto. When he reappeared, he was proudly pushing a red trolley back up the uneven path to Harri’s door, laden with three more sacks. Harri watched dumbly as he carefully wheeled the trolley over the threshold and into her lounge, sending Ron Howard scuttling under the coffee table in fright.

  ‘I’ll just dump ’em in here, OK?’ he said, shaking Harri’s hand as he retreated to the doorstep. ‘So much mail from London – well, I’ll be. Thank you for making this poor old sod’s day, Miss Langton! Ta-rar!’ And with that, he was gone.

  Harri stumbled back into her living room as Ron Howard slowly emerged from his hiding place. Hardly daring to look, she opened the first bag. It fell forward as she did so, its contents spilling out across the carpet, and Ron Howard sprang onto the sofa to save himself from being engulfed by the tidal wave of letters. Harri bent to pick up a handful and saw, with mounting dread, that each envelope bore the same five terrible words: ‘Free to a Good Home’.

  This was a nightmare: Alex was officially a hit with the desperate readership of Juste Moi – and now Harri must uphold the second part of her bargain with Viv: to find a girl for Alex from the vast selection of candidates.

  It was going to be hell . . .

  * * *

  Getting too excited is perhaps not the best idea when you’re in your fifties with sky-high blood pressure and under strict doctor’s orders to avoid stress. But Viv was not likely to let some jumped-up locum’s opinion intervene at a time like this. Harri eyed her friend with concern as she bounced around the living room like a three-year-old on Haribo overload.

  ‘So . . . many . . . letters!’ she gasped, plunging her hands into the nearest postbag and throwing envelopes into the air like a lottery winner revelling in wads of banknotes.

  ‘Viv, calm down!’

  ‘Calm down? How on earth do you expect me to do that, Harri? I mean, look at this! All these beautiful, intelligent young women eager to meet my lovely son! It’s wonderful!’ She clapped her hands together.

  ‘Look at what you’ve done, Harri!’

  Harri ignored her sinking feeling. ‘Shouldn’t that be we, Viv?’

  Viv dismissed this with a flamboyant wave of her hand. ‘Ooh, that’s just details.’

  Harri eyed her suspiciously. ‘You are planning on helping me go through all of these, aren’t you?’

  Viv picked up a pale pink envelope and inspected the handwriting. ‘Of course I am, darling! I’m a tad busy this week, but after that I’m all yours.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll wait until you’re free and then we’ll start.’

  Staring at her, Viv dropped the envelope back into the postbag. ‘Harri, this is my son’s future happiness we’re dealing with – we can’t delay it any longer. He’s waited long enough, don’t you think? So you just make a start and as soon as the Summer Fair planning committee stuff is sorted I’ll be there to help.’

  Harri folded her arms. ‘I am not doing this all by myself, Viv. This was your bright idea, remember? I don’t mind making a start but you’d better be around to help with the lion’s share – planning committee or no planning committee. Right?’

  ‘Absolutely, darling. You have my word on it. I’ll only be absent from duty for a week and then it’s Team Harri and Viv all the way. In the meantime, you have my moral support, dear. And all the apple pie you can eat.’

  By Tuesday evening, when Auntie Rosemary came to visit, the postbags were still sitting unopened underneath the window. Ron Howard, most offended by their presence, had gone off in a huff and was now curled up in the washing basket in the kitchen. There was no use Harri trying to hide the bags before her aunt walked in; the cottage was almost too small for its furniture already, without accommodating four enormous sacks.

  ‘What, in the name of all that’s good, are those?’ Rosemary asked.

  Harri groaned and shut the front door, following her aunt inside. ‘It’s a long story. Cup of tea?’

  Rosemary bent down to inspect the sacks as Harri walked into the kitchen. ‘“Free to a Good Home”? What’s this all about?’

  ‘It’s nothing, really. Just something I agreed to help with,’ Harri replied, hoping that her breezy tone would appease Rosemary’s curiosity.

  It didn’t, of course. ‘Wait a minute – Juste Moi magazine? The only person I know around here who reads that tripe is—’

  Harri pulled a face and dropped two teabags into the pot. ‘Fancy a biscuit?’ she interjected weakly. ‘I think I’ve got some bourbons in the cupboard.’

  Rosemary appeared in the kitchen doorway, face stern and arms folded. ‘What has Vivienne Brannan got you into this time?’

  The kettle reached boiling point with a noisy whistling fanfare and Harri was glad of the moment it gave her to formulate her reply. ‘It’s just a project she’s got. A daft idea, really. I only said I’d help her to stop her nagging.’ She placed the teapot, mugs and milk jug on an old rose-printed tray that had been her mum’s. ‘Would you grab the biscuit tin, please?’

  Rosemary followed her niece back into the living room. ‘Hmm. If I know Viv, this is probably going to entail you doing a lot of work and her getting off scot-free.’

  Harri poured the tea. ‘To be honest, I wish I’d never agreed to the stupid idea in the first place. I should have realised that Viv would try to wriggle her way out of helping. But I have her word this time that she’ll pull her weight, so I intend to hold her to it.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing.’ Auntie Rosemary placed a concerned hand on Harri’s arm. ‘But just be careful, OK? Viv’s ideas usually end in disaster and I don’t want you being caught up in the middle of another one.’

  Harri smiled at her aunt. ‘I’ll be fine, honest. She’s just thinking of Al, that’s all.’

  ‘What’s all this got to do with Alex?’

  There really was no point concealing the truth from Rosemary. Harri took a deep breath and told her aunt about Viv’s Big Idea. Rosemary listened for a long time, her steady expression masking her true opinion, although Harri could guess what it was. When Harri had told her everything, Rosemary shrugged.

  ‘I thought that woman couldn’t surprise me any more but I was wrong. That has got to be the most ridiculous idea I have ever heard. Honestly, I swear she never grew out of her teenage phase. Your poor mother was always bailing her out of daft situations. Well, no matter. What concerns me is you, Harriet. I just don’t want you losing a friend over this.’

  Neither do I, thought Harri. ‘I’ll be careful, Auntie Ro, honestly. With any luck all the replies will be from complete psychos and Viv will give up the idea.’

  Rosemary’s nut-brown eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t believe that any more than I do,’ she observed. ‘You may be setting yourself up for a fall, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘So the police said they weren’t going to investigate the unexplained lights over Innersley any more because of lack of evidence,’ Tom was saying as Harri arrived at work next day.

  Nus and George were anything but the rapt audience he was obviously hoping for, but he appeared undaunted.

  ‘I mean, seriously, what does that say to you?’

  Nus inspected her immaculate nails with an air of boredom. ‘That you need to get a life?’

  Tom let out a groan and turned to his boss. ‘Aw, c’mon. George?’

  George stifled a yawn and slid his ample backside off Harri’s desk, pulling up the sagging waistband of his trousers as he did so. Harri stifled a giggle, recalling a comment Stella had made about him last week: Forty-three with a beer gut to die for and he’s still single? Shockers!

  ‘Thomas, a busy travel professional such as myself has no time for indulgi
ng in idle tittle-tattle. I suggest you turn your overfertile imagination to the task of coming up with irresistible offers on our Summer Coach Spectacular, all right?’

  Tom’s frame flopped resignedly. ‘I can’t believe there’s a blatant government conspiracy going on right underneath our noses and none of you is even remotely interested.’ He grabbed an empty brochure box and plodded into the stockroom.

  Harri smiled at Nus. ‘What’s all that about?’

  Nus leaned down to retrieve her mobile from her bag. ‘UFOs above Innersley, apparently.’ She started to text, her acrylic nails squeaking on the keypad as she did so.

  George’s flushed face appeared in the doorway to his office. ‘Harriet, do you have a minute?’

  ‘Sure,’ she replied, standing up.

  ‘And bring us a coffee while you’re at it, eh, chick?’

  ‘Ooh, tea, please,’ Nus said, without looking up from her phone.

  ‘Hot choc for me.’ Tom’s voice floated in from the depths of the stockroom.

  Groaning, Harri collected everyone’s mugs from the office and made her way to SLIT’s ridiculously small kitchen. In truth, the title ‘kitchen’ was incredibly generous for what the room actually was; calling it a cupboard with a stainless-steel sink squeezed into one corner would be more accurate. The green vinyl covering the floor looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years and stuck to the soles of her shoes as Harri man oeuvred her way around the boxes of brochures that were haphazardly stacked by the entrance. A few brave shafts of light managed to break through the grey grime covering the tiny safety glass window as the old water boiler shuddered and bumped into life. Trying not to inhale the strong smell of mouldy plastic, Harri filled the mugs with hot water and balanced them on a ‘wood-effect’ tray that had once passed for mahogany (but now resembled grey-brown peeling chipboard) along with tea-bags, coffee jar, hot chocolate canister, slightly damp sugar bag and spoons, carefully navigating the boxes to emerge back into the office. Having worked at SLIT for as long as she had, she’d quickly learned that the safest way to prepare drinks was at her own desk rather than braving the kitchen’s cramped confines.

  Drinks duly delivered to Nus and Tom, she took her own mug and George’s into his cramped office at the back of the shop.

  ‘Ah, Harriet. Shut the door, would you?’

  Harri did so, then sat down on the brown tweed chair that, like the office’s owner, had seen decidedly better days.

  ‘Right. I’ve got this – um – situation happening at the moment that’s a little, well, delicate, and I need your help to fix it.’

  Nightmarish thoughts raced through Harri’s mind. ‘Oh?’

  ‘You see, the thing is, I’m up to my eyes in it right now, what with the planning required to make sure SLIT offers its customers the best in national vacationing and, to be totally frank, I’ve got piles . . . big ones . . .’

  Harri shot to her feet. ‘George, there are some things I don’t need to know.’

  George looked at her, mystified, his already flushed features then turning a pinker shade of puce as realisation dawned. ‘Oh, no! No! I mean piles of work to do this week!’

  The relief Harri felt was immense. However much she liked her boss, there were certain areas she just wasn’t ready to enter with him. Relaxing, she resumed her seat. ‘Sorry, George.’

  George pulled an off-white handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbed his forehead. ‘I should think so too. As if I would share something like that with a member of my own staff . . .’

  ‘Absolutely. So, you were saying?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. Well, you see, there’s this woman and she won’t leave me alone.’

  ‘Ooh, George, driving the ladies wild again, are you?’

  ‘No I am not. At least, not this woman. The fact is, she’s been bombarding me with phone calls for the past two weeks about some crazy business venture she’s starting and I think she might be getting a little – um . . .’ he leaned forward confidentially, ‘. . . obsessed, if you know what I mean.’

  Harri resisted the urge to smile. ‘I see. So why do you want my help?’

  George pushed a dog-eared sticky note across his desk to her. ‘Go and see her, would you? Her number’s on there.’

  ‘But I thought you said we were busy, George?’

  ‘I said I’m busy,’ he snapped, grabbing a handful of papers from his desk and shuffling them ineptly to emphasise his point. ‘But I can spare you. I’ve told her to expect a call from my assistant manager.’

  Harri surveyed him suspiciously. ‘Assistant manager? Since when?’

  ‘You’ve been here almost as long as I have,’ George replied huffily. ‘It was only a matter of time.’ He took a long sip of coffee.

  Sensing an opportunity, Harri shook her head. ‘Nope, sorry, George. Not without a significant raise in my salary.’

  George spluttered and wiped his mouth. ‘Pardon?’

  Harri smiled benevolently at her boss. ‘You know what a raise is, don’t you, George? Obviously taking on such a role would be a major step in my career – I would need to see more money to reflect the greater responsibility such a role would bring. Consider it an indicator of your greater trust in me.’

  She kept her stare firmly fixed on her boss, who was now turning a rather interesting shade of lilac.

  ‘Well, I . . . I . . .’

  Harri looked at her watch. ‘Going to have to hurry you, I’m afraid. Very busy day out there for me, you know.’

  ‘Fine! We’ll increase your salary . . .’

  ‘By how much?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, it’s a competitive market out there, George. I might not accept.’

  George was beginning to resemble a shoddily attired soon-to-be-active volcano. ‘Are you taking the michael? Fine. Name your terms.’

  ‘Fifteen per cent. Effective immediately.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Or we can just keep it like it is. I’m sure that lady will calm down once you’ve had a nice long chat . . .’

  George gripped the edge of his desk, eyes wild with panic. ‘All right! Fifteen per cent it is.’

  Harri rose serenely and opened the door. ‘George, that’s so thoughtful of you. Thank you.’

  As she stepped out of the office, she heard his strangled voice call out behind her. ‘. . . but there’s likely to be a lot more work for you now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less,’ Harri called over her shoulder, settling back at her desk, hardly believing her own audacity.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Nus asked, as Tom appeared beside her, the pair of them looking like wide-eyed bushbabies.

  Harri picked up the phone and started to dial the number scibbled on the sticky note in George’s untidy handwriting. ‘Nothing. George’s got woman trouble, that’s all . . . Hello? Is that Emily Williams? Hi, it’s Harri Langton, assistant manager at Sun Lovers International Travel . . .’

  The look on Nus and Tom’s faces was a picture.

  ‘I’m just calling about the . . . er, yes, of course I’d be happy to visit you . . . erm, great, so what time would you . . . ? Oh, right, half an hour would be fine. OK . . .’

  The call clicked on the other end of the line and Harri stared at the receiver. ‘Bye then.’

  Tom folded his arms as Nus stood up. ‘Assistant manager? Since when?’

  Harri grabbed her bag and grinned at them as she passed. ‘Can’t explain now, I’ve got to head out. See you later!’

  To say that the lady on the other end of the phone had been enthusiastic would be like saying Nureyev wasn’t bad at dancing. Harri couldn’t help but grin as she drove through the high-hedged lanes towards Emily’s home. Poor George. After years of encountering disinterest from the good ladies of Stone Yardley – with the possible exception of his mother – someone as forthright as Emily must have scared him half to death.

  ‘My place is a little hard to find,’ Emily had gushed during the call. ‘Head for Littl
e Swinford and then just before you get to the grass triangle where the road splits towards Greenwell, you take a left down the farm track. It’s a bit bumpy but it should be OK.’

  Harri’s ageing Fiat Punto bounced wildly along the dirt and gravel track before it passed through an opening in the hedge and headed steeply downhill. A small cluster of farm buildings nestled between two rounded hills came into view. Harri caught her breath; the place was stunning. An old tithe barn stood crookedly next to some whitewashed outbuildings, with the main farmhouse to the right. An elegant red-brick building, it was surrounded by a riot of cottage-garden flowers – delphiniums, poppies, Sweet Williams and lavender, with pale pink roses curling haphazardly around the green front door. As Harri parked and stepped out, she was almost knocked back into the car by a large black and white collie that bounded out of the house to greet her, closely followed by a tall, dark-haired lady dressed in a pale pink jumper, her faded jeans tucked hurriedly into her daffodil-patterned wellies.

  ‘Fly! Fly, come here, you daft mutt!’ she laughed as she approached. ‘He’s harmless, just a little too welcoming I’m afraid. You are OK with dogs, aren’t you?’

  Harri regained her balance and patted the overexcited dog as it head-butted her knees. ‘Yes, I’m fine. He’s a lovely dog.’

  ‘Runt of the litter, that one, would you believe?’ Emily shook her head and extended her hand. ‘You must be Harri. I’m Emily, in case you hadn’t guessed.’

  Harri shook her hand. ‘Nice to meet you. This place is amazing.’

  Emily beamed brightly. ‘Welcome to Greenwell Hill Farm. Sixteenth century, most of it. Until some horrible Victorian got a bit carried away with the farmhouse – those chimneys are ridiculous.’

  Harri looked up to see four very ornate twisted chimneys rising up from the farmhouse roof. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Hmm, I know. I wanted to take them down but my hubby adores the things. No accounting for taste, obviously. Anyway, come in, the kettle’s on.’

  The warmth of the kitchen enveloped them like a cosy blanket as Harri and Emily entered. It was a study in shabby chic: faded pink gingham curtains hung at the large sash window, looking out to the rolling fields beyond; blue and white striped crockery was stacked haphazardly by the large white Belfast sink; bunches of dried lavender, rosemary and sage hung from the edges of the old whitewashed wood cupboards above the well-worn oak worktops; a freshly baked loaf was positioned invitingly on a breadboard, alongside a crackle-glazed butter dish and half-empty jar of home-made jam, while freshly picked flowers had been casually arranged in an old enamel jug on the old pine kitchen table.