ILLUMINATION BOOK CHAPTERS (UPDATED LIST OF CHAPTERS HERE): ROMANTIC COMEDY — QUIRKY ROMP — CO-STARS MOOCHER THE DOG

‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ — Chapter One

Why is Hugh, Liz’s ex, acting weird? And why is there a strange woman rootling through her garden?

The original novel (this one) was written as a standalone. Since then, though, readers have asked me for more anecdotes about the inhabitants of Malvern Road — so the second book is now out! And the third is half-written.

This first book is the one that won me the Katie Fforde Award, with which I’m extremely chuffed!

The first chapter is below the review quotes. I hope you enjoy it!

Review Quotes

Jill Mansell (internationally best-selling author) said of ‘White Lies and Custard Creams’: “Susan Alison has written a lovely, quirky romp packed with off-the-wall characters — original, intriguing and great fun!”

Other reviewers:

“Funny and captivating read”

“Wonderfully quirky observational writing”

“Laughed out loud”

“Somebody should make this book into a film!”

‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ is on Amazon as a Kindle book, and a paperback book. It’s also in Large Print. Susan’s newsletter sign-up

‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ — Chapter One

As soon as he said, “Hello, Liz,” she knew Hugh was in trouble.

She still had that heart-shaking little jumpy feeling when she saw him. He really was quite a hunk in a big, solid, charcoal-grey-suit kind of way. But Liz’s heart wasn’t jumping about now. In fact, it had taken a lie-down in her stomach, its head covered with a pillow.

Stalling for time she pulled her front door wide open to allow her ex to come in. Determined to keep to their usual standard of greeting, she grinned at him, poked him sharply in the chest and yanked his tie crooked, nearly throttling him in the process. “Hellooo there, you scruffy thing you. To what do I owe this unexpected, but delightful pleasure?” She leant forward and gave him a quick hug and a peck on his immaculately shaved cheek. He didn’t exactly recoil, but nor did he grab her bodily and give her his usual, I’m-lost-without-you hug.

Ever since they’d split up, Hugh had wanted them to get back together, but although Liz loved him, there was no way she could live with him.

It was great the way he always appeared when needed, though, and just now she really needed his advice on various lodger-related incidents. And here he was on her doorstop, as if by magic. What a good ex!

He usually greeted her with something like “Well, hello there, my little short-necked swan,” or “Hiya, my little drop of summer,” or something equally as nauseating — anything but plain old, ‘Hello, Liz’. Maybe it was because he couldn’t honestly use the ‘little’ word any more and he was too kind to say, “my large but luscious dumpling” or “my blooming flower, how nice to see more of you”, although she didn’t think she’d put on that much weight. But that could be it. How thoughtful he was. How kind.

Except that he then shouted at Moocher to get down, whereupon that poor, affectionate pooch slunk off under the table all hurt and rejected. He brutally savaged his rubber rat to show he didn’t really care.

“That was a bit mean, wasn’t it?” Liz said.

“Not at all,” he said, beating in exaggerated fashion at his trousers. “I’m sick of being covered in dog hair when I come here.”

He had a point about the dog hair, of course, but he’d never seemed to mind before. Liz decided not to argue. There must be something very seriously up for him to behave like this. She leant under the table and reassured Moocher that everyone else in the world still loved him, and then she set about making coffee.

“Milk?” she queried, pouring it in before he replied.

“No. I take it black these days,” he said, which was a bit of a bummer because she’d just used the last of the coffee. She’d give him herbal tea and hope he didn’t notice.

“What’s going on, then?” Liz asked as she sat down opposite him, noticing he’d taken his jacket off as though this was still his home. Mysteriously, the thought warmed her, but the heat could have been down to the fact that he looked so good in a white shirt.

“I’m learning to stand up for myself around here, that’s all,” he said.

The top of Liz’s head immediately got hot. “And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?” She stared at him disbelievingly and wondered if it really was him. They were on the verge of a silly row — their problems had always stemmed from Liz being too scatty and independent for Hugh, and Hugh being too possessive and tidy for Liz, but they’d never had silly rows. Only worthwhile ones. Liz felt quite ill. “Forget it,” she said and realised he’d spoken at the same time. “Pardon?”

“I said, ‘it was a stupid thing for me to say’. I’m sorry.” He looked as appalled as Liz felt. That made her feel a bit better, especially when he bent down and made a fuss of Moocher. Moocher forgave him instantly. He was like that. Couldn’t hold a grudge for any time at all, that dog.

Liz started to say, “I’m glad you came over…” just as he started to say, “Liz, I wanted to tell you about…”

“Oh, we’ve done it again,” she said. “Tell you what, you go first.” Liz felt unaccountably jittery.

“No,” he said. “You go first.”

Liz grinned, conscious that her smile wobbled. “Okay then…” and as she was about to launch into the whole sorry tale about the lodger who’d just absconded with three months’ rent, her collection of vintage Bonzo Dog postcards and all of one of the other lodgers’ knickers, the doorbell shrilled out. Left to herself she would have ignored it, but Hugh couldn’t stand it when she did that, so, sighing mightily, she dragged herself out to the front door. Opening it she found two weeping little girls and a fraught looking woman, presumably their mother, clutching one of those baskets you put your small pet in.

“Sorry to disturb you,” the woman said. “But we’re visiting Mrs Noakes…”

“Oh, yes. I know Mrs Noakes. She lives at the bottom of our back garden, doesn’t she? Well, I don’t mean like a leprechaun or something. She has her own back garden — and her own home, come to that…” Liz was conscious of waffling on like a complete idiot and realised with a shock that she felt nervous — not of the trio facing her, but of Hugh. How very peculiar, but there was something about him today that had put her on edge. Something very definitely Not Right.

She tried again. “It’s just that her back garden backs onto our back garden… And that’s why it seems like she lives at the bottom of our back garden…”

The three of them stood there like one, their mouths open to the same fish-like degree as her wittering finally petered out.

All this time her voice had been rising, as it tended to when she got in a state. So, it was all Hugh’s fault that now the whole of Bristol knew Mrs Noakes was a leprechaun.

Liz waited for them to say something, but the mother seemed at a loss, maybe even a trifle alarmed. The girls, whose sobbing had reached the hiccupy stage, hid behind her, no doubt trailing snot down the back of her skirt.

“So, maybe she is indeed a leprechaun after all,” Liz said, to prod them into something resembling life again.

“Uh,” the woman started, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “Mrs Noakes is a trifle incapacitated at the moment because she’s recently had a knee replacement so we came round to get her tortoise.”

“Her tortoise?”

“Yes, her tortoise is quite a handful. Always getting out when he sees the opportunity. She turns her back for a moment and he’s off. She thought he might be in your garden.”

“We have a solid brick wall between our gardens.”

“Oh, he can climb walls.”

“This is a speedy, wall-climbing tortoise.” Liz hadn’t heard of one of those before. “Well, then, no doubt he’s made previous forays into my garden. So speedily I’ve never noticed. In which case he’ll make his own way home again won’t he? The way he’s always done it before.” She didn’t make it sound sarcastic or anything but even so Hugh was there, doing his, now-Liz-behave-thing. He had appeared and laid a hand on her arm in a compelling manner, which did nothing to help her already-shredded nerves.

“Let them come through and get the tortoise, Liz.”

“Why don’t I just find it and put it over the wall for you,” Liz said. A perfectly good suggestion, she’d have thought. She really didn’t want her tête-à-tête with Hugh ruined so completely.

They all looked at her as though she’d said, ‘Why don’t I just find it and put it in the oven to roast on high with a few sweet potatoes?’ Which she hadn’t. And she wouldn’t. Of course. (But it wasn’t a bad idea.) She gave up, stood back, and three complete strangers and a wicker pet basket stampeded — slowly, as it turned out — through her house, taking far too much interest in everything around them on their way. In fact Liz ended up standing on their heels, trying to get them to hurry through and out the back. If they had to go, why didn’t they get on with it?

Moocher thought it was hilarious, especially when the little girls, whose names, at a guess, just had to be Pink and Fluffy, screamed thrillingly. He was only saying hello to them, but they backed away from him as though afraid of catching something, shrieking, “Dirty. Dirteee. Mummy. Mummeee…”

Liz heard her say, “It’s all right, Darlings, just hide behind Mummy.” And then Liz had this brilliant idea that the back door should stick shut, so she barged ahead and grabbed the door handle. “Damn,” she said. “Why can’t I get this back door open when I need to? This poxie door, it always sticks when I need to get outside in a hurry.” She banged it a few times and kicked it a few times and made quite a racket thinking if they couldn’t get the door open they’d have to go and she could get back to Hugh. Liz was increasingly certain he had something awful to tell her, like he’d contracted leprosy or was moving to the outer, lesser-spotted islands-of-the-damned, never to be seen again or that he was foreclosing on the half of the house he still owned and wanted his money right now and she’d have to sell up to give it to him or…

Of course, Hugh came up behind her, turned the key and the door swung freely open. Liz might have felt a fool, but was far more anxious about what was going on behind that handsome but too serious face of his.

He gave her his look that meant she’d be hearing about this later. No wonder they weren’t married any more.

Luckily they were interrupted by Pink and Fluffy’s wailings. Their mother stared up an apple tree, cooing, “Tinkerbell, Tinkerbell…”

Tinkerbell the Tortoise?

Up an apple tree?

Pink and Fluffy were in fits of despair because Moocher, realising he was unwelcome, had decided to play by himself. He’d picked up the remains of an old rawhide shopping bag and thrashed it about his head, whipping it from side to side, spraying Pink and Fluffy with the mud, leaves and general winter garden detritus that had collected in it since he’d last paid it attention.

Liz had a wild desire to laugh and as her face, totally out of control, started to fold up at the edges, Hugh clenched his hand on her arm hard enough for her to know that if she wanted to make thirty-three she’d better force her face to behave. It was a battle, but finally she must have looked at least pained, rather than hysterical. That was mainly because she had hold of the inside of her cheeks with her teeth. It was the only way.

Hugh spent some time with his handkerchief returning Pink and Fluffy to a state they considered reasonable. Moocher would have been happy to do the same, but for some reason these people preferred a strange man’s spit to a friendly dog’s lick. Life was very odd.

Liz found herself staring down at the back of his neck — at the bit where his hair just refused to go where he combed it and it sort-of squiggled down one side. She might even have had her hand out to run her finger over that dear little bit, before she realised what she was doing. Good grief! She snatched her hand away and stuffed it in her back pocket. Her jeans were a bit tight just now — all those custard creams — so her hand wasn’t going to get out of that pocket in a hurry.

As she watched him, she wondered about Hugh and children. He’d have made a good Dad. He’d have been perfect. Pity really, about them, but too late now. There was still time for both of them to find other, more suitable mates, though.

Mind you, if any child of hers was likely to turn out like Pink and Fluffy, she’d stick with Border Collies. Liz determined to keep her mind on the business in hand and looked for Tortoise-Woman — there she was, just sidling down from the patio that ran between Liz’s house and her neighbour, Lydia’s — having a damn thorough look in her breakfast room window whilst she did so. Liz supposed it was possible Lydia had invited the devil-tortoise in for a cup of tea.

In fact, it was obvious that Mummee was rootling around the garden very thoroughly indeed. She checked up the other side of the house, looking in any windows available whilst she was at it, and into Liz’s other neighbour, Git-Next Door’s place. He wouldn’t like that, but any opportunity to annoy him further than just by Liz’s very existence, was welcome, so she wasn’t about to stop the woman.

Liz shook herself. She was being too critical. The woman must be anxious about Mrs Noakes’s tortoise.

Finally, she tracked Tinkerbell down. He, or maybe it was a she, must have been cowering behind the compost bin because Tortoise-woman emerged from there, a triumphant smile on her face, holding aloft this poor ol’ tortoise, his bid for freedom foiled, and locked him in the pet basket. They all trooped back inside. She checked over her girls, tweaked this ribbon here, that bit of lace there, before setting off, a chastened Tinkerbell once more back in possession.

In an attempt to avoid any awkward questions about her recent past behaviour with the door, Liz raced into her story about the absconding lodger, but didn’t get very far before Hugh gave a sorrowful shake of his head. “How do you do it, Liz?”

“Do what?”

“Get into these situations.”

“I don’t. They just happen, that’s all. It’s nothing to do with me. Anyway, that’s not the point. I was hoping for some advice.”

“You’re just going to have to not get into these situations, Liz. What if I weren’t around to help you out all the time?”

“What?” There was that strange, unpleasantly dislikeable tone again. “I don’t want you to help me out, thank you very much! I just wanted your opinion.” Liz stared at him, appalled. When did he get this stuffy? How had it happened? He wasn’t like this last time she saw him. Something must have happened to him. “Uh, Hugh, sweetie. Have you been in any road traffic accidents recently? Fallen down the stairs? Hit your head somehow? Been possessed?”

“Don’t be silly, Liz,” he said in a real I-want-my-face-slapped tone.

Stoically, she kept her hands to herself.

He regarded her expression, which probably wasn’t her friendliest. “Now, Liz…”

“Don’t ‘Now, Liz…’ me,” she said. “Why are you being so poncey? Why is it everyone thinks you’re the person to turn to when they’re in trouble, if that’s the best you can come up with?”

He sighed, shook his head slightly and looked at her as though she were the source of all the trouble in the world. Why did people do that? As though she could help it.

The doorbell chose that moment to shrill out again and he suddenly glanced at his watch and stood up, grabbing his jacket as he did so. “I’m sorry, but I must go. I had no idea I’d been here this long.”

And he went haring down the hall as if he had to get away from her now, right this minute, or his head would explode.

Just as well, really, as Liz had completely forgotten the potential lodger coming to view the room so recently vacated by Melvin, the Bonzo Dog postcard pincher. She was puzzled, though. She’d never seen Hugh so ill at ease, something so obviously on his mind. Well, whatever it was, it would have to stay there for a while longer — if there was any room for it to perch in there, now he’d become so narrow-minded.

Chapter Two of ‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ here.

All ‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ chapters to read are here.

I own the copyright and have asserted my right to be identified as the author of this book in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ is on Amazon as a Kindle book, and a paperback book. It’s also in Large Print. Susan’s newsletter sign-up

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