Running Scared (39 page)
Usha stared round it. ‘Sure, it looks good. But how much did it cost?’ She swung round, eyes bright with suspicion. ‘And where’s the old loo?’
‘Hitch took all the old junk away. Did a complete job,’ said Gan proudly.
Watching Usha’s face, I somehow knew this wasn’t the right answer.
‘Took it away?’ She flung both hands out dramatically to indicate the new loo, resplendent where the old one had been. ‘Took away that lovely Victorian loo? He didn’t, I suppose, pay you for it? You didn’t knock the value of it off the bill?’
‘What value?’ asked Ganesh. ‘It was nearly a hundred years old.’
‘Too right it was!’ yelled Usha, erupting in fury. ‘People seek out those Victorian patterned lavatories! Collectors of Victoriana and old domestic equipment. They’re what’s called highly desirable. That one of Hari’s was in perfect condition, glaze hadn’t crazed, no chips, nothing! It was manufactured by Doulton. At auction those things fetch between five and six hundred quid!’
There was the sort of silence in which you’re supposed to hear pins dropping. Ganesh was shaking his head slowly, a dazed expression on his face.
‘Now,’ Usha went on with the calm which makes you want to run for cover, ‘I don’t know what you paid Hitch for fixing up the washroom, but he must have nearly doubled it by getting the old blue and white loo, which you described as junk, thrown in. And please, don’t tell me he didn’t know what it was worth. Hitch knows what everything’s worth. He’s a fixer, a middleman. And the worst of it all,’ Usha was working up the Richter scale again, ‘Jay and I were going to approach Hari about selling it to us, you know, family price.’
There was a silence. ‘Well,’ Ganesh said at last, very faintly, ‘who’d believe it?’
‘I would,’ I told him. ‘I warned you Hitch was always on the fiddle. Honestly, Ganesh, all those magazine supplements you’ve been reading, didn’t any of them have articles about antiques?’
Or, come to that, hadn’t any of the holiday supplements featured Cuba? Even I’d been able to see the location of the photos hadn’t been the Canary Islands. What’s the point of being able to list the world’s most eligible bachelors, in order, if you don’t know anything really useful? But it wasn’t the moment to get at Gan about that. He was looking utterly miserable.
‘They didn’t have any articles about old loos,’ he was saying. ‘Only silver and china and stuff.’
It was time for me to make a discreet departure. ‘When you see your mum and dad, Usha,’ I said, ‘give them my good wishes.’
‘Happy Christmas, Fran, dear.’
It was Christmas Day, breakfast-time. Daphne and I exchanged kisses and good wishes and produced our presents.
It was difficult to know what to buy Daphne but, inspired by the mistake over the loo, I’d ended up with the latest edition of one of those antique guides. She was interested in that sort of thing and went round the salerooms. I’d checked in it before I wrapped it up and Usha was right about that Victorian loo. Ganesh had said he was going to ask Hitch to pay for it, but we both knew he hadn’t a hope. Hitch would swear he didn’t know it had any value and that he’d dumped it. But Hitch knows the value of everything. Usha was also right in saying he was a middleman. He’d probably already got a buyer in mind when he’d first agreed to do the work in the old washroom.
I presented Daphne with the book. Bonnie sat by with tinsel entwined in her collar and waited hopefully, sensing goodies were being handed out. I gave her a chocolate-flavoured rubber bone. She carried it off and began to chew it happily.
Daphne handed me two small packages. I opened the one labelled ‘Bonnie’ first. It was a smart new lead. ‘Thanks very much, Daphne,’ I said. Then I opened the second, smaller, packet marked ‘Fran’ and said, ‘Oh, Daph . . .’
‘I want you to have them,’ Daphne said firmly. ‘Before you say anything.’
‘But they belonged to your mother.’ I put the amethyst earrings, lying on cottonwool in a neat little box, on the table. ‘I can’t accept those, Daphne.’
‘Whyever not? Who else should I give them to? I’ve got no young female relatives. Neither Charles nor Betram is married so it’d be no good giving any of my jewellery to either of them. They couldn’t wear them.’
I wasn’t sure of that but tactfully kept quiet.
‘I’ve got a sort of cousin, way up in Shropshire, who’s got a daughter, and my pearls and a hideous tiara thing which no woman in her right mind would wear these days, are left to her. But I want you to have the earrings. I thought they’d match that purple skirt of yours,’ my landlady concluded.
‘Thank you, Daphne,’ I said humbly. ‘I’ll treasure them, promise.’
‘I am so sorry,’ she said, ‘that you’ll be alone for Christmas lunch. I really don’t want to go over to my nephews’, but they have been apologising nonstop and really, I know I’ve got to make it up with them eventually, so it might as well be on Christmas Day. Bertie is a very good cook, you know.’
I didn’t doubt it. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘I’ve got Bonnie.’
‘I had thought you might be spending the day with Mr Patel.’
‘He’s had to go to High Wycombe,’ I said. ‘He’s got a family dispute to patch up as well.’
‘Well, that’s what Christmas is for,’ said Daphne, adding on a note of doubt, ‘I suppose.’ She cheered up. ‘I’ll be back this evening. We can have a glass of wine then. Tomorrow I’ll poach us that nice piece of salmon in the fridge. Oh, there are plenty of things in the freezer, meantime. There’s an individual portion of chicken
à la provençale.
Why don’t you pop that in the microwave?’
‘This is it, Bonnie,’ I said to her, when Daphne had left. ‘This is independence. Christmas Day, just you and me, with a frozen chicken portion between us.’ I brandished the foil container at her. Bonnie’s ears drooped. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘you can have a tin of dog’s chicken dinner. It’ll probably have more chicken in it than whatever’s in here. We’ll eat Wayne Parry’s Maltesers for pud.’ The thought didn’t cheer. Activity was called for. ‘Want to go out for a walk?’ I asked Bonnie, producing the new lead.
We set off up the road. There was a Christmas Day sort of feeling in the air, people wearing silly smiles and greeting complete strangers. Cars passed filled with people and presents, all off to lunch with family or friends. Kids cycled along the pavements on new bikes. I’d thought going out in the fresh air might have cheered me up, but it made me feel worse, isolated. All I had to look forward to was a new year which would start off with dossing in Hari’s lock-up with my belongings in a couple of plastic sacks. I understood why Daphne was making it up with the gruesome twosome. In the end, they were her family, just as Ganesh had said.
When I reached the shops, things began to look up. To my surprise, I saw coming towards me Marco, blond hair flowing. He was snazzily turned out in a blue jacket in some shiny material and clean jeans without paint splashes. My heart rose.
‘Hello, Fran,’ Marco said. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Same to you,’ I returned happily. ‘I thought you were in Amsterdam.’
‘Got back last night. I’m just going down The Rose for a drink,’ he said. ‘It’s open till lunchtime. Crowd of us meeting up there. Want to come?’
What do you know, Fran? I told myself in delight. There is a Father Christmas, after all. I asked about Bonnie.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ he said. ‘They don’t mind dogs in The Rose. The landlord’s got a pit bull. It’s out back,’ he added, by way of encouragement. ‘And it’s tattooed and lost its knackers and everything, all legal. The police come round and insisted. Don’t seem right, somehow.’
We made our way to The Rose. It’s an old pub and hasn’t changed its style much in fifty years. Downmarket is where The Rose feels it should be and downmarket it resolutely stays. It was packed to the door, the air filled with nicotine and boozy Christmas cheer. I picked Bonnie up because it seemed likely she’d be trodden on, and followed Marco to a corner table surrounded by people.
‘This is Fran,’ he announced, propelling me forward. A chorus of voices greeted me and wished me a happy Christmas. ‘This is Mike,’ Marco began to make a round of the table for my benefit, ‘this is Polly and this . . .’ It went on until we reached a red-haired girl in an advanced state of pregnancy who was prudently on the orange juice.
‘And this is Bridget,’ said Marco happily. ‘Meet the wife, Fran.’
You know, that Scottish poet had it right. The best laid plans of mice and men are apt to go pear-shaped. And there’s not a lot any of us can do about it.
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