Best Maid Plans

by Klaire, Jody

  “No, the menu. Hang-a-banger.” He hurried off as Babs stared after him.

  “Hang-a-banger?” Babs mumbled, looking to Berne.

  She shrugged. “I think this is a sausage, oui?” She chewed on her lip, frowning. “I am sure that Rebecca likes to eat banger et smash, non?”

  “Bangers and mash. Bangers are sausages then.” I smiled at them. “No, he means to wait a moment.”

  They exchanged a glance. “Hang-a-banger,” came at me in unison. It was nearly as funny as Fish Lips.

  “My Mam makes them,” the barman said, returning with the chalkboard. “All home cooked.”

  Lots of the patrons around us nodded. His “Mam” must have been quite the chef.

  “Pepe, what do you recommend? None of it makes sense.” Babs eyed the board tapping at her mobile. “There is no translation for these.”

  I looked at it. She had a point. “What’s the cramp special?” Didn’t sound like fun.

  He looked at the board and scowled. “Flipping kids.” He turned to the bar. “Two ticks.”

  Babs looked to Berne.

  “I am not sure, another set phrase, oui?” She shrugged and looked to me.

  “Another way of saying wait a moment.” I leaned on my fist, holding the board as the bar man scrambled about, I presumed looking for chalk.

  “They’ve nicked the chalk...” He muttered something which made Babs raise her eyebrows. She looked to me and I opened my mouth.

  “I do not need that translation. I have Rebecca.” She winked at me.

  He stomped back over. “Alright, this’ll have to be off the cuff.”

  I waved my hand as Berne and Babs looked to me. “Spontaneous.”

  “Righto, for tart...” He scowled at the very teenage adaptation. “for starters. we have... cramp special.” He sighed. “Scampi special.”

  “Sling it in the trash?” Berne said, trying to pronounce it as best she could.

  “Bangers and mash.” He rubbed his forehead. “They’re teenagers and they’re grounded for a year.”

  “The potatoes or the children?” Babs asked, teasing in her voice.

  “Take a leak,” he said between gritted teeth. “Is leek pie.” And “Fat porker is gammon.” He shrugged at me.

  “They have issues with your ‘Mam’s’ cooking?” I asked.

  “No, but when I make them eat sprouts for a week they’ll appreciate it more.” He glared in the direction of the bar.

  “Why are they called bangers?” Babs asked him. She looked charmed by his exasperation.

  “Oh, think they explode when you cook them,” he mumbled, still staring at the bar.

  She looked to me. “Pepe, this seems very violent.”

  I chuckled. “If you don’t pierce them, they pop. Most of the time they just whistle.” I leaned on my fist. Sausages with onions and ketchup or in gravy and... I was so drooling.

  Babs didn’t look too sure.

  “We’ll have three scampi specials... without the cramp, please.” I smiled up at him. He grinned and hurried off with the board.

  “Why does everyone watch us?” Babs asked, peering up from her phone at the men and women inching closer.

  I cleared my throat.

  Boyce hurried in and I whooshed out a breath. So I’d only met him once, he was someone familiar who wasn’t lurking.

  I waved. He grinned and walked over, plonking down on a chair.

  “Heard you’re recruiting?” he said with a grin. “Madame Henri,” he said in a strong Welsh lilt. “Pleasure to see you again.”

  Babs’s eyes twinkled. “The pleasure is mine, Monsieur Morgan, oui?” She smiled at me. “He was a very honourable guide.”

  Boyce puffed out his chest getting scowls and whispers from the gathered clientele. “Always happy to help a lady.”

  Babs drummed her fingers on the table. “Tell me something, the villages around, they do not speak as you do here.”

  “Ah,” he said, leaning onto the table and picking up a bar mat. “Most of our families moved up here from down south.” He smiled. “Kept the accent though.” He sighed. “The owner of the house brought us up when they expanded their business... it was a lovely little business. Sold it a long time ago now. Shame.”

  “And you are an artisan?” She eyed him, charm oozing from her.

  “No, not me. I can’t draw anything.” He chuckled.

  She frowned.

  I stifled my laugh. “Artisan is a French word. She means are you a skilled craftsman. Do you have a trade?”

  “Oh,” he said with another chuckle. “No, not really. Dad did. No, I’m here for my daughter Gwen, see.”

  “You speak Spanish?” Babs asked. “Si?”

  “No, but Gwen does. Why, do you need that too?” He frowned. “She fancies herself as a painter and decorator, worked with my brother.”

  I grinned at him as Babs and Berne exchanged yet another confused look.

  “She’s in school at the moment. Thought I’d drop in a word.” He winked at me.

  Berne smiled at him. “She has worked as this before?”

  “Well... sort of... I mean, she did a week with my brother and she’s painted our house.” He rubbed his hand over his neck, his cheeks flushing with Berne’s attention. “I’m crap with DIY.”

  Berne looked to me.

  “Do-it-yourself,” I said. “When you have a go at it without any training.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, it’s normally about as successful as that.” I smiled at Boyce who watched us chatting in French with curiosity.

  He blushed deeper as he met my eyes. “Anyway, here’s her number, if you want to give her a shot.” He rubbed his hand over his neck again. “Got to pull my socks up, still on my round.”

  Babs looked down at his trousers.

  He stared at her, handed me Gwen’s number on a piece of paper and hurried out.

  “Socks...?” Babs looked at her phone. “Once again, it does not understand to translate.”

  “I’m a leckie,” a man said from beside me.

  I jumped and gripped hold of the table.

  “An electrician,” I translated for Berne and Babs, peeling my fingers off the wood. I couldn’t say I thought much of him. He had ripped tight joggers and stank of beer. “Do you own a business... or work for one?”

  “Nah, I’m on the hobble, like.” He winked at me.

  “Hobble?” Babs eyed his legs. “Did you fall?”

  “You what?” He stared at his own legs. “What you on about?”

  “Hobble,” Babs repeated, looking at me. “To limp, oui?”

  I nodded.

  “No, mun. I’m on the hobble. I can do it on the cheap for you.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and swayed. “Cash-in-hand.”

  “Not if you want your lights to work,” another man said, striding over. He had work cargo trousers on and a polo t-shirt with a company logo.

  The man in ripped joggers staggered off, muttering.

  “Name is Ieuan. Family firm. Thirty five years’ experience.” He handed me a card. Simple, understated, clear. “Happy to give a free quote.”

  Babs’s face relaxed into a smile. “I would like this. You are free to do this later?”

  He turned to her. “I am now.”

  The kind of service Babs loved.

  “I do roofs,” a man to the left chipped in, handing me a card.

  “Gardening,” another said, another card.

  “Lagging!”

  “Plumbing!”

  “Property maintenance!”

  Had we turned into a job centre?

  “Alright,” the barman said, bringing over our food. “Leave the ladies to eat.” He dished out and hurried back to the bar, returning with a bottle of red wine and three glasses. “On the house.” He tapped it. “It isn’t French but I hope it makes you feel at home.”

  Berne and Babs beamed at him.

  “Thank you,” I leaned in, rescuing him from turning pink. �
��If they are all tradesmen, why aren’t they working?”

  He sighed and stooped down to me. “They all worked for local company. The family who owned the house sold it though... Went under a year ago.”

  I looked at the people watching us. “All of them?”

  He nodded. “There’s about fifty more in the local area.” He sighed. “There’s just not enough jobs.”

  He left us to eat and Babs and Berne tucked in. I stared at my food. I wasn’t sure if I could stomach it.

  “Pepe, what is wrong?” Babs asked, pausing.

  “They don’t have jobs. Companies closing or relocating flattens places.” I sighed. Doug had done a lot in the areas he’d opened centres in.

  Babs cocked her head. “What would you have them do?”

  “I don’t know.” I pushed my scampi around the plate. “I’d love to have a company that employed them though, something like using old furniture, things people would normally throw away, and renovating it. New designs using all their skills.” I leaned on my fist. “Giving them their heart back.” I shrugged. “Can’t even make enough to feed myself though. Doubt there’s a market for it.”

  Babs and Berne exchanged a glance. Yeah they probably thought, nice idea but no business value.

  I chomped on my scampi, groaning at the salty taste. The barman was right. She and Doug’s mum should have gone into business together.

  “How about we try to employ the whole pub?” Babs asked with a big smile. “Although, I will watch the man with a limp, oui?”

  I grinned. “Can we?”

  She shrugged. “Why not. Doug pays, non?”

  I chuckled. Yeah, and like Babs, Doug would have done the same thing.

  Chapter 38

  Rebecca wasn’t really one for having fun on a golf course. Nope. It had been drilled into her from youth that you took golf seriously. No smiling, no laughing.

  Somehow though, being on a nine hole course with Stephanie, Fabrice and Doug had tested that. Fabrice had a lot of skill but no patience when it came to putting; Doug was a great all-rounder and good enough to be a semi-professional; Stephanie—she chuckled to herself—Stephanie made Pip look like a professional. She’d started off alright but by the ninth hole, Rebecca couldn’t see for her tears. She’d not seen Doug howl with laughter but he was. Stephanie had even managed to hit the ball twice with the same shot, and knock it sideways onto the previous hole.

  Rebecca was glad her dad couldn’t see her laughing so hard. He’d have had her mowing the green.

  “Are Pepe and the others finished yet?” Stephanie asked. She and Fabrice peered out of the back windows of Doug’s car. Their eyes drank in the green swathes of hills and trees on the journey back into Wales. Even the sun had peeked through the clouds.

  “They have meetings all afternoon,” Rebecca said, swivelling in the passenger seat to look at them. “You’re stuck with us.”

  “Should we not work?” Fabrice asked, smiling as sunlight bathed his face. “It is dry.”

  Rebecca smiled. They both worked so hard. “Nah, you get a rest day today. Dougie and I want to treat you.” She flashed Doug a smile as he frowned at her. He hated her calling him Dougie. “The fun of working abroad is that you see the country and its traditions.”

  Stephanie beamed, a twinkle in her eyes. “Oui?”

  Doug turned off onto a lane before the house.

  Stephanie grinned, then giggled, as he met her eyes in the mirror with a smile.

  “Are the fields funny?” Rebecca asked, looking from him to her.

  Fabrice pointed to a gate and laughed.

  She raised her eyebrow.

  “Pardon,” Stephanie said. “Fabrice and I try to navigate the lanes when we arrive. We did not have Gladys then mais we wish to see the area.” She chuckled. “I forget.”

  Fabrice chuckled. “She is like Barbara, oui. She drive all over the road.”

  Rebecca didn’t say a word. Babs drove like a crazy person and it took gallons of whiskey to be in a car with her. She didn’t think Stephanie was like that. “Isn’t that sort of... well... not like an ex-gendarme?”

  Stephanie smiled. “I am not this bad.” She poked a sniggering Fabrice in the ribs. “I forget which side you drive on.”

  Doug let out a hearty chuckle. “Was a bit taken aback.”

  “You?” Rebecca raised her eyebrows.

  “Oh yes. She even got out and told me off.” He shook his head. “Made quite the impression.”

  Stephanie waved it off.

  “An ex-gendarme breaking traffic laws, shocking.” Rebecca folded her arms with her best stern look.

  Stephanie shrugged. “What can I say? I have a form, non?”

  Fabrice shook his head and went back to his phone.

  Doug looked into his rear-view mirror. “You don’t need an indefinite article. You have form.”

  “I do not?” She pulled her mouth to the side.

  “No, if you have a form, you’re just holding a piece of paper with boxes on it.” He gave her a warm smile. “‘You have form, you have previous, you have a record,’ are all colloquialisms for having some kind of criminal record.” He sounded very much like a schoolteacher but a good one.

  “And very posh people like to say things like, ‘good form, old boy.’” Rebecca put on the voice of one of her dad’s old friends. “What was his name?”

  “Charles,” Doug said, his laugh coming from deep in his belly. He pulled into a farm yard and Fabrice and Stephanie exchanged a glance.

  “Mr Fletcher’s uncle was once quite respected and renowned,” Rebecca said in her best tour guide’s voice. “We will be experiencing a fine British tradition and I hear Doug himself has good form.”

  “So, Doug is respected also, oui?” Fabrice asked, pocketing his phone. “You own many centres, oui?”

  Doug looked impressed. “My dad does, I just work for him.”

  “And run it,” Rebecca added, holding his gaze. He’d been running it for a while too.

  “Good form?” Stephanie cocked her eyebrow. “There is another string to your bow?” The bow sounded like cow.

  “Bow,” Doug said with a smile. “As in bowtie.”

  “Ah.” Stephanie pursed her lips. “This makes more sense now.”

  “So,” Rebecca said as Fabrice rolled his eyes. “Dougie says he was respected with a collie and a flat cap on.”

  Both of them stared at her.

  She got out with Doug, letting them think it over.

  “Got the wellies?” she asked him.

  “In the boot. Uncle Rhys has everything ready for us. He was just delighted that I wanted to introduce them.” He shook his head. “I’m a bit rusty though. I don’t know his collies either.”

  “Aren’t they all highly trained?” Border collies were supposed to be amazing.

  “Yes, but they need the right voice, the right tone, the right body language.” He pulled open his boot as Stephanie and Fabrice got out. “Wellies.”

  He handed a pair each to them and they took them, turning to each other. “Wellies,” they announced back to him.

  “Yes... Wellies... Probably not a good idea to tell you why they are called that.” He pulled his mouth to the side as the French pair put on their plastic boots.

  Yeah, the mention of Wellington probably wouldn’t be a great idea.

  Rebecca shoved on hers and took the long rain coat from Doug along with a woolly hat.

  “But it is sunny?” Fabrice asked, taking his with a grunt.

  “It’s Wales,” Doug said, squeezing Fabrice’s shoulder. “Keeps you on your toes.”

  Fabrice looked down at his feet, confusion in his eyes. “Toes?”

  Rebecca smiled.

  Doug was patient, gentle and would make a great dad. Marie couldn’t have picked better.

  “Girls are in the field for you,” a man said, popping out of the door to the farm house. “Got two old hands ready. Should be easier to teach with.” He beamed. His white hair spilled
out of his flat cap. “Your aunty has tea on.”

  Doug grinned. He went to the man and shook his hand. “Diolch yn fawr iawn.” He smiled at him. “Haven’t gone near a flock in a while.”

  “Ah, you always loved it as a boy, bach.” He nodded pulled Doug into a hug. “No scaring the visitors.”

  “I’ll try my best, Uncle Rhys.” Doug grinned at him.

  Rebecca watched on with fascination. She’d known that Doug loved country life, that he loved dogs but she hadn’t known he had family in Wales.

  “Did you just speak Welsh?” Rebecca asked, grinning at him as he re-joined them.

  Stephanie and Fabrice watched him too.

  Doug cleared his throat. “Not much but I was only saying thank you.” He shrugged. “Anyway, let’s go find some sheep.”

  Stephanie let out an excited squeal and gripped onto his elbow. “Non?”

  Doug chuckled at her; Fabrice rolled his eyes and Rebecca just shook her head. Some people loved adventure parks but Stephanie? Nah, show her some sheep and she was happy.

  Chapter 39

  Iwas impressed by Boyce’s daughter Gwen when she turned up that afternoon. I’d shown her part of a room that I wanted painted in undercoat and expected her to take ages to finish it. Nope, half an hour later, she’d finished the whole room.

  “Did you use the roller like I showed you?” I asked, more to cover my stunned silence. I’d only done the bare minimum of painting because I always got more paint on me than on the wall. It was neat, no runs and looked good to me.

  “Yeah, obviously that’s the undercoat though.” She nodded to the hallway leading into it. “Didn’t know how long ago it had been plastered. It can be tricky when it’s not dried out enough.” She flicked her long red hair out of her face.

  “Er... right.”

  “The hallway dried out yet?” She asked, clear, shiny eyes locked on me.

  I glanced out of the window. Berne had left her phone to charge on the windowsill. Maybe I could use it to phone someone who had an idea. I could cope with wood, electrics, tiling, stone, floors, I could even manage a decent conversation about insulation, roofing and pipes but paint? Nope.

  “The paint?” I asked, she must mean the paint.

  “No, the plaster.” She shook her head. “In the hallway.” She motioned to it.