style="font-size:15px;"> The intonation of Carole’s ‘Oh’ suggested that that was hardly the kind of thing she might be expected to know about. Except for her secret vice of a particular afternoon chatshow, she didn’t watch much ‘entertainment’ television. Carole still had a rather Reithian view of the medium as a purveyor of education and generally watched only news and documentaries. Watching the first was easy – news proliferated from every outlet – but decent documentaries had become an endangered species. Drama, generally speaking, Carole eschewed, though she would watch classic book adaptations featuring Empire-line dresses or crinolines. And, of course, anything with Judi Dench in it.
‘Are there people in Fethering who would want to watch someone like that?’ she asked Jude, in a tone that very definitely expected the answer no.
‘Presumably. Otherwise why would Ted be putting it on?’
Carole’s only response was a ‘Hm’ that was very nearly a ‘Hmph’ of disapproval. There was a silence while they ate, before she observed, ‘These scallops are good.’
‘Yes. Ted’s new chef is really doing wonders.’ Jude looked round the pub. The weather was very hot, so the outside tables were full, and there was very little space in the interior. All the pub’s doors and windows were open, but only the slightest breeze drifted lazily in from the sea.
Fethering would always be predominantly a retirement community, so the average age of the clientele was high. The tourists the area attracted tended to be quite mature too. Small children were few, and those that were there were with grandparents rather than parents. Otherwise, a lot of well-heeled people in their sixties and seventies, representatives of the last generation whose pension provisions would be adequate to their needs, sat on the outside benches or in the alcoves of the Crown and Anchor, eating and drinking. As they did most lunchtimes in various pubs along the South Coast. And good luck to them.
‘Word of mouth is spreading,’ Jude observed. ‘Do you remember how gloomy Ted was about the effect he reckoned the smoking ban would have on his business? Looks like he got it wrong. For a Monday lunchtime, the place is heaving.’
Her choice of word was perhaps unfortunate, because at that moment, a pensioner in one of the alcoves rose in panic. Long before he could make it across to the safety of the toilets, his semi-digested lunch spewed in a yellow arc across the floor of the pub.
It is an instinct among the British people to try to pretend unpleasant things have just not happened, but this one was hard to ignore. The Polish bar manager, Zosia, was quick to fetch a bucket and mop from the kitchen behind the bar and Ted Crisp himself followed her out. The landlord was a large man with ragged hair and beard, dressed in his permanent livery of faded T-shirt and equally faded jeans. He gestured for Zosia to get a move on.
But before the clean-up operation could begin, there was another casualty. An impossibly thin little old lady with rigidly permed white hair had risen from her seat in another alcove and tottered forward. She was sick too, though not as profusely as the man had been. Something like mucus spilled from the corner of her wrinkled mouth as she slipped slowly to the floor. And lay ominously still.
Though Jude had no medical qualifications, her work as a healer meant that she knew a lot about the human body and its frailties. So she was quickly crouching beside the stricken pensioner, feeling for a pulse. Ted Crisp looked on in horror as a silence descended on the Crown and Anchor.
A little old man, surely the woman’s husband, had tottered out of the alcove after her and was looking down at Jude, his rheumy eyes beseeching her not to bring bad news.
‘It’s all right,’ said Jude. ‘Her pulse is weak, but it’s definitely there.’
‘Thank God,’ said the little old man.
‘Maybe she just fainted because of the hot weather …?’ Ted suggested hopefully.
The husband didn’t buy that explanation. ‘She was right as rain this morning.’
‘What did she have for lunch?’ asked Carole.
‘The scallops. She insisted on having the scallops.’ He was unaware of the communal intake of breath from other customers who had ordered the same. ‘Bettina always liked seafood. I could never take it myself. Got one of them allergies to all that stuff.’
Carole and Jude exchanged a look and knew they were both thinking the same. Scallops could all too easily go off in the kind of weather they were having.
The old man’s eyes once again appealed to Jude. ‘Is Bettina going to be all right?’
‘I’m sure she is,’ came the brisk reply, ‘but I think it might be as well to call an ambulance and get her looked at at the hospital.’
‘I’ll ring them,’ said Ted, relieved to have something positive to do. After the recent excitements, the pub settled back into some kind of normality. Zosia made quick work of cleaning the floor. The man who had vomited first was helped to the Gents to clean himself up, and soon taken home by his friends. Bettina, whose surname Jude discovered from her husband Eric was Smiley, was picked up and settled into a chair. She hadn’t fully regained consciousness, but mumbled softly to herself. Eric took her thin liver-spotted hand in his. His grip was so tight that he seemed to fear she might slip away from him.
Gradually, but quite quickly, the Crown and Anchor emptied. Customers who’d ordered other dishes finished them up quickly. Most who had ordered the pan-fried scallops with spinach and oriental noodles just stopped eating. Zosia and her waitresses showed no emotion as they repeatedly asked, ‘May I clear that?’ In every case the answer was yes.
Carole Seddon had finished her plateful before the vomiting began, and she felt extremely uncomfortable. Her stomach churned. She knew the sensation was probably just psychosomatic, but she still wasn’t enjoying it. Carole had always had a terror of disgracing herself in a public place.
The ambulance arrived and its practised crew got Bettina Smiley wrapped in blankets and onto a stretcher. They had virtually to prise away her husband’s hand, then gently led him out to accompany her to the hospital.
An anxious-looking Ted Crisp emerged again from the kitchen just in time to see their departure. Carole and Jude were about the only customers left. Carole looked on edge; Jude’s brown eyes beamed sympathy to the troubled landlord.
‘Maybe it wasn’t the scallops,’ she suggested hopefully.
‘Bloody shouldn’t be. I’ve used the same supplier for my seafood ever since I’ve had this place. Never had any trouble before.’
‘And everything in the kitchen’s OK … you know, from the Health and Safety point of view?’
‘Yes, it bloody is! Only had our annual inspection last week. Passed with flying colours. They couldn’t find a single thing to criticize … which always makes them bloody cross. They like to find some little detail to pick you up on.’
‘Will you have to report this?’
‘Perhaps not, but I’m going to do everything by the book. Since the old girl’s gone to hospital, I should report it under RIDDOR.’
‘RIDDOR?’ Jude looked puzzled. Carole looked increasingly uncomfortable.
‘“The Reporting of Injuries, Diseases and Dangerous Occurrences Regulations 1995,”’ Ted
