Never Can Say Goodbye (19 page)

‘OK.’ Dexter exhaled. ‘So, you’re willing to give it a go, are you?’

‘I am, Dexter lad. And the sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.’

Ten minutes later, in the plush warmth of Dexter’s luxurious car, Frankie leaned her head back against the soft leather and
stared through the windscreen. It was bitterly cold. Outside, everything glittered, and the crescent moon was a white-gold
scar on the otherwise perfect black velvet sky.

‘Shouldn’t we have phoned Maisie first, to say we’re on our way?’ She turned to look at Dexter in the darkness. ‘Or asked
if it was convenient? Isn’t just turning up a bit rude?’

‘I know where she lives, having taken her home before, and neither of us know her phone number. And I don’t know about you,
but the sooner we get this … this madness sorted
out, the better. If she doesn’t want to see us tonight she can say so, can’t she?’

‘I suppose so. Look, I’m really grateful to you for all this. I’ve been worrying about it for days now, thinking I was going
crazy.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ Dexter smiled across at her. ‘It still all seems too far-fetched to be true, but, well, I’m intrigued
now. And more than a bit spooked by it. And, OK, he seems like a nice old boy, even if does think he’s dead, and if he’s just
play-acting, then this should flush him out. And if he isn’t … well, if we can help him we should, shouldn’t we?’

‘We should,’ Frankie agreed. ‘I also think that we shouldn’t mention exactly
who
it is that’s haunting the shop to Maisie. I think we should just be a bit vague and say I think she may have been right when
she said it was haunted. I’m still not sure she’s genuine. Let’s see if she actually discovers that it’s Ernie, shall we?’

‘Devious.’ Dexter chuckled. ‘But I like it. Yes, I think you’re right. If he’s a fraud then we can scare him witless. And
if she’s a fraud, then we don’t want to give her any clues, do we? OK, we’re here now.’

Dexter pulled the car to a halt outside a neat block of tiny service flats on the Hazy Hassocks road. Lights glowed warmly
in the curtained windows, but there was no one about. Hardly surprising, Frankie thought as she stepped reluctantly from the
delicious warmth into the searingly cold frosty evening.

‘She lives on the ground floor, to the left.’ Dexter locked the car and followed Frankie into the flat’s small, neat entrance
foyer. ‘At least Brian and I didn’t have to haul her upstairs. It’s this one.’

Frankie rang the bell.

After a minute, which, to Frankie, seemed more like an hour, Maisie opened the door a sliver, leaving the chain on, and peered
out at them through the crack. ‘Yes? Who is it?’

‘Maisie, I’m really sorry to bother you.’ Frankie cleared her throat. She seemed to be making a habit of impromptu late visits
to elderly people. She’d probably be getting some sort of reputation round the villages as a geriatric botherer. ‘Um, it’s
me. Frankie from, er, Rita’s shop. And Dexter – Ray Valentine’s nephew.’

‘Ah, lovely, sweethearts.’ The chain rattled free and the door opened. ‘How nice to see you. Come along in.’

Dexter and Frankie stared up at the towering Maisie who was wearing a pink and orange quilted housecoat wrapped round her
considerable bulk, with her cauliflower hair in a spike of multicoloured rollers, and teetering on high-heeled diamante and
fluffy pink mules.

‘Thank you.’ Frankie stepped into ankle-deep plum shagpile carpeting, followed by Dexter. ‘Oh, what a lovely flat.’

Well, it was. To her. To anyone not given to clutter and clashing colours and twinkly, sparkly things – clearly like Dexter
– it would be a hellhole.

Maisie hadn’t just decked the halls with boughs of holly, she’d decked everywhere with everything. It was like a grotto but
without the pixies.

‘Come through, sweethearts.’ Maisie swayed into her tiny living room. ‘Make yourselves comfy. I was just watching a bit of
telly, but never mind that. I can pause and save.’

Sky Plus, Frankie thought, had opened a whole new joyous world to the older telly addict.

A Christmas tree, flouting any rules of colour co-ordination
or style, dominated the hothouse room. It drooped under the weight of far too much tinsel and far too many lights and dozens
and dozens of mismatched baubles.

‘Oh! Fabulous tree!’ Frankie clasped her hands together in delight.

Dexter looked at her with deep pity.

‘Thank you. I love Christmas, don’t you? I did the tree at the end of November. I know it might be a bit early to have the
decs up, but I do so love them. Now, can I get you something to eat? Drink?’

They both shook their heads and proclaimed they were fine, thank you.

Maisie settled herself on a pink dralon chair amid a lot of slithery cushions, once they’d seated themselves side by side
in amongst even more cushions on the matching sofa. ‘So, not that it’s not lovely to see you, but what can I do for you?’

They looked at one another, then Frankie leaned forwards. ‘It’s about the ghosts, in my shop … ’

‘Ah.’ Maisie’s eyes sparkled almost as much as her Christmas tree. ‘I told you you’d be needing me, didn’t I?’

‘You did.’ Frankie nodded solemnly. ‘And you were right. I’m sorry that I doubted you.’

Beside her, Dexter stifled a snort.

Maisie wriggled excitedly. ‘So, what have you seen? What have you felt?’

‘Er … ’ Frankie, crossing her fingers, hesitated and avoided Dexter’s eyes. ‘Well, I haven’t actually
seen
anything, but there’s a sort of presence. Um, a cold feeling? A sort of feeling that when I’m alone, I’m not. Does that make
sense?’

‘Perfectly.’ Maisie beamed. ‘Sounds like a classic case of a haunting to me.’

Relieved, Frankie exhaled and uncrossed her fingers. Dexter snuffled. She still didn’t look at him.

‘So, sweethearts, what are you asking me to do?’

‘Um … ’ Frankie faltered.

‘Well, more or less, just get rid of it, er, them,’ Dexter put in quickly. ‘That is, we’re not sure how you do your, er, mediuming,
but if you could sort of find out if there is anything there –’

‘Oh, there is!’ Maisie said triumphantly. ‘I felt it the minute I stepped inside, didn’t I, Frankie?’

‘You did. Quite dramatically.’

‘Yes, so,’ Dexter continued manfully, ‘if you could, er, lay the ghost – I mean, ghosts – for Frankie, it would be a great
help.’

‘No problem at all.’ Maisie preened. ‘I’m just glad you’ve seen sense and asked me. Right now, sweethearts, we’ve established
that you have spirits and need to be rid of them, but what exactly are you looking for?’

Frankie frowned. It was like being asked questions by a party-planner. Balloons? Streamers? Music? A table magician? A nice
cake?

‘Actually, I don’t really know. I thought you’d tell us. That is, I agree with you that the shop is haunted and I don’t want
it to be, but I have no idea what you need to do or what you need us to provide, so I’ll – we’ll – leave it to you.’

‘Lovely.’ Maisie rubbed her chubby much be-ringed hands together. ‘I’ll have a little one-to-one session then. I can come
into the shop one night and talk to the unhappy, restless spirits and see what their problems are and ask them to leave you
alone. Does that sound about right for you?’

They both nodded.

‘Super, sweethearts. I like it when clients have open minds.’

‘My mind is pretty closed, actually.’ Dexter was still trying to balance on a very slippery candyfloss-pink satin cushion.
‘I’m afraid I don’t believe in ghosts.’

Maisie tutted loudly. ‘You’re not alone there, sadly. I find so many people don’t believe. But you must have
felt
something otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you?’

‘I’m here for Frankie. It’s her shop and her problem and I want to help her.’

Frankie had a little warm glow of happiness moment.

‘Ah, sweetheart, how lovely.’ Maisie smiled. ‘Okey-dokey. What I’ll need is an empty shop. Preferably late at night. I don’t
want any confusing auras around, do I?’

They shook their heads.

‘Right, and I’ll need you there too, as the haunting may be linked to you rather than the premises, but as I’ve already picked
up that you’re both
sceptical
–’ Maisie made it sound as if they were suffering from some unspeakable antisocial disease ‘– it would help if we could have
someone who has no such blocking emotions in place – just in case I need to go through a third party.’

Dexter and Frankie looked at one another.

‘Um, I could ask Lilly, my housemate,’ Frankie said doubtfully. ‘She believes in fairies and the Easter Bunny and Father Christmas
and aliens and well, everything.’

‘Perfect, sweetheart.’ Maisie nodded the myriad rollers. ‘She sounds just the ticket. So, how about this Saturday night coming?
Just before midnight? Then if it all gets too exhausting we’ll have the Sunday to recover, won’t we?’

‘OK by me,’ Frankie said, ‘and I’ll make sure Lilly is free. Dexter?’

‘Oh, I’m sure I can cancel whatever hot date I may have planned for a spot of spook-spotting.’

‘Don’t mock,’ Maisie said severely. ‘It’s not funny.’

‘No, sorry.’ Dexter tried to keep a straight face.

‘Right, sweethearts. That’s all fixed then. I’ll bring the few things that I need, and if you could just make sure there’s
a nice carafe of iced water available – it can be very thirsty work – and, if you could keep it a secret I’d appreciate it.
I don’t need a lot of negativity building up and confusing the auras, if you get my drift?’

They nodded again.

Dexter lost the struggle with the cushion and stood up. ‘And I’ll come and collect you, shall I? I know you have transport
problems getting from here to Kingston Dapple.’

‘That’s very kind of you, thank you.’ Maisie stood up too, teetering slightly on the vertiginous mules. ‘So, if we say you’ll
collect me at about eleven thirty next Saturday night, I can have a little afternoon nap to gather my strength. And we’ll
have your spirit problem sorted out in a trice, sweetheart.’

Frankie, reluctantly letting go of her own clutched collection of cushions – they would look fabulous in her bedroom – stood
up, too. ‘That’s wonderful, Maisie, thank you. Oh, and do we pay you now, or, um, afterwards?’

‘Afterwards will be fine, sweetheart. I do piecework. Charge by the hour. I’ll prepare an invoice and send it in.’

Dexter and Frankie exchanged amused glances as they all waded towards the door through the shagpile.

‘Until Saturday, then,’ Maisie said cheerfully, waving them goodbye. ‘Crikey, it’s cold out here, sweethearts. Heck of a frost,
isn’t it? Looks like we might be getting a white Christmas. Mind how you go now. Nighty-night.’

‘Don’t you dare laugh,’ Frankie hissed, her breath spiralling into the freezing night air, as they hurried towards the car.
‘At least wait until she’s closed the door.’

‘I’m not laughing.’ Dexter pressed the key fob’s zapper, and the car made a reassuring clicking noise. ‘I think we both need
certifying. And I can feel a migraine coming on. All those colours! All those sparkly things! How can anyone live comfortably
in all that glitter?’

‘I thought it was really lovely.’ Frankie snuggled pleasurably into the car’s soft leather seat. ‘And not at all over the
top. Blimey, if, you think that’s bad, you should see my bedroom.’

‘Well, thanks for the invite, Miss Meredith.’ Dexter grinned as he pulled the car away from Maisie’s flat. ‘I was beginning
to think you’d never ask.’

Cherish stood at the bus stop and shivered inside her fawn raincoat. Even with the nice thick sheepskin lining buttoned in,
the north-easterly wind whistled from Siberia, across Kingston Dapple’s marketplace, and straight through to her woolly vest.

‘Oooh, hurry up bus,’ Cherish muttered, blowing on her beige mittens. ‘I want to get home and make a nice cup of tea.’

It was Wednesday afternoon. The end of Cherish’s third day working at Francesca’s Fabulous Frocks. And she could honestly
say she’d never been happier. Well, not since those early days at Miriam’s Modes, anyway.

It really was a lovely little shop, and she’d had so much fun working with Frankie – who wasn’t at all like she thought she’d
be – and serving the customers with their chosen dresses. And this afternoon, she and Frankie had taken it in turns to go
upstairs to the stockroom and start sifting through all the dresses that had been donated to the shop but not yet dry-cleaned
and put out on the rails. Cherish had absolutely loved it. All those beautiful designs in all those gorgeous vintage fabrics.
Frocks
made when dressmakers were worthy of the name and crafted one-offs rather than the current conveyor belt churning out of masses
of cheap replicas.

And it hadn’t mattered at all that she hadn’t been able to suggest any colour advice to the customers. In fact, Cherish thought
now, stamping her fur-lined ankle bootees, she may well give up the colour-palette advisory service altogether. Hopefully,
Frankie might even increase her hours in the shop, then there simply wouldn’t be any time for sidelines, would there?

How lovely it would be, to be too busy
working
to take on anything else?

Cherish shivered again. She hoped the bus wouldn’t be too crowded. She disliked having to stand all the way to Hazy Hassocks.
And no one these days gave up their seat for a lady, did they? Cherish sighed. It was a whole new world with a whole new set
of values and, despite what Biddy said, they’d have to move with it or get left far behind. She smiled to herself. She, Cherish,
was becoming a New Woman.

Across the square, the Christmas lights all swayed and danced in the gale, and the marketplace’s Christmas tree was nodding
so violently it looked as though the angel on the top, made by Kingston Dapple’s Mixed Infants, was in dire danger of tumbling
head first onto the cobbles.

The angel, Cherish thought, having peered up at it closely the previous day, actually looked a lot like Bruce Forsyth. She
wasn’t sure if this was intentional on the part of the Kingston Dapple Mixed Infants. But she’d smiled at it anyway. She’d
always liked Brucie.