Humorous tales of a piscatorial nature

It has been suggested that I provide an index to my novel-in-a-blog as navigating such a density of text can be rather troublesome. I hope this is of assistance. For the purposes of the blog it is broken down into episodes rather than in its original chapter form.

Tales from Hake on Spinach
I N D E X

Blog pages 1-10:
Welcome to Hake on Spinach
About the author
A mere formality
A darts match in a charming country pub
And now to Lamprey Manse
To lunch at the Mal de Mer
Something in the Bullrushes
More in the Bullrushes
Neville's working day

Blog pages 11-20:
The father of the twins
Preparations under way
Helena Ruby's secret
Denholm's dermatitis
Mrs Painswick's day
A momentary lapse of judgement?
Wheeling and dealing city style
A minor brush with the law
Refreshment after a taxing time
Domestic drudgery

Blog pages 21-30:
Isobel's laundry concerns
Another darts match
Helena Ruby's headache
Helena Ruby asks the question
Isobel's Bavarian evening commences
The party's getting exciting
Mayhem erupts all around
Ron's spectacular finale
Helena Ruby makes her move
Helena Ruby moves to the Bullrushes

Blog pages 31-40:
Nigel needs to take care
Boardroom misdemeanours
Will Nigel outwit the authorities?
Helena Ruby's new lodgings
Is unemployment looming?
Helena Ruby's unexpected day off
Helena Ruby has visitors
Sonia goes shopping and more besides
Sonia's day turns out better than expected
Nigel's fall from grace becomes public

Blog pages 41-50:
Helena's stay in hospital
Ron goes up to the big house
Helena Ruby's rehabilitation
The residents take positive action
The great Hake Hall invasion
Helena Ruby gets to know Roberta
The transformation continues
Jolyon has a plan
Denzil takes a stand
Good news for Francis, bad news for Nigel

Blog pages 51-60:
Neville Martin Painswick's leisure activities
Helena Ruby's new career
A premises with potential
Ron on the road to rehabilitation
Denzil and Francis move on
A long overdue reunion for Helena Ruby
Josephine is sort of reconciled with her father
Hake Hall goes on the market
A new home for Neville Martin, Donna and their impending little one
Penultimate section

Blog page 61:
Here endeth the first story

Picture if you will a grand old house dating back to Elizabeth I's time, occupied currently by Isobel and Nigel Lamington-Krill, the wealthy inhabitants of Hake Hall, where this saga begins. Now read on ...

Isobel gazed with some concern at her nails and felt it was time for a visit to her manicurist, Mandy. On her right hand the thumbnail was horribly split, her index fingernail was terribly truncated and the remainder of her nails were suffering from varying degrees of downright disrepair. The major damage came about as a result of an accident with the coffee grinder after one too many gin and tonics prior to the arrival of her cocktail party guests.

Rupert Urquart had consumed rather too much of Isobel’s special punch and it suddenly seemed very funny to him to attempt to insert the vol au vent into her cleavage. The manoeuvre was inexpertly executed and resulted in a messy and mildly embarrassing scene, although everybody laughed uproariously, and Nigel Lamington-Krill, her husband, having landed a blow squarely upon Rupert’s nose, thought no more of the incident. Upon recalling the scene, she remembered that all traces of blood would have to be removed too, or maybe it would be easier just to launder the garment herself and pass it to the local charity shop or give it to her housekeeper, Mrs Tremble, and be shot of the thing. After all, the fashion editor of Silk Scarf Trends and Country Interiors with Hounds had indicated in recent issues that short but unstructured was out and that the season’s colour scheme would be dominated by burnt umber and ultramarine, so maybe her unstructured cerise silk lace creation with exquisite detailing at the knees and shoulder straps could now be dispensed with, although the thought of Mrs Tremble’s ample frame in this diaphanous garment was mildly alarming. No, perhaps the local aggrieved country folks’ charity shop was the favoured recipient.

Whilst Isobel sat reflecting upon the week-end’s events at Hake Hall Mrs Tremble was labouring over a particularly stubborn stain on the cream shag pile carpet in the en suite bathroom to one of the guest rooms in the east wing. As she sprayed, sponged and rinsed the carpet, her eye alighted upon a used prophylactic blocking the shower drain and she cursed the outrageous behaviour of the week-end guests, and wondered whether she would have time to take her ailing Dachshund to the local veterinary practice before joining the Hake on Spinach Ladies’ Darts Team. This evening they would be taking on the formidable ladies from neighbouring Halibut under Endive and she needed to be on peak form. The match would be taking place at the Raddled Beanpole where, as fate would have it, Rupert Urquart’s cousin Jolyon, considered to be the black sheep of the family, would be drinking heavily that evening.

This is just the beginning. You still have to meet the residents of Lamprey Manse, the members of the Leek over Partridge hunt, ladies lunching at the Mal de Mer and many more characters who contribute to county life one way and another. Hope you'll come back and see how things are developing.

Before I continue with further words, I thought it only polite to introduce myself. My name is Faith Bretherick and I have decided to give up on trying to get anywhere with agents and publishers. I am confident that I am never going to get my humorous novel published (maybe as it's not that good, I am under no illusions); so rather than let my 68,000 words sit gathering dust, I thought I may as well stick them in a blog and see what the reaction is.

I hope it might raise the odd smile anyhow.
So now, on with the story....

“I’ll be off now then, Mrs L-K. I think I’ve got the stain out of the carpet in the east wing en-suite but I’ll check on it tomorrow when I change the floral display.” Mrs Tremble had an unexpected gift in floral artistry and had in fact been approached by the local Women’s Group in order to promulgate her skills, but she declined being a very reserved character, and because she had had a falling out with the Treasurer over a very personal matter some years before.

“Thank you Mrs Tremble. I may be at Follicles having a manicure and exfoliation and possibly a Japanese seaweed massage tomorrow, but Cook will be here early to make a start on preparations for my Bavarian evening. Perhaps you two could have a chat and get things under way.” Mrs Tremble’s heart sank. She could already picture frankfurters jammed amusingly into the chandeliers and the beer stains on that hideous Chinese silk rug in the large drawing room. Still, she had no time to linger as she very much wanted to get Denholm (her Dachshund) to the vet before his skin condition deteriorated any further.

Hake Hall was an imposing pile, parts of which dated back to Elizabethan times. Its elegant frontage was largely symmetrical with broad stone steps sweeping up to the great glazed oak doors in the centre. The high stone mullioned windows were partly obscured by a vast and ancient wisteria which was now almost part of the building. Various later red brick additions were for the most part hidden from initial view and in all, the building conveyed an impression of effortless grace and tranquility.

The large gravelled arc at the end of the drive to the front was neatly edged with thick, square-cut hornbeam hedging, with acres of undulating lawns on either side. An ancient yew tree stood imposingly in the distance, as did several other magnificent specimens, giving a marvellous sense of balance to the view. Topiary bushes followed the line of the drive but with their increasingly vague definition did give the impression of being over-ambitious. Ron Tremble, whose responsibility such matters were, was not renowned for his horticultural artistry and could only really relate to clean, straight lines and right-angles. He was not deft with shears.

To the left of Hake Hall a high, wide stone arch within the remains of an old, weathered garden wall masked the entrance to the garage block which retained many features dating back to its original use as the coach–house. The clock in the bell-tower remained remarkably accurate; the rather too ebullient chimes had been disabled some years previously.

Helena Ruby Tremble glanced absent-mindedly up at the clock before setting off at a brisk pace down the length of the drive to reach the Lodge, which was available to her and her husband in their roles as housekeeper and groundsman. It took about five minutes to walk the distance and even in her haste, Helena Ruby noticed that the simple iron fencing which ran down either side of the drive was in considerable need of repair and repainting, and imagined the almighty complaining from Ron which this observation would elicit.

Before I continue, and in the unlikely event that some unprincipled rotter should wish to plagiarise my work, I confirm the following.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Now with that out of the way, on with the story, where Helena Ruby Tremble gets home.

She went in through the back door of the Lodge, which was built in the gothic Victorian style, compact but with pleasing proportions and particularly elegant arched windows, an inevitable source of complaint when painting was required.
“You’ll have to get your own meal this evening, Ron, I’m playing with the darts team and won’t be back ‘til late and I’ve got to get Denholm to the vet’s before I go.” Ron Tremble sat smoking, disgruntled in his worn armchair watching horseracing on the television.
“Don’t know why you bother with that mangey mut.”
“Because, you oaf,” she thought to herself “he’s better company than you are. If I took you to the vet I’d ask him to put you down and do us all a favour.” Cheerfully however she said, “There’s ham and cheese in the ‘fridge, fresh bread, some nice salad but I’ve not washed it yet - that should do you.”
“Well don’t come in at all hours and wake me up and is there any cake left?”
“If I had the opportunity,” thought Helena Ruby Tremble, “I’d never come home again you curmudgeonly old basket.” Instead she said brightly, “Yes it’s in the round tin on the top shelf .”

Helena Ruby ran upstairs to the bedroom, quickly changed into her darts team shirt and a pair of black trousers, went to the bathroom, brushed her hair and splashed her face with water then returned downstairs to collect the dog and depart.
“Wish me and the ladies luck!” she called out.
“Yeah.”
Denholm was duly scooped up from his rather flaky blanket and Mrs Tremble effected a speedy exit.

Three years previously she had absent-mindedly entered a competition sponsored by Golden Good Morning Weight Conscious Crunchy Breakfast Bites and to her astonishment, won a high performance hatchback which she enjoyed driving tremendously. The driving lessons necessitated by this stroke of luck had been a little problematic and practice outings with Ron had been downright disagreeable. However, happily all that was now past and Helena Ruby at least had the freedom afforded by her own means of transport.

Upon arrival at the veterinary practice, Denholm became decidedly anxious. His small canine brain was probably registering his last visit when he was bitten by a hamster beside whose cage he sat too close, and the ignominy of the treatment which followed. His anxiety triggered a bout of terrible itching and he started to dislodge flakes of skin and hair when scratching vigorously with his rear leg. Mrs Tremble realised she should have sat him on his blanket as the plum and midnight blue upholstery in her car received a liberal sprinkling of detritus. “Oh don’t do that Denholm, come on, let’s go and see the nice man who can make you better.”

Once inside the surgery Mrs Tremble sat with Denholm on her lap waiting to be seen. This made Denholm feel more confident than being at floor level (even though as a result her trousers received a light dusting) and in due course the weeping owner of a condemned pet came out and Denholm was next. Mrs Tremble fleetingly wondered what became of corpses generated thus, then having walked into the consulting room, placed the now trembling Dachshund on the examination table. His complaint was diagnosed as some kind of nervous dermatitis and he was duly prescribed soothing unguents, and Mrs Tremble was advised to return with the patient if his condition showed no sign of improvement. There wasn’t time to return him home before setting out for the darts match, so she just resigned herself to the fact that she would have to give her upholstery a very thorough vacuuming tomorrow and set a course for Halibut under Endive.

The road to the village was pleasant and tree-lined and Helena Ruby’s spirits lifted as she looked forward to her evening ahead and as the mellowing sunlight flickered through the leafy branches. She drew up in the car park of the Raddled Beanpole and decided it would probably be best if Denholm remained within the safety of the car, being diminutive as he was, and she promised to check on him regularly and bring him some water. She deduced from the vehicles already present that most of her team had arrived. The long-standing captain of the Hake on Spinach team, Pam Krenelli, whose husband died under suspect circumstances when on a business trip in Italy, had purchased a state of the art people mover with some of the life insurance. It proved very useful for the Hake on Spinach Ladies’ Darts Team when she was not transporting her five children, the youngest of which was born some time after Mr Krenelli’s demise. This had caused many raised eyebrows at the time. Pam, being wise, had said nothing and in due course the rumours had subsided.

Helena Ruby supposed that most of the opposition would arrive on foot, it being their home ground.
“Be a good boy, Denholm, and I’ll bring you out some water - and try not to scratch too much. See you in a little while...” Helena Ruby planted a kiss on his upturned head then shut the door, locked the car and looked forward to the evening ahead.

As Helena Ruby walked under the honeysuckle-laden arch at the door and as Denholm gazed disconsolately after her, his attention was distracted by the sound of hoofs scuffing and then he became positively alarmed as the terrible realisation descended that the car was surrounded by hounds eager to kill something. Not only did he start scratching furiously, but could not help himself doing what most animals in fear of their lives do. Suffice to say that the upholstery would require more than vacuuming now.

- and never forget, dogs die in hot cars -

I'm sure you are anxious to know how Helena Ruby and her team fare, and what befalls the hapless dog, so on with the story where we find ourselves in the Raddled Beanpole ....

The affable but anxious landlord, Corby, had suggested that the Leek over Partridge Hunt having exercised their hounds, and quite unable to prevent their accidental savaging of some unfortunate wildlife in their path, could not really be accommodated for post mortem drinks due to the darts match taking place that evening and because Jolyon Urquart was providing corporate entertainment for his city friends within the delightful surroundings of the sixteenth century coaching inn. However Roger Whittingly-Beargarden, who took it upon himself to be master of ceremonies on this occasion, browbeat Corby into providing at least one snifter for his fellow huntsmen before moving on to the Goat and Crowbar. It was agreed that the biddable Gloria would serve drinks from a tray to the Leek over Partridge contingent in the car park in an attempt to maintain a modicum of order. Sherry, beer and wine was duly provided, but this could not satisfy the more strident members who demanded whisky - and what sort of a hostelry did this fellow think he was running anyway?

The hapless Denholm was by this time a quivering, scratching bundle of abject misery and the paintwork of Helena Ruby’s car was rapidly losing its lustre as the hounds reared up and pressed their noses against the windows to eye up their potential prey.

Within the sixteenth century walls of the Raddled Beanpole bonhomie flowed freely and although Mrs Tremble had every intention of taking water out for Denholm, she was currently engrossed in a lively discussion with Martha Crenshaw of the opposing darts team about third world debt and the ethics of airfreighting exotic fruit and vegetables to supermarkets. It was announced that the match would commence in five minutes if the ladies would be good enough to rally themselves. This served as a timely reminder to Helena Ruby that she should check on Denholm and take him some water.

The scene which greeted her upon emerging from under the honeysuckle laden arch with a bowl of water caused her to drop it in sheer disbelief. Not normally given to public displays of disapproval, Mrs Tremble was consumed with rage at the sight of her car being subjected to a form of canine vandalism and she could only guess at the distress being caused to Denholm. She inhaled deeply and quivering with fury yelled with all the force she could muster - “Get your bloody dogs off my car NOW.”

Roger Whittingly-Beargarden sauntered over on his mount and said from his vantage point, “Good gracious, is that your car? I’ll see if we can’t get the hounds away.” He half turned in the saddle and called - “I say, Purvis call them off would you.” He turned back to Mrs Tremble saying, “A trip to the carwash will soon put things right,” then returned to join his colleagues, leaving Mrs Tremble scarlet and speechless with rage and impotence. She did not trust herself to speak and rushed to the car that she might comfort Denholm. The smell with which she was greeted confirmed her worst suspicions, but she did not hesitate in scooping up her pet and transporting him swiftly to the relative safety of the Raddled Beanpole. The Hake on Spinach Ladies’ Darts Team were most supportive of their distressed colleague and insisted Corby supply a large vodka and lime to help calm her. The captain assured her that she could have a lift back to the lodge at Hake Hall in her spacious vehicle, and she was sure that they could find something for Denholm upon which to lie.

Murderous anger rendered Helena Ruby’s aim straight and sure and her team emerged victorious. Denholm, feeling far more relaxed now, snoozed on a broad windowsill in remnants of late evening sunlight while the victors imbibed amicably with the cheerfully vanquished. The consensus of opinion amongst the ladies was that if only the idiot menfolk could conduct themselves with equal magnanimity, there would be an awful lot less unpleasantness in the world.

This convivial crowd gradually percolated into the part of the bar occupied by Jolyon Urquart and colleagues who were by this time all in particularly mellow spirits and more than happy to engage in social intercourse with the ladies. Such diverse subjects as field drainage, haute couture, veterinary practise, coiffure, inner city decay, financial markets, the European market, publishing, fast food, plumbing, horticulture, satellite television, wine tasting and carpets arose during the evening, all very good-humoured. As the protagonists began to feel they knew each other better, it seemed quite natural that Damien Fitzherbert should have his arm around the waist of Mary Petherbridge and that Jolyon should have his arm around Helena Ruby’s shoulders. Indeed, even ‘though Pam was limited to drinking pineapple juice and sparkling mineral water, she found herself sitting very amiably on the knee of Charles Enderby, who ventured to place his hand on her knee: he was not rejected.

Last orders were called and Jolyon, by now full of affection for his fellow humans, instructed Corby to pour drinks for everyone in the Raddled Beanpole, and he should have one himself, together with the delightful Gloria. Jolyon would pay. The exercise was duly achieved, and Gloria, having served the drinks, was invited to join the assembled bon viveurs while a rather disgruntled Corby commenced clearing operations.

As the Hake on Spinach Ladies’ Darts Team was rallied for the homeward journey, Jolyon leant into Helena Ruby’s neck and said thickly in her ear, “I really think we should get together again soon, my dear - I think we could have a lot of fun.”
Helena Ruby had difficulty believing what she was hearing - she flushed and said hoarsely, “But - I - it’s - well, there’s my husband ......” (although if questioned closely she would be at a loss to explain quite what relevance Ron had to her life these days).
Jolyon slipped his card into Helena Ruby’s moistening palm and said, “Ring me if you get the chance - I mean it.”

The rest of Helena Ruby Tremble’s evening took on a dream-like quality, and it was only Pam’s diligence which ensured Denholm’s inclusion in the homeward journey, suitably installed on an old towel, although he was not particularly keen about staying put on it - there were too many interesting new smells to explore. Thus for a majority of the journey he was anchored firmly by the collar (perhaps a little too enthusiastically) by Mary, much to his chagrin.

As Denholm and his owner alighted from Pam’s people-mover, there were muted but cheery goodbyes, and Mary took the opportunity to shake the towel out of the open door before Helena Ruby closed it firmly behind her. Pam offered to take Helena Ruby back to the Raddled Beanpole to collect her car at lunch-time tomorrow as she had to drive to Mackerel for a dental appointment, and the offer was gratefully accepted. Even the thought of what awaited her in the car could not dampen Mrs Tremble’s spirits as she attempted to gain ingress to the Lodge as quietly as possible, although she did inadvertently step on Denholm’s front paw which caused him to yelp.

Helena Ruby sat at the kitchen table cradling a cup of tea whilst Denholm settled himself in his basket. She was blissfully indifferent to the fish and chip wrappings screwed up on the draining board and the squeezed tea bags sitting in a dark circle on the work-surface which was sprinkled liberally with salt and vinegar. She breathed into the steam rising from the mug and kept running over the evening’s events in her mind, and could not help but smile. She was still smiling as she trod carefully up the stairs, even though she was faced with the prospect of laying beside the man she must call her husband.

Sweet dreams Helena Ruby

Hake on Spinach and environs had several rather grand properties within its confines, not least of which was Lamprey Manse. Of a slightly later vintage than Hake Hall it nevertheless exuded a certain grandeur but of a slightly more compact, red brick variety.

In the dining room of Lamprey Manse Sonia Baddesley-Fanshawe consumed her third cup of coffee at the dining table which was strewn with delicately fragranced petals from her rather over-ambitious floral centre. Now certain that her husband Trevor was safely off the premises to work, as through the French windows she watched his green Aston Martin round the curve of the drive, she arose lazily and strolled, mule heels clicking across the Flemish-style black and white floor tiles in the hall, into the kitchen.

The kitchen was fitted out with hand-crafted cabinetry imported exclusively from Mexico by a city business contact (Trevor’s choice, Sonia preferred clinical white) but it did offer, she conceded, useful storage space and gave a sort of non-functional warmth to the room. She took out of one of the custom-built spice drawers a wallet of special ‘tobacco’ and papers and proceeded to prepare her first and eagerly anticipated cigarette of the day. She jumped nervously at the noise of the mail dropping to the mat in the hall then cursed as she gathered up her spilt ‘tobacco’ from the floor. Jupiter, their labrador, made an energetic entrance through the open kitchen door having bidden his master farewell and plunged his muzzle into the exciting-smelling stuff.

“Oh get out of it, leave it, you tiresome beast,” she said feebly. Sonia knew she had no control over the wilful black hound and now he had dribbled in her tobacco, she was forced to throw what he had not eaten into the bin, secreting it within a discarded cereal box. Having finally constructed a cigarette, her next problem was ignition of same. She frantically searched kitchen drawers for matches, with Jupiter skilfully contriving to stand in her way at every turn. In sheer exasperation she landed a light kick to his rump with her muled foot but in the process parted company with the slipper which described a graceful arc and came to rest beside the range cooker right in the coal scuttle (a mere antique prop which nevertheless proved rather useful as a repository for rubbish). Sonia limped to the hob with a newspaper spill which she had torn furiously from the discarded Times left on the side by the door and lit her mis-shapen cigarette very inexpertly from the flaming paper. The conflagration was such that she was obliged to drop the spill into the coal scuttle and before she realised what she had done, her nostrils were greeted with an acrid burning smell as the fur on her mule began to singe. Sonia’s need for the cigarette was greater than her desire to save her mule and she stood in the open kitchen doorway in her silk dressing gown, leaning against the frame and gazing across the sunny lawns to the twinkling water in the swimming pool beyond, as she lazily dragged on her cigarette and contentment percolated through her veins.

Her reverie was sharply interrupted by the shrill noise of the smoke detector activating in the hall.
“Oh for Chris’sake,” she muttered venomously as she kicked off her remaining mule and padded furiously into the hall with the newspaper to dispel the fumes. Having silenced the dreadful thing, she turned and was greeted with the unexpected sight of Jupiter wandering unsteadily towards her.
“What on earth......,” she began but then the awful realization seized her. The dog had eaten her special tobacco and was clearly now feeling the effects. “You dopey dog,” she said before being seized with paroxysms of hilarity. She sat on the floor with him with her arms round his neck as he made feeble attempts to lick her affectionately.

Sonia left Jupiter dozing while she had a shower and dressed for the day. She had been invited to join a ladies’ lunch at the Mal de Mer, a happening new restaurant which had recently opened in Mackerel, so it had to be something chic. She finally decided upon a fitted cream linen dress with a cropped burnt orange jacket. Sonia’s self image rendered her blissfully unaware of the unsuitable length of her garments, even with the evidence plainly displayed in the full length mirror before her. She would wear gold strappy sandals, thus painted her toenails orange to match the jacket, then decided she should paint her fingernails too. By the time all this had been achieved and she had her hair just right and her make up applied (perhaps a little too much mascara, but she was not blessed with long eyelashes), and she had whitened her teeth, she just had time for a pre-prandial gin and tonic whilst waiting for her taxi to arrive. Jupiter was still sleeping but she supposed he would be alright when he awoke.

Sonia sipped her gin and tonic with the ice cubes tinkling delightfully in the glass as she sat by the dining table waiting to catch sight of the taxi. It was clearly going to be a very warm day and she began to wonder whether her outfit was entirely appropriate, and linen did crease so easily. Would she have time to change? She ran upstairs, threw the jacket on the bed, wriggled out of her dress which landed, and stayed, on the floor and sorted frantically through her wardrobe. A very revealing tight white tee-shirt and violet silk culottes seemed a winning combination, but it was a pity that she had no time to repolish her nails. Sonia scooped up her bag and door keys as the taxi arrived and walked jauntily out of the stained-glass front door. Jupiter was still asleep, but she called to him anyway, “‘Bye old thing, I’ll see you later.”

Next we'll be visiting the Mal de Mer with Sonia

You have to imagine a delightful warm sunny day, then we can get on with lunch....

The trip to Mackerel took about twenty minutes and by the time the taxi arrived outside Mal de Mer, the driver was hugely relieved to deposit his rather overly-fragrant fare. Manicured bay trees in pots delineated the alfresco eating area where some of the lunch party had already gathered. Diamonds and topaz glittered on fingers, chilled white wine shimmered in elegant glasses, fingernails and freshly coiffed hair gleamed, and genteel laughter mingled with a cacophony of scent in the warm, still air which fairly crackled with sideways glances from behind expensive sunglasses as outfits and accessories were silently appraised. Just as Sonia was oblivious to her sturdy legs and generous hips, so was she oblivious to the reaction of some of the assembled ladies upon her arrival. She pushed her Trent Cabernet demi-shade sunglasses carefully onto her head.
“Lucinda, Verity - how lovely to see you, how are you, darlings,” she gushed. “Oh and Petronella, Melanie - I love your handbag. Is it Agar? I keep meaning to replace mine. Perhaps I’ll go up to town later this week - I’ve seen a Tabitha Weinstock suit to die for, I think it was in Silk Scarf Trends, or was it Fashion Chic? Anyhow, I thought I’d pay her a visit.”
“Sonia, good to see you. Tell me, what is your scent - it’s so - aromatic,” breathed Simone Dawlish, as they air-kissed.
“A Day in the Life, you know, SKB’s latest fragrance. Trevor bought it for me at the airport when he came back from Singapore - we may be doing a six month stint out there while he establishes a marketing presence for the company. Only trouble is, it will be so hot, but we would of course be fully air conditioned and I believe it’s a very civilized life. Do excuse me while I get a drink....” Looks were exchanged as Sonia went inside.
“That must be six months’ worth she’s wearing today!” said Melanie unkindly.
“Large gin and tonic please,” Sonia requested of the barman.
“Ice and a slice?”
“Oh yes please. In fact, make it a very large gin would you?” Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the cool, dim interior where ceiling fans rythmically stirred the air, Sonia began to appreciate what a very fine visage the barman had, with unusual grey eyes and even, white teeth which he displayed to devastating effect when he smiled. She appreciated also his well muscled forearms revealed by his rolled up shirt -sleeves.
“You must be very busy - this place is so popular, Steven,” (she read the name badge pinned to the lapel of his exotic-looking waistcoat) “- and I believe you had a very good write up from Ezekiel Trout in last week’s supplement.” Sonia leant onto the bar in order to emphasise her cleavage, amongst which was suspended a diamond pendant on a fine gold chain.
“Indeed we did - and the quality of our cellar was highlighted in the article. Ah, and here’s the author of our success - Charles....” As he sauntered from the doorway behind the bar, unseen by Sonia, Charles affectionately ran his hand across Steven’s tightly-clad buttocks.
“Hi, Charles - Sonia, Sonia Fanshawe.” She extended her manicured hand, her wrist encircled by a heavy gold bangle, another gift from Trevor following a visit to Dubai earlier in the year.
“Delighted, is Steven attending to you?”
“He certainly is - would you care to join me?”
“That’s good of you, but I’m off to visit one of my specialist suppliers now. Can I leave it all to you, Steven?” (The specialist supplier to which Charles referred was in fact not entirely relevant to his catering operation, but this was something of which Sonia really didn’t need to be aware.)
“Sure can, boss.”

Sonia reluctantly left the bar and returned outside to join her fellow luncheon guests and Steven observed her exit with a wry smile. She had to replace her sunglasses as she emerged into the sunlight and was unable to execute the manoeuvre quite as smoothly as she would have liked - her hair had caught in one of the ornate hinges, and whilst concentrating on trying to release it before being observed, she tripped on the threshold, spilling some of her drink as she did so. A dark stain appeared on the violet silk, but she took comfort in the fact that it would soon dry in the warm air and tried very hard to compose herself, dabbing the damp patch with a tissue, before joining the twittering throng, hoping that nobody had been watching her.
“It was simply awful, I mean just how can you get chewing gum out of mink?” whined Penelope D’Arville. “Oh hello Sonia, how lovely to see you. You’re looking well - I love your bangle.”
“Penny - how nice to see you. You must give me the name of your colourist - your hair looks stunning and makes you look so much younger!”
“Why thank you, how kind. I decided to give Anthony Furnival-Pirouette a try. There was a feature on him in a recent Sunday supplement and I thought ‘Why not!’ - time to make a radical change to my wardrobe and my hair! I called in to the Hermione Shrubfest studio while I was in town and her collection really is most inventive. Picked up a couple of lovely tops, but had to buy some slacks as they’re not really the sort of thing you could wear with a skirt. Trouble is, when you start along those lines, you end up buying far more than you meant. My titanium card took a severe thrashing and when I got home Henry was a bit miffed and did suggest I might thin out my wardrobe, and he didn’t even notice my hair. Men - they simply have no idea!” There was a general murmur of agreement.

All members of the lunch party were now assembled (with the exception of Jocasta Bentwood who was indisposed after a bibulous evening in the library at the Old Rectory with Lord Pith-Witherstock and his housekeeper) and took their seats at the tables which were laid out with crisp white table cloths, beautifully folded napkins, elegant glasses, designer cutlery and a single white rose in a glass tube at the centre of each table. Brenda and Michelle were their waitresses; Brenda glowered and Michelle simpered. Steven attended to the drinks orders and manoeuvred deftly between the lunching ladies, receiving many admiring glances as he did so; Steven smiled a lot.

Sonia’s taxi arrived to collect her at four o’clock and she was not looking quite as fresh as she had earlier. There was a suggestion of dark rings below her eyes where her mascara had migrated a little in the heat and her lips were looking unfashionably pallid where her lipstick had not recently been replenished. What a blessing that she had used Tivoli’s Total Supra-Guard Extra Protection Anti-Perspirant with extracts of sphagnum moss and elder berries.

So now you've met the ladies who lunch. Back to matters in Hake on Spinach tomorrow.

Back at Lamprey Manse -

When Sonia opened the front door and walked slightly unsteadily into the hall, she dropped her bag and keys on the central circular table and was aware of a singular lack of greeting from Jupiter. This was because he was still asleep. She bent down and looked closely to ensure that he was still breathing, having to prop herself against the wall, then meandered upstairs to refresh herself and change into a rather more casual outfit before commencing upon preparations for the evening meal. Trevor normally arrived home at about 7.30 p.m. and as Sonia never really had become sufficiently acquainted with the vagaries of her state of the art range cooker, she always had to give herself plenty of culinary latitude (accompanied by several generous glasses of wine, naturally - it was the only way to cook and lent a certain panache to her otherwise unadventurous cuisine).

Unable to think up a convincing explanation for her fire damaged footwear, Sonia deposited the mule in the bin beneath several layers of household waste then went again to the spice drawer in order to roll herself a soothing cigarette, which she was able to light easily this time with matches retrieved from the bar at Mal de Mer. She opened the kitchen door, strolled across the terrace and sat half way down the steps, leaning her elbows on her knees and soaking up the tranquility as she gazed across the sunlit garden, blowing curls of smoke into the still air. Jupiter appeared sleepily at the top and lay down, apparently not sure-footed enough to tackle the steps.

Sonia took a last drag on her cigarette, ground it out beneath her sandalled foot then buried the remains in the loose earth beside her. She returned serenely to the kitchen, followed by Jupiter who now had the energy to wag his tail, uncorked a bottle of white wine which had been chilling in the ‘fridge, filled herself a large glass and assembled some vegetables in preparation for the evening meal.

Trevor arrived at about 8.00 p.m. and received a slightly less than usually enthusiastic welcome from Jupiter, however he was sufficiently preoccupied not to give it much thought. He dropped his keys on the kitchen surface, kissed Sonia on the cheek as she was trying to crush the lumps out of the sauce with a fork and said, “I say darling, heard from Dick Neville-Lazenby today, you know, well-connected merchant banker, had Christmas drinks with him on his boat, and he said, strictly hush-hush, heard it from a minister, that old Lamington-Krill and his set-up might be heading for a bit of an investigation. Tried to head it off apparently, him donating so much to the party and all that, but now the Germans have got involved, it’s going to be difficult. Looks like he’s taken the piss once too often. Can’t say anything, obviously, but a bit close to home isn’t it?”
“You’re in the clear aren’t you?”
“Oh yes, not actually done any deals with him since helping finance that estate of his, you know, Buttercups, Bodewells, ah, Bullrushes, that’s it. Never touched anything foreign, in fact haven’t been in touch for some time. Best left that way for now if poss m’dear, under the circumstances.”
Sonia, exasperated with her efforts, tipped the contents of the pan down the sink, rinsed it, then tipped in a jar of ready-prepared sauce from the cupboard and stirred it absent-mindedly.

“Mmm, come to think of it, Isobel wasn’t at the lunch today, but she never knows what he’s up to anyway. Gin and tonic darling?”
“Excellent. Large one please. Oh, and do remind me that I need to get the Aston serviced in the next week or so, old girl not running quite as smoothly as she should.”
“Do you want me to arrange it?”
“That would be marvellous darling, thank you.”

Trevor has made reference to the Bullrushes development, so now meet an inhabitant .....

As Hake on Spinach was home to several very grand properties, so indeed it had also recently acquired a development of what were described in the sales literature as superbly appointed but modest executive-style homes. There were however as far as it is possible to judge these things, no modest executives living therein.

In the master bedroom of Number 5, The Bullrushes, Neville Martin Painswick rolled over to silence the irrepressible alarm clock beside him and was positively dazzled by the shafts of brilliant early morning sunshine which pierced the carelessly closed flimsy floral curtains. His wife, Donna, had insisted on fully co-ordinated furnishings and the resultant effect made Neville feel as if he slept in a frilled, floral display case with authentically leaded bow window. It was difficult to tell where the soft furnishings ended and the wallpaper began, but he did notice as he lay there that the contrasting border running around the top of the wall was slightly torn and that he would have to attend to that and the small crack in the ceiling before it was seized upon by his wife – after all, it had only been decorated two months ago. He sighed heavily and wondered how he had been persuaded to move to the thoughtfully designed yet affordable luxury of The Bullrushes which sympathetically reflected the idyllic surrounding countryside. He had been perfectly happy in their terraced house in the centre of Great Roach – within walking distance of several good local hostelries, two curry houses, a chip shop and every amenity he ever really needed.
He realised they would need more room with their first baby expected in six month’s time, and supposed that he gave in far too easily because Donna was pregnant and he didn’t like to argue with her. She was at this moment retching in the en suite bathroom and he did experience pangs of sympathy for her.

She came back to bed looking very pale in her oyster silk nightdress and Neville stroked her head.
“Never mind, love. It won’t last for much longer. Can I get you anything?”
“No thanks – I’ll just stay in bed ‘til I feel less queasy. It’s my day off. Will you be home for lunch?
“I’ll take sandwiches today as I’ve got Mr Lamington-Krill’s Jensen in for a major service and I think Colonel Whipstock is bringing in his Bristol for me to look at – had a bit of a prang in the car park of the Startled Partridge. Don’t worry, I’ll make them before I go.” With this, Neville Martin Painswick got out of bed, gently pulled the valanced duvet up to cover his wife and padded into the en suite bathroom in his boxer shorts to make preparations for his day.

Having made himself beef paste and tomato sandwiches, Neville located his newly -laundered overalls in the airing cupboard on the landing, looked in on Donna (now sleeping), then went noiselessly downstairs so as not to disturb her. He cringed as one of the treads creaked loudly and thought to himself that for a new house, this one was not very well finished and that no-one seemed to take a pride in their work any more. He took enormous pride in his work, which was why he had such a surprisingly prestigious clientele and never any shortage of work.

As if to compound these irritations, he had to pull the neo-Georgian front door to quite sharply as it had never been a perfect fit from the day they moved in. The hanging baskets either side of the porch swayed gently as he made his exit and got into his car parked on the paved drive. His workshop was about 10 miles away in a fairly dilapidated light industrial unit in a farmyard and Donna had often urged him to consider moving premises to somewhere ‘more fitting’ – meaning light, bright, modern and expensive – but Neville was content in his rural surroundings and had no intention of moving.

Tomorrow we'll go to work with Neville Martin. More fun than lunch? We'll see.

So let us join Neville Martin Painswick as he arrives at work....

He pulled up outside his unit and smiled as he saw Nigel Lamington-Krill’s Jensen parked in the yard beside the Volvo and the Shogun also booked in for today. His young assistant Melvin would be in later when his father dropped him off on his way to the hospital in Mackerel to visit his mother and her new twins which were a source of some bewilderment to the Tredwell family. Neville was a kind-hearted employer and was prepared to accommodate Melvin’s slightly irregular hours as he was showing great promise and was a very willing worker.

Neville unlocked the door to his workshop and stepped over three sets of keys which had been posted through the letterbox the evening before. He opened up the rolling shutters at the front of the unit and as the morning sunshine streamed in, he flicked on the switch to the radio and the sound of Mozart filled the air. He pulled on his boiler suit, breathed in deeply then walked over to pick up the keys.

“Right, Volvo first,” he said to himself as he walked to the kettle and switched it on. He got no further with making tea as he realised that the milk in the bottle he picked up had gone solid, and would have to wait until Melvin arrived with fresh supplies. He shrugged and walked out to Vanessa Sellerby-Corbett’s car, unlocked it and drove it on to the ramps in the workshop. He was standing beside the hydraulic controls when the telephone rang, so Neville walked across the workshop, turned down the radio then picked up the handset. It was Mrs Baddesley-Fanshawe wishing to book in her husband’s Aston Martin for a service. The day was duly agreed and Neville entered the details in the large, oily finger-printed diary accordingly.

Neville was engrossed beneath the back axle when Colonel Whipstock arrived with his slightly dented Bristol. The Colonel never had displayed much inclination to employ any social graces and sounded the horn vigorously in order to gain Neville’s attention. Neville climbed out from under the Volvo, wiped his hands on a rag, and knowing the Colonel to be fairly deaf, said quietly, “That’s alright you old bugger, I’ll come to you, you just sit there……..” – then as he approached the Bristol and its occupant, called out, “Good morning, shall we have a look at the damage?” as the Colonel wound down his window.
“Bloody shame that idiot landlord decided to put bloody tubs of flowers in the car park – looks bloody ridiculous, I mean it’s a car park for god’s sake, not a bloody garden…” Colonel Whipstock flung open the car door and levered himself out of the leather upholstery. Neville thought it best not to proffer assistance as he observed the overweight, gnarled, wheezing and bewhiskered old goat.
“I think this can be beaten out without too much trouble, but I think we’ll have to replace the ….” Neville Martin Painswick did not get to complete his sentence as Melvin’s father drove round the end of the building rather too fast and failed to take the necessary avoiding action before ploughing into the back of the Bristol and shunting it forward a few feet, which caught the Colonel’s knee and felled him like an oak. He lay in the oily dirt spluttering and wheezing, arms flailing and Neville looked on completely aghast, almost unable to comprehend the scene before him.
“What the….” he began as Melvin’s father got out of his Astra.
William Tredwell was not normally a man given to outward displays of emotion but, trembling, he shouted hoarsely at Neville as he walked towards him, “What a bloody stupid place to leave a car …” and then, in less abrasive tone and pointing at the Colonel, “Is he alright?” Rather nonplussed, Neville responded “I don’t know. Bloody well help me with him. You were driving like a moron anyhow.”

The two men reached Colonel Whipstock who had managed to manoeuvre himself onto his side, clutching his knee and groaning, and they heaved him upright taking one armpit each and sat him on an overturned oil drum. William Tredwell shouted to Melvin, who had been trying ineffectually to mop up the milk which had been jettisoned into the footwell by the abrupt conclusion to their journey, to ring for an ambulance, but this order was promptly countermanded by Neville who said he could drive the Colonel to the casualty department. The Colonel barked that he didn’t need any bloody ambulances, hospitals, what a lot of fuss, but was overcome by the pain of his injury and slipped, ashen, gasping and barely conscious back into the dirt before Neville and William had the chance to prevent his collapse.

“Christ, is he having a heart attack?”
“Melvin, ring an ambulance NOW” yelled Neville Martin Painswick. A tense twenty minutes ensued during which time Colonel Whipstock was not particularly lucid but he was made as comfortable as practicable under the circumstances. William and Neville decided he was safer on the floor, besides which, he was a not inconsiderable weight to attempt to raise.

The ambulance crew diagnosed shock and a broken leg and were to be congratulated upon the deftness with which they managed to lift the Colonel into the back of the ambulance, and not least, the diplomatic way in which they handled their irascible patient who was heard insisting forcefully as they fastened the doors that he have a private bed.

“I suppose you’ll have to pass your insurance details to the old boy when he’s up to it – I can’t carry out these major bloody repairs without the insurance company’s say-so. My day’s really buggered now.”
“Ah, yes,” faltered William Tredwell. “I’m, um, sort of between insurances at the moment, what with the twins and everything……”
“Jesus Christ, I don’t believe it!” exploded Neville Martin Painswick, then, flatly, added “Oh too bad, it’s not my problem, I’ll just have to find out from the Colonel where he wants the car left and I wash my hands of it. You, mate, are in the shit. In fact, I wouldn’t draw attention to myself in that car if I were you.”

William Tredwell was indeed in the mire.
“Look mate, couldn’t you at least stick a new headlight in for me so I’m legal and I’ll get it insured today. Melvin still needs a lift ‘til he can afford a car and there’s Deirdre and the twins. I’ll be completely stuffed…”
Neville Martin took a deep breath then said “Oh alright, but you owe me big time and how’re you going to sort things with the Colonel?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ll have to persuade him to settle without involving the bloody insurance company, but I haven’t got that sort of money – what are we looking at – at least a thousand? Don’t suppose Melvin could work it off in overtime?”
Until this juncture, Melvin had omitted to opine upon the situation, but now felt constrained to offer his point of view:
“Thanks, Dad. P’raps I should become a rent boy – would that help? If you hadn’t been driving too bloody fast none of this would have happened.”
“Here we have doctor Melvin Tredwell MD, professor of the bleedin’ obvious,” retorted his father. Melvin cursed his parentage quietly and stalked angrily into the workshop.
“Sorry, mate. Anyhow, if we can get this headlight sorted I’ll be off.”
“Yeah, right.”

It took Neville half an hour to effect the necessary running repairs during which time William Tredwell inspected closely the damage to the rear of the Bristol. He did not however confine himself to mere visual inspection and Neville became intensely irritated to find bits pulled off, a rear light half dismantled and the number plate unscrewed, with William Tredwell now sitting in the driver’s seat fiddling with the controls and stroking the walnut veneer.
“Get your bloody hands off that car,” shouted Neville.
“Sorry mate, I was just looking. Keep your hair on…”
“Look – I’ve patched up your car. Just go away and get it insured and leave me in peace.”

Neville Martin Painswick watched Mr Tredwell reverse into an overgrown bank, shrug his shoulders then drive off with a clod of grassy earth embedded in his rear bumper. Neville shook his head, then running his fingers through his thick dark hair, sighed and walked back to the workshop, calling out to Melvin,
“Make us some tea would you?”
“It’ll have to be black – no milk mate,” came the reply. Exasperated, through gritted teeth Neville said to Melvin, “Is there anything your father comes into contact with that doesn’t go wrong?”
“Hopefully my job,” replied Melvin nervously.
“Hey, he’s not your fault! I’ll nip to the corner shop and get some milk. D’you want to get going on changing the oil in the Jensen? I’ll be back in ten minutes then maybe we’ll get some work done.”

An inauspicious start to the day - more fun tomorrow.