Humorous tales of a piscatorial nature

Having caused mayhem for Neville Martin Painswick, Mr Tredwell is now visiting his wife, Deirdre, and his new baby twins.

William Tredwell purchased a meagre and overpriced bunch of flowers from an opportunistic vendor outside the hospital entrance then after several unrewarding circuits of the car park, came to rest in a bay marked ‘Staff Only’ saying he’d only be ten minutes and it couldn’t do any harm.

He duly made his way to the maternity ward but Deirdre was not occupying the bed in which he expected to find her.
“Ah, Mr Tredwell, isn’t it?” William turned round to be greeted by an earnest member of staff who didn’t appear to be a nurse. He glanced at the badge on her lapel which read ‘Daphne Paddlewick, Senior Medical Social Worker’.
“We’ve been trying to contact you at home, but your telephone doesn’t seem to be working. Would you like to come into my office?”

The news which Daphne Paddlewick imparted to William Tredwell left him somewhat perplexed. Deirdre had been apprehended at 2 o’clock that morning trying to hail a taxi along Mackerel Boulevard wearing a coat over her night attire. Had it not been for the fact that she was wearing slippers and had a drip tube hanging from her sleeve, she may have got a lot further, but as it was, a very sympathetic police constable returned her to the hospital, despite her pleas to the contrary.
“So you see Mr Tredwell, we will have to keep your wife in for a bit longer in our special unit until we can get her sorted out. Obviously the babies can stay with her, but we think it would be best for all concerned if you gave her a couple of days to settle down. Do you have any questions you’d like to ask me?”
“When can she come home? The freezer needs defrosting and we’ve eaten nearly all the ready meals. I need ironed shirts for my job and I don’t know how the washing machine works. I think the milk needs paying an’ all.” Daphne Paddlewick was prepared to attribute this response to shock, but somewhat icily said, “I think you’ll agree, Mr Tredwell, that it is most important to make sure your wife is well before she can be expected to return to domestic drudgery, don’t you think? And don’t forget the twins….” It would be true to say that William Tredwell was having the utmost difficulty in assimilating the concept of the presence of the twins in his life. Deirdre Tredwell meanwhile was quite unable to come to terms with the concept of the twins and Mr Tredwell in hers.

William Tredwell walked across the hospital car park disconsolately and was just about to get into his car when a tall, thick-necked porter accosted him: “Can’t you read, mate? See those big letters on the floor? They say ‘S T A F F O N L Y’. They don’t say ‘Reserved for lazy gits’. If I see your tatty vehicle here again, I’ll let the air out of your tyres, alright?” William Tredwell nodded his head wearily and opened the car door to be greeted by the nauseating smell of putrefying milk. He slumped into the seat, wound down the window and started the engine.

Tomorrow we return to Hake Hall where preparations begin for Isobel's Germanic entertainment

So now we return to Hake Hall ....

Helena Ruby Tremble sat at the long scrubbed refectory table in the cavernous kitchen of Hake Hall sipping coffee whilst discussing the floral requirements for the Bavarian evening with Isobel Lamington-Krill. Isobel’s intended extravaganza should, if indeed any title were required, more accurately have been entitled a Germanic evening, but Helena Ruby did not feel it her place to correct Isobel’s geographical inaccuracies. If Mrs Lamington-Krill wanted Alpine cow bells hung from the swags of hops on the banisters, then cow bells hung from the swags there would be. It seemed that Nigel’s contacts in the City could easily be relied upon to procure same. On environmental grounds, Isobel was steered away from the charming notion of having gentians and edelweiss featuring heavily in the table centres. On the grounds of self respect, she was firmly assured that having waiting staff dressed in traditional Tyrolean garb complete with plaited hair coils for the ladies and lederhosen for the men, was a non-starter (for Helena Ruby would be among their number, and even she had her pride).
“Oh very well, but I do think it’s a shame – it would have been such fun. Anyway, I see an overall yellow theme for the main displays, Mrs Tremble. My Uncle Theobald is in possession of a stuffed bear which he is happy to lend me. I thought it would be fun to put him, the bear I mean, (Isobel giggled) in the dining hall. I don’t know whether you could produce some sort of garland for the thing?”
“I’ll order all the flowers I need next week. May I get them delivered here for the Friday, then they’ll still be fresh for me to do on Saturday – it would be best if they could be left in the cellar. And while I’m here, is Turtle available to assist with removing the downstairs drapes? The cleaners are collecting them tomorrow so they’ll be back by Friday.”
“Go ahead with the flowers Mrs Tremble, and if you think of anything else we’ll need, just let me know, won’t you. Use the Floral Artists’ Guild in Mackerel. They’re so much more imaginative than Fenestra’s Floristry, and more co-operative too.” (There had been a falling out between the Lamington-Krill household and Fenestra Bingley-Schwarz, a hard-bitten northern woman who had disparate business interests in the most unlikely quarters.) “I have an account there and they know me.”
“OK Mrs L-K.”
“And I’ll tell Turtle to see you about the drapes after lunch. Well I must get on. I have a hair appointment, then lunch and I promised India I’d get her the books on her reading list that she couldn’t find.”
“Will she be attending the Bavarian evening?” enquired Helena Ruby.
“I hope so, and I said she could bring some friends if she wanted. I do hope she brings that a nice young Ferringby-Purcell lad. I believe his parents are big in laminates.”

India Lamington-Krill, only daughter of Nigel and Isobel, was studying social sciences and media at the University of the North East Regions. Although neither parent would say as much, this was a disappointment to them as they had naturally assumed that their not unintelligent daughter, upon whom had been lavished a very expensive education, would aspire to Oxbridge where she could happily mix with her own kind. She had other ideas.

Helena Ruby Tremble drained her limited edition Bistra Blashworth coffee tankard, stood and smoothed her skirt and thought to herself that she really could do with losing a little weight as her eyes fell upon the straining fibres encircling her midriff.
“I’ll be getting on then. I’ll see Cook later to discuss the catering arrangements in detail.”
“Right-o Mrs T.”

Helena Ruby opened the back door of the Lodge and stepped into the kitchen. D’you want lunch Ron?” she called. Silence greeted her. Denholm trotted out with wagging tail and she scooped him up affectionately. “Where is the old bugger?” she said into his silky ear. “Ron?” she shouted again up the stairs, but still no response. Then Helena Ruby noticed the still warm tea-bag left steaming slightly on the draining board and assumed she had missed his lunch break, a suspicion confirmed by a sausage roll packet and sweet wrappers jammed into the overflowing bin. She took a deep breath, deposited Denholm then heaved out the bin liner and its contents and dropped the overladen sack into the large dustbin hidden behind a badly trimmed laurel hedge just outside the door. It occurred to Helena Ruby then that Ron lavished more care on the Lamington-Krill household than he did theirs, but then he was paid to do it.

Helena Ruby felt her jacket pockets to make sure she had her keys and having reassured herself, idly removed a card from the left pocket. It was Jolyon Urqhart’s business card. Her heart felt as if it had begun to beat fit to burst and her hand started trembling slightly. Images of that astonishing night came back to her. She took several deep breaths to calm herself. Had he really meant what he said? “Don’t be so stupid Helena Ruby,” she said aloud to herself. She became overwhelmed by the feeling that she was a supremely foolish, overweight, unremarkable woman. As if anyone would look twice at her. Denholm looked up at her quizzically. In a grand gesture she crumpled the card and went to drop it into the kitchen bin only to realise that she hadn’t replaced the liner. Thus she dropped the card back in her pocket and went swiftly about her business in an effort to quell a rising feeling, almost of humiliation. She sighed heavily as she removed the general debris left carelessly, as always, by Ron, then made herself a piece of cheese on toast and put it under the grill. As Helena Ruby sat at the table sipping tea, she became seized with the determination to improve her diet and to take herself and her life into hand. She had only taken a few bites of her toast and looking down at Denholm sitting bright-eyed at her feet, said “Right, young man. This is going into the bin. Things are going to change.”

How true Helena Ruby, how true

Lunch time is over for Helena Ruby...

Helena Ruby returned to Hake Hall, feeling slightly hungry, where her major task that afternoon was to clean and dust the glass cabinets in the large drawing room, hall and morning room, having supervised the removal of the drapes with the apparently indifferent assistance of Turtle, whom she always had the impression would rather be pressing the newspapers. The operative who arrived to take the drapes for cleaning rather alarmed them both. He was a young, thick-set fellow with very nasal diction and studs embedded in a majority of his facial features. He had clearly not been in receipt of any effective customer service training. He also seemed to consider the company transport in which he arrived as some sort of high-performance vehicle and dislodged considerable quantities of gravel upon his departure. Helena Ruby made a note to contact the cleaning specialists, for she was now mildly concerned that the great expanses of velvet, silk and brocade just commended to their care might not be returned in good order, nor in good time.

It would have horrified Isobel and Nigel to know that this youth was a close acquaintance of India’s and had a specifically engineered purpose for the visit. When he had followed the curve of the drive out of sight of the house, he pulled over, jumped out and opened the back doors of the van. Looking all around to ensure he was not being watched, he pulled out a large, heavy bag and with some difficulty, sprinted after a fashion across the grass and between ornamental shrubs behind one of which he secreted the bag. Stooping low, he ran back to the van and drove off at a rather more sedate pace than previously in order not to draw attention to himself.

With one cabinet still to do, Helena Ruby turned to look out of the window and noticed that the late summer afternoon had an intangible heaviness about it. She stretched her back and yawned then draped the duster over a chair back and went to visit Cook in the kitchen for a bit of lively conversation as much as anything. She strolled across the hall and whilst idly trying to picture the stairs bedecked with hops, her eye alighted on a rather exuberant cobweb entwining the chandelier. “Someone’s been busy,” she said to herself.
“Ah, Mrs T,” Cook grinned as Helena Ruby walked into the kitchen. “Take a seat, tea in a jiffy!” Cook wiped his hands then poured two mugs of tea, took them to the table and sat down opposite Helena Ruby.
“So, are we all set for the German extravaganza? I don’t think the food will be too much of a problem. The butcher’s got all the meat I need, but isn’t wiener schnitzel Austrian anyway?”
“Mrs L-K doesn’t seem to be bothered with letting minor details affect her plans, and I don’t think anyone will care anyhow.”
“I think you could be right there. And let’s face it man, nobody could drink Blue Nun and eat frankfurters and sauerkraut all evening.”
“Mmmm. Have we got final numbers, and is it silver service or buffet?”
“Buffet. Mrs L-K thought it would be more, now what was the word she used – convivial, that’s it. I think that’s her version of riotous, but I could be wrong. Will Ron be helping with the setting up?”

Ron and Cook tended to give each other a wide berth. Ron was convinced that Cook was an illegal immigrant and it was obvious to Cook that Ron was an appalling bigot apart from the other less appealing aspects of his character. He liked Helena Ruby and never understood how the two of them could ever have had anything in common. Nobody knew that Helena Ruby Tremble had been obliged to marry Ron and that she was the mother of twin girls. They now both led their own lives well away from their parents. An annual Christmas card was the only indication for Helena Ruby that they were both well. It was a source of enormous sadness to her but she was unable to discuss it with Ron who never really even acknowledged their existence these days.

Helena Ruby had attempted to broach the subject of the Bavarian evening with Ron yesterday, only to have her enquiry met with a depressingly predictable barrage of non co-operation and general spleen. Nigel and Isobel Lamington-Krill were fair employers, if a little self-absorbed, but when reminded would pay their staff for duties performed outwith their general employment terms, but Ron it seemed felt the need to make a point of being as awkward as possible. Ostensibly it didn’t make him any happier and merely caused intense frustration to those associated with him. Here was a man who seemed to enjoy being miserable. This thought did several circuits of Helena Ruby’s mind whilst she drank her tea.
“Um, I’m not sure yet. I suppose it depends on how much he’s got to do in the garden and I think they want the pool cleaned as well,” replied Helena Ruby, rather lamely. Changing the subject, she said, “I think India might be coming. Didn’t think it was her sort of thing.”
“Ah, the lovely India,” said Cook, raising his eyebrows and smiling. “I wonder who she’ll have in tow this time. Oh well, on with the fancy fish fingers. We can finalise battle plans in a few days.” He pushed his chair back which screeched across the Bolivian hand-cut slate flagstones. “I wish they’d get something put on those chair-legs. That drives me nuts. I mean, it’s not like they can’t afford it for chris’sake!”
Helena Ruby stood up too, pushing her chair back similarly, smiling at Cook and raising her arms in a gesture of helplessness.
“Back to the crystal ware,” she sighed.
“Yeah, once more into the morning room Mrs T!”
“You really are wasted here you know.”
“It does me for now. Ciaou!” With a flourish, Cook turned on one heel and whistling, swaggered to the Aga. Helena Ruby, shaking her head and smiling to herself, repaired to the morning room, opened the ornate glass cabinet door and carefully lifted out a particularly hideous semi-gilt punch bowl.

It had become unseasonally dark and begun to rain heavily, and Helena Ruby realised that she was going to get very damp walking back to the Lodge as she looked down with misgiving at her strappy summer sandals. At that juncture, Isobel returned in a flurry of gravel as she braked hard by the front of Hake Hall. Turtle appeared from the large drawing room, walked to open the doors and took Isobel’s wet jacket.
“Oh dear, it’s terrible out there! Thank you. Take the car round to the garage would you Turtle? I’ve left the keys in it. Could you bring the shopping from the back seat – oh and take a brolly or you’ll get soaked!” Turtle silently acknowledged her instructions with a slight bow of his head and lifted the necessary item from the ebony and silver umbrella stand by the door.
“Pleasant day?” enquired Helena Ruby emerging from the morning room.
“Thank you Mrs Tremble, yes, although my hair is simply ruined .”
“Oh what a shame. Did you manage to get the books for India?”
“Lunch went on longer than I expected and I couldn’t miss the opportunity of the preview at the Adastra Gallery. Belle Winter-Heston took me as her guest. I only learnt today that it was her grandfather who founded Heston’s House of Lingerie. He must have been quite a fellow.”
“Good gracious! Were the paintings interesting?”
“I really wouldn’t know. I’m really not an artist you know, but it was fascinating to see who was there. And some of the outfits were quite frightful Mrs T!” Isobel walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of chilled wine from the monstrous refrigerator. She sat down on the leather couch by the doors to the terrace and kicked of her shoes.
“Aah, that’s better. I say, something smells good!”
“Marine life for your delectation,” responded Cook, very much hoping that she did not intend to take up residence in the kitchen. Helena Ruby followed her through the door and said, “I believe I’ve got everything you wanted done today. The glass cabinets are clean, yours and Mr L-K’s bathrooms have been given a thorough going over, and I took the opportunity just to tidy the dressing rooms.”
“Splendid, you may as well call it a day then Mrs T, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Considering the prevailing weather conditions, Helena Ruby flushed slightly when she asked whether she might borrow a brolly as she would be walking back to the Lodge.
“Oh Mrs T, I’ll get Turtle to run you down there – silly of me, I didn’t think. You’ll be absolutely drowned dear woman!” That was exactly what Helena Ruby did not want, but she knew she could not extricate herself from the arrangement, so steeled herself for a ride with Turtle, whom she knew on this occasion would definitely rather be pressing the papers.

- and more stormy weather to come -

Ron had returned to the Lodge early due to the prevailing inclemency and when Helena Ruby arrived breathless at the back door, she hurried in to find him leaning over Denholm whom he had by the collar, spraying him with Superhold Ultrafirm Hair-o-sol with added shine and conditioning. Denholm, not unnaturally, found it most upsetting and was squealing and wriggling.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” shouted Helena Ruby , barely able to comprehend what she was seeing.
“Damn’ mutt keeps leaving hair and his disgusting bits of skin on my chair – this should cure it,” responded Ron. “It did last time.”
“You stupid, horrible man,” she snarled. Helena Ruby pushed him away and scooped up the distressed Dachshund, making soothing noises as she walked into the sitting room with him. It was clear that the only way of restoring his coat was to bath him, a pastime of which Denholm had never been overly fond. However, in due course, a very sorry Denholm wrapped tightly in a towel emerged from the bathroom in Helena Ruby’s arms. She was so furious with her idiot husband that she could not find the words to convey to him just how much she despised him. He by this time was sitting in his usual place watching a more than usually pointless game show on the television, oblivious to the rest of the world, so Helena Ruby, who now could not bear even to be in the same room, took Denholm to the kitchen where she proceeded solicitously to apply her hair dryer to the damp and trembling dog.

The words “I’m not carrying on like this, I’m not, I can’t,” were repeated over and over in Helena Ruby’s mind. All manner of wild plans of escape emerged only to be discounted for a plethora of reasons, and Helena Ruby began to shed tears over Denholm as the suffocating hopelessness of her situation closed in all around her. Oh how she wished she had her girls there. Their absence seemed like a great black chasm in her life. She took the bottle of Christmas vodka from the back of the cupboard, poured a generous measure into a tumbler depicting a palm-fringed beach, and finding only orange squash with which to mix it, ran some water into the glass and downed it in about four gulps.

In due course, Ron sauntered into the kitchen and with no real sign of contrition, enquired as to the likelihood of an evening meal. Helena Ruby was fairly numb by now, and knowing remonstration would be completely unrewarding, said he could have sausage and egg, thinking to herself that she would be delighted if it choked him. Denholm took refuge under the table, quivering then scratching. Twenty minutes later Helena Ruby thrust Ron’s meal in front of him on a tray and without waiting for any response, left the room and after sitting in the kitchen for some time, drinking another large vodka and nursing Denholm on her lap, she settled him in his bed and went upstairs to have what she hoped would be a relaxing bath, and thence to bed hoping sleep would render her senseless before Ron came up to bed.

Helena Ruby lay in bed rigid with exasperation and certainly no inclination to sleep. She tried very hard to make herself relax, but could feel the tension in her neck and shoulders. She lay on one side, then the other, then on her back, getting more and more furious. She sat up and punched her pillow hard several times, tears springing to her eyes. From downstairs she heard sounds of Ron moving around, then a yelp from the kitchen but her need to shut Ron out was greater than that to comfort Denholm, so feeling terribly guilty, she rolled over, planted her head in the pillow under her duvet of despair and made a passable impression of being deeply asleep.

Sleep did eventually take hold and the next thing Helena Ruby Tremble registered was the piercing tone of the alarm. Having given herself three minutes to make contact with her extremities, she got stiffly out of bed, pulled on her tired, rose-coloured candlewick dressing gown and made her way downstairs to the kitchen, to be greeted enthusiastically by Denholm. He was again scooped up and kissed on his silky ear, and Helena Ruby breathed in the fragrance of his shampooed pelt and held him close while consideration of her prospects sparked and rebounded with increasing clarity in the sunny crispness of that morning which she welcomed in through the opened blind.

“Here’s your tea,” said Helena Ruby as she planted a steaming mug beside Ron’s bed. It was not time to disrupt her domestic routine just yet, and she knew that if Ron didn’t get to work on time, his bad humour would only rebound on her and, it seemed, Denholm too. In a moment of exuberance, she drew open the bedroom curtains to admit the clarifying light declaring, “It’s a glorious morning!”

What will Helena Ruby do now? We must wait awhile because next we will return to the good residents of the Bullrushes

Meet Mrs Donna Painswick as she prepares to leave for work

Donna Painswick zipped up her pastel pink overall, which was inevitably tighter with every passing day and it occurred to her that she should approach the management of Follicles regarding provision of maternity wear, as she intended to continue in her position as senior manicurist and facial therapist for as long as practicable. She aimed to finalise payments on their leather and mahogany three piece suite upon which she had insisted for Number 5 The Bullrushes. The old velour suite just wouldn’t have looked right in the practically proportioned yet airy sitting room, and because they were on special offer, it seemed only sensible to install a wide screen, slim line, low distortion television with integral movie-quality speakers, for which she also intended to conclude payments before becoming a full time mother.

She checked her hair and make-up in the bathroom mirror and looking at the crack which ran behind it, sighed heavily - Neville really did need to pay more attention to the house. A spray of ‘A Day in the Life’ (which no longer prompted nausea) completed her preparations, and she duly left Number 5, The Bullrushes, having to slam the front door hard, and caught the bus into Herring le Parterre, where Follicles had its main branch in the charming seventeenth century high street.

Donna checked her appointment diary having taken off her jacket and smiled as she noted that Mrs Penelope D’arville was booked in for 9.30 for a full facial, manicure and pedicure. She always gave generous tips.
“Is Shirley in today?” Donna asked Mandy. Shirley owned Follicles.
“I think she’s coming in this afternoon. She said she had to go to Dean’s school this morning – he’s being picked on. Didn’t think they allowed that sort of thing in expensive places like that, and I thought he could handle himself anyway.”
“I think my little one will be going to the local somehow unless Neville ever gets his act together,” remarked Donna wistfully. “Anyhow, have you got many in the diary for today? Did you see that thing on the telly last night….” And so the conversation continued aimlessly.

Ever more scent filled the air as the day’s beautification progressed, sometimes conversation flowed, sometimes it did not and at 4.30p.m. having bid the redoubtable Mrs Olga Arkenplank a cheery farewell after a somewhat challenging manicure (which she felt essential for attending her grandson’s christening), Donna approached Shirley who was attending to the accounts at her desk in an oak-beamed alcove.
“Er, excuse me Shirley, may I have a quick word?”
“Just a moment Donna and I’ll be with you,” said Shirley as she ran her finger down a column of figures. It occurred to Donna as she observed Shirley’s bowed head that she really should get her roots done. Having concluded her addition, Shirley looked up over her rimless spectacles and smiled at Donna.
“Yes, my dear, what can I do for you?”
“Well, you know I’m pregnant. It’s just that my overall is getting a bit tight and I wondered if I could get something well, a bit more maternity, really,” said Donna rather uncertainly.
“Ah, yes, we’ll have to have a squint at the workwear catalogue – can’t have you bursting at the seams. I’ll look it out and you can choose something suitable. Is that alright?”
“Yes, thanks very much Shirley. Oh, and, um I was sorry to hear that Dean’s not happy at school – it must be a worry.”
“They are a bunch of complete incompetents at St Herripole’s and I intend to find somewhere a bit less stuffy. He’s obviously too lively for them. Hah, call themselves an educational establishment. I told the head just what I thought of him and his school and if he can’t do what I thought I was paying them to do, then I’ll pay someone else. I’m going to look round the Arthur Trenchwarren Foundation tomorrow – I think he’d fit in well there. You’ve got all this to come of course, haven’t you?”
“It seems a long way off. Ah, here’s Mrs Dawlish for her facial. Thank you Shirley.”
“No problem.”

Sitting on the bus home to The Bullrushes, Donna Painswick considered the future and smiled as she pictured the nursery (which was yet to be suitably decorated) and all the trappings of new motherhood. The state of the art pushchair would just about fit in under the stairs, although Neville would have to get rid of all his motoring magazines currently residing therein. And he really would have to attend to the cracks and squeaks at Number 5 – she wanted it all to be perfect. As she stepped from the bus she hummed quietly in the early evening sunshine as she strolled home.
Donna Painswick inserted her key in the front door lock but before she opened it, her attention was caught by a fairly sizeable gap between the door frame and the brickwork. She was sure it hadn’t been there that morning. She waved to Hazel and Barry Levinson whom she saw were gardening next door at Number 3, and invited them to come and have a look at the door frame. After lengthy conversation during which Barry returned to his trowel, it transpired that the Levinsons were having similar problems with their house (although Donna and Neville had opted for ‘The Everglade’ whilst the Levinsons chose the rather more basic and less roomy ‘Riverbank’ which did not have feature stonework to the front façade). Hazel also informed Donna that the Durcastles at Number 8 had mentioned difficulty with their panoramic sliding patio doors and that the dog had narrowly missed having a length of guttering land on it only last weekend.
“D’you think we should contact the builder, after all, the houses are brand new and meant to be guaranteed, aren’t they,” said Donna. “We should get the men to give them a ring, after all, it’s their sort of thing isn’t it?”

Barry was duly summoned and was forced to agree that maybe it was time somebody brought the less than satisfactory standard of their homes to the builder’s attention. Donna said she would send Neville round later to discuss it. She would probably have to go to bed as she got very tired in the evenings, what with work and everything. Donna then shouldered the front door open, sending the hanging baskets swaying wildly, and once inside took off her shoes, putting them in the rack placed strategically beside the front door, and with relief slipped puffy feet into her exuberant sequinned slippers. She scuffed her way into the kitchen, opened the freezer door and withdrew two authentic Taiwanese fish suppers which could be prepared in the microwave in ten minutes. It had been recommended that she eat plenty of fish, thus a trip to the fish section of the local Supa Savas high quality, low price superstore became inevitable. They did not cut corners, only prices apparently.

Tomorrow we will see how Mr Painswick's day develops

I should perhaps warn you that if you are possessed of finer sensibilities, extra-marital sex appears, albeit briefly, in this post. It was inevitable.

While waiting for Neville to return, Donna settled on the sofa with her feet raised on velour cushions which really didn’t match, and maybe she should have a look in the soft furnishing shop opposite Follicles tomorrow to find something more suitable. The last time she had tried to raise the subject with Neville, he was watching a Grand Prix motor race on the television and was clearly completely disinterested. She was flicking through the channels while waiting for her favourite early evening suburban soap opera to commence when the telephone rang. That was something else they needed to get – a cordless telephone. She sighed, got up and went to the hall where the telephone was placed on an ornately carved reproduction Raj table. It was Neville. He had been held up finishing off Mr Baddesley-Fanshawe’s Aston Martin and as a friend had dropped Mrs Baddesley-Fanshawe off to collect it, he’d have to stay on.
“You go ahead and eat love, I’ll be back as soon as I can. Sorry.”
“You know I don’t like eating alone,” sighed Donna.
“Look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to get this finished. I’ll be back soon, promise.”
“But I told Barry you’d go and see him. Oh never mind, I’ll talk to you later. ‘Bye.” And before Neville Martin Painswick had the opportunity to apologise further, she put the ‘phone down and returned to the sofa.

Neville Martin Painswick suggested to Mrs Baddesley-Fanshawe that she go and sit in the office, but as it was a pleasant evening, she elected to stand outside and watch him finish, although her footwear was singularly inappropriate. Her stiletto heels would keep sinking into the earth, but she was more than content to gaze upon Neville Martin’s lithe body as he worked under the bonnet of the car, very evident even through his overalls.
She lit a cigarette and blew smoky wisps into the still air.
“Did Mrs Painswick mind you staying on?” she enquired, smiling at the view she beheld. Without lifting his head, Neville Martin replied that she wasn’t too pleased, but in her present condition, she did take everything a bit too much to heart, and he was sure she would be fine.
“Oh you’re going to be a daddy, how marvellous!” she breathed. Sonia trod her finished cigarette into the dirt, sauntered as best she could to the car, and gently caressing Neville Martin’s overalled thigh, said “I guess that means you’re not getting any sex at the moment then.” Neville Martin Painswick dropped the spanner he was wielding and slowly turned and stood up straight to face Sonia, completely unable to believe what she had just said. He was too stunned to react and was easy prey for her as she grasped him around the back of the neck and pulled his head towards her for a passionate kiss.
“Oh god, you’ve got a beautiful body – share it with me,” gasped Sonia. Neville Martin planted his oily hands around Sonia Baddesley-Fanshawe’s not insubstantial waist in order to keep her at arm’s length.
“P-lease, Mrs Ba….”
“Call me Sonia,” she said huskily as she pulled herself to him for another kiss. His arms relaxed a little as quite against his will, he found himself enjoying the sensation and was almost unaware that his hands were moving down from her waist to her curvaceous rump as they lingered over a very absorbing kiss. Like a steel blade plunged between them, the telephone rang and Neville sprang back muttering “Oh god I’d better answer that.”

“Yeah, hello love, nearly finished. Well, say, about half an hour. No, please don’t wait for me if you’re hungry. Yeah, I will, I’ll be as quick as I can, promise.” Neville Martin Painswick was breathless and his heart was racing. He turned from the desk to find Sonia standing behind him with her blouse unbuttoned to reveal a fairly impressive cleavage. He also could not fail to notice the black hand prints that clasped her waist.
“Oh my god, oh bloody hell,” was all he could say before Sonia enveloped him in a completely seductive embrace. She slid one hand inside his overalls and smothered his cry with another kiss. He was completely helpless and all thought of returning to Donna at Number 5, The Bullrushes was momentarily blanked from his fevered mind.
“Make love to me you fantastic fellow,” she said softly in his ear, “it’s quite safe my darling, I have the necessary. Come on, you know you want to….” After a few unconvincing denials, he did, there on the desk.

As Neville Martin was buttoning up his overalls after this moment of complete madness, feeling elated but ashamed and then just panic stricken, he lifted his head to see Sonia smiling at him, dressed in nothing but her knickers and plunging bra, holding her oily clothes out with one hand.
“What am I to do with the evidence, Mr Painswick?”
“Oh my god, oh christ” was all he could say. She pouted at him, with laughing eyes, and said that luckily for them, she had jeans and a sweater that Trevor had collected from the laundry for her still in the back of the Aston, but she would leave her oily clothes there for him to dispose of. They were unceremoniously stuffed beside the filing cabinet.

Neville Martin Painswick had difficulty completing his work on Trevor’s car. It was awkward to attempt everything at speed with shaking hands, knowing she was standing there watching him. He had never felt so enervated before in his life.
His work completed, and not knowing now how to address Sonia, wiping his hands on a rag and looking at the ground, he said, “I’ll um, send the bill on to you…”
“Darling, that was value added,” said Sonia as she lifted his chin with a well manicured finger. She kissed her finger and placed it on his slightly parted lips. “If you ever feel like getting to know me better, here’s my card – give me a ring. I have the house to myself all day.” And without another word or a glance, she tottered to the car and drove off.

Neville Martin Painswick slipped the card into his top pocket, looked at his watch and yet again uttered an expletive. He hurriedly pulled down the shutters, wiped his sweaty palms on his overalls then realised he had to change into his shirt and jeans, the arms and legs of which seemed to have knotted themselves purposely in order to delay his return to Number 5, The Bullrushes. He flung his overalls through the office door, locked it with still shaking hands, climbed into his car and made a hasty exit.

“Hello love, sorry I’m late,” called Neville Martin quietly as he came through the front door. There was no reply. Donna was asleep on the sofa with the television on, her empty plate and a glass on the floor. Neville Martin took the opportunity to go into the downstairs cloakroom and was horrified to see Sonia’s crimson lipstick evident upon his forehead, and a scratchmark down one side of his neck. Having hastily removed the crimson smudge, he emerged from the cloakroom muttering “Brambles, it was the brambles.” Breathing deeply to calm himself, Neville Martin went into the colour co-ordinated kitchen and grimaced at the sight of his Taiwanese fish supper waiting to go into the microwave, however he was feeling positively light headed and decided food would probably help. After its allotted time rotating in the built-in eye-level compact microwave cooker, he spooned the steaming compilation onto a plate, poured over the thoughtfully provided sachet of sauce and walked to the sitting room to join his wife. Donna stirred as he slumped into the chair, spilling some sauce on his shirt, and as he uttered another expletive, she turned her head and yawning, said, “Oh, so you’re back then.”
“Yeah, that Baddesley-Fanshawe car was trickier than I thought, but don’t worry, I’ll be charging overtime on the bill. This fish is delicious,” he added lamely.
“It’s probably too late for you to go next door now, but did you see the front door – one of you men is going to have to speak to the builders – these are meant to be brand new houses. And you’re going to have to get rid of your magazines from under the stairs – that’s where the push chair is going to go.”
“I’ll try to get that sorted out at the week-end love, I’ll take them to the workshop I suppose. So what’s wrong with the front door then?”
“Didn’t you see when you came in?”
“Um, no, I’ll have a look now as soon as I’ve finished this.”

As Neville got up and left the room Donna switched the channel to Celebrity Decorating Challenge. It was always an interesting source of design ideas for her to consider, and she was wondering about a theme for the baby’s room.
“Blimey, that’s quite a gap isn’t it?” said Neville as he came back into the room. “So what did next door say?”
“Oh, nothing really, but they have had a couple of problems and you ought to talk to them, get some support for a complaint to the builders. What do you think of that colour for the walls?”
“Mmmm. It’s not too late, think I’ll just nip round now.” Neville Martin Painswick welcomed any distraction at the moment.

Barry and Hazel Levinson invited Neville into their sitting room which might itself have been the subject of some cutting-edge interior design experiment. Even with his almost total indifference to interior decor matters, Neville wondered whether they were perhaps colour blind. Following the normal initial niceties and polite enquiries about work and family matters, discussion of the quality of workmanship on their houses commenced. It was on the whole pretty shoddy, but cracks in the masonry were a bit more than just shoddy, and only yesterday Hazel had discovered a damp patch in the cloakroom.
“So really we need to contact the builders and get them to come and have a look then,” summarised Neville. He found himself offering to undertake the task, following a second super-strength lager in which Barry insisted he join him, but the day thus far had been so bizarre, why not?

Tomorrow we will meet Nigel Lamington-Krill in the rather better appointed surroundings of his place of work

Not an oily handprint in sight......

Nigel Lamington-Krill loosened his tie as he tipped back in his ergonomic leather and beech executive swivel chair and admired the view afforded by his panoramic office windows which overlooked more impressive sections of London’s skyline. A stark chrome frame containing studio posed soft-focus pictures of Isobel and India smiling at anyone who cared to look sat facing him and he tapped it saying, “This will do us very nicely girls!” He had just had a very interesting conversation with the owner of a disused fertiliser factory upon which the housing development arm of his company, Harmony Homes, stood to make a profit of indecent proportions if he could get to know the local planners at Turbot as well indeed, as he had those at Hake on Spinach. They had agreed to meet for lunch as this sort of thing could not really be discussed over the telephone.

Taking into account the supposed provenance of Elliott Swardley (reluctant owner of said disused factory), Nigel felt that a meal in a booth at Banners, washed down with an ale or two perhaps, would fit the bill. The silver cutlery, champagne and damask table cloths could wait until the deal was clinched, perhaps. Nigel leaned across to the intercom.
“Alisha, book me my usual booth at Banners, yeh, for, say, er what is it now, yes, say one o’clock.”
Alisha brought in some letters for Nigel to sign and said that whilst he had been on the telephone, his agent’s office in Hake had been in touch, in connection with the Bullrushes development. He frowned momentarily and said, “Well didn’t they say what it was about?”
“All they said was that they have had several complaints from the residents recently and that they needed to speak to you.”
“Oh is that all, what was it, wrong colour on the walls?”
“I really don’t know, but they were quite insistent that you ring them back.”
“Oh, after lunch, not now.” And with that, Nigel imperiously waved the duly signed letters at Alisha who took them in a very elegantly manicured hand, and with pursed lips, made a swift exit from the room. Perhaps now was a good time to apply for the holiday which had been suggested by a charming man from the Serious Fraud Office who had called in to see her. She had his card somewhere safe, and she had received the necessary independent corroboration.

Nigel thought he would walk to his lunch appointment as it was a nice day. What, he wondered, could the residents of the Bullrushes possibly have to complain about? He thought that sort of twee housing was just to what the lesser inhabitants of Hake would aspire. Not unduly perturbed he stood up, straightened his tie, and went to the wash-room to check his appearance. He washed his hands, applied a little cologne and could not help grinning at himself in the mirror. He wondered whether that gorgeous little Hungarian waitress would be there today.

Nigel arrived at Banners about ten minutes early and it occurred to him that it was a shame to be inside on such a glorious day, but then would Elliott Swardley really appreciate the continental ethos of lunching alfresco? He suspected not, but he was appallingly narrow-minded about such things. He ordered a carbonated filter-purified tap-water with extra ions (if only he knew it) as he needed to keep a clear head, and awaited the arrival of Mr Swardley. His favourite waitress was not in evidence, but a passable blonde with an Irish accent seemed most attentive and he smiled broadly as she leaned over the table with cutlery and a menu.
“Ah, Elliott, over here!” called Nigel as his guest came through the door. They had only met briefly once before at a rather unlikely charity lunch recently hosted by an oil corporation on a rather brazen damage-limitation exercise, but he was easily recognisable from his build, his pony-tail and the fact that he was still hugely uncomfortable in a shirt and tie. His fertiliser factory had gone out of business, he said, due to strangulation by EU rules, however both he and Nigel knew there was rather more to his demise than that. Nigel knew he needed to sell the premises and, literally, move on: and for the right price, Nigel could make that happen for him.

They shook hands, Elliott sat down and they ordered a very traditional steak pie and chips at Nigel’s suggestion. Elliott would have preferred the salad but did not wish to appear churlish. He had half a pint of ale as he was trying to get back into shape and Nigel had a bottled wheat beer. By the end of their lunch, the two men had made some progress towards reaching an understanding, although Elliott was a harder nut to crack than Nigel supposed, but they parted company amicably with the promise that Elliott would contact Nigel within a week having done some ‘figure work’.

Nigel was glad of the exercise on the way back to the office and was confident that Elliott would sell to him at a preferential price, he had to really, no-one else would touch his contaminated site.

Upon his return to the office, Nigel told Alisha he didn’t want to be disturbed, not even if his Hake agents rang again, walked through and sat at his desk then touched the speaker pad on his slimline aubergine digital desk ‘phone and dialled a sister company in Germany.
“Guten Tag, Fischbacher Korporation,” came a digitally remastered voice from the cunningly concealed miniaturised loudspeaker.
“Guten Tag, Fritz Kennenspitz, bitte,” replied Nigel.

“Ah, Fritz, wie gehts? Nigel here,” he said, picking up the aesthetically considerate yet practically designed handset as Fritz answered the ‘phone.
“Fritz, I need to release some capital for a housing project and I wonder, is the Black Forest hunting lodge available in the next month or so? I may need to entertain some local dignitaries.” Fritz’s response caused Nigel to frown and sit up straight in his chair.
“OK, so transfer from one of the offshore accounts – it will only be relatively short term and we stand to make one hell of a profit, trust me.” Fritz needed to confer with colleagues and would contact Nigel shortly. He also thought Nigel should know that the German financial authorities were showing an interest in the joint dealings of the Fischbacher Korporation and Lamington-Krill International, particularly regarding various applications for obscure European Union grants.
“They can prove nothing, and whilst I think of it Fritz, can you get hold of a consignment of Alpine cow bells, and send them to Hake Hall in the next week – we’re having a bit of a do. Thanks, that will be excellent. Look, don’t concern yourself, we’re in the clear and if I can land this housing deal, we’ll be fine. Chill, Fritz!”

Nigel Lamington-Krill got out of his chair and strolled to the window, rubbing his temple. Having contemplated the human activity beneath him, he looked at his understated slim watch and felt he’d put in a sufficient day’s work in the office. He needed to get back to his study at Hake Hall where some of his private papers needed further examination. He strolled to his reproduction Regency desk, pressed the intercom pad on the ‘phone and said “Alisha, get Terry to bring my car out will you, I’m leaving in two minutes. I may be in a bit later tomorrow, so just take messages...... Oh they can wait until tomorrow. See you then.”

Nigel tightened his tie before leaving, splashed cold water on his face in his wash room, dabbed it with an unfeasibly white fluffy hand towel then combed his hair, smiled at his reflection and in jest saluted himself in the mirror, clicked his heels then turned and left for the lifts. Upon emerging from the revolving glass doors at the entrance to the building in the late afternoon sunshine, he donned his Trent Cabernet zero reflection sunglasses and sauntered down the semi-circular slate steps to receive the keys to his Jensen from Terry.
“It’s in bay 5, squire, lovely afternoon to give the old girl a bit of a work-out!”
“Indeed. No bad traffic to report then?”
“Nope, clear all the way last I heard.”
“Excellent! See you tomorrow then.”
“Good evening sir.” Nigel Lamington-Krill opened the door of the Jensen, laid his jacket on the back seat, loosened his tie again then slid into the driver’s seat and slipped the key into the ignition. He started the engine, opened the sun roof and took off into the London traffic with alacrity. Whilst stationary at traffic lights, he inserted a recording of a Mozart concerto into his surround-sound car hi fi system and felt he was at one with his world. He idly watched a girl with flowing blonde hair and an ample bosom totter across the road on improbably high heels in a very short skirt, and smiled to himself. Mozart filled his surroundings and life was good.

- Good for the moment perhaps - .

You might remember that we left Nigel luxuriating in the good life as he left his office.

As the suburbs began to give way to more open spaces and green fields, so Nigel picked up speed in his car, for as Terry had so rightly indicated earlier, it was a good opportunity to give the old girl a bit of a work-out. Mozart had been replaced by Beethoven and it was with particular annoyance that Nigel noticed the flashing lights of a police car some way behind him as he dashed along a particularly inviting stretch of wide, straight and almost empty road to a particularly stirring passage.
“Bollocks, damn!” he said through gritted teeth as he applied the brakes and pulled slowly to the side. The patrol car duly pulled up behind him and the occupants got out. One of them strolled purposefully to Nigel’s open window and he was momentarily taken aback to see that this was a female police officer. Blessed as he was with a certain genetic arrogance, especially where those he considered to be less well educated than he were concerned, Nigel, having removed his Trent Cabernets purposefully, tried the approach that the road was empty and he wasn’t doing any harm and didn’t they have bloody burglars and illegal immigrants to victimise instead? Nigel half intended this to be funny, but the police officers rather failed to appreciate the tone of his humour, and the WPC invited him to step out of his car while she commenced upon completing the appropriate paperwork. Her colleague meanwhile sauntered around the front of the car and having looked at the tyres, glanced at the windscreen and said, “Do you intend to render your vehicle legal in the near future sir?”
“Now what have I done?” responded Nigel somewhat testily, starting to drum his fingers on the car roof.
“Driven a vehicle in considerable contravention of the prevailing speed limit on the Queen’s highway whilst not displaying a valid road fund licence disc sir,” came the response.
“Oh bloody hell, it’s only a few days out of date, what is your problem? My PA obviously forgot. I’ll make sure she does it tomorrow.”
“To whom is the vehicle registered sir?”
“Me of course, who else would it be?”
“It is the responsibility of the registered owner to ensure that the vehicle is legal and roadworthy, not that of the registered owner’s PA sir.”
“Look I’ll get it done tomorrow, alright? It was just an oversight. Do I look like an habitual criminal?”
“I don’t believe I am qualified to say sir, what would one of those look like exactly sir?”
“Now don’t get cocky with me, just get this bloody paperwork done and let me go about my business, if you would be so kind, officer.”

Nigel threw the proffered paperwork on to the passenger seat, got back into the car, replaced his Trent Cabernets and with a supreme effort, suppressed his towering annoyance and fought the natural urge to depart at speed being mindful of the officers of the law eye-catchingly evident in his rear view mirror. When at last they turned off the road and out of sight, Nigel dialled his office on the mobile ‘phone.
“Alisha, I’ve just been stopped by the bloody police and my car tax has run out. How did that happen? ............ Oh, didn’t I? Are you sure? Well can you make sure it is entered into the system, I don’t want to come into contact with those types again. Yeh, yeh, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nigel really should learn to be more gracious.

Nigel feels a little relaxation is in order. As is my custom, I should warn the reader that sex appears in this post, although within marriage on this occasion.

As he neared Hake on Spinach, Nigel decided a pint or two in a local hostelry before returning to Hake Hall was most definitely required, thus he drew into the Raddled Beanpole which, from the vehicles in the car park, already appeared to have quite a few visitors. He drew up beside Colonel Whipstock’s old Bristol and remarked to himself, “Hah, haven’t seen the old boy in here for ages.” He got out of the car, removed his tie altogether, locked the door and strolled in. Gloria greeted him cheerfully as he removed his sunglasses in the beamed gloom and slid them into his shirt pocket.
“What can I get you, Mr L-K? A pint of your usual?”
“A pint of Roach Royal Ruby, yes, thanks Gloria. I see the Colonel’s in this evening?”
“Yes, he’s not been long out of hospital – the leg took a long time to heal and” (lowering her voice) “he wasn’t a very co-operative patient I hear. He’s over there.” She gestured towards an upholstered corner seat where Colonel Whipstock sat with one leg outstretched and his walking stick on the table.
“Colonel – too early for another double?” called Nigel Lamington-Krill.
“Never too early dear boy, never too early!” Nigel walked over to join the Colonel with the drinks.
“I hear you had a bit of a prang – bad luck!”
“The bloody prang was nothing – I’ve had my sister staying at Herring Grange since the accident. I swear I’ll be tidied to death – can’t find a damn thing in the place. She insists on driving me as well – leg’s still a bit stiff, y’know, but she’ll do for my gearbox. She tidied her last husband to death three years ago, still, left her a packet, so she’s alright.”
“Where is she now, Colonel? I’ve never met her.”
“Made her go and join the ladies in the garden – some charitable do-gooding going on – she’ll sort them out, and I get ten minutes’ peace. Anyhow, how’s life in the city? Anything I should be investing in? Cheers!”
“Cheers! Mmmm...” Nigel took two great gulps of his ale. “Aaah, I needed that. Everything, old boy, was fine until I got stopped on my way back by bloody police with nothing better to do than victimise law-abiding citizens.”
“Know what you mean old boy, where are they when some little bugger’s stolen your garden statue? Cheers!”
Thus Nigel Lamington-Krill spent an amiable hour at the Raddled Beanpole before returning to Hake Hall in mellower mood than earlier.

As Nigel got up to leave, Colonel Whipstock’s redoubtable sister made an entrance via the stable door which led to the garden, requesting a tray of drinks for the ladies.
“Ah, Amelia,” bellowed the Colonel, “ let me introduce you – Nigel Lamington-Krill, this is my sister, Amelia Strang-Wellow.” Amelia strode over and grasped Nigel’s hand, shaking it heartily.
“Delighted, delighted,” she enthused, as Nigel beheld a woman approaching Amazonian proportions, sporting what could best be described as rustic-chic garb, with her grey hair piled exuberantly upon her head and secured with an assortment of combs and clasps.
“If you’re still in residence, you must come with the Colonel to Isobel’s Bavarian evening we’re holding at Hake Hall. You really would be most welcome, may I call you Amelia?”
“Oh I say, how kind. I can stay on as long as I like, and I know Peregrine can do with the company, and still isn’t very steady with his bad leg – isn’t that right old thing?” she enquired of the Colonel who responded with a suitably barbed glance aimed at Nigel. Nigel smiled, wishing them both a very pleasant evening, and took his leave.

Driving up to Hake Hall now in good spirits, Nigel left the Jensen by the garage block and left the keys in the ignition for Turtle to put it away later. Whistling, he gathered his jacket and tie from the back seat, stuffed the papers issued to him in his pocket and went in to the house via the conservatory.
“Hello, anybody about?” he called. He could hear Cook preparing the evening meal in the kitchen, but he would not have been heard above the strains of Bob Marley, so he went up the elegantly curving stairs to his dressing room to change his clothes. He heard a shower running and realised that Isobel was in her bathroom. He smiled to himself, stripped naked, throwing his discarded clothes onto a chair, then walked noiselessly to Isobel’s shower, pulled the door open, stepped inside and clasped his wife in a passionate embrace, smothering her shriek of surprise and feeble protestations with urgent kisses. They made love in the scented, steamy cubicle.

Wrapped in finest Egyptian cotton monogrammed bathrobes, Isobel and Nigel sat on the sumptuously upholstered seat at the end of their enormous four poster bed.
“So you’ve had a good day then, darling?” Nigel couldn’t be bothered to recount again his encounter with the officers of the law.
“I think I’ve got another housing deal in the offing. Oh, and better than that, I now know what Colonel Whipstock’s first name is – it’s Peregrine! I met his sister this evening and suggested she might like to come to the Bavarian evening too – she’s a very, ah, stout type, but good fun I think. Quite Germanic really! Ah, I may also need to invite a couple of key local authority types along too – don’t know yet, all depends on whether any of them come to my project presentation lunch. ”
“I need to firm up arrangements with Cook and Mrs Tremble in the next few days, but a few extra won’t make any difference.”
“Oh, and Fritz is going to send over a box of cow bells – I asked him today.” Nigel did not feel he needed to share any more detail of his conversation with Fritz. Isobel wouldn’t understand the niceties and otherwise of international finance anyway.
“Marvellous, thank you darling – it’s going to be such fun. And India rang today – she’ll be home next week and said she’d love to be at the Bavarian evening. I’m so pleased!” Isobel leant over and kissed Nigel on the forehead.
“Good, well let’s get dressed and go down for a drink before dinner. Cook sounded as if he was having a good time in the kitchen – hope it tastes good!”

After dinner as Turtle cleared away the last of the dishes, Nigel said he needed to spend a couple of hours in his study, so Isobel took the opportunity to stroll around the garden and make a note of jobs to be done by Mr Tremble.

Tomorrow we visit Mrs Tremble, who is not happy with her lot.

Helena Ruby Tremble is feeling trapped and miserable, but determined.

At Hake Lodge, Helena Ruby Tremble sat on the edge of the bed, having just deposited a neat pile of ironing in the airing cupboard, and began to consider the logistics of packing her belongings, for she had concluded that it had to be soon. The sound from the television drifted up from the sitting room below and she sighed heavily. Yes, it had to be soon. Helena Ruby sat with her head bowed in her hands and hot tears dripped unbidden through her fingers. Although resolute she was still desperately miserable. She wanted to see her girls, she wanted to be happy.
“OK Helena Ruby,” she said to herself, standing up, taking a deep breath and wiping her tears away with the back of her hand “it’s up to you, there’s no-one else.” Helena Ruby went into the bathroom and pressed a cold flannel to her eyes, blew her nose on the rose tinted super-soft quilted toilet paper and resolved to be out before her 48th birthday which fell on 27th August. She forced a smile at herself in the mirror above the basin and said again, “It’s up to you.”

Helena Ruby Tremble slept fitfully and awoke before the alarm. She had dreamt of being pursued by a German chef wielding a cheese grater, she had seemed to be in an eternal quest to find her apron, Denholm was somehow a guinea-pig and gave birth to so many babies that she was knee-deep in small, elongated rodents which all contrived to stop her fleeing the chef or finding her apron. Back to reality, Helena Ruby slipped out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown and left Ron snoring. It was, astonishingly, another glorious morning and upon opening the kitchen door she was greeted enthusiastically as always by Denholm. She yawned, ran her hand through her hair, stretched, then filled the kettle with water and switched it on. “Let’s go out for an early morning walkies shall we my darling? This morning is too good to waste.” Denholm, recognising that word, started performing a strange, fevered circular movement whilst wagging his tail vigorously and Helena Ruby scooped him up, laughing and buried her face in his silky ear. She drank her tea and took a mug upstairs and put it on the bedside table for Ron, who stirred and grunted. She gathered up the necessary clothes, said she was taking Denholm for an early walk as it was such a lovely morning, then before he could offer any opinion, went to the bathroom where she hastily washed and dressed.

Strolling along in the dazzling morning sunshine and listening to the birdsong, Helena Ruby’s spirits lifted. On a morning like this, anything seemed possible. Today she would ask Cook whether he would consider taking a lodger and her dog. This would be the first step, to where she couldn’t imagine, but it had to be in the right direction. Helena Ruby returned to the Lodge to encounter Ron in his vest and pyjama trousers complaining that he couldn’t find a clean shirt. What a singularly unattractive proposition he was. She pursed her lips and said icily, “So you didn’t manage to find one in the airing cupboard then – too much effort I suppose.”
“There weren’t any hanging up, how am I supposed to know?” he responded, completely undented by the venomous arrow silently launched at him by his wife.
“How indeed,” thought Helena Ruby Tremble , “how indeed.” She stepped purposefully up the stairs, removed every ironed item from the airing cupboard, placed them firmly on the bed then proceeded silently to hang every shirt, put every item of underwear in its correct drawer and the spare sheets in the top of the wardrobe. Then she walked downstairs and said “Right, I’m off to work.” Without waiting for any response, she opened the back door and departed for Hake Hall. Today she was going to put all this behind her.

“Morning Mrs L-K,” said Helena Ruby as she came through the kitchen door. “Anything special you want me to see to today?” Isobel was standing by the salt-glazed farmhouse sink cutting the stalk ends from a bunch of exuberant daisies.
“Good morning Mrs Tremble. Just a general clean and tidy I think, but perhaps you could start in the laundry room. Some of Nigel’s shirts have come back from the laundry rather creased – I think I need to have a word with them – they’re becoming a bit slap dash. It’s ever since that lout Craig was made manager. Standards are slipping. Oh, and if you could give India’s room a good airing and make sure it’s all nice for her, she’s coming back for my Bavarian evening.”
“Certainly Mrs L-K, you must be looking forward to it, it must be hard when you don’t see her for so long.” Helena Ruby was vaguely aware of the irony in this observation, seeing as how India had been sent away to boarding school at the earliest opportunity. It didn’t seem to have done her any actual harm, but with the possible exception of the appalling Bartley-Grantwick twins, destined no doubt for the judiciary, she couldn’t imagine why anybody would voluntarily send their children away.
“Oh it will be wonderful to see her, yes. And if you get a moment, you couldn’t do these flowers for me could you? You know where all the vases are. I thought I’d put these in the main hall. They’re such a cheerful greeting!”
“Of course,” said Helena Ruby Tremble, anxious for Cook to arrive.
“I thought it would be a good idea for us to discuss the final details of my Bavarian evening with Cook today, if that’s alright with you, Mrs T?” Helena Ruby’s heart sank. She was hoping that Isobel Lamington-Krill would obligingly spend the day in pursuit of something suitably vapid, however she clearly had other intentions perfectly suited to ruining anything Helena Ruby Tremble might have planned. There would be other opportunities; but today would have been good, it felt like Helena Ruby’s perfect moment.

Doesn't life just engineer things like that?