Fear on Friday (7 page)

“Doreen! How nice. Come on in and have a cup of coffee.”

The two women were friends, in spite of knowing about former betrayals. Neither fully trusted the other. There were still secrets carefully guarded and subjects which were tacitly avoided. “I’ve been shopping,” Doreen said, “and I knew Howard wouldn’t be here, so thought I’d drop in and show you.”

“Oh, Doreen, that’s lovely! Did it cost the earth? That colour really suits you.” Jean’s enthusiasm was genuine. She knew Howard was a stingy old sod, and admired Doreen for her determination and wiliness in getting more
or less what she wanted out of him. But this time, Doreen was having second thoughts. She had never before spent so much money on a dress, and was uncomfortably aware that the balance in her account would not cover it. Howard would not allow her to have credit cards, and she’d always seen the sense of this. She earned nothing, and was totally reliant on the allowance he gave her. Credit cards would be too much of a temptation. But this morning she had lost her head. Perhaps it was something to do with Bill, who’d arrived before she left. Silly to blame it on her cleaner! But he treated her like a person of importance, and Howard never had.

“Are you really sure, Jean?” she said. “Is it worth risking Howard’s wrath? I shall have to ask him for some extra this month …”

Jean looked at her. “Doreen,” she said patiently, as if to a child, “your Howard is rich. You have looked after him all these years, given him children, a comfortable, well-run home, and turned a blind eye when necessary.” Here she paused, wondering if she had gone too far.

But Doreen smiled straight at her, and said, “Yes, Jean, I have done all those things. And so have you, for Ken, but here you are earning your own money. I’ve never done that.”

“No, but Howard wouldn’t have wanted it. You know that. So now you deserve a few treats. He can afford it. And I know you’ll get round him! Go for it!”

She picked up the phone to order coffee but could get no reply, and so said she’d fetch some for them both. “Back in a jiff,” she said smiling, and left the room.

Doreen put the dress back into the bag, and looked around. This was where Howard and Jean had had their tête-à-têtes, exchanged endearments, planned assignations. Oh well, good luck to them, she thought cheerfully. I had some good times with Ken, too.

She looked at Jean’s neat desk, and idly picked up the empty envelope left there. She turned it over in her hands, and noted it was addressed to somebody called Rupert
Forsyth in Sebastopol Street. Wasn’t that where Mrs. Meade had her office?

She turned the envelope over in her hands, and read the smudged name and address on the back. She couldn’t decipher the name, but the town was vaguely familiar. Colcombe, perhaps. That was where Howard’s one-time fellow director had been sent, wasn’t it? The one he’d quarrelled with? He’d been a bit of a pest for a while. She smiled. Such a long time ago. But she remembered the suburb of Manchester he had moved to. How odd! She heard Jean’s footsteps approaching, and a well-developed suspicion of anything odd to do with Howard made her slip the envelope into her handbag and walk quickly to look out of the window.

“Here we are then,” Jean said. “I got us some doughnuts, too … and don’t look like that! Weight-watching is nothing to us now. Here, help yourself.”

The sun came out from behind heavy clouds, and shone straight into Jean’s office, lighting up the two women delicately making short work of the doughnuts, and smiling happily at each other. It was not until Doreen had gone that Jean remembered the envelope. She hunted around for a while, and then her telephone rang. It was Howard, and he was stuck in traffic. “Get a message to that old folks’ home, Jean,” he said. “I shall be a bit late. Say all the right things, as always. See you later.”

By the time she had smoothed down raffled feathers at the retirement home, the empty envelope had gone completely from her mind. At home, much later, she remembered it, and shrugged. The cleaner would put it in the bin. It didn’t really matter.

I
T WAS
S
ATURDAY
,
HALF
-
DAY FOR
F
ERGUS
F
ORSYTH
, who was consequently in a good mood. He looked out from behind the shiny raincoats at the derelict shop over the road and smiled. His father, Rupert, had told him that a Farnden woman who ran a cleaning business had taken the shop as an office. A couple of burly blokes had carried in boxes of tools and large tins of paint, and had opened all the windows wide.

It could only be a good thing, he reflected. This part of town was very quiet, and had been the attraction for Dad. Customers were happy to call in with little fear of being spotted. But for Fergus the time passed slowly when there were no customers. Dad insisted on doing all the paperwork, and kept all records, addresses, and anything confidential, at home in his small workroom. Fergus had disagreed with Rupert over extending the Farnden house. Why couldn’t they move all the paperwork to the shop? They could make sure it was secure, with new locks and stuff. But Dad was adamant, saying he would have it all where he could keep a constant eye on it. Fergus had
argued that he could help out with admin—answering letters, organising orders, etc.—while the shop was empty. But Dad wouldn’t have it. Still, with a new business opposite, things should liven up a lot. Fergus had noticed the two women arriving in a New Brooms van the other day, and he’d seen young Maureen come out with her baby and the fond reunion. Fergus missed very little of what went on outside his shop window. That would have been the boss and her assistant, he guessed. Both good lookers, though the assistant looked more his age. Then there was Maureen. She was one of Rupert’s outworkers, and was always good for a lark. Yes, things were definitely looking up.

D
OREEN
J
ENKINSON DROVE ROUND THE BACK STREETS
of Tresham, taking books to old people who were housebound. She hadn’t much charitable instinct, but agreed to do it to enhance Howard’s public image. She wondered, not for the first time, how she was going to pay for the new dress. She had not told Howard, and as the days went by, she was increasingly reluctant to do so. There must be a way of adding to her bank balance without telling him. Perhaps she could borrow from her daughter? No, that would never do. She had always preserved the fiction that their father was a generous, warm-hearted man. The perfect father. It wouldn’t do to destroy the illusion now. She pulled up outside a terraced house in Sebastopol Street.

After a ten minutes talk with an old man living on his own, she emerged into the street and saw opposite the rainwear shop. Rain or Shine. A nice name. A shiny, sky blue jacket in the window attracted her attention, and she crossed the road to have a closer look. Not that she would consider buying it. She mustn’t spend another penny until next month. Still, she thought, gazing at it, it was very pretty and would be useful for summer showers. No harm in trying it on. Maybe it wasn’t her size. And anyway, if it was right for her, she could always get it next month. She opened the door and went in.

Once inside, Doreen looked around until a young man came in from the back room. “Morning, Madam,” he said pleasantly, eyeing her up and down. “You just caught me before I shut up shop.” Oh dear, it was one of the occasional old ducks who wandered in without realising. Or would she surprise him? He would be closing soon, and it was always pleasant to make a sale at the last minute.

“It was that jacket, the blue one in the window,” Doreen said. She glanced around quickly, and couldn’t see much in the way of clothes display.

“Very pretty, that one, and so smooth to the touch,” said Fergus. “Would you like to try it?”

Doreen looked at herself in the long mirror. It certainly suited her. Brings out my blue eyes, she said to herself.

“For hubby, is it?” Fergus said, with a knowing smile.

“What did you say?” Doreen frowned. “No, of course it’s not. It’s for me! Anyway,” she added, feeling more and more uncomfortable, “I’ll have to think about it. I come this way quite often, so I’ll look in again.” She took off the jacket, picked up her handbag and scuttled out. Something very odd about that place! For the moment she had forgotten her worrying overdraft, and turned back to check she’d shut the door. She didn’t want the man thinking she was alarmed. It was then she noticed the name over the door. There it was: R. Forsyth. The name on the envelope. Maybe Jean would know more about it. Perhaps she would own up to filching the envelope, and ask Jean more about it.

Then it clicked. Of course! She coloured with embarrassment. Rainwear! Smooth to the touch! Was it for hubby? Oh my God, Doreen, she accused herself, you are a silly fool—it was one of
those
shops! What on earth had that young man thought of her? She felt hot all over, and got into her car, grating the gears as she set off as if pursued by bears.

When she was home and settled with a calming cup of lea, she pondered again on the name Forsyth, on the shop sign, and on the envelope with its stamp destined for her grandson. And the sender. She looked again, and could
hardly make out the name. NF S something? … N … Colcombe … Norman! Norman Stevenson. A long-time customer of Rain or Shine? Or an errand-boy? She knew Howard kept in touch. There were telephone calls from the den. Was Howard up to something? Of course he was. He always was.

O
DDLY ENOUGH
,
IT WAS
L
OIS WHO DISCOVERED WHAT
Howard was up to, though in an accidental way. Now that her new office in Sebastopol Street was open, and Hazel was happily installed as manager four days a week, Lois often called in to pick up new contacts. One day a week, and at other times when Hazel needed time off, Lois took over, and admitted to Derek that she thoroughly enjoyed herself.

“Beats going to see stroppy new clients in their homes,” she said. “When they come into the office, they’re usually desperate for a cleaner. Very polite and nice. Later on, when they see a perfect stranger around the house, poking into their private things, they can get nasty.”

“Not, of course, that your cleaners poke, do they, me duck?” grinned Derek.

“Course not,” said Lois. “Not unless asked.”

“Huh!” said Derek. He knew that Lois used New Brooms to collect up information for Cowgill, and he privately thought she sailed pretty close to the wind at times. Still, that was her business.

Now, with no clients in the office for the moment, she stood at the window chatting to Hazel, and looked across at Rain or Shine. She had not yet spoken to the young bloke who was there every day, but she had looked curiously at the men—usually men—who were his customers. Some marched to the door with great bravado, and disappeared inside, emerging later with plain carrier bags. Glancing to right and left, they marched equally swiftly off up Sebastopol Street and disappeared. Others hugged the inside of the pavement, overshot the shop at first, then turned and came back, finally scuttling inside with face averted. Yet others arrived by car, and parked away up the street. Then they walked nonchalantly up to the window and peered inside, as if wondering idly whether to go in. Then in a sudden dart they would open the door and disappear, like a mouse into a hole.

All this amused Lois, especially as she had been told by Hazel and her friend Maureen that the shop’s stock covered a wide range of sex aids and toys. Maureen was one of many outworkers who made up raincoats, nurses’ uniforms, bodysuits and much else. “Most of ‘em want pve these days,” she’d said knowledgeably, “rubber’s out.”

“What else does he do in there?” Lois said bluntly. “What goes on upstairs?”

“Nothing much—Fergus Forsyth uses it for storage, Maureen says.” Then she added, looking hard at Lois, “You know Fergus is Rupert’s son?”

“Rupert Forsyth, you mean? His son? Well yeah, Derek thought he recognised him.”

“Rupert and Daisy live in Farnden. He gets all the letters. Rupert owns the business. I could find out more.”