4
AN UNEXPECTED interview with a new client meant that it was one o’clock when Alison finally managed to get off to lunch. She was very hungry, she’d had nothing for breakfast but a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. She’d treat herself to a really good lunch, take her time over it. She might try that place by the old market, it prided itself on its grills.
She paused on her way out and put her head round the door of Hazel Ratcliff’s overheated little sanctum. Hazel scarcely ever went out for lunch; she brought a vast number of sandwiches and great slabs of cake from home.
‘I may be a little late back,’ Alison said. ‘I haven’t got an appointment till a quarter to three but you might take any messages that come for me.’
‘Yes, of course, Mrs Rolt,’ Hazel said without more than a brief upward glance. She had munched her way through the greater part of her lunch and was now engaged in crocheting a small square of tangerine-coloured wool. A little pile of completed squares in a variety of bright shades lay on a piece of white tissue paper well out of range of stray crumbs.
‘What lovely colours!’ Alison said. ‘Are you making something for the Fair?’ A Combined Charities Autumn Fair was being held in a few weeks’ time with the object of raising funds which would be distributed at Christmas among various worthy causes. Alison could hardly fail to be aware of the project, for which Hazel worked assiduously; several other members of the Kingfisher staff were either busy making an assortment of saleable objects or had promised to act as stallholders and general assistants on the day.
Alison had so far done nothing to help. She intended to call in at the Fair and patronize a few stalls; she felt that was all anyone had a right to expect of her. Now it occurred to her that an offer of help might be politic.
‘I’m making cushions,’ Hazel said in a slightly mollified tone. She reached into a zip-topped bag on the floor beside her. ‘This is one I’ve just finished.’ She held out a cushion about twelve inches square with a brilliant design of motifs in different colours arranged in a pattern of concentric oblongs.
‘That’s beautiful,’ Alison said without exaggeration. ‘Did you design it yourself?’
Hazel shook her head. ‘No, it’s one of my mother’s designs. She was very good at needlework.’ She was silent for a moment, then she spoke in a bracing tone. ‘We’re using three of her crochet designs, they’re all based on the same idea as this. Oblongs, squares and circles. And two gros point designs. Jacobean.’
‘I’d like to see one of those,’ Alison said. ‘I’ve always been fond of gros point work.’
‘I haven’t got one here to show you.’ Hazel pondered for a moment. ‘I wonder if Mr Yoxall has.’
‘Mr Yoxall?’ Alison said in surprise.
‘Yes.’ Hazel sounded mildly irritated. ‘He’s very good at gros point. A lot of men do embroidery.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘He’s making some cushions for the Fair. And he’s doing a lot to help generally.’ She fixed on Alison an eye full of accusation. ‘Everyone’s doing what they can.’
‘Yes,’ Alison said. ‘Actually I’d like to do something to help, if it’s not too late to offer. I find I’ve a little more free time just at present.’
‘Oh well,’ Hazel said, a fraction more warmly, ‘that’s good news. As a matter of fact we’re in a bit of a jam, the woman who was going to run the objets d’art stall has had to go up north to look after her grandchildren. Her daughter’s gone into hospital and it looks as if she’s going to be there for some time. Do you think you could take on the stall? I know nothing about art, but you ought to be good at it. You have the right artistic background.’ A reference to the fact that Alison’s father – a well-known figure in this part of the county in his day – had been a painter, creating precise, delicate landscapes in water colours.
‘Yes, I’m sure I could manage it,’ Alison said. Impossible now to refuse without plunging Hazel back into hostility. She became aware of the time. ‘I must go or I won’t get anything to eat.’
‘That’s settled then,’ Hazel said firmly. ‘To be absolutely in order of course we should have to get the agreement of the committee.’ A lively note entered her voice. ‘If you’re free this evening why not come along to the committee meeting? You’ll need to be given all the details about the stall. The meeting’s at half past seven.’
‘Yes, I can manage that,’ Alison said. ‘Where do the meetings take place?’ She knew the Fair was to be held in a church hall close to where she lived; she saw the gaily-painted posters twice a day when she passed the building.
‘The members take it in turns to hold the meetings in their own houses. This week it’s the chairman’s house. Or I should say the chairwoman.’
‘And who is the chairwoman?’ Alison asked.
‘Mrs Ford. Beryl Ford.’ Oh Lord, Alison thought, I don’t want to get mixed up with the Fords. She’d known Arthur Ford when she worked at CeeJay and during the two years her marriage had lasted; she had never greatly cared for him. ‘I imagine you know where Mrs Ford lives,’ Hazel added.
‘Yes, I believe so,’ Alison said casually. She had set foot in the house once or twice as a young junior at Ceejay.
There was really nothing she could do to wriggle out of it now. ‘Very well,’ she said briskly. ‘Mrs Ford’s house. Half past seven. I’ll be there.’
Beryl Ford was in the kitchen dishing up lunch when her husband and son reached home.
‘Chicken,’ Arthur Ford said as soon as the front door swung open at his key. He gave a second sniff. ‘And apple pie.’ Other men might go home on Mondays to an uninspiring lunch knocked up from yesterday’s remains – or not even be allowed home at all but provided with a packet of sandwiches or a nod towards the works canteen – but not Arthur Ford. Oh dear no. Beryl Ford knew better than to try that one on. Or at least she knew better now after twenty years of marriage. Some things she could get away with, some areas where she could wear the trousers, but as far as grub was concerned she knew from early and deeply-etched experience precisely where the limits of tolerance lay.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Robin said. He followed his father into the over-furnished dining room. Beryl came bustling in from the kitchen, carrying a tray. Her face was flushed, her brilliantly blonde hair was starting to slip from its moorings.
‘Here you are at last then,’ she said sharply. ‘Sit down.’ She began to slap food on to plates.
‘I don’t want very much,’ Robin said mildly. His mother dug the spoon into the casserole, didn’t bother to comment, piled up his plate and handed it to him. ‘Eat that,’ she commanded. ‘Put some flesh on your bones.’ He took the plate without protest and began to eat.
‘You were ten minutes late coming in today,’ Beryl said to her husband in a challenging tone. He made no reply but concentrated on the food. ‘Don’t be late again this evening,’ she said on a higher note. ‘I’ve got a committee meeting here tonight. The Charities Fair. I can’t be kept hanging about in the kitchen,’ Neither Arthur nor Robin gave any sign that they had heard what she said. She lobbed out her own helping and plonked her thin frame down on her chair. ‘I hope we find someone
