A Leap of Faith

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘Of course you don’t – it’s nothing to do with him.’

  ‘No, and my editor agreed with me.’

  ‘Good for her – you stick to your guns.’

  ‘I have and he wasn’t pleased. And, Sappho – they want me to write a new b-book after that, about party food for students on a b-budget.’ She brightened: ‘I thought I’d call it Feeding the Party Animal. What d-do you think?’

  ‘Wonderful!’ I toasted her in laced coffee. ‘There you are, a jot of resolution and the start of a breakaway career. You can embrace the second oldest profession open to women, just like me.’

  ‘Sappho!’

  ‘Writing,’ I explained patiently.

  Her expression was pleased but doubtful, but that was OK, because I’ve got enough backbone for more than the two of us.

  ‘I’ll have to finish writing the b-book for the latest TV series first – Chris Goes Crackers. It’s b-been advertised!’

  She gestured with the biscuit barrel she’d been clutching on her lap since she arrived and which I’d assumed to be in the nature of a security blanket. ‘This is for you – a house-warming present. It’s full of b-biscuits – my house is full of b-biscuits.’

  ‘Tell Chris you want your name credited equally in the book and the TV series,’ I said firmly.

  ‘He would go b-ballistic – and say it’s all part of my neurosis.’

  ‘Neurosis? What neurosis?’

  ‘He thinks I’m having a sort of b-breakdown, what with D-Dad and Mum d-dying within a year of each other, and the weight piling on uncontrollably. He said I ought to live d-down here quietly for a b-bit until I’m b-better.’

  ‘Better than what?’

  ‘I have d-done one or two odd things lately,’ she admitted. ‘B-but I feel all right.’

  ‘Odd things? What sort of odd things?’

  ‘Oh, like the koi in the freezer,’ she said.

  ‘The coy what?’

  ‘Koi – they’re the fish D-Dad used to keep in the garden pond. One morning they weren’t there, and I found them in the freezer. Packaged, d-dated and labelled: “Eat within three months”.’

  I choked on my coffee. ‘You think you did it?’

  ‘Who else could it have b-been? B-but I d-don’t remember doing it. Chris said he’d woken up the night b-before and heard the freezer lid slam.’

  ‘Late last night, I heard the freezer slam . . .’ I crooned thoughtfully to the tune of ‘Big Yellow Taxi’.

  ‘It’s a big pond, I seem to recall. Was your nightie wet? Pools of water all over the place? Bloody knives? Muddy feet?’

  ‘No, nothing like that – and I d-didn’t even have a fishing net, though funnily enough I found one later on top of one of the garage b-beams.’

  ‘Chris was home at the time, you said?’

  ‘He-he’d left the morning I found them . . . B-but—’ her eyes widened – ‘b-but he wouldn’t . . .? Why should—’

  ‘Any other odd happenings?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Only little things, like finding the ham in the tool b-box, and the hammer in the fridge, that sort of stuff.’

  ‘And Chris was home at the time then, too, I expect? Really, Miranda, the man’s doing this to try to manipulate you back into line! He thought he had you safely stashed away down here working for him until you started showing signs of independence!’

  ‘D-do you really think so? Then I’m not going mad? B-but surely Chris wouldn’t . . .?’ She stopped and sighed. ‘I suppose he might – b-but it’s nasty. I was attached to those fish!’

  ‘Presumably, you’re attached to your sanity, too?’

  She sat up straighter. ‘If I really thought—’

  ‘That’s that, then,’ suddenly broke in the electrician, a lugubrious dark man, who had come downstairs unnoticed. ‘New sockets in, rewired. Accident waiting to happen, that old wiring.’

  ‘Good – thanks. I’ll get the plasterers back in to fill all those little holes and channels you’ve gouged out.’

  He stared at me. ‘Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,’ he pointed out reasonably.

  ‘True. Now, I’ll want you back later to rewire the barn, or outhouse – whatever you call that old building at the front. I just want some light in it for the moment until I decide what to do with it.’

  ‘Make a nice holiday cottage,’ he suggested.

  ‘I don’t need a holiday cottage, I live here,’ I told him. ‘I could turn part of it into a garage and extend the house into the rest, but I’d need to get planning permission, I suppose.’

  ‘Might fit you in next Wednesday.’

  ‘That would be all right – there’s no rush. Now, let me see that cut finger again before you go.’

  He whipped the injured hand behind his back. ‘No, it’s fine – honest!’

  Men can be so childish about these things.

  ‘Let me see. We don’t want it getting infected, do we?’

  He began to sidle past me. ‘No, really, that stuff you put on before stung like hell.’

  ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,’ I reminded him. ‘If it hurts, it’s working. Perhaps a little more antiseptic . . .’

  He edged round me and backed towards the door. ‘I’ll look after it,’ he said quickly, and darted out to his little van.

  ‘Pity,’ I said. ‘It was a nasty cut. Still, if he gets infection in it and his finger drops off, at least I’ll know I did everything I could.’ I turned my attention back to Miranda, who was looking in a puzzled and slightly rosy way into her coffee cup.

  ‘Is this one of those new flavoured coffees?’

  ‘Yes, rum flavour. Now, listen, Miranda, there’s something I really, really need your help with.’

  She went pinker with astonishment. ‘Me? You want me to help you?’

  ‘Yes. Tell me, do you like flowers?’

  ‘Flowers? Yes, of course – b-but I can’t d-do weeding any more, I get tired and my ankles puff up, so if you want me to help with your garden—’

  ‘I haven’t got a garden, I’ve got a sea of weeds and rubble that merges into the moorland, and a cobbled yard buried under a sea of filth,’ I pointed out. ‘No, I meant, do you like flower arranging, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I love it – and there was a weekend flower arranging course at the village hall here only a couple of weeks ago. Llyn at the village stores persuaded me to go, and I was good at it.’

  ‘That’s great. Now, come into the lean-to and I’ll show you something.’

  She followed me out and stared, baffled, at the cartons, tea chests and bundles of foliage, ribbons, flat-packed gift boxes, and two folded pasting tables.

  ‘This,’ I said grandly, with a flourish of my hand, ‘is Fantasy Flowers. Flowers That Say It for You.’

  ‘Say what?’ she asked.

  ‘Absolutely anything.’ I delved into a carton and came up with a pile of the little Meanings of Flowers and Foliage booklets.

  ‘You see, Mu and I set the business up together a couple of years ago and put adverts in various magazines, and it really took off. The clients tell us what message they want their bouquet to deliver, and we make it up and send it off with a copy of the booklet, so the recipient can work it out. Mu’s been doing it ever since, but she’s bored now and wants to wind it up. And I haven’t had time for it for a while – but you have. I mean, there’s a steady trickle of orders, but you could work it up into a really good thing.’

  ‘M-me? You want me to work for you?’

  ‘No, I want you to work for you – take over Fantasy Flowers entirely. You could do it from here for the moment, if you wanted to, but if you expand it you’ll eventually need more room, and I’d like to demolish this little architectural excrescence one day.’

  Miranda was looking poleaxed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked anxiously. ‘If you don’t like the idea, you only have to say. I know I’m bossy, but it seems to me that a business of your own would g
ive you more independence from Chris, and that could only be a good idea. And it will take up just a small part of the mornings, so there’ll be lots of time left for writing cookbooks.’

  ‘Like the idea?’ she repeated. ‘Oh, Sappho, I’ve b-been such a poor friend over the years and now – now you’re handing me a ready-made b-business, and I d-don’t d-deserve it!’

  ‘Well, there’s no need to cry about it. Do you want to do it?’

  ‘Of course, b-but – could I, d-do you think?’

  ‘Of course you can. Why don’t we unpack it all this afternoon, and I’ll explain it to you? Mu is carrying on taking the orders for the moment, and leaving the instructions on the call minder here every morning.’

  Miranda still seemed a bit stunned, but that was probably because she’d suddenly realized she wasn’t on her own with her problems any more.

  ‘This is all a lot to take in,’ she said dazedly. ‘Look, why d-don’t you come b-back with me now to The Hacienda for lunch? You can see Spike. I d-didn’t b-bring him b-because I couldn’t remember if you liked d-dogs or not.’

  ‘I do, and I’m going to get one, though it should be a cat.’

  She looked at me.

  ‘I’m a single eccentric female – I should have a cat. But bring Spike round with you any time. And I’ll be glad to come for lunch, because I haven’t brought much food with me, though the village shop sounds enterprising – they put a leaflet through the door. I’ll follow you round when the plumber’s finished, shall I?’

  ‘Right – and thanks, Sappho.’

  ‘What for?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘For making me feel there is a future, something to live for.’

  ‘There’s everything to live for.’

  ‘B-but I’m nearly forty, and all I’ve ever d-done is make a mess of things.’

  ‘You’re nearly forty, I’m nearly forty, Mu’s nearly forty – it’s time to rise like a phoenix from the ashes of our youth and take a Virtual Bungee Jump for the Soul.’

  Miranda giggled.

  ‘It’s all right for some,’ the plumber said, passing through with a length of pipe curled round his neck like a too-friendly python.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I agreed. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Central heating’s working, if that’s what you mean. Can’t you hear it?’

  Now he came to mention it, there was a lot of clunking and rumbling.

  ‘Good. The rest I can do myself in my spare time – if I ever have any, with the next Vengeane book to write.’

  ‘Book?’ said the plumber, helping himself uninvited to the contents of the biscuit tin.

  ‘She’s the Sappho Jones who writes fantasy b-books,’ Miranda said eagerly.

  ‘Never heard of them, but I don’t get the time to read books. These biscuits are good.’

  ‘I’m so glad you like them. Mrs Cotter here made them.’

  ‘You’re a good cook,’ he told her.

  Miranda flushed with pleasure. ‘Thank you.’ She hoisted herself to her feet. ‘I’d b-better go and let Spike out. See you later, Sappho – and thanks.’

  ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet!’ I said, and then firmly removed the biscuit tin from the plumber’s hands.

  Chapter 7

  Spiked

  Miranda’s parents had had the happy notion of calling their ranch-style bungalow The Hacienda, which, while better, say, than Dunroamin’ or Thistledome, was unsuited to the locality. (Admittedly, Pops and Jaynie call their Portuguese house Pop’n’Jays, but that is firmly tongue in cheek.)

  When I offered to find Miranda some more suitable alternatives she said she’d never heard of a Thistledome but rather liked it, and I was glad to see that her impish sense of humour had not been entirely eroded away by Chris.

  The only anomaly in the clean, bright and modern interior of the bungalow was the fat, smelly old chocolate Labrador, Spike, who clearly had no idea he suffered from something even his best friend wouldn’t tell him about. Having the instincts of a gentleman he politely heaved himself up and wheezed his way over to greet me, head down and legs plodding determinedly like a clockwork toy, and I appreciated the thought, if not the odour.

  Miranda brought in a tin containing two more entirely different varieties of home-made biscuits, just in case I should feel peckish in the ten minutes or so it would take her to make the sandwiches. She declined my offer of help, although Spike went along to give her a hand, but left me with a folder of newspaper cuttings for entertainment.

  It seemed that Dorinda Ace (she of the poison pen, ‘give my husband back his cottage or else’ letter) vanished last October, and there had been no trace of her since. Some of the articles described her husband as ‘distraught’, and he was reported to have spent a lot of time helping the police with their inquiries.

  Obviously they suspected that Disappeared Dorinda was also Dead Dorinda, but if she were related to Chinless Charlie Penryn, she could just be Dotty Dorinda and have wandered off, for there’s a strong strain of loopiness in that family.

  Not that Charlie isn’t unfailingly amiable and polite, apart from a slight tendency to ask total strangers if they’d like to hang anything on his knob (like in the nude statue episode).

  On her way to the kitchen Miranda had warned me not to believe what they said about Gilbert Ace, because she was at school with him and he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but she was clearly biased.

  After this I had a look at the bookshelves, which were full of the old cookery tomes Miranda loves, except one entirely devoted to all my Vengeane novels and Spiral Bound guidebooks. I found this touching, for she must have bought them: Chris certainly wouldn’t have wasted his money on me.

  Taking out a glossy new hardback copy of Dark Hours, Dark Deeds, I signed it ‘With love to Miranda’ and put it back.

  On top of the cottage piano was an old photograph of Mu and Miranda, both dainty blondes, with me looming in the middle like a great dark thorn between two roses. There was also a studio portrait of Chris looking slickly handsome in a foxy kind of way, and smiling as though he’d just discovered the alchemic formula for turning food into gold (which he had, and what’s more, married it).

  Sitting down at the piano, I flexed my fingers and then rattled off a few bars of ‘The Hokey Cokey’, which is one of my limited but select repertoire of pieces. My spirited renditions of this classic have on innumerable occasions broken the ice in remote corners of the world. You’d be surprised if I told you all the strange places where the ritual performance of ‘The Hokey Cokey’ is now a regular event.

  Since I was giving it my all, the ringing of the telephone took a few moments to gain my attention.

  ‘“You put your left leg in, your left leg out. In-out, in-out, shake it all about,”’ I sang happily, finally shimmying across and picking up the receiver.

  ‘Who is that?’ demanded a startled voice. ‘Miranda?’

  ‘No, why should it be?’ Belatedly I remembered where I was. ‘It’s you, Chris, is it?’

  ‘Look, is that the cleaner?’ he snapped impatiently. ‘Can you get Mrs Cotter for me?’

  ‘It’s Sappho, and I’m afraid Miranda’s busy right now.’

  ‘Sappho? Sappho who?’

  ‘Really, Chris, how many do you know? It’s Sappho Jones, of course.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Are you still there?’ I queried.

  ‘What are you doing in Wales? What are you doing in my house?’ he snapped.

  ‘Land of my distant forefathers, and it’s Miranda’s house.’

  ‘My house – Miranda’s house – what does it matter? What are you doing there?’ he demanded, making it sound as if I’d broken in to steal the silver, or something.

  ‘I’m here to steal the biscuit recipes,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not really – just my little jest. What do you want?’

  ‘To speak to my wife!’

  ‘She’s in the kitchen getting lunch, but I’ll take a
message. Did you know I had a house in the village?’

  ‘No I did not! Now, if you could get my wife—’

  ‘Is it important?’ I interrupted. ‘Only I’m rather hungry, and we have a lot to do this afternoon.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Miranda’s helping me. Would you like her to call you back this evening?’

  ‘No, I’ll be out,’ he snapped, ‘but you can tell her I can’t make it down this weekend, I’m going to be tied up.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. You want to be careful, though; it’s easy to go too far when engaging in that sort of prac—’

  ‘Just tell her!’ he broke in, his carefully modulated tones cracking slightly.

  ‘OK. Well, I can’t tell you how much pleasure it’s given me to hear your voice again after all this time, Chris, because it isn’t measurable. See you around. Bye-ee.’

  As I put down the receiver, Miranda made a timely entrance bearing the sort of tray on which you could have arranged a sucking pig (or a Ken Smollett) whole. On it reposed a buffet meal for a wedding party of a hundred or so.

  ‘Would you mind b-bringing in the coffee tray, Sappho? I’ll have to keep Spike off the food. He’s so greedy – aren’t you, d-darling? And the vet said no more cake.’

  She fed him a bit of everything else, though.

  ‘Chris phoned,’ I remembered to tell her as I crammed dainty little sandwiches whole into my mouth, two at a time. It’s so difficult to sink your teeth into that sort of thing.

  ‘Chris? B-but why d-didn’t you call me?’ She started to heave herself upwards like a reluctant volcano.

  ‘Oh, do sit down, Miranda!’ I snapped impatiently. ‘He only wanted to tell you he isn’t going to be back this weekend, which is good news because you can get on with Fantasy Flowers, while I sort the house out.’

  ‘B-but I ought to phone him straight b-back.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t. Haven’t you been listening to what I’ve been saying to you? I said you might phone him back tonight, but he’s going out. And so are we. We’ll have a bar meal at the Pike and Gasket to celebrate your new enterprise.’