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

‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ — Chapter Six

Who is Tony Armitage? Does Lydia really have to watch them all so closely? Why are strange things happening all of a sudden?

Liz stared for a long time at her computer monitor, but the spreadsheet glowing upon it failed to grip her attention. She tried so hard to cultivate a ‘live and let live philosophy, but this didn’t switch off her curiosity. So, why did Tony want so much to live in this area? Why did he behave as though he could undress a strange young girl in someone else’s kitchen and get away with it? Perhaps he was a doctor? Why would a doctor come to view a room with a hammer in his pocket?

What was Hugh doing next door, staring into Liz’s breakfast room?

Was it a coincidence that both times Hugh had turned up so had a wild-eyed woman looking for a vicious tortoise?

There were too many questions. The spreadsheet was easier.

Several hours later she was roused from futile efforts to make sense of her client’s accounts by the most incredible smell of wholesome home cooking. It smelled like frying onions and spices and country kitchens. It filled the attic with an out-of-this-world fragrance and set her mouth-watering.

Moocher jumped off his beanbag and padded around the room twitching his nose and pulling in deep noisy breaths of pure pleasure. But he wasn’t getting any and neither was Liz. She didn’t believe in all this let’s-be-chummy-and-hang-out-and-have-all-our-meals-together stuff in a house like this — who does the shopping, the cooking, the washing up? Who pays, and for what? And then it means having to stop and eat when required, rather than on the go. It’s a pure disruption for someone trying to work at home.

However, it was Moocher’s supper time so they trailed down the stairs to find a jolly party around the table. They were all there, Tony, Julie (looking much recovered), Simon and Melanie.

Melanie was the other lodger. She was very enthusiastic about everything — eating, talking, sport, good causes. And she was so honest her name could be in the dictionary instead of the word ‘honest’ and everyone would know what it meant.

So there they all were. Moocher and Liz were greeted with cries of: “Pull up a chair, there’s a plate for you.” How nice.

“No thanks,” she said, heading resolutely into the kitchen. “I don’t want to stop work. I’m only here to feed Moocher.”

“No more Sandra, then?” That was Melanie.

“No,” Simon muttered. “Thank heaven for that. No more pretending we’re not embarrassed…”

Crumbs. Liz had completely forgotten she’d meant to add another item to her ‘potential lodger’ questionnaire, namely: Are you mad about sex and if you are, do you have somewhere else to go for it? Many were the times the other occupants of the house, their hands clamped over their ears, had hurried past Sandra’s door, doing a curious crab-like scuttle, trying to get away from what sounded like a porn movie set within.

It must be nice to be so uninhibited, though. Sandra seemed to have a different partner for each day of the week. They were just a blur leaving the house in the morning and seldom seen arriving at night. They just seemed to come and go, as it were, as regular as the days passing.

That’d be a relief anyway. Tempting though it was to ask Julie and Tony the question now, it didn’t seem fair. Liz have to add it for the next lodger.

She took the lid off Moocher’s pan of liver and cabbage and recoiled as the stench hit her. She often cooked his food because she thought it must be really boring getting the same old stuff out of a tin every day, not to mention all the E-numbers and heaven knows what else they put in it. However, despite liver and cabbage being one of Moocher’s favorite dishes, he was far more interested in what the others were having,

That was a shame because he couldn’t have any. Liz ladled out his ration for the evening and put it in the usual place. He sat without her telling him. She always made him sit before he could have his food — like a silent grace. Actually, it was to show that at least for a couple of seconds, twice a day, she was indeed the one in control. He was kind enough to let her believe that. He sat obediently with his head turned about two hundred degrees, staring at the feast on the table. Liz wondered who’d cooked it. Probably Mr I’ve-got-a-hammer-in-my-pocket-and-am-prepared-for-any-occasion himself. Was there no end to that man’s talents? She peered sideways and sneaked a look at the back of his neck. Hmm, it had a darling little cowlick of hair on it that didn’t want to go the way the rest of his hair went. She shivered and tore her gaze away, uncomfortably reminded of Hugh in friendlier times. Moocher nudged her in the shin to keep her mind on the important things in life.

“Good dog, you can have it.” These magic words weren’t followed by the usual dash to get his snout in the bowl. She said it again, louder. He looked at her sadly and eventually staggered to his feet. He shuffled to his bowl, advancing on his supper as though she’d given him a dish of cold rat vomit.

She was staring at the droop of his tail, which usually waved gently like a heavy flag whilst he was eating his supper when she distinctly heard the sound of breaking glass. Not a sort of tinkle sound, but a sort of huge-big-pane-of-glass breaking sound. It was very close. Her first thought was that it was Lydia’s breakfast room window, but looking over at it through her kitchen window she could see it was still in one piece. There wasn’t another window closer unless it was one of Liz’s. It wasn’t the breakfast room. It must be the front room.

The front room! She raced down the hall. Barging into the front room she was brought up short by a hand grabbing her arm and pulling her abruptly backward. Just as well because a missile came flying through the enormous hole already in the window and narrowly missed rearranging her features. It flew by her and disappeared into the lush, leafy depths of Abigail, the aspidistra.

It was Tony, of course, who had hold of her arm in such a manly I-will-protect-you way. She paused to take stock of a shooting feeling in her midriff of the warm and fuzzy type. But she didn’t pause for long. Her house was under attack from some lunatic out in the road. Who the hell did they think they were? She noticed Simon dash past her towards Abigail. “Simon, hang on to Moocher,” she shrieked. Liz plunged into the lobby and threw open the front door.

She sprinted down the path just in time to see the cloud of exhaust issuing from a car speeding down Malvern Road, obviously escaping from the scene of the crime. Too late to follow it, although there were a couple of men running down the road as though that was what they were trying to do. Maybe they’d get the registration number.

Feeling a nose push into her hand she instantly got mad. “Bloody hell, Simon, I asked you to hang on to Moocher. He might have been run over. You know perfectly well he’s not allowed out the front!” She immediately felt ashamed. One shouldn’t shout at the likes of Simon. They so rarely shout back. Moocher, also, had a mind of his own and it was her fault for opening the front door without shutting the lobby door. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Didn’t mean to shout.”

He appeared at her elbow, looking strained. Nevertheless, he was tolerant. “I know,” he said. “You were caught up in the moment.”

How annoying when people are so understanding. She wanted to shout at him again but controlled herself.

Back in the front room, Tony was already clearing up the glass. He was so efficient, that man. Her next gas bill must have been leaping skywards as any warm air the house might have contained was sucked out through the annihilated window. Who on earth would want to throw missiles through her window? What were they anyway?

They were bricks, or half bricks, or maybe the same brick broken in half. The two pieces had been placed tidily on the coffee table, each on its own coaster. Julie, hankie held to her mouth, and Melanie, face alight with lust, were standing around as though admiring Tony’s efficiency, or perhaps it was his rearview. He did make a pleasant sight as he crawled around the floor checking for slivers of glass.

“Was there a message on those bricks?” Liz asked.

The room fell quiet at what she thought was a perfectly reasonable question. After all, messages and bricks traditionally went together. Like messages and bottles. And why throw two bricks if the first wasn’t for gaining attention for the message carried by the second? Made perfect sense to her.

“No,” Tony said, firmly. “Why should there be a message? It will just have been yobs who wanted you to have clean windows, probably.”

“Oh, very funny,” Liz said. He’d obviously checked out the state of her windows while he was waiting at the front door that morning.

Trouble was, he’d done it without the benefit of her illuminating theory. Liz’s theory was that if the windows were so dirty you couldn’t see through them then obviously the occupants of the house are not just lazy, but also broke. Therefore, burglars won’t be at all interested, and, fingers crossed as she thought it, they were the only un-burgled house in all the time she’d lived in Malvern Road. Which, to be fair, was only a few years, but there was no way she was going to ruin her run of luck by washing the windows. No way.

Anyway, Liz wasn’t amused and decided not to lower herself with explanations for her filthy windows. “It doesn’t seem like yobs to me,” she said. “Why two bricks? They’re more likely to have been caught with two. Anyway, I’m calling the police, or has anyone done so already?” She looked around in surprise at the sheepish expressions her lodgers suddenly exhibited. She looked at Tony for an explanation. He’d only been there half a day and he was clearly the leader. A shade of uneasiness rippled through her.

“There’s no need,” he said. “I’ll get it fixed.”

“There’s every need. The police should be called. This should be reported. I need a crime reference number to claim on the insurance. Apart from this, we shouldn’t hide the crime. It needs to be dealt with.”

“I can assure you, they might put in a token appearance, but they won’t be much interested and you can bet nothing will be done, least of all the yobs caught. That’s the way it is. I’ll deal with it. You don’t even need to lose your no-claims bonus. If you call them, you’ll have a late-night and nothing to show for it.”

Trouble was, Liz, suspected he was right. But she didn’t see why he was so anxious to settle the bill and deal with the hassle. And she didn’t think she should let him, although it was very tempting to have someone else do the hassle bit.

She thought of Hugh, the Hugh who had existed before Mr. Stuffed Shirt took his place, and that was her undoing. He was so very good at sorting out hassle without even a frown marring his lovely face, or a crease in his shirt. Whereas she knew only too well how easy it was to waste a whole day on the phone and get in a stinking bad temper and still not achieve what she wanted and she did have a deadline on her present work. She dithered and rather feebly allowed it to be taken out of her hands. It was all Hugh’s fault. If she hadn’t thought of him she wouldn’t have allowed such weak thinking in herself.

“Let’s call it settled then,” Tony said, losing interest in her concerns and turning to Melanie. “Look, Julie’s upset. Why don’t you take her into the breakfast room and get on with your supper and the card game and I’ll sort this out.”

He chivvied them out of the front room. Simon had disappeared, probably outside for a smoke, and that seemed to be that.

Wondering why paralysis had gripped her usual determination to do everything herself, Liz grabbed a couple of apples and a chunk of cheese and went back to untangling her client’s accounts. Moocher went with her. They got into the attic and Liz knelt down on the floor. Moocher took up his accustomed stance and she hugged him long and hard, her arms around his chunky shoulders, her face resting on the top of his head. He was such a huggable dog. And he was always there for her. The rest of her world seemed to be trembling around the edges, but she could always depend on Moocher.

But something bothered her about what had happened. She tried to ignore it for the time being but by the time she’d been hugging Moocher so long her knees had lost all feeling, she had developed an absolute certainty that there had been a message on one of those bricks. She had a very visual memory and she could see on the movie screen in her mind a rubber band on the floor in the front room below the sideboard that Abigail graced. She hadn’t realized the significance of it at the time. But obviously, the rubber band had held a note on a brick. So, who had the message? What did it say? Who was it for? Why did they keep it a secret?

Something was afoot and she really wanted to ignore it. All she ever wanted was to pay her bills and keep her house and get on with her new career, but these ambitions seemed to get further and further away from her.

Although it didn’t seem right to ignore whatever was going on, she was tired. She was just going to go to bed and not think about anything until the morning. Especially, she wouldn’t think about Hugh, whose ready presence, in his previous incarnation, in her mind seemed to take on more appeal the more the puzzles mounted.

The morning shone through her dormer window with an expectant, hard to ignore, gusto. Liz rolled over and groaned. She hadn’t slept much and felt pretty old.

Reluctance dragged at her, but she had to go downstairs. Apart from anything else, a slosh of grapefruit juice was urgently required to carve a channel through her morning mouth and jolt her into some form of consciousness. Caffeine, too, would help to kick-start her thinking.

However, despite her lack of enthusiasm, the front room looked magnificent in the bright morning light. It was amazing the difference brilliantly clean windows made. Git-Next-Door would be pleased. He’d actually complained, once, about the state of her windows. Damn nerve.

Burglars would be pleased too. They wouldn’t have to wade through the undergrowth of the front garden anymore to inspect the contents of her house. Everything was clearly spot-lit by the morning sun and could, no doubt, be seen from the other side of the road.

How Tony Armitage had managed to get all this sorted overnight was anyone’s guess. Even now it was only seven in the morning.

The rubber band had disappeared from the floor. The bricks had gone too. This bothered her and brought all the unanswered questions rushing back to ruin her morning. She was so close to ringing Hugh it was frightening, so she visualized slapping herself a few times and imagined her head snapping from side to side with the force of her blows. That was better! She wouldn’t want him thinking she needed him. Especially the new Hugh who wouldn’t be able to resist the, “Now, Liz…” bit.

Reviewing the situation, Liz realized that, judging by the lack of response to her inquiries the previous night, information wouldn’t be forthcoming. Simon always looked shifty, that was just his normal expression, but it didn’t mean he was capable of anything more devious than copping a few sly clouds of smoke out the back of the garden shed. Even then, the unmistakable aroma of smoldering trouser pocket gave him away every time.

Melanie was incapable of anything underhand. She’d been Liz’s lodger for over a year and was so straightforward that if she saw someone in the street drop a bit of paper she would return it to them and not understand why they weren’t just as pleased whether it was a sweet wrapper or a fiver. If you wanted an opinion on your latest hairstyle you didn’t ask Melanie. Because she would tell you. No, impossible to imagine Melanie doing anything sinister.

Julie, on the other hand, was an unknown quantity. She was terribly upset which, surely, meant something other than just being a wimp. Tony Armitage, too, was not only unfamiliar territory, but he was just too efficient in sorting something that, on the face of it, didn’t concern him.

Liz couldn’t believe the bricks had anything to do with her. She led an entirely blameless, somewhat boring life. Or she used to.

She trailed out to the kitchen and put the kettle on. There was a note from Tony, ‘All sorted. No worries.’ Well, that was reassuring, except that it wasn’t. She felt beleaguered somehow, uneasy, as though a storm was boiling up ready to burst out and scald all in its way.

The phone rang. “Damn and blast!” It was still only a little after seven, for crying out loud, and she realized what she hadn’t done. She hadn’t thrown herself on the floor so that she could crawl along under the level of the window to stop Lydia from seeing her from her house. She did this every morning without fail. But she hadn’t this morning. It just went to show how disrupted her little world had become.

Sure enough, it was Lydia. “Just thought I’d ring, as I’d seen you and knew I wouldn’t be disturbing you. But someone’s left your fridge door open — I can see it quite clearly from here. Just thought you’d like to know.”

“Thank you, Lydia. I’ll shut it. Thank you. Must go — the pressure of work, you know.”

Jeez. Liz wished she had the guts to say to her, “For heaven’s sake — get a life — preferably one of your own.” But she didn’t have the guts.

Someone had left the fridge door slightly ajar. Liz shut it firmly and turned to give the expected wave to a beaming Lydia who’d just done her first good deed of the day. This meant she could start her day in a good mood and Liz could start hers in anything but.

Then she realized that she needed her grapefruit juice wakener from the fridge so she opened the door and there, tidily, on a very pretty paper plate, covered in cling film, was a finger. A human finger.

Chapter Five of ‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ is here!

Chapter Seven of ‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ is here!

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

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