Alice-Miranda Shows the Way (14 page)

‘She's rude, more like it,' Fern retorted. ‘I wasn't doing anything wrong. You told me I could have a
look and that's all I did.'

‘I believe you, Fern. And I'm so sorry – you still haven't had anyone look at your sore arm, have you?' Alice-Miranda asked.

‘I'll live,' the amber-eyed girl said with a shrug.

‘All right, you lot, nothing more to see,' Alf called out. The group began to disperse, some back towards the fire and others to their caravans.

‘Please come over to school tomorrow afternoon so Mrs Howard can look at your wrist,' Alice-Miranda offered.

‘Why do you care?' Fern asked. She'd never met anyone as persistent as this child.

‘I thought we could be friends,' Alice-Miranda replied.

‘Friends? Why would you want to be my friend?' Fern asked, her eyes locking with Alice-Miranda's.

‘Fern, dinner won't cook itself,' Alf barked. ‘Get yourself inside.'

‘Goodbye, Mr Alf.' Alice-Miranda walked over and stood in front of the hairy man. ‘It's been nice to meet you and I'm looking forward to the rides at the show.'

Alf didn't know what to say. He'd usually have given any child who dared to talk to him an earful
for being a smart alec, but she was different, this one. Fern stepped closer, curious about the exchange.

‘Goodbye Fern,' said Alice-Miranda, looking up at the older girl. ‘Please come and see me tomorrow.'

Fern didn't say a thing.

‘Ferny, that's not very friendly,' said Alf, his ears pricking up at Alice-Miranda's offer. ‘Little girl wants you to pay her a visit – I'm sure that would be lovely for both of you.'

Fern wondered why Alf was so interested.

Then he winked and Fern gulped. She knew exactly what Alf meant by that comment and at that moment she hated him more than ever before.

L
ate on Sunday afternoon, Ambrosia HeadlingtonBear stood in the hallway of Wisteria Cottage wondering what she would tell her daughter. She had just arrived back in the village and felt as if her whole life had been snatched out from underneath her. The cottage was a shambles but at least it had a bed and hot and cold running water.

So much for thinking her husband had a special surprise for her. It had been more like a bombshell and certainly wasn't the dazzling diamond necklace
she'd been hoping for. They'd had a lovely night at the ball. Ambrosia had worn her new Chanel frock and Neville looked as handsome as ever. They'd even danced, which was surprising seeing as her husband had never been especially fond of it. On the drive home they were chatting about this and that when, like a slap, he told her that their marriage was over. Just like that, with the same amount of emotion as if he'd told her he was heading off to golf or going to the gym.

Although they didn't spend a lot of time together, Neville had always seemed adoring. But for reasons he said he'd rather not share, he had decided to end their marriage. No conversation, no explanation, nothing. She thought he'd bought Wisteria Cottage as a weekend getaway, but Neville calmly explained that all her things would be delivered in the next week and she shouldn't return to the townhouse. The locks would be changed as soon as she left the next day.

As well as the house and the car, Ambrosia would receive a monthly allowance. She had told him it wouldn't pay the bill for her hairdresser and stylist, let alone her clothes. But Neville Headlington-Bear was not a man to trifle with. He told her that if she
overspent she'd better start selling her jewellery. Wisteria Cottage was going to be her new home whether she liked it or not. And she had better start living within her means.

It wasn't in Ambrosia's nature to beg, but she wanted to make sure that the removalists packed everything that belonged to her. She dialled her husband's telephone number and waited.

‘Hello Neville darling, please, don't hang up . . .' she began. Their conversation lasted only a few minutes and by the time it was over Ambrosia felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Her own husband had accused her of being a terrible mother. As if he was one to speak! He'd never shown any interest in their daughter; not from the moment she was born and the boy he'd been expecting had turned out to be a girl.

Ambrosia reached down and flicked the switch on a paint-spattered radio sitting on the floor. She turned up the volume, hoping that the noise would drown out her thoughts. Maybe a bath would help. At least that room was finished. Ambrosia walked through the master bedroom into her new ensuite, her sky-scraping heels clacking along the bare boards.

‘Oh, gross!' She recoiled as she realised that the bath was covered in dust and would need to be cleaned before she got in it. She turned on the tap and a gush of rust-coloured water spewed out.

‘But . . . I don't clean bathrooms.' A fat tear wobbled in the corner of her eye and spilled onto her cheek.

‘Hellooo,' a shrill voice called from the back door. ‘Is anyone home?'

The last thing Ambrosia felt like was visitors. She decided to ignore them.

‘Helloooooo, I can hear you in there,' the woman called again.

Ambrosia turned off the tap and stalked down the hallway. She brushed the tears from her face and wrenched open the back door.

‘Heavens be,' the woman screeched above the sound of the music. ‘Are you deaf, dear?'

Ambrosia frowned at her.

‘Turn off that dreadful noise,' the visitor demanded.

Ambrosia walked back up the hallway and turned the radio off.

‘Thank the good Lord,' the woman yelled, before realising she was no longer competing with the
ear-splitting racket. ‘Well, aren't you going to invite me in?' Myrtle Parker peered through the gauze of the flyscreen door.

‘I'm really not ready for visitors,' said Ambrosia. She wondered who she was talking to.

‘Well dear, I think that's quite beside the point. I just wanted to say hello and welcome you to the neighbourhood, even though I'm so busy at the moment I can hardly spare the time.' Myrtle's voice had grown more querulous now. ‘It's the neighbourly thing to do, isn't it?'

Ambrosia glanced around at the chaos. She was mortified that anyone should see her life in this state but she didn't want to get offside with the neighbours, especially not one as insistent as this.

‘Oh all right, come in,' she sighed.

Myrtle Parker let herself in and walked into the kitchen, which had been stripped bare apart from the kitchen sink and one small cupboard. She then picked a path along the passageway, avoiding the tins of paint and other paraphernalia before arriving in the front sitting room.

‘You must be Ambrosia Headlington-Bear,' Myrtle said.

Ambrosia nodded. ‘Yes, yes I am. How did you know? I suppose you read
Gloss and Goss
?'

‘No, dear, I'm not interested in that rubbish. Mr Munz told me that you were moving in. And I am sorry to hear about your husband,' Myrtle replied, casting her eyes to the floor as if there was some sort of embarrassment Ambrosia didn't yet know about.

‘What about my husband?' Ambrosia certainly hadn't told anyone about their break-up. She wanted to time it exactly right before leaking the news to the press.

‘I don't want to be the bearer of more bad news, dear,' said Myrtle smugly. ‘I'm sure that you'll read about it sooner or later. Anyway, I'm Myrtle Parker and I live across the road. Perhaps you'd like to give me a quick tour?'

Ambrosia wondered what Mrs Parker was talking about. She tried to fob the woman off. ‘I'm afraid the house is a complete mess. Perhaps we could do it next week, once the painters are gone and the kitchen is in.'

But Myrtle would not be dissuaded so easily. ‘I've heard your ensuite is finished.'

Ambrosia nodded and said, ‘But it hasn't been cleaned.'

‘I don't mind about that, dear. I'm just interested to see what you've done to the place. Such a pretty cottage. Well, at least it was.'

Ambrosia glared at Mrs Parker before leading her through the master bedroom and into the ensuite.

Myrtle studied the space, with its glossy white wall tiles and expensive fittings. ‘That's a pity, dear.'

‘What do you mean?' Ambrosia asked.

‘It's all white. Couldn't you afford any colour?' Myrtle wondered if the woman had any taste at all.

‘Oh no, Mrs Parker, this is very up to the minute,' Ambrosia protested.

‘For now, that is. Terribly dull, though,' Myrtle tutted.

Ambrosia considered her guest. Who was this woman, dressed as she was in the most frightful red gingham dress Ambrosia had seen in years, to tell her about style?

She could only imagine the bathroom in her house. It probably had an avocado suite.

‘Wasn't this a bedroom?' Myrtle asked, remembering when Doris Foyle lived in the cottage. The room had housed the old woman's sewing machine and been a very handy little craft space.

‘Yes, but as there's just me, I really couldn't
see the need for so many bedrooms,' Ambrosia replied.

‘What about your daughter? Won't she be coming to stay with you?' Myrtle asked.

Mrs Parker certainly knew a lot about her, Ambrosia thought to herself.

‘Yes, sometimes on the weekends, perhaps, but she loves her school,' Ambrosia replied. She stopped short of saying that she could hardly imagine Jacinta living with her permanently.

‘But you do have a bedroom for her, I presume?' Myrtle spied another doorway. ‘What's that through there?'

‘It's my wardrobe and dressing room,' Ambrosia replied.

‘Well, where's your daughter going to sleep when she comes?'

‘She has a space.' Ambrosia was thinking about the tiny box room off the kitchen.

‘I hope you're not thinking to put the poor child in that dreadful little room off the kitchen,' Myrtle gasped. ‘Might as well put a cubbyhouse in the back garden and let her stay there – it would be an improvement.'

Ambrosia felt a twinge in her stomach. She
hadn't really considered that Jacinta might want to stay very often. It was only meant to be a weekender, after all.

‘Anyway, I'd best be off.' Myrtle Parker's eyes scanned each room on her way down the hall. ‘What sort of kitchen are you putting in?'

‘It's white,' Ambrosia replied in a rebellious tone.

‘I should have guessed.' Myrtle nodded, a superior smirk creeping across her face.

Myrtle turned to face Ambrosia and held out her hand. In it was a small envelope. ‘It's an invitation to the show ball. But I'm afraid you'll have to pay. I can't afford to go around giving out free tickets.'

‘Oh.' Ambrosia's mood improved at the thought of an invitation. And to a ball, no less. ‘Where will it be held?' She wondered if it might be in the ballroom at Chesterfield Downs or on some other property she wasn't yet familiar with.

‘It's in the village hall,' Myrtle replied. ‘Beside the showground, next to the racetrack.'

‘Oh.' Ambrosia's lip curled and she didn't even try to mask her disappointment. ‘Really?'

‘Yes. It's a fundraiser, Mrs Headlington-Bear. Probably not up to your usual standards but it's for
a wonderful cause. I chose it myself this year. The money will go to an organisation called Coma Care, who look after people who are trapped in a permanent state of slumber, like my dear Reginald.' The old woman snapped open her handbag and pulled out a photograph, which she shoved towards Ambrosia.

‘Who's that?'

‘That's Reginald, in the front sitting room.' Myrtle stuffed the blurry picture back into her bag. ‘He's been like it for three years now.'

‘What? Asleep?' Ambrosia scoffed.

‘Yes, Mrs Headlington-Bear. My dear Reginald has been in that state for far too long, and I fear that if he doesn't wake up soon, I am going to have to find someone to paint the outside of the house for him.' Myrtle sighed and silently wondered how much Ambrosia was paying her painters. ‘Anyway, will you be coming to the ball or not?
Everyone
will be there.'

Ambrosia didn't feel quite so keen now she knew it would be in a hall, which was not much better than a shed, really. ‘I'm not sure, Mrs Parker. I'll have to check my diary.'

‘I suppose it won't interest you then that Queen Georgiana is planning to attend, in honour of this being the 150th continuous year of the show.'

‘Oh, well, I'm sure I can cancel any other engagements. If Her Majesty is going to be there, of course I couldn't say no. We were just on a cruise together a couple of months ago, actually,' Ambrosia purred. She glanced at her fingernails and decided she should make a booking at the spa in Downsfordvale quick smart.

‘So I can count on your support, Mrs Headlington-Bear?' Myrtle licked her lips and they smacked together noisily.

‘Yes, of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world,' said Ambrosia.

‘Very good then.' Myrtle raised her drawn-on eyebrows. ‘I will see you the Saturday after next.' She waddled down the back steps into the garden, muttering under her breath, ‘What a dreadful extravagance. Silly woman must have more money than sense.'

She walked down the driveway and crossed the street to enter her own ramshackle garden. Her thoughts drifted to Reginald and how thoroughly selfish it was of him to just lie there in the sitting room, especially when there were weeds to be tended and painting to be done. That woman across the road didn't know how lucky she was to be able to afford help.