you start. It’s like a broken record back home.’ She almost broke out laughing, remembering her mother’s constant scolding. ‘My Ma thinks I’ve missed the boat, and Uncle Ram keeps telling me no one will marry an old bat like me.’
Actually, although she challenged and generally opposed everything Uncle Ram said, on principle, she was often secretly inclined to agree with him on this unsettling topic. Not that she would admit that to Uncle Ram, or to Toby.
But again Toby interrupted her train of thought in a lower tone of voice.
‘From where I’m sitting, I see a pretty attractive bird.’
Anjali instinctively lowered her eyes, then immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘Thank you, kind sir.’
‘A bit tanned, maybe, but …’
She winced slightly, trying to let his remark slide by, to erase it from her memory. She knew his gesture was merely intended to defuse the age-old timebomb between their cultures rather than spark it off with a casual insult, so again she kept her thoughts to herself, allowing Toby to continue.
‘… not bad, not bad at all.’
Indeed, he was trying to give her a compliment, and she could see that it was sincere, although she wasn’t quite sure what to think about the new direction their conversation was taking. Just as quickly she banished her doubts, reasoning that there was nothing wrong in modestly accepting reassurance from a friend.
‘You’re good for my morale, Toby.’
She wished that that was the end of it, but Toby didn’t give her a second to change the subject.
‘Listen, you may not believe this,’ he began in his slow, smooth, baritone voice, ‘but I can remember the first time we met.’
The alarm went off somewhere in the back of her brain. Simply turning and raising her eyebrows was enough to question his intentions.
‘I’m serious. I remember the day and the time, and what you were wearing.’ He tossed a Prince Charming smile her way before resuming his scrutiny of the car ahead.
For the first time in their conversation, Anjali was embarrassed. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. In her way, she did love Toby, but she could not possibly love him in his way, and she would rather her ears be made of stone before listening to him continue any further along this path …
And yet she could barely wait for his next words.
‘You were wearing …’ Must he delay the suspense interminably? ‘… a white shirt, black skirt, a check tie and jacket with silver buttons,’ he intoned lovingly.
She punched him in the arm. It had taken her that long to catch on that Toby was describing her uniform.
After investing her time and expertise in ‘building a foundation’ for the financial advisory role with Freddy Calder, Viv was unwilling to give up her chance of gaining his confidence, and eventually the management of his savings. As they scouted the pedestrian shopping area she tried to offer him a strong dose of fiscal common sense.
‘People like you always think money is a complicated matter. It isn’t. It’s all a question of market forces, and getting your money to work for you.’
There. Maybe she could knock some of that common sense into his head after all.
‘Oh, bless you, Obewan Kenobi!’
So much for the notion he was buying any of her carefully prepared argument.
The clown’s voice soured. ‘This sucker’s always had to work for his.’
Viv was determined to be undaunted.
‘Very funny. Listen. You buy shares in a company being took-over. Then when it gets took-over, the company doing the take-over has to pay you more for the shares. Because the shares are worth more now it’s being took-over.’
Even the simplest, most basic human sounds apparently sometimes failed to penetrate Freddy’s thick skull.
‘It’s all very simple, you know, Freddy.’
‘Simple, my big toe.’
This monkey was exasperating. ‘What don’t you understand?’
Freddy had to think for a few moments before he could figure out his answer.
‘Where I get the money to buy the shares in the first place.’
Viv Smith sighed, and paused to contemplate the company she was keeping of late.
‘Freddy, talking to you is the quickest way of getting a headache I know.’
In the corridor of Division ‘S’ outside his office, the sign on his door said CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT FRANK ELLSMORE, and when he walked out of his office through that door into the open territory beyond he wanted people to see that he had a clear-cut destination in view, plus the ever-resolute determination to get there. That was the mark of leadership, and he reasoned, rationally enough, that here was indeed what the troops needed to see in his demeanour: his attempt to embody the authority of the uniform, as well as to fill it. He wanted them to see a man of action.
Unfortunately, sometimes ordinary reality presented unexpected obstacles in his path: in this instance in the person of WPC Morrow, the new one. Just as Ellsmore was hitting full stride, he almost collided with WPC Morrow carrying a pile of folders, but just in the nick of time she managed to spin and evade him, yet still balance the folders in her arms so that only a few actually spilled to the floor.
‘Sorry, sir.’
One of Ellsmore’s oldest failings, and one of the rusty skills needing some polishing, was his conduct when caught in embarrassing situations, even of the most trivial nature.
‘My fault … er …’
‘Morrow, sir. WPC Morrow.’
Of course, Morrow. Neat. Agile. Attentive. What other mental resources might she be capable of contributing?
‘You’ve only just started here, right?’
‘Right, sir.’
Well, he had offered her the opportunity to introduce herself and make an impression, but she hadn’t taken the step forward. Talent should always be ready to rise to the top in an instant, he wanted to remind her. Instead he reminded himself that she had performed a nimble feat.
‘Well, if you’re as quick as you are on your feet, Constable, we won’t have much to worry about, eh?’
‘No, sir.’
WPC Morrow didn’t say anything more, and Ellsmore had nothing more to say. Standing here waiting for her laconic answers was getting
