stood on the drive and watched the purple Granada pull away, thinking about phoning the council’s environment department and speaking to Wayne Spalding’s boss – if he had one – before he got back to the office, but she didn’t move.
The Granada disappeared round the corner into Merrifield Drive and the next thing she was aware of was Mrs Kline standing at the top of the drive.
‘Hi,’ Linda waved and turned abruptly towards the garage.
‘I didn’t know you knew the minister.’
She spoke so quietly, Linda half considered pretending she hadn’t heard. There were a couple of gateaux she needed to get out of the chest freezer in the garage for the party that night. ‘Knew who?’
‘The minister,’ Valerie said, more loudly this time, still smiling.
‘What minister?’
‘Minister Spalding. Our minister.’
Valerie Kline waited at the top of the drive.
‘The man in the car?’ Linda called out. ‘The man who was just here?’
Valerie nodded.
Linda hesitated then walked to the top of the drive. Valerie, she noticed, was still wearing sandals. ‘He was from the local council. He came about the tree. You know, the one that hangs over most of our back garden?’
Valerie didn’t know because she’d never been invited to No. 8 and didn’t ever expect to be.
Linda was becoming increasingly unnerved by Valerie Kline’s silent, comprehending nods. ‘We have a huge problem with the leaves. In autumn. A really huge problem.’ Behind her, through the open garage door, she heard Ferdinand whining. ‘So what’s this about a minister?’ she said impatiently.
Valerie stopped nodding, suddenly. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot he worked for the council as well – the environment department, isn’t it?’
‘So – he’s Minister Spalding?’
Valerie started nodding again. ‘At the Free Church. We hold a service up at the school on Sunday mornings, and I thought …’ she batted her hand quickly in front of her face, ‘… anyway, it doesn’t matter.’
Linda thought of Wayne Spalding as he’d been dressed today. ‘The Free Church? What’s that then – evangelical or something?’
‘It’s non-denominational, that’s why it’s called the Free Church.’
Linda couldn’t be certain, but wondered if Valerie might be laughing at her. ‘And Minister Spalding,’ she said hurriedly, ‘does he do that healing stuff?’
‘The healing stuff? He does the laying on of hands. Faith healing.’
‘What – like making cripples walk? Blind men see? Cancer disappear? Infertile women pregnant?’ She forgot, too late, that Mrs Kline’s son was adopted. ‘That kind of stuff?’
‘Sometimes,’ Valerie said, quietly.
It was starting to snow again.
‘He does that? What – like – miracles?’
Valerie shrugged.
Linda couldn’t shake the impression that Valerie was laughing at her, and it didn’t seem right that they should be standing here talking about miracles in the middle of a snowstorm.
‘I should go, we’ve got people coming to dinner tonight,’ she said.
‘Well … give my regards to your husband, and to Jessica,’ Mrs Kline replied, disappearing into the snow in her tracksuit and sandals.
Linda went into the garage and lifted the lid of the chest freezer, on the brink of remembering what it was she needed to get out for dinner that night when she heard the phone ring. She dropped the lid, letting it bang shut.
‘Where are you?’
‘Brighton,’ Joe said.
‘Still? It’s nearly quarter to four. I thought you said you were leaving at three?’
‘It took longer to pack away the stall than I thought – then I called in to see your mum.’
‘My mum?’
‘Just a cup of tea. I’m leaving now.’
‘Well, if it’s of any interest to you, I’m going out of my mind over here,’ Linda exploded. ‘There’s a blizzard you’re probably going to get stuck in if you stay there any longer drinking tea; Jessica – who’s meant to be coming home to help me – is in detention because of something nuclear; and this man from the council came round to talk about the tree, you know – the tree – and I thought we would just talk about the leaves, but he didn’t want to talk about the leaves, he came to do a risk assessment – with no warning or anything – and then when he got into his car to go, some end-of-the-line Granada – he had freckles, Joe, all over his hands – he started talking to me about God – the man from the council – and Mrs Kline says he’s a minister or something, and …’ She stopped suddenly.
‘Linda?’ Joe prompted her.
‘Gateaux.’
‘What?’
‘The freezer. Triple chocolate mousse cake and Black Forest gateau – that’s what I was looking for in the freezer.’
Down the line from Littlehaven to Brighton, faster than the speed of light, came a profound sigh of relief.
Tired, Joe Palmer had made a deal with Steve, his business manager. If Steve agreed to oversee packing up the two showroom kitchens and stand into the van, Quantum would pay for him to stay in the Metropole that night and he could drive the van back to Littlehaven on Saturday morning.
‘I could do that,’ Steve had said, off-hand but sincere at the same time. Neither of these were qualities Joe liked on their own, but Steve managed to run them simultaneously and it had always made Joe trust his business manager.
He’d left the Brighton Centre, where Britannia Kitchens roadshow had been running for the past three days, and crossed the road onto the promenade. As he walked it had started snowing again and the headlights of late-afternoon traffic picked people out, making them look more interesting than they did in daylight. Above and beyond the traffic was an uneven December night, and the sea, which he couldn’t see but knew was there. Something that was true of a lot of things in life, he supposed. He’d heard it dragging itself backwards and forwards across the pebbles on the beach, distant and impartial.
The pier had been open, sending out its multi-layered stench of fish and chips, waffles, candyfloss and donuts: smells he found less easy to stomach the older he got. He’d thought about the penny slot machines in the amusement arcade, but it was too cold and anyway he’d promised to drop in on Belle, Linda’s mum.
The Pavilion Hotel on the corner opposite the entrance to the pier hadn’t drawn its curtains yet and passers-by were treated to a panorama of geriatric diners
