her newspaper. Within seconds there was a loud tutting noise from behind it. ‘Good show, was it?’ asked his mother when she eventually sat down again with another cup of tea.
‘Splendid,’ said Ralph.
His aunt lowered her newspaper. ‘Don’t I get a cup?’ she said affronted.
Ralph lay back in the dark mulling over the conversation he had heard. No wonder Mrs Egerton-Smythe was angry most of the time.
The bolster under his head had gone flat. He raised his head, plumped it up and sank back into it again, but he couldn’t sleep. He felt uneasy, not turning up at the house till Monday. He didn’t trust Charles Egerton-Smythe. He was more than a stuffed shirt. His voice was ruthless and condescending. From downstairs he heard faint noises and guessed it must be his father returning from the pub. He didn’t know which was worse, his being home in the evening with the tension between them or going out and leaving his mother sad and quiet. He knew he was the cause of all the friction but felt impotent to make matters better.
‘Ralph,’ came a sleepy voice from the other end.
‘Yes,’ he whispered.
‘Keep still, will ya. You’re making me cold with all the draughts.’
‘Sorry.’ Ralph closed his eyes. ‘I must do something,’ he whispered to himself.
He decided to go to the tradesmen’s entrance as usual. He rang the bell, but no one answered. He peered into the kitchen – there was no sign of Queenie. He rang again and waited. He was about to leave when he noticed that the door to the garden shed was slightly ajar. He knew he and Mrs Egerton-Smythe had closed it. Maybe she was in there trying to open the small tin trunk.
He ran across the grass, and hesitated. He could hear movement from inside. He knocked at the door. There was a frantic shuffling. He waited again. ‘It’s me, Mrs Egerton-Smythe,’ he said politely, ‘Hollis.’ The scrabbling stopped. Ralph pushed the door aside and found himself face to face with Queenie. Her face was bright red and Ralph, at a glance, could see she had been at the sacking in the corner. ‘What are you doin’ ’ere?’ she snapped.
‘I should be asking you that question.’
‘Don’t you be saucy, young man. If you must know, Mrs Egerton-Smythe sent me here to look for somethin’.’
‘Oh, can I help?’ he asked innocently. ‘I know where everything is. I’ve reorganised it, you see. I expect that’s why you’re having a problem.’
‘I ain’t havin’ a problem,’ she said ruffled. ‘I found what I wanted.’
‘Oh?’ he said looking at her empty hands. ‘What was it?’ Her face reddened again. ‘It’s not big enough,’ she stammered.
‘Maybe I could find a bigger one,’ said Ralph enjoying himself. ‘I’ll have a look. Just give me a clue.’
‘Hedge cutters,’ she said after a pause.
He took a pair from the shelf nearest the window. ‘Will these be big enough?’
‘Oh! There they are!’ she gushed, acting so badly that it was all Ralph could do not to laugh.
‘Good job I was here, eh?’
‘Yes. Yes,’ she said hurriedly.
‘Now which hedge did she want cut?’ She looked startled. ‘Or shall I ask her?’
‘No!’ she screamed. She backed out of the shed. ‘She won’t remember anyway. Her memory’s not so good now. She’s got a lot on her mind.’
He watched her fly back to the kitchen.
‘I’ll just start on the ones near the river, then,’ he called after her.
He had been standing on a stepladder clipping a huge hedge for about an hour when he saw a familiar figure striding towards him.
‘You’re not supposed to be here till Monday,’ she hollered.
‘Weather forecast said it would be raining all day on Monday.’
He sat on the ladder and watched her approach.
‘Liar,’ she said. ‘What’s the real reason?’
‘Couldn’t keep away, could I? Wondered if you’d had time to look at those gardening books?’
‘And?’
‘Queenie said you wanted the hedge cut. I found her in the potting shed. She knows where that small tin trunk is now.’
Mrs Egerton-Smythe paled.
‘It’s none of my business, madam, but maybe you ought to unlock them and put whatever’s in them somewhere not so easy to find.’
‘I can’t,’ she said quietly, and she hastily looked away.
‘Oh. Have you lost the keys?’
She swung round. ‘Yes.’ He could see she was lying and he wanted to help her lie even better. ‘I thought so. Having been up there so long.’
‘How did you know that?’ she said sharply.
‘From the dust.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
‘May I make a suggestion, madam?’
‘Out with it then.’
‘I break the locks for you.’
‘Thank you, Hollis, but I’ll probably want to lock them up again.’
In case Mr Egerton-Smythe checks up on you, he thought.
‘I can get ones that match from the High Street.’
She smiled. He knew she had agreed.
‘We’ll have to move fast,’ he added.
‘Why?’
‘Just a feeling,’ he said.
‘Queenie?’
‘Something like that. We’ll have to get rid of her.’
‘Yes. She’s probably on the phone right now.’
‘The butcher’s!’ said Ralph. ‘My mother says the queues are always a mile long there. Tell her you’ve heard there’s a special offer of tripe. Then wave to me from the French windows when she’s gone.’
‘Where do you get all these ideas? From the theatre?’
‘My Auntie Win reads green Penguins out to my mother. Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh. You name it.’
‘How nice for your mother.’
Ralph
