in the village store, Queenie was rolling a cigarette. ‘And that’s his story.’
‘So he doesn’t mind being called Simple Tony? Only it’s very un-PC.’
‘It’s what his mum and dad called him and he’s happy. But don’t think he’s stupid. Far from it. Innocent. Trusting. Kind. But not stupid. He has his odd little ways but, by God, half the gardens in this village, let alone the churchyard, would be in a terrible state if it weren’t for him.’
‘And he looks after himself?’
‘Oh, yes. He has a little shepherd’s hut in Polly’s garden. She’s at Candle Cottage. Ambulance paramedic and white witch. Lovely woman. She keeps an eye on him. And next door to her is Helen. Londoner, like me. Came down a few years ago after her husband had done one too many naughties.’ She cocked an eye at Mamie. ‘You get my drift?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, she’s going out with Piran. Lovely bloke. Kind as they come.’
‘I’ve met them.’ Mamie pulled a face. ‘He pulled me out of the sea yesterday. I fell in.’
‘Did you?’ Queenie was all ears. ‘How’d you manage that?’
‘A dog. A stick. A big wave.’
‘Oh my Gawd. I bet Piran weren’t too happy about that.’
‘No, he wasn’t. He was rather rude and told me off.’
Queenie began to laugh. A warm wheezy chuckle that ended in a coughing fit. She wiped her eyes and the corners of her mouth with a small handkerchief, then tucked it back under the cuff of her cardigan.
‘He don’t like strangers.’
‘Clearly. Handsome bugger, though.’
‘Keep your hands off.’ Queenie frowned. ‘He’s Helen’s.’
Mamie laughed. ‘Darling, that’s not my thing. I made a promise to myself when I was young. So many men with “attachments” are only too keen to cheat, but it’s the women they pursue who get the blame.’
‘Ain’t that the truth.’ Queenie crossed her arms and gave Mamie a hard stare. ‘So, tell me your story.’
‘So you see, there is an awful lot of work left to me,’ Audrey boomed, ‘because the village rely on my organisational skills and artistic flair, constantly.’
Angela was trying hard not to quail. ‘From this list,’ she held the five A4 pages in their clear document case that Audrey had thrust upon her, ‘I see there are many things.’
‘Indeed.’ Audrey buttoned up her tweed jacket and brushed the pleats of the matching skirt. ‘Now, if I may just take a look around …’
‘Around?’
‘Yes,’ Audrey said in astonishment that this mousy woman should challenge her. ‘I am keeping an eye on things while Rev Canter is away.’
‘There is no need,’ Angela said firmly, moving to open the study door and get this woman out of her home.
Audrey was not used to being disobeyed. ‘Mrs Whitehorn, this is not a slight on your abilities …’
‘Please call me Angela or Reverend Whitehorn.’
Audrey’s lips tightened. So did Angela’s.
Robert’s voice called from the sitting room, ‘Ange. Come and have a look. Is this OK?’
Audrey took her chance and pushed past Angela, heading for the sitting room.
‘Mr Whitehorn. Good morning,’ she announced triumphantly. ‘I just dropped in to talk one or two things through with your wife.’ She advanced towards the tall, dark and handsome Robert. ‘I’m Audrey. We met at the vicar’s leaving party.’
Robert responded firmly, ‘Or, as I like to call it, the new vicar’s welcome party.’
Audrey surveyed the room. Much as she hated to admit it, Penny Canter had good taste and had left the room perfectly furnished while removing only the more personal possessions. She walked to the bookshelves and inspected the titles.
‘I have a penchant for crime stories,’ Robert felt obliged to explain. ‘Love a good murder mystery.’
Audrey scanned the spines of the books, then spun on her heel to face him. ‘I’ve had the most marvellous idea. You shall give the WI a talk on crime writers and great detectives of literature. I’ll check the diary and find a suitable date.’
‘But I have never given a talk to the WI, or anybody else for that matter. Let alone on crime. I could perhaps talk about my work as a political writer?’
‘Well, that’s two talks you will give. What a productive morning. Now I must get on, good day to you both.’
Queenie was engrossed in Mamie’s life story. ‘You never did.’
‘I certainly did.’ Mamie leant closer. ‘He was absolutely charming, but a rogue.’
‘I loved his voice. I had lots of his records. Gave them to a boot sale.’
‘He sang “Fly Me to the Moon” once, over dinner. He was on the tonk, of course. Never truly sober.’
Queenie gave a whoop of joy. ‘You’ve lived, entcha! Did you ever meet Elvis?’
‘We locked eyes over a crowded room once. He was a man with grace and animal magnetism.’ Mamie halted at the memory, then sighed. ‘But he was with Priscilla so …’
‘Cor, I’d’ve been at him like a rat up a pipe.’
‘Queenie! You shock me.’
‘I haven’t had such a good chat for ages.’ Queenie settled into her chair, groaning slightly as she stretched her old legs in front of her. ‘Getting old is no bleeding fun, is it?’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Mamie laughed. ‘By the way,’ she pointed at Queenie’s tobacco pouch and Rizla papers, ‘have you ever smoked a little pot?’
‘You what?’ Queenie was bemused.
‘Had a little toke? A swifty? A bifta?’
‘Are you talking about – marryjuana?’ Queenie frowned.
‘Well, yes,’ smiled Mamie.
‘No,’ Queenie said slowly, ‘but I’ve wanted to have a go.’
‘Then,’ Mamie looked around her for prying ears and whispered, ‘shall we? Just a little? Excellent for arthritis.’
‘Is it? When?’
‘I’ll let you know when I have some.’ Mamie smiled naughtily. ‘I haven’t done it for
