Still Waters Page 5

  Caffy wrinkled her nose. ‘You could make a start cutting back those hedges, I suppose, though the trees would need trained surgeons.’

  He had his usual vision of people in masks and green gowns.

  ‘And under all those weeds you might even have a proper Victorian garden with parterres and paths – you’d need an expert to tell. Wouldn’t it be fun to restore that too!’

  ‘We don’t want to live in a museum. It’s not as if it’s National Trust or anything like that,’ he objected.

  ‘You wouldn’t put furry dice and Darren and Sharon labels in that elegant car of yours, would you?’ she asked scathingly.

  Before he could concede that he would put nothing in his car that would distract the driver or limit visibility, the other woman was upon him too. And that was how it felt, as if he was about to be overwhelmed by the sheer force of their personalities. He and Fran both – he’d rarely seen her looking so punch-drunk. She threw him an ironic smile.

  As for Caffy, she wandered off on her own, soon to be followed by the woman Fran had introduced simply as Paula, as if she were a long-lost cousin. He’d certainly been Mark immediately, though that was possibly Fran’s doing.

  Occasionally they could hear the women exclaiming over something, for good or for bad.

  He gathered Fran to him for a kiss and a hug, the sort he and Tina had once shared when they’d entrusted a sick Sammie to the care of a hospital consultant. ‘It’ll be all right now it’s in their hands,’ he said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘If there’s really something wrong with the mains supply, I want to know what Invitaqua are doing about it,’ Fran declared, unloading litre upon litre of bottled Malvern water from the car. Half of her couldn’t understand why a pair of old toughies like them had become so obsessed with the issue of pure water; half of her, having seen so many deaths as a result of neglecting elementary precautions such as wearing seat belts, knew all too well.

  ‘You’re quite right,’ Mark agreed, hefting the shrink-wrapped batches into Fran’s utility room. ‘Cost apart, this isn’t at all environmentally friendly, is it? All this plastic, when you should be able to turn on a tap?’

  ‘Not as bad as buying Fiji water – think of all the food miles that involves. All the same, I want proper home-grown Kentish stuff,’ she declared, little-girl stubborn, stamping her foot.

  ‘For the time being, you can have it, and you’re welcome to it. You can have my share too,’ he said, stowing the last load. ‘At least we can shower at work… Nice cup of tea?’

  ‘I think we’ve earned a beer,’ she said.

  He couldn’t argue. On the way home from the Rectory, they’d called in at his house in Loose to collect the post – he’d only just got round to having Royal Mail redirect it – and encountered, after the calm firmness of the two Pact women, the quasi-hysteria of Sammie, rendered helpless by her credit card bill. Had it been her financial profligacy that had caused such a rift in her marriage? Neither he nor Fran now bought the theory that Lloyd had thrown her out: little things she let slip suggested that she had left in a major tantrum and now secretly wished she hadn’t.

  Mark had insisted that Fran went to the house with him, though she had offered to stay in the car.

  ‘You’ve rights too,’ he’d said, ‘one of which is to be treated courteously. And I’d like you to meet my grandchildren.’

  ‘I’m not very good with babies,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Who is, without practice?’

  In the event, she’d had to learn very quickly, Sammie leaving her in charge of them while she dragged her father off to see the bill, which for some reason couldn’t travel to the living room. The gist of what she was saying was that she couldn’t pay even the nominal rent he’d asked for; the subtext, he was sure, was that he should offer to settle her debts. Nearly four thousand pounds on one card alone, none of it, as far as he could see, on anything except clothes and shoes, apart from a manicurist and hairdresser. He was quite sure that Fran had at least half that on hers some months, as he did, since they both used plastic like cash, but they both, he knew, always paid off the complete balance. Fran’s excuse was that the National Trust benefited from card use, while his chosen charity was Oxfam. The only people gaining from Sammie’s recklessness were the bank’s fat cats.

  ‘Cheers,’ Fran said, passing him a bottle, which he clinked against hers. She wasn’t usually a beer-from-the-bottle woman, despite her usual air of mucking in with whatever the boys were doing. But, since it didn’t need washing up – presumably glass recycling did all that was necessary to get rid of any bacteria – a bottle was definitely the drinking vessel of choice this evening.

  ‘Cheers. I’m sorry to land you in all this.’

  She slipped an arm round his waist. ‘All what? We’re together and at last the Rectory is in good hands. I liked the way Paula had organised the scaffolding people before we even left the place. They make a good team, don’t they? Paula’s organisational skills and Caffy’s obvious idealism?’

  ‘Do you think they’re an item?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it. Does it matter? Let them have their private life – or lives. I’m sure they deserve them.’

  He nodded. ‘I just wish I could place them – I know those names from somewhere, but certainly I’ve never met them before.’

  ‘Is that what’s the matter?’

  ‘Matter?’

  ‘Something’s been troubling you ever since we left Loose.’

  ‘Ah. Well… I suppose Sammie’s the matter.’ It came out with a rush. He gave an edited version, just as he was sure her account of childminding had been somewhat censored.

  ‘At what interest rate?’ she demanded as he finished. ‘Hell’s bells! So what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘You’re not going to do anything. She’s my problem.’

  ‘She’s actually Lloyd’s problem, or more properly her own. All the same, what are we going to do?’

  ‘I’ve told her to phone the company and explain. And to see a solicitor.’

  ‘If she’s declared bankrupt it’s going to cause all sorts of problems down the line. Maybe for Lloyd too.’

  ‘And me, of course, if she uses my address.’

  ‘Bloody hell, yes. So what are we going to do?’

  He could feel the anger that ought to have been directed against Sammie rising against Fran. ‘I’ve told you, she’s my problem, not yours.’ Seeing her stiffen, he took a deep breath. ‘Look, if she’d ever spoken a civil word to you, let alone a friendly, welcoming one, damn me if I wouldn’t have there-there’d her and paid every last one of her bills. And if we hadn’t had the Rectory to pour money into, of course.’

  She didn’t argue, but her face closed against him, as it always did when she was troubled – no, when he had troubled her. And now she was getting the dinner, in a sort of pained silence. They’d laughed over buying pre-washed microwavable vegetables, plastic glasses and paper plates, but that was before their visit to Loose. And why, while he laid the table, did she break off to do some jotting with which she clearly had difficulties?

  She turned to him with a face lit as if by a minor triumph. ‘Do you know how much interest she has to pay overall if she only pays off the bare minimum each month?’

  ‘She’s talking about changing her card, to one that charges no interest on your existing balance.’ At least they were talking again.

  ‘That’s fine and dandy so long as she doesn’t put any more on it. Or on any others. I take it you’ve established how many she has? Mark, you haven’t, have you? Go on, phone her now and find out. Every last penny she owes. You don’t have to tell me, but she needs to be honest with you so she can be honest with herself. And you might talk to her about Lloyd, too.’

  While he did as he was told, Fran disappeared to the scullery, sifting through the sack of paper scheduled for recycling.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d have had enough of rubbish after this weeke
nd,’ Mark observed, making her jump.

  ‘I just have this niggle,’ Fran said, still burrowing. ‘Ah!’ Triumphantly she flourished an orange-jacketed Focus. Presumably each issue was colour-coded – the one in Minton’s flat had been green. Sitting on her haunches, she thumbed through. ‘I ought to make a point of reading this, you know. Look, it’s got details of everything that’s going on: Borough Council Corner; Parish Affairs; Our Man in Westminster; Lenham Community Matters; Clubs, Groups, Societies, Organisations and Gatherings; Focus on Youth; Our Rural Environment; History of Lenham; Thoughts and Reports from St Mary’s. And lots of local ads.’

  ‘So it will be invaluable now you actually live in the village full-time. It really is a very pretty little place, isn’t it? Fran?’

  She struggled to her feet. ‘Drat. To think a couple of years ago I could go from squat to stand with no effort at all. More important, it’s got a bit about our water in it. Here – continued reports of a strange smell…complaints to Invitaqua… Mr Patel was right, wasn’t he? I wonder what the latest is. Come on, let’s go for a walk,’ she wheedled. ‘Just as far as the corner shop.’

  ‘Why there?’ The chair in Fran’s living room that had become his was exceptionally comfortable.

  ‘Because Mr Patel will know the latest about the water – who’s phoned, who’s written, who’s whatever.’

  ‘OK, you’ve talked me into it. So long as we can stop off at the Dog and Bear afterwards for a glass of proper beer.’

  She beamed. ‘And whoever’s behind the bar there will have the latest news too.’

  Fran hooked her arm matily into Mark’s as they strolled home. Funny, she remembered her parents doing that – never holding hands, as she and Mark often did. And she recalled heroes in classic A-level novels offering arms to young women, even without a romantic attachment. Why had it gone out of fashion?

  ‘So at least twenty people have complained to Invitaqua about this taste – and one woman claims she found a greeny-blue thread in her hand bowl. And Mrs Green, whoever she may be, says she’s found a blonde hair in her sink, as does Mrs Carter, but we can’t trust her because everyone knows what a copycat she is! Is there anyone in the village the Patels don’t have an angle on?’ he demanded with a laugh. ‘But so far nothing appears to have been done,’ he summed up more soberly. ‘Why not?’

  She laughed. ‘I can feel your spine straightening and see your chin taking on its official jut! I should imagine it’s because no one’s got through to the right person. You know how these enterprises work, all pre-recorded messages and press this and then press that. Everything’s designed to make people give up.’

  ‘You wouldn’t give up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t try the conventional way in the first place. And since a good half-dozen have tried writing and had zero response, I shan’t be doing that either.’

  He laughed. ‘So what will you be doing?’

  ‘One of two things – maybe both. The obvious people to contact are Ofwat, since they’re in charge of all the water companies. But I suspect they’ll tell me to go through all sorts of official complaints channels, forgive the pun, and you know how I’d love doing that.’

  ‘The other, then?’

  ‘Pull in a favour.’

  He drew her to a halt. ‘Is this legit?’

  ‘Would I ever bend a single rule? Little me? Well, I should think it’s legit, but Maeve Burton will soon tell us if it isn’t.’

  ‘Maeve as in wispy little Bill?’

  Fran suppressed an inapposite joke. ‘Maeve’s pretty senior in Environmental Health, remember. She’s always telling us to call on her if we need something doing.’

  ‘People often say they owe you a favour without meaning it,’ he warned. Fran always took them at their word.

  ‘Perhaps it isn’t a favour – just one organisation helping another organisation. It’s got to be a criminal offence, selling dodgy water, and the police and Environmental Health would naturally work in tandem.’

  It was easier to agree. ‘Your phone call or mine?’

  ‘Mine. Tomorrow morning. When we did Shakespeare for A level there was something about beer provoking the desire.’

  ‘And the rest of the line says it takes away the performance!’

  ‘I’m quite sure it doesn’t…’

  ‘What I was thinking,’ she began the following morning as she drove them into work, ‘about Sammie, is this. So long as she cut up her cards in front of you, we could pay off all her debts – and she could pay us back, interest free.’

  ‘For “we” read “I”,’ he countered, wondering how long she’d been hatching the idea. ‘But it’s a good idea. If we can afford it. We predicated buying and restoring the Rectory on income from letting one of our houses and selling the other. With Sammie in situ we shan’t be able to let my place and – according to Paula – there’s no chance of moving into the Rectory for several months, so we can’t sell yours. And Pact are not going to come cheap, are they?’

  ‘Paula assured me that they operate on very tight margins.’

  ‘She’s not about to admit to being a multimillionaire, is she? And we know the materials won’t be your bog standard Homebase stuff – they’ll come dear as well. Which is why we’ve agreed to pay their bills as they crop up. No, hear me out. I shan’t begrudge a single penny, believe me. It just means we shan’t have as much money to throw around as I’d like. And that includes on Sammie.’

  ‘I could retire and cash in my lump sum,’ she said in a thin voice.

  He patted the hand on the gear-lever. ‘Just at the moment your monthly salary cheque’s probably more useful.’

  ‘If I got another job, we’d have the lump sum and a monthly cheque.’

  ‘If I got another job, we would, too.’

  She almost stalled. ‘You what?’

  ‘You’re not the only one who can retire, you know. I’ve an idea life’s not going to be much fun under your thin-lipped protégé. I must be able to pull in some sort of job even at my age. There must be firms who actively recruit the more mature.’

  ‘Homebase does, I believe. Or is it B&Q? Now there’s an idea. You could stack the shelves there and get us staff discount on our gutters.’

  Maeve Burton answered first ring.

  ‘Fran! And I’ve got the thank you card for the dinner party stamped and ready here on my desk.’ Knowing Maeve she probably meant it. ‘How’s the romance? I saw you were wearing an engagement ring.’

  It suited police ideas of respectability, but there was, of course, the problem of what it actually meant. ‘It’s got to the shared mortgage stage,’ Fran said, without further explanation. Given Maeve’s history, she still tried to exercise tact when it came to talking to her about her personal life.

  ‘No wedding bells yet?’

  ‘At our age?’ she asked derisively. But it hurt – like a tooth with overhot tea – that Mark never mentioned marriage, and was consistently evasive if she mentioned it, which, to be fair, she did about once a month. Perhaps that constituted nagging and was counterproductive. ‘How are you and Bill? He seems very nice.’

  ‘He is. Don’t let that mild exterior put you off. He’s wonderful when it comes to unsafe buildings. Now, I’ve just sorted out some mammoth cockroaches in the kitchen of an extremely posh hotel – when you do get hitched, you will remember to consult me about the venue for your reception, won’t you?’ Maeve deafened Fran with a whoop of laughter.

  At one point Fran had thought Maeve would never laugh again. But it seemed she was indomitable.

  ‘Of course I will. And invite you – if you’d care to come.’ Not every woman who had been raped so viciously that she could never have children and whose fiancé had consequently jilted her would enjoy seeing other people celebrate their unions.

  ‘So long as I can bring Bill,’ Maeve declared.

  ‘That goes without saying.’

  ‘The wonderful thing is he’s not bothered about children.’ It might have sound
ed like girlie gossip, but to Fran – and presumably Maeve – it was far more than that. ‘And to prove it he’d actually had the snip before he met me. Well, three kids already, all grown up. So no worries on that front.’

  Not unless the children were like Mark’s. Fran, however, said all that was proper and encouraging. And meant it. But how on earth could she turn from gossip to what she wanted?

  Why not be as direct as she usually was? ‘Actually, Maeve, wedding reception venues apart, I was wondering if you could do me a favour.’

  ‘Ask away. I can always say no.’ Her voice suddenly lost its buoyancy.

  Was she having a flashback? At one point she confessed to finding it hard to use the simple negative without recalling the event when she used it in vain. Fran held her breath.

  ‘But I’m sure you wouldn’t have asked if it weren’t important, so fire away,’ Maeve continued in her normal voice.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard about our village water supply? There’s a funny smell – and taste – to it—’

  ‘As if there’s a dead dog in an aquifer or something?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that precisely,’ she said.

  ‘But it would certainly explain the milk in the coconut. I suppose it does come from an aquifer? Or a reservoir?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Just out of a tap.’

  She was rewarded by a cackle of derisive laughter.

  ‘Anyway, a number of villagers have already tried complaining to Invitaqua direct. Some have phoned, others have written. But no one has had a response.’

  ‘Anyone can get water tested, Fran. Is that what you’re asking me to organise?’

  ‘Could you? Unofficially at this stage.’

  ‘No problem. OK, I’ll send someone round to collect a sample or two from your very own tap. No, tell you what, we’ll have a meal – our shout – and come back and I’ll take the sample myself. Actually, perhaps we’d better eat somewhere a good distance from Lenham…’