Farringdon’s Daughter

David Coleman
 Copyright Page

Published in 2008 by YouWriteOn.com

Copyright © Text David Coleman

First Edition

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be
identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
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 Acknowledgements

To Lauraine, for holding down a full-time job and allowing me to play at being a writer.

To Hanna for her never-ending enthusiasm.

To Emma, for taking on the job of Guinea Pig.

 Chapter One

From the fields adjoining the dual carriageway, flocks of rooks had risen in a cloud as the
shattering roar of the two explosions rolled across the countryside. Now they were
beginning to return, circling overhead before alighting in the fields to resume feeding.
Along one side of the carriageway, vehicles had stopped in haphazard fashion: some,
arriving late on the scene, had parked through curiosity, others, witness to the event, from
shear fright and panic.
The wreckage of what appeared to be a large saloon car sprawled at an untidy angle
across the lay-by. What remained of the vehicle blazed with such intensity, attempts to
approach it by motorists possessing fire extinguishers were futile, the heat driving them
back across the central reservation. Choking black smoke from the vehicle’s burning
tyres drifted across both carriageways on the morning’s light breeze.
In the distance, sirens from the emergency services grew louder as they raced toward
the scene. A police motorcyclist, first to arrive, slewed his bike across the opposite
carriageway at an angle, dismounted, left his blue beacon flashing, and waved everyone
back onto the grass verge. A few seconds later a police patrol vehicle, siren wailing,
braked to a halt, the two occupants jumping out, pulling road closure signs from the boot
and erecting them across the carriageway. The rooks, their feeding disturbed for the
second time that morning, took to the air again, soaring upward before wheeling in
unison toward a small spinney and the quieter fields beyond.
An ambulance arrived, drove around the outside of the road closure signs and stopped
by the police car, one of the paramedics responding to the frantic waving from the
motorcyclist by climbing from his cab. After a hurried word with the police officer he
ran back to his vehicle, shouting something to the other paramedic still seated in the
ambulance, who was preparing to radio details back to his control centre.
One of the two police officers from the patrol vehicle ran along the carriageway,
crossing the central reservation a safe distance from the fire. A solitary saloon car was
parked on the hard shoulder, the driver standing by the open door, looking back at the
blazing wreckage.
‘Did you see what happened?’
The man shook his head.
‘No – the car was parked in the lay-by when I drove past. The next thing I knew was
the back end of my car seemed to lift in the air. For a second I thought I’d had a blow-
out – then I heard two explosions.’ He looked back at the burning vehicle, shaking his
head.
‘Whoever was driving wouldn’t have known a thing about it – poor sod.’
The police officer was standing by the open door of the man’s car. He glanced into
the interior and nodded toward the passenger seat.
‘Don't go using your mobile ‘phone sir – standard Force procedure these days I’m
afraid. No radio transmissions under any circumstances in the immediate vicinity of an
explosion – all to do with precautions against terrorist activities. I can't even radio in to
HQ whilst I’m in the area.’
The man gave the officer a questioning look.
‘Do you reckon it was a bomb then?’
 ‘I’ve got no idea – the forensic lads will go over everything when they get here, but
the whole process is being slowed down because we can’t use our radios. If I were you
I’d carry on with my journey. In a few minutes time the road’s going to be closed in both
directions for hours – God knows where we’ll re-route the traffic.’
As the man prepared to pull away, two fire appliances arrived and parked by the
central reservation. The crew deployed hoses and after a few seconds, foam began to jet
from the nozzles, spraying in a white curtain over the blazing wreckage. As the fire was
brought under control the crowds of onlookers dispersed to their vehicles and were
directed away from the scene by the other traffic officer. As soon as the area was
cleared, both carriageways and the lay-by were cordoned off in preparation for a forensic
investigation of the devastation to begin.
The man continued on his journey, leaving the scene of the carnage behind him.
When he swung the car onto the slip road of the motorway and accelerated north, a plume
of dirty, ragged smoke could be seen, hanging in the air over where he knew the
explosion had occurred. After several more miles the smoke was no longer visible, the
folds of the hills swallowing up all evidence of the catastrophe.

The bus, although long retired from the town’s passenger routes still fulfilled the legal
mechanical requirements allowing it to carry the hopes and aspirations of local families
to and from school, with the minimum of breakdowns. The windows rattled, bare metal
round the doors and frames grated together where the rubber seals had worn through, and
a keen observer would have noticed that following a left hand bend, the tired suspension
springs never quite managed to return the body to the upright position. The seats, scruffy
and basic, had managed to retain their aromatic testament to a generation of smokers.
Still – school contracts were hard won business with little profit margin: half the kids
were on free bus passes anyway.
The driver could remember the ‘No Spitting - £5 Fine’ signs, screwed to the bodywork
on the upper and lower decks. What signs would keep his adolescent passengers in check
now? ‘No Smoking of Illegal Substances’ and perhaps, ‘No Dealing’ might not be out
of place. He recalled one occasion when a kid from the fifth form was under a coat on
the back seat, fumbling around in the underwear of a foreign exchange student. The
driver didn’t understand her language, but he guessed it had been appreciative by the way
her hands had been tugging at the boy’s trouser zipper. He grinned to himself. Did they
make ‘No Screwing’ signs?
Friday was still a long way off, and the school week had already been an eventful one
for Jennifer. Even before climbing on the bus, the decision had been made to address the
cause of the raw, stinging graze on her knee, and the certainty the ensuing lump was
going to prove painful. The thought of inflicting a similar injury, or worse, followed by a
convincing apology was something to plan and look forward to.
Charlotte Longthorpe, being outrun and outplayed by Jennifer had brought about the
incident on the hockey field. Rather than learn from the strategy leaving her flat-footed
and jeopardising the whole defence of her team, Charlotte had raked her stick across
Jennifer’s knee, sending the girl crashing to the ground. With the luck that always seems
to befall people of Charlotte’s nature, the incident had gone unnoticed by the referee.
Jennifer continued with her thoughts of revenge, and, as the bus lumbered its way up
the hill toward the cemetery, endeavoured to manipulate the situation towards a positive
outcome.
Charlotte Longthorpe enjoyed the benefits of a prosperous father, a self made
businessman who, when finances permitted marriage, had chosen a woman from a middle
class background to provide him with a family and a much needed façade of
respectability. Their union had produced one girl and the reason for his wife Constance
to remain in the marriage.
The forthcoming eighteenth birthday of their daughter had caused a momentary pause
in the mutual dislike each parent had for the other in order to consult with their offspring
as to who should be favoured with an invitation to the party. When Charlotte had
submitted the names of her friends, her mother had amended the list with names of
children whose parents concerned themselves with charitable activities in the community.
Charlotte’s father had made further amendments, favouring the offspring of successful
local businessmen.
At previous birthday parties for their daughter it had been the custom of the
Longthorpe’s to provide a gift for each guest. At first, these presents had been quite
small and of little value, but as time passed and the enmity between the two parents
developed, each had endeavoured to outdo the other with the originality and value of the
gifts. On one occasion, each of the boys had received a football signed by the entire team
of the local first division football club. The mother had responded for the girls by
providing tickets and back-stage passes to a pop concert at London’s Albert Hall.
Needless to say, an invite to Charlotte Longthorpe’s party was of such significance it
served to make her one of the most popular students at the school. Aware of this,
Charlotte exhibited no hesitation in exploiting the situation to her advantage whenever
possible. During Charlotte’s upbringing, her mother’s moral influence had become
somewhat diluted by the sharp business methods employed by her successful father.
It gave her a feeling of huge importance when students, who under different
circumstances would have shunned her company, swallowed their pride to seek her
friendship. She considered buying her friends to be an accomplishment rather than a
shortcoming and had studied in depth similar techniques used by her father to good effect
in his business dealings.
For the remainder of the journey Jennifer busied herself with a maths assignment. Not
because she had any desire to get it over and done with, but rather because maths was her
favourite subject and she derived immense pleasure from what she saw as the simple act
of manipulating figures to provide a desired result. Jennifer had always scorned help
with calculations and her calculator was seldom used for what she considered to be the
simple tasks set by her tutor. On occasions her mathematical ability had been used to
further friendships amongst her classmates by providing answers and detailed
breakdowns of maths problems. Once, a distraught member of the upper sixth form,
desperate to attain a favourable grading in his pre- final assessment, had rewarded her
efforts in cash.
Careful questioning of the student had provided Jennifer with the names of other
numerically challenged individuals. Armed with this information, and choosing the time
of maximum panic to approach her prey, deemed to be the week before assessments,
Jennifer was able to reap considerable financial reward. A Post Office account, opened
in her name by a well meaning relative as a birthday present when she was very young,
proved to be the perfect place to secrete her gains.
To protect herself, she went to great pains to impress upon her ‘employers’ that,
although the school authorities might take a dim view of her activities, they would
without doubt, expel the recipients of her abilities should the matter come to light.
Secrecy prevailed, and Jennifer’s Post Office account continued to appreciate.
A short walk from the drop off point brought Jennifer to the side road leading to her
home, a modest two bedroom end of terrace property with a neat front garden and new
double-glazing her father had to work overtime to afford. Jack and Rita Farringdon had
purchased the property some years ago from the local council and of late, Jennifer’s
mother had been persistent in reminding her husband, theirs was the only house in the
street still retaining the old-fashioned metal window frames. Her father argued the
existing window frames added character to the house and set it apart from the other
properties in the street. Rita dismissed her husband’s observations out of hand and made
a point of twisting every conversation they had back to the subject of the double-glazing.
At first, Jack had sought to compromise by spending all his free time stripping the
frames to the bare metal, priming, undercoating and glossing them, but to no avail. His
wife was adamant, double-glazing had to be installed. Worn down by constant nagging
Jack gave in, as he always did with Rita and asked her to obtain estimates for the job.
The company selected by Jennifer’s mother to install the double glazing sent a
‘technician’ to the family home to measure up and arrange convenient dates for
installation, but more to the point, sign the financial agreement. The salesman would
never have been mistaken for anything other than he was. His suit was loud and cheap;
his shirt looked as if it should have been in the wash two days ago and his tie screamed
bad taste, as did a large gold sovereign ring on a finger of each hand. In his favour, age
was on his side, and he possessed boyish good looks. He was talkative, convincing,
somewhat brash, and flirted in an outrageous manner with Jennifer’s mother the moment
they sat down in the front room, insisting Rita call him Gary. Her mother, much to
Jennifer’s disgust, responded with coy smiles and provocative body language, which only
served to give more encouragement to the man.
If Jack Farringdon noticed his wife’s indiscretion he refrained from passing comment
or giving any indication he was aware of what was going on. He appeared to be
consumed with the worry of the debt he was about to incur and sat hunched at the table in
the kitchen going over and over the financial agreement he was expected to sign.
Jennifer on the other hand was furious and tried to catch her mother’s attention, but
her mother chose to ignore her daughter’s presence, carrying on with her blatant flirting.
Short of screaming at her mother to stop, Jennifer was at a loss to know what to do. She
was well aware of how her mother would seize on an opportunity to heap scorn and
derision on her head; it was her mother’s speciality and Jennifer had suffered acute
embarrassment on many past occasions.
To distance herself from what she saw as her mother’s childish behaviour and to offer
support to her father, Jennifer went into the kitchen and filled the kettle.
‘Cup of tea Dad?’
Her father appeared not to hear. She walked over to his chair and kept her voice low.
‘You don’t have to sign you know, there’s nothing wrong with the windows we’ve got
– it’s only Mum being…well you know.’
Her father looked up and gave a small sigh.
 ‘It’ll be all right Jen, I can put in a few more hours overtime and the salesman says the
savings on heating alone will offset a lot of the cost. It’ll be alright,’ he said again, as if
to reassure himself.
‘Well of course he’s going to say that, it’s his job to sell you the windows or he won’t
get paid,’ but inside she yearned to scream, ‘He’s in there flirting with Mum and what’s
worse she’s flirting right back.’
However, she knew of old, her father would have nothing said against his wife.
‘Your mother knows what she’s doing and she deserves the best.’
There was little conviction in his voice, only loyalty. His sigh sounded heavy and
resigned as he turned back to the financial agreement.
‘You know Jen, they put so many figures on these sheets; it’s hard to unravel the basic
cost of the windows and fitting charges and then work out how much they’ve lumped on
top. It seems a huge amount for a few frames.’
Jennifer sat down across the table from her father.
‘If you show me the figures I’ll break them down for you,’ she offered. ‘They always
make things look complicated, ‘cos most people are too embarrassed to admit they don’t
understand it and just sign…then it’s too late.’
Her father shook his head. ‘I don’t want to upset your mum – she’ll just say it makes
us look like penny pinchers and then we’ll have to go through the whole thing again.’ He
took a pen and signed each sheet.
Jennifer knew her father was convinced he was doing it for all the right reasons. He
adored Rita and her happiness always came first. It was pointless to talk common sense
to him. She watched him go through the papers one more time, letting his tea go cold in
the cup.
Entering her road, the sight of the unfamiliar car parked in the driveway of her home
caught her attention. The family’s nine-year-old saloon was nowhere to be seen and
Jennifer assumed her father was working-on from the early shift, something that was
becoming more and more frequent over the past few weeks. He always ‘phoned to let his
wife know he would be staying on and it meant Jennifer had been seeing very little of
him.’
Approaching the car, it was hard to ignore the exterior modifications to the bodywork.
A boot spoiler had been bolted on, alloy wheels fitted, and an oversized exhaust
substituted. The flashy blue metallic paint job with all the latest stickers screamed boy
racer and bad taste. A spotless exterior hinted at many hours of polishing, but she
guessed more attention had been given to looks rather than performance. Her anger rose
when she saw the open briefcase containing samples of aluminium and plastic frames
littered over the back seat.
Remembering the salesman’s words, ‘I’ll be round in a few weeks to check on the
installation,’ and having no wish to come face to face with the man again, Jennifer
walked along the side path to the house, intending to let herself into the kitchen. Common
sense dictated her mother and the salesman would be talking in the front room. By
checking through the window to make sure the door to the front room was closed she
could go through the hall, up the stairs and to her bedroom. With any luck the salesman
would leave without knowing she was home and save her the difficult task of hiding her
dislike of the man.
When Jennifer was a little girl, her father had taken her to a local auction held in a
deserted manor house. The house, once the most splendid building in the district had
fallen into disrepair after the death of the last in the family line, and the contents and
manor, were being sold. It was rumoured the proceeds were to go toward paying off the
huge debts incurred by the departed owner in his attempt to maintain the property and
surrounding grounds.
They had arrived ahead of the advertised sale time to view the items on offer, and in
one of the rooms set aside for displaying furniture was a polished pine kitchen table.
Family sized, it boasted two drawers on either side and Jennifer loved it. Very little
effort was required to persuade her father to enter a bid and as the table failed to kindle
much of an interest, the auctioneers hammer brought matters to a swift close. Jack
Farringdon appreciated quality built furniture when he saw it. He had served his
apprenticeship as a cabinetmaker, but as the call for fine, hand built pieces fell victim to
cheap foreign imports he had been made redundant. The offer of a job in a factory
building cheap furniture frames had not been to his liking, but it paid the bills.
In due course the table was delivered to their home and over the years received
countless coats of polish, which, combined with the age of the wood had given rise to a
rich lustrous patina, soft and almost warm to the touch. It had always been Jennifer’s
favourite place for homework and reading. Even her mother appreciated its quality and
history.
That afternoon, the attributes of the pine table were far from the thoughts of Jennifer’s
mother. She lay on its polished surface, naked, except for her open blouse, gasping and
clutching with frantic pleasure, as the double glazing salesman, trousers around his
ankles, held onto the sides of the table, thrusting himself into her with a frenzied passion.
She’d remained by the window for only a second or two before running back around
the side of the house into the road outside, jumbled thoughts and images careering
through her head.
Almost without thinking, her bewilderment took her stumbling along the disused
railway line to the family allotment, a small patch of land rented by her father. Now,
weeds were beginning to poke through the raked beds and the grass of the paths required
trimming, an indication of how work commitments were eroding his free time of late. On
her last visit they had treated the timber of the small shed with creosote, but three weeks
had passed since then. Behind the shed, raised up on two railway sleepers was an old oil
drum that served as a water butt to catch the rain from the shed roof. The shed key was
hidden between the sleepers.
Once inside the shed Jennifer sank into the old chair her father used when he was ‘just
mulling things over,’ and found it impossible to stop trembling. As a healthy seventeen-
year-old girl, sex was something you considered to be part of the growing up process,
contemplating it might soon happen to you, and if it had already, what all the fuss was
about. You had even resigned yourself to the fact your parents ‘did it’, although the
notion seemed quite revolting. The thought however, that sex was something your
parents shared with other people was repugnant beyond belief. Her mother’s obvious
enjoyment in adultery and total betrayal of her husband’s devotion and loyalty stunned
the girl into a state approaching hysteria. All the values she took for granted, values of
family commitments, amounted to meaningless nonsense.
Her mind lurched back and forth, confused questions without answers, thwarting
attempts to find some reason for her mother’s behaviour. There had been no major rows
or upsets between her parents of late, and nothing that would give her mother cause to
undress in front of another man and then enjoy sex on the kitchen table with him: why
would she do it?
Jennifer sat hunched in the chair for what seemed like hours, trying to untangle her
emotions and getting nowhere. She was certain her father would know nothing of any of
this, he was too straight, naïve even. He was always an open book to everyone. If he
ever had anything on his mind, his face gave him away; he was no good at pretence.
Reluctant to do so but having little alternative, she left the allotment and returned
home just as the streetlights were beginning to blink on. Her mother was taking in the
washing from the clothesline as she walked round the side of the house.
‘Where have you been, I was getting worried, you’re never this late, and why are you
limping?’
Jennifer had given the matter no thought, but realised she would have been home late
that night anyway. Not as late as she now was, but at least a couple of hours after normal
school had finished. Netball practice was held on a Tuesday evening but her hockey
injury had caused her to miss the session and return home early.
She thought of a plausible excuse. ‘I fell over in netball; I’ve been in the sick room
having the gravel washed out and I had to wait for a late bus.’
The clothesline was all but empty, the washing basket almost full; they’d have to go
into the kitchen soon, the table was bound to be laid for the evening meal. Jennifer
wondered if her mother had polished it after they’d ‘finished’.
In the failing light her mother moved closer to examine the wound.
‘Just leave it.’
She felt her control slipping away and the picture of her almost naked mother taking
over. The bitch was still wearing the same blouse.
‘It’s made me feel a bit sick, I’ll go upstairs, I don’t want any tea right now.’
The catch on the front gate clanged; her father was home from work. She couldn’t
face him, he’d know as soon as he set eyes on her something was wrong, he always did.
Up in her bedroom a feeling of immense isolation swept over her. Her father, home
from work, knew nothing. He’d carry on as he always did on his return; a hug and a kiss
on the cheek for her mother; ask how her day had been and make no mention of how tired
he was from the extra hours he’d worked.
Jennifer opened her bedroom door a fraction. Voices drifted up the stairs from the
kitchen, accompanied by the sound of tea being prepared; the opening and closing of
cupboard doors, rattling of cutlery, the noise of saucepans on the stove; all the usual
things. She knew her mother would never make a confession of any kind to her father,
that was expecting too much, but this was so…normal. Frustration took over, making her
grip the bedcovers in each hand, twisting the material until the ends of her fingers turned
white and numb.
‘Where’s Jenny?’
Her father’s question startled her. Her normal routine would have seen her seated at
‘that’ table, finishing off her homework.
‘She’s up in her room.’
Her mother’s voice drifted away as she moved around the kitchen.
‘Scraped her leg… netball…home late… went to bed.’
‘I’ll pop up and see her’
 ‘She might be asleep, I haven’t heard a sound since she went up there.’
Her mother’s voice sounded stronger now as her father pushed the door into the hall
wide open.
‘I’d leave her if I were you.’
‘Ok, she can always have tea later on, I’ll go up in a bit.’
Grasping her mother’s unwitting suggestion, Jennifer had already laid on the bed with
her back to the bedroom door, feigning sleep. Her mind was in turmoil with the thought
of her mother being a cheap slut who couldn’t care less about her husband, or her
daughter for that matter. She was filled with rage and frustration. Strange, illogical
thoughts, notions never before encountered, careered through her head. Should she cash
in the money secreted in the Post Office account and run away? Perhaps she should run
downstairs, cling to her father whilst hurling the truth at her mother. But the mind of a
seventeen-year-old can only take so much confusion: sleep took over.

Rita Farringdon had never wanted children, she harboured an intense dislike of them.
To contemplate taking second place to a child with all its demands, mess, and never
ceasing cravings for attention, conjured up in her head a picture of dowdy, domestic
imprisonment. As the eldest child in a large family she had been forever put upon to look
after the younger members; her parents both worked and enjoyed a full and selfish social
life. They had no hesitation in expecting their eldest daughter’s teenage years to be spent
in unpaid baby-sitting.
Any boys showing an interest in her were soon tired of staying in at nights, having
their sexual inquisitiveness curtailed by a constant procession of young children
appearing at the sitting room door, demanding drinks, biscuits, or complaining of wet
beds and bad dreams. Worse, as they became older and began to comprehend the power
of blackmail, their threats of, ‘Mum said you weren’t to have boys in your room,’ or, ‘I’ll
tell Dad you had your bra off.’ meant Rita spent all her evenings alone, frustrated, and
hating children.
When Jack Farringdon had shown an interest in her, he had been a well-respected
craftsman, a person, who, because of his outstanding skills and knowledge of his trade
was well thought of amongst his friends. His quiet manner and considered opinions
ensured he was always respected and listened to, and Rita, considering her options, found
Jack, although he didn’t bring her out in goose bumps or make her giggle, the best on
offer. He was her way out.
When the two had married, Jack’s income meant Rita was able to enjoy the lifestyle
living with her parents had denied her. She shopped, visited the hairdresser every week,
bought clothes on impulse rather than from necessity, and enjoyed the luxury of going
out whenever she chose with the blessings of a trusting husband.
At weekends, the two always attended a local dance, Rita never wanting to stop
dancing, Jack content to sit at a table, soaking up Rita’s enjoyment. The partners she
chose never bothered him, he recognised his limitations on the dance floor. If he was
aware his wife flirted, he ignored it, content to enjoy her breathless excitement when she
made brief visits to their table. It was enough for him they always had the last dance
together and walked home arm in arm, sometimes buying a fish and chip supper.
In bed he was a restrained lover, tender but without the inventive spark igniting love
into passion. Rita always put on a good show, moaning and whispering enough
intimacies to convince her husband he was satisfying her every need, but in truth, her
thoughts were always elsewhere.
Saturday night had found her dancing deep within the crowd on the floor, hidden from
Jack’s view. First, her partner had caressed her shoulders, then slid his hand around her
waist and downward, touching, pulling her against him, making her feel his hard, urgent
excitement as their bodies met.
The narrow alleyway outside the dancehall had been deserted and lit by one dim street
lamp at the far end. The back entrances of other properties broke up one wall, forming
dark areas of intimacy. In one such doorway, her legs wrapped around the waist of her
lover, Rita reached a sudden and shuddering climax, crying out once as her body arched
with ecstasy. Only minutes had passed since they’d slipped out through the side door of
the dance hall, now, she returned alone, smoothing down her dress. The encounter had
left her body aching for more, but she knew she had satisfied her lover and, without a
tender word or caress, he’d left her in the alleyway to return home to his wife. Flushed
and breathless at Jack’s table, she insisted they go home.
Friday night, almost two months later, Jack Farringdon returned home from work to
witness a side of his wife’s nature he had never seen, a side she had hidden since
childminding her younger brothers and sisters.
‘You’ve made me bloody pregnant you shit.’
The words were quite mild for Rita, but the venom with which they were uttered and
the malicious way they were spat out as he walked through the door halted him in his
tracks.
‘You’re supposed to take the precautions you stupid bastard. I don’t want to be tied to
a screaming, demanding brat.’
Jack was only able to recall one time when caution had taken a back seat; that night
some weeks ago, after the Saturday dance. But as he remembered, it had been his wife,
making provocative suggestions to him on the walk home, all but dragging him to their
bed, leaving the fish and chips unopened on the kitchen table.
He didn’t consider himself an expert on women, but common sense told him this was
not the time to put up any defence. Placing an arm around her shoulder he struggled to
find the right thing to say.
‘Come on love, we’ll get through it,’ was all he managed.
It sounded so lame but it was the only thing he could think of and although common
sense dictated silence, inside, he was delighted at Rita’s pregnancy.
Rita shrugged off his arm and pulled away.
‘We’ll get through it will we! I’ve got to carry the damn thing around inside me for
months, but after that it’s down to you. I’m having my life back and no bloody kid’s
going to ruin it.’
She had set the ground rules and there was to be no compromising. For seven more
months Rita became bigger and bigger and Jack suffered the continual onslaught of her
rage. Morning sickness, her body, ruined, stretch marks and style-less clothes to
accommodate her ever increasing form: each facet of the woman’s pregnancy was hurled
with spite in her husband’s face. He reasoned with naïve happiness, after the birth things
would return to normal.
Rita had refused to even discuss names during her pregnancy, and when a baby girl
was born she showed a total lack of interest in all matters concerning the child. It was
left to Jack to name his daughter. He chose Jennifer, after his grandmother.
The bond between Jennifer and her father was strengthened day by day as the mother,
remaining true to her promise, had little to do with their daughter’s needs and upbringing.
In fairness it has to be said, Rita never mistreated Jennifer in the physical sense, rather,
the girl was always pushed to the background, taking second place to her mother’s
pleasures, often being cared for by a friend or relative, sometimes virtual strangers.
It was Jack, who recognising his daughter’s special gift with figures, took part in, and
encouraged her early studies. He sat for hours with his daughter teaching her the times
tables, and whilst he worked on the allotment, would listen whilst Jennifer recited them
over and over to him. Her mathematical appetite was voracious, at first increasing the
times tables multiplier from twelve, in single increments to twenty, and after, placing a
decimal point plus a random number after the multiplier. Jack had to content himself by
checking his daughter’s answers with a calculator; he was out of his depth.
Her mathematical abilities continued to progress at a staggering rate, leaving her
classmates far behind. She moved forward a year in the maths group, then another. Her
particular ability at mental calculations dumbfounded her teachers. She leapfrogged two
more maths groups and continued her studies with the upper sixth.

One meaningless and empty day had passed since Jennifer had witnessed her mother’s
sexual exploits on the kitchen table.
The ride home on the school bus was an unnerving and stomach churning experience.
The closer she came to the end of her journey the more despondent her thoughts became.
On numerous occasions Jennifer had witnessed her mother’s attitude towards other men,
but as her father had been present on most occasions and hadn’t seemed to take offence,
she’d passed it off in her own mind as just her mother’s way. However, having witnessed
her mother’s indiscretion of the previous day she began to wonder if her father had in fact
ever noticed his wife’s behaviour at all. Despise for her father’s naivety crept into her
mind but the emotion was short-lived as guilt punished her brief lapse of loyalty.
Jack Farringdon had left early for work, before Jennifer was awake. At breakfast, her
mother had presumed she might take the day off school to rest her knee, but the excuse of
an important maths test she couldn’t afford to miss allowed her to leave the house ahead
of her usual time to catch the bus.
With her journey almost over she was no closer to knowing how she would face her
father. As he’d left earlier than usual for work, long before she’d woken up, the chances
were he’d either be home already or within a short time after she arrived.
The decision had already been made to speak to her mother as little as possible, there
was often friction between them, with each ignoring the other for days on end. Her father
always said they were too much alike to get on, and often found himself in the role of
mediator. When all else failed he would retreat to his allotment and wait for the dust to
settle.
Jack Farringdon looked up from reading the local paper as his daughter walked into
the kitchen.
‘Hello Jenny love, everything alright?’
Her father’s question took her by surprise. She answered with caution.
‘I’m fine Dad, how about you?’
 The trace of a troubled look crossed her father’s face.
‘Ok I guess, but your Mum seems a bit unsettled – you two haven’t had a set to again
have you?’
‘No….no we’ve not seen much of each other. I got home late from school last night:
banged my knee at hockey and had to go to the sick room.’
She indicated the graze and swelling on her leg and shrugged.
‘I went upstairs as soon as I got home and fell asleep, but it doesn’t feel too bad now,’
she volunteered, not wishing to put herself in a position where she might be quizzed on
the previous day’s events.
‘She went off to the shops as soon as I was through the door; almost without a word,’
he continued, looking down at the paper again and then with a sigh, put it to one side.
‘She’s been gone some time, you sure you two haven’t been rowing?’
‘Honest Dad, we’ve not had an argument.’
She changed the subject.
‘Had a maths test at school today; took up most of the morning.’
Her father’s face brightened.
‘How did you do?’
‘It was applied geometry, all to do with orbits and trajectory.’ She grinned and
adopted an offhand tone. ‘You know…easy stuff. I managed to get out an hour early
and ate my sandwiches in the park.’
Rita Farringdon appeared in the kitchen doorway, a carrier bag in each hand. Jack went
to take the bags from her but she side-stepped and put them on the work surface.
‘I’d have thought you’d have made a start with tea as you’re home early.’
Her voice was brittle.
‘I didn’t think…I was reading the paper. Sorry love, what do you want me to do?’
‘You might as well make a salad. Jenny, peel some potatoes and lay the table. I’m
going up to have a shower…there’s cold meat in the fridge,’ all said in an abrupt tone.
Having put the potatoes on to boil, Jenny fetched a tablecloth from the drawer. She
looked at the table. Her father was turned toward the sink, beetroot, onions and tomatoes
on the chopping board, his hands in the bowl, washing the lettuce. She bent down,
squinting along the length of the table, half of it caught in sunlight from the kitchen
window: spotless. If there had been anything, it was gone now.
Throwing the tablecloth over its surface, she busied herself with the cutlery and place
mats, taking care to position her setting at the opposite end, away from where her
mother’s hips had rested to receive Gary’s attentions.
Barefoot, wearing a bathrobe tied tight around her slim waist, Rita came through into
the kitchen. Her looks gave the impression she was ten years younger than her true age;
small dainty feet, long slim legs, a firm, rather than voluptuous figure. Curly brunette
hair framed an oval face set with deep brown eyes and a generous mouth. Little wonder
she never lacked dancing partners on a Saturday night: neither did she ever risk losing
them by admitting to being the mother of a seventeen-year-old girl.
‘What’s the table been set at that end for?’
Her question was directed straight at her husband.
Jennifer spoke up, struggling to keep defiance out of her voice.
‘It’s the sun shining in my face, it gives me a headache and I don’t want to have to put
up with it…and I’ve had a lousy day at school,’ she added, trying to bolster up a lame
excuse.
Putting the salad bowl in the centre of the table her father gave her a puzzled glance as
they sat down to eat. Her mother came to the rescue before Jack could make comment.
‘There’s a dance on Saturday; we don’t seem to go out anywhere anymore. I want to
go.’
Jack Farringdon paused in helping himself to the salad, a slight crease furrowing his
brow; then he nodded.
‘So long as the money’s ok.’
‘You’ve got the weekend, see if there’s any overtime going – I need to get out. Gary
and his mates are going – it should be fun.’
The name was dropped into the conversation in such a matter of fact way. Jennifer
glanced across at her father but could see no reaction on his face, confirming to her he
knew nothing of his wife’s adultery. For her mother to be so blatant, demanding her
father work even more overtime so she could cheat on him was so unfair. She was a
scheming bitch who thought only of herself and nothing of her marriage or family, and
Jennifer hated her for what she was doing.
Through the course of the evening Jennifer began to straighten out matters in her
mind. She strengthened her resolved to confront her mother when the time was right; tell
her what she’d seen through the kitchen window and gamble on the woman’s guilt to end
the sordid affair, rather than face exposure to everyone. Things could never be the same,
but she reasoned if her father remained oblivious, the family would stay together.
The next morning Jennifer ate breakfast, then busied herself making sandwiches for
her lunch and collecting her hockey kit from the cupboard under the stairs. Her parents
seemed to be talking as normal and her mother had brightened up, displaying none of her
abrupt attitude of the evening before. Jennifer guessed the promise of a night out
explained the reason behind her change of mood.
At the bus stop, several students were already waiting and Jennifer joined the queue.
Thomas Howes, a lower sixth form member, came sauntering up and poked Jenny in the
back.
‘Bit of a flash car your old man’s got himself. What’s he done, won the pools?
Jennifer eyed him with suspicion but made no reply.
‘Saw it last night, outside the shops,’ the boy carried on, oblivious to Jennifer’s look.
‘Your old lady was just getting in and they shot off up the road; seemed in a hell of a
hurry. Wicked paint job.’
The girl’s stomach churned. So that’s why her mother had been so moody and abrupt
last night. Gary had picked her up at the shops after they’d arranged a meeting and the
two of them had gone off somewhere in that flash car of his to have sex. Jennifer didn’t
want to think about it, but her mother running up the stairs for a shower as soon as she
was in the house, now made sense. She blurted out the first thing to come into her head.
‘It’s not ours…just a friend giving my mother a lift from the shops.’
‘Whatever – didn’t think it was your old man’s style anyway, bit too hot for him.
Your old dear looked good in it though…suited her down to the ground…really fit.’
He smirked.
Jenny felt her anger getting the better of her, but the bus lurched round the corner,
pulled into the kerb and everyone crowded round pushing and shoving, waiting for the
doors to open. Jennifer was one of the first to take a seat and Thomas ended up on the far
side of the crowd toward the back of the queue.
Once seated, Jennifer stared out of the window, tight-lipped, fighting her anger. What
an absolute cow the woman was: in broad daylight outside the shops, the centre for local
gossip. The whole incident made her more determined to bring the whole thing to a head
with her mother.
The first two periods of the morning were given over to study. Most of the girls
clustered round Charlotte Longthorpe’s desk, either excited about the forthcoming party,
or hoping for a last minute invitation: Charlotte loved every moment of the attention. A
few of the boys joined the crowd, clowning about and talking in loud voices, hoping to
impress the girls. Jennifer tried to write up her course notes, but it was hard to
concentrate through the din. Halfway though the period a trainee teacher appeared and
everyone quietened down.
After the mid-morning break the whole year congregated in their respective changing
rooms for the two-hour sports period. Raised voices and laughter emanated from the
boys’ locker room, full of innuendo and personal observations of each other’s anatomy:
some of the girls giggled.
Out on the hockey pitch Jennifer bided her time: the situation had to be just right:
there could be no suggestion of revenge.
The two teams were matched well, and at half time the scores were level, each side
having two goals. Throughout the first half Jennifer had paid particular attention to the
tactics Charlotte used to pass an opponent, and noted with satisfaction they seldom
changed. The girl always moved her body and stick to the left, waiting for her opponent
to move and block her path, then, a quick switch of direction to the right, but only with
the minimum of movement so as to remain balanced. When the opposing player also
changed direction to counter the manoeuvre, Charlotte would continue on her original
course and pass on the player’s right. On almost every occasion, Charlotte was
successful in passing her opponent.
Midway through the second half Jennifer was presented with an opportunity to test her
theory. Charlotte was headed straight for her, in possession of the ball. True to form she
moved to Jennifer’s right; Jennifer obliged by countering in the same direction. The
other girl swayed her body to the left as if to pass Jennifer on the outside, expecting her
opponent to follow suit. Rather than change direction to follow Charlotte’s ploy, Jennifer
made straight for the ball, hooking it from the end of the other girl’s stick, passing her
and pivoting toward the centre of the pitch. Charlotte almost stumbled, but regained her
balance, backtracked, and headed across Jennifer’s path, presenting herself full on to the
player.
Jennifer was aware the next part of her plan would require an element of luck.
Glancing toward midfield she called the name of the nearest player in her team,
indicating she would pass the ball to her. Charlotte was now quite close and almost in a
position where she could block the pass: she stretched forward with her stick. Taking
aim, Jennifer hooked her stick under the ball, driving it, keeping her right arm straight,
her left hand pulling the top of the stick into her body. The ball lifted at a vicious angle
from the turf and flew at its intended target.
Charlotte Longthorpe gasped with pain as the ball struck her high on the cheek. Her
legs buckled and she fell to the ground clutching her face.
Jennifer dropped her hockey stick and rushed to where the other girl lay, noting with
satisfaction the beginnings of an ugly bruise on Charlotte’s left cheek. Out of the corner
of her eye she could see the games teacher running over… perfect!
‘Charlotte’ I’m so sorry.’
She knelt beside the stricken girl, a picture of contrite concern.
Miss Bartholomew, the game’s mistress arrived: already, a crowd of players had
gathered around the prostrate form of Charlotte Longthorpe.
‘Everyone move back, let me through.’
Jennifer took the opportunity of making her case.
‘I thought I could pass the ball through to the centre, but Charlotte was so quick – I
didn’t realise she would be so fast on her feet.’
She managed to inject admiration with just a touch of panic into her voice for the
agility of the injured girl,
‘Yes yes…I saw what happened, an unfortunate accident. Now let’s take Charlotte to
the sick room…help me move her, that bruise needs looking at.’
The game’s mistress was showing signs of agitation, the girl’s eye was closing fast
and the cheekbone may require a x-ray. Just what she needed, a lengthy accident report
to fill out, with the possibility of a letter or telephone call to the girl’s parents, explaining
the injury.
The game’s mistress appeared satisfied there was no malicious intent; the whole
incident was the result of enthusiastic competitiveness. Jennifer congratulated herself on
a job well done.
Rather than catch her usual bus home, Jennifer caught a bus to take her to the opposite
side of town; an area where expensive private houses had been built in recent years.
Alighting from the bus she walked along a private road, bordered by immaculate grass
verges and trees trimmed to a uniform neatness. A small brook meandered along one
side of the road, and long driveways, affording the dwellings privacy from passers by,
approached all the residences. Oak or wrought iron gates bearing the names of the
houses were closed across most of the driveways. She walked past, ‘Holtspur Lodge,’
followed by, ‘Brookland Grange,’ then, ‘Charlsgrove Heights.’ These were the houses of
rich people in the upper income bracket, able to spend more on one property than the
lifetime’s earnings of an ordinary person.
‘I don’t suppose they even live in them during the winter,’ Jennifer thought.
Across the road, tall, wrought iron electric gates bearing the name, ‘St. Anthony,’ with
a gardeners cottage and entry ‘phone, guarded an enormous house with sweeping lawns
and a driveway lined by pine trees. Allowing only tantalising glimpses of the house and
grounds, they had stood on the land far longer than St Anthony, and the deliberate design
of the drive allowed it to pick its way amongst them before revealing the superb design
and craftsmanship of the dwelling.
Jennifer crossed the road and pushed the bell by the gate.
‘Hello?’
The woman’s voice, even from the single syllable sounded warm and cultured.
‘It’s Jennifer from school, one of Charlotte’s friends.’
The girl considered the circumstances warranted her exaggeration.
‘I’ve come to see how she is …if that’s alright.’
‘How very kind of you…I’ll open the gates. Just press the switch on the wall to close
them again if you would once you’re in. I’ll meet you at the front door.’
 A slight click and the gates commenced to swing open.
Jennifer slipped through, found the switch set into the wall, pressed it, and the gates
swung shut, leaving her to walk the length of the drive to the house.
‘It was all my fault – I feel awful about it. I thought I had time to cross the ball but
Charlotte’s such a good player, and so quick, she cut me off before I knew it.’
Jennifer was seated in the Longthorpe’s living room, having been met by Mrs.
Longthorpe at the front door. Charlotte’s mother had led her through the house, provided
her with a drink of fruit juice and was now sat opposite the girl, listening to her account
of the incident. She nodded with a look of understanding.
‘I remember playing hockey at university, and the fierce competitive nature of our
games. There were always a few of us who ended up with lumps, bumps or grazes at the
end of the match.’
She smiled.
‘The lads in the rugby team used to think it was such a genteel game we girls played.
I remember we took them on for a ‘friendly’ one weekend; the fly half ended the match
with a broken nose.’
She looked at Jennifer and smiled again.
‘That was an accident too, he just got in the way of my shot at goal.’
Jennifer allowed her eyes to drop toward the carpet, enjoying her penitent role.
‘I was so worried…when Charlotte slumped to the floor, I thought…’ she let the
words tail off, satisfied with the degree of despair her voice held.
Constance Longthorpe leaned forward and patted the girl’s hand.
‘My dear, I believe there are times and places for confrontation. The hockey pitch
would constitute one such occasion. Please don’t distress yourself if play became a
little…robust. I’ve spoken to Charlotte’s game’s teacher and her version of the event
tallies in every detail with your own. She’s full of praise for the ability shown by both
you girls.’
Jennifer sensed that beneath the exterior of the mild mannered and cultured woman,
there lurked a competitive spirit not to be ignored. She considered her options, limited as
they were, concluding although the injury caused to Mrs Longthorpe’s daughter had been
deliberate, the event had been witnessed and passed off as an accident. Moreover,
Charlotte’s mother appeared prepared to accept the injury based on her own experiences
at university. Indeed, she seemed more concerned for Jennifer and the girl’s anxiety.
The chance had to be taken; the situation exploited. Jennifer took a deep breath,
managing a convincing involuntary shudder as she did so.
‘That’s very kind of you Mrs. Longthorpe, I only hope Charlotte sees it that way…I
don’t suppose she’ll be looking forward to her party with a black eye.’
‘Oh…that’s quite a few days away, I’m sure the bruising will have all but gone. With
a touch of makeup the whole thing will have been forgotten. I think you should look
forward to the party, and forget the matter.’
Jennifer felt a tingle run down her spine. The bait had been taken; the hook was set
firm: all she had to do was reel in the line.
‘I uh…I don’t have an invite to the party. Charlotte and I don’t mix much at school…
we don’t seem to share the same friends.’
It was Mrs Longthorpe’s turn to look embarrassed.
‘My dear, I had no idea you hadn’t been sent an invite, I shall speak to Charlotte.’
 She gave Jennifer a direct look.
‘You know, over the years I’ve become somewhat tired of all the hangers on Charlotte
seems to collect. She doesn’t seem to have what I would call real friends, just giggling
girls with empty heads and no ambitions.’
Her face clouded over.
‘I’m only too well aware how my daughter collects her friends.’
She paused as if unsure what to say, then continued.
‘My kind of people are there for you no matter what; they never let you down, never
talk about you behind your back, and are unimpressed by money. It grieves me to say,
but Charlotte has not always been set the best example by her family.’
Her last words held a note of sadness. For a brief instant, Jennifer’s thoughts turned to
her mother, of her insatiable appetite for money and men and the fact she had no real
friends to speak of, just men who took the ‘favours’ she offered, and then moved on. She
resolved never to confuse money and loyalty, and never allow financial gain to effect the
importance of friendship.
The strangest feeling came over her, there was no mistaking it – guilt. With an effort
she forced herself to remember the purpose of her visit; to gain an invite to Charlotte’s
party. She told herself that all in all she had given a very convincing performance; she
had achieved her objective.
Fighting back every word, she heard herself say, ‘You don’t have to invite me to the
party Mrs Longthorpe…I was just worried…that’s all.’
‘Worried…who’s worried?’
Charlotte walked through the doorway behind Jennifer and made her way across the
room.
‘What are you doing here? Come to gloat over what you’ve done to me I suppose?’
The girl’s eye was almost closed, an angry black swelling pushing against the lower
lid, forcing the eye shut. She stood in front of Jennifer, hands on hips, demanding an
explanation. Jennifer felt her guilt being pushed into the background by an ever-
increasing feeling of satisfaction, and the realisation of why she had visited the
Longthorpe’s home. It was nothing to do with revenge or wanting an invite to a party. It
was all to do with fair play and a desire not to be taken for a fool by this spoilt girl.
She faced Charlotte, staring into the girl’s one good eye.
‘It was an accident Charlotte, and I’m sorry. I came round to make sure you were all
right. Miss Bartholomew thought your cheekbone or nose may have been broken…I feel
awful about the whole thing.’
Charlotte’s mother intervened.
‘I’ve invited Jennifer to your party. It will give you two girls a chance to chat and sort
out your differences. Who knows, you may even end up liking each other.’
Her daughter stared, horrified, first at her mother, then at Jennifer.
‘This is all about me tripping you up in the match the other day after you beat me, isn’t
it. You were getting your own back…you’re not sorry at all. It was deliberate – you
bitch.’
‘Charlotte!’
Mrs Longthorpe’s voice, raised a fraction, had taken on a very brittle edge.
‘It’s obvious there’s some history between you two, but that’s no excuse for your
appalling manners, or,’ she added, ‘Bad sportsmanship. You will apologise to Jennifer…
now.’
Charlotte starred at Jennifer for a moment before turning on her heel and half running
from the room, slamming the door as she left. Jennifer could hear her running upstairs;
then the sound of another door slamming…then silence.
For the second time that afternoon, Charlotte’s mother looked embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry for my daughter’s behaviour Jennifer, she’s inherited her temper from…’
she sighed, leaving the sentence unfinished.
‘Would you like me to have someone drive you home?’
Jennifer smiled and shook her head. The offer of ‘someone’ driving her home was
enough to assure her of the success of her meeting with Mrs Longthorpe, and in a way,
Charlotte’s outburst had rather been the icing on the cake.
‘It’s a lovely day - I’ll walk into town. There’s a bit of shopping I have to do and then
I can catch a bus the rest of the way…thank you for the offer though, you’re very kind.’
She rose to leave, but on their way through the hallway, her limp caught Charlotte’s
mother’s eye. The woman looked down at the graze. The swelling was still quite evident
and the bruise was becoming tinged with yellow around the outside.
‘Would that be the result of my daughter tripping you?’
Jennifer nodded.
‘It’s much better now though; it stung a bit at first but it’ll be fine in a day or so.’
As Jennifer made her way down the front steps with Mrs Longthorpe, the woman said
her farewells.
‘It’s been so nice to meet you dear – I shall look forward to chatting with you at the
party, and…’ she smiled, ‘ Charlotte is not often out-manoeuvred, on…or off the field.’
 Chapter Two

Constance Longthorpe was an unhappy woman; she was married to William Longthorpe,
and had been for nineteen long and arduous years. For Constance it had been a marriage
made in youthful haste and repented in adult leisure. Her middle class background had
never prepared her for the blunt, bulldozing lifestyle William enjoyed.
He was a self made man, clambering the ladder of success over the backs of all who
were foolish enough to stand in his path. He possessed none of the niceties of life, none
of the refinements Constance accepted as commonplace. When he encountered
problems, they were smashed aside, with no thoughts of the consequences to others. He
could be devious, foul mouthed and argumentative; abrasive, offensive and on occasion,
dishonest in the extreme.
Starting off life as a second hand car salesman had been easy for William Longthorpe.
His brash, often intimidating manner had suited his chosen career. Possessing a large and
powerful physique, his swaggering style and often insulting remarks to his fellow
salesmen made him no friends amongst the trade. His customers were more frightened of
him than convinced by his bludgeoning sales patter, but his bullying sales tactics sold
cars and very few people returned to complain if vehicles broke down.
When his boss was stopped whilst driving, following an anonymous tip-off, his
subsequent conviction and imprisonment on a third drink driving offence, presented
William with an opportunity to buy the business. Installed as the new owner, he insured
the property and stock to the hilt and bought as many cheap, dilapidated vehicles as his
overdraft would allow. Whilst out of town one weekend, his premises, vehicles and
records burnt to the ground, leaving no option but to register a claim with the insurance
company.
The inferno was of such intensity, the metal girders of the building, melted. The
petrol tanks in the vehicles exploded and the surrounding area was evacuated by the
Emergency Services for a radius of a quarter of a mile. Next morning when the area was
declared safe, people gathered to survey the damage.
One old gentleman was heard to remark, ‘Gawd - I haven’t seen a place go up like that
since the Jerries missed the gasworks and dropped a load of incendiary bombs in our
street.’
The inevitable investigation revealed no evidence of arson or other foul play. With
only the burnt out shells to examine, the insurance assessors were in no position to
question the condition of the stock prior to it being destroyed in the fire. The absence of
any documentation ensured William’s inflated and optimistic claim was settled in full.
On the weekend of the fire, it was no coincidence that a long standing army
acquaintance of William’s had been staying at a local hotel, on leave from Northern
Ireland. Corporal ‘Gelly’ Jeffries was a bomb disposal and explosives expert with a
passion for sick animals. Most of these poor creatures were to be found at Newmarket,
Sandown and Ascot and in any one month, Gelly’s contribution to their welfare was
considerable.
Gelly suffered from a recurring problem of over-zealous donations to his animal
friends, and had been known to borrow large sums of money from dubious sources to
maintain these donations. These moneylenders, who under normal circumstances were
amiable and understanding, had become quite specific of late concerning the physical
consequences of his continued non-payment. The contents of the plain manila envelope,
delivered to his hotel room on the night of the fire, went some way toward ensuring
Gelly’s health, for the time being, remained unaffected.
On his way to the railway station to catch the 21.15 to Goodwood, he noted with
satisfaction the deep orange glow lighting the sky from the other side of town. The three
speeding fire appliances, their sirens wailing, only served to renew his faith in his
professional ability, as they sped by.
Following the successful ‘closure’ of his business, William had made the rounds of the
town’s estate agents to acquire a suitable property from which he could trade. Prices in
the property market had slumped over the last few years, and with his new-found
financial wealth, William was in a position to purchase almost anything he took a liking
to. He made appointments with numerous property dealers to view a variety of premises.
The representative from one such agency was Constance Tremayne. The owner of the
agency, a family friend, had begged her to work for him, showing clients around
properties on the company’s books requiring more ‘optimistic architectural vision’.
Constance’s natural eye for good architecture and her ability to visualise the potential in
older buildings had secured the agency a string of satisfied clients. Her first meeting with
William Longthorpe had been at 2.30 pm, outside a derelict warehouse on the industrial
side of town.
Once inside the old building, William had remarked, ‘What a bloody rat-hole, it
doesn’t even look safe. Are you sure this is the right place luv?’
On finding a pair of old boots thrown in a corner he had roared with laughter.
‘Look at those, even the soddin’ tramps have moved out.’
Constance had risen to the challenge with hard facts.
‘The structure is very sound Mr Longthorpe.’
She pointed to the far end of the building.
‘With those two interior walls knocked down and large glazed sliding doors installed,
not only would you be able to use the inside as a showroom, you’d have access to the car
park as a display area.’
She warmed to her subject.
‘There’s a slip road to and from the motorway half a mile from here; car transporters
could be on the doorstep in less than five minutes without parking or traffic difficulties.’
William stopped kicking over piles of rubbish and cursing at the mess to give his full
attention to the woman’s suggestions. She pointed to a flight of stairs leading to some
kind of storeroom.
‘Take out that old staircase, replace it with a circular wrought iron one; have a window
let into that wall and you’d have an upstairs office to overlook your whole business.
Everyone’s moving out of the centre of the town these days. If you’re quick to move,
you could be the first to open a car showroom and beat all the opposition.’
The idea had its merits William had to admit: in particular, the prospect of beating the
opposition was very agreeable. He chose his words with as much care as his vocabulary
allowed.
‘If I got the right dealership I could sell new motors. Those dealers in town have had
it their own way for too long – I’d nail the bastards to the wall and hang ‘em out to dry.’
He eyed Constance.
 ‘What d’you reckon?’
Constance sensed a sale.
‘With the right connections and enough capital, this place could be a very lucrative
venture Mr Longthorpe.’
‘Abso-bloody-lutely,’ he had chortled. ‘They’d be eating shit forever. Show me the
rest of the place – and keep the ideas coming.’
By the end of the meeting Constance had proposed a customer parking area, service,
spares department and a reception suite. The price she had to pay for her intuitive ideas
was dinner with William Longthorpe.
There was no fairytale romance, no candlelit dinners at quiet romantic restaurants or
intimate weekends away in the country getting to know one another. Constance was
appalled, but smitten by William’s lifestyle; the runaway juggernaut approach he took to
all his business problems, smashing into them until they disintegrated. At the back of her
mind she knew she wanted to change him, shape him into a sophisticated businessman,
and the thought of taming that raw and insulting energy appealed to her delicate and
refined senses.
William, for all his ignorance of life’s niceties, was a shrewd businessman. Not
knowing Constance’s long-term plan for his social development, he assumed she was
attracted to his rough, bawdy nature, which suited him down to the ground. To him,
Constance was the key that turned many locks. His affections for her were in direct
proportion to the number of doors her vision and influence might open.
The two married in a Registry Office five months after their first meeting. William
had no family to speak of; a great aunt last heard of somewhere in Torquay and a cousin
in Australia he had never met. Having met William on one very brief occasion,
Constance’s family had no hesitation in refusing to attend the wedding.
William’s comment was typical.
‘Thank fuck for that. If they’d have come it would’ve been all top hats and posh shit.
Nothing but a load of toffee nosed nancies.’
Almost six months to the day of their first meeting, ‘Longthorpes’ opened with a blaze
of local publicity.
Constance had suggested the local brass band playing on the forecourt, glasses of
sherry for all visitors and donation boxes for local charities placed around the interior.
To her surprise, William had agreed.
‘I’ll sort out the rest,’ he’d replied to the new Mrs Longthorpe.
‘The rest’ turned out to be models in next-to-nothing swimwear draped over the
bonnets of gleaming new vehicles with a beaming William Longthorpe circulating
amongst his potential customers.
‘If I slip ‘em a few extra quid later on there’s a chance they’ll get their tits out,’ he had
remarked to a local reporter.
The bored and disinterested man gained a sudden enthusiasm, checking through his
pockets to make sure he had enough spare film to cover the event.
Later that evening, a furious Constance had confronted her husband.
‘Only you could you turn it into a meat market – those girls ended up naked. The
sight of all those men…leering; it was disgusting.’
‘It was bloody good business – that’s what it was,’ William smirked. ‘Did you see
that tall bloke with the swept back grey hair – well he’s a barrister. More to the point did
you hear what he said to that model – the small dark-haired one with the big knockers?’
‘No I did not – thank goodness.’
‘Pity - neither did I - but his wife did. She stomped off and sat in that green sports car
everyone was drooling over. The poor guilt ridden bastard wrote a cheque out for it there
and then – and the miserable cow still didn’t have a smile on her face. I did though – like
I say, it was good business.’
William loved his new premises. The vision Constance had given him on their first
meeting had become a reality. The front of the building had been demolished to make
way for glass panels, and at the touch of a button from William’s office, the panels folded
back along the side walls of the showroom to give access to the outside display area.
Inside, the floor was tiled in light blue marble, the walls coloured brilliant white; the
whole was lit by concealed lighting, separate spotlights in the ceiling highlighting each
vehicle on display. An expensive sound system provided a gentle wash of background
music.
Of all the renovations, William’s favourite had to be the spiral staircase leading to his
office. Constance had acquired it from a derelict hotel, due for demolition. It was a
grandiose construction, sweeping down from her husband’s office, taking a full three and
a half turns before flaring out to exit onto the showroom floor. At every conceivable
opportunity William would climb the staircase to his office, only to emerge seconds later,
descending with a practised majesty to mingle with his customers.
Following the opening, William Longthorpe’s ascension in the business community
was meteoric. As Constance had predicted, the trend was to move from town with all its
congestion and parking restrictions to purpose built areas. A comprehensive retail
community sprung up around ‘Longthorpes’ and the business found itself trading to
capacity. Constance used her contacts in the property market, and further premises were
acquired on the outskirts of neighbouring towns in the county. William now found
himself inundated with dealership offers, and his bargaining experience, learned in the
cut and thrust of second-hand car sales, enabled him to obtain lucrative trade discounts,
unavailable to his competitors.
As one by one, other car dealers closed their doors for the last time, ‘Longthorpes’
flourished. Seeing his competitors flounder caused William to remark, ‘Serves the
buggers right - those limp wristed tossers always did piss me off.’
Laughing, he swaggered his way up the stairs to his office to ‘phone through for
another shipment of new vehicles.
During the first years of their marriage Constance had been a woman on a mission.
Her goal had been to improve her husband’s social and moral standing to the point where
she would feel comfortable in the company of her family and friends with William. She
began with gentle, persuasive suggestions as alternatives to some of his more colourful
expressions and business practices.
William’s devious business sense was epitomised by his favourite remark, ‘Honesty is
for wankers with no guts.’
Experiencing failure in her attempts to reform her husband’s shady business dealings,
or even changing his favourite expression to a more acceptable, ‘Honesty is the
prerogative of people lacking ambition,’ caused Constance to forsake the moral issue.
She concentrated her efforts in chipping away at the general coarseness of the man,
looking for a toehold to climb the mountain of his uncouth behaviour.
 Instead of, ‘If you won’t play ball I’ll stuff it up your arse,’ a remark made to a bank
manager reluctant to release a large amount of money at short notice, Constance had
suggested, ‘I appreciate the inconvenience; however, I would be most grateful for your
co-operation.’
Mr Longthorpe had come back with, ‘Bollocks – the man’s a tosser,’ and transferred
the account to a rival bank.
An interior designer’s sudden departure from the family home had prompted Mrs
Longthorpe to remark, ‘William – perhaps it would have been more polite to say you
imagined the drawing room decorated in a less feminine fashion.’
‘I told him I didn’t want arty farty wallpaper and frilly lace crap around the window –
what’s wrong with that?’
‘I think the man would have put up with that William if you hadn’t also questioned his
sexuality.’
‘I only asked him if all designers were shirt lifters.’
He pointed to the man’s receding figure down the drive.
‘Look at the mincing little twat – he walks like a tart –are you telling me you don’t
think he’s queer?’
‘I have no opinions on the matter: the man seemed very knowledgeable and pleasant
to me,’ she retorted.
It occurred to Constance, prior to meeting her husband, she wouldn’t have known
what a ‘shirt lifter’ was. Meeting William had required that she master a new alternative
vocabulary, and none of it was to her liking.
Although not often guilty of errors in judgement, Constance admitted to herself,
asking a friend to introduce William to the golf club had been a grave mistake. The effort
taken to persuade her husband to attend the club had been monumental. Only after
realising the potential business opportunities had he agreed to visit as a guest one Sunday
morning with a borrowed set of clubs, having had a few practice swings in the back
garden the night before.
On the first tee, William addressed the ball, and on his backswing had been heard to
mutter, ‘Right you fucker, have some of this.’
His stroke, nothing short of agricultural, had lashed down onto an unsuspecting ball,
dispatching it across the fairway at an acute angle towards some trees, a large divot of
turf in close pursuit. As he was about to make off in search of the ball, a quiet voice
reminded him, ‘We like to replace all the divots old man.’
William had stopped in his tracks, turned round and glared, first at the large hole his
club had left in the turf, then his partner.
‘Then you feel free sunshine,’ he’d growled. ‘I came here to play golf…not to do the
fuckin’ gardening.’
The embarrassment felt by William’s partner when trying to convey to Constance her
husband was unsuitable for membership, proved far more difficult than it had been for
William to admit golf was not his game.
‘Clubhouse was full of half pissed, gin drinking tossers wearing women’s pullovers –
won’t be going again,’ was the remark he made to close the matter once and for all.
The arrival of Charlotte brought a new dimension to Constance’s life. No longer did
she feel obliged to spend her time improving the social standing of her husband in the
community; forever acting as a buffer between him and the rest of the world. However,
William had his own ideas on bringing up children and now Constance found herself
acting as a constant chaperon for fear of what Charlotte might learn as a result of
listening to some of her husbands more colourful expressions. As a consequence her
charitable activities suffered.
William’s opinion of charitable organisations was derisive to the extreme.
‘What’s the point in slogging your guts out for no wages, making a few bob flogging
dead peoples clothes and knick-knacks, then giving it all away to some godforsaken third
world country. They end up thinking they’ve struck it rich, have huge families, and when
the hand outs dry up and there’s even more of ‘em to starve the whole bloody mess starts
again – soddin’ ridiculous.’
‘But William, it’s what I believe in,’ the passion was evident in her voice. ‘I don’t
regret the way I was brought up and wanting to help in some way. Anyway,’ she’d
added, ‘my upbringing hasn’t done you any harm, has it?’
At the veiled suggestion his business success was not all of his own doing William had
stormed into the garden and attacked the rose bushes with pruning shears, cursing as the
thorns fought back, ripping his hands. Later, bloodied, he’d returned to the house in a
thoughtful mood.
Whilst becoming impaled in the garden, his ego, never far from the surface, had risen
and confronted him with the picture of his daughter in years to come, cast in the likeness
of his wife. He didn’t want Charlotte to become one of the brown sandal and sun hat
brigade, forever wringing her hands at the desperate plight of others. He wanted her to be
tough and hard-headed, a businesswoman, who made her own opportunities, achieved her
goals, no matter what the cost to others. In short, he needed to spend more time with the
girl; lay some solid foundations. His decision made, he approached Constance.
‘I know how you do-gooders think you’ll rot in hell if you can’t help a few poor souls.
The staff can do without me for a couple of afternoons a week, and if they cock-up, they
know where the dole queue is. I’ll look after Charlotte and you can take yourself off to
rummage through piss stained knickers and flog lavender water to demented old dears if
that’s what you want.’
Reluctant to forego the chance of moral redemption, but with huge misgivings,
Constance had accepted. However, after a few weeks she began to feel a cautious
optimism, returning home to find Charlotte watching TV with her father or sat in her high
chair with William feeding her.
By now, Charlotte had begun to say a few words and Constance was relieved beyond
belief to hear William offering the child encouragement and even correcting her
pronunciation. On returning home one afternoon she was met by an excited William at
the front door.
‘Come and have a listen to this – the kid’s a fast learner.’
Fearful of what William had been up to, Constance hurried through to the kitchen to
find Charlotte in her high chair picking salmon from her sandwich.
‘Right then young lady, tell Mummy what I’ve learnt you.’
‘It’s ‘taught’ William.’
‘Yes yes, I expect it is,’ and turning to Charlotte, ‘C’mon my lovely – do your stuff.’
Charlotte paused from extricating the salmon from between the bread and gazed at her
mother.
‘Longthorpes sell the best cars,’ she mouthed in a child’s slow and high piping voice.
 William clapped his hands and beamed, thrilled by his daughter’s accomplishment.
‘She’s a right chip off the old block,’ he chortled, ‘Some of my staff don’t learn things
that quick.’
Constance began to feel more at ease than she had done for months. Her husband
seemed to have been endowed with a refreshing new sense of responsibility and she was
able to commit herself more wholly to her charitable activities.
Charlotte proved to be a fast learner and was soon able to recite all the names and
models of cars at the Longthorpes showrooms. Her father sometimes used his free
afternoons to visit the other premises in the county, taking his daughter with him. The
staff were quite happy to entertain the child if their boss had business to discuss and
Charlotte spent many happy hours pushing buttons and clicking the switches of vehicles
on display. She soon knew all the staff by name and the branches where they worked.
By far and away her most favourite person was Thomas Crabtree, who, in his capacity
as the company cleaner, made ready all the deliveries of new cars for the showrooms,
applying his meticulous standards to models taken in part exchange. His ability to take a
second hand vehicle, and within a short time, present it for display in a condition
approaching new, had earned William’s business an enviable reputation in the used car
market.
William Longthorpe appreciated the man’s eye for detail and the immaculate finish of
his work, and Tom was the only employee he treated with respect and courtesy. On
occasion, when faced with a tricky decision concerning the price to be paid for a second
hand car, William would seek Tom’s advice as to the vehicle’s potential. A brief nod
from the man and he would increase his offer to the customer. If on the other hand Tom
shook his head, William would snap his book shut uttering, ‘That’s my final offer,’ and
there would be no further discussion or extra money on the table.
Old clothes were the order of the day for Charlotte when she visited Tom. The
delights of hosepipes and scrubbing brushes, vacuum cleaners and wet, sloppy sponges
were the things guaranteed to turn a normal infant into a screaming mischievous trouble
maker, hell bent on drenching everything in its path.
Tom would feign huge anger and roar in mock rage when Charlotte aimed the hose at
him, chasing her around the car, waving a scrubbing brush above his head. Following an
afternoon in the valeting enclosure, Charlotte would always fall to sleep on the way
home, wet, tired and happy.
Constance was content for her daughter to accompany her husband on his business
visits. It brought the child into contact with other people who were familiar with
William’s ways and she reasoned his influence would be somewhat diluted in the
company of what she deemed as ‘normal’ people. Also, she was aware Charlotte would
begin school in a few years and agreed William should make the most of his time with
the child.
It had brought ongoing relief to Constance that William was not one for socialising.
His whole makeup and outlook on life did not lend itself to idle chat and circulating
amongst people whose topics of conversation were not centred on, or concerned with,
advancing his business interests. Early on in the marriage there had been attempts to
cultivate a circle of friends, people Constance had known before she met her husband, but
William’s abrasive, bullying attitude and strong language saw friendships melt away.
The few friends left were the ones involved with her work and she went to great lengths
to ensure they never came into contact with her husband. Her daughter and charity work
had now become the mainstays in her life.
The continuous cycle of ‘boom and bust’ rolled on. The property market, depressed
for a number of years, became revitalised with the country’s up-turn in the economy.
The premises owned by the Longthorpes chain of showrooms appreciated in value
overnight, causing William Longthorpe to borrow against his increased wealth and
expand his operations into adjacent counties. The voracious business appetite that drove
William’s ambitions overwhelmed smaller concerns lacking the potential for financial
investment, crushing them before marshalling the failing businesses under the umbrella
of the Longthorpes Empire.
Local council’s had their government grants increased, roads were mended and leisure
facilities improved; rolling swathes of countryside declared by previous governments as
‘green belt for ever’, were earmarked for housing development as the country basked in
the warm glow of profit and greed.
Prosperity however is like a sunrise, relentless on its journey, bringing light to some,
only to leave others in darkness. The plight of the world’s poorest worsened, and
Constance, tireless in her work for the charities, devoted all her available time to
relieving the suffering of the desperate and needy. She resolved to approach her husband
that evening to see if between them, a way could be found so she might devote more time
to her work.
Charlotte was seated at the breakfast bar, scribbling in a colouring book, a pile of felt-
tip pens scattered around. William was pacing the kitchen, his face red and blotchy with
anger. As Constance entered, he threw his arms in the air, let out with an exasperated
growl, grabbed a crumpled letter from the worktop and thrust it in her face. Before she
had time to glance at its contents he had launched himself into a scathing monologue.
‘This bloke knocked on the front door – weasel of a guy – thin and vicious looking –
wearing a cheap suit and carrying a briefcase. Asked if he could come in – I told him to
go round the back so long as he wasn’t selling anything. Said he was from the Council
Planning Department. I told him he could still go round the back.’
Charlotte had stopped scribbling and was staring in concentration at her father.
‘Comes in my kitchen, opens his stupid briefcase, pulls out a load of papers… and
then the brainless little…’
William was having difficulty getting his words out.
‘Prick,’ offered Charlotte. ‘Brainless little prick.’
She said it with a slight lisp.
‘That’s the one,’ roared William, ‘and that’s what I called him – a brainless little
prick…anyway, he tells me they’re putting a compulsory purchase order on half my
garden to build a bloody through road.’
‘Kiss my arse,’ Charlotte giggled.
‘Too right I told him to kiss my arse, and all his council buddies…nothing but a load
of parasites.’
He paused to tug at his shirt collar and draw breath.
‘And wankers,’ Charlotte piped, enjoying the game of prompting her father, ‘Parasites
and wankers – you said so Daddy.’
‘Half my bloody garden,’ he bellowed. ‘Whined on about having to have an access
road to all the new private houses they’re building over there.’
 He stabbed his finger at the kitchen window, indicating the fields beyond the back
garden.
‘I don’t want to be overlooked by a load of chinless wonders and empty-headed tarts
playing happy families. They’ll lower the tone.’
He was almost choking with rage, the veins throbbing in his neck and at his temples.
Constance stared at her husband, ashen faced and thin- lipped, gripping the back of the
kitchen chair, her knuckles white.
‘No William,’ she with a quiet controlled rage, ‘You lower the tone; you have always
lowered the tone. How dare you use such filthy and disgusting language in front of my
daughter.’
Lowering her voice she moved closer to her husband. Charlotte had gone back to her
scribbling.
‘There’s only one brainless little prick here, and I’ve been stupid enough to imagine he
had begun to cultivate a shred of decency, that he could be trusted to care for his own
child. I will never, ever, make that mistake again.’
Scooping Charlotte from the chair she swung the child into her arms and walked from
the room.
Over the next few weeks, life for Constance and Charlotte involved many changes.
Her moral obligations rendering her unwilling and unable to forsake her charity work,
Constance had no choice but to take her daughter with her, but the nature of her work the
and type of people she came into contact with, handicapped her activities.
At home, in front of their daughter, the parents managed the façade of being a family,
but in the evenings, when Charlotte was in bed, an icy atmosphere descended. For her
part, Constance experienced a feeling of intense hate, loathing her husband’s presence.
William resorted to going out in the evenings, something he had not done since the early
months of his wife’s pregnancy, when the combination of her hormones and his arrogant
pigheadedness made for a fragile relationship.
Through a friend, Constance heard of a small, select kindergarten, and after much
thought, placed Charlotte there for a trial period, beginning with two mornings a week.
Her daughter loved every minute, and within a month, attended two full days and three
afternoons a week. The relief for Constance was immense and it occurred to her that she
was all but living the life of a single parent. Although shunned by the family after her
marriage to William, wise investment of inheritances provided her with a healthy
independent income and she entertained brief thoughts of divorce. But realising her
husband’s stubborn and arrogant ways and the fact her daughter and William were close,
led her to the conclusion it would be a legal nightmare, with Charlotte at the centre of a
terrible custody battle. She resolved to review the matter when her daughter no longer
constituted an issue.
 Chapter Three

With the party only days away, Jennifer ‘s frantic search through her wardrobe ended
with the girl concluding she had nothing suitable to wear. Rita caught her laying
combinations of skirts, blouses and trousers on the bed.
‘You can go through my things if you like – there’s bound to be something there that
takes your fancy. We’re both about the same size – there’s plenty to chose from.’
Jennifer had found it difficult not to be downright hostile.
‘Don’t you think your stuff might be a bit old for me,’ was the most pleasant she’d
managed. ‘I’ll borrow something from someone at school.’
Her mother left the bedroom with a, ‘Suit yourself,’ leaving Jennifer clenching
her teeth in anger.
‘I’d rather wear a bin liner, or go naked,’ she thought, shuddering. ‘God knows what
you’ve been up to in half your clothes.’
By the morning she’d reached a decision. In the bottom of the lunch box, underneath
her sandwiches she placed her Post Office book and a folded supermarket carrier bag.
The lunch box went in her school haversack with schoolbooks on top. Her father, as
usual had left for work early, her mother was drying her hair in the bedroom. Jennifer
called up the stairs.
‘I’m going round a friend’s house after school to try on some clothes – I might be a bit
late.’
The hair drier switched off and Rita appeared at the top of the landing.
‘I’ve got some shopping to do, I might not be in when you come home – there’ll be a
casserole in the oven on the timer.’
Jennifer made her way to the bus stop, planning her day. The afternoon was given
over to study and revision periods for forthcoming exams and with the shortage of
teachers, pupils were allowed home. The school reasoned, if a pupil wished to abuse the
privilege of ‘home study’, exam results would reflect their lack of endeavour.
When morning lessons finished, Jennifer skipped lunch and caught a bus to the centre
of town. The Post Office was busy and by the time she had filled in the withdrawal form
the queues were almost to the front door. When her turn came, the woman clerk behind
the counter, recognised her and smiled, taking the form and her account book.
‘Makes a change for me to be giving you money,’ she peered at the long list of
deposits and then at the withdrawal slip, ‘Buying something nice, or is it the start of the
slippery slope?’
‘Just a few clothes.’
Jennifer tried to sound offhand.
‘Well enjoy your shopping – the sales are on in the High Street.’
The clerk handed Jennifer the account book, the withdrawn money tucked inside.
The sales were indeed in full swing. Almost every shop window was plastered with
stickers offering huge discounts. After visiting every clothes shop in the town centre,
Jennifer made her choice, and although it proved to be expensive, she knew her money
had been well spent. She considered a new pair of shoes to be a warranted extravagance
and the second shoe shop she visited provided the perfect style, colour and size.
Shopping done, she decided on a cup of coffee before catching a bus home.
 The shops at the lower end of the High Street began thinning out, giving way to flats
and terraced houses, and Salvatore’s, the best coffee-house in town, sat on the corner of a
side street opposite a row of regency dwellings, modernised and converted into flats.
Jennifer made her way to the café and chose one of the outside tables. The delicious
smell of fresh brewed coffee wafted through the shop doorway and out onto the street. A
waiter, looking very Italian, but speaking with a broad, Home Counties accent, came to
take her order and disappeared back inside.
While she was waiting for her coffee to arrive Jennifer busied herself with stripping
the price tags and sticky labels from her purchases,before transferring the items into the
supermarket carrier bag she’d brought from home and placing it back in her haversack.
Looking round she saw a waste bin by the shop door and rose to throw away the other
two carriers and labels.
A car pulled up with music blaring from a stereo and swung in to park on the
hardstanding outside one of the flats, the driver racing the engine before switching off the
ignition. As Jennifer turned to go back to her table, she caught sight of the car that she’d
last seen parked on the driveway to her house. The waiter appeared in the doorway,
carrying her coffee on a small tray.
‘Do you mind if I have that inside, I’m feeling a bit chilly?’
It was the first thing that came into her head and without waiting for a reply, she
brushed past the man and took a window seat.
The waiter followed her in, placing her coffee on the table. Jennifer gave him her very
best smile; he was only a couple of years her senior.
‘Oh hell – I’ve left my bag outside,’ she pointed toward the vacant pavement table.
‘No problem – I’ll get it for you – you enjoy your coffee.’
The waiter stepped outside to retrieve the haversack, working on a suitable chat-up
line.
Gary opened the driver’s door and flicked a cigarette end into the gutter. The
passenger door opened and Rita stepped out, laughing at some comment of Gary’s.
Slipping his arm around her waist he whispered something in her ear. She laughed again,
and grabbing the bunch of keys from his hand, ran to the front door, unlocking it as she
called over her shoulder.
‘I’ll hold you to that as soon as we get upstairs.’
Rita’s voice carried across the street.
‘Sounds like someone’s on a promise.’
The waiter was standing by the table holding Jennifer’s haversack, hoping to strike up
a conversation.
‘Mind you, a car like that’s bound to pull the women.’
Jennifer ignored the remark and the man’s obvious infatuation.
‘Thanks for fetching my bag – my boyfriend’s birthday present’s inside – just my luck
if someone had pinched it.’
The waiter retreated looking crestfallen.
‘Perhaps I ought to take my mate’s advice, and put on an Italian accent,’ he thought.
‘Something has to work.’
Sipping her coffee, Jennifer kept an eye on the building opposite. Her mood
deepened, as minutes later a bare-chested Gary appeared at an upstairs window and
pulled the curtains closed.
 ‘I’ve got some shopping to do, I might not be in when you come home – there’ll be a
casserole in the oven on the timer.’
Her mother’s words echoed in her mind as she finished her coffee. It was obvious it
had all been planned; she had to confront her mother as soon as possible; the whole thing
was getting out of hand. She’d get the party over and have it out with her mother on
Sunday, and hope her father would be at the allotment, if he wasn’t working again.
Leaving the money with the bill on the table, plus an extra something for the waiter,
she slipped out of the door, and without looking across the road, made her way back
toward the town centre and the bus stop.
On her arrival home the house was locked. She could smell the casserole cooking as
she let herself in the front door. Upstairs, she unpacked the haversack and hung her
purchase on a hanger in the wardrobe, putting the shoes in the bottom.
The Post Office book, still containing about half the money she had withdrawn went
back into its hiding place on her bookshelf.
Back downstairs in the kitchen she checked the casserole and had begun to lay the
table as her father arrived home from work.
‘Thank goodness that’s over.’ He sighed and looking weary, sat down at the table.
‘What a day – how’s yours been?’
‘Not bad – study periods all afternoon. One more day to go and it’s the weekend –
I’m looking forward to the party.’
‘I bet – It’ll be good for your mum to get out as well – it’s been a while. Where is she
by the way?’
Jennifer hated lying to her dad and wondered how many other times her mother had
caused her to deceive him without her knowing.
‘She told me this morning she was going shopping and might be back late. There’s a
casserole in the oven – we might as well eat now.’
‘Good idea – I’m starving – we’ve been so busy at work I only ate half my
sandwiches. Nice of your mum to do dinner before she went out.’
Jennifer couldn’t trust herself to reply. Instead she made an exaggerated show of
opening the oven door, flapping the heat away with a tea towel.
Halfway through the meal Rita arrived home carrying a shopping bag. Jack stopped
eating and rose from the table to serve up his wife’s tea. She took her seat and began
eating without a word of thanks.
‘How did your shopping go love – was it very busy in town?’
Jennifer didn’t know why her father bothered to ask, he was only about to be told a
pack of lies by her mother.
‘Absolutely hectic – the sales are on. The shops were packed with people, and then I
had to stand all the way home on the bus. I only went in to buy a new blouse for the
dance on Saturday – it took forever to find something.’
‘Lying bitch,’ thought Jennifer, ‘But if I didn’t know any different I’d believe her
myself.’
‘I’d have thought you’d have had a shower as soon as you got back – get rid of all the
dirt you picked up in town.’
Jennifer couldn’t resist the comment.
‘I think I’ll have one straight after tea – I did get all hot and bothered a couple of
times.’
 ‘I’ll bet you did.’ Biting her words back she began to feel her anger getting the upper
hand. She fought it down. ‘I’ll give you a hand with the washing up Dad, then I’ve got
some study to do.’
‘Thanks Jen,’ then turning to Rita, ‘You go and freshen up and I’ll make you a cuppa
for when you come down.’
Chores finished, Jennifer went upstairs and sat on the side of her bed. She felt angry
and betrayed; frustrated at having to wait until Sunday to confront her mother and bring
the sordid business out into the open. What the outcome would be she had no idea, only
that it would force her mother’s hand. She couldn’t imagine her mother carrying on as
she was now, not once she knew her daughter was wise to her deception. Perhaps she’d
leave – go off with Gary somewhere. Jennifer was at the point where she didn’t have an
opinion one way or the other.
If her mother stayed, a lot of changes would have to take place, not least, treating her
husband with the respect he deserved. Perhaps her dad would never have to know;
perhaps her mother would take stock and accept turning over a new leaf was for the best.
Jennifer decided the price of her silence would not be cheap – the woman had to make a
real effort.
At school on Friday the classroom buzzed with conversation, all concerning the party
the next night. Jennifer found it distasteful: everyone speculating on the presents the
Longthorpe’s had decided to give their guests. Charlotte was basking in the glory of it
all, refusing to be pinned down by the torrent of questions from her classmates, choosing
to answer with coy smiles.
‘Is it clothes Charlotte – just say yes or no?’
‘Can we take it home with us – in a box – is it jewellery?’
One pouting girl, whose manners had lost out to transparent greed, demanded, ‘Does it
cost more or less than a hundred pounds – surely you can tell us just that?’
Charlotte loved it, even though she had no idea of the presents her parents had decided
to buy everyone. William and Constance never conferred about the gifts. It appeared
their daughter’s birthday party only served as an excuse to wage a point scoring war on
one another in public, under the pretence of generosity.
The boys were far more down to earth, one remarking, ‘I heard a rumour old man
Longthorpe was taking us all to a strip club.’ That brought whistles and cheers, and
shouts of, ‘Get ‘em off.’
Jennifer distanced herself from the pack; she had no desire to be classed as a hanger
on. Charlotte caught sight of her, sitting on the far side of the classroom, absorbed in a
book.
‘You don’t look very excited,’ she called out. ‘Changed your mind about coming –
don’t let me stop you.’
Some of the girls laughed and whispered amongst themselves. Jennifer walked across
the classroom and faced Charlotte.
‘Do you honestly think this lot cares about your birthday? It’s all about the presents
your mother and father buy for them. If there were no presents, half of them would find
excuses not to come. They’re not your friends Charlotte – they’re just bought and paid
for.’
Before Charlotte could reply, Jennifer thrust the knife in to the hilt.
‘I’m glad to see your eye’s a lot better. How many of these ‘friends’ of yours came to
see how you were, or rang you up?’
Charlotte stared at Jennifer and said nothing. One or two of the crowd drifted away;
the others found things to talk about among themselves: a general air of embarrassment
hung around the classroom. There were a few muttered comments, but no one stepped
forward to challenge Jennifer’s unambiguous statement.
The argument won, she turned her back, feeling a touch of guilt at her forthrightness,
but knowing, nevertheless, the lack of response had proved her argument.
That night, sleep eluded her. Not only was her stomach churning at the thought of the
forthcoming row with her mother; going to the Longthorpes’ for the party was not
helping matters. She couldn’t forget the comment Constance Longthorpe had made to
her on the doorstep of St. Anthony as she was leaving.
‘Charlotte is not often out-manoeuvred, on…or off the field.’
It was obvious Mrs Longthorpe had read between the lines and knew there was more
to the incident than Jennifer had told her, but she had made no attempt to defend her
daughter. It was almost as if she had been glad to see Charlotte get her just deserts.
Also, true to her word, the invitation for the party had arrived in the post the next day.
There was something going on Jennifer knew nothing about.
Early on Saturday morning she made the excuse of meeting friends in town and caught
the bus to the shopping centre. Her purchase cost her the rest of the money withdrawn
from the Post Office, but she felt far more at ease now her mind was made up and
returned home, putting the business with her mother to the back of her mind.
Saturday evening came, and with it the inevitable excitement of trying on the new
clothes. Showered and hair washed, she slipped into her bedroom and began to get ready.
A trace of make-up, nothing too heavy, a casual, tousled look to her dark hair and tiny
gold ear studs, a present from her father on her last birthday.
Jack arrived home from work to find the ground floor of the house deserted. He
guessed Rita was upstairs, getting ready for the dance: he knew better than disturb her
whilst she was in the middle of things. Instead he called up the stairs.
‘I’m home – someone give me a shout when the bathroom’s free.’
Jennifer’s bedroom door opened and she called down to her father.
‘It’s empty Dad – am I still ok for a lift to the party?’
‘What time do you want to go Jennny – ‘bout eight o’clock be alright?’
Before Jennifer could reply, the door to Rita’s bedroom opened and she appeared,
wrapped in a towel tucked high under her arms.
‘You’ll have to get yourself something to eat; if I’ve got to do that as well, I’ll never
be bloody ready. There’s some cold meat in the ‘fridge – make yourself a sandwich.’
The bedroom door slammed and Jennifer heard her father moving about in the kitchen.
She pursed her lips and cursed her mother under her breath. Her father had been at
work all day, earning the extra money to take his wife to the dance. Rita had been
lounging around the house all afternoon, painting her nails and watching TV. Well, come
tomorrow, there were going to be changes. She put on her bathrobe and went downstairs
to make her dad a cup of tea and say ‘hello’.
Ten minutes later she was back in her bedroom putting the finishing touches to
everything. The full-length mirror in her wardrobe only gave a limited view, the one in
the downstairs hall would be better. A quick check of her make-up and she was as ready
as she was going to be.
 Jack came out of the kitchen on his way through the hall to the living room as Jennifer
was midway down the stairs. He stopped, mug of tea halfway to his mouth.
‘Oh my, what a picture. You look beautiful – so grown up - and that dress is just
stunning.’
Jennifer felt herself blushing as she went to the hall mirror. One look was enough to
confirm her money had been well spent. The black dress, with its delicate thin shoulder
straps, scooped back and neckline did everything a dress should do. It highlighted the
perfect symmetry of her shoulders, striking a beautiful contrast with the soft satin sheen
of tanned arms and back before flaring out from the girl’s slim waist. Ending an inch or
so above the knee it moved from side to side as Jennifer walked the length of the hallway.
The new black shoes were patent leather; two-inch heels and small rounded fronts, a
strap across the back. A single thin strap crossed the front just below the ankle. They
imparted a slight sway to Jennifer’s hips as she walked. A small black leather evening-
bag complimented the dress and shoes.
Jack realised his daughter had left her childhood behind. She was now a beautiful
young woman, lithe and vibrant with intelligence beyond her years. She walked to where
he sat on the stairs, bent forward, put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the
cheek, a light brushing gesture, full of warmth.
‘I love you Dad.’
A simple statement, but said with honesty and sincerity.
Jack got to his feet, giving his daughter a gentle hug, his voice holding an
unaccustomed gruffness.
‘I love you too sweet.’ He moved off towards the kitchen, mug and plate in hand.
‘Better get myself ready, your mum’ll be down in a minute.’
Coming back through the hall he disappeared upstairs.
Walking out to the car on the driveway Jack remarked to Rita,
‘Doesn’t Jennifer look the perfect picture – suddenly she’s all grown up.’
Rita was dismissive.
‘She’s young – you can look good in anything at her age.’
She made Jack take a detour on the way to the Longthorpes’, insisting on being
dropped off at the dancehall first.
‘I want to be sure to get a table big enough for us all to sit round – I’ll have a drink
with Gary and his mates ‘til you get back.’
Jack dropped Jennifer off at the entrance to St Anthony’s, thrusting a ten-pound note
into her hand as she left.
‘Make sure you get a taxi home love – have a great time – see you in the morning.’
He turned the car round in the road and drove off back toward the town.
About half the guests had arrived, and as usual with parties, until things got underway,
people had polarised themselves, girls at one end of the room, boys at the other. As
Jennifer walked in, a wolf whistle sounded from the boys’ end of the room. The girls
stopped chatting and giggling to stare with ill concealed envy at the new arrival, making
Jennifer feel uncomfortable but more convinced than ever her money had been well
spent.
Constance Longthorpe detached herself from the crowd of girls and joined Jennifer.
She wore a simple outfit; light blue silk trousers and a black silk blouse, set off with
dainty mother of pearl buttons. Jennifer could not help but notice the woman’s striking
grey eyes and the erect and confident manner in which she carried herself.
‘Hello my dear – so glad you could come – you look charming.’ Constance looked at
Jennifer with obvious approval. ‘Charlotte will be down in a minute – she’s having a
little difficulty with her make-up.’
She gave Jennifer what could only be described as a secret smile.
William Longthorpe appeared through the doorway and made his way over to the
group of boys, clapping several of them on the back. He whispered something, making
an exaggerated show of glancing around to be certain he was not overheard, tapped the
face of his wristwatch and nodded toward a door at the far side of the room.
Jennifer poured herself a soft drink from a trolley in the corner and went to stand on
the edge of the group of girls. Constance Longthorpe joined her husband, chatting to the
boys. Several of them looked her up and down, puffing out their chests and drawing
themselves up to their full height. Constance pretended not to notice.
She was a striking lady of remarkable appearance. The first thing anyone noticed
about Constance Longthorpe was the kindness and warmth shinning from her face; it
radiated honesty and candour. When she spoke, her voice possessed a soft huskiness and
her grey eyes never left those of the person she was addressing. Those eyes held an
understanding softness, but in the face of injustice, could flash as hard as steel, slicing
through the defences of anyone foolish enough to mistake her mild manner for weakness.
For the last eighteen years she had sought to instil into her daughter the same values of
elegance and poise, bestowed on her by her parents and grandparents. In the main, she
considered she had achieved success, and had it not been for her husband’s influence on
Charlotte, would have possessed few, if any reservations. On occasions she had
considered it prudent to lower her standards in keeping with William’s. Tonight, and the
spiralling absurdity of the guests’ presents, was one example. She would rather have
donated the money to charity, but the thought of her husband taunting her choice with
impressionable teenagers was not an option she wished to consider. Better to bite on the
bullet and join in.
Now, listening to William, bragging and postulating to the boys, a thought ran through
her head.
‘This can’t go on forever – very soon, Charlotte will have to fend for herself and I’ll
have to take a step back.’
She excused herself from the group to go upstairs and hurry her daughter along.
William Longthorpe shot a knowing wink to the group of boys, leaving them, to make
his way to the conservatory at the rear of the house. He stood looking over his garden, at
the expanse of lawns, the indoor heated swimming pool, and next to it, the large marquee
erected for the party. Off to the left stood a copse of trees William had chosen to elevate
in stature and refer to as ‘The Wood’, and to the other side stretched the orchard.
The apple trees in the orchard had been full of bloom earlier in the year and should
provide a heavy crop by early autumn. He didn’t have a particular liking for apples; his
vanity dictated the need for an orchard, rather than a desire to grow fruit. He’d do what
he did every year, allow the gardener to take what he wanted and let the remainder rot.
Constance would fill a bowl or two around the house and the low life’s from the nearby
village would sneak over the fence to help themselves. He’d decided to give some more
thought to keeping a couple of large dogs. That should put a stop to their trespassing –
thieving bastards. He looked at his watch and grinned.
 Back at the party, the boys had detached themselves in small, inconspicuous groups to
top up their soft drinks from the trolley. Unnoticed, they congregated in the vicinity of
the door indicated by William earlier. Now they slipped through the door in ones and
twos, to reappear a few moments later at the far end of the hall through another door and
rejoin the main group.
Charlotte made her entrance, pausing in the doorway until everyone had noticed her.
One of the girls began singing ‘Happy Birthday’ in a key far too high for the boys to
follow. They managed to get through it after a fashion, everyone feeling very self-
conscience, and ended with a rather lukewarm round of applause. Boisterous whistles
came from some of the boys, the girls gathering round Charlotte to quiz her on the
presents she’d received.
The attempt to conceal the bruising on her cheek and eyelid had been very successful.
From a distance, evidence of the incident had been obliterated with the clever use of
make-up. Only close up, was there the slightest suggestion of a darkening in colour.
Charlotte had chosen to wear a blouse in her favourite colour – dark green. It
complimented her natural blonde hair and contrasted well with the cream trousers and
dark brown, hand-stitched, broad leather belt. The brown shoes, with small stacked
heels, fastened by a tiny gold coloured clasp, completed her outfit.
The band arrived in the front drive and was directed round to the back of the house to
unload their instruments and equipment and set up in the marquee. One or two of the
girls let out with excited squeals, recognising the lead singer from the bands numerous
appearances on television. Even Jennifer was impressed; it must have cost a fortune to
book such a well-known group for the evening. She glanced across at the boys who were
clowning about, one with his thumb stuck in his mouth, playing an imaginary saxophone,
taking off the band’s lead instrumentalist. Another was playing an imaginary drum kit.
Three of them were dancing round a girls handbag making out they were gay and
pretending to touch each other up. One in particular was very convincing.
Jennifer stood watching; some of the boys’ antics were quite funny.
‘They seem to be entering into the spirit of things,’ she remarked to a girl nearby.
‘There isn’t even any music playing.’
‘Spirits is about right,’ the girl shook her head and grinned. ‘Same happens every
year. Old man Longthorpe takes ‘em into his study and lets everybody top up their soft
drinks with something stronger. Last time, one kid got so drunk the gardener found him
the next morning asleep in the potting shed - stark naked.’
Jennifer raised an eyebrow.
‘No wonder Charlotte’s party’s so popular.’
‘Gets a bit boring when her dad starts on his speech, he tends to stick to the same
theme every year – going on about business and all the opportunities there are out there –
usually a good time to go to the bathroom and fix your make-up.’
She drifted off and joined the group of girls still quizzing Charlotte.

Jack Farringdon had arrived at the dancehall, parked the car in a side street and paid for a
ticket on the door. Things were apt to take a while to warm up, most people gathering
round the bar in the early part of the evening before the rush started. The dance floor was
deserted and he saw Rita sitting with a group of men at two tables pushed together. As
was always the case when in male company, she was full of laughter and the centre of
attention. Gary sat next to her, a vacant seat having been left opposite for Jack.
Jack waved across the dance floor to Rita and pointed towards the bar. She got up and
walked across the floor toward him. She had chosen to wear a short lilac skirt with a skin
tight white stretch top, scooped at the front and back. Looking as always, far younger
than her years, the provocative swing she gave to her hips was deliberate, well aware the
men at the table were all following her with their eyes. One man leaned over to say
something to Gary who burst out laughing and nodded.
Jack ordered himself a pint of bitter, his first and last one for the night as he was
driving home later. Rita handed her glass to the bartender.
‘Same again, but not so much lemonade this time.’
The man put the glass under the brandy optic and pushed twice.
Before Jack could pay, Rita reeled off a list of drinks for the rest of the men at the
table.
‘We’re in one big round tonight so you might as well get yours in now before it’s too
busy.’
The barman rang up the drinks on the till whilst Jack fished his wallet from an inside
pocket, opened it, and was dismayed to find the bill consumed half the contents. He
turned to Rita.
‘We’ll only be able to afford one more round like that – things are a bit tight.’
Rita gave him an angry glance.
‘I’ve got the housekeeping in my purse. I’m not ruining my night out because you
didn’t bring enough money – don’t be so bloody selfish.’
She turned from the bar leaving Jack to load the drinks onto a tray, paused, and came
back.
‘And don’t say anything about being hard up. I won’t be embarrassed in front of my
friends.’
Back at the table Gary introduced the others to Jack..
‘Everything all right with the windows mate? – Had to give you a good price on those
– your missus gave me a rough ride.’
At the far end of the table one of the group spluttered on his drink. His mates were
howling with laughter. Jack guessed one of them must have told a joke he’d missed
whilst Gary was talking.
Rita gave Gary’s shoulder a playful slap.
‘Don’t be nasty to me, I’ve never given you a rough ride.’
Jack settled back in his chair to listen to the music. The band had finished setting up
and were about to start their first set. The recorded stuff playing at the moment sounded
hollow and rasping over the dancehall’s speaker system and he was looking forward to
listening to some live music and seeing Rita enjoy herself on the dance floor.

At Charlotte’s party all the guests had arrived. The time had come for everyone to move
from the house over to the marquee where the remainder of the evening would take place.
William Longthorpe, smoking a cigar and holding a large glassful of brandy, led
everyone across the lawn like the Lord Mayor at the head of a procession. The caterers
had been busy since early that morning, putting up birthday banners and balloons, setting
out the tables and arranging the food. Now, four waitresses stood at the back of the
marquee ready to serve the guests.
As Charlotte entered, the band launched into an up-beat version of ‘Happy Birthday’,
the lead guitarist and saxophonist sharing the melody. Several of the girls rushed to the
stage where the lead singer stood by the drummer, beating out the rhythm on a
tambourine. He came to the front of the stage smiling, leaning down to grasp all the
outstretched hands on offer. For Charlotte, he reserved a wave of recognition and spoke
into the microphone.
‘Hello Charlotte, nice to see you again – Happy Birthday.’
The girls turned to face Charlotte, awe-struck and envious to discover she was
acquainted with the lead singer.
Gillam O’Keefe and his brother Sean, the saxophone player, were heralded throughout
the music industry as having rare talent. Young as they both were, they had, between
them, notched up years in the entertainment business. People knew them as genuine
young men who, despite their fame, had managed to keep their feet on the ground, their
egos in touch with reality.
Charlotte smiled and returned a nonchalant wave. Several of the boys found it hard to
conceal their disappointment and envy as any ideas they might have entertained of
chatting up the birthday girl, evaporated.
‘Oh well,’ one would be suitor muttered, ‘There’s always old Longthorpe’s drink
cabinet.’
Amidst unashamed screams from the girls, the band opened their performance with a
track from their latest album, but instead of standing up to the microphone, the singer left
his saxophonist to carry the melody, stepping from the stage to take Charlotte’s hand for
the first dance. His minder stood a discreet distance away, ever watchful of the crowd.
Constance Longthorpe approached Jennifer, inclining her head toward the band.
‘Are you a fan of theirs?’
‘Very much so, I’ve quite a few of their CD’s at home - they’re so versatile, and their
last album’s my all-time favourite. Charlotte’s very lucky to know Gillam – he’s got the
reputation of being a bit of a recluse.’
‘He’s a very nice person. The bit about being a recluse has been put about by his
manager to keep the mystique going and the fans at arms length.’ Constance smiled, ‘He
and his brother have real talent and don’t need grubby stories in the tabloids to stay at the
top, but Gillam does like people to respect his privacy.’
It was easy to understand how Gillam O’Keefe had managed to cultivate his appeal
over such a broad section of the public. Of Irish origin and in his mid twenties, with dark
hair cut short and a good choice in designer clothes, he wore no excess jewellery, studs or
tattoos. One minute his voice could be soft and smooth as velvet, tone perfect and full of
subtlety. Then, in the next moment, it could take on a raunchy quality as if from the
southern states, sliding and bending the notes, adding a blues inflection beyond the grasp
of most white singers.
‘When the band take a break, I’ll introduce you,’ offered Constance.
William Longthorpe swaggered over, brandy in hand. ‘Well, here’s a face I haven’t
seen before, and a pretty one too. Where’s Charlotte been hiding you?’
Jennifer was at a loss for words. Constance stepped in.
‘This is Jennifer. She’s more a friend of mine than of Charlotte, although I feel the
two of them have a lot in common and should get together.’
‘Splendid, always like to see new blood – what’s your father do for a living?’
‘William, that’s not important.’
The tone of rebuke in Mrs Longthorpe’s voice cut off any further questioning by her
husband.
‘He’s a cabinet maker – and a master carpenter.’ Jennifer had overcome her loss for
words. ‘He’s a very skilled craftsman.’
‘Ah – well I might be needing some oak panelling in the study – only top quality stuff
mind. Here’s my card – tell him to give me a ring.’
He thrust a business card into Jennifer’s hand and made off toward another group of
girls on the far side of the dance floor.
‘Sorry,’ breathed Constance in exasperation, shaking her head. ‘William has the habit
of turning a social event into a business meeting or interrogation.’ She lowered her
voice. ‘Goodness only knows what he’s planning to say in his speech this year – last year
the topic was immigration and the common market, mixed in with business opportunities
and cheap labour potential. He has very strong and controversial views on most topics,
I’m afraid.’
The singer had joined the band back on stage to sing the final verse and chorus of the
song. Charlotte stood at the foot of the stage watching him. For a moment, she was
again the centre of attention as a small crowd gathered round, eager to be seen talking to
her.
The boys who had received the benefit of visiting William’s study were still clowning
about on the floor. One seemed determined to show off his break-dancing skills and was
attempting to spin round on his shoulders. The demonstration was a miserable failure,
the boy’s legs flailing around out of control, catching two other lads behind the knees.
Down they all went in a tangle of arms and legs, amidst hysterical laughter.
Jennifer went to stand by Charlotte, now the girls had turned their attention to the
sprawling mass of boys. She decided after their last encounter, Charlotte should open the
conversation. It was Jennifer’s way of testing the water, without making the commitment
of appearing too eager. Knowing Charlotte, she felt there was a chance she might have to
defend herself against an abusive verbal onslaught.

For Rita not to be first on the dance floor was out of character. Under normal
circumstances she would grab a partner, and on an empty floor, allow the extrovert side
of her nature to take over, loving every minute of knowing she was the subject of all the
male fantasies in the room.
Jack was enjoying the music. The band boasted some accomplished musicians in the
line up and their style was to his liking. He was surprised when Rita leaned across the
table.
‘Fancy a dance Jack before it gets too crowded?’
He took her hand and walked her onto the dance floor. She moved to the music, at
ease and full of confidence, swaying her hips and moving her bare shoulders in time to
the beat. Jack didn’t realise the spot Rita had picked out was in full view of Gary’s table,
and her position afforded Gary an unrestricted view of her.
Sliding her arm over her husband’s shoulder she stroked the back of his neck with her
hand, her hips brushing against him. Jack slipped his arm around her waist but Rita
pulled away and laughed.
‘Good band – they make me want to dance all night.’
Her hips swayed from side to side and made small, subtle thrusting movements
backwards and forwards. To Jack, his wife seemed to be staring into space, lost in the
rhythm of the music, but Rita was looking straight over Jack’s shoulder into Gary’s eyes,
teasing him with her unsuspecting husband.
Back at their table, Jack offered to help one of the men fetch the next round of drinks
from the bar. Rita waited until her husband was away from the table and rubbed her knee
along the side of Gary’s thigh.
‘I need you tonight, I can’t wait ‘til next week to have you. I know a place, but we’ll
have to be quick.’
Gary grinned.
‘After the show you’ve just put on I don’t reckon I can be anything else but quick.
Your old man must be blind or stupid not to know there’s something going on.’
Rita giggled.
‘He loves me – he just thinks I’m having a good time – if I’m enjoying myself, he’s
happy.’
It was Gary’s turn to laugh.
‘I bet he wouldn’t be too happy if he knew how much you’ve been enjoying yourself.’
He ran his hand along the length of her thigh under the table. ‘I don’t care if he finds out
– you’re wasted on him.’
Rita gave him a thoughtful look.
‘If you’re serious then it’s something we ought to talk about. We’re very good in bed
together and we have a laugh when we’re out. Perhaps we ought to make it more
permanent.’
‘Suits me. The flat’s big enough for the two of us, and,’ he added with a sly wink, ‘I’ll
be able to have you whenever I want.’
Rita squeezed his hand under the table, holding it against her thigh, out of sight.
‘And I shall have you right back. Don’t think for a moment you’re getting away with
this ‘boys on top’ stuff forever.’
Jack turned away from the bar, a full tray of pints in his hands. The other man carried
an armful of assorted snacks and spirit glasses. The dance was well under way and the
floor was becoming quite crowded as the two men made their way through the dancers,
back to the table where Rita and Gary were still chatting.
As Jack seated himself at the table, Gary turned to Rita.
‘I fancy a dance – you up for it?’
He shot Jack a look over the table.
Jack nodded.
‘I’m warning you – she’ll wear you out – she doesn’t know when to stop.’
Rita got up from the table and smoothed down her dress.
‘We’ll have to go over to the other side of the floor away from the bar – it’s less
crowded over there – see you in a bit.’
Without waiting for Gary, she circled round the dancers on the floor toward the
opposite end of the hall, and the side entrance.
Outside, nothing had changed in the alleyway; the same pools of darkness within the
doorways, the same single lamp at the far end. Even the rubbish and dead leaves,
skittering across the top of the cobblestones in a light breeze could have been the same.
Charlotte’s attitude took Jennifer by surprise. Instead of the antagonistic approach of
their last encounter, Charlotte’s manner appeared quite pleasant.
‘Don’t you think they’re great?’
She indicated the band that had just begun the opening bars of the title hit from their
last album, ‘Never Give Up’, Gillam playing the introduction on a harmonica.
‘No matter how many times I play this track, I never get bored with it – it has to be my
all-time favourite.’
Jennifer studied Charlotte. Had the girl chosen a neutral subject in an effort to smooth
things over between them? If so, she was happy to play along and bury the hatchet if that
was Charlotte’s intention.
‘I don’t think there’s a single track they’ve ever recorded that doesn’t have something
in it to take me by surprise. They’ve written every one of their hits themselves – such
incredible talent.’
Jennifer was sincere in her comments – they were her favourite band.
‘My mother knows the brothers’ father…I think she helped him with a property deal
years ago, before she met my dad; they’ve kept in touch ever since. We’ve been to their
home in Ireland on holiday loads of times. When I was very young, Gillam and Sean
used to sit me out on the back porch as their audience. Gillam sang and played a battered
old guitar of his grandad’s: Sean had a clarinet that I think used to belong to his mother. I
was only five, but even then I thought they were amazing.’
The fleeting glimpse into Charlotte’s past intrigued Jennifer. She had always known
the girl to use the acquisitions and privileges of her upbringing as tools to influence
others. But here was a huge revelation that could have been used with all her so-called
friends at school to elevate her position even further…yet she’d said nothing. She
couched her curiosity in innocent terms.
‘I’m not surprised you’ve never said anything. Everyone would have plagued you for
autographs, free concert tickets and goodness knows what if they’d have known.’
Charlotte faced her. ‘I know.’
Jennifer continued to handle the situation with kid gloves.
‘Your mother said she’d introduce me later on…I wouldn’t like you to think I’ve been
underhand about anything and gone behind your back.’
The other girl shook her head.
‘Mum’s even more protective of the boys than I am. If she’s decided to introduce you,
it’s because she trusts you.’ Charlotte was still facing Jennifer and her stare had become
very direct. ‘You’re not a ‘hanger on’ Jennifer. I tend to toy with people who leave it to
others to decide the direction of their lives – they’re weak and easy to influence – you’re
not.’
‘What a complicated mix you are Charlotte Longthorpe,’ was the thought that crossed
Jennifer’s mind. ‘All the underhand and devious traits of your father, at odds with the
integrity and honesty of your mother.’
Leaving her thoughts unspoken, Jennifer shrugged.
‘My Dad reckons I’m my own person – says I’m like my mother.’ She felt a shudder
run through her. ‘God – I hope not.’
The band continued playing one hit after another, most people preferring to stand and
watch rather than dance – almost a mini concert. A number of the other girls joined
Jennifer and Charlotte at the front of the stage, putting an end to the two girls’
conversation.
The band played the final number to finish their first set and William Longthorpe
made his way on stage, brandy in hand, beaming. He tapped the microphone.
‘One two three four…’
‘Like it hasn’t been working for the past hour and a half.’ Charlotte’s hand was over
her mouth to stifle a laugh. ‘Please don’t let him do the ‘testing’ bit.’
‘One two three four…testing testing,’
William’s voice boomed out through the sound system, enhanced by the reverberation
the band’s audio technician had left on at the end of their last number. He was impressed
– it made him sound almost godlike.
His daughter turned away, tears in her eyes.
‘Every year…every bloody year he does it.’
Charlotte’s father took a sip of brandy, gestured for everyone to gather round and
cleared his throat.
‘Well, I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves, and if you’re not…try harder – this lot’s
costing me a fortune.’
He grinned and the crowd, picking up on his deliberate pause in expectation of their
laughter, obliged.
‘Tonight I’m going to say a few words about leaving school and how your futures will
be affected, not only by your own abilities, but by the fickle nature of the commercial
market.’
A few subdued and muffled groans emanated from the boys at the back of the crowd.
‘More to the point, how it will affect one particular person.’ He looked in his daughter’s
direction.

Gary caught Rita up as she reached the other end of the dance floor. She grabbed his
hand, dragging him into the crowd of dancing people.
‘Jack won’t expect me back for ages – sometimes I’m gone for more than an hour.
We’ve got time for a quick dance and then we’ll slip out.’
But Rita’s uncontrollable emotions only allowed her fleeting moments of dancing
before she shot Gary a hungry look and made for the side door. He followed her out into
the alleyway.
‘This really turns me on, knowing he’s sitting there, only a few yards away.’
Her voice had taken on a throaty huskiness.
Even before slipping into the doorway she had unfastened her bra and, turning to face
Gary, slid her knickers down, over her thighs and around her ankles, kicking them away,
all the time watching his face. Gary’s breath came in short rasping gasps as he reached
out for her.
She pressed herself against him, wriggling her skirt upwards.
‘Lift me up – I need you inside me - now.’
Legs around his waist, she lowered herself onto him, letting out with a quiet moan.
With one hand she unbuttoned his shirt.
‘Push my top and bra out of the way, I want to get as close to you as I can.’
 Gary pushed her clothes up around her shoulders, freeing both hands by pinning Rita
against the wall for support. She moaned again as his hands roamed over the top of her
body and she squeezed herself against him.
Flexing her legs, moving up and down, back and forth, forearms on his shoulders,
fingers knotted in his hair, she brought Gary to the point of no return.
His breath began to rasp in the back of his throat – Rita knew he couldn’t last much
longer.
She cried out.
‘Now Gary…yes…yes…harder – do it harder.’
Gary let out a high pitched groaning scream and exploded inside her. It was the
catalyst Rita needed. The climax ripped through her body, sending sparks of fire to every
nerve ending, convulsing her legs, turning her body rigid so that she rose above Gary,
gasping and crying out his name, time and time again.
When the inner fire subsided, allowing her to regain control, she slid her feet back to
the ground, leaving her arms draped around Gary’s neck.
Sinking to her knees in front of him she slid her hands down his body, round behind
his thighs.
‘Now let’s see if you’re half the man you say you are,’ she murmured.
Gary pulled himself back from her, cursing.
‘What the fuck…’
Rita giggled.
‘Relax…I promise you’ll enjoy it.’
She lifted her gaze to Gary’s face. He was staring out into the alley, fumbling with the
front of his trousers whilst trying to push her away, at the same time swearing under his
breath.

As was always the case, William Longthorpe had made no attempt to confer with his wife
as to the contents of his speech. He considered it to be his prerogative to speak on a
subject of his choosing, telling himself his experience and wisdom would stimulate and
benefit the young fertile minds of tomorrow’s business people.
For the past few months he had given careful consideration to the future of his
daughter, and had decided, without the slightest thought of consulting her, she should
take her place in the family business. He considered it appropriate, that on her eighteenth
birthday, he should announce his plans for her future.
As trade was booming, and less prudent business owners succumbed to the temptation
of over enthusiastic investment in stock and staff, he’d decided to throw the perils of over
enthusiasm into his speech as well.
‘Young people, you are the future of tomorrows business, and I think it’s fair to say,
you can’t do without business and it can’t do without you.’
William was filled with smug pride at that bit – he considered it portrayed him as an
understanding adult, willing to embrace youth.
‘However, the business world is a minefield, and without a map to guide you safely
through…’ he paused for effect, ‘you might just get your balls blown off.’
Howls of laughter from the boys – a subdued and painful grimace from Constance
standing at the back of the crowd.
 ‘Look upon me as a navigator – tonight, allow me to plan a safe route to take you
through the pitfalls. Consider the effect a buoyant economy has on the foolhardy and
imprudent businessman. His profits soar, the demand for his goods exceeds his capacity
to produce. What does he do?’
William paused and spread his hands in pleading gesture, almost spilling his brandy.
A voice piped up from the centre of the group, ‘Get himself a larger glass.’
The comment drew a few sniggers, cut dead by a menacing look from the speaker.
‘He rushes out, hires more top notch staff, invests in new equipment and in six months
time when the economy nosedives, gets left with a top heavy, overpaid workforce and
repayments…’ he leaned forward, lowering his voice, ‘Please cover your ears ladies…
that land him, tits up in the bankruptcy courts.’
Constance was looking very concerned. None of the girls had complied with her
husband’s request; they were all giggling and whispering to one another.
William drew himself up to his full height.
‘Allow me, as your navigator, to guide you through this halcyon yet testing period,
and offer a solution.’
William had looked ‘halcyon’ up in his dictionary after a sales rep had used the word
in connection with the current business climate. It had taken numerous attempts, the
spelling being beyond him.
‘Properly serviced and well-maintained equipment should last a lifetime. Far better to
use old reliable equipment during a prosperous period, and when the market crashes, buy
brand new stuff off some poor bugger who can’t keep up the payments. Same goes for
your staff. Make the ones you’ve got work harder, and when business slackens off you
won’t be faced with lay-offs and having to fork out huge redundancy payments.’
He beamed, impressed by his own cut throat strategy and in the certain knowledge he
was shaping young minds.
‘The problem of employees has always been a thorn in the side of ambitious business
people. In my opinion the founder of modern trade unions should have been strangled at
birth along with his family, to ensure there were no future offspring to muddy the waters
of successful enterprise.’
Several of the listening crowd exchanged questioning looks. One boy from behind a
raised hand, muttered to his friend, ‘This bloke makes Ghengis Khan look like a
Salvation Army worker.’
William was now very much into the swing of things. He rocked backward and
forward on his heels, savouring his next onslaught on the bastions of worker democracy.
‘Recruiting new staff is an exercise fraught with danger. For a start, who knows
where the buggers come from; references aren’t worth a twopenny toss these days. Even
I’ve been guilty of kicking somebody out with a good reference just to get rid of ‘em.’
William conjured up his ‘guilty’ face to emphasise the point, but only succeeded
in looking smug again.
‘And why do we have to stoop to lying – poxy unions, that’s why. These days, the
unions have seen to it that even if a bloke is a no good toe-rag, the employer gets the arse
sued off him if he says so.’
Jennifer glanced across at Charlotte; the girl appeared quite composed. Jennifer
guessed that years of listening to her father’s controversial opinions had afforded her
some kind of immunity.
 At least with his puritanical and dictatorial ideas, William had succeeded in capturing
the undivided attention of his audience. He attributed this attentiveness to his all-
encompassing understanding of business requirements.
‘The solution is obvious. Promote from within and offer a modest salary increase and
if the need arises, only employ lower paid workers as replacements. If the ungrateful
buggers refuse promotion on the grounds of insufficient salary, then threaten to promote
someone under ‘em to a position above ‘em.’
He winked at his audience, tapping the side of his nose.
‘You’ll have an acceptance or resignation letter on your desk before close of play.’
‘You young people may be asking yourselves, what all this has to do with you. Well –
as the future captains of industry, I believe it wise for you to consider where you’ll fit in.
Some of you may be going on to further education – university and the like – waste of
time in my opinion. Practical experience always triumphs over long haired, pot smoking,
know-it-all weirdoes, sucking the economy dry by not doing an honest day’s work before
their mid twenties. By the time the ‘Hooray Henry’s’ of this world contemplate putting
in a day’s work for a day’s pay, the lesser privileged of us have been hard at it for ten
years. If you want a better education – go to night school or Open University.’
‘Start at the bottom, that’s what I believe in. Drag the silver spoons out of your
mouths, roll up your sleeves and bloody well get stuck in.’
‘Take young Charlotte here. Cosseted since the day she was born. Never wanted for
anything – always had the best – and now expects it. Well, my birthday present to her is
a new car. If she wants to drive it on the road, and God knows why anyone should want
to these days, she’ll have to insure it out of her wages– same as I had to. Until she
stumps up with the money, she can catch the bus to work.’
He shot a wink to the crowd.
‘In my business, cars are tax deductible – insurance for family isn’t.’
Charlotte’s face held a half smile, tinged with puzzlement. She was thrilled at the
prospect of a new car, but entertained reservations concerning her father’s reference to
‘work’ and ‘catching a bus’. An uneasy feeling edged its way into her mind.
William Longthorpe knew he was about to drop a bombshell into the life of his wife
and daughter – this was no ‘spur of the moment’ decision. To be more precise, the notion
had taken root in his mind years ago, when the time he spent with his daughter in the
afternoons had been brought to a close by what he considered to be the prudish and over
protective attitude of his wife. For all concerned, he considered what he was about to
embark upon, constituted just desserts. The malicious side of his nature had been
anticipating the next few minutes for years.
‘I have always looked forward to my daughter joining me in the family business.’
He couldn’t resist dropping his wife an obscure hint with his next remark.
‘When she was a young child, Charlotte and I used to visit the various branches of my
business some afternoons. They were happy times for me, brought to an end far too
soon.’
At the back of the crowd, Constance‘s face had taken on a questioning frown.
‘A valued member of my staff has decided to retire in the near future and I need to
replace them as a matter of some urgency. As I’ve stated, I believe in promotion from
within, but with my daughter leaving school, and as the owner of Longthorpes, there’s no
one to tell me I can’t bend the rules.’
 William was savouring each moment.
‘However, in the short time left before retirement, I’m sure adequate training can be
given to ensure the overall efficiency of the department continues.’
A few days before the party, Charlotte’s father had arrived home from work,
grumbling about a male employee in the accounts department taking early retirement. He
had been quite vicious with his comments.
‘Early bloody retirement they call it. Fed up with putting in an honest day’s work
more like. Wait ‘til the cost of living goes through the roof and he wakes up one morning
to find his pension doesn’t cut the mustard any more. I hope the bastard blood well
starves.’
Charlotte experienced a glow of satisfaction at her father’s announcement. As a
starting point in the family business, the accounts department would provide good
prospects of promotion. Her mind raced ahead, choosing clothes for the first day.
Some of the girls looked at Charlotte with open envey. They were only too well aware
of how difficult it would be for them to secure the right position in a company upon
leaving school. All the application forms to fill in; the endless interviews, and the sheer
weight of the number of applicants for jobs on offer. It was by no means certain some of
them would find jobs; the thought of further education or training schemes was a
daunting prospect, when all they really wanted to do was go out into the world and earn
their first wage.
William was in the process of winding up his speech.
‘In finishing, I would like to wish each and every one of you success in whatever you
choose to do, and who knows, I might even be interviewing some of you in the near
future for positions in my company.’
He turned away from the microphone as if to leave the stage. An air of expectancy
hung over the crowd – anxious to hear some mention of the traditional gift for the guests.
He turned back to the microphone, smiling and scratching his head.
‘There was something else – let me see – oh yes, I remember.’
He nodded to one of the waitresses who approached and handed him a pile of large
sealed envelopes.
‘I’ll come and see all you boys and hand these out myself. Now I believe Mrs
Longthorpe would like to speak to the girls for a moment.’
Constance made her way onto the stage and took the microphone.
‘This year I’ve decided to assist all the girls with creating a favourable impression at
any forthcoming interviews they may have.’
Another waitress approached with a bundle of sealed envelopes.
‘I won’t keep you in suspense,’ Constance smiled. ‘Each of these envelopes contains
a return rail ticket from London to Paris via the Channel Tunnel. Also in each envelope
is a cheque, made out to cash, allowing you all to go on a shopping spree, and I hope, buy
suitable and impressive interview outfits. You may go as a group or as individuals – the
choice is yours. There’s no time limit on the tickets and I hope you all have a wonderful
day.’
She stepped down from the stage to be surrounded by a crowd of enthusiastic and
excited girls, all chattering at once.
William was in the process of handing out the envelopes. The first boy to open his
stared in disbelief – a set of ‘L’ plates – what kind of present was that?
 ‘Look on the back of the plates,’ William instructed.
Taped across the back of the ‘L’ plates was a plain brown envelope – inside, a cheque
to cover the cost of twenty driving lessons.
‘Most employers these days prefer job applicants to have a clean, current Driver’s
Licence. At least you lot should fulfil one of the requirements of any job interviews that
come along. I’ve made all the cheques payable to one of the most reputable tuition firms
in the county. The owner is waiting to hear from all of you.’
William didn’t consider it worth mentioning he’d struck a deal with a struggling local
driving school to provide them with new pupils in return for the owner leasing all his
driving school cars from Longthorpes. His accountant had done the maths and William
was content that, over the next three years, his outlay for driving lessons would reap him
a handsome profit in leasing fees.
He sauntered over to Constance and the girls, still chattering about the forthcoming
trip to Paris. Charlotte stood by her mother, basking in the gratitude of the group. Seeing
him approach, she ran over.
‘Dad, I’m so excited about coming to work for the company. I’ll love working in
accounts, I couldn’t help overhearing what you said the other evening about someone
retiring – I’ve even decided what to wear on my first day. Do you remember that dark
grey business suit Mum bought me when we went to that charity convention? It’ll be
perfect.’
William moved around her so he was standing next to his wife and could be
overheard. Just to be sure, he raised his voice a little.
‘Tom Crabtree has at long last decided to retire. The old bugger’s sixty-seven and still
as fit as a flea – works twice as hard as the rest of ‘em put together. That man can take a
dirty old rustbucket, and in no time at all have it looking like new – wish there were more
like him. He’s earned me a fortune over the years.’
Speaking to Charlotte, but facing his wife, a small note of triumph crept into his voice.
‘Don’t bother with the suit Charlotte – a pair of overalls and wellies will do just fine –
it’s Tom’s job you’ll be taking on.’

Jack sat at the table, pondering, trying to enjoy the live band. They were very good and
played in a style he appreciated, but his concentration was elsewhere, his wife’s outburst
at the bar making him experience feelings of guilt. Gary and Rita had disappeared
around the other side of the dance floor, out of sight. The man sitting on his immediate
right was leaning across the table, talking in low tones to another of the group, who
glanced toward Jack and shook his head.
‘He seems like a nice bloke – Those two are taking him for a right mug.’
The other man nodded.
‘I know – I reckon the sooner he finds out the better – then perhaps he’ll have the
sense to give her the heave-ho.’
‘Did you see how she was all over Gary when her old man went to the bar? That’s
just taking the piss that is.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve nipped out the back for a quick leg over. That
Gary’s a dirty bastard.’
‘Yeah - she’s a bloody good looker mind – lucky sod.’
 They both laughed and shot glances at Jack Farringdon.
He was worried Rita would have to break into her housekeeping if the money ran out.
He checked his wallet for his debit card – it was there, tucked out of sight in the back. He
disliked the culture of plastic money, but working overtime meant his usual Saturday
morning trip to the bank was sometimes impossible. The debit card had proved to be the
answer. There was a bank, five minutes walk away at the top end of the High Street; if
he hurried, Rita would still be dancing with Gary when he got back. It would mean
another stint of overtime next weekend, but it was rare for Rita to go out and she
deserved a good time.
He rose from his seat, taking his jacket from the back of the chair. The man on his
right tapped his arm to get his attention.
‘Not leaving us are you mate?’
‘No – I’m just going to get some money from the bank – I won’t be a couple of
minutes.’
Jack made to walk off in the direction of the main entrance. The man on the opposite
side of the table called him back.
‘You’ll be a lot quicker if you use the side door over there,’ he pointed to the far side
of the dance floor. ‘The bank’s just at the end of the alley.’
Jack thanked him and made his way toward the side entrance.
The man, who had been seated on Jack’s right, eyed his friend.
‘They’re in for a bloody shock if they’ve gone out into the alley.’
‘Serve ‘em right though,’ replied the other as they both watched Jack’s retreating
back.
The dance floor was packed, and as Jack walked around the outside, he assumed Rita
and Gary would be in the centre of the dense crowd. The side door stood ajar allowing a
slight breeze to creep through into the hall. Several people stood around the door,
dancers, cooling down from their exertions. Jack made his way between them, stepping
outside and pausing for a moment to breathe in the cool air and take his bearings. He
decided the bank was at the end of the alley, to his right.
As he was about to head off, the unmistakable sound of two people, enjoying the
intimacies of each other’s bodies, drifted over the night air from a doorway in the
direction he had chosen. Jack Farringdon smiled to himself, remembering what it was
like to be young and have nowhere private to go; better not walk past and disturb them;
he’d make his way to the other end of the alley and walk round the block to the bank.
He had only taken a few steps in the opposite direction when Rita’s voice echoed
along the alley.
‘Now Gary…yes…yes…harder – do it harder,’ followed by a gasping, almost
screaming male voice, twisted in passion.
His imagination showed him a fleeting snapshot of his wife with another man. The
picture was gone in a heartbeat but its brutal frankness left him dazed and incapable of
rational thought or action.
With a huge effort he dredged up the energy required for the few steps along the
alleyway in the direction of his wife’s voice. It was as if he were moving uphill in the
face of a tremendous gale, carrying a weight almost too heavy to lift. The few torturous
steps took a lifetime, made all the more unbearable by Rita, crying out and moaning with
pleasure.
 Exhausted, he slumped against the side-wall, staring into the darkened doorway as his
wife unwrapped her legs from Gary’s waist and sank to her knees. In the shadows she
appeared almost naked – top garments gathered round her delicate shoulders, skirt drawn
up over her slim, bare hips. She had her arms around Gary’s thighs and was pulling him
to her. Gary was cursing and staring straight at Jack.
A jagged spike of incredible fury drove itself into Jack Farringdon’s mind,
straightening him up and launching him toward the doorway. Rita half rose from her
knees, turned, and seeing him, screamed. In the three strides it took him to reach his
tormentors, all reason was gone.
A fist, driven by hatred alien to anything Jack had ever known, smashed into Gary’s
face, breaking his nose and snapping the man’s front teeth. A knee, carrying every ounce
of available bodyweight, drove into an unprotected groin, and then again, bringing instant
unconsciousness. As the body sagged against the wall, a hand stretched out, eager to
grasp the exposed throat, slamming the head back into the brickwork. The free hand
slipped behind the head, ready to twist and break the neck.
As Jack Farringdon shifted the weight on his feet to gain maximum leverage, Rita
threw herself at her husband, screaming, clawing at his face and eyes.
‘You fucking bastard – you vicious fucking bastard – you’ll kill him.’
She was punching, scratching, kicking - Jack seemed not to notice. The unconscious
form of his wife’s lover, mouth pouring blood, dangled by the throat at the end of his
outstretched arm, and with one simple twist he knew he could make part of his agony go
away.
But, before Jack Farringdon’s anger allowed him to embark upon an irreversible and
disastrous course, sanity permitted him one fleeting glimpse of the consequences of his
intended actions. The grip on the man’s throat relaxed and Gary’s unconscious form
slumped to the ground.
Jack stood, arms hanging loose by his sides, head bowed forward. Rita knelt by her
lover, cradling his head in her arms, not caring her skirt was soaking up the blood from
Gary’s smashed mouth and nose. She was sobbing and shaking with fear and anger.
Gary began moaning, drawing his legs up into his stomach with pain as he edged back
into consciousness. He vomited and passed out again.
Pulling Rita to her feet, paying no heed to his victim, Jack shoved her out into the
alleyway.
‘Get your bag, we’re going home. The car’s parked in Mill Street by the shops – meet
me there – don’t be long.’
He turned away from her and made his way toward the solitary street lamp at the end
of the alley.
Rita went to Gary and bent over him. The blood from his beating had soaked the front
of his shirt and was running down his bare chest. His nose looked crooked and very
swollen. One broken tooth had embedded itself into his lower lip. His eyes flickered and
rolled upwards – he was suffering from a severe concussion.
‘Gary – can you hear me? Rita’s hysterical voice echoed down the alley along with
the sound of Gary vomiting again. ‘Don’t move – I’ll get help.’
Rita screamed across the dance floor to Gary’s mates who were trying to pick up two
unattached women dancing together.
‘For Christ’s sake come and help me – Gary’s been hurt – he’s outside.
 The men ran over and followed Rita into the alleyway. A brief look was enough for
one of them to rush to the nearest payphone to call an ambulance.
Rita almost forgot her handbag. Dashing up to their table she grabbed it and ran back
to be with Gary until the ambulance arrived. The two men, who had been talking to Jack
Farringdon earlier, followed her out, just in time to see Gary being loaded onto a
stretcher.
The man who had given Jack directions turned to his mate, a half smile on his face.
‘Looks like that chap never made it to the bank then.’
The other man looked at him with a dead pan expression.
‘Guess he found Gary making a quick deposit out in the alley.’ He grinned, ‘Or it
might have been a withdrawal.’
They both turned and walked inside, laughing.

Charlotte starred at her father in disbelief.

‘Tom Crabtree – you can’t expect me to take his job on. He gets dirty and wet,
covered in oil and grease and he’s…he’s…a cleaner.’
A few of the boys had walked over and were stood, listening.
William Longthorpe gave a cold and dispassionate look at his daughter.
‘Tom’s a craftsman in his own right. Are you saying you can’t do his job, or won’t?’
One of the boys dug his elbow into the ribs of the lad standing next to him.
‘If she breaks a nail – it’ll mean at least a week off sick.’
His voice carried rather more than he’d meant. Girls began giggling, boys laughing.
Mrs Longthorpe intervened.
‘Perhaps we should discuss this when the party’s over,’ she suggested.
‘Sounds like the party’s over for Charlotte good and proper.’ The same boy couldn’t
resist another comment.
Charlotte’s father did not intend to let the matter rest.
‘There’s nothing to discuss. Tom’s position in my organisation is as important and
necessary as anyone’s. You don’t seem to grasp the point I’m making here. By replacing
him, Charlotte will be taking on a massive responsibility, far more than if she started at
the bottom, in the office.’
Charlotte realised her father was serious, he never joked about matters concerning his
business. She reflected how very clever he had been in nominating her for Tom’s job.
There was no secret concerning the enmity between her parents; they all but lived
separate lives. In forcing an immediate answer from her and bypassing the influence of
her mother, her father had manoeuvred himself into a dominant position. She knew
better than to enquire of his actions if she refused: even in rare, placid moments, his
decisions were always final.
By stressing the importance of Tom’s job, her father had been clever by tying in his
earlier comments concerning ‘silver spoons’ and ‘Hooray Henrys’. She made her
decision and turned to her father.
‘I wasn’t thinking straight – you rather took me by surprise. I’ll be delighted to take
on Tom’s job, I just hope I’m up to it – he’s such a perfectionist.’
Constance made no effort to conceal the look of appreciation she gave her daughter.
‘That’s exactly how I would have played it – well done Charlotte.’
 William sensed victory slipping away and retaliated to gain the upper hand with a
threat directed more at his wife than his daughter.
‘Glad you’ve made the right decision my girl – there’s no place in my home for idle
backslackers – welcome to the real world.’
Having administered what he considered to be the ‘coup de grâce’, he swaggered off
to reflect how his wife now felt, knowing he had relegated their daughter to the position
of car cleaner to keep a roof over her head.
The band returned and invited requests from the audience. One of the boys detached
himself from the crowd around Constance and Charlotte, making his way over to whisper
to Gillam O’Keefe.
The singer nodded, spoke to the band and approached the microphone.
‘It seems fitting the first request should be for Charlotte – shame on you girl that it’s
not one of ours.’
The band launched itself into the opening bars of ‘Car Wash’, amidst screams of
laughter, almost bordering on derision from those who had overheard William
Longthorpe’s comments.
From a distance, Jennifer studied Charlotte. The girl was doing her best to put on a
brave front, but the best she could manage was a tight-lipped smile that began and ended
at her mouth. Her eyes remained cold and challenging as she cast her gaze over the sea
of faces around her, looking for some gesture of support but finding none.

Rita’s walk to Mill Street was a time for uncomfortable reflection. Everything was now
out in the open; the secrecy and thrills of her affair with Gary were now worthless
memories. She had never witnessed blunt, uncompromising violence of the kind Jack
had demonstrated. In all the years they had been married, her numerous affairs had run
their course, undiscovered. The thought of being found out had never troubled her; she
had always known she could twist her husband round her little finger, and if he ever
discovered she had been unfaithful, would forgive her. Now she was not so certain.
Gary occupied a part in her life she had always denied to others. He was the nearest
thing to love she had ever known. She was certain he couldn’t be trusted with other
women, not like Jack, but that only served to increase the attraction for Rita. Knowing he
would stray if given the chance was a challenge she found irresistible.
As she approached the car, the engine started: Jack had been watching for her in the
rear view mirror. Now, as she opened the door he was staring straight ahead, gripping
the wheel. The drive home was conducted in total silence.
Rita had rather hoped her husband would enquire after Gary, or better still, rebuke her
for taking so long to reach the car, in order to give her the opportunity of launching into
an indignant outburst at his terrible violence. She knew, once she could draw her
husband into an argument, he would be no match for her vicious tongue. Past experience
told her he would give in and agree to any demands she might make in order to keep the
peace between them.
By the time they arrived home, Rita thought she had accumulated enough ammunition
to hold her own in any confrontation with her husband. Her previous uncertainty had
given way to a reckless confidence. She had even visualised an outcome whereby Jack
drove her to the hospital to visit Gary, offering the man a bedside apology.
 In the kitchen, Jack put the kettle on, his outward appearance calm; inside his mind
was in turmoil, not knowing where to start or how to break the silence between them.
Rita sat herself on the corner of the kitchen table, swinging one leg back and forth,
watching him with the beginnings of a mocking smile on her face, waiting for him to
speak. Jack came to a decision on what he considered to be neutral ground.
‘I gave Jenny the money to catch a taxi home from the party – I didn’t want her
walking home late at night.’
For a moment his statement threw her but she made a hasty recovery.
‘No wonder we were short of money for drinks - that’s typical of you. It was
supposed to be my night out. Don’t you care I never go anywhere anymore and the one
time we manage to get out, you don’t even take enough money with you?’
Jack took his time arranging two teacups and the teapot on the table. He looked up at
his wife.
‘Why do you think I was out in the alleyway? I was going round to the bank to draw
out some cash while you were dancing.’
‘You’re a liar – you were spying on me. I’d already told Gary you were short and he
was going to slip you a few quid up at the bar.’ She took the bull by the horns. ‘He
knows I like a good time when I’m out – not like you – counting your small change under
the table.’
Rita jeering voice was calculated and goading.
Jack tried to be conciliatory.
‘You know I don’t mind you dancing with other men – I’m just not very good at that
sort of thing. I’ve never spied on you before – why would I start now?’
‘Perhaps if you had, things wouldn’t have ended up like this – you’ve always been
lousy at making a women feel wanted – not like Gary – he takes me when he wants –
where he wants.’
Jack slumped into a chair. The inference of Rita’s taunting remark so callous it
brushed aside all he believed a marriage should stand for.
Rita pressed home her advantage, not caring she was ripping her husband’s life apart.
‘Do you really think I’d have stayed with you all these years if other men hadn’t come
along to make me feel like a woman now and then – what are you Jack – fucking blind?’
Jack put his head in his hands.
‘You’ve been on the brandy all night – you’re saying things you don’t mean – I don’t
believe there’ve been other men.’
Rita’s spite was on a roller coaster. She couldn’t have stopped, even if she wanted to.
‘Then you are fucking blind. What do you want me to do, write you out a list?’ It’ll
have to be on a big sheet of paper, believe me.’
Slipping off the side of the table she looked down at her bloodied clothes.
‘I’m going to change – then I’m going to the hospital to see how Gary is. It’s over
Jack – there’s no reason for me to stay here. I don’t love you…and I never bloody have.’
She made to go the kitchen sink, but realising she had just given up her husband and
their home, found no reason to observe the niceties of domestic life, so instead, hurled the
cup and saucer into the bowl, breaking both. Turning on her way through the door, she
spat a final remark at her husband whose head was still buried in his hands.
‘You’re always saying how much like me Jennifer is. Let’s face it, she doesn’t take
after you does she?’ Well it won’t take her long to realise what a boring shit you are.’
 The kitchen door slammed and Jack heard his wife running upstairs.
He rubbed his face with his hands and went to the sink to begin picking the broken
crockery from the bowl. His cheek stung, and when he looked, there was blood streaked
across his palm. The kitchen mirror revealed deep, parallel scratches down one side of
his face and neck, evidence of his wife’s fury at his attack on her lover. Blood had
dripped from his cheek onto the shirt collar. More blood splattered the front of his shirt,
but that would be Gary’s, where his nose and lips had split apart.
The door banged open and Rita stood glaring at him, hands on hips, wearing clean
clothes and fresh make-up. He was still examining the scratches in the kitchen mirror.
‘You almost killed Gary – what kind of violent bastard are you? – Try explaining
your way out of that to Jennifer when she gets home, and,’ she added, ‘the police, if Gary
or the hospital call them in.’
Turning from the kitchen sink, Jack Farringdon levelled his gaze at his wife.
‘She’s my daughter – I’ll tell her the truth and she can decide who’s at fault. I lost my
temper and struck out – I was wrong. I’m not at fault here – I’m her father and I was
trying to protect our family.’
He felt what anger he had left in him rising, causing his fists to clench.
‘You’re not fit to call yourself her mother. What kind of women has a child and
leaves her husband to do the bringing up? You’ve always been so concerned with
yourself and having a good time, you’ve never tried to be a parent. I’ve always tried to
please you and be a good father at the same time. Well, go to the hospital and see your
boyfriend. My daughter’s coming home and her father’s going to be where she’d expect
him – right here.’
Rita’s glare turned to a crooked smile, then a sneer - twisting her face. She made an
exaggerated show of looking around the kitchen.
‘Really Jack – well I’ve taken a good look, and I don’t see Jennifer’s father anywhere
in the room, just some pathetic apology who’s been deluding himself, playing at happy
families for the past seventeen years.’
Jack Farringdon took a step forward and gripped the back of a kitchen chair.
‘You better go… now. We’re both Jenny’s parents – I even remember the exact night
you fell pregnant, and the hell you gave me for the next nine months. Don’t ever tell me
I’m not her father.’
Rita moved round the room, putting the table between herself and her husband,
rejoicing in the knowledge of the devastation she was about to bring to his life
‘Well now, let’s just go over it shall we?’
Her voice was filled with mockery.
‘We went to the dance and I was on the floor – just like tonight. You were at a table
on the far side listening to the music – sound familiar does it Jack? I went outside and
did it in a doorway because I wanted sex, but didn’t want to put up with your pathetic
fumbling when we got home – I’d already planned to have a headache. Trouble was, my
bloke was just after a quickie – and then he left – leaving me screaming for more. You
just finished what he started Jack. Make no mistake about it…Jennifer’s real father
walked off down that alleyway. You were better than nothing…but from what I
remember – only just.’
‘There’s no way you can say that. How can you be sure I’m not Jennifer’s father?
You gave me hell when you found out you were pregnant because I didn’t take any
precautions that night. You’re trying to turn this whole thing round and use it for your
own ends.’
Jack’s anger was mounting, he was shouting.
Rita laughed in his face.
‘You poor stupid bastard. Do you think I’ve left it to you all these years to take
precautions, knowing how much you wanted a family? Go and look in my bedside
drawer, I could’ve hidden the crown jewels in there, and you, being such a gentleman
would’ve never looked inside. If I’d taken my usual handbag with me that night I’d
never have fallen pregnant. I forgot to change over all the stuff to the new bag, and
ended up taking a risk in the alley.’
Jack raced from the room, a dim awareness of the outside kitchen door slamming as he
took the stairs two at a time. Once in their bedroom, guilt swept over him as he pulled
open the drawer and looked inside. Rita was right, she could read him like a book.
There, at the back, not even hidden from a casual inspection, was a box and a tube, both
labelled.
Stumbling downstairs, he clawed through his jacket pockets until he found the car
keys. Dropping the latch on the kitchen door he walked out to the parked car, started it
and drove away.

As an exercise in saving face, Charlotte remained on the dance floor until the band had
finished her request. Once the final chords had been played, she slipped outside
unnoticed, wanting to be alone.
Jennifer had been right in the classroom the day before. The people inside, enjoying
the hospitality of her parents, were not her real friends. Not one of them had come up to
her and offered sympathy: on the contrary, they had all appeared to enjoy her
embarrassment. Even the presents they had brought told a tale. Cheques, written out by
mothers and fathers, grateful to have their offspring included on her parents lists – no
personal gifts – very few birthday cards.
She made her way into the orchard, choosing a seat with a view of the valley and the
hills beyond. The seat was more of a rough bench, built by the gardener as somewhere to
sit and eat his lunch on fine days, rather than the potting shed. Over time, his boots had
worn away the rough grass of the orchard in front of the bench and all the stubs of the
lunchtime cigarettes he’d enjoyed were trodden into the bare earth.
Charlotte moved the cigarette ends around with the toe of her shoe, lost in thought.
‘I hope you haven’t smoked all those since you’ve been sat here.’
Jennifer stood behind the seat, smiling. She’d witnessed Charlotte’s quiet exit from
the party, and when the girl had not returned, had decided to find her. She was aware of
the brave face Charlotte had maintained during the latter part of William Longthorpe’s
speech, and when the band had played the request, expected her to leave at once.
Constance had seen Jennifer looking around and, guessing she was searching for her
daughter, had offered a suggestion.
‘If it’s Charlotte you’re looking for, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s in the orchard.
It’s where she goes when she needs some peace and quiet.’
Charlotte stopped moving the cigarette ends around and sighed.
‘I don’t smoke – but after tonight I just might take it up – what a mess. I suppose
they’re all having a huge laugh in there. Charlotte Longthorpe, heiress to the Longthorpe
millions, cleaning cars to keep a roof over her head.’
Jennifer moved round to the front of the bench and sat down.
‘Do you care what they think? You denied them what they were all hoping for – I
thought you handled it very well.’
Charlotte turned to look at Jennifer. The consequences of her father’s announcement
had begun to sink in and tears were not too far away.
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘It wasn’t your dad’s speech and you having to clean cars they found funny. Let’s
face it, most of them do paper rounds or stack shelves in supermarkets at the weekends.
That doesn’t make them high flyer material, does it?’
‘Then what did they find so hilarious?’
‘That you had to eat humble pie Charlotte, the same as they have to if they want your
attention. Nothing would have suited them better than to see you run out, in floods of
tears, acting like a spoilt brat. It’s what they all expected and hoped for – to see you
humiliated. What I don’t understand is why your father had to add that last bit; it seemed
quite harsh.’
‘That’s all to do with my parents – they don’t have much time for each other. It’s a
long story, but I think my father saw it as a way of getting his own back on my mother
once and for all.’
The girl returned to gazing out across the valley. She was fighting hard to control her
emotions, and with the exception of a single tear, kept her composure. Jennifer’s
comments showed a clear and sharp perception of her position amongst her peers, and
their opinions of her. Well to hell with them, as Jennifer had said, they were all hangers
on. She asked an oblique question, shifting the emphasis from herself.
‘You’re not like that lot – how come you don’t seem to have that many friends – or
boyfriends for that matter? – You’ve got the looks.’
Jennifer accepted the compliment and the change of subject.
‘I guess it all has to do with this maths thing I’ve got. I think it scares people off –
either that or they see me as some kind of freak. It’s like having a built in calculator – I
see figures and they just make sense. Half the time the answer pops into my head, and I
don’t even know where from.’ She gave Charlotte a small, rueful grin. ‘Sometimes it
can be rather scary.’
Charlotte nodded.
‘Perhaps you should apply for that job I thought was mine at Longthorpes.’
Jennifer looked at her.
‘Are you going to take that job cleaning cars at your father’s place?’
Charlotte’s face clouded over.
‘What choice do I have? I know my father and what he’s capable of. If I don’t take
the job, I’ll never be offered another one in his organisation. I wouldn’t put it past him to
make it difficult for me to find a job anywhere - he knows an awful lot of business
people. That’s all I need – no job and no home. I can’t rely on my friends to put in a
good word, can I?’
She stood up from the seat, taking a few steps to an apple tree and leaned against its
trunk.
‘As soon as I’m able I shall leave home. It’s the only way I can think of to break the
hold my father thinks he has on me – and my mother,’ she added. ‘I can’t see he’ll sack
me – not just for wanting some independence. I know it won’t be easy – living on my
own – I can’t even boil an egg. Do you know I’ve never cleaned a pair of shoes or ironed
a dress; I don’t even know where the vacuum cleaner’s kept. It will be…challenging.’
Jennifer slipped the clasp on her evening bag and took out the small box. Without
speaking she walked over and handed it to Charlotte.
The girl gave her a puzzled look and opened the lid. Nestling inside on a small
maroon velvet cushion lay a tiny Chinese lion, carved from jade and suspended on a
delicate gold chain.
Charlotte gazed at it, running the tip of her finger over the polished surface of the
intricate carving.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered.
The sound of a gentle cough carried through the orchard. Constance was picking her
way amongst the trees, walking toward them.
‘I thought I’d find the two of you here and the band’s about to take another break. I
promised earlier on I’d introduce Jennifer to the brothers.’
Charlotte handed her mother the small jewellery box.
‘Jennifer’s bought this for my birthday.’
Constance examined the necklace.
‘I see you have the same taste in jewellery as you have in clothes Jennifer…exquisite.’
Jennifer acknowledged the compliment with a smile.
‘Thank you – that’s a very nice thing to say.’
She thought for a moment and decided to be forthright with Mrs Longthorpe.
‘Charlotte and I are in the middle of something. Would you consider it ungrateful
of me if we stayed here for a while and sorted things out? I’d love to meet the band, but
this is more important…to both of us.’
‘Then I shall go back to the party to keep an eye on the boys. Some of them are
becoming rather...boisterous. As usual, my husband’s study seems to hold a particular
attraction for a number of them - but I’m not supposed to know that.’
As Constance left the two girls to walk back through the orchard, Charlotte faced
Jennifer.
‘If the alternative was to talk to me, I can’t think of one girl here tonight who’d pass
up the chance to meet the O’Keefe brothers. They’d all step over their dying grannies
rather than miss the opportunity you’ve been given.’
Jennifer spread her hands.
‘Then they all live up to my expectations Charlotte. It was great of your mum, but you
and I – sorting out our differences – right now that’s more important – at least I think so.’
As she made her way back to the party, Constance allowed herself a small smile by
way of congratulation. How nice it was to be right about someone. Jennifer Farringdon
was a very astute young lady, and just the type of person she would have chosen to
associate with her daughter. Such a pity they were both leaving school at the end of
exams to go their separate ways and embark upon different careers.
She was furious at her husband, but realised his callous treatment of their daughter
was calculated to cause her anxiety and had nothing to do with Charlotte. William was
using his daughter, the same as he used everyone else in life. As long as he won, the
method by which he did so was inconsequential.
 Charlotte snapped her fingers in excitement.
‘I’ve had an idea – hang on here for a couple of minutes. I’ll be straight back.’
She ran off through the orchard in the direction her mother had taken.
Jennifer leaned against the back of the seat and turned over the evening’s events in her
mind. She’d forgotten about the trip to Paris and the shopping expedition. Making the
journey on her own wasn’t her idea of fun, but it was a better choice than going with a
group of the giggling girls from the party.
Constance Longthorpe was a lovely person. How she’d ended up with William
Longthorpe was beyond Jennifer, they seemed so unsuited. Then she remembered her
mother and father; not so different if you took away the wealth and influence, one having
total disregard for the others feelings. Well at least, if she had her way, tomorrow things
would change.
Charlotte came running back through the orchard.
‘Look – I know I shouldn’t have, but the brothers always stay after the party and have
a bite to eat and wind down. It’s all very informal – we sit around in the kitchen,
chatting. Mum says she’d love you to join us and then you can stay the night. You can
ring your folks to let them know. Would that be ok?’
Jennifer put on her most serious face.
‘I don’t know Charlotte – it’s a huge thing to ask a young girl to do – sit around
gossiping with international pop stars ‘till the early hours of the morning.’
Charlotte entered into the spirit of the moment.
‘I understand – no doubt you’ve far more important things to do – like changing the
batteries in your calculator…or something. I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then.’ She gave a
wicked grin. ‘I might just drop this into the conversation at school on Monday – just to
piss ‘em off.’
‘Now you sound just like your father.’
Jennifer knew her comment would probe their new relationship.
Charlotte’s hands flew to her mouth in mock horror.
‘Oh God – I do don’t I. Still, you can’t blame a poor car cleaner for attempting to
aspire to the dizzy heights of her boss’s grammatical perfection – can you?’
The joke was shared, and both girls were aware, the beginning of a bond was being
forged between them.
Jennifer stood up. ‘Don’t you think you ought to be getting back to the party – after
all it is for you?’
Charlotte feigned a yawn.
‘Yes I suppose it is – I expect they’ve all missed me terribly. I’m surprised they
haven’t been out, searching the grounds.’
She paused, searching for words, unaccustomed to what she was about to say.
‘Jennifer, does this mean we’re going to be friends…real friends I mean – through
thick and thin and all that?’ she added, trying to make light of her question.
Jennifer stepped up and put her arms around the girl.
‘Yes – I think it does,’ and she felt a tiny splash of wetness on her bare shoulder.
Charlotte sniffed.
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve never had a real friend before. This is all very new to me.’
The moment didn’t pass Jennifer by either; there was a husky note to her voice when
she answered.
‘Me too.’
 Chapter Four

There was very little traffic in town and Jack Farringdon drove with his mind on other
things until he reached the outskirts. At the first lay-by he came to he pulled in and
switched off the engine. The sky was full of stars, visible in their millions away from the
street lighting. The road was deserted and the silence screamed at him.
At the core of his being he was a simple man, dedicated to his wife and daughter. In
the short space of one evening, both had been taken from him. He looked at the stars,
wishing they would swallow him up, pluck him from the face of the Earth, isolating him
forever from the dirty business of living.
He struggled to come to terms with the revelation that Jennifer was not his daughter.
He reasoned, plenty of men brought up stepchildren, why should his feelings differ from
theirs?
The silence answered him.
‘Because you’ve always been proud Jennifer is yours. Because you’ve never had to
think about another man being her father – and accept it. Because another man is her
father and you don’t know who or why any of this is happening.’
He hammered the steering wheel with the palms of his hands – sobbing with rage.
The silence became louder.
‘What do you want me to do, write you out a list?’ It’ll have to be on a big sheet of
paper, believe me.’
His mind raced through all the times Rita could have deceived him, but his thoughts
were in such turmoil he became confused with places and names and had to start over,
time and time again. By even trying to identify her lovers he was admitting to himself his
wife had been unfaithful and the mental pictures of her with other men tore at his sanity.
The sight of Rita, clinging round Gary’s neck and then sinking down on her knees in
front of him caused his temples to throb in anguish. The pain was so intense it seemed to
affect his vision and the ability to reason. A palpable fear of losing his wife spread
throughout his body, causing him to slide down in the seat and draw his knees into his
chest. Through it all he could hear himself whimpering and couldn’t stop.
‘I don’t love you…and I never bloody have.’
The silence increased to a roar in his head, so loud, he clapped his hands over his ears
to shut it out.
‘I love you Dad.’
The pain of those few words, spoken only hours before, twisted and gouged at his
mind. Rita’s taunting confession had ripped his daughter from him, making him feel an
outsider, someone without the rights or responsibilities of parenthood. It made his
devastation complete.
Not wanting to, but longing for the closeness and comfort of familiar surroundings, he
made an enormous effort and steadied himself: it was enough for the drive home.
The house was deserted, no evidence of Rita returning, Jennifer’s bedroom empty.
Dragging a blanket from the airing cupboard, he wrapped it around him and slumped
onto the settee in the lounge, listening to the silence, hoping for the familiar sound of
someone returning home. In the darkness all he could hear was the noise of the
refrigerator in the kitchen, switching itself on and off.
 He awoke with a start, all the traumatic events of the evening amplified in the first
seconds of wakening; hammering into his consciousness.
Dazed, stumbling into the kitchen, he wrenched open the back door and on feet none
too steady, made his way into the garden. The stars were still out and no pre-dawn glow
lit the eastern sky. His watch told him it was a little after two thirty.
The voices in his head, one filled with mocking spite, the other soft and sincere, were
so loud they drowned out the awful silence. He found himself back in the front room, the
sideboard doors open, a full bottle of spirits in his hand.
Back in the car, leaving the bottle unopened, he drove out of the cul-de-sac and took
the road leading over the old railway line.
The accident and Emergency department was quiet when the ambulance carrying Gary
arrived. The evening’s rush of drunks and assault victims would begin about half an hour
after the pubs closed, followed by a second wave when the clubs shut their doors.
Gary had managed to vomit twice more on the journey and had screamed with pain
when the paramedic had attempted to sit him up on the stretcher. The attendant told him
it was for his own good and would keep his airway clear of obstructions should he pass
out, and also assist his nosebleed to stop. Having vomited once over the man’s shoes and
a second time in his lap, sitting the patient in a semi-recumbent position with a kidney
bowl under his chin had more to do with self preservation than good nursing.
A preliminary examination by a house doctor revealed a fracture to the nose, two
broken teeth and a lip requiring stitches. By far the most serious injury concerned the
question of Gary’s ability to father children in the future.
‘We’ll have to wait until the swelling goes down before a complete examination can
be made,’ was the doctor’s cautious comment.
During one of Gary’s bouts of unconsciousness, he had wet himself. The nurse
assigned the dubious honour of removing his trousers and undergarments was an old
hand who had long forgotten the meaning of ‘squeamish’.
Holding up his underpants in a surgical gloved thumb and forefinger she remarked,
‘Well at least there’s no blood in your urine – that’s always a good sign.’
Her patient found it somewhat difficult to become enthusiastic over this promising
observation
Rita arrived in a taxi and rushed into Gary’s cubicle.
‘I came as soon as I could – Jack knows everything – I told him I didn’t love him.’
Gary spoke with considerable effort.
‘I’d have thought he’d already reached that conclusion when he saw us fuckin’ the
daylights out of each other in that doorway.’
Rita failed to appreciate the logic behind Gary’s remark and continued.
‘Well he knows everything now. I told him I wanted to be with you and not him.
Look what the bastard’s done to you…what’s the doctor said?’
Shock was beginning to take its toll on Gary. His face had turned ashen grey and his
groin throbbed with a sickening and unimaginable pain. Rita called a nurse over.
‘Can’t you give him something for the pain?’
The nurse hurried away to find the doctor dealing with Gary’s injuries, only to return a
few minutes later, a look of disapproval on her face.
‘The doctor says the patient’s been drinking and any medication may react with the
alcohol. I’m afraid he’s going to have to grin and bear it for the time being. I’ll get him
down to X-ray as soon as it’s free and we’ll see how he is after that.’
Gary gave a tortured groan. He could see out of the corner of his eye that his nose was
lopsided. He gestured to Rita who bent over him making soothing noises.
‘The bastard’s broken my nose – it hurts like hell – where’s he gone – you don’t think
he’ll come here looking for me do you?’
Rita gave a snort of derision.
‘He’s got more on his mind than you to worry about. I did some very straight talking
back at the house and told Jack a few things I should have told him years ago.’
The nurse returned.
‘Right – let’s get you in a wheelchair and down to X-ray. They’ll need a couple of
shots of your nose for the doctor. Take your time getting off the bed – you may feel
some discomfort.’
Gary made to inch his legs over the side of the bed and screamed. He slumped against
the backrest, sweat breaking out on his forehead, gasping for breath.
‘You call that discomfort?’ Rita shouted at the nurse. ‘Can’t you see he’s in agony?
He needs some pain killers – don’t you people bloody care?’
The nurse gave her a withering look.
‘Of course we care, but we’re not magicians. Pain killers could have a very serious
reaction with the alcohol in his system. Perhaps when the patient’s been to X-ray the
doctor will prescribe something for the pain before we set his nose and stitch the cut to
his lip. The best I can do for now is to get a porter to take him to X-ray on the trolley.’
The nurse bustled away to fetch a porter, leaving Rita by the side of the bed holding
Gary’s hand, her mind working overtime making plans for the immediate future.
She would have to return to the house, collect her clothes and personal belongings and
deal with whoever was there at the time. Jennifer should be home by now and if Jack
wasn’t in bed, he might have told her his side of the story.
Although she was aware of the identity of her daughter’s father, she had no intention
of divulging his name to anyone. It was gone and in the past, and it crossed her mind she
might have been too hasty in taunting her husband the way she had.
She had never been able to manipulate Jennifer the way she had always done with
Jack. It was the reason the two women spent most of their lives arguing or disagreeing.
If she were to stay in the family home, she anticipated a huge problem from her daughter
upon learning Jack Farringdon was not her real father.
Rita was not concerned with the possibility of confrontation, she always managed to
hold her own in arguments. Her vicious nature always found some weak point in her
adversary’s armour that she would then exploit to the full.
Nevertheless, a hasty exit from the family home would suit her. Being around Jack,
with all his grovelling to put things right, would drive her insane. Jennifer, if she knew
the truth, would be impossible to live with and Rita admitted to herself, she was always
apprehensive of her daughter. The girl had a way of brushing aside her mother’s taunts
and insults, her calculating mind always ignoring Rita’s efforts, instead, focusing on the
hard facts of the issue.
‘I’ll move in with Gary and let the two of them get on with it. Jack’s got to keep
working and Jennifer has to find a job. That should be more than enough to keep them
busy and off my back.’
The porter arrived to wheel Gary off to the X-ray department and Rita pleaded with
him to be careful.
‘He’s in an awful lot of pain, don’t go banging into anything for God’s sake.’
The porter pushed the trolley along the corridor and into the lift. With the doors
closed and Rita left in the cubicle out of earshot, he made casual conversation.
‘The missus seems in a bit of a state – was she there when it happened?’
Gary nodded, painfully.
‘Never nice for a woman to watch her old man being beaten up – what was it, a gang
of ‘em?’
‘Her husband – he went berserk. Smashed me in the face – then kicked me in the
balls…twice. I thought he was going to finish me off.’
The porter, the aggrieved party in a recent painful and messy divorce, somehow
managed to inject a note of false sincerity into his voice.
‘Shocking…awful. He certainly seems to have had it in for you. Sounds like a violent
sort of bloke – I hope she’s worth it.’
Moving round to the head of the trolley the man pushed it through the open lift doors,
managing to collide with a wall at the first corner. Gary yelled with pain.
‘Sorry mate – trolley’s got a sticky wheel – not far to go - soon have you there.’
The porter grinned to himself as he continued toward X-ray, managing two more
collisions on the way.

The band was back on stage and had just picked up their instruments for the third and
final set as the two girls walked back through the door. During the break, the audience
had split into groups around the edge of the floor, and judging by the lull in conversation
as Jennifer and Charlotte entered, William Longthorpe’s speech and subsequent remarks
were still the topic of conversation.
One of the girls nearest to the door called to Charlotte.
‘This business about you being a cleaner at your father’s garage – a thought’s just
crossed my mind…’
‘Not the longest of journeys then.’
Jennifer smiled to herself; Charlotte’s quick-fire retort was calculated to give a clear
and unambiguous warning she would not tolerate being made the butt of cruel jokes.
Not content to leave the matter unfinished, Charlotte walked over and made her way to
the centre of the group. Hands on hips she stood looking at them.
‘Now let’s see…how many of you lot have promising careers…in fact, how many of
you have jobs to go to?’
She turned to the girl who had made the remark.
‘That Saturday job of yours in the cake shop…what do you view that as – a foot on the
first rung of the ladder to a promising future in the food and retail industry? Or has your
application for a job as a junior clerk at the bus company been accepted?’
Turning to the boy who had enjoyed success earlier with his joke concerning her
breaking a nail, she smiled.
‘How are your weekends at the pig farm working out Adrian? I wouldn’t imagine
failing your last agricultural exam did your chances of becoming ‘farmer of the year’
much good. Or don’t the pigs take into consideration your academic qualifications?’
The group remained silent, no match for Charlotte’s sarcastic onslaught. She looked
them all up and down.
‘It’s my fault you’re all here this evening. I’ve allowed you to creep round me at
school, pretending to be my friends, sucking up to me at every opportunity – just for an
invite to my party.’
‘I won’t pretend my father’s offer has made me jump for joy, and some support from
any one of you would have helped. But you’re all here for one reason…to freeload from
my parents, take what’s on offer and give nothing back. Well thank God this is my last
birthday party. I will never have to endure seeing your grabbing, backbiting, hypocritical
faces in one place at the same time again.’
Jennifer had remained some distance from the crowd: this was something Charlotte
had to do on her own. Now, as Charlotte left the group and walked across the floor in her
direction, pale but resolute, she rejoined her.
‘Feel better?’
Charlotte gave a rueful grin.
‘Should have done it bloody years ago. Nothing but a bunch of limp-wristed, two-
faced tossers.’
Seeing Jenny raise an eyebrow at her outburst, Charlotte gave a wicked smile.
‘Sorry to be so explicit Jenny, it’s one of the inevitable and inescapable consequences
of having a foul mouthed father.’
Word was quick to spread of Charlotte’s scathing condemnation, and during the rest
of the evening its veracity remained unchallenged by anyone.
Jennifer made a telephone call to her house, but had to be content with leaving a
message on the answering machine. She presumed her mother was having a good time at
the dance and would remain until the end.
At the first opportunity to present itself, Constance Longthorpe took Jennifer to one
side.
‘Buying Charlotte the necklace was an exceptionally nice thing to do Jennifer. Have
you two settled your differences?’
Jennifer appreciated the woman’s frankness and her reply was couched in honest
terms.
‘Yes…I believe we have. For different reasons neither of us really has any friends.’
She tried to remain subtle but forthright.
‘It’s been so easy for Charlotte to influence people at school. With you and your
husband behind her providing evenings like this,’ she gestured at the band with the crowd
of adoring fans round the stage, ‘It’s little wonder Charlotte took the easy option to win
people over. I think tonight has been quite an eye opener for her. When she needed
support – no one was there for her.’
‘Except you Jennifer. You’re quite a remarkable young lady – I suppose you’ll be
going on to University this autumn?’ I do hope you and Charlotte keep in touch.’
‘That’s not really an option for me I’m afraid. Mum and Dad are not very well off and
I need to earn a living to help pay the bills. My dad works long hours and it would be
nice to contribute to things so he had a bit more time off.’
Constance nodded.
‘That’s very honest of you – any idea of the sort of work you’ll be looking for?’
‘Well…my favourite subject is maths, so I guess I’ll try and find a firm of accountants
willing to take me on, then go to night school to study for an accounting qualification.’
 Constance looked thoughtful for a moment.
‘I’ll have a word with my husband if you like. I know there’s a vacancy occurring at
Longthorpes shortly – would you consider an interview if you’re offered one?’
Jennifer was taken aback.
‘That’s the position Charlotte was hoping for. I’d feel I was going behind her back.’
Constance Longthorpe smiled.
‘I haven’t been altogether frank with you Jennifer. Charlotte’s already mentioned to
me your…ability with figures. It was her idea to sound you out and see how you felt.
Mind you, there are no guarantees, William can be fickle as well as stubborn when the
mood takes him.’
Charlotte joined the pair and addressed Jennifer.
‘I suppose you’re going to haul me over the coals now for speaking to Mum. It
seemed like a good idea, and anyway,’ she offered in defence, ‘Friends are supposed to
watch out for each other – aren’t they?’
Jennifer gave brief consideration to the possibility of her being manipulated, but could
find no motive behind Mrs Longthorpe’s offer other than befriending her daughter. Her
pause for thought had caused anxious expressions and she had no intention of appearing
ungrateful or disinterested.
‘If Mr Longthorpe offers me an interview, I’d be delighted.’
Charlotte and her mother heaved sighs of relief, for different reasons. Constance, over
the years, had watched her daughter witness the benefits of William’s bullying tactics in
business, and was desperate for Charlotte not to ease herself into the same callous
lifestyle. She was fervent in hoping Jennifer appreciated her daughter’s good points and
would not foreclose on the friendship when Charlotte gave one of her inevitable displays
of her father’s dubious morals.
Charlotte on the other hand had found an equal. Someone unimpressed by her
family’s wealth, who viewed friendship as being far above money or social position. It
was a strange experience for her to accept someone as a friend who possessed no ulterior
motives or kept a hidden agenda.
William Longthorpe stalked over, fists clenched, scowling in anger.
‘One of those wretched little buggars has thrown up in my study,’ he growled. ‘If I
get my hands on him I’ll chuck him in the pond to sober him up – bloody schoolkids – try
and treat ‘em like adults and they take the piss.’
He stormed off, eyeing all the boys up and down in the hope of finding evidence
pointing to the culprit.
Constance looked at the two girls and grinned.
‘I think I’ll wait for a while to approach him about Jennifer. He seems preoccupied at
the moment.’
Her grin broadened as she made her way off to circulate amongst some of the other
girls.
Charlotte put her hand to her throat and passed her finger over the jade carving, hung
suspended round her neck on the gold chain.
‘Sean O’Keefe’s been asking indirectly about you – he saw me putting the necklace on
and asked who bought it for me. I pointed you out and he says he’s looking forward to
meeting you later on.’
Jenny eyed Charlotte with a degree of suspicion.
 ‘How convenient – what are you up to Charlotte?’
The girl grinned.
‘Nothing.’ Then seeing a slight blush on Jennifer’s cheeks, ‘Jennifer Farringdon, I do
believe you’re embarrassed – don’t be – he’s a lovely person, fame hasn’t changed him
one bit. Do you know, he still takes a clarinet from the old days everywhere with him –
says it’s his good luck charm. He composed the band’s first big hit on it, sitting on the
back porch in Ireland. I’ll show you one of their original manuscripts when we go back
to the house – it’s in my bedroom.’
Jennifer was watching Sean O’Keefe play the saxophone. The music seemed to flow
from him without any discernible effort. Structured runs created by sensitive fingers
gliding over the mother of pearl keys of the instrument wove patterns around and through
the main theme of the number. All the qualities his brother Gillam possessed in his
voice, Sean had in his fingertips. From reading articles written about the band, Jennifer
knew he was a musician’s musician, sought after for session work around the world. His
name appeared as a guest musician on the inserts of dozens of CD’s by other well known
artists. She felt quite excited at the prospect of meeting the young legend.
William Longthorpe had exhausted his search of those who could have vomited in his
study and had been unable to pinpoint the culprit. Most of the boys were intoxicated to a
greater or lesser degree and it could have been any one of a number of suspects.
Muttering to himself, ‘Drunken little pissheads,’ he locked the study door and
pocketed the key. Under normal circumstances, rage would have consumed him and he
would have thrown them all out; sent them packing, home to their parents. However,
tonight he was feeling rather mellow, a self-satisfied contentment at having gone some
way to even up the longstanding score with Constance.
He was convinced his daughter would find the job vacated by Tom, too arduous, and
beneath her. She would quit within weeks. All the better; Constance could grovel for
him to allow Charlotte to remain in the family home, and when he refused, his victory
would be complete.
In his quest for what he considered to be justifiable retribution, it had never occurred
to him Charlotte would accept Tom’s position. The man had only stated his intention of
retiring a few days ago and until then, William’s plan had been to offer his daughter a
junior position in the accounts department. He knew Charlotte had no head for figures,
his scheme being to deride her in front of his staff for every mistake she made and
humiliate her into resigning rather than be dismissed. By announcing his retirement,
Tom had been the unwitting instrument in providing a more satisfying plan.
Treating his daughter in such a despicable manner never troubled the dubious
conscience of William Longthorpe. He’d made a promise to himself to force his wife
into a useless and futile submission, and the ends justified the means. The prospect of his
forthcoming revenge filled him with a vicious pleasure.
Midnight came and parents and taxis began arriving to collect the guests. Charlotte
fulfilled her duty, standing by the front door, thanking everyone for coming, exercising
the diplomatic traits inherited from her mother. Constance circulated amongst the
arriving parents, greeting the one’s she knew, effecting polite introductions to others.
Her husband stood in the hallway, brandy in hand, his booming voice echoing out
across the front lawns as he shook hands and exchanged flamboyant banter with members
of the business community.
 Jennifer had been shown to one of the guest bedrooms by Charlotte and was sitting on
a stool, checking her makeup in the dressing table mirror. She felt nervous, knowing she
was now the only guest in the large house and would soon be introduced to the famous
brothers.
A knock at the door and Charlotte burst in, throwing herself on the bed.
‘Bloody hell – you’ll never believe how glad I am to get rid of that lot. Standing down
there seeing them all off the premises was a pain. All I wanted to do was kick their sorry
arses down the driveway.’
She laughed, seeing the look on Jennifer’s face.
‘I know… the paternal Longthorpe influence is strongly exerting itself over the girl
tonight; guess there’s no hope for me and my foul mouth’
She paused and became more solemn.
‘You know, I really despise him for what he’s trying to do. I meant what I said earlier
– as soon as I can find a place, I’m out of here.’
‘What about your mother? It won’t be very pleasant for her with only your father for
company.’
‘He hasn’t kept her company for years,’ Charlotte scoffed. ‘She’ll throw herself into
her charity work and be all the happier for it. If anyone ends up being lonely it’ll be my
father. By the way, he won’t be around tonight – says musicians are layabouts and
should have to work for a living.’
She sat up on the bed and continued.
‘I know he’s a millionaire and a self made man and all that, but the brothers could buy
him out a hundred times over and still have enough left to retire on. Money hasn’t
changed them one little bit – you’ll see. Anyway, talking of the brothers – let’s go – as
far as I’m concerned, my night starts here.’
The Longthorpe’s kitchen was a splendid affair. Much larger than most living rooms,
terracotta tiles in a warm reddish brown covered the floor and half the height of the walls.
All the cupboards were hand-made of solid oak with brass fitments and the whole was
dominated by a magnificent polished oak table, set in the centre of the room and
surrounded by heavy and comfortable looking matching chairs. Whoever had designed
the kitchen had done so with a view to promoting warmth and hospitality. No
complicated stainless steel appliances were in evidence: vases of dried and fresh flowers
were on every surface. The smell of fresh baked bread and ground coffee greeted the
girls as they entered.
Gillam sat with his brother Sean at one end of the large table. Catching sight of the
girls, they both made to rise out of their seats. Charlotte rushed across the kitchen and
embraced them both.
‘Terrific show tonight boys – thank you so much – I love both of you to bits.’
She still had her arms around Gillam’s neck as she turned back toward Jennifer.
‘This is Jennifer Farringdon, a good friend of mine – and my mother’s. She’s stopping
over for the night’
Each of the brothers stepped forward and shook Jennifer’s hand. Sean pulled up two
chairs from along the table so they could all sit together at one end. Constance put in an
appearance and started pouring coffee for everyone. Gillam went to fetch her a chair but
Constance waived him away.
‘The caterers are still clearing up, I better keep an eye on things ‘til they’re finished.
I’ll be back later to catch up on all the gossip though,’ she added.
Before leaving, she placed a large cheeseboard, fresh warm bread and plates on the
table.
‘The pickles are in the cupboard and home-made strawberry jam on the side. If you
fancy anything else – roam around – you won’t starve I’m sure. Gillam – your favourite
honey is over by the window.’
Gillam smiled and nodded.
‘You know your way to a man’s heart Constance – thank your little old lady for me.’
Sean saw Jennifer glance over toward the window and grinned.
‘Gillam swears by the stuff – reckons it keeps his vocal chords in tip-top shape.
There’s an old lady Constance works with at one of her charities – keeps bees down in
the valley that make the best honey you’ve ever tasted. He’s been eating pots of the stuff
for years. Never goes on tour without it…do you Gillam?’
‘Absolutely not,’ the singer replied. ‘I’ve tried honey from all over the world, but
nothing comes close to the magic of those bees in that valley.’
‘He even takes a pot of it into the studio to keep that voice of his lubricated during
recording. Heaven help us when that little old lady of his passes on…he’ll be forced to
retire…or risk everyone finding out he sings like a frog.’
Gillam hung his head in mock shame.
‘I’ll be exposed for sure – forever doomed to croak my way through life. Will you
still love me then, Charlotte my sweet?’
Whether by accident or design, the light banter between the brothers had broken the
ice for Jennifer, putting her very much at ease in their company. She found the pair of
them so normal and courteous beyond belief. She looked across at Charlotte. A slight
flush had coloured the neck and cheeks of her friend. The other two seemed not to
notice.
Sean carved four thick slices of fresh bread, still warm from the oven. Pushing plates
round to everyone he settled back in his chair and turned to Jennifer.
‘I saw your gift to Charlotte earlier – it looks fine on her. True gifts should always be
from the heart. I’m sure she’ll treasure it always.’
Jennifer smiled and posed Sean a question.
‘What do you buy a person who has everything? I’m sure you and Gillam have the
same problem with birthday and Christmas presents for each other. I was really unsure
about what to buy Charlotte. In the end I settled for something I would have liked to
receive as a present.’
Sean took time between a mouthful to reply.
‘It’s the popular notion that people like us surround ourselves with all the trappings of
fame – no expense spared.’
He reflected for a moment before continuing.
‘True, some people in our position flaunt their wealth like a badge of office, and good
luck to them. Do you not think if it was just about the money we’d have retired by now?’
‘I suppose so. You can only spend so much I guess, but it has to be an enormous
temptation knowing you can have anything you want. How do you cope with it?’
‘I write music, you can’t put a price on that. Some of the things I’ve written that have
given me the most satisfaction, have never been recorded – and there’s a good chance
they never will. I just enjoyed writing them.’
 Jennifer sighed.
‘I can’t imagine what it would be like to wake up in the morning with an idea for a
song in my head and just sit down and write it. It must be so …satisfying – knowing
people love your music.’
‘It is,’ Sean agreed. ‘But it can be a lonely life,’ he added, ‘especially when your job
takes you away from people you want to be with. The responsibilities of keeping
everyone happy never seem to let up. Sometimes, when we’re stuck on the other side of
the world, the back porch at home is where I want to be most of all.’
‘Charlotte told me about your back porch, she reckons when she was young, she was
the only audience you two had.’
A more serious note crept into her voice.
‘She’s very protective of you both. In all our time at school she’s never let on about
either of you. You’re both very special to her.’
‘Ah now Jenny – there’s special, and there’s special. We both feel the same about
Charlotte and her mother and I couldn’t help but notice when we were introduced tonight,
Charlotte said you were a good friend of hers, and also her mother’s.’
Jennifer looked at Sean: was he hinting at something?
‘Charlotte and I haven’t always been friends, quite the reverse. We’ve had some quite
spectacular fallings out over the years.’
‘Over boys I bet. It’s not hard to imagine that you’re both very popular with the lads.’
Jennifer shook her head.
‘No, nothing like that. In fact…I don’t think either of us has ever had a boyfriend.’
She felt herself blushing, and found herself explaining her remark.
‘I’m a bit of an egghead really. Always got my nose into books…as for Charlotte – I
think she finds boys of her own age rather childish and boring. You saw the lot that was
here tonight? Well, they were about the pick of the bunch. Inspiring don’t you think?’
Sean smiled and nodded.
‘I take your point. Charlotte’s always had a leaning toward quiet sensitive people –
she’s very much like her mother in that respect.’
‘Her and Gillam seem to get on well together.’
Sean eyed Jennifer and shot a quick glance over to his brother. Gillam and Charlotte
were deep in quiet conversation. He leaned closer and lowered his voice.
‘They always used to be like brother and sister when they were younger – Charlotte
had a way of bringing Gillam out of himself.’
Jennifer looked at the two across the table. ‘I think Charlotte sees him as a bit more
than a brother these days.’
In reply, Sean stood up from the table and made an exaggerated show of stretching.
‘All this sitting round’s no good for a young superstar – I’ll take a stroll to check on
the lads and the gear. Fancy the walk Jenny girl? – It’s a lovely night.’
Jenny was hesitant, but when Sean gave her an almost imperceptible nod, she agreed.
‘Ok, but then we come back for some more of that delicious coffee – agreed?’
Outside, the two walked, quite far apart, toward the marquee and the sounds of
equipment being moved around. Sean seemed deep in thought and Jennifer decided to
allow him the space he seemed to need. Halfway across the lawn he stopped.
‘Can you keep a secret Jenny Farringdon, I mean… really keep a secret?’
Jennifer’s mind took an intuitive leap.
 ‘It’s about Charlotte and Gillam isn’t it?’
Sean pursed his lips.
‘Well you’re half-right at that…go on …tell me what’s in your mind.’
‘I think Charlotte…’ she chose her words with care, ‘Looks on Gillam as more than a
good friend.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s just seeing them together and how she acts.’
‘Do you remember a song from an album of ours a couple of year’s back? ‘Gold in
the Sunset’. I wrote the music, Gillam penned the words.’
Jennifer remembered it at once.
‘Of course I do. It was quite a sad song about a boy and girl and how they couldn’t be
together. I remember the lyrics described how the boy couldn’t tell the girl what he felt
for her. The chorus was about them being on a beach and the sun shining gold through
her blonde hair, and…’
Jennifer’s hand went to her mouth and she stared at Sean.
He was smiling.
‘You’ve worked it out haven’t you? Gillam wrote the song about Charlotte, he’s head
over heels for her, and has been for the past two years. He desperately wants to tell her
how he feels, but there’s seven years between them, to say nothing of the pop industry. If
it all came out, poor Charlotte would never have a private life again and we might lose
two very good friends.’
Jennifer was still struggling to come to terms with the revelation that the biggest pop
sensation to ever leave the shores of the Emerald Isle was in love with the girl, who, a
few hours before had been crying on her shoulder.
She walked on alone, thinking. Sean caught her up and faced her, forcing her to stop.
By his manner it was obvious he had become quite agitated.
‘Has Charlotte ever said anything about Gillam and her?’
Jennifer shook her head.
‘No – never. She probably thinks people would laugh at her. Until tonight, none of
the crowd at the party realised she even knew you two.’
‘Give me your word you won’t say anything to her – Gillam’s a very private person –
he has to sort this out himself.’
‘Sean – you have my word. Does anyone else know?’
He relaxed a little and moved aside, falling in step with her.
‘No one. I’m sure he wouldn’t even have told me, but he got quite emotional writing
the lyrics – and I guessed.’
‘I hope they manage to sort things out. One of them has to say something – what’s the
point in thinking about someone like that and not telling them.’
‘We’re two different people Jennifer, Gillam and me. I’ll go along with you – far
better to know where you stand, and if it goes badly, at least you know you have to move
on.’
So engrossed were the two in their conversation, they had walked past the marquee
and were amongst the fruit trees in the orchard. Jennifer was curious.
‘What would you do if you were Gillam…I mean, how would you handle it?’
Sean stopped and turned towards Jennifer.
‘That’s easy.’
Before she had time to realise or resist, he cupped her face in his hands and gazed into
her eyes.
 ‘I love you,’ he said.
Jennifer felt her composure slipping and moved away.
‘Yep – that would do it – no messing and straight to the point.’
Sean looked to be on the verge of embarrassment.
‘I’m sorry Jenny – you asked how I’d handle it, and if I were Gillam, that’s what I’d
do.’
‘Absolutely – leave the girl in no doubt.’
They walked on in silence for a while, neither quite knowing where to pick up the
conversation again. Once out of the orchard their route took them back to the marquee.
The road crew had finished packing and were sitting around on the side of the stage,
talking. Sean swapped jokes with some of them, and then as the pair was leaving, called
out over his shoulder.
‘See you in the morning lads – we’ll leave to be at the airport by about two thirty – it’s
a six hour flight so it’s going to be a rush at the other end.’
He sighed as they left the marquee.
‘It never ends. We have to be in NewYork by tomorrow evening to record a show,
then back to London to plan the final details of our next tour.’
‘Don’t you have people to do that sort of thing for you?’
Jennifer had always imagined international recording artists led a pampered life.
‘I guess most people do, but Dad’s our manager, so it’s always seemed like a family
concern to all of us. We share the workload, and in this business… it’s easier to trust
family.’
Jennifer agreed it made sense.
‘You read about so many unscrupulous characters in the music industry, it must be
reassuring to know your financial dealings rest in the hands of the family. Does your
mother help out?’
Sean exploded with laughter.
‘Help out you say…help out! ‘Twas her who started the whole thing off in the first
place. Our grandad gave Gillam his old guitar and I got the sulks, being given nothing.
Our mum took pity on me, sent our dad up into the loft, and sure enough, he came down
with our mum’s old clarinet.’
Jennifer’s engrossment was total. She loved hearing how the brothers started their
career, and Sean had the knack of telling a good story.
‘Do you know anything about musical instruments Jenny?’
‘Not much – although music theory, to some extent, is a mathematical thing – so I
guess the whole concept isn’t altogether foreign to me.’
‘Well it was certainly foreign to me, and the clarinet didn’t help any. All the keys and
pads were stuck and the reed was split in half. I couldn’t get a note out of it. Our dad –
bless him – took the whole thing apart, soaked the barrels in linseed oil and fitted new
corks and pads. Our mother made a special trip into town and bought a box of reeds –
soft ones for me delicate lips.’
He shook his head and laughed; his enjoyment in telling the story was obvious.
‘When the thing was all back together again, Mum picked it up and without batting an
eyelid, played ‘Danny Boy’ so beautifully I’ll swear I saw a tear in Dad’s eye.’
‘Your mother is obviously where you two get your musical ability from then?’
‘Undoubtedly – Dad can’t carry a tune – he changes key every two or three bars.
Mind you – when I had my first blow on that clarinet, such a terrible screech came out of
the end, our cat tore off down the garden and we didn’t see her for a week.’
Jennifer laughed.
‘You tell a good story Sean.’
‘It’s the truth – I swear. But don’t go telling anyone – I’m supposed to be a naturally
talented musician. If only they knew what the family had to put up with while I was
learning my craft.’
‘And do you really take that old clarinet everywhere with you?’
‘I do. Every time I put it to my lips, new tunes come tumbling out. I wrote our first
hit on it, and one day, it’ll help me write our last.’
‘Sean…I do believe you’re superstitious.’
He spread his hands and shrugged.
‘Of course…I’m Irish.’
Back at the house, the two made their way through to the kitchen. Charlotte and
Gillam were still talking. Charlotte waved as they busied themselves with the coffee-pot
but never took her eyes from Gillam’s face. With Sean’s revelations fresh in her mind,
Jennifer sneaked a quick look at the pair over the younger brother’s shoulder. The two of
them looked so right for each other and she reasoned, the age gap didn’t pose a problem.
Charlotte was eighteen, which made Gillam twenty-five: that must put Sean at about
twenty-two or twenty-three.
Gillam called across to his brother.
‘Are the boys ok with the gear?’
‘No problem – all packed away and ready to roll. They’ll be tucked up in their hotel
within the hour – they know we’ve got a long day ahead.’
‘They’re good lads – I’m going up myself in a minute. We’ll go over the running
order of the songs for the show on the flight over.’
Gillam turned to Charlotte.
‘Time for some beauty sleep – you look tired. There’s a tiny dark circle under your
eye on an otherwise faultless complexion.’
Charlotte gave him a playful push on the shoulder.
‘You say the nicest things Gillam. My make-up’s obviously given up on me – it’s
what’s left of a black eye from a hockey match.’
She looked across the room at Jennifer.
‘I was too clever for my own good, but it’s fine now.’
Jennifer sat on the side of her bed. Everyone had said their goodnights, and turning
the events of the evening over in her mind, it occurred to her Constance had not returned
to the kitchen as promised, neither had she been in the marquee with the caterers. She
dismissed the thought, reasoning that everyone would have a chance to chat and say their
goodbyes in the morning. It also crossed her mind, Constance Longthorpe might be a
very shrewd lady.
A quick knock at the door and Charlotte slipped in clutching an opened bottle of wine
and two glasses.
‘You were a long time checking on the road crew,’ she commented, feigning
innocence. ‘Let’s have a glass of wine and talk about it.’
Jennifer knew full well what Charlotte was up to. The girl needed an allie, someone in
the same predicament she could share her problem with. Short of lying, unless Charlotte
chose to confide in her, there was little she could do, a promise was a promise.
However, her reply left the door open for her friend.
‘I know you don’t see as much of the brothers as you’d like to, and with you and
Gillam obviously such good mates I thought you’d like some time alone to chat. Sean’s a
really nice guy and very much the gentleman – as I’m sure Gillam is,’ she added. ‘He
has a wonderful knack of telling a story – makes you feel like you were there.’
Charlotte poured two glasses of wine and sat, gazing into the middle distance.
‘You’re absolutely right – we did have loads of catching up to do and it was the
longest chat we’ve had for ages. Gillam and I don’t get a lot of time to spend together –
the best we can usually manage is a ‘phone call. But depending where he is in the world,
the time difference sometimes makes it impossible.’
‘Sean was telling me how his dad’s the manager for the band, he must be very proud
of the two boys.’
‘He’s proud of all of them. Every member comes from the same area and I guess he
sees the band as a sort of local cottage industry that’s best served by having a local
person looking after its interests. There’s never been a row over money or anything like
that to cause a disagreement, so the line-up’s never changed, and I reckon that’s one of
their major strengths in a very competitive business.’
Jennifer shifted round on the bed and propped herself against the headboard. The
wine was leaving a pleasant glow in her stomach and she felt more relaxed than she had
been in days.
Charlotte leapt to her feet.
‘Hang on a minute – before I forget, there’s something I promised to show you,’ and
she left the room, to return a few seconds later holding a picture frame.
‘It doesn’t look much I know, but it’s one of my most treasured possessions.’
She handed Jennifer the frame.
Under the glass was a sheet of paper, torn from an old exercise book. The writing was
faded and lots of words had been crossed out or overwritten, some in a different hand.
Chord sequences had been pencilled in at intervals along the lines and notes made in the
margin in very small writing. Jennifer tilted the frame toward the light to read some of
the notes.
‘Guitar solo – use acoustic and nylon strings,’ and further down the margin, ‘Ask
Sean about best sound for this part,’ and an arrow pointing at some of the original words,
crossed through, but still legible. The writing over the top was in the different hand.
Jennifer pointed out the alterations. ‘Whose writing is this?’
‘That’s Sean’s; he knows what words will sometimes suit Gillam’s voice better than
others, depending on the melody, and Gillam always values Sean’s opinions.’
Jennifer studied the manuscript. At the top, the title had been crossed through twice,
the last title being ringed in heavy pencil with ‘Yes’ written next to it. The first title read,
‘Secrets in The Sun.,’ and had been superseded by, ‘Beach of Dreams,’ only to be crossed
out again and, ‘Gold in the Sunset,’ written in block capitals.
Jennifer looked at Charlotte.
‘Which one of the brothers gave you this?’
‘Sean. He sent it to me through the post whilst the band was on tour, with a note
saying how he thought I’d like it. The note’s taped on the back of the frame.’
Jennifer turned the frame over and read:
 ‘Hi Charlie – we recorded this yesterday at the studio in Miami. Thought you might
like it as a keepsake. Gil’s very pleased with it – says it’s his all-time favourite. Bit
sloppy if you ask me! Do folks really make such a secret of their feelings? If so, they
shouldn’t – life’s too short.
From your adopted brother – Sean XXX.’
Jennifer placed the picture frame on the bed. What a secret she had to live with.
Without a doubt, Sean had done his best to get things moving. The very act of sending
the original draft of the song, together with the clever wording of the note, made no secret
of how he thought things should be progressing. It was for all the world as if he had sent
Charlotte a love letter from his brother. Bizarre – but at the same time, sincere, well
meaning and concerned for the pair’s happiness.
‘What a wonderful thing to just drop through your letter box – why do you think he
sent it?’
Charlotte shrugged.
‘The two of them quite often send postcards to Mum and me when they’re away, and
as you know, Gillam rings when he can. Perhaps Sean couldn’t find anywhere selling
postcards – who knows? I showed it too Mum and she had it framed for me whilst I was
at school one day. Said it was a special part of the brother’s lives, and I should keep it
safe.’
‘I’ll bet she did.’
And again, for the second time that night, Jennifer found herself impressed by
Constance Longthorpe’s grasp of the situation, and in understanding her daughter the
way she did, was aware why the woman kept silent.
Another glass of wine and both girls were more than ready for sleep. In a few short
hours, both would be awake to face a different kind of bitterness the new day would
bring. For Charlotte, there would be the pain of acting out an innocent goodbye with
Gillam: for Jennifer, the prospect of her planned confrontation with Rita.
Laying in the dark, drifting off to sleep, the words of Gillam’s song played through
Jennifer’s mind.

Gold in the sunset,

My heart's aching, and yet
Friendship is the only thing we share.
Gold in the sunset,
Stupid pride just won't let
Love break free and tell her that I care.

In the seconds before sleep cloaked her conscious thoughts, Jennifer was once again in
the orchard, Sean’s cool, delicate hands cupping her face, his soft blue eyes staring into
hers.
 Chapter Five

Sat in the back of the taxi, all thoughts of the impending row with her mother were driven
from Jennifer’s mind by excitement.
Constance Longthorpe, after cooking breakfast for everyone, had drawn her to one
side.
‘I’ve approached my husband on your behalf and asked for you to be sent an
application form for a position in the accounts department. The one undeniable attribute
of good brandy, is its ability to mellow William’s frame of mind. He assures me a form
will be in the post on Monday and should be with you by Tuesday morning.’
Charlotte had been delighted when Jennifer had given her the news, but managed to
make a valid point, even though it was couched in terms of tongue-in-cheek sarcasm.
‘I shall so look forward to receiving my application form. Obviously the quality of my
C.V. will immediately convince the owner of my total unsuitability for any type of
manual labour whatsoever. If my application isn’t processed accordingly I shall join a
union, and ask them to pursue a case for discrimination on my behalf…so there.’
Constance had smiled at Charlotte’s comments, and, although admiring her resilience,
felt an angry bitterness at her husband’s treatment of their daughter.
For his part, William Longthorpe found brandy to be an excellent means to grant him
temporary release from the habitual constraints of anger, allowing him space to reason
clearly, albeit with malicious intent.
When Constance approached him late on in the evening concerning Jennifer
Farringdon, his immediate reaction was to dismiss her request out of hand. However,
several large brandies caused him to pause and then agree to the despatch of an
application form. The Farringdon girl was a friend not only of Charlotte, but also it
would seem, of his wife. Dashing her hopes of employment to the ground only served to
sweeten an already memorable victory, even further. He rose from his chair and let out
with a chuckle as Constance left the room.
‘If you can’t stand the pain – you shouldn’t play the game – my sweet.’
The clink of the decanter against the side of his glass heralded another large brandy to
be enjoyed.

The taxi progressed through the light after-lunchtime traffic, the driver taking advantage
of the Sunday de-restrictions to the bus lanes. The closer to home Jennifer became, the
more her feeling of excitement was driven out by the apprehension building inside her.
There was no doubt in her mind of her mother’s infidelity, she had witnessed the
evidence first hand. The possibility her mother would refuse to co-operate and accept her
demands was uppermost in her mind. Of one thing she was certain, her father must never
know of his wife’s indiscretions; and in that fact lay her dilemma. What if her mother
called her bluff, laughed in her face and dared her to tell her father? What course of
action would there be left for her to embark upon? Her resolve not to hurt her father,
although well meant, slammed shut all other doors of action, leaving her living in a
household privy to her mother’s adultery. She was in no doubt whatsoever, her mother
would take full advantage of her silence and exploit the situation to the full. The path
Jennifer’s reasoning led her along caused her to re-examine her decision not to inform her
father. It occurred to the girl she may find it impossible to live with the secret. Perhaps
if everything were brought out into the open…
The taxi driver turned in his seat.
‘That’ll be six pounds please.’
With a start, Jennifer realised they were parked outside her home. The family car was
not in the driveway, and she guessed her father was either at work, or at his allotment.
Good, that meant she would be able to tackle her mother straight away. Paying the driver
with the ten-pound note her father had given her the night before, Jennifer made her way
to the rear of the house and let herself in through the kitchen door.
At the sound of the door closing, Rita’s head appeared round the top of the landing.
‘Is that you Jennifer?’
She descended the first few stairs to give her a view through the hallway into the
kitchen. On seeing her daughter, she retraced her steps to the landing, shouting over her
shoulder.
‘I’ll be down in a minute – I’ve got something to tell you.’
Through the open door to the lounge, Jennifer saw a rumpled blanket on the settee,
evidence of someone having slept there. Back in the kitchen everything looked normal,
but upstairs the sound of wardrobe doors being opened and closed caused her to wonder
what her mother was up to. She was about to go upstairs and investigate when Rita
appeared on the landing, dragging a heavy suitcase.
‘Give me a hand downstairs with this, it’s too heavy for me to manage on my own –
hurry up, I’ve got a taxi coming soon.’
When the stairs had been negotiated and the suitcase was in the hall, Jennifer faced her
mother.
‘What’s happening? Where are you going with that case?’
‘I’m leaving.’
Rita’s tone had an air of finality about it.
‘Your bloody father attacked Gary at the dancehall last night and almost killed him.
He was like a maniac – I can’t live with someone that violent – Gary’s offered to put me
up until I can sort things out.’
Jennifer stared at her mother, shocked into confusion by the woman’s outburst.
‘Dad’s not like that – he wouldn’t attack anyone – what were you doing with Gary?’
‘I wasn’t doing anything – we were out in the alley at the back of the dance hall
getting a breath of fresh air. Your father appeared and started laying into Gary for no
reason. I had to drag him off – I thought he was going to hit me as well.’
‘Where’s my dad now?’
‘How the fuck should I know – in hell, as far as I care. All I wanted was a good time
for a change – he ruined everything.’
A sudden resolve swept through Jennifer. She eyed her mother with a cold, steady
gaze and spoke in a quiet voice.
‘Does Dad know about you and Gary?’
Rita’s jaw slackened for just a moment and then she recovered.
‘I don’t know what you mean, there’s nothing to know…I’ve done nothing wrong –
Gary’s just a good friend.’
Jennifer continued to stare straight at her mother, allowing no emotion to enter her
voice.
 ‘At the beginning of the week you were almost naked on our kitchen table, legs in the
air, letting that apology for a man put himself inside you. The next day you met him at
the shops and drove off in his car – I’m sure you remember, you showered as soon as you
got home while Dad and I prepared tea. On Friday, you pulled up outside his flat and
went inside with him, after mouthing off like a slut in the middle of the road. Just after
that he came to the window and pulled the curtains – he had no shirt on – I don’t suppose
you had much on by that time either. Don’t treat me like a child – you were whoring it
up in the alley with him last night – and Dad caught you at it. Now – where’s my
father?’
Halfway through Jennifer’s account of her mother’s activities, Rita had sat on the
stairs, looking down at the carpet. Now, she raised her gaze to meet Jennifer’s, a vicious
smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
‘Quite the little spy aren’t you?’ Her voice was filled with derision. ‘You think
you’re so clever with that brain of yours – well you’re not – it just makes you a freak -
why do you think you don’t have any friends? All the other kids think you’re weird –
that’s why. Well you sneaky little tart, I hope you and your father have lots to talk about
when I’m gone. I’d love to be a fly on the wall, particularly when he gets round to telling
you he’s not…’
A knock at the front door cut Rita’s sentence short. She sprang to her feet.
‘That’ll be my taxi. I’m going to pick up Gary from the hospital and move in with
him. Enjoy your cosy little chat.’
Laughing, she dragged the suitcase along the hallway and opened the front door. On
the doorstep stood a man wearing a dark blue suit; behind him stood a uniformed woman
Police Officer and Mrs Parker, the neighbour from across the road.
Rita glared at the man in the suit.
‘Yes…what do you want? I’ve got a taxi coming, so you’d better be quick – and
what’s that old bag doing here?’
Before the man could answer, Mrs Parker butted in.
‘Rita – there’s been a terrible…’
‘Shut up, you old biddy. All you’re good for is sneaking around behind your net
curtains, poking your nose into everyone’s business.’
The man managed to summon up enough effort to assert himself.
‘Mrs Farringdon, I’m Detective Sergeant Brian Povey, and this,’ he nodded toward the
woman with him, ‘Is WPC Langley. I’ve brought Mrs Parker over because she’s a
neighbour. May we all come in?’
Rita moved to one side, and DS Povey, accepting the unspoken invite, walked into the
hallway, followed by the other two women.
Jennifer followed them all into the front room and perched herself on the arm of the
settee. She realised she was still shaking inside from the recent confrontation with her
mother. The policewoman made a point of staring at the rumpled blanket and addressed
Jennifer.
‘Shall we go and put the kettle on? A cup of tea might be a good idea.’
Jennifer nodded and went through to the kitchen. She had no idea what the visit from
the Police was all about. If her father had beaten up Gary as her mother had said, they
would need to interview him at the very least: perhaps take a statement or something.
‘When did you last see your dad Jennifer?’
 The girl turned from the sink, halfway through filling the kettle.
‘Last night, just before I went to a birthday party.’
She looked down at her dress.
‘I stayed at my friend’s house last night and I’ve only just got back – I haven’t even
had time to change.’
WPC Langley nodded.
‘Stunning dress – I bet you caused a sensation at the party…I’m Margaret by the way.
Where was your Mum going with the suitcase?’
Jennifer felt herself flushing.
‘Um…to stay at a friend’s I think. Is my dad in some kind of trouble?’
Margaret Langley gave Jennifer a level gaze.
‘That’s what DS Povey is talking to your mum about now. Has there been some kind
of row between your parents Jennifer?’
A feeling of misery swept over the girl. This was all her mother’s fault, playing
around behind her father’s back, and now the police wanted to speak to him. Her
shoulders dropped and she gave up on making the tea. The policewoman walked over
and put an arm round her.
‘I’ll do that – just tell me where everything is. What was the row about?’
Jennifer knew her mother would not give a favourable account to the police
concerning her husband’s actions of the night before, she might even lie to stop herself
being shown up in a bad light. She decided the truth was the only way to help her father.
‘My mother’s seeing some else. My dad took her to a dance last night and I think he
found out about this other man and lost his temper. He’s never hit anyone before, but he
thinks the world of my mother and I suppose it was all too much for him. I know where
he’ll be if you want to talk to him.’
‘And where’s that Jennifer?’
Margaret Langley’s question was spoken in a quiet, almost resigned voice.
‘He’ll be at the allotment… or working. Why did you bring Mrs Parker over here?’
The policewoman coughed nervously and stopped arranging the cups on the tray
Jennifer had placed on the work-surface.
‘Sometimes, if we have to give bad news to people, it helps to have a neighbour
there…a familiar face. Nobody likes to receive bad news in front of strangers – let alone
the Police.’
‘My mother hates Mrs Parker. If she gets to know about my dad beating up Gary –
that’s my mother’s boyfriend – my mother will reckon she’ll tell everyone in the street.’
‘That won’t happen Jennifer, I promise you. You said your mother was going to stay
with a friend – do you think she was going to move in with this Gary, and your dad found
out?’
‘I don’t know. She told me she was going to live with Gary just before you arrived,
but I’m sure Dad didn’t know anything about any of it when I left the house last night –
he was absolutely fine. I know him – if there’d been something wrong I would have been
able to tell.’
‘How would you describe your relationship with your father, Jennifer?’
‘He’s the best dad in the world. He’s always let my mother push him about and he
always gives in to her. I don’t know what finding out about Gary will do to him – he
idolises my mother.’
 WPC Langley frowned.
‘Did you know about Gary then – before today I mean?’
‘I found out at the beginning of the week.’
‘Your mother told you?’
‘No. I came home from school and he was round here. He sold my mum and dad the
double glazing for the house and said he’d be back after it was fitted to check on the
installation.’
‘So why did you think there was something going on?’
The misery that had descended earlier on Jennifer was fast giving way to anger. Fury
at her mother for putting her father in such a position where he might find himself in
trouble with the Police. By sheer coincidence, WPC Langley had perched herself on the
end of the kitchen table.
‘Because when I got home from school, they were having sex, just where you’re
sitting. I saw them through the window, but until my mother told me she was leaving,
just before you arrived, I kept quiet.’
The policewoman glanced down and moved herself along the table.
‘Let’s take the tea into the front room, I expect everyone could do with a cuppa by
now.’
In the lounge, Jennifer perched herself on the arm of Mrs Parker’s chair, she had no
wish to sit with her mother on the settee. DC Povey was standing, writing notes in a
small book: Rita, tight lipped and white faced was staring straight ahead.
The detective stopped writing and looked over at Jennifer.
‘I’m afraid I’ve just had to give your mother some bad news. This morning, at quarter
to nine…’
There was a knock at the door. WPC Langley stopped handing round the tea and went
into the hall. Jennifer heard a few hushed words being spoken, and then the sound of the
front door closing. She glanced through the lounge window in time to see a taxi being
driven off.
Mrs Parker had pulled out a handkerchief and was busy dabbing at the corners of her
eyes. She put the handkerchief away and took Jennifer’s hand. The girl offered no
resistance.
‘This morning, at quarter to nine,’ the detective continued, ‘The body of a man was
found in a car parked by the allotments near the old railway. The car is registered to Jack
Farringdon who we believe to be the occupant of the vehicle. The initial search by our
forensic team has revealed a length of garden hose, attached to the exhaust and inserted
into a side window of the vehicle. However, until the body has been officially identified
and a full post-mortem performed, the cause of death cannot be established. There was a
bottle of whisky in the car but the seal was still intact – it hadn’t been touched.’
Brian Povey slipped the notebook into an inside pocket and looked around the room.
‘There’s no easy way to say this, but somebody will have to come down to the
mortuary and identify the body…Mrs Farringdon?’
He looked across the room at Rita, waiting for her response.
Jennifer could hear the blood pounding through her ears and her vision began to blur;
she knew she was on the verge of passing out. Gritting her teeth and gripping the fabric
on the arm of the chair with her free hand, she hung on until the moment passed. Rita
was still staring straight ahead and appeared not to have heard DC Povey’s question.
 Mrs Parker leaned forward.
‘Rita dear – they want someone to identify the body – I’ll come with you if you like. I
had to do it for my dear late husband.’
Fury, laced with malice and spite, spat from Rita’s mouth.
‘You fucking old bitch, that husband of yours had to die to get away from you. When
you went to see him I bet he had a smile on his face…finally got some peace. Ever since
he died you’ve done nothing but stick your bloody witch’s nose into everybody’s fucking
business…you dried up, frustrated old bag.’
Jennifer disengaged her hand from Mrs Parker’s and walked across the room. The
slap she delivered to her mother’s cheek connected with such force it knocked Rita
against the arm of the settee and left an angry red handprint emblazoned across the
woman’s face.
The Detective Sergeant made to move toward Jennifer but WPC Margaret Langley
caught his eye, stopping him with a frown and shake of her head.
Turning her back on her mother Jennifer put her arm round Mrs Parker’s shoulders.
The old woman had a handkerchief to her face to stifle her sobbing. The girl faced
Margaret Langley and Brian Povey.
‘If Mrs Parker will come with me, I’ll identify my father for you.’ She looked across
the room at her mother, slumped against the back cushion of the settee, hand to her
cheek. ‘I’m the only one in this house who loves him, no one else has the right to say
goodbye.’
DC Povey coughed and shuffled his feet.
‘Fine – we can take both of you with us now if you feel up to it. Best to get it over
and done with.’
He pulled a two-way radio from his jacket pocket and stepped into the hall. His voice
carried back into the front room.
‘DC Povey to control.’
‘Go ahead – over.’
‘I’m bringing a member of the Farringdon household to the mortuary to identify the
suspected suicide. Please make the appropriate arrangements. ETA forty-five minutes.
Povey out.’
Putting the radio back into his pocket he walked out into the front garden.
‘Christ I shall be glad to get this one over with – what a cow. Good job the
daughter’s level headed.’
Jennifer found herself awakening hidden reserves of strength, dormant inside her for
almost eighteen years. She turned to Margaret Langley.
‘Margaret – I have to change out of this dress. Would you take Mrs Parker into the
kitchen and perhaps make her another cup of tea? I’ll only be a few minutes.’
The police officer nodded.
‘Anything else you want me to do?’ She shot a sideways look at Rita. ‘Anyone you’d
like me to contact for you – relatives or friends?’
‘Not for now.’
She waited until Margaret had shepherded Mrs Parker through the hall in the direction
of the kitchen, then closed the door to the living room, leaving her mother on the settee.
In the garden, Brian Povey lit a cigarette and with slow deliberation, inhaled a lungful
of smoke. Sunday’s were supposed to be peaceful – time to catch up on ever pressing
and overdue paperwork.
‘Still,’ he reflected, ‘the job’s never got to me enough to want to stick a hosepipe
through the side window. Jesus – she must have been hell to live with.’
He ground the cigarette out on the path and made his way back into the house,
attracted by the welcome sound of a boiling kettle and rattling teacups.
In the lounge, Rita was a mixture of simmering fury, frustration and self-pity. With
the beating Jack had given Gary, events had played themselves into her hands. Rather
than appear callous by walking out on her husband and daughter, Jack’s violence had
made her half-true version of events a believable excuse for turning her back on her
family and home.
Now, she sensed the pendulum was beginning to swing the other way. She was being
seen as the unfaithful wife and uncaring mother, who had driven her husband to suicide
and deserted her daughter. She gave brief consideration to a damage limitation exercise,
whereby she stood by Jennifer and blamed Gary for leading a faithful wife and loving
mother astray. But even Rita’s selfish and devious mind knew the evidence of her recent
actions would make any claim of innocence ludicrous.
She took stock of her assets. The house would be hers and she could sell the car.
Jennifer was coming up to eighteen, so why not sell the house as well. Moving in with
Gary would release all the capital she could raise, and the foreseeable future would be
like the old days – plenty of money, and good times to spend it on.
Her mind turned to assets of a less material nature. Until she had shared her secret the
night before, she, and she alone knew her dead husband was not her daughter’s father.
Now, as before, she was the only one in possession of that knowledge. A brief thrill
swept through her as she contemplated the revelation and the devastation it would cause.
First, she would announce that Jack was not Jennifer’s father. But by far the biggest
prize would be to admit to knowing the identity of the girl’s natural parent – but refusing
to tell. There was no doubt in Rita Farringdon’s mind that, given time, an opportunity
would present itself whereby she would be able to use the information to her advantage.
She decided to tread a righteous path for the next couple of weeks. Distasteful as Rita
found it to contemplate, staying in the family home with Jennifer, at least until after the
funeral, would go some way toward silencing local gossip – not that she cared, but evil
people are not exempt from pride or vanity.
That her daughter had elected to identify her dead husband’s body gave her conscience
no cause for concern. In her eyes, Jack had chosen to take the cowards way out of the
situation and the position his death had placed her in would have provoked her into
spitting on the corpse anyway. She was well aware of the extent of her unreasonable
temper, but had always felt comfortable living with the knowledge.
Upon hearing the front door close, followed by the sound of a car engine starting and
moving away, she manhandled her suitcase upstairs and unpacked some of the contents
before telephoning for another taxi.
The ride to the mortuary was the longest ten minutes in Jennifer’s life. Most people,
having never been in close proximity to a dead body, can only imagine their reactions
upon coming face to face with death: Jennifer was no exception.
Margaret Langley was very supportive.
‘I’ll be with you all the while. If you feel ill, or can’t cope, tell me and we’ll go
somewhere quiet until you’re feeling stronger.’
 Mrs Parker kept a constant hold of Jennifer’s hand.
The mortuary was a grey, featureless building situated at the back of the hospital.
Along with most other people, Jennifer’s concept was one of stone slabs and metal tables,
with corpses covered in white sheets attended by bloodied aproned morticians wielding
gruesome and unrecognisable surgical instruments.
The reality was The Chapel of Rest, a small, quiet, semi-darkened room with a large
oak table at its centre. On the table, covered by a dark blue velvet drape edged in white
satin, lay the body of Jack Farringdon. The drape had been folded back to expose the
face. As Jennifer entered the chapel, the attendant increased the light level in the room.
Margaret Langley stood to one side of the girl, Mrs Parker bowed her head and
whispered a prayer. Detective Sergeant Povey stood a respectful distance behind the
group, notebook in hand. He was the first in the room to speak.
‘Jennifer, when you’re ready, would you look at the person on the table and tell me if
you recognise him. If you do, please tell me his name and what relationship he bears to
you.’
Jennifer stepped forward and gazed into the calm, pale features of her father. She
experienced no desire to look and run from the room. Neither did her mind or body
recoil with shuddering emotion. She allowed her hand to caress the hair at his temple
before speaking.
‘This is Jack Farringdon…he’s my father. I love you Dad…so much.’
Brian Povey consulted his wristwatch, made brief notes in his pocket book and stood,
silent.
Jennifer stood for a few moments more, looking down at the body of her father before
turning and walking from the room into the sunshine and long shadows of a summer’s
late afternoon.
The girl elected to be taken home, but promised Mrs Parker she would call at her
house first. The two police officers had been most concerned that, given the obvious
relationship between the girl and her mother, Jennifer would find herself alone in the
house or worse, in constant conflict with Rita. WPC Langley took Mrs Parker to one side
and asked her to keep Detective Sergeant Povey or herself informed as to the girl’s
welfare. Mrs Parker was more than willing to offer any assistance required, and was full
of praise for Jennifer.
‘That one’s got a wise head on her shoulders beyond her years,’ she remarked. ‘She
might have her mother’s looks, but thank God that’s about all she’s inherited from the
woman.’
Margaret Langley was inclined to agree.
‘Mrs Farringdon has a certain way with words. Jennifer seems so intelligent, and
between you and me, her version of events makes far more sense than the story her
mother gave my colleague.’
‘You won’t get the truth out of that one.’ Mrs Parker was blunt. ‘She’s been playing
the field for years – why she ever had a child, heaven only knows. Poor Jennifer – Jack
was the one who brought her up – they idolised each other. It would have been better all
round if the mother had ended up down the mortuary, not the father.’
She took hold of Margaret’s arm.
‘Forgive me – that was a very unchristian thing to say…I’m sorry.’
WPC Langley patted the old woman’s hand.
 ‘You’re upset – there’s nothing to forgive. You’re right though, it would have been
better all round – sounds as if she’s a right bitch.’
Having stayed at Mrs Parker’s for half an hour or so, during which time she assured
the old lady, that should she need to talk to someone, or require any help, she would not
hesitate to visit her, Jennifer crossed the road to her home and let herself in. As she
expected, the house was empty, but a quick inspection of her mother’s bedroom and the
half-unpacked suitcase on the bed, told her Rita would be coming back.
Downstairs, she folded the blanket from the settee and put it to one side. Sitting at the
table in the kitchen she looked around, the house appeared so normal; nothing out of
place or disturbed to suggest what must have gone on the night before. The realisation of
her father’s death hovered on the fringe of her mind, but for the time being she resisted
the temptation of letting the knowledge engulf her thoughts. Her reserves of endurance
were spent, leaving an isolation so palpable she felt it march into her mind. She had
nothing left to fight with, the barriers, raised from sheer will power and determination,
collapsed, leaving her sobbing. There was no question of her coming to terms with the
events of the past few hours, every detail of every thought jammed into her head, shouted
to be given priority and she was unable to deal with, or answer any of the questions they
raised. With an effort, she washed and dried her face, brushed her hair, and locking the
front door behind her, walked back across the road.
Mrs Parker opened her front door and took Jennifer through into the kitchen come
dining room. The woman had been baking and the room was warm with the heat from
the oven.
‘I know it’s the last thing you want to think about right now, but you really should
have something to eat. I’ve just baked some bread. Let me toast a slice and make a fresh
pot of tea…sit yourself down.’
She nodded toward an easy-chair by the fireplace.
The girl sank into the chair whilst the older woman busied herself with the toaster and
teacups, reluctant to open any conversation. Jennifer was just glad of the company, and
the unfamiliar, yet reassuring surroundings provided a temporary escape, denied her by
the house across the road with all its everyday objects, each one of which held a memory
of her father.
Mrs Parker placed the toast and tea on a small side-table by the side of Jennifer.
‘It’s not good for you to be over the road on your own you know. Have you any
relatives you can stay with for a few days?’
The girl shook her head.
‘My final exams are in the next few days and the rest of the family don’t live around
here.’ She shrugged. ‘I have to take the exams, or stay on at school for another year, and
I’ve rather been hoping to start work soon.’
She took a sip of her tea and Mrs Parker could see the girl’s hand was shaking.
‘It’s a terrible business – do you know what you mother will do – will she make the
arrangements …for your dad’s funeral do you think?’
Jennifer’s tea spilled into her saucer. She began to apologise, but Mrs Parker took the
cup from her hand and fetched a clean saucer.
‘When my husband died, a friend put me in touch with…some people who arrange
these things.’ Mrs Parker refrained from using the term ‘undertakers’. ‘They made
things as easy as anyone could – given the circumstances. Why not wait for a day or so,
then contact the police and see what they suggest. I expect they’ll need a statement from
you…and your mother.’ The woman struggled to keep the distaste from her voice. ‘You
shouldn’t have to deal with any of this at your age, but I’ll be here to help you and I
daresay the woman police officer will help as well – don’t worry about it for now.’
The combination of a warm drink, a little food and the warmth of the room had
brought about a weariness Jennifer had little strength left to fight. Mrs Parker took her
hand.
‘I won’t have you going over there to sleep and waking up in an empty house. The
bed in the spare room’s made up. You can spend the night here, and tomorrow we’ll start
to sort things out. I’ll go over the road and pin a note to the door saying where you are if
anyone comes calling.’
Jennifer nodded with gratitude and allowed the woman to show her upstairs. Once in
bed, exhaustion exerted itself, and although the thought of sleep filled her with guilt, her
body recognised the need for rest.
Downstairs, true to her word, Mrs Parker took an envelope from a drawer, wrote down
details of Jennifer’s whereabouts and took the short walk over to the Farringdon house
where she pinned the note to the front door.
Once back home, the telephone directory provided her with the number of Jennifer’s
school. Writing it down on a notepad she propped it against a vase on the mantelpiece, a
reminder to ring first thing in the morning to inform the head teacher of the
circumstances and that Jennifer would be absent for a few days.
A quick check upstairs on her visitor revealed the girl fast asleep. Closing the door
and making her way downstairs, Mrs Parker took her knitting and sat in her customary
chair by the front window.

Rita Farringdon felt no guilt as the taxi progressed across the town in the direction of the
hospital. Rather, she was filled with apprehension at being put in a position whereby her
decision to leave her husband was no longer a choice. Much as she was attracted to
Gary, the idea of throwing herself on the mercy of another man was alien to her. In her
mind, with Jack alive, her decision to leave him demonstrated to her lover how much she
wanted to be with him. Now, her right to choose by the physical act of leaving, was lost
to her. She cursed her dead husband under her breath.
‘Why couldn’t you have waited you stupid bastard until I’d moved in with Gary. Now
he might think I’m moving in because I don’t want to be on my own.’
She thought for a brief moment of her daughter, her hand going to the cheek the girl
had slapped.
‘Enjoy your moment of revenge Jennifer, you won’t be getting another one.’
Settling back in her seat, Rita used the remainder of the journey to scheme and plan a
way for Gary to insist that she move in with him. But of the time available to her before
reaching the hospital, the majority was devoted to planning on how to even up the score
with Jennifer.
Gary had undergone an uncomfortable time during his stay in hospital. As he had
been rendered unconscious by Jack Farringdon’s attack, policy dictated he should spend a
period of observation on the ward. At doctor’s rounds he had been subjected to a painful
examination of his groin, and to a lesser extent, his broken nose, now splinted and
strapped. The doctor had decided he should be allowed some medication to relieve the
pain, but his cut lip, where the stitches had been inserted, and ripped gums from the
sudden and brutal exit of his front teeth, were now throbbing as the feeling returned.
A nurse took Rita to one side as she entered the ward.
‘The doctor says it’s too early to say if there’s any lasting damage to his groin and his
ability to father children. I thought I’d let you know – you must be finding it very
worrying.’
‘I am,’ Rita replied, managing to conceal a shudder at the thought of ever being
pregnant again ‘Awfully worrying.’
Hurrying to his bedside, she gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek before sitting down.
Gary looked down by the side of her chair to where she’d placed her handbag.
‘Thought you were going to pack some things and come home with me – where’s your
suitcase?’
He found forming words difficult with the gap in his teeth.
‘It’s at home – half packed. I didn’t know how you’d feel about us, after being beaten
up. I thought you might blame me and finish it all.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish – I can’t wait to get you back to the flat. Mind you,’ he glanced at
his groin, ‘It could take a while for things to get back to normal.’
Rita pressed her point.
‘After what happened I thought you’d just want to forget everything – it was horrible
what Jack did – he could have killed you. I feel so responsible.’
‘They should lock him up and throw away the key. If he was an animal, they’d put
him down. It wasn’t your fault and I don’t want you going back to the house with him
around. There’s no telling what he might do to you – have you seen him?’
Rita took a deep breath.
‘No – and I won’t be seeing him anymore. The Police came round to the house. They
found a body on the allotments – they think it’s Jack – he’s topped himself. I wanted to
go to the mortuary, but Jennifer knows about us and kicked up a terrible fuss. She
insisted on going herself. I came straight here to see you – I had to know where we stood
Gary, it’s really important to me’
Gary was staring at her in disbelief.
‘You’re telling me he’s dead?’
‘Looks that way. He’s been on the edge for years. Every time we had a row he’d get
depressed and go off up to that allotment of his. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve
expected the police to knock on the door and tell me he’d finished himself off.’
Rita was warming to the subject. She pulled a tissue from her bag and dabbed the
sides of her eyes.
Gary took her hand.
‘It must have been terrible for you. Feeling you had to give in, even when you were in
the right. Did he ever get any help?’
‘No – never. Nobody else knew except me. They all thought he was a really nice guy
and I was a slut. I could hardly tell people I was desperate to find a relationship with
someone who would treat me like a woman. It’s not much of a life living with someone
who threatens to kill himself every other day. Even Jennifer didn’t know – she idolised
her dad. What am I going to do Gary? – I don’t want to lose you.’
Rita rocked forward, sobbing into her handkerchief, her free hand clutching Gary’s
with a desperate fervour.
Undeniable male instincts rose to the fore; chivalry could not and would not be denied.
Here was a damsel in distress, and by happy coincidence, beautiful and sexually
explosive.
‘You’re not going to lose me – I know it started off as a bit if fun, but it’s a lot more
than that now. You’ve been through so much – it’s about time somebody gave you a
better life.’
The small smile that manifested itself behind Rita’s handkerchief had disappeared by
the time she had dabbed her eyes and brought her gaze up to meet Gary’s. Only one
more obstacle to overcome.
‘Jennifer will never forgive me – she thinks it’s all my fault. She saw us doing it on
the kitchen table, and she knows about me coming round to your flat.’
Gary frowned.
‘There was nothing to stop her telling her father – she obviously put enough effort into
finding out about us. What was the point if she was going to keep it to herself?’
Rita shrugged.
‘Who knows? She’s a bit of a weird girl – always has been. Perhaps she wanted to
find out what was happening through jealousy – she’s never had a boyfriend.’
Gary trod with extreme care. He was desperate to be with Rita, but didn’t want to take
on her daughter as well. If Rita moved in with him and Jennifer came as part of the
package he could foresee all sorts of problems.
‘She probably blames me as much as you – I can’t see her wanting to actually live in
the same house as the two of us. Can you imagine having someone around all the time
who blames you for her old man committing suicide?’
‘Perhaps I ought to think about selling the house and using some of the money to set
her up in a flat somewhere – she’s eighteen in a few weeks – it’s not like she’s a baby.’
Gary heaved an inward sigh of relief.
‘Thank Christ for that – the last thing I need is some sexually frustrated weirdo girl
with a grudge, peeking through keyholes at me banging her mother.’
‘That sounds like a nice thing to do – who knows, with a bit of independence she
might come round after a while. Once she finds a job and meets other people it might
open her eyes a bit.’
‘That’s settled then. I’ll stay in the house ‘till after the funeral and look around for
somewhere for her to live. I know we’ll have to put things on hold for a couple of weeks,
but by that time you’ll be on the mend and I can move in. I guess you’ll be off sick for a
while so I can spend all my time at your place – Jennifer’s got her final exams at school
so there’ll be no problem.’
Inside, Rita was elated. It had all been so easy. As soon as the deeds of the house
were signed over to her she’d put the property on the market. There were plenty of
bedsits in town and with any luck, all it would cost her would be a month’s rent in
advance, and perhaps a few sticks of second hand furniture. Even better, if Jennifer
decided to take bits and pieces from the family home, the sale of the car would cover the
cost of the deposit and the rest would be hers. She busied herself composing a mental list
of all the clothes shops in town that of late, had been beyond her financial reach.
‘It’ll be all right Rita. I know the next week or so is going to be tough for you with a
funeral to arrange and Jennifer to sort out. I’ve got some contacts who rent out flats – I’ll
have a word if you like, see what’s around.’
Rita squeezed Gary’s hand.
‘I’ll manage – she’s my daughter and I need to do this myself. You just concentrate
on getting better. What I need is a small bedsit – preferably on the other side of town
where they rent cheap ‘lets’ out to students. There’s no way I want the little bitch living
on my doorstep – or costing me a fortune to set up. As for the funeral – after the mess
he’s left me in, I don’t care if they take his body down the council tip.’
Happy now things appeared to be to swinging back in her favour, Rita surveyed her
future. The only cloud on her horizon was Jennifer and the fact the two of them would
have to share the house for a while. If only some of the family lived in the area, she
could ship her daughter off to a relative, leaving her a free hand. Still, that meant
involving other people and having to listen to their opinions and put up with their
meddling: worse, having them pass judgement on things they knew nothing about. That
would be unthinkable: better to leave things the way they were. In time, if the mood took
her, she might get round to letting them know there had been a death in the family, but
only when her future was secure and not before.

Gillam had ‘phoned from New York late Sunday evening, just before the band were due
to leave for their recorded TV show. Speaking first to Constance and thanking her for the
family’s hospitality, he had been very casual in asking if Charlotte was about. Mrs
Longthorpe had smiled to herself and called her daughter to the ‘phone.
‘It’s late afternoon here. You wouldn’t believe the traffic jams I can see from the top
of this building, it’s a good job they’ve laid on a helicopter to get us to the studio.’
Charlotte had played along with the small talk, happy to hear his voice.
‘What it is to be rich and famous Gillam – all I’ve got to look forward to is the bus to
school tomorrow afternoon – I’m on home study for exams in the morning.’
Gillam had laughed.
‘Education’s a wonderful thing girl – enjoy it while you can. I’d rather be sitting at
your table with my head stuck in books than I would thirty story’s up on a helipad
waiting for some crazy pilot to arrive.’
‘I wouldn’t care where I was so long as you were there Gillam.’
In the background, Charlotte had heard someone calling Gillam’s name.
‘Sean says to say ‘hello’ to Jennifer for him.’
Charlotte heard the beat of a helicopter’s rotor blade and Gillam having to shout above
the din.
‘I’ve got to go – stay safe my sweet – I’ll be in touch.’
The line had gone dead before Charlotte could answer. She’d replaced the handset
and suppressed a sigh in front of her mother.
‘Their helicopter arrived and he had to go – I guess he’ll ring another time. Sean said
‘hello’ to Jennifer.’
Constance linked her arm through her daughter’s as they walked through the hall.
‘In no time at all the brothers will be back in this country, they’ve a tour to arrange:
after that we’ll have to see if we can sort out a few quiet days for them. Perhaps you and
Jennifer could put your heads together and come up with something.’
Charlotte had made the excuse of study in the morning and went to bed early.
Constance had retired to the conservatory with a book that had remained unopened in her
lap.
‘Perhaps, if Jennifer secures a position with Longthorpes, Charlotte will find the
strength she’ll undoubtedly need to take on Tom’s job. William hopes she’ll fail – I know
he does, but she‘s a lot stronger than he gives her credit for. If only Gillam and she
would be open with each other – perhaps Jennifer might guess what’s going on –
Charlotte would listen to her.’

Constance and her daughter Charlotte sat at the kitchen table sharing a pot of tea, toast,
fresh fruit and orange juice. After the hectic weekend, breakfast was being taken at a
slow and easy pace, providing the two with an opportunity to talk.
Charlotte removed a crumb of toast from the corner of her mouth with the tip of her
finger.
‘Do you know – I never thought I’d say this, but I wish the exams would go on forever
at school.’
She managed a grin at her mother.
‘In a few of weeks time I’ll be sitting here having breakfast with you in my very best
overalls. It’ll be nice to work with Tom for a while though – I used to so look forward to
seeing him when I was young – I gave him an awful time.’
She laughed, remembering Tom’s roars of mock rage at her antics with the hosepipe
and him clumping around the yard in wellington boots, pretending not to be able to keep
up with her.
Her mother was smiling back at her.
‘Perhaps it won’t be so bad – especially if Jennifer is offered a job at Longthorpes – I
think the two of you would make a formidable team. Are you glad you’ve settled your
differences?’
‘When I think back – we never really had any. Jenny just refused to be drawn into the
crowd that hung around me for what they could get. I saw her as someone I couldn’t buy
off, and stupidly disliked her because of it. At the party I suddenly realised she was the
only person whose friendship wasn’t for sale and when I needed someone, she was there.’
Constance experienced a feeling of pride at her daughter’s admission. Over the years,
it could have been so easy for William’s uncaring and belligerent attitude to shape their
daughter into a contentious adult, an image of himself.
‘I’m very proud of you Charlotte. It takes a lot for someone of your age to be so self
analytical and admit their faults. It’s no secret, your father and I have only what I can
describe as… irreconcilable differences, and the circumstances of your upbringing have,
in the majority of cases, been the battlefield. I always knew that one day, events would
cause you to pause, take stock, and then decide on a course of action. At that point, for
me, the battle would be over – lost or won. By refusing to be humiliated by your father
and in recognising Jennifer as a true friend, all the qualities I have hoped for have shown
themselves.’
Charlotte had stopped eating and was giving her full attention to her mother’s
comments. The friction between her parents was something that had always been
present. No definitive reason had ever been offered by either party for the constant
coolness between them – now it was all out in the open. The girl’s reply to her mother’s
praise caught Constance completely unawares.
‘As soon as I can afford it, I’m going to leave home. I’m not moving away or
anything – but I’m not having Dad point a gun at my head by saying I have to accept his
offer to continue living here. You heard him on Saturday night – he had to have the last
word. He could have accepted that I was prepared to start my working life as a cleaner in
his company, and respected me for it. Instead he had to turn it into a threat – well I’m not
allowing him to dictate my life to me in that fashion. Tom will show me the ropes, but
I’m taking the job on my terms, not my father’s.’
Although painful to her, Constance applauded her daughter’s attitude and decision, but
at the same time urged caution.
‘I wouldn’t seek to argue with your reasoning – but please, wait until a property comes
along that affords you a comfortable lifestyle – I can probably help you there – I still
have contacts in the business… let me talk to them.’
Charlotte nodded, grateful her mother had been so understanding. Her opinion of her
ability to look after herself remained unaltered. No miraculous insight into the successful
execution of domestic chores had presented itself to her since discussing the subject with
Jennifer. There must be books or something to start one off. People weren’t just born
with an egg whisk in one hand and whatever was necessary to put together a passable
coq-au-vin in the other. Perhaps she should have elected to take cookery classes at
school, but having seen the shapeless grey doughy mounds emanating from the domestic
science rooms, she considered her decision to refrain as having been a valid one.
The ‘phone in the hall rang and Constance left a half-eaten grapefruit to answer it.
Charlotte busied herself trying to find the text books for her morning’s revision whilst in
general, feeling far more confident about accepting her father’s ‘offer’.
Constance appeared in the doorway from the hall, a set of car keys in her hand.
‘I have to go out for while. Don’t catch the bus to school – I’ll give you a lift after
lunch.’
Charlotte was used to her mother dashing off at short notice, it was the nature of her
charity work. Over the years, Constance had accepted more and more responsibility for
the day to day running of the charity outlets in the town and a sudden ‘phone call often
meant her dashing away to fill in for staff shortages or dealing with an administrative
problem.
Her revision session settled into its usual haphazard pattern. Pages of facts and
diagrams she felt comfortable with up to a point, only to come upon the inevitable section
or chapter that meant nothing to her at all.
‘Where the hell was I when they covered this in class?’
A frantic search of her piled up reference books or hand written notes sometimes
yielded results, but more often than not the answer eluded her. She consoled herself with
the knowledge that in no time at all, exams would be over, and pass or fail she’d be at the
threshold of her adult working life, if indeed that was something to feel relieved about.
‘At least my job doesn’t depend on my results like some of the others.’
An hour of intensive study and the books were pushed to one side to make room for a
slice of blueberry pie and coffee. Her fork separated a small piece of pie from the slice
and Charlotte stared at it, daydreaming. The gardener had appeared at the kitchen door
with a small basket of fruit from one of the greenhouses late last week. In no time at all
her mother had produced the pie from the oven and set it to one side to cool.
 ‘How did she do that?’
Charlotte pondered on the mysteries of making pastry. She decided she didn’t have a
clue and faced the very real possibility of starvation when she moved out. Ever
resourceful, she continued pondering on the question of food preparation, her
deliberations leading her to arrive at an inescapable conclusion – tins! She made a
mental note to place a tin opener at the top of her list of ‘things to buy’.
Stacking the plate, cutlery and cup into the dishwasher, she heard the sound of a key
turning in the front door lock followed by footsteps through the hall.
‘Mum – If I wanted to make pastry, where would I get all the bits from? Any chance
it comes ready mixed in tins…or something?’
‘You’d need flour, margarine, water and a pinch of salt. Sugar if it was a sweet pastry
for fruit pies.’
Charlotte closed the door to the dishwasher and turned. Jennifer stood in the entrance
to the kitchen looking pale and tired.
‘Hey – it’s cook of the year. You could be all that stands between me and certain
death.’
Behind Jennifer, Constance was making frantic signs for her daughter to be quiet.
‘Jennifer’s had some very bad news – news of the worst kind. She’s here because
she’s on her own and needs friends around her.’

Jennifer had woken to the dawn chorus. At four thirty in the morning, and having no
wish to disturb Mrs Parker, she had little choice but to stay in bed. A grey light filtered
through the closed bedroom curtains, enough to take in her surroundings. A neat and tidy
room, small dressing table, single wardrobe and a chest of drawers beneath the window.
An armchair over in a corner was filled with soft toys and Jennifer remembered Mrs
Parker had grandchildren.
The whirring sound of an electric milk float drifted through an open top window.
Jennifer parted the curtains a few inches in time to see the milkman hurrying along the
front garden path, back to his vehicle. With a jerk and clink of glass bottles, the float
pulled away along the street giving the girl a clear view of her home, opposite. The
curtains to the front upstairs bedroom were pulled back leaving Jennifer in no doubt her
mother had not returned home. She could just make out the note Mrs Parker had
promised to leave, stuck to the front door. The house looked cold, and in the grey light of
dawn, unlived in and foreboding.
A picture of her father lying on the oak table, covered by the blue drape, came to
mind. He wouldn’t be there now, they’d have moved him. She shuddered, and with an
effort, stopped herself from thinking where, or why. On the journey home, Margaret
Langley had whispered something to Mrs Parker about contacting her with details of the
inquest after a post-mortem.
Downstairs, the solemn chime of a clock struck five times, followed a few seconds
later by the ringing of a bedside alarm, silenced almost at once. Movement out on the
landing, then the flushing of an upstairs toilet and the gentle click of the catch on
Jennifer’s bedroom door.
Mrs Parker peered into the room, and seeing the girl was awake, opened the door
wide.
 Going to the wardrobe she took out a white bathrobe.
‘There’s hot water for a bath or shower and I’ll leave some clean towels on the
landing.’ She handed Jennifer the robe. ‘It’s my daughter’s. Come down when you’re
ready – I’ll make some tea.’
She gave a reassuring pat to the girl’s arm and left to go downstairs. Jennifer pulled
her T- shirt she’d worn as a night-dress off over her head and slipped into the bathrobe.
The shower refreshed her and she stood for a while letting the spray play over the back
of her neck and shoulders. Mrs Parker had taken the towel straight from the airing
cupboard and it was still warm as she wrapped it around her. Having dried herself she
slipped into the bathrobe and made her way, barefoot, downstairs.
The table was laid for a simple breakfast; toast in a rack, a selection of jams and
marmalade, side plates and a huge teapot.
Mrs Parker turned as Jennifer walked in.
‘Help yourself to everything my dear – I’m not a big eater first thing in the morning –
but I do drinks lots of tea – if you want anything else – just ask. There’s cereal or eggs
and bacon. My grandchildren love their breakfast, so there’s always plenty in.’
Jennifer shook her head.
‘This is just fine Mrs Parker. Do you know if the Police will want to see me again?’
‘They said they’ll ask you to make a statement at some time, but I wouldn’t think
they’d bother you today. I’ve given them my number so they’re bound to ring first.’
‘I have to sort things out with the school. There’s exams coming up and I really can’t
afford to miss them. I thought I’d go over the road in a bit and make sure all my stuff’s
ready and perhaps catch the bus at lunchtime.’
The woman appreciated the girl’s need to keep herself busy and carry on as normal a
life as the situation would allow, but she urged caution in a gentle voice.
‘Don’t rush into things Jennifer. You’ve had a terrible shock, and the way you’re
coping does you credit. When my husband died I was very much like you – I felt the
need to carry on. Then I went into the shed to fetch a broom, and there on the bench were
his tools, all laid out to mend one of our grandchildren’s toys – I went completely to
pieces. I couldn’t bring myself to go into that shed for weeks after. In the end, my
daughter took me away for the weekend, and whilst I was gone, my son-in-law packed all
my husbands tools away and put them in his garage for safekeeping.’
Jennifer had given no thought to her father’s possessions. There was no doubt, that
given her mother’s stated intention of leaving and going to live with Gary, the woman
would offer no assistance whatsoever. She would dread having to sort through all the
things belonging to her father, worse still, having to take decisions concerning what to
keep and what to let go. It began to dawn on her what it would mean to be left alone in
the house to fend for herself.
She resolved not to resort to self-pity. Grief was one thing, both allowable and
understandable – nothing would bring her father back. But the anger she felt toward her
mother for driving her husband to commit the ultimate act of desperation overrode
everything, even the grief of a loving daughter.
‘I’ll be ok Mrs Parker – honestly. The longer I leave it, the worse it will be when I
have to go over there. I’ll collect the things I need for school this afternoon and come
straight back.’
Mrs Parker agreed, albeit with some reluctance: it was best done sooner rather than
later.
‘I looked up the number of the school after you went to bed last night and wrote it
down – it’s on that notepad propped against the vase,’ she nodded in the direction of the
mantelpiece. ‘It’s only just after six – if you change your mind about going, there’s
plenty of time to ring and let them know.’
Jennifer finished off her tea and poured a second cup whilst her hair dried. Back
upstairs she dressed and sat on the side of the bed.
How could her father leave her like this? Being as close as they were, he would have
known his daughter would have stood by him and helped him through the shock of
coming to terms with his wife’s adultery. Jennifer was only too well aware it had been
her father who had shouldered the responsibility of bringing her up. Her first day at
school, the first trip to the zoo, learning to swim and ride a bicycle, he was always there.
And later, when it was obvious her gift for mathematics should be developed to the full, it
had been her father who had suggested grammar school and encouraged her to study.
Her only recollection of her mother’s attitude upon learning of her daughter’s success in
the entrance exam was the woman’s bitter complaining about the extra cost of the school
uniform: no words of encouragement, or pride in her daughter’s achievement. Her father
had been the one to take her to buy a new blazer and skirt, standing in the shop with pride
as she tried it on for the first time in front of the mirror.
For him to take his own life, leave her alone, as if all those years of caring had meant
nothing, left her miserable and confused. There had to be another reason, besides her
mother’s infidelity, for the most important person in her life to decide there was nothing
worth living for. The Police had made no mention of a note. It was unthinkable they
would accept a man’s suicide as just ‘one of those things’, write up their reports and
forget the matter.
Then there was the question of her father’s uncharacteristic violence. In all her years,
Jennifer had never witnessed a violent act. Her father was a placid man, intelligent and
caring; violence was not part of his nature. If he had found his wife in the arms of
another man it could have made him snap, although Jennifer was not convinced. Even if
her father had ‘lost it’ for a few fleeting moments he would, without a doubt, have
apologised for resorting to violence, thus allowing Rita to talk her way out of things.
Jennifer was certain this would have been the way he chose, rather than brood on the
problem and harm himself. The more she turned things over in her mind, the more
convinced she became, her father’s suicide was not just the result of someone discovering
an act of adultery. There had to be more to it.
The girl realised she was using her confusion to delay visiting the house, and the
realisation gave her the mental strength and determination she knew she would need for
the walk over the road.
Back downstairs, an anxious Mrs Parker regarded the girl.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? I’ll come with you if you like – I don’t want you
over there getting all upset.’
Jennifer shook her head.
‘It’s ok – I really have to do this on my own – and anyway, I won’t be long, I only
have to collect a few things – don’t worry.’
Mrs Parker stood on the front doorstep and watched the girl walk over the road.
Once inside, Jennifer stood for a moment in the hall. A picture of her father sitting on
the stairs watching her show off her new dress crept into her head. Forcing the thought
out of her mind she made her way to her bedroom. A few minutes later she had collected
her school uniform and books, gathered some clean underwear from a drawer and was
back in the hall, headed for the front door.
As she opened it to leave, she was faced by her mother standing on the doorstep,
searching through her handbag for the front door key. Rita was the first to speak.
‘I’m getting some clothes.’ She pushed past Jennifer into the hall. ‘Gary’s hardly able
to walk – I’ve got to look after him – he can’t be left on his own the state he’s in.’
Jennifer stood looking at her mother, saying nothing. Her mother eyed the clothes and
books she was carrying.
‘Where are you going with those?’
‘Over the road to Mrs Parker’s – I stayed there last night – she’s been looking after
me.’
Rita gave a dismissive toss of her head.
‘I bet she has – nosy old cow. She’ll be in her element. Still – give her something
else to do besides peering through her curtains.’
‘Don’t you think you should be here…seeing to things? What about Dad’s funeral
and all the arrangements – are you going to make them?’
Rita ignored the question and half ran upstairs. Jennifer followed, determined not to
have her mother leave without giving some indication of her intentions.
‘Mum, I don’t have any money. There are things that have to be done – things you
should be doing. You can’t expect me to deal with the Police, the funeral and go to
school as if nothing’s happened. All my exams come up in the next few days. If I miss
them I’ll have to stay on at school for another year.’
Rita stopped shoving clothes into a bag and rounded on the girl.
‘Don’t you think of anyone but yourself? How do you think I feel about the position
I’ve been put in? You haven’t got any money – I haven’t got any money except for last
weeks housekeeping, and that won’t go far – Gary’s having to keep me.’
‘How long are you staying at his place? Are you coming home or am I expected to
live here on my own?
Jennifer’s question solicited a brutal response from Rita.
‘There’s no question you’ll be living here on your own. I’ll either have to sell the
place or move Gary in to pay the bills. If I sell up we’ll have to find you somewhere – a
bedsit or whatever, and if Gary moves in – well – I can’t imagine you’ll want to hang
around anyway.’
Jennifer’s voice reflected the total shock she felt.
‘You can’t move him in– my dad lived here – that would be…disgusting.’
Rita sneered.
‘Better all round if you packed your things and left then.’
She had managed, with the help of her daughter, to back the girl into a corner, and, she
reflected, moving Gary in might not be a bad idea. At least she would be living in her
own house, and if things didn’t work out with Gary it wouldn’t be her who had to face
the prospect of being homeless. The money from the sale of the property would give her
some short-term independence, but Gary was a generous bloke and she had to think of
her long-term security. Just one more revelation remained to ensure Jennifer wasn’t
around to spoil her plans.
 ‘Anyway,’ Rita’s eyes glinted as she delivered the casual question, ‘We never were
much of a family were we?’
‘How can you say that? He was the best dad in the world and you meant everything to
him.’
‘He was a fool. I married him to get away from the life I had to put up with, but the
price for me was pretending to play happy families. Then you came along, and although
he didn’t know it, he found himself pretending as well.’
‘He didn’t pretend at anything – he was the most open person I’ve ever known.’
‘Pity he didn’t hang around longer than he did then– after what I told him the other
night you’d have seen a change – I promise you.’
‘He’d have got over you telling him about Gary, one way or another.’
Rita smiled, a small, malicious smile, and shouldered her bag. At the bedroom door
she turned.
‘Possibly – but that’s not what I’m talking about. I was thinking more about me
telling him he wasn’t your father. You’re not his daughter, Jennifer.’
Jennifer sat on the end of the bed for what seemed an eternity. At the sound of the
front door slamming, her shoulders drooped and her body sagged. She was aware her
mother had left the house, but any fight she had left, whereby she might have followed
the woman downstairs and demanded a full explanation, had been taken from her by
Rita’s cruel and deliberate act.
Now it all made sense. The validity of her mother’s statement was of no consequence.
It had driven the man she had known all her life as her father to the point of no return,
stripping him in an instant of the thing he treasured above all – knowing she was his
daughter.
A strange and unfamiliar feeling of shame twisted its way into her thoughts. All the
times in her life her father had made her feel special, a feeling she had enjoyed and taken
as a daughter’s privilege. Jennifer knew she had occupied a treasured place in her
father’s life, and he in hers. To discover they had both been unknowing impostors only
served to increase the turmoil inside her.
A knock at the door brought her to her feet, weary with thinking. Mrs Parker, having
seen Rita arrive and leave, and, worried about Jennifer, was on the doorstep. The girl
resolved to say nothing about her father.
‘I saw you had a visitor – are you alright?’
Jennifer nodded.
‘We had a bit of a row, I’ve been upstairs thinking things through.’ She picked up the
clothes and books, left in the hall from when her mother had put in an unexpected
appearance. ‘Let’s go over to your place – I’ve got the things I came for.’
Whilst Mrs Parker busied herself with making a pot of tea, Jennifer tried to
concentrate on all the loose ends that would require her attention in the near future.
Mrs Parker had said the Police would require a statement, there was the funeral to
arrange, somewhere to live had to be a priority, and somehow her school exams had to be
fitted in. Then there was the question of all her father’s possessions in the house. Her
mother would throw them out, or sell them, no question of it. If William Longthorpe was
true to his word, an interview appointment would come by post tomorrow, and Jennifer
knew whatever else was happening at the time, the appointment must be kept. If her
mother fulfilled her threat to move Gary into the family home, Jennifer knew she would
be out on the street, by choice. In that, Rita had been right, she would never consider
living under the same roof as the man.
The huge teapot made an appearance on the table and Mrs Parker sat down opposite
Jennifer. She fidgeted around with the tea things before speaking.
‘I’m just an old woman with time on my hands, and anything you want me to do I
will. But what you really need is someone your own age to talk to, someone you’ve
things in common with. If you want to have any friends round…friends from school, I
don’t mind one little bit. When my husband died I had my friends from the W.I. to talk
to – I found it a real help – just to be with people I knew.’
Jennifer realised, just as she was confused with the daunting and endless tasks that had
to be addressed, so Mrs Parker must be feeling the strain of the sudden revelations of
death and adultery on her doorstep. She leaned forward and hugged the old woman
round the shoulders.
‘There is a friend I’d like to ‘phone – someone at school. It might be an idea if I rang
– she’s at home this morning, studying. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Goodness me - no.’ Relief sounded in the old woman’s voice. ‘You’ve had so much
heaped on your poor young head in the past twenty-four hours it might do you good to
have someone your own age to talk to,’
Jennifer telephoned Charlotte, but Constance answered her call. Briefly, Jennifer
outlined events. Constance was calm and decisive.
‘Charlotte’s in the kitchen, studying. I’ll be round in fifteen minutes to pick you up.
Pack a few things and we’ll take it from there.’
When Constance arrived, Jennifer made the journey over the road once again to
collect a few more clothes, leaving the two women to talk.
By sheer coincidence, Constance recognised Mrs Parker from the time of her
husband’s death.
‘I remember you coming into one of our shops. You brought some lovely suits and
shirts with you – I believe you said they were your late husband’s.’
‘They were indeed.’
The old lady remembered only too well the day she had plucked up the courage to
empty the wardrobe in their bedroom. One of her W.I. friends had suggested giving the
clothes to charity, a suggestion Mrs Parker had been more than willing to accept.
‘I gather Jennifer spent last night here with you – that was a kind thing to do. It’s
unthinkable she should be expected to stay at home on her own.’
At this point in the conversation Mrs Parker voiced some forthright and honest views
concerning Jennifer’s mother. Constance listened, grim-faced and somewhat shocked,
disturbed to learn that Jennifer was to all intents and purposes alone. She made a
suggestion to Mrs Parker.
‘If Jennifer agrees, and you don’t feel I’m intruding, I’ll take her home with me until
things can be sorted out. I suggested she pack a few things in case she felt like staying
overnight, but thinking of her exams over the next few days it might be an idea if she
tried to study with my daughter, Charlotte – let’s see how she feels about it.’
Mrs Parker thought Constance’s suggestion solved a number of problems. Jennifer
would be more in touch with the school and her exam schedule, and it was doing the poor
girl no good whatsoever going backward and forward across the road to an empty house
full of memories and the possibility of running into her mother again. Also, her daughter
and grandchildren would be descending on her in two days time to spend the week.
Jennifer would find it very hard to cope with two boisterous infants and the demands they
made of everyone around them. All in all, the suggestion Constance had put forward
would give Jennifer the best possible chance of coming through this ordeal in one piece.
She said as much to Mrs Longthorpe.
The two women put the proposal to Jennifer as she returned with a small suitcase. The
strain was telling and both could see the girl looked washed out. She agreed to their
suggestion and went over to the old woman.
Her arms round Mrs Parker, Jennifer gazed into her face.
‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I thought I was strong enough to cope with all this
alone, but I know if you hadn’t been here for me…’ Her voice tailed off as she hugged
the old woman.
In the car, Jennifer asked Constance to stop at the local Post Office. Withdrawing
some more money from her account she visited a florist, purchased a large bouquet and
requested it be delivered to Mrs Parker’s address. The attached hand-written card was
simply worded. ‘Thank you – Love Jennifer’.
 Chapter Six

The journey across town was conducted in virtual silence, Constance not wishing to
deluge Jennifer with painful questions. For her part, Jennifer was struggling to come to
terms with Rita’s remark concerning her parentage, and the triumphant way it had been
delivered. She couldn’t imagine what her father had gone through at the hands of her
mother, only that Rita would have gauged when the moment had arrived to cause the
most pain by revealing her secret. It crossed her mind her mother might not even know
the identity of her true father, and the thought filled her with a desolate emptiness.
That she resembled Rita in looks was undeniable; perhaps softer round the eyes and
more generous lips, but in physical stature, hair colouring and the like, they were
identical. Since she had been about sixteen years old, the two had often been mistaken
for sisters, a fact her mother had never failed to drop into conversation at every
opportunity. The traits, always thought of as being inherited from her father, were more
of a mental nature, and Jennifer saw them now as an indication of her upbringing rather
than a genetic inheritance. It saddened her to realise all she would take forward through
life was her father’s influence. Even all the relatives she had known on her father’s side
of the family were no longer true family at all.
That she hated her mother presented no issue to her conscience, and she resolved that
after the funeral, there would be little or no contact between them. She considered the
possibility of her mother not even attending her father’s burial.
Constance turned the car off the road and stopped in front of the gates. A quick press
of an electronic key and they swung open.
‘I’ve said nothing to Charlotte concerning this terrible business, it’s probably best you
tell her yourself.’
Constance drove along the meandering driveway, stopping in front of the steps leading
up to the house.
‘Perhaps when you feel up to it you might contact your mother and ask her if there are
any arrangements she would prefer you to make.’
The woman’s face betrayed none of the seething fury she felt towards Jennifer’s
parent and her treatment of the girl.
‘She’s with Gary now – I have no contact number for her – perhaps I could write a
note and deliver it to where she’s staying. She could always drop a reply off at home.’
The girl’s voice was flat and emotionless.
Constance pursed her lips and nodded.
‘Yes – that might avoid any face to face unpleasantness. And perhaps it might be wise
to contact the Police and inform them of your change of address – I insist you stay with
us until this whole business is over.’
Jennifer felt a tide of relief sweep through her. She was among friends who could be
relied on to support her through the difficult days ahead. Hints of tears moistened her
bottom eyelids and Constance, tactful but dismayed at the girl’s misery, turned away to
rummage through her handbag for the house keys.
Pausing as she unlocked the front door she turned to the girl.
‘One good piece of news. On the way over to Mrs Parker’s I thought to ring my
husband. He’s bringing the application form for the position in the accounts department
home with him this evening, rather than have it posted to your home address. I didn’t
enter into details on the ‘phone – I merely told him it would be more convenient.’
‘Will he mind my staying here?’
‘Not at all – he spends very little time here himself, and over the next few days he’s in
Germany attending a Trades Fair. He leaves first thing tomorrow morning.’
Jennifer preceded Constance through the hallway in the direction of the kitchen, to be
met by Charlotte’s voice enquiring on how to make pastry.
Constance gave a brief explanation to her daughter concerning the circumstances of
Jennifer’s visit and added the girl would be staying as a guest for the time being. Having
only heard Mrs Parker’s limited version of events she was eager to hear Jennifer’s
account of the story leading to her father’s tragic death.
It gave Jennifer the chance to put events into a logical sequence and straighten out
certain aspects of the past few days in her mind. She began by outlining the first meeting
between her parents and Gary.
Constance sat listening at one end of the table, concluding after the first few sentences
from the girl she had been brought up by her father single-handed.
Jennifer’s account of her mother’s affair with Gary, in particular, the girl’s discovery
of the two of them in the kitchen brought a gasp from Charlotte.
‘Whatever would have happened if they’d seen you at the window?’
Constance urged her daughter to let Jennifer continue uninterrupted.
‘This is painful enough for Jennifer to tell. Time for questions later.’
Jennifer picked up the story again with the comments passed by Thomas Howes as the
school bus had arrived. By the time her account had taken in the shopping trip for the
party dress and witnessing her mother and Gary’s arrival at the flat, she was looking
exhausted. Constance, suggesting a break and coffee, reminded Charlotte her presence
was required at school after lunch.
‘Mum, I can’t possibly leave and go to school – this is far too important, and I’m sure
Jenny doesn’t want to go through the whole thing again for my benefit. Besides, it’s only
a double games period this afternoon, and,’ she added with a wink to Jennifer, ‘Look
what happened the last time I played hockey. Surely you don’t want me beaten up
again?’
Even Jennifer managed a smile, and Constance, mindful of the strain her daughter’s
friend was under, relented.
During their coffee, Charlotte passed on Sean’s regards to Jennifer, and Constance
noticed with interest, the girl’s spirits lifted a little.
The story, with all its painful details, unfolded. Jennifer’s parents attending the dance
on the night of Charlotte’s party, followed the next day by the girl returning home,
finding the blanket on the settee and her mother regaling her with a version of events
from the previous evening. Of how she had confronted her mother, accusing her of
adultery and the subsequent visit by the two police officers.
Constance and Charlotte sat in stunned horror as Jennifer, tears streaming down her
face, relived her visit to the mortuary to identify the body of her father.
Charlotte also had tears in her eyes whilst holding both of Jennifer’s hands, helping
her friend through her anguish, whilst Constance sat, grim faced and tight lipped,
determined to use her power and influence in some way to alleviate matters for the
stricken girl.
 However, the two sympathetic women were unprepared for Jennifer’s account of
Rita’s parting declaration, made to her daughter hours before, concerning the girl’s
parentage. Both could only surmise the damage and hurt the woman’s remark had been
calculated to cause.
With difficulty, Constance maintained a calm demeanour. Her charitable activities
often brought her into close contact with elements of society, who, on a daily basis,
looked into the black abyss of despair. But here was a young woman, vibrant, intelligent,
and a friend, whose life had been torn to shreds in a matter of hours by a selfish,
calculating mother.
Charlotte on the other hand was aflame with undisguised moral disgust of an intensity
Constance had never witnessed in her daughter before.
‘The pair of them are worse than dogs on the street – putting down’s too good for
them. I know she’s your mother – but she’s acting like a bitch on heat. And as for that
bloody Gary – what few brains he’s got are in his trousers, which, it seems, spend most of
the time round his ankles.’ She turned to her mother. ‘We have to do something – what
the two of them have done practically amounts to…murder!’
Constance could do nothing but agree with her daughter’s outburst and felt some kind
of positive action was called for to deflect Jennifer’s thoughts away from the tragedy. Her
offer of help was couched in practical terms.
‘It appears your mother has given little thought to the matter of your father’s estate.
She is presumably under the impression his death entitles her to all his possessions. That
may not be the case, and to ensure she doesn’t cheat you, I suggest you allow me to
contact my solicitor and instruct him accordingly. Your father may have left a will, in
which case it would be prudent of you to be legally represented when the time comes.
Would you agree to my solicitor acting on your behalf Jennifer?’
The girl shook her head.
‘I don’t have any money for that sort of thing – all I have is a small amount in a Post
Office savings account, and that wouldn’t get me through the front door of your
solicitor’s.’
Before Constance could reply, Charlotte cut in.
‘Please Jennifer…please let Mum do this. Her solicitor’s great – if anyone can sort
those two bastards out – he can. They won’t stand a chance.’
Constance’s sharp and disapproving glance at her daughter brought forth an immediate
apology.
‘Sorry Mum – got a bit carried away there, but come on – if it comes down to it, he’ll
rip the pair of them to shreds.’
‘He’s a very competent man,’ Constance agreed. ‘My husband used him years ago to
oppose the construction of a road through our back garden. The council won the case,
and in fairness, my solicitor told us they would, but he tied them up for years, and by that
time we’d moved. I assure you Jennifer – in matters such as these, money cannot be
allowed to present an issue. Funds are available, and in my opinion, could not be spent
on a more deserving cause. Please say I have your permission.’
The glint in the woman’s eyes spoke volumes. Constance was spoiling for a fight and
would not be denied the opportunity by Jennifer’s understandable qualms concerning
money.
With reluctance the girl agreed, much to Charlotte’s joy. She leaned across the table
and whispered to Jennifer as her mother left the kitchen to make the call to her solicitor.
‘This man really knows how to kick arse. Even my father said he wouldn’t like to get
on his wrong side.’ She glanced into the hallway, mindful of her mother’s recent rebuke
of her language, but Constance was still on the ‘phone. ‘And you know what he’s like –
doesn’t give a shit about anyone.’

William Longthorpe put down the telephone and permitted himself a small frown of
puzzlement. A call from Constance to his office was a very rare occurrence, worthy of
note. Why would it be more convenient to take the Farringdon girl’s application form to
his house, rather than post it to her home address? Perhaps she was meeting Charlotte
who would pass on the form in person: but unless they were seeing each other tonight,
the girl would receive it in the post tomorrow morning: most strange.
From the top of his spiral staircase he surveyed the hospitality suite, catching the
attention of his receptionist. A curt beckon to the woman and he returned to his office to
await her arrival.
‘Has the application form gone out yet to Jennifer Farringdon?’
‘No Mr Longthorpe – it’s in the mailing tray, all ready for the post tonight.’
‘Then open it, put it in a fresh envelope with just the girl’s name on the outside and
bring it to me.’
The receptionist made her way back down the staircase.
‘Yes Mr Longthorpe – at once Mr Longthorpe. How kind of you to use the internal
telephone Mr Longthorpe and save me another trip up your bloody stairs, you pompous
prick Mr Longthorpe.’
Retrieving the envelope from the mailing tray, the woman once again climbed the
stairs, finding herself quite out of breath as she knocked on the Managing Director’s
door.
William had chosen the receptionist from amongst a host of applicants, mainly for her
stunning and voluptuous figure, but certainly not for her physical fitness.
As the woman stood in his office, her breasts heaving under a thin blouse, threatening
to defy gravity and burst free from bondage, he again congratulated himself on a wise and
rewarding decision.
‘Thank you Sharon – pop it in my briefcase – there’s a dear.’
He nodded toward the far corner of the office where the briefcase stood on the floor by
a drink cabinet.
Bending over to snap the locks open on the briefcase, the receptionist caught sight of
her boss’s reflection in the glass door of the cabinet. William was stroking his chin and
pointedly staring at the long and shapely length of thigh Sharon had exposed whilst
bending over.
Clicking the catches closed she stood up, smoothing her skirt and faced William, her
receptionists smile fixed firmly in place.
‘Anything else you’d like me to do Mr Longthorpe…before I go down?’ Her play on
words did not escape her boss, or the fluttering eyelashes and the tongue passing over
moist lips. He thought of his impending visit to Germany and the ‘entertainment’ his
host always provided – he’d better save himself.
‘That’s fine Sharon – thanks for your help.
 Picking up a sheaf of papers he walked over to the window, turning his back on his
employee.
The fixed smile slipped from the woman’s face as she made her way down the
staircase.
‘Shit – just when I thought I might have the bastard for sexual harassment.’
Seated behind his desk, William Longthorpe brought all the threads of his plan
together. Steepling his fingers, rocking back and forth in his chair, he savoured the
undoubted outcome of a well thought out scheme. A brief internal call summoned Joshua
Bernstein to his office.
Mr Bernstein held the position of accounts manager in the Longthorpes
organisation, and because of his thrifty attitude toward life, enjoyed the reputation among
company employees of being a penny pinching miser: a dyed in the wool skinflint. His
responsibilities included supervising the accounts department personnel, overseeing the
wages and scrutinising all financial transactions involving the company. He was a
competent and certified accountant of longstanding, and as such had worked for an
accounting firm that at one time handled the Longthorpe account. It was no coincidence
the company was owned by a close relation of Joshua Bernstein’s.
William Longthorpe had brought him into his company to safeguard some of the more
devious financial transactions. The man’s salary reflected his professional competence,
but the handsome bonus he received every year was in direct consequence of his ability
to massage certain figures to William’s advantage. It had proved to be a very sound
investment.
Joshua’s former employer, his cousin, drove a luxury vehicle, replaced every year and
appearing on the Longthorpes books as a 'courtesy car’. The vehicle’s insurance and fuel
requirements were fully met by William’s company, and by chance, the vehicle’s
scheduled service dates coincided with Joshua’s cousin dropping by to collect the
Longthorpes accounts for independent auditing. It was a neat and tidy arrangement, with
benefits for all concerned.
Joshua’s memos to all departments concerning cutbacks in what he saw as frivolous
expenditure, were the butt of many company jokes. In his time he had suggested
numerous, and often impractical ways for all branches to reduce their overall spending.
That his ideas often contravened Health and Safety Regulations, or infringed various
Employees Rights Acts were of little consequence to him. He was the classic case of a
man, trapped by his beliefs, in the wrong era.
Someone, rumoured to be a mechanic, had written on the lavatory walls, ‘Joshua seys
– Use BOTH sides of all toylit paper’, and another worthy, again rumoured to be of
workshop origin, had written underneath, ‘and wash hands hear before flushing’, with an
arrow pointing downward at the toilet pan.
Standing in front of his employer, Joshua Bernstein assumed he had been summoned
to discuss some financial trickery William had in mind. Even though he enjoyed huge
success in the car retail market, the owner of Longthorpes had never quite managed to
free himself from the legacy of his roots in the back street, second-hand car trade.
William’s opening remarks took him by surprise.
‘Joshua – I’m in need of a favour. It concerns something I can’t be seen to be
connected with. I want you to conduct an interview and come up with suitable reasons to
refuse the applicant a position with the company. Your letter to the unsuccessful
applicant will read along the lines of, ‘Dear so and so, I regret to inform you, your
application to join the staff at Longthorpes has been unsuccessful, etc, etc’. However, as
I shall no doubt be required to provide reasons for your refusal, attach them to the file on
a separate sheet of paper, sealed in an envelope, and deliver them in person to my office
at the conclusion of the interview.’
Joshua frowned. ‘What is the position being applied for Mr Longthorpe?’
‘Oh…something junior in accounts. Tell you what – put together a test paper with
some really shitty questions on it – then I can present it as proof positive for refusal –
bung the test paper in the envelope as well.’
William beamed. ‘How’s everything else going – are we still ahead of the field?’
Mr Bernstein permitted himself a small joke.
‘Not only ahead Mr Longthorpe, but lapping the tail-enders. Profits are up – company
expenditure is down. This should be a record year.’
‘Don’t make it too much of a bloody record Bernstein, otherwise I might feel inclined
to deduct some of my tax bill from your end-of-year bonus – get my drift?’
‘I can assure you Mr Longthorpe, your prudent company reinvestment programme,
along with certain irretrievable stock losses suffered during this financial year, will be
more than adequate in offsetting the Government’s demands on your capital.’
William eyed the accountant with a baleful glare.
‘What fuckin’ stock losses?’
Bernstein levelled a blank and passive gaze at the Managing Director.
‘The ones that have yet to occur sir – sometime in November I believe – flood damage
due to faulty roofing. Or perhaps a small weekend fire in the maintenance area – smoke
damage is a terrible thing sir.’
The beam was back on William’s face.
‘Flood damage sounds just fine Joshua – let’s go with that.’
As Joshua Bernstein left the office, William chuckled to himself.
‘Can’t be having fires in the place – who knows how long insurance companies keep
their bloody records?

Tom Crabtree was on his back, underneath a two-year old family saloon, a vehicle taken
in a recent part exchange deal for a new model. The ground was still wet from the
overnight rain and the old piece of carpet he was laying on served to insulate him from
the cold and keep his overalls dry.
The vehicle had exhibited a slight knocking noise with the engine idling, traced by
Tom to a loose mounting rubber on the exhaust system, allowing the pipe to chafe against
the subframe. It was only a minor fault, but the water thrown up from the tyres as he’d
driven the vehicle round from the compound had collected on the underside of the chassis
and was dripping on his face and neck, making the job tedious.
When William came marching up to the valetting area carrying two cups of coffee,
Tom was glad of the excuse to get to his feet and leave the repair until the water had
drained off.
William clapped him on the shoulder, a genuine gesture of pleasure at seeing the man.
‘Get this down you, you old bugger – can’t have you going all hypothermic on me.’
Tom sipped at the coffee, reflecting it was a summer’s day. Still – his boss could be
forgiven for thinking spending too long in the shade caused the onset of hypothermia at
his age. These young’uns had a lot to learn.
‘I’ve managed to find a trainee to take on your job when you retire. I know you like
working on your own, but for the last six weeks here you’ll have to train someone else.’
Tom paused from his coffee break to look at William.
‘I’m surprised there were any takers – folks have funny ideas these days about what
makes a job worthwhile. Too much technology and too many buttons to press – half of
‘em wouldn’t know how to use a scrubbing brush unless it had batteries in it.’
‘Absolutely bloody wonderful,’ thought William. ‘He’ll make a hard taskmaster – a
real perfectionist this one.’
‘You know how I’ve come to rely on you through the years Tom, you’re one of a kind.
Personally, I can’t see anyone coming up to scratch – training people’s not like it used to
be in your day. They’ve put up all sorts of obstacles to stop you doing a good job -
Human Rights, Workers Hours, Health and bloody Safety. Do you know – for half the
cleaning chemicals there,’ he cocked his thumb at a cupboard filled with drums and tins
of all shapes and sizes, ‘You should be wearing rubber gloves, face-mask, protective
overalls, and for a couple of ‘em – breathing apparatus. That’s modern workers for you.
By the time they get themselves decked out in that lot, it’s time to piss off home.’
Tom remembered the days of his National Service. He’d served two years as a driver
in a transport regiment where it was common knowledge the sergeant major was the
product of a clandestine and unholy union between two devil worshipers.
When a six a.m. vehicle inspection had revealed minute traces of soot on the inside of
an exhaust pipe, the hapless driver responsible had been made to lick the offending part
clean with his tongue. Tom could still remember the taste in his mouth after all these
years.
‘I’ll do my best William.’ He was the only employee allowed to use the Managing
Director’s first name, and then only when they were alone. ‘So long as they can take
orders and an honest day’s work doesn’t kill ‘em – who’s the lucky bloke?’
William gave a grin of wicked contentment.
‘Now now Tom – don’t be sexist – it’s a woman – someone you know actually. It’s
my daughter.’
Tom was halfway through rolling a cigarette. The tobacco slid out of one end of the
paper and landed in a puddle. He cursed under his breath and fished the tobacco tin from
his pocket once more.
‘Miss Charlotte – you’re kidding me?’
William was loving every minute.
‘No – she reckons it’ll be a doddle of a job – says she’s looking forward to playing
around with the hosepipe again.’
At last Tom took a deep draw on the cigarette he’d managed to roll. He blew the
smoke upward in a long plume.
‘Does she now – we’ll see’.
Back in his office William poured himself a large congratulatory brandy. Quite a
successful day – and tomorrow – off to sample the delights of Munich. He must
remember to pass on Tom’s regards to his daughter and tell her how much the man was
looking forward to teaching her the ropes.
Although shocked and saddened by Jennifer’s bereavement, Charlotte could not help but
be delighted her friend had decided to stay. The actions of Jennifer’s mother were
beyond her comprehension and this was no time for Jennifer to be alone and dwell on the
events of the past few days. With exams so close it was hard to see how she would be
able to concentrate on her studies, but Charlotte was determined to be of any assistance
she could.
Her telephone calls finished, Constance returned to the kitchen.
‘That’s all settled. My solicitor will make the necessary enquiries regarding your
father’s estate and as things become clearer, keep you informed. Of course, he won’t be
able to obtain details of the will, but he is adamant he should be with you as your legal
representative when the document is read to the interested parties. Meanwhile he has
suggested he contacts the Police, informs them of your whereabouts and instructs them,
that should they require a statement he will be accompanying you. Now I suggest we all
have some lunch and then write the letter to your mother concerning the funeral
arrangements for your father.’
Jennifer managed to eat a light lunch and go over the things in her head she would
need to know from her mother. To her, the situation was becoming more ludicrous by the
minute. Her father was dead, his funeral had to be arranged, and common sense told her
it should be a time when mother and daughter looked to each other for mutual support.
Instead, she was staying with new found friends, hating her mother, and facing the
likelihood of having to arrange a funeral whilst studying for her final exams at school.
To make matters worse, she had to prepare for a job interview and concentrate on finding
somewhere to live.
Of one thing she was certain. For her to come through this ordeal, equipped to face
life on her own, grieving would have to wait. She hated herself for denying her father the
time she wanted to spend thinking of him, remembering the good times they’d shared
together and the special place they’d occupied in each other’s lives.
However, deep down, Jennifer was aware if her father had still been alive, he would
have urged her to arrive at the same conclusion and she felt much stronger, knowing that
part of him was driving her in the right direction.
When she spoke to Constance and Charlotte, they detected a sudden determination and
strength within the girl.
‘I expect to have to arrange my father’s funeral – even my mother’s not hypocritical
enough to play the grieving widow. I have to pass my exams this year, my future
depends on it. If I’m fortunate enough to be accepted into the accounts department at
Longthorpes I'll be able to look around for somewhere to live and study for some kind of
accounting diploma. Although all I feel like doing is sitting around thinking of my dad, it
won’t bring him back and it’s not what he’d have wanted. I shall write the letter to my
mother, suggesting she leave the funeral arrangements to me. I really don’t have time to
listen to the woman’s selfish reasons for not giving my father the burial he deserves.’
She turned to Constance.
‘If your solicitor is as good as Charlotte says he is, then all I ask him to do is secure
enough of my father’s estate for me to be able to pay for his funeral. If there’s anything
left when this business is finished, I shall buy the best headstone I can afford for his grave
and use the rest to further my studies.’
 Constance had nothing but admiration for Jennifer’s decision.
‘In my telephone conversation to Mr Armitage this morning I gave him a very brief
description of the circumstances you find yourself in. He assured me, because of your
age, and your dependency on your mother’s support, the courts would have no hesitation
in awarding you part of your father’s estate, given the circumstances.’
It was typical of Charlotte to be forthright.
‘Whilst you’ve got the bit between your teeth let’s go and write that letter – and
remind me never to get on the wrong side of you Jennifer Farringdon.’
Half an hour on the word processor saw the letter complete. Constance suggested
three copies were printed off: one for Rita, one for Mr Armitage the solicitor and a copy
for Jennifer to retain. The strength Jennifer had discovered to cope with the situation
enabled her to write a letter couched in moderate terms to Rita, and none of the disgust
she felt for her mother was evident in the note. On reading through the letter, Constance
nodded in agreement.
‘I think you’ve covered all the points that need to be raised. We’ll drop it round…’
she hesitated, ‘To where your mother is staying – later this evening if you like, and also
drive round to your house as you might want to pick up one or two more things.’
Jennifer thought for a moment, endeavouring to clarify her immediate priorities.
‘I think I’ll go back to school tomorrow. It’ll take my mind off things and there are a
couple of revision periods I don’t want to miss. We’ve lots of home study periods
coming up and I can collect all the books I need at the same time. If you don’t mind me
staying here with you and Charlotte, I can get through this…I know I can.’
Constance offered the girl the reassurance she was looking for.
‘I wouldn’t hear of you being in that house on your own – it’s unthinkable. Stay as
long as you like – you and Charlotte can study together.’
Charlotte butted in, a grin on her face.
‘You can be my saviour if you like. I’m rubbish at maths, and who knows, studying
with you might just push my grades up a bit -–believe me – every little helps.’
Constance suggested Charlotte take Jennifer upstairs and help get her settled into one
of the guest bedrooms. She was looking forward to Jennifer staying, not only because of
the girl’s need for company but also, she found she had a genuine liking for her
daughter’s friend. The two of them, despite the difficult situation, were fast becoming
firm friends.
Like Jennifer, Constance had a mental list of her own, and in the girls’ absence, took
time to consider the best way forward.
First and foremost, the funeral arrangements had to be made. She reflected what a
daunting task it would be for a seventeen year-old girl to undertake, but felt confident she
would be able to guide and assist her. Jennifer had been right to recognise the
importance of her studies and Constance was impressed by the girl’s spirit in deciding to
return to school the next day. Charlotte’s intention to leave home was never far from her
mind and it occurred to her, Jennifer’s predicament could just be a blessing in disguise.
With the right encouragement, the two of them might decide to look for accommodation
together, a thought that gave Constance far more reassurance than the idea of her
daughter living alone. She harboured no illusions whatsoever of Charlotte’s lack of
ability to undertake the mundane household chores a single life dictates.
The idea of Jennifer trying to exist in a bedsit, with time on her hands to dwell on the
terrible circumstances of her father’s death made her shudder. No one, least of all a
seventeen year-old girl, should have to be faced with the prospect of starting a working
life under such a cloud.
Her few possessions sorted and put away, Jennifer sat on the end of the bed discussing
the coming exams with Charlotte.
‘I know it’s not going to be easy with all the other things I have to do, but there’s no
way I’m going to let my mother ruin my chances of a decent job. I know her, and what
she’s capable of. If I don’t make the arrangements for my dad’s funeral myself, she’ll let
everything drag on until the last minute and the only person it’ll upset will be me. At
least, if I sort things out with your mum’s help, I can put it to one side and get on with my
studies.’
Charlotte agreed.
‘Mum’s great at organising things – she’ll take all the pressure off you so you can
study – she’s a great believer in qualifications. Not that she’s expecting too much from
me of course, I tend to be quicker with my mouth than I am with my mind. The family’s
well aware I inherited the gift of the gab from my father, along with his foul language.’
She paused and thought for a moment, then, mind made up turned to Jennifer.
‘Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone – I’ve decided to move out as soon as I can.
That way I can hold the job down on my own terms and not on his, and if something else
comes along I’ll be free to take it and not have to look for somewhere else to live at the
same time. I’ve discussed it with Mum – I don’t’ think she’s that happy about it, but she
agrees.’
Jennifer was somewhat taken aback.
‘That’s some decision to make – you’ll be turning your back on an awful lot – I’ve
been thinking what it’s going to be like to cope, and it scares me stiff.’
Charlotte snapped her fingers in excitement.
‘Then why don’t we team up and do it together? Think about it. It’s got to make
more sense to rent a two bedroom flat than to fork out for two separate flats, or even
bedsits. Mum has already said she’ll give me a hand to find somewhere – I’m sure she
wouldn’t mind if we both went in together.’
Jennifer felt embarrassed. Charlotte had never experienced money problems, they
didn’t exist in her family. She on the other hand still had the picture in her mind of her
father’s worried expression as he’d signed the financial proposal forms for the double-
glazing and how he’d struggled to make the payments. She said as much to Charlotte.
The other girl agreed and bit at her bottom lip, reluctant to let the chance slip away.
‘Tell you what – we’ll make an agreement not to do anything until we both have
enough saved to split the deposit down the middle, then I’ll get my mum on the case.
How does that sound?’
‘It sounds like a good idea, but don’t forget, if my mother moves Gary into the house,
there’s no way I’ll stay there – I’ll have to move then.’
‘But you can stay here. You heard my mother – you can stay as long as you like.
Look – if it will make you feel any better you can have a word and offer to pay your way.
It just makes so much sense. If you get the job and we’re working at the same place we
could even use my car to go backward and forward if my father hadn’t been such a
skinflint over the money for the insurance.’
‘How much do you need?’
 Charlotte pulled a face.
‘Too much…a little short of four hundred quid to go with what I’ve saved already.’
Jennifer winced.
‘Ouch – that’s a lot of money. I’ve still a bit left in my account, but not nearly enough
to cover that.’ She thought for a moment. ‘There might be a way though…it’s a bit of a
long shot – leave it ‘till tomorrow at school.’
Charlotte was eager to know of Jennifer’s plans, but the girl refused to be pressed on
the subject and repeated it would have to wait until the following day.
‘Don’t pin your hopes on anything…it’s a wild idea anyway,’ was all she’d say.
When William Longthorpe arrived home that evening, Constance mentioned that
Jennifer was staying for a while.
‘They have lots of study to do for their exams so they’re helping each other. I’ve put
Jennifer in one of the guest bedrooms.’
William, altogether out of character, had been agreeable with the arrangements.
‘Sounds like a good idea – anyway I’m off to Germany tomorrow so they won’t bother
me.’
As he left the room a crafty smile lit up his face.
‘Couldn’t be better. Constance will be so embarrassed when the Farringdon girl falls
flat on her face at the interview – let’s see how that tests their new friendship. I hope
Tom’s up to putting Charlotte through the hoop.’
A fifteen minute drive through the evening’s light traffic and Jennifer was once again
standing on the doorstep of her home. She’d made a short list of the books required for
her studies and clothes to last her for the next few days. It took only a few minutes to
pack the required items and close the front door behind her. The short visit had more
than convinced her how unwise it would have been to stay in the house alone. Evidence
of her father had been everywhere. His lunchbox in the kitchen, work-shoes waiting to
be polished on the floor by the back door. A coat and jacket he always wore to the
allotment had been hanging in the hallway. The sight of every item had caused Jennifer
pain. The strain was evident on her face as she seated herself back in the car.
The short stop at Gary’s flat on the way to her home had been uneventful. Constance
had parked at the kerb and within seconds, Jennifer had slipped the letter to her mother
through the letterbox and was back in the car.
On the journey back, Constance thought it wise to broach the subject of the funeral.
‘Tomorrow, when you’re at school, would you like me to contact the funeral parlour
and ask them to make the necessary arrangements for the collection of your father from
the mortuary – subject to the Police investigation, and ask for some preliminary dates for
burial?’
She glanced in the rear view mirror at the taut lines on Jennifer’s face.
‘I know it’s a terrible thing to have to discuss, but your decision to return to school
tomorrow took courage. Allowing me to arrange the funeral for you seems very logical.
Don’t think I’m trying to take over Jennifer – there will still be plenty for you to do – a
list of people to contact who may wish to say their goodbyes – a choice of flowers and
hymns – don’t burden yourself too much.’
‘It never crossed my mind you were trying to take over Constance – it’s me feeling
guilty at leaving it all to you that’s the problem.’
‘I’m only too pleased to help – we’ll have a chat after tea tomorrow night and I’ll let
you know what I’ve been able to sort out during the day.’
Back at the house, William Longthorpe’s car was missing from the driveway – it was
rare for him to remain in the house during the evenings. Before leaving he had
remembered the job application form and had placed it in the centre of the kitchen table
for Constance to find on her return.
Most of the next morning at school was given over to study and revision. The evening
before, Constance had given Jennifer the job application form and the two had sat down,
filling in the details. With exams yet to be taken, Jennifer had predicted her grades and
Constance had nodded with approval.
‘If those grades materialise, Longthorpes can count themselves lucky to have you on
board. If I were you, I’d include a short note asking for all correspondence to be sent to
this address. With William away, we don’t want letters sent to your home – it will only
delay things and I don’t suppose he’s told anyone you’re staying here.’
Constance had taken the completed form, offering to deliver it to the showroom in the
morning.
During the mid-morning break, Jennifer sought out Julian Watkins, a member of the
upper sixth form, who on more than one occasion had benefited from her mathematical
prowess. She found him in the common room, standing in front of a mirror, passing a
small brush through unfashionable, long, wavy hair.
A tall, slender individual, the boy possessed delicate features of an almost feminine
nature and had, in the past, been referred to by people not privy to his sexual preferences
as, ‘a beautiful young man’. Throughout the school he was known as Whoosey Watkins.
Jennifer’s approach brought a small pout to his lips
‘I really must change my conditioner Jenny – they tell awful lies on the bottle you
know – this is not how it’s supposed to look at all.’
Jennifer surveyed the boy’s groomed, beautiful locks.
‘Perhaps something that gives a fraction less body,’ she murmured.
‘Oh…do you think so? Yes – I think you’re right – perhaps my mother has something
less vicious.’
He stood looking sideways, hand on hip, surveying his reflection in the mirror. On
any other boy the posture would have appeared ludicrous and effeminate. On Whoosey,
it looked just right.
‘How did you enjoy the party?’
Whoosey had been the most talented of the individuals dancing round the handbag.
‘I had a lovely time – but I had no idea Charlotte knew the band. They were so…
vibrant – I wish she’d introduced me.’
Jennifer felt unable to pass comment.
‘Tremendous presents from her parents I thought – booked your lessons yet?’
‘Well actually – no. I did take a driving lesson just after my seventeenth, but the
instructor was so strict – I haven’t taken any more.’
‘Paris sounds like fun though – don’t you think?’
‘Fun…fun? The boy clapped both delicate hands to the side of his face. ‘Jenny dear –
I would kill to go on that trip. All the clothes – all those students – all that fashion –
totally wasted on some of the girls – it’s so unfair.’
Jennifer slipped the rail ticket and cheque from her inside pocket.
‘Then Whoosey, I think we should talk business – don’t you?’
 She concocted a brief story of a desperate need to obtain a Driver’s Licence in order to
satisfy the requirements of a job interview.
Whoosey collected his briefcase from a locker, walking over to a table where he set it
down. Somehow he managed to make it look more as if he were carrying a vanity case.
Snapping the catches and taking out the cheque and ‘L’ plates, he offered them with an
eager rush to Jennifer.
As she left the common room, Whoosey’s rapturous tones followed her into the
corridor.
‘Paris…Paris.’
A short time after the commencement of the next study period the school secretary put
her head round the door of the classroom.
‘There’s a ‘phone call for Jennifer Farringdon in the office.’
Rita was on the line, full of sarcasm and spite.
‘I got your note – where are you getting the money from for the funeral?’
The secretary was busy at her keyboard. Jennifer lowered her voice.
‘It’s been taken care of – I shall make sure it’s paid back when I’m able.’
The derision in her mother’s voice was all too evident.
‘Well if you can get hold of that much money you’d be better off using it to find
somewhere to live – I’ll be moving Gary in straight after the funeral – I don’t suppose
you’ll want to hang around.’
Jennifer caught her breath and forced calm into her voice.
‘Dad deserves a proper funeral. I’ve made out a list of people to invite to pay their last
respects. As soon as the date’s fixed I’ll let you know.’
‘Oh I’ll be there – I wouldn’t miss it for the world – and Jennifer…’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t forget it’s my husband you’re burying – your father is still very much alive.’
The ‘phone went dead. Rita’s deliberate and malicious venting of her spite had left
Jennifer’s thoughts in turmoil.
The secretary looked up.
‘Everything all right dear?’
‘Fine – just fine thanks.’
Jennifer took five minutes out to sit in the common room, feelings of rage and self-
pity alternating inside her. In the end, rage won. She resolved, at some time in the
future, to make her mother pay for the pain and misery the woman was inflicting upon
her. The thought of revenge being a shallow and ill-conceived sentiment crossed her
mind, but remembering Rita’s parting words, her conscience experienced little difficulty
in accepting revenge as a welcome bedfellow.
After lunch, more exam study, followed by a period in the library for reference work.
The last class of the day was designated as ‘home study’ reflecting the ever-present
problem of staff shortages. Jennifer suggested to Charlotte they catch the bus into town
for a cup of coffee.
‘A breath of fresh air and a walk around will do me the world of good, I really need a
break.
During the journey into town, Jennifer recounted the ‘phone call from her mother.
On the one hand Charlotte was furious that anyone could stoop to being so callous, but
also concerned for her friend’s state of mind.
 ‘How the bloody hell did you make it through the rest of the day Jenny? – I’d have
been fit for nothing.’
Jennifer gave a grim smile, reliving out loud her thoughts in the common room. At
her admission of deciding on revenge, Charlotte applauded.
‘Nothing wrong with that. Such a shame my father’s not in on this – he knows some
characters who deal in unbelievable violence – they’d be happy to bludgeon their own
families for the right price.’
The bus pulled into the kerb on the edge of the town’s pedestrian precinct, cutting
short the conversation.
Jennifer chose the venue for coffee with care. Once the drink had been served she
took a sip and stood up.
‘I’ve a call to make – it’s just round the corner – I won’t be long.’
Charlotte looked puzzled but nodded.
A minute’s walk from the café found Jennifer standing outside a small scruffy office
bearing a sign on the wall proclaiming, ‘Passmaster – Driving Made Easy’. Once inside,
and managing to attract the attention of the young female receptionist reading a glossy
magazine, she requested the owner.
‘He’s in a meeting – might not be out for hours,’ was the unenthusiastic reply.
A door behind the receptionist opened and a small plump man stepped through,
brushing cigarette ash from his shirt with one hand whilst rubbing sleep from his eyes
with the other.
The girl looked over her shoulder as she heard the door open.
‘Ah – Mr Lawrence – finished your meeting then? This young lady wants a word with
you.’
The owner looked Jennifer up and down.
‘If you want to take lessons, Melanie here will book you in.’
The girl began reaching for a large diary, rings from coffee and tea mugs all over the
cover. Jennifer stopped her with a raised hand.
‘Actually Mr Lawrence, I’ve come to give you some money.’ She nodded toward the
open door. ‘May we go through to your office?’
The man stood to one side, sweeping her though the doorway with an exaggerated
gesture, but then ruined the effect by shoving past her at the last minute to remove what
appeared to be fish and chip papers from a chair.
‘Do take a seat Miss…?
Jennifer remained standing.
‘Jennifer Farringdon. I’m a friend of William Longthorpe’s daughter.’
She took the cheque from her jacket pocket.
‘I’ve been given this for a course of driving lessons with your company.’
Mr Lawrence looked at the cheque in Jennifer’s hand.
‘Yes…yes…I know all about these. Mr Longthorpe and I have a business
arrangement. What’s the problem?’
‘There’s no problem – except I’ve passed my test,’ Jennifer’s lie was shameless. ‘But
I see no reason why that should cause us both to lose out – do you?’
The driving instructor caught on fast.
‘Absolutely not. Now let’s see – the cheque’s made out for four hundred pounds.
Let’s call it fifty-fifty, two hundred for each of us – not a bad deal for a schoolgirl I’d
say.’
For a split second, Jennifer found herself wishing she had Charlotte’s father’s way
with words.
‘Let’s call it three hundred and fifty – that means you can go back to your ‘meeting’
for the rest of the afternoon and it won’t cost you a penny.’
Mr Lawrence scowled.
‘Three hundred – take it or leave it Miss.’
Jennifer gave her sweetest smile.
‘Three twenty and I’ll tell all my friends what a great instructor you are.’
The man fished a crumpled roll of notes from his back trouser pocket, counted them
out, cursed, and stuck his head round the door.
‘Lend me twenty quid Melanie – give it back to you in the morning.’
The receptionist gave an exaggerated sigh and reached for her handbag.
With the money safe in her pocket, Jennifer handed over the cheque and made for the
door.
‘Don’t forget your friends,’ the instructor called after her.
‘I won’t,’ Jennifer turned at the open door. ‘I’ll tell every friend I’ve got – promise.’
Back at the café her coffee had cooled enough to be drinkable. Charlotte shot her a
questioning look, waiting for Jennifer to explain her short absence. After a short time,
curiosity overcame any pretence of patience.
‘Come on then – where have you been? You looked pretty smug when you walked
back in here.’
‘I ran into Whoosey earlier today, he was preening himself in the common room. The
poor thing was distraught at not having a ticket for the Paris trip – I gave him mine.’
‘You did what?’
‘We did a swap. I gave him my ticket and cheque – he gave me his cheque for driving
lessons.’
Charlotte relaxed.
‘Thank goodness for that – I thought you were going all philanthropic on me. So
when’s your first lesson? I take it you’ve been booking a course round the corner?’
Jennifer retrieved the money from her bag and pushed it across the table to Charlotte.
‘Better than that. I sold the owner of the driving school the cheque for enough to
cover the rest you need to insure your car. If we’re going to work at the same place and
live in the same flat, it makes sense to me we should have reliable and independent
transport.’
Charlotte’s mouth dropped open as she stared at the pile of notes on the table.
‘Jennifer Farringdon – you are one smooth operator. I’ll pay you back – you know I
will, but meanwhile…independence here we come.’
Jennifer shook her head.
‘There’s no need to pay me back – eventually you can teach me to drive instead.’
Charlotte burst out laughing.
‘Bloody hell – you really have got it all worked out haven’t you? Good idea though –
I can teach you some of my father’s more choice road-rage expressions – they’re unique,
I promise you.’
Back at the house Constance was on the ‘phone as the two girls came through the front
door. She waved ‘hello’ and continued with her conversation whilst writing on a small
notepad. After a few minutes she replaced the handset and joining the two in the kitchen,
enquired how their day had gone.
Jennifer nodded but said nothing. Charlotte glanced across at her.
‘I think you should tell Mum about your telephone call. There may be something her
solicitor should know.’
The girl went through the conversation she’d had earlier with Rita. Constance allowed
her to finish uninterrupted, but the look on her face spoke volumes for the thoughts in her
head.
‘The woman has no morals – some of the unfortunate people I deal with have more
principles’
She addressed Jennifer.
‘First thing in the morning I’ll pass your mother’s comments on to Mr Armitage.
Meanwhile, I have managed to contact the authorities and a reputable undertaker. Both
parties will liase with each other and keep me informed of developments. Providing
there are no objections from the Coroner’s Office, your father’s funeral could be held in
the middle of next week. We’ll sit down and discuss all the other arrangements after tea
tonight.’
Jennifer experienced huge relief and gratitude for not having to deal with, what for
her, would have been painful and distressing details. She thanked Constance for all her
help and slipped away to her room.
Charlotte turned to her mother.
‘You’ll never guess what else happened today – Jenny pulled off a stunning bit of
business and I now have the money to insure my car.’
She proceeded to enlighten her mother with her friend’s financial exploits.
Constance gave a broad smile.
‘Very enterprising – do I detect the two of you have been making plans of some
description?’
‘I guess so. Everything’s happening in such a rush, but Jenny’s determined not to live
in the house with her common tart of a mother and that bloody Gary.’ Charlotte held up
an apologetic hand in anticipation of her mother’s reaction. ‘Sorry Mum.’
Her mother motioned for her daughter to continue.
‘I just thought… if she can stay here for a while, then the two of us can try and put
enough money together for a deposit on a two-bedroom flat or something. Seems silly to
fork out for two separate places, and…’ she grinned at her mother, ‘Jenny knows how to
make pastry.’
‘I can see how that would be a deciding factor for you Charlotte,’ Constance remarked
keeping a straight face, but thrilled the two girls had arrived at the same conclusion as
herself. She gave brief consideration to revealing her own plans, but decided against it
for the time being – everyone had enough on their plates for the moment.
‘I’ve only known Jennifer for a very short while Charlotte, but it seems her poor father
made a wonderful job of bringing her up and instilling into her a worthwhile and
admirable set of values. I have her to thank for your sudden realisation that friendship
and loyalty constitute more importance in life than money or influence. As long as I
remain in this house, Jennifer will always be welcome to stay. If she is the only friend
you ever have, you could do a lot worse.’
Charlotte put her arms around her mother’s neck and kissed her on the cheek.
 ‘You really are a sweet person Mum – I was turning out to be a right bitch, wasn’t I?’
Constance gave her daughter a squeeze.
‘Yes…you were certainly headed that way.’
Charlotte disappeared upstairs to her room, calling out to Jennifer to grab some
revision books and join her. Constance poured herself a cup of tea, reflecting on the
situation and its influence on her own plans.
The girls’ decision to share a place to live had saved her the problem of making the
suggestion herself. Far better for them to arrive at an independent conclusion than be
nudged toward it, however well meaning her motives were.
The biggest decision she had made since marrying William loomed closer: the
decision to leave him. She admitted to herself, the decision was made years ago, the
question had never been ‘if’, only ‘when’. Her financial independence cut through the
usual messy business associated with couples parting and if she wished, selling her share
of Longthorpes back to William would give her even more financial security. Constance
imagined, given the opportunity, her husband would jump at the chance of being
Longthorpes sole owner, the power alone being reason enough for him to agree to any
terms she may deem to attach to the sale.
The issue of her daughter’s long-term financial security was something to be
considered. Leaving William, and selling her shares in the company might jeopardise
Charlotte’s inheritance. As an only child, Longhtorpes would one day belong to her, but
Constance knew her husband would not accept the end of their marriage with good grace.
He would hit out in every direction, making everyone pay the price for something he saw
as no fault of his own: Without a doubt, Charlotte would be first in the firing line.
William would consider denying their daughter her rightful inheritance as an acceptable
way of exacting what he saw as just revenge on Constance.
With her husband away, Constance decided to give the matter some serious thought to
see if another way might be found around the problem.
 Chapter Seven

Touching down on German soil brought a sigh of relief from William Longthorpe.
Flying had never been a joyful experience for him. It was his heartfelt belief that if, in
the scheme of things, it had been intended for the human race to populate the skies, they'd
all have feathers and thrive on a diet of millet.
He resented the confinement presented by the passenger compartment; detested the
enthusiastic and often near- drunken celebrations of holiday makers, and above all else,
harboured an intense dislike of air stewardesses with their fixed smiles and
condescending authoritative behaviour.
He remembered the doll Charlotte had treasured as a small child. Its smile and blonde
coiffured hair had always reminded him of an air stewardess: she'd had a habit of leaving
the damn thing out on the driveway and not putting it away with the rest of her toys. At
the first available opportunity he'd run over it with the car - smashing the false smile on
its face to bits before chucking the corpse in the bin.
Airport departure lounges figured high on his list of dislikes too. Queues of over
excited prats, all exposing limp, pink, flabby expanses of blotchy skin, ready to rush out
into the torturous sun of warmer climes, exposing even more revolting flesh until it
turned a painful and blistering red. He pondered over the desire to mimic the indigenous
population of other countries, only to return home full of hypocrisy and complaining
about lax immigration laws.
His trip to the Far East as the guest of a car manufacturer and major exporter had, he
recollected, got off to a bad start. At customs, a buck toothed, squinting little official had
posed the question, 'Anything to declare Mr Longthorpe?'
After a flight of twenty gruelling hours, with only one stop and no less than six air
hostesses to contend with, all looking like his daughter's doll, William considered his
blunt honesty to be most laudable.
'I most certainly do...I hate fuckin' flying sunshine.'
Once clear of German customs, William headed in the direction of the terminal exit,
where he knew a limousine would be waiting. Long gone were the days when he’d been
forced to suffer queuing alongside his fellow travellers, being jostled and banged in the
backs of his legs with suitcases, waiting his turn for a vacant taxi. Success in the car
retail industry ensured all the annoying delays were swept aside by the car manufactures,
eager to increase their sales by pampering clients.
Parked by the kerb sat a polished silver saloon, complete with an immaculate
chauffeur bearing a placard with William’s name. The driver swung the vehicle’s back
door open for William to enter before hurrying round to the rear to supervise the loading
of his passenger’s luggage. Seated inside, William Longthorpe accepted the large
brandy, handed to him by the well-dressed blonde in her mid thirties. He rolled the drink
around his mouth before allowing it to burn its way down his throat.
‘Nice to see the Company hasn’t forgotten my preferences, Trudi.’
His hungry gaze swept over the blonde’s legs and figure as she reclined against the
backrest.
‘Neither have I William.’
She leaned forward and stroked the inside of his thigh with a manicured hand.
 ‘The Company was most insistent the agency reserve me again as your escort during
your stay here – you obviously appreciated the time we spent together on your last visit.’
Pouring himself a second brandy, William reflected on the performances Trudi had
given during their last encounter.
‘You could say that – do you have any bags with you or anything?’
The woman smiled, she appreciated a client with a straightforward approach.
‘I’ve arranged for my luggage to be taken to your hotel room William – I’m sure
you’ll allow me a few minutes to unpack.’ Her smile was full of promise ‘Or I could
leave it until later.’
The limousine filtered into a line of traffic and accelerated, moving across lanes,
making full use of the five litre, fuel injected engine. The chauffeur paid little heed of the
speed restrictions, only too aware of the possibility of a handsome tip from his male
passenger if the journey time was kept to a minimum.

For Jennifer and Charlotte the next few days were spent immersed in study. After much
thought, Jennifer had compiled a list of people she considered her father would have
wished to be present at the funeral, a few relatives from his side of the family, some work
colleagues, and of course, Mrs Parker. Constance had insisted all the contacting of the
guests should be left to her and Jennifer had been grateful for not having to go over the
painful details of her father’s death time and time again with people unfamiliar to her.
Charlotte had benefited from the organised way Jennifer approached her studies. In
the past, revision notes and reference books had been strewn around the kitchen or her
bedroom in no particular order and the girl had spent more time locating material than in
meaningful study. Jennifer’s logical way of thinking and tackling each subject began to
rub off on Charlotte, boosting her confidence in her ability to absorb knowledge to the
extent she began to believe in the possibility of obtaining passes in her exams.
The undertakers contacted Constance in the latter part of the week with the news that
two p.m. Wednesday of the following week was convenient for the funeral to be held.
Constance spoke to Jennifer, booked the church and confirmed the date with the
undertakers. Friday afternoon was taken up with ‘phoning relatives and friends with
details of the service.
Jennifer’s main concern upon hearing of the date and time for the funeral had been
contacting her mother.
‘I don’t particularly want her to be there,’ she’d remarked to Constance. ‘But the
sooner I tell her the better. Perhaps I could leave a note at Gary’s flat at the weekend and
pick up some clothes from the house at the same time.’
Constance agreed it was the best way to go about things and Jennifer had written the
note, to be delivered sometime over the few days.
On the Saturday morning, a letter arrived from Longthorpes, suggesting three o’clock
the following Thursday afternoon for an interview regarding the position in the accounts
department.
Constance realised, with the memory fresh in the girl’s mind of burying her father the
day before, the timing of the interview was unfortunate. However, a worse situation
would have been for the interview to be scheduled for the day prior to the burial and all
the signs were pointing to Jennifer beginning to come to terms with her father’s tragic
death. Perhaps the funeral itself would help draw a line under events. She resolved to be
as supportive as she was able, realising at the same time, Charlotte was providing the best
support of all in seeking Jennifer’s assistance with her studies.
Charlotte’s enthusiasm over Jennifer’s interview overshadowed most of the study the
girls’ had planned for the morning.
‘I’ve a business suit upstairs – you really must try it on. What do you think Mum –
don’t you think she’ll look great in it?’
Constance agreed the suit in question would be very appropriate for the forthcoming
interview.
Jennifer tried without success to drag Charlotte’s attention back to her books. In the
end she gave up and agreed to try on the suit, on the understanding they spent what was
left of the morning completing their studies.
Minutes later Charlotte dashed back into the kitchen, calling to her mother as she
entered the room.
‘Will you look at this – it fits like it was made for her.’
Jennifer walked into the kitchen wearing the suit, feeling very self-conscious.
Constance looked her up and down with approval. The dark grey suit did indeed look as
if it had been tailored to fit. The overall impression was one of smart efficiency and
Constance managed to say as much in between her daughter’s obvious enthusiasm.
‘Just wait until old Bernstein sees you in that – his eyes will pop out on stalks. I’ll bet
he’s expecting some spotty faced schoolgirl in pigtails – not some sophisticated, high-
flying go-getter.’
Jennifer kept a straight face.
‘I’m sure Mr Bernstein will be far more interested in my mathematical abilities than
my dress sense Charlotte. Spots and pigtails shouldn’t constitute a hindrance when
assessing academic potential.’
‘God – you’re sounding like an accountant already Jennifer Farringdon – don’t go
getting all boring on me, that’s all.’
The fashion show over, Jennifer returned to her room to change into jeans and
sweatshirt and endeavour to coax Charlotte into study mode for the rest of the morning.
Alone in the kitchen, Charlotte confided in her mother.
‘Seeing Jenny in that suit, I couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit envious.’
Constance felt for her daughter and tried to offer some comfort.
‘You know it’s not about you darling – it’s a long running battle between your father
and me. Try and tell yourself that one-day when the business belongs to you, at least
you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing the ins and outs of the whole thing and not be just
a figurehead.’
Jennifer’s return cut short the conversation, but the brief words exchanged between
mother and daughter made Constance realise she must do nothing to jeopardise the
possibility of Charlotte inheriting the family business one-day. She admitted to herself,
that under the circumstances, remaining at St Anthony would cause her no great
inconvenience. The only thing she shared with her husband was the roof over their
heads, small price to pay to secure her daughter’s future.
With reluctance, Charlotte allowed Jennifer to drag her back to studying. Constance
took a telephone call and made a brief appearance in the kitchen.
‘I have to visit one of our outlets – something to do with renewing the lease. My
journey takes me past where your mother is staying Jennifer. If you like I can drop your
note through the letterbox to save us a trip later on. We’ll call round to your house
tomorrow to pick up some clothes and perhaps drop in on Mrs Parker if you like.’
Jennifer handed over the letter, glad to be spared the possibility of bumping into her
mother.
Just before leaving, Constance stuck her head round the door.
‘Charlotte – I almost forgot. Earlier this morning I gave my broker a call and there’s a
cover note in the post for your car insurance. You’ve been legal from midday today –
perhaps the two of you should take an hour off later and go for a spin.’
Without waiting for her daughter’s reply, she was gone.
Charlotte grinned across the table at Jennifer.
‘One more hour – that’s all the study you’re getting out of me – then we’re off for a
drive around, coffee and pick up a video for tonight – I reckon we’ve earned it.’
Jennifer agreed, she knew Charlotte would find it hard to concentrate for much longer
and the thought of getting out and away from her own books had a certain undeniable
appeal.
‘On one condition – I get us some therapeutic calories to go with the video. How does
a monster bar of chocolate sound?’

At Charlotte’s party, William Longthorpe’s statement of a new car for his daughter’s
birthday had been a slight exaggeration, meant to impress the guests and portray him in
the role of benevolent and generous father. The vehicle was in fact two years old, the
result of a part exchange deal pulled off by a young and inexperienced salesman.
Tom Crabtree had spent five minutes under the bonnet, listening to the engine and
nosing about before driving the vehicle round the car park. His findings had been
reported to his boss in uncompromising terms.
‘Whoever took that car in part exchange needs a short sharp lesson in basic mechanics.
The timing chain sounds as if it’s running in a bucket of nails and there’s more oil on the
outside of the engine than there is in it. If I’m not mistaken, the body’s not seen a bucket
and sponge since it left the showroom, and as for the inside…well…where do I start?
There’s been dogs kept in it, something with feathers has been flapping about and it
smells as if the owner had a job at the sewage plant and took his work home with him.
What, if anything, do you want me to do with it?’
William Longthorpe had been furious. So furious, that after inspecting the vehicle
he’d sent for the guilty salesman and in less than tactful terms suggested alternatives to
the man’s chosen career.
‘I’ve read through your original application form for employment with my company –
do you remember filling in the details?’
The hapless salesman had nodded, unsure of the direction the conversation was taking.
‘I refer specifically to the section regarding your health. It appears you made a false
declaration to obtain employment.’
The man had relaxed, knowing there to be some mistake. He was in very good health
and always had been. He said as much to his boss in very confident terms.
William had risen from his desk and, poking his face into the salesman’s so less than
an inch separated them, snarled his reply.
 ‘Then why pay top book price for a second hand heap that wouldn’t look out of place
in a convoy of new age travellers. The owner obviously had some kind of animal fetish –
there were dog hairs and feathers every soddin’ where – it smelt like a shit house. You –
sunshine – are either visually impaired or mentally retarded – possibly both. Unless of
course you tried to work a quick flanker for the commission – in which case you’re
downright dishonest. It’s costing me a fortune to put right and I’m not interested in any
bollocks you’ve got for excuses.’
The salesman remembered the vehicle and recalled his figures had been down for the
month. The smell emanating from the inside had been so bad he’d skipped the usual test
drive and closed the deal, hoping the vehicle would slip through unnoticed. The guilty
look on his face was enough for William Longthorpe.
‘Perhaps agricultural sales would be more in your line – at least the smell goes with
the job. Clear out your desk and fuck off my property – and if you expect a reference…’
William left the threat hanging in the air.
Later, back with Tom Crabtree, William Longthorpe had posed the question.
‘Can you do anything with it Tom?’
The man had scratched his head and reached for his tobacco tin.
‘It’s a challenge, make no mistake, but if the lads in the workshop can sort out the
mechanical side, I’ll do the rest. Don’t expect it on the forecourt this week mind – it’ll
take a fair time to finish.’
Fifty pounds taken from his wallet had been slipped it into the top pocket of Tom’s
overalls.
‘Perhaps you could spend part of your lunch-time breaks giving it a go, half an hour
here and there – no rush Tom – I might give it to our Charlotte as a birthday present.’
Over the next few weeks Tom had surpassed himself. The seats of the vehicle were
removed and steam cleaned along with the carpets. The wheels came off and the
undersides of the wings were pressure hosed and scrubbed down to the underseal. The
paintwork proved to be flawless, a fact Tom attributed to the caked layers of mud
protecting everything underneath. With all the mechanical faults rectified, the final job
was to apply numerous coats of polish to the bodywork and alloy wheels. The icing on
the cake was a set of new number plates and a coat of silicone bringing the tyre walls to a
lustrous black shine.
Five weeks after receiving the vehicle in his compound, a satisfied Tom stepped back
to admire his handiwork. Except for the mileage on the clock, the car would pass for
new. He telephoned his boss to report complete success.
William was full of praise for the man’s expertise and craftsmanship. Together, they
pushed the car to the rear of the valetting shed, covering it with a dustsheet to await the
arrival of Charlotte’s birthday.
The two girls sat in the small hatchback still parked inside the large garage attached to
the house. Charlotte concentrated on familiarising herself with the placement of all the
ancillary controls, adjusting her seat and positioning the rear view mirror.
‘This has Tom stamped all over it,’ she remarked.
Jennifer’s questioning look prompted her to elaborate.
‘It’s not new,’ she pointed to the speedometer, tapping the glass with her forefinger.
‘There’s just over fifteen thousand on the clock and the index plate says it’s two years
old. Only Tom could make anything look this good.’
 Jennifer was surprised. She hadn’t noticed the number plate as they entered the garage
and had assumed the vehicle was straight from the showroom. Even close inspection of
the interior gave nothing away and it occurred to her, Charlotte was going to have her
work cut out to attain the same degree of professionalism.
A turn of the ignition key and the engine started, a muffled growl emanating from the
exhaust and reverberating round the garage. Charlotte blipped the throttle and gave a
satisfied nod at the engine’s immediate response.
‘Hang on, I’m just going to have a quick look round the back,’ and unbuckling her
seatbelt she disappeared to the rear of the vehicle, to reappear a few seconds later, a
satisfied smile on her face.
‘It’s the fuel-injected model, four valves per cylinder and loads of hungry horses under
the bonnet. Should have spotted it by the alloy wheels and low profile tyres – this little
girl will leave ‘em standing.’
Settling down in her seat she selected first gear, released the handbrake and shot out of
the garage.
The vehicle surged into the bends of St Anthony’s drive and in the short time it took to
reach the gates, Jennifer realised Charlotte was not the product of an ordinary driving
school.
For a start, there was the subtle change in the girl’s demeanour, more commanding,
decisive and very alert. There was none of the timidity associated with inexperienced
drivers who had only been licensed for a short time. On the contrary, Charlotte displayed
all the confidence of someone used to driving for years. The only trait Jennifer spotted in
Charlotte’s driving that could be attributed to her father’s influence, was her forthright
opinion of her fellow road users.
Approaching the one-way system in the town, a vehicle turned onto the main road
from a junction to their left, paying little heed to their approach. A less experienced
driver would have used harsh braking to avoid a collision, allowing the offending driver
to pull out. Charlotte however, slipped down a gear and manoeuvred under acceleration
to the vehicles offside, and having seen a parked car to the nearside fifty or so yards
away, hung alongside until the driver had little choice but to brake to avoiding a collision
with the rear of the stationary vehicle. She was scathing of the driver’s actions.
‘What a gormless bloody moron – should have a sticker on the windscreen if he
suffers from some kind of mental incapacity.’
Nearing the café, a car moved away from the kerb, creating a parking space, albeit on
double yellow lines. A quick rear view mirror check, a left indicator and Charlotte was
headed for the gap by the pavement. Stopping just past her intended parking space she
selected reverse and in one smooth motion parked the vehicle, wheels parallel to, and less
than an inch from the kerbstones. Jennifer was impressed and said so. Charlotte looked
across the road and cursed.
‘Just my bloody luck – the suburban vultures are out and hunting in pairs – damn it.’
Two traffic wardens stood in a shop doorway opposite, notebooks in hand and ready to
do business. Moving away from the kerb Charlotte giggled.
‘A certain member of my family says a prerequisite for their job is a doctor’s
certificate diagnosing an acute personality disorder – personally I just find them a pain in
the arse.’
A parking space in an hour and a half waiting area became available in the next street
and Charlotte once again performed her polished reverse parking manoeuvre. A few
minutes later the two girls were seated in the café being served cappuccino coffee and
doughnuts.
Jennifer expressed her admiration.
‘Where did you learn to drive? – You’re very good behind the wheel. The way you
park is amazing – that last gap didn’t even look big enough – and in a car you’ve never
driven before – very polished. Someone’s put a lot of effort into teaching you to channel
all that competitive aggression in a positive direction.’
Charlotte halted in mid-doughnut and emptied her mouth before replying.
‘Well I guess it all started with Tom. My treat for the day would be to sit on his lap
and steer a car round the car park – I used to love it. Then when I was about ten, Mum
took me to an old disused airfield and let me drive around for real. It ended up we used
to go there every weekend for a couple of hours. By the time I was seventeen I’d become
a total lunatic behind the wheel – watching too many car chases on TV and video, Mum
said.’
‘The husband of one of the women who works with my mum is an ex-traffic cop
instructor who resigned from the force to take up professional rally driving. She knew
I’d need a firm hand, so she approached her friend and begged her to persuade her
husband to do the honours.’
Just from listening to Charlotte relive her memories made Jennifer realise how much
her friend adored the total driving experience. She urged her to continue.
‘The first few lessons were horrendous - the guy ripped me to bits. I remember, after
the first month I was already to give up – at one point I burst into floods of tears – I was
so annoyed with myself. Then one day my instructor suggested he take me for a drive
and talk his way through all the things he was doing – it was electrifying. This guy was
so calm and in control, he saw things I’d never even noticed before. When I looked at the
speedometer I couldn’t believe how fast we were travelling – it felt like a Sunday
afternoon drive. From then on I worked like hell – no more tears or tantrums – I gritted
my teeth and got on with it. The only thing I wanted in the world last year was to be able
to drive half as well as he could. Now that I have my own car on the road, thanks to your
financial genius, I shall keep on practising until I get there.’
Charlotte’s enthusiasm was beginning to rub off on Jennifer.
‘I can’t wait to learn to drive – we’ll put it at the top of our list of ‘things to do’ as
soon as exams and school are out of the way.
‘Should be great fun, but don’t expect any favours – I can still remember how
frustrated I got… and I’ll probably be a right bitch of a teacher –– we’ll go to the old
airfield and scare the crap out of the rabbits.’
They finished up with two videos, one, chosen by Charlotte, a romantic story of a rock
star and the girl next door, and although dated, ‘The Italian Job’ with its famous Mini
driving sequence. Jennifer permitted herself a secret smile at Charlotte’s choice, but said
nothing; sooner or later the matter of Gillam and he r would be resolved – Charlotte
wouldn’t be able to bottle things up forever.
The videos were fun, the chocolate delicious, and the next morning, Constance
suggested, that as the films had to be returned to the shop, the girls’ might as well collect
Jennifer’s clothes at the same time. Charlotte needed little or no excuse to drive her car,
so after a late breakfast and the promise to spend the afternoon on study they made their
way into town.
With the videos dropped off, Charlotte made her way to Jennifer’s house. Turning
into the cul-de-sac brought a muttered oath from Jennifer.
‘That’s all I need – Gary’s car’s outside my bloody house.’
‘I’ll turn round at the end of the road and we’ll come back later.’
Charlotte made to accelerate past the parked vehicle, but Jennifer stopped her.
‘He’s sitting in the car – park on the driveway – I just want to get it over with.’
Charlotte pulled across the road and backed into the drive.
‘Do you want me to come in with you?
Jennifer shook her head.
‘It’s ok, I won’t be long. If you come in with me, Gary will probably come in as well
and I know my mother – she’ll start to mouth off if she thinks she has an audience.’
Inside the house Jennifer heard a radio playing from upstairs: she guessed her mother
was collecting some belongings from her bedroom. Jennifer saw no reason to announce
her presence by calling out, the volume was so loud on the radio she doubted her mother
would hear her anyway. Once on the landing she saw her bedroom door was wide open.
Rita was inside, standing in front of the full-length mirror of the girl’s wardrobe,
smoothing her hands down over her hips, admiring the reflection of herself in her
daughter’s black evening dress.
Jennifer stood stock still on the landing, her mother unaware of her daughter’s
presence. The woman turned one way, then the other, adjusting the delicate shoulder
straps before lifting the hem midway up her thighs and giving a satisfied nod. Walking
into the bedroom, Jennifer turned off the radio and faced her mother. Rita remained
remarkably composed and seemed indifferent to her daughter’s sudden appearance.
‘I thought I might wear this for the funeral – it’s the right colour and suitably plain.
I’m certainly not spending good money on something I shall never wear again.’
Unzipping the dress, Rita let it fall to the floor, and stepping out of it began putting on
her own clothes she’d thrown on Jennifer’s bed.
Without speaking, Jennifer retrieved the dress and taking a firm grip on the material,
ripped it from top to bottom.
‘Did you really think you could walk into my bedroom and take this of all things? –
The last time I saw Dad I was wearing this dress.’
She clasped it to her, remembering how proud he’d been of her, that night in the
hallway.
‘A funeral’s not a fashion show – it’s a chance to say goodbye to someone you love,
which makes me wonder why you’re bothering to turn up.’
Rita sneered as she buttoned her blouse.
‘I’m turning up to do just that – say goodbye – and bloody good riddance to someone
who was a useless husband. Why are you going? Let me guess – he was the nearest
thing you’ll ever have to a father, but ask yourself this. If he’d known the truth from the
start, would things have been just as cosy between you? Every time he looked at you it
would have reminded him of me with another man – no one wants to look at someone
else’s kid all the time and not know who the real father is.’
Jennifer felt it was time she put her mother in her place using language the other
woman would understand.
‘Whoever it was you let into your knickers, was not man enough to be my father. He
was there for one thing, the same as all the other men in your life. They don’t care about
you as a person, and let’s face it – there’s not much to care about – is there? All they
think you’re good for is a quick fumble around for a few minutes in a shop doorway or
the back of a car, or in Gary’s case, the kitchen table. I’m surprised that as you don’t
charge for your services, at least not to my knowledge, there hasn’t been a queue from
our doorway to the end of the street. You really are the most common tart imaginable.
The only fault my father had was to idolise you, when really he should have thrown you
out into the street with the rest of the rubbish.’
A car horn sounded from outside and Jennifer glanced out into the street to see Gary,
head through the side window of the car, looking at the house. Jennifer turned to her
mother.
‘Gary’s getting impatient – you’d better hurry up or he’ll be off to find another whore
to satisfy his needs – let’s face it – there’s plenty of your kind around.’
For once, Rita was lost for an immediate response, but she attempted to regain the
upper hand as she left the room.
‘You wait ‘till I move him in here – he won’t have you speaking to me like that.’
Jennifer gave a thin, humourless smile.
‘I imagine he’ll be too busy to worry about me’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Ask any dog owner – they‘ll all tell you the same thing. When your bitch is on heat
you have to keep it on a very short lead.’
Rita stormed off downstairs slamming the front door behind her, leaving Jennifer to
look at the ruined dress in her hands. She forced herself to take the practical view,
knowing the dress would have remained unworn. For it to hang in her wardrobe after her
mother had worn it to the funeral would be a constant reminder of the woman’s
callousness and the cause of her father’s death. Better to have one happy memory of the
garment than view it with bitterness every time she saw it.
On the way out of the house, she threw it in the bin, walked past Charlotte’s car and
beckoned for the girl to follow her over to Mrs Parker’s.
Later, back in the car Charlotte was full of questions
‘What was that you threw in the bin as you left the house?’
Jennifer had said nothing at Mr Parker’s. The old lady’s pleasure in seeing Jennifer
had been both touching and sincere and the girls had spent half an hour sitting round the
table, drinking tea and eating home made sponge-cake.
Now Jennifer felt ready to enlighten Charlotte with the details of her encounter with
Rita.
‘She was wearing my black dress. Apparently she thought it would be a good idea to
wear it to the funeral. I ripped it in half and threw it in the bin – anything rather than let
her take it.’
Charlotte shot Jennifer a quick sideways glance.
‘She really is every bit the bitch you make her out to be – I’d have done just the same.
Look at it this way – the next time we have somewhere to go you’ve now got the perfect
excuse for some meaningful retail therapy. She grinned. ‘And as your fashion guru I
shall feel it my duty to accompany and advise you. Let’s take the ring-road home – I
know a stretch without any speed cameras.’
The small hatchback managed a respectable one hundred and seventeen miles an hour
before Charlotte eased the speed down for a roundabout.
‘Well that’s me unwound and fully relaxed – how about yourself?’
Jennifer had never travelled at that speed in a car before and had to admit to being
exhilarated, if not a little apprehensive.
‘Doesn’t it worry you – getting stopped and losing your license?’
‘Sure does,’ replied Charlotte, now cruising along at a sedate sixty. ‘But hell –
doesn’t she go well?’
The rest of the day was given over to study, with half an hour taken out to fill
Constance in on the details of Jennifer’s visit. The woman had sighed upon learning the
fate of the black dress.
‘I can understand exactly how you feel – such a shame though – you looked really
lovely wearing it.’
Jennifer had agreed it was indeed a shame, but she expressed the view to Constance
that destroying the dress was far less painful than seeing her mother flaunting it at her
father’s graveside.
‘I would have found that hard to live with – at least the decision to destroy it was
mine.’
Exam revision continued and with it the inevitable build up of nerves – at least for
Charlotte. Jennifer found the anticipation of the funeral dominated her anxieties leaving
precious little over to worry about the forthcoming exams, now only a few days away.
Without warning it was Wednesday morning and the day of her father’s funeral.
The small parish church, set amongst trees and shrub, stood on the outskirts of town
and overlooked the fields of the local farming community. It was very old, built of local
stone, and in the past few years had been the subject of a restoration project. A tall holly
hedge surrounded the adjoining graveyard, accessed by a wooden gate with a covered
arch. In winter, with snow on the ground and the holly covered in a blaze of red berries,
a Christmas card of years gone by sprung to mind.
Jack Farringdon’s skills had been called upon to renovate and restore the church
pulpit, and in the weeks taken to complete the work he had decided to make this his last
resting place. The vicar of the parish, a shrewd man with an ever-watchful eye on the
diminishing restoration funds, had recognised the common sense in Jack’s offer to restore
the pulpit for the cost of the materials required, in exchange for a burial plot.
Standing in the church with Constance and Charlotte, Jennifer remembered how
much her father had loved this place and how he had appreciated the skills and dedication
required in its construction, hundreds of years ago.
There were very few people present, and of those attending wishing to surround
their thoughts with space and solitude, ample room existed among the vacant pews. The
church organ, playing in the background, took the edge off the silence, the music
mingling with the footsteps of the arriving mourners on the flagstone floor. At two
o’clock the vicar climbed into the pulpit and gave a sermon of kind words and praise for
the deceased. The hymns were accompanied by straggling voices ranging from deep bass
to soprano, all but one or two struggling to carry the melody: the congregation comprised
very few devoted church-goers.
Rita arrived at the last minute, alone and under protest. Gary had a hospital
appointment for the examination of his groin and nose, and had been quite steadfast in his
refusal to re-schedule the visit.
 ‘You can hardly expect me to turn up and listen to a load of God-fearing bollocks
about the bloke who did this to me.’ He’d pointed to his nose and groin. ‘As far as I’m
concerned, six feet isn’t deep enough for the bastard – they should have kept digging ‘till
they reached hell.’
Rita, forced to admit he had a valid point, booked a taxi, chose one of her less
flamboyant outfits and cursed her late husband every inch of the drive to the church.
Seated in a side pew as far to the rear as possible, and away from all the relatives,
she studied the congregation.
Some of the men seated together in a knot by an aisle she could identify as Jack’s
work mates. Spread out amongst the other pews were relatives from Jack’s side of the
family, last seen at her wedding. Jennifer was seated at the front with two other women;
Rita guessed they were the friends her daughter was staying with. In the centre aisle
stood the coffin complete with wreaths, containing her husband’s body. Her eyes
narrowed as she picked out Mrs Parker seated just along from Jennifer.
‘What the hell is that nosy, interfering old bag doing here? Probably come to
kick her husband’s headstone just to let him know she hasn’t forgotten him – poor
buggar.’
Throughout the service Rita maintained a dogged silence, neither prayer nor hymn
escaping her lips, and when it was evident the service was drawing to a close, she slipped
from the church and sat on a bench some distance from the prepared grave, but still
affording her a good view.
The procession, headed by the vicar, came through the church door, followed by
Jack’s coffin and the mourners in order of seniority, all crunching their way along the
gravel path. The pallbearers, Jack’s work mates and two of the undertaker’s men,
trudged in solemn unison toward the open grave. Jennifer, flanked by Constance and
Charlotte walked in step, Constance with her arm hovering at Jennifer’s elbow, ready to
offer support if the bravery she was exhibiting deserted her.
A few words from the vicar, a muttered ‘Amen’ from the assembled gathering and
Jack Farringdon’s body was lowered into the ground.
Rita experienced no feelings of guilt, loss, or remorse: how Jennifer had contrived
to conjure up so much support eluded her. Everyone was now crowded round, offering
her daughter quiet words of sympathy, before pulling back to allow the girl to step
forward to the graveside.
Standing beside the grave, holding a handful of dry earth, Jennifer took a last look
at her father’s remains before stretching out an arm and letting the soil run between her
fingers. From where she sat, Rita heard the hollow rattling on the lid of her husband’s
coffin. She stood from her seat and left as people began stepping to the graveside to pay
their last respects.
Everyone dispersed back to the cars parked on the road outside the church, leaving
Jennifer, Constance and Charlotte by the grave. The vicar hovered in the background,
ready to offer spiritual assurances to the bereaved, should their faith desert them at the
last moment. Jennifer approached him, hand extended.
‘Thank you for all your help – my dad would have been proud of the things you said
about him in the church.’
The vicar shook the girl’s hand.
‘In the few weeks I spent with your father at the church we became quite friendly.
He was a skilled and gentle man who loved his craft and the pleasure it brought to people.
Every time I deliver a sermon from my pulpit I’m reminded of his professionalism and
dedication. Most people are not so fortunate as to leave behind something for others to
treasure.’
Jennifer took the vicar’s words with her as she walked with Constance and Charlotte
to the car. She wondered if Rita’s presence had been noticed.
‘Did either of you see my mother sitting on the far side of the graveyard?’
Constance nodded.
‘I guessed it might be her, there are marked physical similarities between you, but
I thought it best to say nothing at the time. She left just after you sprinkled earth on your
father’s coffin.’
Jennifer swallowed and continued.
‘It’s left me feeling as if I’m an orphan…’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry Constance I
shouldn’t have said that – you and Charlotte have been so kind and supportive – I can
never thank you both enough.’
Charlotte gripped Jennifer’s hand, unsure of what to say. Constance put her arm
round the girl’s shoulder.
‘Then why not look upon Charlotte and I as your family. I’m sure Charlotte would
agree when I say you have done far more for us than we have for you.’
The three stood under the arch of the gateway, arms round one another, awash with
mixed emotions, Jennifer’s sorrow now tinged with a warm feeling of belonging,
Constance happy she had been able to go some way toward paying off her debt of
gratitude.
Jennifer sat alone in her room, her thoughts still at the graveside of her father. Anger
at her mother was not far away, held at bay by the affectionate feelings for Constance and
Charlotte and the spontaneous offer made to her as they were leaving the service. It
occurred to her she would never have to live with her mother again, let alone Gary, and
the thought helped to close a painful chapter in her young life. She knew the sorrow of
her father’s death would always be with her, but it was now a sorrow she was able to
share and not endure alone. Anger took brief control, making her resolute in deciding to
exact some kind of revenge on her surviving parent. What course her revenge would take
was uncertain to her, but being a resourceful person she knew an opportunity was bound
to present itself.
Gathering up her books she made her way downstairs and suggested an hour’s
study before tea.
The previous evening, Charlotte had experienced some difficulty in grasping a
fundamental issue, central to her studies. After a long and worrying day, Constance had
suggested a good night’s sleep might prove to be the answer. Jennifer was eager for
Charlotte to overcome the hurdle and move on so after breakfast the next morning the
books came out again. With the interview scheduled for later that afternoon she felt it
best to keep herself busy and prevent a build-up of nerves.
After half an hour or so, an excited Charlotte punched the air and leapt from her seat.
‘Yes…yes – I’ve got it – it’s all clicked into place. Thank you so much Jenny –
what a dunce – why couldn’t I see that before?’
Study continued at a brisk pace and in no time at all Constance was reminding the
girls’ it was time for lunch.
Joshua Bernstein had prepared the test paper for the forthcoming interview with great
care. A glance down the sheet confirmed he had every right to be smug with the variety
and complexity of the questions he had formulated. Without a doubt, if he gave the paper
to any one of his staff, the majority of them would be unable to scrape together enough
marks to constitute a pass. He experienced a momentary feeling of guilt at the severity of
the questions before him, knowing the demoralising effect they were bound to have on
the interviewee. He shrugged and dismissed the thought: after all, he was only following
orders, and Mr Longthorpe must have his reasons for not wishing to offer employment to
the young lady attending the interview.
Just before three o’clock, a member of the accounts department knocked on Joshua’s
door.
‘There’s a Miss Jennifer Farringdon in the front office for an interview with you Mr
Bernstein – shall I show her in?’
Bernstein shook his head.
‘Give her a cup of tea or something and I’ll ring when I’m ready.’
He busied himself putting some clients accounts folders in a drawer, clearing a space
on his desk opposite his chair and fetching a seat, placed it in front of the desk before
sitting down.
‘There – that should set the scene – formal and uninviting with a bit of a wait to
get the nerves going.’
Ringing through to the front office he asked for Jennifer to be shown in.
A young woman, wearing a smart, dark grey business suit was ushered into his
office and stood, looking poised and relaxed in front of him.
Getting to his feet he shook her hand, introduced himself and motioned for her to
sit in the chair opposite.
‘I understand you’ve applied for a vacancy in my accounts department Miss
Farringdon – why have you decided on a career in accounting?’
‘My favourite subject is mathematics and I enjoy working with figures.’
‘You realise mathematics, although at the heart of accounting, only constitutes a small
percentage of the knowledge required to make a competent accountant?’
The girl smiled.
‘I understand the responsibility entrusted by a client to his accountant, and that in this
case, my responsibilities would be directly to you, and ultimately to Mr Longthorpe. To
that end I am assuming a particular knowledge of the motor industry, with its tax
complexities is something to be gained as a matter of priority. Your guidance on
franchising, leasing, and the importation of foreign vehicles and the particular laws that
apply, would, I assume, constitute part of my training.’
Joshua Bernstein found himself smiling back at the young woman. He corrected his
features, frowning and arching one eyebrow.
‘Would it be fair to say you have little or no knowledge of general accounting
procedures?’
‘I’ve never received any form of training – I’m still at school, but I’ve read numerous
books written on accounting and I feel confident the knowledge they’ve given me would
benefit my future studies.’
 Joshua Bernstein steepled his fingers and gazed at Jennifer.
‘Ah yes…books. Invaluable I grant you, but no substitute for ‘hands on’ experience
would you say?’
Jennifer was at a loss to understand the negative attitude, so obvious in Mr Bernstein’s
questions.
‘It’s always difficult for someone of my age to speak with the benefit of practical
experience. All my studies have been directed toward becoming a competent accountant,
but the fact remains, they have only been…studies – nothing more.’
‘You would, I take it, be prepared to finance these studies and undertake evening
courses in your own time?’
‘Absolutely. Until such time as I had gained recognised qualifications I wouldn’t
expect an employer to finance my studies. However, upon reaching required standards
and achieving professional certificates I would expect a salary to reflect my usefulness to
the Company.’
Joshua had to admit to himself he was impressed. The young woman refused to be
daunted by his negative line of questioning and unlike some of her peers, was prepared to
suffer the expense and social inhibitions her studies would impose.
‘I’ve been given to understand you’re a friend of the Longthorpe family – in fact I
believe it was Mrs Longthorpe who delivered your application form in person. I’m sure
you understand I cannot let your friendship with the family influence my decision
regarding employment.’
‘I’m more than happy to accept your decision based on an assessment of my ability Mr
Bernstein.’
Joshua reached into a drawer, retrieving the test paper. He placed it with slow
deliberation, face down, in the middle of his blotter pad.
‘I have prepared a comprehensive, but simple test paper for you to complete.
When you’ve finished, it should give me a good indication of your suitability for
employment with Longthorpes.’
With a theatrical flourish he turned the paper over, pushing it across the desk to
Jennifer.
‘I’ll allow you to use a calculator – do you happen to have brought one with you?’
Jennifer was glancing down the list of questions. She looked up and smiled.
‘That won’t be necessary – how many decimal places would you prefer the
answers corrected to?’
It was Bernstein’s turn to smile.
‘As many as you’re able to my dear.’
He pushed a tablet of plain paper across the desk.
‘To assist you in your workings out – there’s plenty more should you require it.’
The sarcasm was evident in his voice and did not escape Jennifer.
Taking a silver pen with a gold clasp from her handbag she unscrewed the top whilst
reading the ten questions on the paper. Listing the numbers one to ten down the left-hand
side of a blank sheet, she wrote some figures against them in a neat hand.
Joshua Bernstein watched her, a thin smile on his lips. Any moment now the
girl’s composure was going to slip. As instructed by William Longthorpe, a short letter
of refusal stressing the demanding nature of the position and the applicant’s failure to
meet the required standards for employment had been prepared and three copies run off.
 The girl was now transferring the figures from the separate sheet to the test paper.
Placing one sheet on top of the other Jennifer handed them back to Joshua Bernstein.
‘I’ve included all decimal places in my monetary and percentage answers on the sheet
you kindly provided for my calculations,’ she murmured. ‘However, for practical
purposes I’ve corrected the bulk of the answers on the test paper to read two decimal
places, with the exception of answers four and seven. Respectively, these show only a
small monetary profit per item and a marginal percentage increase on investment.
Therefore I thought it wise to include all decimal places to enable more accurate
projections for any given quarter.’
Jennifer screwed the top on her pen, placed it back into her handbag and sat, relaxed,
hands crossed in her lap waiting for Joshua Bernstein’s response.
The man was staring at the test paper, fighting a losing battle with his composure.
He had no idea if the answers Jennifer had written were correct. In the bottom drawer of
his desk, alongside his letter of rejection to the girl, were the correct answers,
accompanied by several sheets of paper showing his calculations.
Joshua had an inkling he was on the verge of making a fool of himself, but
decided self esteem and professional appearance counted for nothing when measured
against the wrath of his employer. He took a calculator from a drawer and glanced down
the answers Jennifer had given him.
‘Your answer to question four is point one two eight pence and relates to the service
department’s profit on a small item. What would be the profit on two hundred and fifty
six of the same item?’
He punched the first set of figures into the calculator. As he pressed the multiply key,
Jennifer spoke.
‘Thirty two pounds seven six point eight pence.’
Joshua finished the calculation and verified Jennifer’s answer. He told himself,
straw clutching had just become an acceptable option
‘And assuming your figure accounts for one week’s consumption of the said item,
what profit would a full quarter’s consumption yield if the same amount were used each
week?’
‘Four hundred and twenty five pounds nine eight point four pence.’
Jennifer’s almost instantaneous answer caused an involuntary miss-key by Joshua.
The girl’s next comment saw his diminishing composure evaporate to almost nothing.
‘Of course, realistically, a figure of sixty three pounds and forty five pence would
have to be set aside for value added tax, although the correct mathematical figure is sixty
three pounds forty four point four pence.’
Until now, with the exception of his religious convictions and William
Longthorpe, Joshua Bernstein had never been in awe of anyone or anything. Staring
across the table at Jennifer Farringdon, the man realised the true gift the girl had been
given, and in the same instant, how criminal of him it would be to turn such a
mathematical phenomenon away.
He knew, without checking, the answers laying in the bottom drawer of his desk,
would tally to the last decimal place with those written on Jennifer’s sheet. If William
Longthorpe had not been in Germany on business, he would have taken Jennifer to him
and demonstrated her remarkable ability to his boss there and then. He told himself he
was head of the accounts department, and as such, should shoulder the responsibility of
making the right decision and bear the consequences. The thought of admitting his wilful
disobedience to William Longthorpe brought small beads of perspiration to his forehead.
He swallowed hard and addressed Jennifer.
‘You are obviously aware you have an amazing talent Miss Farringdon – is Mr
Longthorpe aware of your ability with figures?’
Jennifer frowned, thoughtful for a second.
‘I don’t think so – I’ve only met him once – at his daughter’s party – the subject
didn’t come up.’
‘You’ve never had any other dealings with him?’
‘None. I’m more of a friend of his wife and daughter – is there something
wrong?’
‘No…nothing. If the position were offered to you, when would you be available
to start?’
‘Well – my exams are spread over the next couple of weeks – so anytime after
that would be fine. Charlotte, Mr Longthorpe’s daughter is taking the same exams, and I
believe she begins work for her father at the beginning of next month. That would be a
good date for me too – a bereavement in the family has left me with some loose ends to
tie up but they should all be finished by that time.’
Bernstein’s mind was made up. A few more pleasantries, a quick tour of the main
accounts office, some introductions followed by a handshake at the main entrance, and
Joshua Bernstein was back in his office, grappling with his dilemma.
His first action was to retrieve the answers from the drawer. They tallied of
course, he knew they would. He was so convinced of the girl’s ability, that any
discrepancies between the two answer sheets would have caused him to double-checked
his own figures for errors.
Then there was the question of the letter of rejection to consider. The solution
was obvious. Taking all the copies to the outside office he fed them through the shredder
and called a secretary in to take down a new letter, this time of acceptance into the
Company.
Rather than comply with William Longthorpe’s instructions and place all
relevant paperwork in an envelope marked for his boss’s attention, he resolved to see
William in person to explain his decision. The thought of confronting the man to explain
his deliberate disobedience made his stomach churn in apprehension, so much so, he
locked his briefcase, made the genuine excuse of feeling unwell and left to go home
Charlotte had given Jennifer a lift to the interview and whiled away the time, sat
in the car park reading through the manual for her car. She’d walked round to see Tom,
but he’d been busy talking to a sales rep from a company supplying cleaning agents to the
automotive industry. Only about ten minutes had passed since arriving back at the car
park before Jennifer walked out of the main building.
‘Well – how did it go whiz kid? Old Bernstein’s a barrel of laughs – did you get a
smile out of him?’
‘Well…sort of. I got the distinct impression he was trying to put me off, but in
the end he seemed ok. He wanted to know if your father knew I was a bit of a freak with
maths. I said I didn’t think so – unless you’ve ever said anything to him?’
‘Not a word – he’s strictly a ten fingered counter. It’s a well-known fact I get my
stunning mathematical ability from him, along with the foul mouth and caring nature.
Seriously, the subject’s never cropped up – I wonder what Bernstein was getting at?’
Jennifer was at a loss.
‘Don’t know – I should hear in a few days if I’ve got the job. I’d really like to
work there, the offices are great – the staff are nice too.’
‘I hope he offered you a big wedge in wages – mind you, he’s got the reputation
of being a tight-arsed skinflint – the staff take the piss all the time.’
Jennifer put on a mock frown and tutted.
‘Spoken like a true car cleaner Charlotte – you’ve got such a way with words.’
Charlotte put on a passable cockney accent.
‘Yeah – I got a bleedin’ car as well sunshine – an’ you’re naffin’ well in it –so
unless you want to get out and walk – shut it – alright?’
Then, becoming more demure, ‘Father will be so pleased the Company’s managed
to recruit such a promising trainee – absolutely splendid.’
The good-humoured banter continued through the town with one notable lapse from
Charlotte as a man on a bicycle, shopping bags on the handlebars, wobbled across her
path.
Winding the window down, she enquired in a polite voice, ‘Any chance you know
where the hospital is?’
The cyclist was about to reply when Charlotte cut across him.
‘Cos the way you’re all over the place on that bike mate, it might be a bloody useful
thing for you to know.’
The man cycled off on an erratic course, muttering, shopping bags still swaying.
Jennifer fought to maintain a straight face but gave up and collapsed with
laughter.
‘Miss Longthorpe – just get me home – I suddenly feel the need for your mother’s
sane and calming influence.’
‘Righty-ho old thing – have you there in a jiffy. Almost a wizard prang back
there though – what.’
The little hatchback made brisk progress through the traffic toward the outskirts
of town, pulling into the driveway of St Anthony’s at about the same time as Joshua
Bernstein poured himself a large whisky and William Longthorpe’s plane touched down
on English soil.
Constance was all ears to hear an account of Jennifer’s interview and laughed
with delight as the girl revealed the details of the exam paper.
‘Charlotte’s mentioned in passing you have a way with figures, but I had no idea
of your prowess – how did it all come about – were you born with it?’
Jennifer gave the woman a brief account of the hours spent with her father on the
allotment as a young child, and how the answers to complicated mathematical problems
seemed to slip into her mind. Constance was enthralled.
‘How absolutely amazing. It seems when you were young and your brain was
particularly receptive to information, certain links were forged enabling processes to take
place that I can’t even begin to grasp. I know it’s childish of me, but please, may I have
a demonstration?’
Jennifer was happy to agree, and Constance, producing a calculator, punched in
some figures before posing the question.
‘What’s the product of one hundred and seventy seven multiplied by thirty nine?’
 For a split second, Jennifer’s eyes seemed to lose focus.
‘Six thousand nine hundred and three.’
Constance’s fingers were busy on the calculator keys once again.
‘And if point five were added to each number, what would the result be?’
For a fleeting moment there was the same semi-glazed look.
‘Seven thousand and eleven decimal two five.’
Constance shook her head in amazement. The second answer had been given
before all the figures had been entered into her calculator.
‘I take it division, subtraction and addition are dealt with in the same manner.
What about things like square roots?’
‘They’re pretty much the same because they only demand the application of the
basic disciplines. Some of the more complex equations can be a pain ‘cos I have to retain
figures in my head I’ve already calculated, whilst dealing with other bits and pieces – but
I’m getting better at those, the more I do of them.’
‘You know, you should really think of going to University – there’s a certain
professor I know at Oxford who would jump at the chance to tutor you.’
‘You’re right,’ Jennifer conceded, ‘But I’m young, and with everything that’s
happened in the past few weeks I need to settle certain issues before I commit myself to
years of study.’
‘Well – it’s something to think about in the future. Meanwhile, I have some news
for you. Mr Armitage has been doing some digging behind the scenes and has come up
with the name of the solicitors handling your father’s will. He’s registered your interest
in the proceedings and will advise you in due course.’
As Jennifer was about to offer her thanks, the front door slammed, followed by
the bellowing voice of William Longthorpe.
‘Bloody stupid bureaucratic shits, full of their own self-importance. Don’t they
realise industry is in the state it is because of strangulation by time wasting wankers.’
Another door slammed followed by clumping footsteps going upstairs.
‘Daddy’s home,’ Charlotte murmured.

His mood had managed to spiral downward as the day progressed, starting by being torn
from the professional embraces of Trudi with the arrival of a motorcycle courier at his
hotel, carrying urgent export documents for him to sign. By the time he’d dealt with all
the paperwork and returned to his room to relieve the throbbing in his groin, Trudi was
packed.
‘Where the fuck are you going?’ – he’d demanded.
With a glance at her wristwatch the prostitute had brushed her lips against his
cheek.
‘It’s been fun William, but I must go…business…I’m sure you understand – I
have another appointment.’
In quite uncouth terms William had been at pains to impress upon Trudi his lack
of understanding at the situation and had sought to compromise her professionalism by
thrusting a sheaf of Euros into the woman’s hand.
‘That should buy me a few minutes at least.’
Trudi put the suitcase down, and, given a taxi was booked to arrive in a short
while to collect her, had acquitted herself in an admirable fashion: she was, after all, like
William, in business to make a profit.
At the airport, the public address system announced a two-hour delay to William’s
flight owing to an air traffic controller’s union dispute in France. Once airborne and
midway across the channel, William had found himself presented with an airline
questionnaire by a blonde stewardess.
‘Just a few minutes of your time to help us make further improvements to our
service, sir.’
‘It’d take more than a few minutes to help you lot out,’ was the snarling reply
from William’s lips. ‘I take it there’s no fear of the pilots going on strike – I’d go crazy,
stuck up here with a load of mindless holiday makers,’ and staring straight at the
stewardess, ‘To say nothing of blonde bimbos – all tits, teeth and no brains.’
The woman’s well-practised smile had remained pasted in place, giving no hint of
her absolute loathing of foul-mouthed, self-opinionated businessmen. However, at
Customs, William’s bags had been subjected to an arduous and detailed scrutiny along
with his passport, resulting in a missed connection to the train station. From a small
booth over in one corner of the Customs shed, the blonde stewardess had watched
William’s face on closed circuit television, as it turned from pink, to red, culminating in
an eye-popping purple.
‘That’ll teach the arrogant, pompous shit,’ she’d been heard to remark to her
Customs Officer boyfriend, giving him a grateful peck on the cheek.

William Longthorpe’s face appearing round the door of accounts first thing in the
morning was not the way Joshua Bernstein would have chosen to start his day.
‘Everything in order Joshua?’
‘Yes sir, although I do need to see you on a rather urgent matter when you’re
free.’
‘Right – give me time to wade through all the crap that’s piled up on my desk and
come on up – let’s say about an hour.’
An hour more of stomach churning and Mr Bernstein made his way with slow
reluctance up the spiral staircase to his boss’s office. In his hand he clutched the
envelope containing proof of his absolute disobedience to orders.
Seated at his desk, William was still wading through the mail and internal
memoranda, some of which were placed to one side for his further attention, the rest
being tossed with a fitful impatience in the direction of the bin.
‘Morons – absolute brainless morons. I leave specific instructions to be carried
out and the admin staff take it upon themselves to do as they bloody well please. Then to
cover their miserable arses, they send me grovelling memos. If they don’t pull their
socks up I’ll be giving the Job Centre some new business.’
Joshua swallowed. His timing for an admission of flagrant disloyalty couldn’t be
worse. He walked across the office toward William’s imposing desk, holding out the
envelope in front of him at arms length as if it were about to become the subject of
spontaneous combustion.
His boss picked up the next memo from the diminishing pile and sat staring at it,
oblivious to Joshua’s grovelling stance by his desk. Whatever was contained in the
memo seemed to have caught William’s attention. He leaned back in his chair, holding
the memo out in front of him.
‘Hmm – how strange.’
He placed the sheet of paper to one side and focused on his Head of Accounts.
‘Now then – an urgent matter you said – what’s the problem?’
‘Well – it um…concerns the interview with Miss Farringdon.’
Joshua leaned forward to the point of overbalancing, such was his subconscious
desire to keep the distance between his boss and himself to a maximum. At arms length
he offered the envelope across the desk to William who seemed not to notice, the man’s
gaze having been dragged back to the memo. When William answered, it was obvious
his mind was elsewhere.
‘Yes…go on,’ he waved a hand in impatience at the paperwork on his desk. ‘This
lot’s not going to go away you know – get on with it man.’
Joshua felt he’d begun the countdown to Armageddon – William Longthorpe was
going to annihilate him.
‘I took a very negative attitude with her and set a really difficult test paper to
complete. She answered all the questions correctly.’
‘Go on – get to the point Joshua.’
‘She answered them all in her head – I mean – no calculator. She just sat there as
cool as a cucumber and wrote down all the answers in about twenty seconds. I’ve never
seen anything like it – she even started providing me with details of VAT like she…
she… was having fun.’
Joshua’s voice rose in pitch, desperately endeavouring to convey to his boss the
significance of his statement.
William indicated the envelope in Joshua’s grasp.
‘And it’s all in there is it?’
‘Yes Mr Longthorpe – all of it. I’ve offered her a job – she has the most agile
mathematical brain I’ve ever encountered. She could save my department a fortune.’
Joshua could almost feel the breath of the grim reaper on his neck and resigned
himself to imminent destruction.
Again, William’s eyes were drawn toward the memo. With difficulty he broke
the hypnotic stare and dragged his gaze back to his employee.
‘Put you on the spot did she?’
‘Yes sir – very much so.’
‘Bit of a genius would you say?’
‘I hesitate to use the word sir, but there is a distinct possibility she’s in a class of
her own; her mathematics are flawless.
William sighed and stretching, picked up the envelope, but it was obvious he was
very much preoccupied and unable to give the matter his full attention.
‘Sounds like you did the right thing Joshua – take her under your wing when she
starts and fast track her through the ranks – perhaps you ought to make her your personal
assistant after a suitable trial period.’
Joshua Bernstein stood dumbfounded. By some miracle he was still employed
and moreover, had all but received a pat on the back for disobeying orders and displaying
initiative. He stood stock still, waiting for the sting in the tail, but none came. William
now had the memo in his hand and was reaching for the telephone. He glanced upwards.
 ‘Was there something else Joshua …or shall we both get on and try to make a
living?’
An eerie, almost trance-like calm descended on Joshua Bernstein. It remained
with him all the way down the spiral staircase, through the showroom and accounts and
into his office, where he sat with non-seeing eyes, staring through the window.
The line was engaged, and replacing the handset William placed the message in
the centre of his desk. The note was very brief, just a telephone number and a name: no
mention of any reason for the call. Years had passed since the name had entered his
head, but his instinct told him the call had not been made to renew old friendships: he
didn’t move in the same social circles as Corporal Gelly Jeffries.
 Chapter Eight

The court martial had been a quick and decisive hearing. Corporal Jeffries had no
defence for the misappropriation of army property other than he was broke and needed
quick and ready cash to buy temporary sanctuary from his money-lending acquaintances.
The sport of kings had laughed in his face whilst taking all his infallible predictions and
consigning them to appear in the results as ‘also rans’, with the inevitable consequences
to Gelly Jeffries salary.
When unattended third world supplies, stacked in a warehouse with minimal
security, had come to his attention, Gelly seized on the opportunity to liberate a large
quantity in the back of a three-ton truck. Days later, having disposed of his ill gotten
gains, the proceeds of which had bought him precious breathing space from his creditors,
Corporal Jeffries was mortified to be arrested by the military police for theft.
To make matters worse, the prosecutor for the military authorities, young,
ambitious, and straight from law school, had insisted on topping up the charge sheet with,
‘Unauthorised use of an Army vehicle’, ‘Theft of Army diesel fuel’, and as Gelly had
been on duty at the time, ‘Deserting his post and unauthorised absence’.
Corporal Jeffries had no hesitation in pleading guilty to the theft of Army property
in return for the rest of the charges being dropped and an initial request withdrawn by the
prosecution for a term of incarceration to be served in a military prison.
At the hearing, it transpired the scrap metal dealer who had bought the truckload
of light machinery from the defendant, had sold some of it on to a third party. A
regimental sergeant major, out with the wife and kids one Sunday morning at a car boot
sale, caught sight of a water pump, complete with fittings, and still in its olive green,
waxed protective wrapping. Purchasing the item for five pounds, the serial number had
revealed it to be part of a missing aid consignment. The following investigation had been
swift, thorough and somewhat brutal.
In the corner of a warehouse, a private in the transport regiment had been subjected to
interrogation by two military policemen, anxious for his co-operation. At first, the
private had refused to shed any light on the subject of their enquiry, but the policemen
had been insistent, framing their questions in a manner the private found hard to resist.
‘Right sunshine – here’s the deal,’ had remarked one of the large gentlemen,
removing his jacket and folding it before handing it to his companion.
‘I’m now going to kick the crap out of you – and then my colleague here will
arrest you for assault. When we get you back to the guardroom, which, rest assured, by
necessity will be via sickbay, you will be locked in a cell. During an exercise period, you
will take it upon yourself to try and escape, the inevitable consequence being that you
will receive another fuckin’ good kicking. How does that sound?’
The private had moaned in terror and backed into a corner. The policeman
continued to reveal forthcoming events in a pleasant tone.
‘You appreciate I’m sure, your second beating, coming so soon after your first,
will result in you losing consciousness and a medic will, I assure you, be called to render
much needed assistance.’
The private’s eyes darted left and right, looking for an avenue of escape or
perhaps a witness, but found neither. The two policemen moved in closer, pining him
into the corner. The talkative one thrust his face into the private’s.
‘You see these boots of mine?’
He looked down with pride at the glistening black leather footwear, testament to
hours of laborious spit and polish.
‘When I kick you in the crutch, your miserable and pathetic body parts are going
to scuff the shine – and then I really shall be fuckin’ pissed off beyond belief. There is no
doubt I shall lose my temper and you would be absolutely correct in assuming my actions
from thereon in to be entirely unreasonable.’
He paused before continuing to see if his description of forthcoming events
possessed enough graphic detail for the terrified private.
‘The reason for my assault however, bears little resemblance to the account my
colleague and I will give to the authorities of your brutal attack upon our good selves
whilst conducting our enquiries. Suffice it to say, that as I’m convinced you’re a
dishonest, lying little pile of shit with something to hide – who gives a fuck anyway.’
He took one step backward to allow room for his leg to swing.
‘Oh – one thing before I begin. The name of the thievin’ bastard who nicked a
lorry load of aid supplies from this very warehouse a few days ago…any chance you’ve
decided to have some fresh thoughts on the matter? My finely honed investigative senses
tell me that at this point, consideration for your health may lead you to shed some light on
the subject.’
The detailed statement provided by the private had brought about a premature end
to Corporal Jeffries military career. Upon receiving his dishonourable discharge, lack of
income and pressing and impolite requests for payment from his creditors had prompted
the telephone call to his one time co-conspirator and wealthy business owner, William
Longthorpe.

With the last of the memos consigned to the bin, William once again rung the number on
the note. This time the call was answered.
‘Good morning – Bellevue bed and breakfast.’
‘Mr Jeffries please – tell him it’s William Longthorpe.’
The handset was put down and William heard muffled voices in the background,
then the clattering of plates and cooking utensils. A voice carried over the top of the din.
‘Gelly – there’s a bloke called Longthorpe on the ‘phone for you. Don’t be long –
there’s stacks more of this washing up to do.’
The unmistakable cockney tones of Gelly Jeffries sounded in William’s ear.
‘Hello mate – bin a long time – I ‘ere you’re doin’ well.’
‘What can I do for you Gelly?’
‘I’m out of the Army – moved into the area and thought we ought to ‘ave a chat
about old times.’
William considered the proposal. Chats about old times could only mean one
thing; fires and fraudulent insurance claims; the bedrock on which his empire was built.
This was going to be about money – lots of money, and all of it coming out of his pocket.
‘Fine – I’ve just come back from abroad so I’m snowed under with overdue
paperwork. Let’s make it some time over the weekend – you name the place.’
There was a pause and the sound of a match being struck. William could almost
smell the tobacco as Gelly exhaled smoke over the mouthpiece.
‘Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon – the Fox and Feathers – you can treat me to
lunch.’
A different voice in the background could be heard over the ‘phone.
‘Get a move on Gelly – there’s stacks of plates in here need doing – use the
bloody ‘phone in your own time.’
William heard an oath muttered under Gelly Jeffries breath.
‘See you at two o’clock then.’ The line went dead.
For a while William Longthorpe sat at his desk, pondering: then he picked up the
telephone. Of the two calls he made, the second was to Joshua Bernstein.
‘I’m going to need some cash over the weekend – say a thousand – have it sent to
my office.’ And not unaware of Joshua’s deliberate disobedience earlier, ‘Lose it on the
books somehow – I’ll leave the details to you.’

Constance took a call from Mr Amitage her solicitor, late in the afternoon. She made a
note of the details, thanked him and replaced the receiver, putting the note by an
unopened envelope.
Soon afterwards, the two girls arrived home from school in Charlotte’s car, loaded
down with books for last minute study prior to the beginning of exams early the
following week.
Constance called through from the kitchen.
‘Jennifer – I have a message for you from Mr Armitage.’
Piling the books up on the table, both girls sat down.
Constance continued.
‘Your father’s will is being read at eleven o’clock on Monday morning. Mr
Armitage suggests he pick you up from here at ten thirty. He’s not sure of who else is
attending, but I think it’s safe to say your mother will be there and any other interested
parties.’
Jennifer took a deep breath, not relishing another confrontation with her mother.
Constance guessed what was going through her mind.
‘Mr Armitage is there to represent your best interests. If any technicalities arise,
or come to that, any unpleasantness, you couldn’t wish for a better person to represent
you.’
Charlotte put in a word.
‘At least the whole thing will be over before exams start on Tuesday – you won’t
have all this business hanging over your head to distract you. One way or another it’ll all
be cut and dried.’
‘Charlotte’s right Jennifer – heaven forbid you had to miss an exam to attend the
will.’
Constance paused, unsure she was about to say the right thing.
‘As far as you mother is concerned – well – after the will has been read the choice
will be yours. Any contact you may wish to have can be on your terms.’
Jennifer agreed and was about to suggest some study before tea time when
Constance placed the unopened letter on the table.’
‘This came for you in the post this morning – I’ve had my fingers crossed all day.’
 Jennifer sat for a moment studying the envelope before turning to Charlotte.
‘Shall we get study out of the way first – I can open this later.’
Her straight face was successful in fooling Charlotte, who had her hands clasped
to her cheeks in anticipation. She passed Jennifer a letter opener.
‘Now – open it now – don’t you dare make me wait – Mum, tell her for pity’s
sake.’
Constance was smiling, aware her daughter was being teased.
Slipping the knife through the top of the envelope, Jennifer withdrew the letter
and scanned its contents. Charlotte had already caught sight of the Longthorpes crest at
the head of the paper.
‘Well come on – what’s it to be? Off to the accounts section at Longthorpes, or
off to the job centre with your CV?’
Jennifer handed Charlotte the letter who began to read it out loud.
‘Dear Miss Farringdon
Following your interview for the post of junior accounts assistant, I take great
pleasure in offering you the position.
There followed details of working hours, a starting date and the name of the
person Jennifer was to report to on her first day at Longthorpes. The letter was signed by
Joshua Bernstein.
Constance walked round the table and gave the girl a hug.
‘I am so proud of you,’ and putting her other arm around her daughter’s
shoulders, ‘I’m so proud of both of you – in fact – let’s skip eating in. Try and get some
study done and then I’ll take you both out to dinner by way of celebration.’

William Longthorpe arrived home late, to an empty house. The solitude was quite to his
liking as he poured himself his customary large brandy and sat in his study, thinking.
Tomorrow’s meeting with Gelly Jeffries should prove to be interesting. It was obvious
the man was after money for his past services: William had no immediate plans that
would require Jeffries’ specialised expertise, hence the thousand pounds tucked away in
the document pocket of his briefcase; a one time payoff.
Idle curiosity caused him to ponder on Jeffries’ present predicament. It seemed
the man was working as a washer up in a B and B somewhere, not the kind of work he’d
expect a qualified technician to take up upon leaving the army. He consoled himself with
the fact the harder up the man was, the more chance there was he would accept the
money.

The Fox and Feathers on the outskirts of town enjoyed a passable reputation for real ale
and unimaginative home cooking. It boasted a large car park to the rear, a skittle alley,
and a landlord whose alcoholism and mood swings had driven all but the most hardened
drinkers to other more sociable taverns in the area.
A few minutes before two o’clock, William Longthorpe swung his luxury saloon
into the car park, negotiated the vehicle around some broken bottles and glasses, parking
in a position where the car would be visible to him from the bar. One other car occupied
the car park, the driver engrossed in a daily newspaper. He glanced up as William locked
his vehicle, and then resumed reading.
Inside, the décor had changed very little over the past twenty years. The
paintwork, once white, but not in William’s time, had become a darker brown than he
remembered on his last visit. The carpets were even more threadbare, just managing to
hold together in places, and the landlord was fast approaching the alcoholic state that
comes from imbibing the first scotch of the day at seven thirty in the morning. The smell
of stale beer and old tobacco smoke permeated throughout the entire establishment.
Seated at a table by a window, a small, thin man was hunched over the racing
pages of a national tabloid, scribbling notes in the margin. He blended in well with his
surroundings, from the grubby jeans and old trainers, to a T-shirt, long overdue for the
washbasket, topped off with an old army-style combat jacket. A sparse moustache clung
to his top lip, stained brown with nicotine from a lifetime of dangling hand rolled
cigarettes from the corner of his mouth. William ordered a large brandy and a single
whisky, pocketed his change and sat down opposite Gelly Jeffries.
‘You’re looking well Gelly – how’s life out of the Army?’
Jeffries downed the scotch in one and pushed the empty glass across the table,
indicating another would be in order.
‘Not as well as you guv’, I can’t afford doubles.’ He stared at William’s glass.
‘’Cept when they’re bought for me,’ and as William took the glass and rose from his seat,
‘A nice cigar would go down well, these fags’ll be the death of me.’
‘I sincerely hope so,’ William thought as he ordered a large whisky and two
cigars.
Seated again, his gaze wandered out into the car park whilst waiting for Gelly
Jeffries to open the conversation. With his racing selection made for the afternoon, the
man folded the paper and stuffed it into a side pocket. He followed William’s stare out
into the car park.
‘Nice motor – set you back a few bob I bet.’
William decided to get things moving.
‘It’s because I don’t bet Gelly that I’ve got a nice motor. You could have bought
one just like it ten times over with what you’ve chucked away on the horses.’
Jeffries sniffed.
‘Each to their own mate – I’ve been a bit unlucky – that’s all.’
William reflected that anyone suffering a consistent run of bad luck stretching
over twenty odd years had proved beyond doubt their inability to distinguish between
luck and lack of judgement.
‘I’ve been thinking about that little job I did for you – I reckon you’ve got a lot to
thank me for. You could still be stuck down some back street, floggin’ knackered old
wrecks to naïve punters if I hadn’t helped you out.’
‘You’re right – I guess when I paid you off I had no idea how well things would
turn out. Are we thinking along the same lines?’
Gelly Jeffries drained the contents of the glass and lit the cigar from his cigarette
end.
‘Yeah, we’re headed in the right direction – I reckon I’ve earned a share in your
good fortune.’
Taking an envelope from his inside pocket and pushing it across the table William
leaned back in his chair.
 ‘A mark of my appreciation for past services Gelly – where are you staying these
days?’
Jeffries hands scrabbled across the table, snatching the envelope.
‘A doss-house of a B and B. I left the Army under a bit of a cloud – the fuckers
took me pension off me and I’m washing dishes to pay the rent ‘till I get fixed up.’
William nodded at the envelope.
‘Well that will help to get you settled…if you don’t blow it on the horses.’ He
looked at his watch and stood up. ‘I’ve got to go.’
Jeffries peered inside the envelope, and giving a satisfied nod, shoved it in his
pocket.
‘I’ll give you a ring when I need to see you again – we didn’t have lunch –
perhaps next time?’
William sat down again and leaned across the table.
‘There won’t be a fuckin’ next time Gelly – this is it. You’ve been paid twice for
doing one job. Take the money and piss off back to washing dishes – better still – piss
off altogether, out of the area and out of my life.’
Jeffries seemed unperturbed by the other’s outburst.
‘I don’t think so mate – you’ve got a lot more to lose than I ‘ave. After what I did
for you I reckon a pension’s well overdue.’ He tapped his pocket. ‘Let’s call this my
regular pension payout – shall we?’
William had no intention of backing down: his reply was full of mocking
contempt.
‘Or what? Let me guess – you’ll have a chat with the local constabulary. Fuck
off you blackmailing little maggot – you’d end up in more shit than I would.’
‘I was thinking more of a tip-off to the insurance company – those boys are real
bastards when they know they’ve been fiddled – and I thought it might be a nice idea to
‘ave a chat to the papers. Not only will they protect my identity – they’d love a juicy
story about a self made millionaire with a weakness for incendiary devices and high
explosives.’
The urge to lean across the table and tear Gelly’s head from his shoulders was
almost uncontrollable. There was, William concluded, a degree of feasibility attached to
it, the pub was deserted and the landlord, by now two thirds of the way through his first
bottle of scotch, would require more than a simple murder to attract his attention. The
only witness would be the man in the car park, and glancing through the window William
could see him, still reading the paper.
Relaxing and unclenching his fists he stood up again.
‘I’ll need to think about it over the weekend – I’m sure I can sort something out.’
Jeffries grinned and tapped his pocket.
‘A regular envelope like this one ‘ere’s not going to break the Longthorpe bank is
it, and as long as my pension plan pays up no one will ever be the wiser.’
Out in the car park, Gelly Jeffries set off on foot toward the town. William
walked over to his car, nodding in passing to the man with the paper. The man returned
the pleasantry and went back to his reading.
Inside, the landlord took stock of his empty bar.
Taking a fresh bottle of whisky from the shelf and a clean glass, he seated himself
in the window and poured a generous measure.
 ‘Customers,’ he addressed the empty bar in a slurred voice, ‘Who fuckin’ needs
‘em – all they ever do is drink and spend money. Tossers – every soddin’ one of ‘em.’
His alcohol impaired vision just managed to focus on the solitary vehicle outside,
as the man started the engine and drove off in the same direction Gelly had taken.
It was a long walk back into town, and gone were the days when Gelly’s army
uniform and raised thumb brought a ready response from motorists in the form of a
hitched ride. His dishevelled and seedy appearance was apt to ensure drivers accelerated
past him rather than pull in and enquire as to his destination. After fifteen minutes of
futile thumbing every passing car, Gelly Jeffries resigned himself to a long walk and the
possibility of not being able to place his bets on time.
Just as he was about to give up, one lone Samaritan of a motorist took pity on him
and pulled over to the nearside of the road. Gelly voiced his thanks as he clambered into
the car. The driver nodded in acknowledgement.
‘Whereabouts are you headed? I’m going straight through town and onto the
motorway.’
Gelly looked at his watch. There was enough time to call in at the B and B and
leave the money somewhere. He knew if he took it to the betting shop his addiction
would get the better of him, and his creditor’s reputation didn’t include patience or
listening to hard-luck stories’
‘My digs are on your way – you can drop me there,’ and seeing a newspaper on
the dashboard, ‘Do you mind if I have a quick look at your paper?’
The driver nodded, ‘Help yourself,’ and as Gelly turned straight to the racing
supplement, ‘Bit of a betting man are you?’
‘I put a few bob on now and then – nothing much – more for a laugh than
anything else.’
The driver entered the one-way system and followed the signs for the motorway.
‘Just up ahead by that bus stop will be fine – me digs are right opposite – cheers
mate.’
As the vehicle pulled away Gelly realised he was still holding the man’s
newspaper.
‘Oh well,’ he thought, ‘the bloke’s hardly goin’ to drive all the way round the
bleedin’ town, just to get his paper back.’
Pulling out the racing pages he dumped the remainder in a bin, and rolling himself
another cigarette, crossed the road, letting himself in through the front door of the
Bellevue guest house.

Rita received notification for the reading of the will in the post. Since the funeral, she’d
given considerable thought of how to play her hand with Gary and Jennifer. Gary’s flat
was very modern and well equipped, handy for the centre of town and represented a
complete break from her past, in particular, her dead husband and daughter. A fair
amount of capital was tied up in her home, capital she had little difficulty in making plans
for. Gary was proving to be generous enough for her not to concern herself with thoughts
of future financial security and her mind was all but made up to turn her temporary
accommodation into a permanent arrangement.
Her one doubt lay in her desire for independence. Married to Jack had given her
all the independence she wanted. Although the deeds of their home had been in his
name, there had never been any question of who called the tune and made the decisions;
her husband had always accepted her ruling on everything, the house had never been an
issue. Against that, she weighed the possibility of living alone in the house and broke,
should things not work out with Gary. Rita knew if she decided to keep the house on,
Gary would move in if she asked him. Jennifer would move out, and any thoughts of her
daughter’s welfare were shouldered to one side and dismissed in favour of Rita’s own
agenda. Her greed won an easy victory: she decided to sell the house, reap the profits
and throw her lot in with Gary.
Having made her decision she wanted the whole thing over and done with as soon
as possible, moreover, she wanted the money from the sale of the house; it was already
burning a hole in her pocket.
When she learned of the date the will was to be read, her first response was to
walk around town, checking in the windows of estate agents for similar properties and
their value. She came to the conclusion, if they had purchased a number of years ago as
Jack Farringdon had done, house owners could expect to do very well. Once the
outstanding balance of the mortgage had been settled an appreciable sum of money
would remain as profit.
She had no idea what to do with the contents of the house other than tell her
daughter to take whatever she needed. Perhaps a local firm of auctioneers would arrange
a house clearance and dispose of everything; there was nothing Rita wanted except her
clothes, and most of those were at Gary’s by now. Almost a quarter of a century of
marriage held no sentiment for her whatsoever and she had no intention of having
anything around as a reminder of her late husband.
The Police had completed their investigations and sent their findings to the
Coroner in preparation for the inquest. Jack’s car, impounded as evidence after his death,
had been released, and Rita had already persuaded Gary to ask around amongst his mates
for a possible buyer. The proceeds from the sale had already been earmarked to set
Jennifer up in a cheap bedsit. Rita hated the thought of parting with the money but it was
a loose end she wanted tied up and forgotten.
Now that Gary was on the mend, life was becoming more to Rita’s liking. They’d
already been out in the evenings more times than Jack had managed in the past two years.
Gary was still suffering with his groin, and energetic movements caused him
considerable pain, but Rita, released from the years of pretence with her late husband,
and possessing an inventive nature, experienced little difficulty in satisfying herself and
her lover.
She wondered if Jennifer would try to insist on knowing the identity of her true
father and she gained a cruel satisfaction in the knowledge it was her secret, and hers
alone. Nothing would make her give up the information; nothing – unless there was a
huge benefit to be gained outweighing the feeling of power her silence gave her.

‘Hello Jennifer, I’m Edward Armitage. Constance has acquainted me with all the details
– we’ll have a chat in the car on the way there.’
Jennifer shook the offered hand of the man standing in the hallway. Over six feet
in height and dressed in a dark pin-striped suit, Mr Armitage looked every inch the
solicitor. With swept back grey hair and intelligent piercing eyes set in hawk-like facial
features, he possessed a commanding presence.
‘I must say, you look very professional and business-like Jennifer, not at all like
the schoolgirl I was expecting.’
He cast his eyes over the girl who had chosen to wear the same suit, borrowed
from Charlotte for her interview with Joshua Bernstein.
‘And of course,’ he added, ‘the schoolgirl everyone else is expecting. Let’s not
disappoint them my dear, I rather think you look all too competent, and that will never
do. Go and slip into your school clothes.’
It was a quiet command, spoken with absolute authority that sent Jennifer
hurrying to her room without a word of protest.
Edward Armitage turned to Constance.
‘Although there can be no question of negotiation over the details of the will at
this particular meeting, I feel it would be wise to set the scene as it were, for any future
encounters. I hope I haven’t upset or belittled your guest in any way Constance.’
‘She’s a very shrewd girl Edward – she’ll know you are concerned with her best
interests.’
Mr Armitage nodded.
‘Reading between the lines of your telephone call it would appear the mother is
callous in the extreme, and Jennifer’s presence here only serves to bear out that fact.
What will she do when this is all finalised?’
‘My daughter and Jennifer are very close, and upon leaving school, will both be
working in the family business. I’ve said this is her home for as long as she wants and I
believe there are plans in the making for the two of them to find a flat together.’
‘How very admirable of you Constance – I’ve long been an admirer of your
charitable activities – they do you credit.’
‘This has nothing to do with charity Edward. It’s a personal matter concerned
with a debt of gratitude.’
Footsteps on the stairs halted any further discussion. Jennifer appeared wearing a
grey skirt, blazer and school tie.
‘If I’d had a little more notice I could have plaited in a couple of pigtails.’
The solicitor smiled at the girl’s gentle sarcasm, nodded in approval and gestured
toward the front door.
‘Time to be off – there’s a small car park but we’ll need to be early to find a
space.’
A short drive through town took them past the front of the offices belonging to
Martin Christopher the solicitor, and turning into a side street Edward Armitage found an
empty space in the private car park to the rear.
Once inside they were shown into the office of Mr Christopher who, rising from
his desk, shook their hands.
‘You’re the first to arrive – just Mrs Farringdon to come and we’ll begin.
He turned to Edward Armitage.
‘All straightforward Edward – no complicated last minute alterations to contend
with. I received my instructions some years ago and the will’s remained the same ever
since.’
Rita appeared in the doorway and was shown to a seat by Martin Christopher’s
receptionist. She glared at Jennifer, but not knowing Edward Armitage, looked him up
and down, an expression of disdain on her face.
The solicitor withdrew a sheaf of papers from a folder and addressed Rita.
‘Mr Armitage is a solicitor representing your daughter. He is only here to observe
proceedings and if necessary, advise your daughter at a later date. Have you any
objections to his presence?’
The fact her daughter had a legal representative rattled Rita. She shot Edward
Armitage a glance and tossing her head in a dismissive gesture, turned back to the
solicitor.
‘He’s not going to make any difference to who gets what is he?’
‘None at all.’
‘Then I suppose it’s all right for him to stay – if I’d known you could bring people
with you, I’d have brought my Gary – he knows a thing or two about the law.’
Martin Christopher squared the papers on his desk and gave a quick look in
Edward Armitage’s direction whilst slightly raising one eyebrow. Jennifer’s solicitor
made no response.
‘Right – I’ll begin then. The will is very straightforward and describes in detail
how the estate of the late Jack Farringdon is to be distributed.’
Jennifer looked across at her mother. Rita was leaning forward in her chair with
anticipation.
‘To Mrs Rita Farringdon, wife of the deceased, all monies held in bank accounts,
savings plans and building society accounts.’
There followed a list of account details, addresses and account numbers.
Rita sat back in her chair.
‘I’ve got the lot – the fool thought I would share it all with Jennifer.’
She looked across the room at her daughter and allowed a tight smile to play
around the edges of her mouth.
‘To Jennifer Farringdon, daughter of the deceased, the property of number eighty
four Alexander Close.’
The smile dropped from Rita’s face and her head snapped round to face the
solicitor.
‘What?’
‘Your late husband issued instructions for the ownership of the property to be
transferred to your daughter on his death.’
‘Well how bloody stupid – she’s only a schoolgirl – no job and no income…and
she’s not his daughter.’
Mr Armitage turned to Jennifer.
‘Have you ever had occasion to see your birth certificate my dear?’
‘Yes I have. I needed it for a passport to go on a school trip.’
Jennifer was watching her mother – Rita was white with fury.
Mr Armitage continued in amicable tones.
‘Then I presume it states the father’s name as ‘unknown’ or someone other than
Jack Farringdon?’
‘It says my father is Jack Farringdon and gives his occupation as cabinet maker.’
‘I don’t care what it bloody says – I should know who her father is,’ Rita almost
shouted.
 Edward Armitage took the interruption in his stride, turned to Rita and continued
in an even tone of voice.
‘And presumably you and your late husband were in possession of this knowledge
when Jennifer was born – more importantly – when you both supplied details for her
birth certificate?’
Rita sneered.
‘No – he didn’t have a clue until I told him the night before he killed himself.’
‘Quite.’ Mr Armitage addressed the other solicitor.
‘This is not the time or place to discuss this matter as I’m sure you’ll agree.
However, it would seem that when the deceased caused his will to be written and
witnessed, there was no question in his mind as to Jennifer’s parentage. Also it must be
remembered, the deceased, as owner of the property, was at liberty to bequeath it to
whomsoever he wished.’
Rita let out a triumphant shout.
‘She’s not eighteen – she can’t inherit anything.’
If Edward Armitage was concerned by this revelation, his face gave nothing
away.
‘When do you attain the age of eighteen, Jennifer?’
‘Next Thursday,’ came the quiet reply.
Again, Jennifer’s solicitor took control. He addressed the room at large, knowing
the situation guaranteed him an attentive audience.
‘Then we have a young person, bequeathed a property, yet unable to assume
responsibility for the said property. Her father left no specific instructions as to who
would manage Jennifer’s affairs in the event of his death until she attained the age of
eighteen, presuming, and here I can only surmise, she would be considerably in excess of
that age when he passed on. However, as that is not the case, someone must be appointed
to mange Jennifer’s affairs.’
He addressed Martin Christopher.
‘In your opinion Mr Christopher, how long will it take your offices to draw up the
necessary papers?’
‘Longer than next Thursday,’ came the candid reply.
‘And payment for your excellent services will be referred to whom may I ask?’
The other solicitor experienced little difficulty in predicting the course of the
conversation.
‘To the estate of the late Jack Farringdon – where else?’
‘Then I suggest we make all haste to appoint a person to manage my client’s
affairs,’
Rita saw one last chance.
‘I’m her mother – I’ll do it.’
On the outside, Edward Armitage gave no sign he was beginning to enjoy himself.
‘An admirable and selfless offer on your part Mrs Farringdon – I’m confident you
would make a splendid trustee of your daughter’s estate. However, time is against us I’m
afraid, and although I’m sure my learned friend will move heaven and earth to complete
the necessary forms, next Thursday is, after all, the deadline.’
The other solicitor spoke up.
‘Will you be remaining at your current address for the foreseeable future, Mrs
Farringdon?’
‘Yes – why?’
‘I’m sure you understand, a deal of expense will be incurred rushing
through the paperwork – someone has to pay the bill, and as you’ve kindly offered to act
as your daughter’s trustee until she is able to assume full responsibility for her
inheritance…’
Martin Christopher allowed his voice to tail off, knowing he’d said enough to
convince the woman her greed would come to nothing.
Rita’s jaw dropped, then her temper flared.
‘You’re telling me the bitch gets the house anyway when she’s eighteen and I
have to pay for the privilege of you lot doing a heap of bloody paperwork, that after next
Thursday counts for buggar all? Well you can sod off, I’m not doing it – find another
mug.’
Edward Armitage stood up with Jennifer following suit.
‘Martin – I’ll leave matters in your capable hands until next Thursday. My offices
will contact you on that date to arrange transfer of the deeds to the new owner.’
He shook the other man’s hand; Jennifer did likewise. Rita sat, half turned in her
chair ignoring everyone.
When they were alone in the office she turned on Martin Christopher.
‘When my husband made his will there was probably a lot of money in those
accounts. Then he was made redundant and we had to live on what we’d saved. It’s my
home as well – don’t I get anything out of it?’
‘Well – there’s the life insurance your late husband took out. That’s payable on
death and you’re the beneficiary, but insurance companies are renowned for their
reluctance to pay following a suicide; it’s something you’ll have to look into. As for the
house – well – as I understand it, you deserted the marital home leaving your daughter
relying on the kindness of friends and having to deal with the death of her father. Should
you wish to contest the will Mrs Farringdon, there are legal practices who, I’m sure
would represent you, but this practice is not one of them. Now if you’d excuse me, I
have a client waiting.’
During the short drive home, Jennifer sat, numbed at the turn events had taken.
She knew there would have been no malice in her father’s actions when he made his will:
he had tried to provide for his wife and daughter as best he could. Jack had been aware
of Rita’s love of money and had insured himself to the hilt in an attempt to meet her
needs. He would have seen leaving Jennifer the house as a way of providing her, and any
family she might have, with mid-life security.
They joined a queue of traffic at a junction.
‘What happens now? I know there’s a mortgage on the house, and my dad
recently had double-glazing fitted – that has to be paid for as well.’
Mr Armitage moved the car forward in the line of traffic.
‘That depends. When the deeds are transferred to your name, if you still wish me
to act on your behalf then I shall cause enquiries to be made concerning the financial
agreements in force.’ He turned toward the girl. ‘In short Jennifer, the small print will
have to be gone through. Do you intend to live in the property?’
‘No – too many memories of my dad – and at eighteen years old…it’s a big place
for one person to keep going.’
 ‘Then you have a number of options. First, you may wish to sell the property,
settle any outstanding debts, if there are any, and walk away with a lump sum. Second,
you may wish to rent the house and enjoy a steady income, whilst still retaining
ownership. That option would allow you to take up residence at a later date if you
desired.’
‘I guess if I decided to rent the house out, the income would cover all the bills and
monthly outgoings and possibly leave a small amount over for repairs when they were
required. Who would I see to arrange that?’
Edward Armitage was quite impressed with the girl’s grasp of the situation. In his
experience, most young people would settle for selling the property in return for a quick
profit. In his opinion, leasing the house would, in the long run be the sensible option.
‘A reputable estate agent would organise the letting of the property, and vet
applicants on your behalf. Obviously, a fee would be involved, but with the price
commanded by rented property these days, it would be a very safe option for you to
consider.’
‘I’ll talk it over with Constance – she knows people connected with property –
I’ve exams to worry about at the moment so it won’t hurt to put everything on hold for a
couple of weeks.’
‘Very wise,’ the solicitor commented. ‘It’s always best to allow the dust to settle
and give yourself some breathing space.’
Jennifer went over the recent events in Martin Christopher’s office.
‘When the subject of my age came up, you didn’t seem particularly worried. Did
you know I’m nearly eighteen?’
Mr Armitage smiled.
‘No – but when Constance told me you were staying at her house, studying for
your exams with Charlotte, and knowing she had just reached eighteen – I made an
educated assumption. It turned out very well I thought.’
Back at the house, Constance was delighted with the positive outcome of the will.
She agreed to assist Jennifer in any way she was able and applauded the girl’s decision to
complete her exams before deciding what should be done with the property.
‘We’ll have to find out where you stand with the insurance on the mortgage. No
doubt there will be a specific reference to your particular circumstances – would you
oblige in finding out the details Edward?’
‘I’ll cause the necessary enquiries to be made as soon as all relevant documents
are delivered to my office. There will be some delay, but in the light of Jennifer’s exams,
I expect she will appreciate some breathing space.’
Edward Armitage shook hands with Jennifer and Constance, and promising to
contact Constance as soon as he had any news, left the two women to talk over the
morning’s events.
Rita caught a bus to Gary’s flat and stormed through the door, beside herself with
anger and self pity. It had never crossed her mind Jennifer would benefit in such a huge
way from her late husband’s will. If the policy Jack had taken out on his life proved to be
worthless because of the circumstances of his death, apart from a few pounds in various
accounts, she was penniless.
Gary attempted to calm her, but Rita was beyond listening to reason.
‘Nothing – bloody nothing – and that bitch gets the house. She brought along
some slimy, high-powered solicitor she got from God knows where, and he made me
look a fool. Well – let’s see how she manages to survive in the real world without a job,
and bills to pay. I hope she loses the fucking lot and ends up on the streets.’
She threw herself into a chair, face contorted with rage.
Try as he might, Gary could not make the right noises. No amount of assurances
on his part that he earned enough money for the two of them to enjoy a comfortable life
made any difference. Rita was not about to admit her loss of independence was at the
root of her anger, and Gary’s offer of keeping her only served to make matters worse.
When he suggested she might find a job to make her feel more secure, Rita’s reply
brought about an abrupt end to the conversation.
‘Piss off Gary – I’m not about to work in a factory or some dump of a shop. If
that’s all you think of me then perhaps I’ve made the wrong choice.’

The office switchboard put through an outside call to William Longthorpe’s office. After
listening to what the caller had to say, William issued some brief instructions.
‘I’m glad you were able to identify the problem – I thought I’d sorted it a long
time ago, but obviously not. I need to have the part scrapped and I’d appreciate it if
you’d carry out the work as soon as possible. There’s a chance it might cause a complete
breakdown of the machinery in the near future. I take it your usual service charges
apply?’
He listened again to the caller, scribbled some figures on a note pad and replaced
the receiver.
His thoughts turned to Joshua Bernstein and the Farringdon girl: for all his faults,
William was first and foremost a businessman. He realised, for Joshua to be impressed
and disobey orders, the girl must possess some special talent, and if that talent could save
his company money, then better to be on his payroll than working for the opposition.
As far as Joshua ignoring a directive from the Managing Director…well…the
arrangement with Joshua’s cousin was more than satisfactory, and with the last ‘phone
call fresh in his mind, it didn’t hurt one bit to have Joshua feeling he owed William some
financial juggling.
 Chapter Nine

For Jennifer and Charlotte, the next fortnight seemed to be one long round of never
ending exams, interspersed with frantic periods of last minute revision. The subject of
Jennifer’s birthday had not been mentioned back at the house when Edward Armitage
had dropped her off and the girl had decided to postpone any celebrations until after the
last exam. She refrained from making any mention of the date to Constance or Charlotte
and when the day came, celebrated her coming of age by turning in a maths paper she
hoped would provide her with near perfect marks.
The next afternoon, and with the final exam complete, the two girls returned home
to find Constance setting the dining room table with all the cutlery and paraphernalia
befitting a special occasion. She refused to be drawn on the reason for her endeavours
and evaded all of Charlotte’s frantic questioning.
‘I thought as your exams are over, and, as of today you’ve both left school, we
might eat a meal in here rather than the kitchen, surrounded by piles of books and notes.’
Charlotte refused to be fobbed off by such a flimsy excuse.
‘The last time you made this sort of effort was when we had to entertain a load of
councillors for Dad. He was trying to rush through some sort of planning consent for one
of the garages and thought it would be a good idea to butter them up with posh nosh,
wine and cigars.’
Constance busied herself around the table whilst Charlotte elaborated to Jennifer.
‘It was to say the least, a unique collection of lecherous and sponging old farts, all
gathered under one roof at the same time. When they weren’t busy gawping down the
front of Mum’s dress they were guzzling wine like pigs at a trough. Every single one a
dedicated freeloader – not an ounce of civic commitment between them.’
‘Did your father get what he wanted?’
‘Doesn’t he always – let’s face it – most people have a price. One of the more
influential councillors has a brother who just by chance owns a building firm – no prizes
for guessing which company my father selected to do the work. It was all very cosy, and
no doubt a viable financial adventure for all concerned.’
Constance had finished setting the table; stepping back she cast a critical eye over
her work, nodding in satisfaction.
Following her mother’s gaze round the table Charlotte counted four place settings.
‘A quiet family gathering – how nice – it’s been a while.’
Permitting herself a quiet smile, not altogether in appreciation of her daughter’s
sarcasm, Constance left the room.
‘You know Jenny – with all that structured study of yours, I reckon enough’s
rubbed off to get me through those wretched exams. You’ve no idea how glad I feel now
they’re all over.’
‘Me too,’ confessed Jennifer. ‘I’m dropping in to the school to say my goodbyes
to everyone and I guess that’s when it’ll really sink in. Nice to have a bit of time off
though before we start work – how are you feeling about it?’
‘Fine – now exams are over I can’t wait to pull on the overalls and go for it – and
don’t forget we’ve a flat to look for and…’
Charlotte stopped in mid sentence, staring at the open dining room door behind
Jennifer. Framed in the doorway, carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers stood a
smiling Gillam O’Keefe. Behind him, with, if anything, a larger bouquet of flowers,
stood his brother, Sean. The younger brother was the first to speak.
‘Would there be any chance a couple of poor Irish lads might share the ladies
company?’
His Irish brogue was full of laughter as he strode into the room, made straight for
Jennifer and brushed her cheek with a fleeting kiss of greeting.
‘If you haven’t missed me I shall be a broken man, Jenny girl.’
Charlotte stood stock still, looking at Gillam. He held out the flowers to hide his
shyness, wishing he possessed his brother’s boldness.
Stepping forward, Charlotte pushed the bouquet to one side, clasped her hands
behind his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. The flowers fell to the floor and he
folded his arms around her.
Sean winked at Jennifer and whispered in her ear.
‘Saints be praised – he’s been the very devil to live with since the party.’
With his voice raised to an almost theatrical volume he addressed the room.
‘These flowers will need a jug and some water,’ and lowering his voice to
Jennifer, ‘Also, I have something for you in the kitchen.’
He led the way through the door, to be confronted with Constance carrying a
bottle of wine and four glasses. Jennifer glanced over her shoulder; the two still had their
arms locked round one another.
‘I think we’d be better of in the kitchen for now – Charlotte is saying a very
serious ‘hello’ to Gillam, and Sean needs a vase and some water.’
Constance meanwhile had sneaked a peek over Jennifer’s shoulder into the room.
‘What a marvellous idea.’ Her face held a broad smile. ‘And what a wonderful
start to the evening – Sean can open the wine whilst I see to the flowers.’
Once in the kitchen, Sean indicated a large box, wrapped in brown paper, on the
table.
‘That’s for you – don’t ask any questions, and don’t open the box just yet. If you
do, Constance will make my brother an only child.’ He grinned. ‘Not that he’d notice
my passing at this very moment, but sooner or later he’d realise I wasn’t around.’
Jennifer was puzzled by the whole situation.
‘What’s going on Constance? The brothers make a sudden appearance, laden
with flowers; there’s a mysterious box on the table that I mustn’t open, and you look like
a cat that’s got the cream.’
Charlotte and Gillam walked through the doorway. Charlotte was all smiles,
Gillam looked nervous. Constance came to their rescue.
‘I’m glad you two are here, you’ll have plenty of time to talk later, but the cat’s
not going to stay in the bag for much longer.’
She handed everyone wine and raised her glass.
‘I really should take you to task for keeping me in the dark Jennifer, but I think I
understand your motives for saying nothing – so happy birthday for yesterday – and
before you ask, it was Edward Armitage who accidentally allowed the date to slip out last
week.’
Charlotte came over and hugged her friend.
‘I wasn’t in on Mum’s secret; she’s a dark horse don’t you think?’
 Gillam found his voice.
‘I ’phoned you last night Charlotte to say we had a couple of days between
engagements, but Constance took my call and asked if Sean and I could manage to be
here for a surprise party. We flew in from Sweden this morning and drove straight from
the airport; we’ve been here since just after lunchtime.’
Sean took Jennifer’s hand, leading her to the table and the large box.
‘You can open your present now – I had it wrapped in plain paper so as not to
give the game away.’
Jennifer disengaged her hand from Sean’s to tear the paper from the box;
removing the lid her eyes opened wide and she stifled a gasp. A state of the art, slimline
laptop computer and a soft black leather case nestled in amongst the packaging.
Jennifer was speechless but Sean’s humour came to the rescue.
‘If it’s the wrong size or you don’t like the colour, you can always change it.
Women can be fickle creatures I’m told.’
Before she could speak, Constance produced a bag from a cupboard.
‘Sean must have read my mind.’
She handed Jennifer the bag; inside was a black dress. Not just any black dress,
but an exact match of the one Jennifer had worn to Charlotte’s party and later, ripped in
half.
‘This one has no bad memories, and I’m sure you’ll look every bit as stunning as
you did in the last one. Happy birthday from all of us.’
Jennifer was overwhelmed, she didn’t know who to hug first, so going round the
room, she hugged everyone, ending with Sean.
‘You’re all such lovely people – I can’t thank you enough,’ and turning to
Constance, ‘I didn’t say anything because of the exams…and everything else. My
birthday didn’t seem to matter much at the time.’
Sean slipped his arm round the girl’s shoulder.
‘We heard about your loss Jenny – words aren’t enough, but we’re here for you –
and you’re here for us.’
His arm slid down her shoulder and circled her waist as he addressed Constance.
‘Now that my big brother seems to have come to his senses, shall we eat?’
Charlotte inclined her head to one side, resting it on Gillam’s shoulder. After a
moments embarrassed hesitation his hand stroked the side of her face as he spoke to
Constance.
‘Would I be right in thinking this doesn’t come as that much of a shock to you
Constance?’
Charlotte’s mother gave him a warm reassuring smile.
‘There have been times over the past months Gillam when I’ve had to fight the
temptation to physically throw you two together.’
She walked across the room to where Charlotte, head still on Gillam’s shoulder,
had her eyes closed and wore a blissful smile.
‘The two of you have my absolute support and I think Jennifer and Sean share my
feelings.’
She looked at the other two across the kitchen where Jennifer was nodding with
enthusiasm. Sean’s natural humour took over.
‘Ashamed as I am to turn your happiness into vulgar profit, when this gets out,
we’ll have to write a sequel to ‘Gold in the Sunset’. I sense a monster hit in the making.’
Charlotte looked puzzled and Gillam’s face showed the first signs of
embarrassment.
‘I’ll tell you about it over dinner,’ Sean promised the girl. ‘It’s a sad tale of secret
passion and unfulfilled love – but it seems it now has a happy ending.’
Walking through the hallway to the dining room, Jennifer felt Sean’s fingers slip
through her own. She kept looking straight ahead, but applied the smallest amount of
pressure to the musician’s hand to assure him she was not in the least offended.
The meal that evening was partaken in a relaxed and cosy atmosphere, the
brothers insisting Constance lay a fifth place at the table and join them. Charlotte’s father
put in a brief appearance toward midnight, having been to dinner with a client. His
scathing condemnation of the chef’s linguistic abilities could be heard in the dining room
as he shut himself in the study with a brandy for company.
‘That’s the problem with employing these foreigners. They might be cordon bleu
trained, but what’s the bloody good of that if they can’t speak English? I asked for steak,
well done, and what does the mongrel bring me? A piece of meat, so rare it practically
had a pulse. It could have walked back to the farm under its own steam and rejoined the
herd.’
 Chapter Ten

At a little after three in the morning, the hospital was quiet, the silence only disturbed
now and then by the occasional echoing scrape of a chair leg as one of the night nurses
pushed themselves away from the office desk to check on a patient requiring periodic
observations.
The accident and emergency department had been busy earlier on with a steady
stream of injuries, resulting from domestic violence, two road traffic accidents and a
drunk, who not content with falling downstairs, had stumbled into the road and collided
with a passing cyclist. The drunk had suffered a sprained ankle, whilst the unfortunate
cyclist had broken his wrist. To add insult to injury, a passing villain with an eye for an
opportunity had stolen his bike whilst he was at the hospital.
A man had been brought in by a paramedic team after being discovered
unconscious in an alleyway at about twelve thirty a.m. His condition was serious, and
following an emergency operation to rectify a punctured lung he had been given a
thorough examination, revealing broken ribs, a fractured pelvis and severe concussion.
The left leg was broken below the knee and the humerus of the right arm was smashed
below the ball joint with the shoulder. His body was covered in bruises and contusions
consistent with an atrocious and merciless beating. It was the opinion of the doctor
attending the patient, that had a passer-by not been prompt in summoning assistance, the
man would be occupying a table as a guest of the mortuary staff.
In accordance with hospital instructions, the Police had been informed, but their
initial enquiries were hampered by the man’s lack of identity and deep unconscious state.
When his clothing had been searched, the jacket pockets gave up a pouch of hand-
rolling tobacco and cigarette papers, a key and a quantity of betting slips covering races
over the past few days. The trouser pockets only held small change. The Police were
forced to put their enquiries on hold until the man regained consciousness, or someone
filed a missing person’s report.
The young night shift duty Inspector, keen and anxious to build a reputation, had
called out Scenes of Crime for what he considered to be an act of attempted murder.
His Charge Office Sergeant, with twenty-seven years in the force, had favoured
the lesser offence of grievous bodily harm with its promise of reduced paperwork.
The young Inspector’s rank had prevailed, but a thorough search of the crime
scene had revealed little more than a shoe, later identified as the victim’s, and a used
contraceptive.
A tired and unshaven Scenes of Crime officer, fresh from a warm bed but with a
dry sense of humour, remarked to his colleague, ‘Better bag up the condom – could turn
out to be important evidence – someone totally fucked that poor bastard in hospital.’
His colleague made no attempt to acknowledge the other’s sarcasm. His
tentative retrieval of the used condom from the gutter with the end of his pencil failed to
conform to any format for comedy of which he was aware.
Three times during the rest of that night, the victim’s condition gave the hospital
staff cause for concern, resulting in the patient being moved to an intensive care ward.
His rapid, thready pulse rate and quick shallow breathing caused consideration to be
given to an exploratory operation to determine if any internal bleeding was occurring. A
slight improvement of the patient’s vital signs delayed the planned operation, but a nurse
was placed by his bedside to monitor his progress – if any. At six thirty in the morning,
the nurse was relieved to report to the ward sister her patient was displaying signs of a
return to consciousness.
Pain, of an unbelievable intensity, flooded into the mind of Gelly Jeffries causing
him to groan in agony. The picture of a man, baseball bat raised above his head, about to
crash it into his defenceless body, caused him to cry out in terror, convinced the beating
was yet to finish. In desperation he tried to curl himself into a ball and cover his head,
but was restrained and offered reassurance by a quiet female voice.
‘It’s all right – you’re in hospital – you’ve been badly beaten. Try to lay still –
you’re connected to a drip and have some broken bones. Can you speak?’
The mere act of opening his eyes demanded a huge mental effort, and when he
succeeded, his vision was blurred and pulsated in time with his heartbeat. Bile rose in his
throat and he vomited. The involuntary muscle contractions associated with the act of
vomiting lanced a fiery pain through his chest. He coughed, screamed, and the pain
intensified. Another female voice spoke.
‘Let’s get the pain under control – I’ll call the doctor right away. I don’t think
there’s a problem with prescribing – he’s not going into theatre.’
Blurred images moved across his field of vision and he felt a hand on his arm. He
could just make out a woman’s face, close to his. Her voice was competent and
sympathetic.
‘Whisper if it’s more comfortable – what’s your first name?’
‘Leonard…Leonard Jeffries.’
‘That’s fine Leonard – don’t try to speak any more – we’re getting you something
for the pain.’
The second voice had returned and he felt his left arm being moved and
repositioned.
‘This will act straight away – has he said anything yet?’
‘His name’s Leonard Jeffries – perhaps he’ll be able to tell us more when the pain
eases. Are the Police still outside?’
‘The doctor’s sent them away – they’ll ‘phone later in the morning for a progress
report.’
The drug eased its way into his system; a slight burning sensation in the lower
arm, followed by an almost euphoric feeling of light-headedness and well being. He
drifted into sleep, rather than his former stark unconscious state. The drug continued to
do its work, blocking the agony from the shredded nerve endings of the patient’s injuries
to his brain.
By mid morning, sleep had deserted him, and along with it, the drugs ability to
combat his pain. He awoke to find his body invaded by multiple agonies of such
intensity every nerve ending in his body seemed to be under attack.
The effort to locate his suffering in part revealed the extent of his injuries. His
right arm was positioned across his body and secured at the left shoulder by some kind of
sling. There was no doubt his left leg was in plaster. He detected some kind of strapping
to his ribs and what felt like a surgical dressing. Below the waist he appeared to be
immobilised. His head felt lumpy and misshapen and the word ‘headache’ did little
justice to the lancing pain through his eyes and temples. A drip attached to his left arm
with a plastic tube disappeared somewhere behind the bed, and through bandaging to the
back of his left hand protruded a small tube with a cap. He decided the bleeping sound
from a piece of equipment on a bedside trolley must be a heart monitor as the bleep was
keeping perfect time with the throbbing in his head.
A male nurse appeared, and referring to the machine by the patient’s bedside,
made notes on a chart.
With great care he lifted Gelly’s eyelids and passed the beam of a pencil torch across
each eye. The pain of the bright light brought a gasp of air whistling from between the
injured man’s teeth.
‘Sorry Leonard – you’re still concussed I’m afraid – I won’t have to do that again
for a while. I’ll do something about the pain for you.’
Going to a trolley he unlocked the lid and taking out a small ampoule of clear
liquid, filled a syringe. If it were possible, Gelly felt even sicker. He hated needles, from
his past encounters with army medics and their lack of finesse. The nurse, interpreting
the patient’s concern from the stricken look on his face, offered reassurance.
‘Don’t worry – I’m not going to stick it into you – this will do nicely.’
Flipping back the lid on the tube in Gelly’s left arm he inserted the needle. Depressing
the plunger he withdrew the hypodermic and replaced the cap.
‘Much more civilised don’t you think?’
Again the feeling of light-headedness and euphoria pervaded through Gelly’s system,
reducing his suffering to a tolerable level.
‘What’s the damage?’
He managed to whisper the question through clenched teeth.
The nurse referred to the chart.
‘Three broken ribs – one of them in two places. Your right humerus is smashed at the
top and you’ve a broken tib and fib – that’s the tibia and fibula bones– in your left leg.
However, the most dangerous injuries were a punctured lung – courtesy of your broken
ribs – we fixed that one in theatre – and a smashed pelvis, which can always be tricky
because of damage to arteries that can occur. You’ve had an X-ray to your skull and
there’s no sign of a fracture, but you are suffering from severe concussion. Elsewhere
you’re covered in cuts and abrasions.’
Gelly began to piece together the events of the previous evening. The day had begun
well enough with two winners, but his addiction had nothing to do with winning money,
only gambling. As a consequence, he’d placed all his winnings on a rank outsider, a
horse of questionable breeding named, ‘Rough and Ready’. The miserable animal, after
unseating its jockey, had partaken of a light lunch from a bush at the side of the track one
furlong from the finish, before jumping the side-rails and cantering into the distance.
Almost broke, he’d hung around in the betting shop and placed two separate one
pound bets to pass the time. When both horses won, the first by half a length, the second
after a steward’s enquiry disqualified the first and second past the post, Gelly found
himself enough in pocket for a few pints that evening.
Since William Longthorpe’s generous donation, the pressure from his creditors had
eased and allowed Gelly to go about his business without the constant need to look over
his shoulder.
Sauntering down the High Street to his local that evening, his normal debt induced
vigilance could not have failed to spot the two brutal looking gentlemen following him.
His new found sense of freedom, far from bringing about an improvement to Gelly’s
wretched life, was to be his undoing.
Sitting at the bar, Gelly Jeffries spent a quiet and pleasant evening drinking away the
few pounds left in his pocket. A moderate win on the fruit machine topped up his beer
money and he switched from bitter to whisky to minimise the frequent trips to the
gentlemen’s toilet. By the time ‘last orders’ was called, the bar was crowded, and his
final visit to the toilet cost him his seat. He stood by the fruit machine for the last ten
minutes of the evening sipping the whisky, in no hurry to return to his digs and the
prospect of mountains of breakfast washing up in the morning with the inevitable
hangover.
The loose change left in his pocket amounted to just enough for a bag of chips on the
way home and he decided to call William Longthorpe at his first opportunity for a top up
to his finances. Leaving the pub he made his unsteady way along a side street in the
direction of the fish and chip shop.
The two men who left the premises after him split up, one hurrying round to the car
park where he retrieved an object from the boot, the other standing on the corner,
watching the retreating figure of Gelly. Together, they followed him, one walking
behind, the other crossing the road and walking abreast of his victim.
The side street ended in a tall steel fence surrounding a small industrial estate with a
pathway leading off to the right along the side of the fence, joining up some distance later
with a main thoroughfare. The pathway’s only illumination came from the glare of the
sodium lighting in the main street.
The two men were now back together, only yards behind Gelly Jeffries. One of them
let out with a loud curse.
‘Oh shit, I’ve left my lighter on the bar – hey mate, ‘scuse me – got a light?’
Gelly turned and saw the dim figures, one of whom was holding his hand in the air.
‘You haven’t got a light on you?’
Digging into his pocket he produced a box of matches and struck one. In the
flickering flame, the man’s face held a certain familiarity, but the night’s drinking
prevented anything more than a passing question in Gelly’s mind.
The man took a long drawer on the cigarette and tossing it to the ground, ground it out
with his heel.
‘Work to do,’ he murmured, and seizing the lapels of Gelly’s jacket, lifted the man’s
body from the ground before hurling him against the steel fence.
The noise of the impact reverberated along the length of the fence as the victim’s body
crashed against the iron bars and began to sag toward the ground. The baseball bat,
produced from beneath the other man’s coat, swung in a tight, vicious arc, connecting
with Gelly’s ribs. The bone broke with a sickening crunch, the second blow driving the
jagged end into the lung. Gelly Jeffries coughed blood and hit the ground, only to be
heaved upright by the first man who spun him round, throwing him face first at the fence.
The baseball bat swung again and connected with the top of his right arm. The man
felt the snapping bone through the handle of the weapon and grunted in satisfaction. A
foot lashed out and smashed into Gelly’s left leg below the knee, splintering the bone and
sending him once more to the ground where his smashed limbs failed to support him and
he slumped, face forward onto the path.
Again the baseball bat raised into the air, accelerating downwards like an
executioner’s axe towards the back of Gelly’s head. The tip of the bat glanced off one of
the steel railings and was deflected from its target, the intended lethal stroke expending
itself to one side of the lower spine, fracturing bone.
‘Someone’s coming – finish it.’
A face thrust itself into the victim’s.
‘I hope you enjoyed reading my newspaper, you thieving, blackmailing little shit.’
The face withdrew and a heavy boot crashed into the side of Gelly’s unprotected head.
He lost consciousness before the pain registered and the foot lashed out a second time.
Lying in the hospital bed, the face of the man with the cigarette floated before his
closed eyes, and the last words he’d heard prior to being booted into unconsciousness
triggered the connection.
The man with the cigarette was the driver who’d stopped to pick him up on his walk
from the meeting with William Longthorpe. The man’s reference to blackmail could
only mean one thing. William Longthorpe had hired two heavies to take care of him,
either as a warning, or something far more final. Gelly decided it was the latter; he
remembered the words, ‘Finish it.’ They sounded final to him.
A police officer came into the room, and dragging a chair up to the side of the bed,
produced a pocket book.
‘The doctor says it’s ok for me to have a few words Mr Jeffries – let’s start with your
address.’
Gelly went through his details, saying that he’d left the army a few weeks ago and
taken temporary work in the area until something more permanent presented itself.
Whilst the officer wrote in his pocket book, Gelly concentrated through the pain to
concoct a plausible story to cover his beating.
‘I had a run of good wins on the horses that afternoon – ended up over two thousand
ahead. Can’t leave that sort of cash laying around at the B and B so I took it with me. I
guess I was mugged officer.’
‘Did you get a good look at your assailant?’
‘No – it was dark and they came up behind me – I got the impression of three…or
perhaps four people.’
‘My inspector thinks they tried to kill you – he says three or four people could have
held you down, taken the money and run off rather than beat you half to death?’
‘I heard at least one woman’s voice – there could have been more. It might have been
two couples from the pub – I suppose the money’s gone?’
‘You only had small change in your pockets when they brought you to the hospital.’
‘Bastards – I was going to set myself up in a flat with that.’
He cast a pleading look in the direction of the nurse hovering in the background; she
hurried over.
‘I think that’s enough for now officer – Leonard’s in a lot of pain – perhaps you’d
better come back later.’
The policeman finished writing in his notebook and stood up.
‘You’ve no idea of anyone with a grudge – you reckon it was just for the money
then?’
‘Seems like it – probably gone up their noses or into their arms by now – I hope the
bastards OD,’ he wheezed, gasping for breath from the exertion of talking.
Left alone, Gelly put some serious thought into what steps he might take to preserve
his health on being discharged from hospital. He was convinced William Longthorpe had
paid to have him killed, removing the threat of someone discovering the original
circumstances of the man’s success in the business community. He was aware, that by
threatening to expose William’s complicity in the fire all those years ago, the man would
weigh his empire against Gelly’s existence and the prospect of future blackmail. It was a
very unbalanced choice, even Gelly had to admit that.
Killing from a distance was easy; the prime requirements were good contacts, a
healthy bank balance and a rock solid alibi, all of which he was positive William
Longthorpe possessed.
Looking over his shoulder to avoid his creditors catching up with him was one thing;
they weren’t above dealing out a slapping as a reminder of an overdue payment. But
dead debtors can’t pay their bills so things never went further than a roughing up.
However, assuming anonymity to avoid being killed was a different matter. If William
Longthorpe discovered he was still drawing breath, he would constitute an unacceptable
threat to the man and Gelly’s injuries left him under no illusion how far William would
go to eliminate the problem.
The bed and breakfast was not renowned for its after care nursing of hospital patients,
and his attackers were only too aware of his address. He knew another, safer place would
have to be found, but hospital was the best option for the time being. When he was
discharged he would have to be in a position to run far and fast, not present an easy target
by hobbling out of the door on crutches.
He decided the smartest thing for him to do would be to stay where he was for as long
as the health authorities would permit, and somehow gather together enough cash to
allow the germ of an idea in his head to reach fruition.
 Chapter Eleven

Sean and his brother Gillam stayed at the house for another day before leaving to rejoin
the rest of the band. During the period of their stay, Charlotte and Gillam were
inseparable, both caught up in the new and exciting openness between them.
Jennifer and Sean gave the couple as much space as the confines of the house allowed,
knowing the restrictions fame imposed. It would be difficult trying to carry on a normal
relationship in the outside world.
Sean was more adventurous than his elder brother, and appeared mid-morning wearing
dark glasses, a cap and nondescript clothes.
‘I thought we might take a stroll Jenny – I need a woman’s advice from you and a
guide around the town.’
Intrigued, Jennifer changed clothes and joined the young musician in the hallway. He
dangled a set of car keys in front of her face.
‘Charlotte says she’s not going to be needing these – more important things on her
mind I guess.’ He grinned, ‘Goodness knows what the two of them are finding to talk
about – they’re at the giggling stage at the moment.’
Right on cue, the sound of Charlotte’s throaty laugh drifted out of the dining room.
Once in town, Sean followed Jennifer’s directions to a car park and switched off the
engine.
‘Gillam and I have it in mind to do something for Constance – she’s a lovely lady you
know, undemanding – and heaven knows, long suffering with that husband of hers – she
deserves better. My Mum and Dad think the world of her – they really appreciate how
she’s made it possible for Gillam and me to have some privacy when we’re over here.’
Jennifer told Sean the bare details of the circumstances surrounding her father’s death
and her mother’s actions.
‘I would have found it impossible to carry on, let alone study for my exams if it hadn’t
been for Constance’s support.’
‘Then you’ll understand why Gillam and I would like to do something special for her
– a way of saying ‘thank you’ for all the kindness she’s shown us.’
‘That’s a difficult one – she loves her charities and she’s very close to Charlotte:
there’s no happiness in her marriage Sean, Charlotte really is all she has.’
Sean’s eyes searched Jennifer’s face.
‘Not quite all she has – she’s got you as well Jenny.
Jennifer shook her head.
‘Not really – she took on a huge burden when I came along with all my troubles. She
arranged my father’s funeral, helped me out with her solicitor and my father’s will – she
even persuaded her husband to give me an interview for a job, to say nothing of putting
me up when my mother ran off with someone. I’ve given her nothing in return.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. She spent years worrying about Charlotte, seeing her
take on her father’s values in life, using people and despising them for their weaknesses.
You brought about a change in Charlotte and Constance will always be your friend
because of it.’
They locked the car and walked through to the town centre to do some window-
shopping. Jennifer linked her arm through Sean’s, with some apprehension at first, but it
felt right. The musician was enjoying the anonymity and freedom his casual disguise
afforded to the full and wanted to visit every shop in the town. Try as they might, neither
hit on a present they thought appropriate for Constance, jewellery, clothes, travel
vouchers; all were considered and dismissed.
‘Let’s go for coffee – I know a great place just round the corner. It’ll give us a chance
to think things over – it has to be something really special for Constance.’
Sean agreed. Some of the gifts they’d looked at, and the ideas they’d come up with,
would have delighted most people, but Constance wasn’t ‘most people.’
Arriving at Salvatore’s, Jennifer shot a quick glance across the road. Gary’s car was
nowhere to be seen; with luck, the man and her mother were out. The same waiter was
on duty though and came to take their order. He recognised Jennifer and smiled, at the
same time looking Sean up and down.
‘Well – he’s nothing to write home about – she’d do better with me.’
Ignoring Sean, the waiter turned to Jennifer.
‘Would you like cappuccino or expresso madam?’
Too late, he realised the Italian accent he’d been cultivating over the past few weeks
had slipped out.
Jennifer giggled and the man turned bright red, dropped his pencil and bending down,
retrieved it from under the table. He reappeared, still blushing with embarrassment and
posed the same question, this time in his native Home Counties accent.
‘Would that be your Italian twin you have under the table with you?
Sean’s straight face gave nothing away and the dark glasses hid the laughter in his
eyes. The waiter took their order and hurried off.
‘What was all that about – he suddenly changed from an Italian into a Londoner?’
Jennifer couldn’t speak, she was so helpless with laughter a tear rolled down her
cheek. Sean leaned forward and brushed it away, the back of his hand stroking the side
of the girl’s face.
‘You’d better pinch me so I know I’m awake – times like this are few and far between
in my business. Privacy is a gift only given to you by other people – unfortunately it
sometimes goes hand in hand with loneliness. Today is the best time I can remember for
a long while.’
He sat back in his chair, savouring the freedom and the coffee, brought to the table by
their dual nationality waiter: but most of all Sean was enjoying Jennifer’s company
The question of what to buy Constance remained unresolved. The only comment Sean
had to make was it should be something personal she would treasure.
The table they had chosen at the café, although outside, was all but hidden from
passers-by, the café owner having placed a variety of potted trees and shrubs on the
pavement to create a secluded atmosphere. Sean pushed the cap to the back of his head,
took off the dark glasses and enjoyed a luxurious stretch.
‘I could get used to this Jenny – I can’t remember the last time I just sat in the middle
of a town – it’s a simple thing – but it’s heaven.’
The waiter, mistaking Sean’s outstretched arm as a request for service, hurried over.
The double take he performed on Sean’s undisguised face was straight out of classical
music-hall comedy. The open mouth and look of total amazement on the waiter’s face as
he stood rooted to the spot, gave Sean the opportunity for a quiet word.
‘You keep quiet about seeing me here, and I’ll say nothing about your confusion over
nationality…deal?’
The waiter managed a nod and looked over at Jennifer who had a gentle smile playing
around the corners of her mouth.
‘I had no idea Mr O’Keefe was your boyfriend Miss – your secret’s safe with me,’ and
turning to Sean, ‘Your band plays the best music ever – I just wish I could get to some of
your concerts but there’s nowhere local that puts on stuff like that.’
The waiter executed what could only be described as a bow before taking his leave.
Excitement welled up in Jennifer and leaning across the table she grabbed Sean’s
hand.
‘I know what you can give Constance – something she’ll remember forever. Put on a
concert here, somewhere near the town, and donate all the takings to her charities, and
give the locals a chance to buy tickets before they go on sale up and down the Country.’
Jennifer’s enthusiasm was bubbling over.
‘You could even bring your mum and dad over to stay with Constance for a few days –
I’d love to meet them.’
Sean studied her for a moment.
‘Then meet them you shall – I’m glad that’s all settled…and I have your waiter friend
to thank for it.’
‘As soon as he mentioned ‘concerts’ and ‘local’ the answer was staring me in the face.
I just know Constance will be thrilled.’
Sean had not taken his eyes from the girl’s face for a moment.
‘It wasn’t the concert I was referring to Jenny, although it’s the perfect idea. I was
more given over to enjoying the thought of you being my girlfriend.’

The first call of the morning to come through to the switchboard at Longthorpes was
routed straight to the Managing Director’s office. No names were given but William was
only too familiar with the caller’s voice.
‘The item has been extensively damaged – my engineers were going to scrap it but
conditions dictated otherwise – do you wish us to look into the question of disposal at a
future date? The item’s present location makes immediate disposal impractical for now.’
William Longthorpe thought for a moment before reaching a decision.
‘No – let’s see if your maintenance has cured the problem.’
‘In that case I’ll give you a reference number for the work carried out.’
A string of digits followed and the caller hung up.
William put through an internal call to accounts, spoke to Joshua Bernstein and
replaced the handset. Later that day, a large bulky envelope was delivered to his office
and accompanied him to town where it was banked in a foreign account as a cash deposit.
Jennifer and Sean returned home to put the idea of a charity concert to Gillam. Before
leaving the café, Sean had taken the menu from their table and written a brief note on the
reverse side.
‘Many thanks for all your help – ciao.’
He’d signed the menu ‘Sean O’Keefe’, and placing it back on the table had asked a
question of Jennifer.
‘Being the girlfriend of a pop star can be a lonely business I’m told. Would you mind
if I made a lonely woman out of you?’
 ‘Provided when we’re not together you’re feeling lonely too Sean,’ was the honest
answer.
Rather than reply, he’d retrieved the menu and amended the hand written note to read,
‘Many thanks for your help – ciao from both of us.’
He pushed the menu across the table to Jennifer and handed her the pen. Without
speaking, she signed her name next to his.
Charlotte exploded with enthusiasm at the prospect of a concert.
‘It’s an absolutely marvellous idea – how did you think it up?’
The two girls were sitting in Jennifer’s bedroom. Sean had taken Gillam off for a
walk in the orchard to talk over details of the proposed concert before ‘phoning their
father to arrange a date and venue.
‘We’d been walking around town with not an idea for a present between us and
stopped for a coffee.’
Jennifer recounted the episode with the waiter.
‘It just popped into my head – I hope your mum’s ok with the idea.’
‘Ok? She’ll be over the moon – when are we going to tell her?’
‘I think Sean and Gillam are talking it over now – then it’s up to their father to start
making the arrangements. I thought it might be a nice idea if the boys’ parents were able
to come over for a few days.’ She grinned at Charlotte. ‘After all, I’m sure Gillam has
the odd bit of news for them.’
‘Talking about news Jennifer – you and Sean seem very close all of a sudden –
anything you want to tell me?’
‘Nothing to tell really – he’s asked me to go out with him.’
‘And? Bloody hell Jenny – spill the beans – you said ‘yes’ – right?’
‘I sort of put it in writing I guess,’ and she told Charlotte about the note Sean had
written on the menu. ‘It’s all rather sudden, but it feels right – what do you think?’
‘I think…’ Charlotte paused for effect, ‘That they’re the two luckiest men alive –
that’s what I think.’
When Constance returned home she found the two couples sitting in the kitchen. Sean
was the first to speak.
‘Constance, would it be all right if my parents came over and spent a few days with
you in the near future?
‘That would be wonderful Sean – are they here on business or just a holiday?’
‘Oh it’s business I’m afraid – we’re doing a concert and they need to be here.’
‘Then I shall need to buy three tickets.’ She looked at the girls. ‘I take it we shall all
be going?’
‘You can’t have any tickets Constance I’m afraid.’ Sean managed to sound
apologetic.
Constance looked crestfallen.
‘Don’t tell me the concert’s sold out already?’
‘Well not exactly – Charlotte won’t be needing a ticket – she’ll be going as Gillam’s
guest. Jenny won’t need a ticket, because this morning the dear girl’s agreed to walk out
with me.’
A delighted look came over Constance’s face and she made to go over to Jennifer.
‘And you won’t be needing a ticket because you’re the guest of honour Constance.’
For the first time in their brief history, Jennifer saw a look of confusion spread across
the calm features of the woman.
‘I don’t understand Sean, what are you and Gillam up to – I’ve done nothing to
warrant being a guest of honour?’
Gillam answered for his brother.
‘It’s our way of saying ‘thank you’ for all the times you’ve been there for us. We
desperately wanted to show our appreciation in some way, but it took Jennifer to come up
with the idea of a charity concert, here in the town. All the profits are being donated to
local charities of your choice. We’ve spoken to Mum and Dad and they’re coming over
to spend a few days with you and sort out all the paperwork, so none of the money will be
wasted on administrative costs.’
Constance was overwhelmed at the thought of her charities being singled out for what
would be a huge amount of money. Every concert the band held was an absolute sell out
– so many poor, deserving people would benefit: the TV rights alone would be worth a
fortune.
She sat down on a vacant chair and Charlotte poured her a glass of wine.
‘Just keeps getting better don’t you think Mum – first Gillam and me – then Jenny and
Sean, and now a jolly old sing-song down at the village hall with all the proceeds going
to charity.’ She paused and turned to Gillam. ‘That’s a point – where will it be held?’
Gillam shrugged.
‘Dad will arrange all that, but I guess the football stadium’s a good place. How many
people does it hold Constance?’
‘About fifty thousand.’
‘A select gathering at the village hall’s out of the frame then,’ giggled Charlotte.

Rita slammed the front door of the flat closed and with tears of fury streaming down her
face, ran to the top of the stairs. Gary was in the front room, feet propped up on a
footstool, watching TV. His face was almost back to normal, save for a slight swelling to
his nose and the two new front teeth that were several shades whiter than his own.
‘Hi Rita – how did it go in town?’
Rita threw herself in a chair, dabbing at her eyes.
‘If you’d turn the pissing TV off and wrench your eyes away from the screen you
wouldn’t have to ask.’
Gary muted the sound of the television. Now that he’d taken a look at her it was
obvious the trip to town had not been a huge success.
‘Three accounts…three bloody accounts and the bastard didn’t have more than a fiver
in any of them.’
Gary sighed, Rita had been going on about money and financial independence for
days. The absence of meaningful funds in her dead husband’s accounts would do little to
improve her recent moodiness.
‘There was money in at least one of them a few weeks ago – he wrote me out a hefty
cheque for the deposit on the double glazing – and it didn’t bounce.’
He knew before he’d finished the sentence, that given Rita’s mood, it was the wrong
thing to say.
‘Fuck the double glazing – he should never have bought it if it was going to leave us
broke. And you should never have pushed him so bloody hard to sign the agreement.’
 Casting his mind back, Gary recalled how Rita had pressured her late husband,
humiliating him until he let her have her own way. He decided it wouldn’t be the best
time to discuss the subject.
‘There’s always the insurance to think about – that could be worth quite a bit.’
He was trying hard to sound positive.
‘What are you – fucking thick or something? Rita flared. ‘He stuck a hosepipe
through the car window and killed himself – read my lips – he committed suicide, the
insurance company don’t want to know. They’ve said, that under the circumstances,
they’re under no obligation to pay out. That policy was worth thousands, and what do I
get – bugger all.’
‘But we’re fine with money – it’s no problem – I’ll make you an allowance every
month, to do what you like with.’
‘Allowance…allowance.’ Rita screamed the word at him. ‘I don’t want a fucking
allowance you prick – I want my own money, not some condescending hand out.’
Gary was at a complete loss to know what to say. If it made her happy she could have
his last penny, but it wasn’t what Rita wanted. His options were limited, and any
suggestions he had would be guaranteed to fuel Rita’s temper still further. He took the
coward’s way out and turned the volume back up on the television.
Rita stormed into the bedroom and threw herself on the bed, beating the pillows in a
frenzy with her fists. Gary watched her through the half open door, face down on the
covers, skirt riding high on her thighs; he gave brief consideration to joining her.
However, common sense and a deep respect for his healing groin caused him to
reconsider. Without a doubt, television, although lacking in eroticism, had to be a safer
option than attempting sex with Rita and her vicious temper for company. He consoled
himself with another can of lager from the ‘fridge and a nature programme detailing the
mating habits of the female Preying Mantis.
‘I know how he feels,’ he muttered to himself as the narrator described the male’s
gory end at the hands of his mate.

Gillam and Sean left, late in the afternoon to meet up with the rest of the band. Charlotte
was almost tearful having to part from Gillam, but managed to put on a brave face as the
brothers left in a taxi for the airport. Constance, full of tact, had said her goodbyes in the
house and left the two girls to walk down the driveway to the gates and the waiting car.
Sean cupped Jennifer’s face in his hands.
‘I’ll ring you every day, and as soon as your computer’s set up we can email each
other. Mum and Dad will speak to Constance and keep her informed of all the
arrangements. I shall miss you Jenny.’
The girl touched his lips with her forefinger.
‘I shall miss you too Sean – now kiss me and get in the taxi.’
Their first parting kiss was filled with gentle warmth and they clung to each other not
wanting it to end. Sean buried his face in Jennifer’s hair.
‘God – this is difficult – and here’s me thinking I was all grown up.’
Jennifer squeezed him, kissing his cheek.
‘You are grown up Sean – that’s why you’re going to get in the taxi.’
She led him by the hand to the open door; a lingering kiss through the open window
and the car moved off.
‘I’ve said it before, and no doubt I shall say it again – there go the two luckiest boys
alive,’
Joining Jennifer, Charlotte’s humour overcame her sadness at Gillam’s departure and
together they watched the car disappear toward the town.
‘You’d walk, barefoot, over burning coals for Gillam, Charlotte – you know you
would.’
‘True – and you’d be right there beside me for his brother,’ was Charlotte’s smiling
retort.
Back at the house, Constance had placed three mugs of coffee on the kitchen table and
was ready with a mother’s sympathy.
‘They’ll both be back before you know it, and with the concert to arrange, none of us
will have time to think.’
Jennifer had been giving some thought to the will and had come to a decision
concerning the house at Alexander Close.
‘Constance – I think I’d like to rent out the house, but there are things I’d have to
arrange before I could go ahead, and with all honesty I don’t have a clue where to begin –
may I pick your brains?’
‘Of course you may, and by the way, I think you’ve made the right decision.
Regardless of whether the mortgage will be settled by the insurance company or not, the
property will provide you with a solid investment for the future. If the mortgage still
stands, then the rent will more than cover the repayments.’
‘I don’t really know what to do with all the things in the house. There’s the furniture,
what’s left of my mother’s belongings and all the bits and pieces of my father’s – what do
I do with all of them?’
‘Well – two things spring to mind. First, you’ll have to contact your mother and ask
her to collect everything she has a right to. Second, and here I can possibly help you, the
best thing would be to arrange a house clearance and have the contents disposed of at a
public auction. I know some people who will give you a fair price for the contents and
leave the place ready for the new tenants.’
Jennifer sighed with relief.
‘That would be a huge weight off my mind. Would your charity shops accept a
donation of all my Dad’s clothes – I don’t want to see them thrown away.’
Constance patted the girl’s hand in reassurance, knowing how difficult it was for her
to make decisions of such a final nature.
‘Don’t worry yourself about that side of things – I’ll arrange to have them collected
from the house, and thank you for your generosity.’
‘Then I’ll contact my mother as soon as possible – I’m determined to get the whole
business finished before I begin work.’
Constance agreed the sooner everything was arranged the better.
‘Edward Armitage will be happy to draw up a standard contract for renting the
property, and if you wish, a good friend of mine is a very reputable letting agent whom
I’m sure will be only too pleased to take the Alexander Close property onto his books.
We’ve been friends since before I became married – his company will extend very
favourable terms to you.’
‘Then it’s settled.’ Jennifer heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I can never thank you enough
Constance – it feels as if it happened a lifetime ago. Even calling the house ‘the
Alexander Close property’ doesn’t sound strange to me and it was my home for eighteen
years. Do you think the house clearance will raise enough money for me to buy a
headstone for my father’s grave, settle the funeral costs and pay you back Mr Armitage’s
fees?’
‘That’s’ very thoughtful of you – I’m sure the money raised at auction will meet all
the expenditure to date.’
Charlotte had been daydreaming about Gillam whilst half listening to the
conversation.
‘I’m sure Mum will agree with me – this is your home now until we find a flat – you
can be the sister I never had.’ She grinned. ‘Sisters, dating brothers. Weird don’t you
think? Wasn’t there an old movie that ran along those lines – ‘Seven…’ something or
others?’
Constance made fresh coffee whilst the girls chatted on. She had to admit to herself,
in the past few weeks, putting Jennifer’s bereavement to one side, all that she’d hoped for
had happened. Inside, she was relishing the thought of helping the girls find a flat, and
was in full agreement with Charlotte and the way her daughter had likened Jennifer to a
sister. Besides being indebted for her daughter’s transformation, Constance felt a deep
affection for her daughter’s friend, and was thrilled at the prospect of the two girls
flourishing relationships with the O’Keefe brothers, hoping it would give them the
happiness she had never experienced with her husband.
Jennifer busied herself writing a note to her mother. In it she suggested they meet at
the house to discuss the items Rita wished to take. It was a hard letter to put together in
terms not calculated to provoke her mother’s foul temper. In the end, Jennifer conceded
whichever way she approached Rita concerning the house, the subject would arouse the
woman’s anger.
‘I can’t write this letter to her and make it sound as if we’re friends – we’re not. She
sees me as the daughter she never wanted, and I see her as the cause for my father taking
his life. Nothing I can say will ever change that, and every time I bring up the subject,
she takes a vicious delight in pointing out he was not my real dad. I really think she
derives a sick pleasure from knowing it’s her secret.’
Constance offered the only advice she could.
‘It’s one last meeting. When it’s over, any further contact you may wish to have will
always be on your terms. You know if you want someone there with you, either Edward
Armitage or myself will be happy to oblige.’
‘I know, and it’s so thoughtful of you, but I wouldn’t wish my mother on anyone –
particularly people I care about.’
Jennifer knew she was ashamed of her mother. She had no wish to have her friends
present when Rita resorted to foul language and vicious tantrums.
She sealed the envelope and accepted Charlotte’s offer of a lift to Gary’s flat. The
sooner it was done the better. Constance was right about any future meetings after this
one; if there were to be any, they would be on Jennifer’s terms.

Leonard Jeffries had reached an agonising decision. Still confined to his hospital bed he
was undergoing an enforced drying out period from his addiction to gambling. In all the
years horse racing had been the passion of his life he had never considered financial
reward to be of paramount importance. The act of gambling for gambling’s sake had
denied him the niceties of life; no wife or family, nowhere to call home, and the constant
millstone of debt around his neck. The attempt on his life had left him in no doubt that
his survival upon leaving the sanctuary of the hospital depended on being able to channel
his gambling knowledge into making money; more important still, saving money. His
downfall had always been ‘one last bet’, with the inevitable consequence of costing him
any winnings made on the day. Gelly knew a fine line existed between quitting when
ahead, rather than indulging in the adrenaline rush induced by lumping all his winnings
on one final long shot. If there was a positive side to the beating he had endured, it had to
be the spectre of a similar occurrence, forcing him to think straight.
A short, fat, mean little hospital porter proved to be the key to unlock Gelly Jeffries
plan. Their eyes, meeting across the hospital ward had identified in the other a twin soul,
a hopeless gambler. Gelly had initiated introductions with a casual question.
‘Any idea what won the three thirty at Kempton yesterday mate?’
The name on the porter’s identity tag declared him to be Malcolm Platt. An
examination of his hospital dustcoat pockets would have found them to be stuffed with
old, unsuccessful betting slips. He glanced at the retreating back of the ward sister and
hurried over to Gelly’s bed.
‘Madam Guillotine – won by two lengths – why, did you have anything on it?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ Gelly glanced at his drip tube and plaster casts.
‘Don’t think I’d make it to the bookies with this lot somehow.’
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed, sensing a chance to make some easy money.
‘I can get a bet on for you – won’t be easy with the ward sister nosing about.’
Gelly read the man like a book.
‘Five percent of any winning bets – how does that sound?’
‘Twenty.’ The fat little porter knew he was in a superior bargaining position.
‘Fuck off Malcolm – ten and I pay the tax, plus you sub me a fiver for the first bet.’
Malcolm considered his options. Ten percent of something was better than twenty
percent of nothing, and as he’d be picking up any winnings, his ‘commission’ would be
guaranteed.
‘Ok – what if your first bet goes down – I’ll be out of pocket a fiver.’
‘It won’t.’
Gelly managed to sound more confident than he felt.
The horse, tipped to be an ‘also ran’, beat the rest of the field in such a convincing
fashion it almost sparked a stewards enquiry. Malcolm’s podgy little fingers scuttled
across the bookies counter and all but snatched the winnings before they were counted.
He congratulated himself, that even with his own horse beaten into sixth place, his ten-
percent had covered the losing bet with some to spare.
Gelly Jeffries found himself solvent again and began the uphill battle of denial. Upon
receipt of his winnings he swallowed hard and handed Malcolm a ten-pound note with a
slip of paper bearing the details of the next day’s bet. Malcolm glanced at the horse’s
name.
‘You’re joking – it’s a three legged corpse ridden by a fuckin’ muppet…if you want
my advice…’
‘I don’t – it’s been held back all season – ten pounds to win.’
 It was a close run race, and had Gelly been at the course that day, his nails would have
been bitten to the quick. The photograph showed the three-legged corpse to be first past
the post by a short head and Malcolm found himself first in a very short queue to collect
Gelly’s winnings.
The going proved to be hard for the invalid. So many runners and riders, and a self-
imposed restriction of one bet a day, but Gelly told himself the end justified the means.
When he looked in his bedside locker and counted his mounting winnings, he almost
found himself believing it. On reaching five hundred pounds, he increased his daily stake
to twenty pounds, much to Malcolm’s delight.
One of the benefits of his almost total gambling abstinence was the ability to analyse
the day’s results in an objective manner whilst counting his winnings, a process seldom
experienced before. In his mind he was still placing the logic defying bets of old to feed
his habit, but repeated counting of the ever increasing pile of notes, brightened the light at
the end of the tunnel.
Malcolm’s weasel little mind soon caused him to exploit Gelly’s knowledge, and after
a week or so he began matching the daily bet. It was inevitable, that sooner or later, one
of Gelly’s horses would fail to gain a place in the frame. His old ways would have
dictated his next bet to be doubled to recoup his losses, but filled with a new found
resolve, he took it on the chin and stuck to his plan with dogged determination. Malcolm
had not travelled far enough down that particular road.
‘That bleedin’ horse of yours got stuffed at Lingfield yesterday – losin’ your touch are
you?’
The worthless, opportunistic little sponger was filled with indignation.
‘Seventeen straight winners,’ murmured Gelly. ‘I’d hardly call that ‘losing my touch’
would you?’
He thought for a second and decided to establish a pecking order.
‘Better quit while I’m ahead I guess – can’t go on winning forever – time to call it a
day.’
Malcolm was mortified.
‘Only joking Mr Jeffries – you’re a genius you are – a real professional. Bound to get
you down, in here all this time. How about if I sneak you in a bottle of scotch – by way
of saying thank you,’ he added with haste, ‘A good single malt to cheer you up.’
Gelly replied that single malt whisky would be very nice, and sealed the master,
worker relationship by naming his preferred brand.
When the pile of notes in his bedside locker totalled two thousand-pounds, a large
brown envelope was obtained and the sealed and signed for contents entrusted to the
bursar and the hospital safe.
As time raced by, four more envelopes joined the original in the safe, and Gelly’s
thoughts, fanciful as they had been at their conception in his pain-drenched state, entered
the reality of the last furlong. He began to approach his daily physiotherapy with a
determination driven by the knowledge his discharge from the hospital was imminent.

As Jennifer entered the front door, the quiet, inhospitable cold of an unlived in home
wrapped itself around her. An involuntary shiver ran through her as she made her way
into the kitchen, putting on the kettle to prepare a black coffee, all the house had to offer
in the way of refreshment. Except for a visit to collect some keepsakes, reminders of her
father, she knew this would be her last time in the property. She hoped, in the not too
distant future, the house would embrace and provide a warm, loving home for a family.
Her visions of happy children, playing on the kitchen floor were interrupted by the
arrival of her mother. Rita stalked into the kitchen, scowling at her daughter’s presence
and threw her handbag on the table.
‘Gary’s picking me up in half an hour – what’s all this in your note about my things
and picking them up?’
‘I’m going to rent the house out through an estate agent – I don’t want to live here at
the moment. There are still things belonging to you here and it’s only fair you should
have the chance to collect them before the house is cleared.’
‘Fair…this is your idea of fair is it?’ You’ll find out what fair is all about when
you’re faced with the bills and a mortgage to pay. If you manage to find a job, all your
money will be eaten up by this place – you’re welcome to it.’
‘I just thought you should have the pick of what you wanted. There are one or two of
Dad’s things I’d like to keep, and some of my books upstairs – the rest can go to auction.’
‘You can take the lot down the tip as far as I’m concerned.’ Rita was in a goading
mood. ‘The whole place is filled with nothing but junk. The only bit that’s missing is
buried at the graveyard.’
Jennifer’s hand was unsteady as she poured herself another coffee.
‘I’ve had the telephone cut off and I have to go to the Post Office and redirect the
mail, do you want me to give them Gary’s address for your letters?’
Rita’s mood, never compromising, turned uglier.
‘No – keep your nose out of my business. Anyway – who’s been stupid enough to put
a roof over the head of my misfit of a daughter?’
‘Just friends – people I know – people who care about me.’
Rita scoffed.
‘Don’t kid yourself. Whoever’s putting you up likes a juicy bit of scandal. You’ll be
out on your ear when the gossip dries up and you’re yesterday’s news. You won’t find
your new-found friends so understanding when the bills start to roll in.’
Rita was glaring at her daughter over the kitchen table, piling derision into her voice,
racking up the tension with every sentence.
‘At least Gary loves me – he’d do anything for me. He earns stacks of money and he’s
very generous. If I’d met him years ago I wouldn’t be here, standing in a dump of an ex-
council house talking to you.’
Jennifer sat down at the table with her coffee and chose her words with care.
‘If your intelligence wasn’t buried in your knickers you’d have never given a thought
to screwing everything that walked through the front door wearing trousers. You’d have
stood by my dad, perhaps even gone to work, and appreciated all the things he did for us.
Do you really think you’re the first bored housewife Gary’s slept with? Come to that, are
you naïve enough to think you’ll be the last?’
Jennifer had promised herself not to sink to her mother’s level, but things had to be
said, truths had to be told.
‘The only thing I have to thank you for mother, is an example of what not to do with
my life. I’m eighteen, and I don’t have a proper home or a real family. But I have a job,
a place to live, and something more important, a sense of decency you’ve never had. I
wouldn’t trade places with you for the world.’
If Rita was in any way taunted by her daughter’s forthright opinions, she covered up
well with an immediate reply.
‘Job…you with a job. Who the hell would employ a freak like you? Your father, or
to be more precise, my husband, might have thought you were gifted, everyone else
thinks you’re weird.’
‘I’ve had an interview for a position as an accounts clerk. I’m staying with Charlotte
Longthorpe and her family at the moment and I start at Longthorpes in a few days with a
good salary for my age. I’m going to be an accountant, so if that’s what being weird does
for me, I’ll choose weird rather than tart… any day.’
The last biting comment was lost on Rita. For an instant, the viciousness on her face
slipped, to be replaced by confusion. Jennifer didn’t notice, she was staring down at her
coffee cup, emotions of frustration, anger and sorrow chasing around in her head. In the
few seconds it took the girl to regain her composure, Rita’s confused look had given way
to a triumphant leer.
A horn sounded out in the road. Rita snatched her bag from the table and headed for
the hallway. Jennifer called after her.
‘When will you be coming to pick up the things you want?’
Rita paused long enough at the front door to hurl a final insult over her shoulder.
‘I don’t want any of it – it’s all worthless crap from a worthless marriage.’
The door slammed and a few seconds later the roar of a car’s exhaust receded along
the close.
Jennifer was shaking. Rita’s spiteful comments, malicious as they were, had bitten
deep into her self-confidence. She wished Charlotte would walk in and make one of her
famous off the cuff remarks to chase the despair from her head. Instead, she found
herself locking the front door and walking along the road to the bus stop.
The trip to the other side of town provided Jennifer with the time she needed to think
things through. By the end of the journey, her thoughts had cast a more positive light on
recent events. At least, her mother was now out of the picture and no longer had to be
considered when it came to disposing of the house contents. In her mind she’d already
earmarked the few things of her father’s to retain as keepsakes.
Walking along the road to St Anthony’s gates felt like coming home and an excited
Charlotte, in the hallway waving the ‘phone in the air, further lifted her spirits.
‘It’s that globetrotting, superstar boyfriend of yours – isn’t he sweet – he says he
misses you. Must be love.’
Handing Jennifer the receiver, Charlotte dumped herself on the carpet, back against
the wall, knees pulled up under her chin, refusing to move.
‘Tell him to speak up – I need to hear every love filled syllable, experience every
sweet moment of long distance passion.’
It was just what Jennifer needed. At the end of Sean’s call, accompanied by all the
bantering from Charlotte, the encounter with Rita had faded into a blurred memory of a
distant nightmare. She walked through to the kitchen and hugged Constance.
‘Whatever was that for?’
‘Everything and nothing – it’s so nice to be home.’
As the car sped away from the house, Gary shot Rita a sideways glance; he was expecting
her to be in vengeful mood, full of anger and contempt. Instead, he was surprised to find
she seemed pleased with herself, smiling and chattering on about anything and everything
other than the meeting with her daughter. When she asked Gary to stop at the shops,
bought him a pack of his favourite lager and a bottle of wine to go with dinner, he knew
there was something going on.
‘So did the two of you manage to sort things out about the house?’
He made the question sound as casual as he could as the car moved away from the
kerb.
Rita was smiling with apparent contentment. Gary recognised that smile; Rita was
scheming up something.
‘It’s all sorted – there’s nothing I want from the place – Jennifer’s welcome to it.’
She made the statement without a trace of malice in her voice.
Leaning across the car she squeezed the inside of his thigh.
‘Let’s go home and work up an appetite before dinner – might even turn out to be a
late supper… if you think you’re up to it.’
‘Any more plans to see Jennifer?’
‘No – but you know – for once, I’m really glad she’s who she is.’

The little hatchback flew through the outskirts of town toward the congested traffic of the
morning rush hour. Charlotte made good progress, but her driving skills could do little in
the face of the solid jam of vehicles as they neared the town centre.
‘We’ll try a different route each morning and evening - there must be some way
round this lot – it’s bloody ridiculous.’
Charlotte sat, hands in her lap, stationary in a long line of cars at a road junction.
‘The secret’s not to make any right turns out of minor roads. We’ll probably have to
go a bit out of our way, but it’ll be quicker in the long run.’
Both girls had made their preparations for the first day at work. For Jennifer, a white
blouse and grey skirt topped off by a short black jacket. Her briefcase held a few
reference books she thought relevant, pens, pencils and her sandwiches.
Charlotte’s choice had been agonising.
‘The thing is…I don’t want to turn up too scruffy, even though I’m going to get filthy
through the course of the day. On the other hand, I don’t want to roll up looking like the
boss’s daughter, frightened of getting my hands dirty.’
After a frantic search through her wardrobe, cursing the lack of ‘posh scruffy gear’ to
Jennifer sitting laughing on the end of the bed, she’d made her final choice. Two year-
old jeans, with the all important designer label still intact, dark blue, stretch cotton sports
top and black ankle boots. Her outer garment was a waist length navy jacket in soft
leather.
‘What about earrings? Do you think a pair of studs, or shall I just tough it out and
wear nothing? Hell – look at the time – I haven’t even started my make-up yet.’
Downstairs, Constance had smiled at the commotion from her daughter’s bedroom,
remembering how, in the not too distant past, Charlotte’s mood would have been one of
spoilt petulance. She corrected her thoughts. Not too long ago, her daughter wouldn’t
even have considered taking the job.
 The previous day had witnessed Charlotte in the driveway, washing her car with a
bucket and sponge and hoovering out the inside, before applying a liberal coat of polish
to the bodywork.
‘If it’s not immaculate, Tom will have my guts for garters,’ she’d remarked, stepping
back to admire her handiwork. ‘Well let him find fault with that.’
Charlotte’s progressive and opportunistic drive along the dual carriageway delivered
the two girls to Longthorpes a quarter of an hour before the working day began.
‘I’ll drop you off here and park round the back by Tom’s area – see you at lunch –
we’ll compare notes.’
Jennifer walked into the accounting department. Except for a middle-aged woman
filling the photocopier with paper the office was empty; on seeing Jennifer she hurried
over.
‘You must be Jennifer Farringdon. Mr Bernstein has a meeting first thing this
morning – he’s asked me to look after you.’ The woman held out her hand and gave a
warm smile.
‘I’m Gwen Finch– let me show you to your desk and then we’ll go over the important
things – like where the coffee machine is and the ladies room. We’ve quite a nice rest
room too where you can take your breaks.’
The woman chatted on as she led the way through a maze of office equipment and
computers, stopping at a desk by the wall, next to a door bearing the nameplate,
‘Accounts Manager’.
‘This is your desk – I’m afraid it looks a bit bare at the moment, but no doubt you’ll
soon brighten it up. Someone will be along later to install a computer. Feel free to
wander around the office and find out where everything is – I’ll introduce you to
everyone once you’ve settled in.’
There followed a quick tour of the amenities, ending back in the main office. Gwen
bustled off back to the photocopier and resumed stacking it with fresh paper.
Jennifer pulled out the swivel chair and sat down. She hadn’t given a moment’s
thought to having her own desk; somehow it made her feel her adult working life had
really begun.
Charlotte parked by the side of the compound and walked over to where Tom had an
office of sorts in one corner of the building. He was already there, doing as he had done
for years, perched on a stool, drinking a cup of tea and enjoying his first cigarette of the
day. He nodded as she approached and slid off the stool.
‘Morning Miss Charlotte – there’s a clean mug on the shelf and fresh tea in the pot –
I’ll be with you in a minute.’
Leaving Charlotte to pour her tea he ambled off, disappearing round a corner into the
compound. She gave him a minute or so before leaving the office and joining him
outside. Tom was casting an appreciative gaze over Charlotte’s car, nosing inside the
windows and along the sills underneath the doors. He straightened up as Charlotte
approached.
‘You’ve been busy Miss Charlotte – it looks like it’s never been on the road.’
Charlotte grinned.
‘It’s been on quite a few roads Tom – it’s a tremendous little car – you did a great job.
The least I can do is look after it…and can we drop the ‘Miss Charlotte’ bit? –
Charlotte’s just fine.’
 They made their way back to the office where Tom showed her the system he used to
keep track of all the vehicles to pass through his hands.
‘It’s only a simple affair – just one sheet of paper per vehicle and the date it comes in.
I file them by registration number, and the rest of the sheet I use to make a note of any
repairs I ask to be carried out in the workshop plus any bits and pieces I do round here.
It’s nothing grand but I like to keep track of things. When I’ve finished with them I put
the date they leave here at the bottom of the sheet’
‘So my car will have its own sheet in there somewhere?’
Tom nodded and leafed through the filing cabinet, handing a sheet to Charlotte. She
scanned through the notes, written in a neat hand.
‘My God Tom, it was a bit of a dog – you must have spent ages on it.’
‘It took a while. I’ve seen worse – but not many I must confess.’
Charlotte began to understand the perfection the old man demanded of himself.
‘I don’t think people realise the work you put into these vehicles. You’re going to
have your hands full over the next six weeks teaching me all the tricks of the trade –
where are we going to start?’
Tom pointed over her shoulder.
‘With that one out there.’
An estate car was parked over in a corner of the compound. Even from where she was
standing, Charlotte could see it had been the subject of terrible neglect. The body was
filthy, the wheel trims were missing and the tyres encrusted with mud; along one side, the
body trim was hanging off. The offside wing -mirror was smashed and a rusty coat
hanger served as an aerial. A side window was plastered in ‘pay and display’ tickets.
‘It’s about as rough as they come but I reckon by the time you’ve got it ready you’ll be
halfway to knowing the job. The boys in the workshop will fix any mechanical defects,
but you sometimes have to pester them to get the job done. I’ll take you round later and
introduce you to Eddie – he’s the workshop manager – nice chap.’
Charlotte was still staring at the estate car. Tom handed her a pair of overalls and
pointed to a steel cabinet against the wall.
‘There’s a pair of wellies in there – they might be a bit big - hope you’ve got thick
socks on.’
A few minutes later Charlotte emerged from the office and clumped her way over to
the estate. She’d turned up the overall sleeves a couple of times so her hands just poked
out of the bottom, and done the same with the legs. There was little she could do about
the wellington boots. Watching her walk across the compound, having to raise her feet in
an exaggerated fashion, Tom was reminded of a diver attempting to walk in flippers. He
smiled, busying himself under the bonnet of a vehicle.
At lunchtime, Jennifer appeared in the compound. Muffled curses drew her to the
estate car where she found Charlotte, squatting by the rear offside wheel of the vehicle,
scrubbing the tyre with a brush. She was hot, bothered, and in no mood for the casual
remark hovering on Jennifer’s lips.
‘Don’t say a word – not unless you want this hosepipe turned on you’
Charlotte’s overalls were soaked. Her hair was dishevelled and her eye make-up had
smudged. When she clambered to her feet, a loud squelch indicated a boot full of water.
She waved a wet, dirty hand toward a piece of equipment on the ground.
‘That – is an industrial pressure washer. It’s a bloody monster of a thing with a mind
of it’s own; it should be classified as a lethal weapon. I connected it up, turned it on
and…it attacked me – flailing all over the place – damn near knocked me over.’
Jennifer began to giggle.
‘You can bloody laugh Jennifer Farringdon. I bet the toughest thing you’ve had to
wrestle with all morning is a bent paper clip.’
Charlotte stabbed her finger at the car.
‘Whoever owned this poor vehicle was a moron – a mindless pig of a person – a
slimy, unprincipled dirtbag.’
She threw the scrubbing brush on the ground and wrenched open the driver’s door,
catching hold of Jennifer and pulling her toward the vehicle.
‘Look at this. There’s chewing gum everywhere inside, stuck to the dashboard, the
seats, even the headlining. Toffee wrappers, half-eaten chocolate bars, bits of mouldy
sandwiches and empty pop bottles – all chucked in the back. It’s a bloody health hazard
on wheels – you could catch some terrible disease sitting in there.’
She turned to Jennifer.
‘And how’s your day been so far Miss Farringdon?’
‘Not bad –got introduced to everyone, checked a few figures, had coffee, filed some
invoices – and here I am.’
‘Slave drivers – you mean they didn’t give you time to do your nails and fix your
make-up?’
Jennifer grinned.
‘No – I can do that this afternoon though, there’s a guy coming to put a computer in
for me, so I won’t be able to use my desk.’
‘Desk…you’ve got a desk? – Shit!’

No one in the hospital was more sorry to see the departure of Leonard ‘Gelly’ Jeffries
than Malcolm Platt. Gelly had grown quite fond of the crafty eyed little porter during his
stay at the hospital: he knew where he stood with someone like Malcolm. So long as you
were in possession of something the man wanted, he was your friend. If someone else
came along with an offer of something more lucrative, then Malcolm would switch his
allegiance in an instant. Not for him the nagging conscience or the demands of
friendship; loyalty was a concept excluded from Malcolm’s understanding. Gelly had
been fortunate, experiencing little difficulty in keeping the man on the hook: the reality
of a winner almost every day had ensured Malcolm’s undivided attention, and the man
was almost beside himself with a greed-induced grief at Gelly’s imminent discharge.
To some extent, the exploitation had been mutual, Gelly persuading Malcolm to
collect his sparse belongings from the bed and breakfast and store them at his home. By
happy coincidence, Malcolm’s brother owned a caravan, sited on a farm outside the town,
and as it was the end of the summer season, Gelly instructed Malcolm to obtain
favourable rental terms on a week by week basis. Having removed all evidence of his
stay at the bed and breakfast, and secured a non-listed address for himself, Gelly was
satisfied he had laid the foundations for fading into anonymity.
Settled in his temporary dwelling, Gelly Jeffries set about pursuing the arrangements
he hoped would safeguard his future. During his time in the employ of Her Majesty’s
Government, a number of friendships had been forged, most were redundant now, but a
couple remained, which for an appropriate financial reward could be revitalised. A few
calls from public telephone boxes yielded the contact number of a person Gelly was
anxious to speak with. The conversation was brief but explicit.
‘Two thousand quid in cash - and I want state of the art gear - none of that old-
fashioned Falkland's bollocks.’
In the brief wrangling that followed, Gelly had been forced to increase his offer by a
further five hundred pounds, but after replacing the handset in the call box, he had
sauntered along the road, a picture of a man well satisfied with the outcome of his
negotiations.
His supplier had quoted a delivery time of a few days, and although Gelly intended
maintaining his low profile during that period, he was looking forward to continuing his
rehabilitation. The experience of quitting whilst ahead was still new and unfamiliar to
the man, but the tangible benefits gained from his gambling restraint were undeniable.
The contents of his wardrobe improved from scruffy, to acceptable. His diet ceased to
revolve around junk food eaten in haste, comprising often ill afforded packets of snacks,
and as a result, his overall health and mental outlook improved. Drinking, once his way
of coming to terms with yet another loser, now became a quiet celebration of his good
fortune and his alcohol intake diminished to a level his body was able to tolerate. In
short, the focus of his life shifted from the inevitable consequences of borrowing funds to
substantiate a loser’s existence, to the far more pleasant aspects of becoming a successful
professional gambler.
His only extravagances ran to purchasing a mobile ‘phone and setting up an account
with a bookmaker, using a reference from a willing Area Health Authority employee and
the same employee’s home address. Malcolm was more than happy to furnish any
particulars Gelly requested in exchange for the man’s professional opinion on matters of
a racing nature.
 Chapter Twelve

As usual, the Managing Director’s desk hosted a number of internal memos and
messages, and true to form, most were from staff reticent to assume ultimate
responsibility for actions liable to incur their boss’s wrath. To the world at large William
cursed the inability of his employees to arrive at decisions involving company
expenditure. However, the fear he had instilled into staff over the years, with summary
dismissals for petty infringements of policies, satisfied his self-image of powerful and
unrelenting dominance.
Amongst the paperwork on his desk appeared a brief message, requesting he ring a
mobile number at his convenience. His database of telephone numbers, linked to names
and addresses, failed to reveal the identity of the caller, and mid-morning, having cleared
all other business, William responded to the message.
A woman’s voice answered with a monosyllable.
‘Yes?’
‘A note’s been left on my desk to ring this number – I’m William Longthorpe – who’s
speaking?’
There was a pause, and William heard the sound of a door being closed.
‘Hello William – I’ll forgive you if you don’t recognise my voice – it’s been a very
long time.’
‘And this will be a very short conversation if you don’t tell me who you are.’
‘You weren’t so insistent on knowing my name the last time we met – in fact, my
name was the last thing you wanted from me.’
A throaty and suggestive laugh bubbled up in the caller’s voice.
William, in common with most men, was slave to a curiosity driven by sexual
innuendo.
‘I don’t recognise your voice, but your laugh sounds familiar.’
‘That’s because the last time we met I didn’t talk much – but, amongst the other things
that happened, you did make me laugh.’
William settled back in his chair, now quite happy to play a guessing game with the
mystery voice.
‘And did you laugh because what I did amused you?’
‘Oh no – I laughed because we both knew what was going to happen – it was just who
got round to suggesting it first.’
‘And…what did happen?’
‘Let’s just say if you hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave, I would have made it
happen again – you were very good William…very good indeed.’
Man’s financial standing, his common sense or position in society, count for nothing,
when balanced against his opinion of his own sexual prowess.
‘Then it would appear we might have some unfinished business.’
Again the throaty laugh, followed by a reply calculated to fuel William’s imagination.
‘You could say that – but this time I’ll need some lasting satisfaction – I’ll let you go
when the job’s done William – ‘phone again if you want to…meet me.’
When Charlotte and Jennifer finished work that evening, the contrast between their day’s
endeavours was evident.
Joshua Bernstein had tested Jennifer’s mathematical ability following a programme
crash on an accounts computer. Under normal circumstances the suppliers would have
been contacted and all work would have ceased on the account in question, pending
rectification of the software by the manufacturers. The urgency of the account made a
case for manual calculation, involving Joshua and a member of staff remaining late into
the evening until the laborious job was completed.
Jennifer sat by Joshua Bernstein in his office, offering him totals, subtotals and
percentages, as fast as the man was able to turn the pages of the incomplete printout. As
a precaution, Joshua presented Gwen Finch with the first three completed sheets for the
woman to check with a calculator against manual tables. An hour later her head appeared
around the office door.
‘All correct Mr Bernstein, I’ve had two of the girls checking with me – and the
software company has just rung – tomorrow afternoon is the best they can do.’
On previous occasions, Joshua would have stifled a moan and resigned himself to a
late night. Instead, he smiled, and suggested to Jennifer a coffee break might be in order
before tackling the few remaining sheets.
As a consequence, Jennifer sat in Charlotte’s car, brimming with enthusiasm at Joshua
Bernstein’s praise at her completion of a task she knew had only scratched the surface of
her abilities.
Charlotte was collapsed in the driver’s seat, wet, weary and still wearing her overalls.
She’d thrown a plastic cover over the seat as protection against the accumulated dirt and
grime adhering to her clothing from her encounter with the estate car.
‘If you were aware of the basic fundamentals of driving – and by that I mean knowing
the front of the vehicle from the rear – I’d let you drive home – legal or not. I’m
knackered – that estate car will be the death of me.’
Jennifer gave Charlotte a sympathetic look up and down.
‘Did you manage to finish it or will it still require your loving touch tomorrow?’
‘I’d like to touch the bloody thing with a sledgehammer – whoever buys it gets my
blood sweat and tears thrown in for good measure.’
She wiped a streak of dirt from the side of her face, only managing to transfer it to her
chin.
‘Did you know – chewing gum can be removed from a carpet by freezing it with an
ice cube and then picking it off?’
Jennifer replied she was unaware of the technical procedure.
‘Well you can – and it leaves your fingers so numb after half an hour it’s impossible to
undo overall buttons for a visit to the ladies loo, thus inducing a state of near
incontinence – it was touch and go for a minute.’
Jennifer found it difficult to maintain a straight face.
‘Furthermore,’ Charlotte continued, struggling with her seat belt, ‘Tomorrow, Tom’s
going to introduce me to the delights of steam cleaning – I won’t sleep a wink tonight –
I’m so excited.’
At home, she immersed herself in a hot bath with Gillam’s voice for company, wafting
from the stereo in her bedroom. Constance, made aware of her daughter’s gruelling day
by Jennifer over a cup of tea in the kitchen, prepared her daughter’s favourite meal and
stood by to offer lashings of sympathy and encouragement.

The woman’s ‘phone call to William had followed predictable lines. She had never been
one to under estimate her sexual attraction to men and exploiting their one great
weakness was her speciality. That William would make contact, and soon, was a forgone
conclusion in her mind. When the man’s name popped up on the screen of her mobile,
her plans were made and she was ready to take the call.
‘It’s William. I’ve been thinking about that unfinished business you mentioned – it
might be fun to see the job through, so to speak.’
‘So long as you haven’t lost your touch, it’ll be more than fun…I promise you. When
would you like to meet?’
The eagerness in William’s voice was evident over the ‘phone.
‘The end of the week would be fine for me – do you know that little restaurant by the
lock gates on the canal?’
‘The Narrow Boatman – yes I know it – they used to serve salmon in a thin pastry
crust with a wonderful white sauce.’ Again that familiar throaty laugh. ‘I’ll make sure
I’ve nothing on. They do rooms as well if I recall – shall we say Friday at eight o’clock?’
William confirmed the day and date, and putting down the ‘phone, cast his mind back
over his numerous encounters with the fairer sex through the years. To his recollection,
and if the woman was local, that laugh could belong to any one of a number of conquests
he’d enjoyed. Since Charlotte had been of very tender years, his physical relationship
with the girl’s mother had been non existent. Constance never questioned his
movements, and he’d never given so much as a thought to questioning hers. William
knew his wife was not the unfaithful kind; he didn’t respect her for it, rather, it gave him
free rein to do as he wished, conscience playing no part in his actions.
He decided to pack an overnight bag for the forthcoming encounter and hoped the
mystery lady was having thoughts along the same lines.
Late morning saw the Managing Director stroll into the accounts department. Heads
bowed over desks, eyes locked onto computer screens; everyone gave out with the
impression they had something important to do. William walked into Joshua Bernstein’s
office and sat in a chair by the man’s desk.
‘Are we still making money Joshua?’
William’s idea of making money, was tax-free money. Joshua understood the
terminology of his boss only too well.
‘There are still profitable aspects of the business that remain outside the Government’s
revenue policies sir – I give them my constant and personal attention.’
William gave a broad grin.
‘I can almost see the bloody dictionary stuck in your throat Joshua – say what you
mean man – are we still fiddling the bollocks out of the tax office?’
Joshua coughed: he didn’t like being put on the spot, you never knew who might be
listening.
‘Yes sir – we continue to enjoy the privilege.’
‘And how’s the flood damage coming along – any sign of it yet?’
‘I thought it prudent to lodge the appropriate claim in accordance with seasonal
variations Mr Longthorpe.’
 ‘What the fuck are you going on about Joshua.’
‘It’s late summer sir – we’ve had no appreciable rain for five weeks – under the
circumstances, a claim for flood damage may appear somewhat suspicious.’
William was in playful mood. A picture of Gelly Jeffries holding a stick of dynamite
edged into his mind.
‘What about a small explosion then – say a gas canister or something. Could you do
anything with that?’
‘I could sir, but explosions of any description tend to draw attention from the
authorities, whereas floods, unless the Government itself is forced into making
restitution, seem to pass by unnoticed.’
‘Oh well – just a thought – must keep on our toes when it comes to making money.
The bastards make enough out of me to run a fair sized third world country – any other
business Joshua?’
The accountant saw a chance to ingratiate himself and dispel any lingering thoughts
William had concerning his outright disobedience whilst his boss had been away in
Munich.
‘Miss Farringdon has already proved herself to be an asset sir. On her first day, her
abilities have caused a saving to made by way of staff wages, to say nothing of keeping
an important client happy with our prompt service.’
Joshua recounted the events of the previous afternoon.
‘Fetch her in then – sounds like she’s due for a pat on the back.’
Jennifer stood in front of Joshua Bernstein’s desk. From his seat, William eyed her up
and down.
‘Christ – if I was a few years younger…’
‘I hear you’ve been putting your talents to good use already – well done.’
‘Mr Bernstein was good enough to allow me to assist him when the computer
crashed.’
‘I’ve instructed Joshua you’ll be working as his assistant from now on – we’ll talk
about accounting courses for you once you’re settled in. By the way – are you still
staying with us at St Anthony?’
‘If you have no objections – I’ll be looking round for a flat in the very near future.’
‘Fine – Constance deals with that side of things. Anyway – well done on yesterday.’
The accountant dismissed Jennifer, and William, rising from his seat, swaggered to the
door, pausing before leaving.
‘Knew I was right about that girl – make sure she has enough work to keep her
interested.’
Alone in his office, Joshua permitted himself a sigh of relief. If William was claiming
credit for the girl’s appointment he was in the clear. Placing an internal call through to
the workshop stores he ordered an internal stock audit, ready for the forthcoming flood.

The purchase of a car was high on the list of Gelly Jeffries’ priorities. For the present,
public transport was just ‘too public’ and a vehicle would enable him to make his
forthcoming trip to Aldershot at his convenience. A backstreet garage, with a casual
attitude toward documentation, proved to be the ideal supplier of a five-year-old saloon.
The cash transaction was much to the owners liking, so much in fact, his generosity
extended to supplying a three-month guarantee on parts and labour, plus a full tank of
petrol. Gelly parted with a little under a thousand pounds and drove the vehicle back to
the caravan late in the evening.
Before dawn the next day he was on the road and headed in the direction of Salisbury
Plain. A transport café was the arranged meeting place and Gelly parked in the dusty
gravel area to the back of the premises, amongst articulated and rigid-bodied heavy goods
vehicles. With the racing pages spread out on the table, a large mug of tea and a seat by
the window giving him a good view of the main road, he relaxed and waited for his
contact to arrive.
Halfway down the mug of tea, a motorcyclist pulled off the road and rode round the
back of the building to the car park. Minutes later, crash helmet still on his head he
walked into the café and sat down opposite Gelly.
‘How’s life on the outside then mate?’
‘Not bad – better than bullets and bullshit from our cousins across the water – you
been out there lately?’
‘Yeah – nothing changes – they’ve just swapped petrol bombs and home-made
mortars for baseball bats and diplomacy. Same guys, but they’re wearing suits these days
and calling themselves politicians.’
Gelly sniffed: he’d done his share of house to house searches and come under attack
from both sides. A few years back, when ‘the troubles’ were at their worst, he’d even
made an attempt to understand the mysticism’s of religious fervour, arriving at the
inevitable conclusion. ‘Bombed if you do, and bombed if you don’t’.
‘You brought the gear with you?’
The motorcyclist grinned from behind his visor.
‘We’ll go for a quick ride first – you got the cash?’
Gelly tapped his jacket pocket.
‘No problem – it better be good stuff though.’
‘The best – there’ll be hell to pay when they do an inventory check. Never mind – you
know the Army – they’re hardly going to put an ad in the ‘lost and found’ are they?’
Out in the car park, the motorcyclist produced a crash helmet from the top box of the
machine.
‘Bung this on and hold tight – can’t be too careful.’
The rear wheel spat gravel, gave a vicious spin and propelled the bike onto the hard
tar-macadam surface of the main road. The acceleration continued, the powerful engine
pulling through one hundred and twenty miles an hour and onwards.
The exchange, the contents of Gelly’s inside jacket pocket for the contents of the
motorcyclist’s side pannier, took place in a deserted lay-by and was over in seconds. The
motorcyclist mounted his machine and thumbed the engine into life.
‘Half a mile’s walk through those woods will bring you out opposite the café – been a
pleasure Corporal.’
The machine catapulted itself and its rider out of the lay-by and into the first bend of
the road, some hundred yards away. Gelly listened to the receding exhaust note, whilst
rolling himself a cigarette. Turning on his heel he entered the woods, the pannier
contents wrapped in newspaper, dangling from his hand in a supermarket carrier bag.
Over the next forty-eight hours, a trained observer would have made note of a dark
grey saloon car shadowing the vehicle belonging to the Managing Director of
Longthorpes. Gelly Jeffries came to the conclusion William spent far more of his life
away from home rather than relaxing in the bosom of his family. The man took his meals
in restaurants and drank in clubs and bars, returning to his mansion late at night only to
sleep. It was a pattern of behaviour Leonard Jeffries found well suited to his plans.

Charlotte’s dogged determination with the estate car was a welcome surprise to Tom. He
admitted to himself, the job of transforming the vehicle into a saleable item would not
have filled him with enthusiasm. William’s comments had led him to believe Charlotte
would find the task exasperating and beneath her, but Tom had seen no evidence of the
girl’s reluctance to see the job through to the end.
Looking out from his makeshift office, Charlotte could be seen on her hands and
knees, vacuuming the vehicle’s carpets for all she was worth. With the engine steam
cleaned and the interior now spotless, the vehicle was almost ready to visit the bodyshop
for the exterior to receive attention.
Charlotte’s introduction to the steam cleaner had proved interesting. With the
bonnet of the estate propped open, she had identified all of the engine’s mechanical
components and electrical systems. Tom had no idea of where the knowledge had been
gained, but he respected the girl’s understanding and the opportunity it created for her to
work on her own initiative and not rely on him for advice every second of the day.
As usual, Jennifer and Charlotte took their lunchbreak together. Jennifer was full
of genuine admiration at the transformation in the estate car.
‘What a difference – you’ve worked so hard – you must be shattered.’
‘A tad tired you might say, but Tom says they’re not all this bad – thank God.’
‘Talking of tired – Gwen Finch is almost asleep at her desk this morning. The
alarm went off in the main building last night and she’s the duty keyholder. The Police
got her out of bed at quarter to three to unlock the place and reset the alarm.’
‘What set it off – did somebody try to break in?’
‘Don’t think so – nothing’s missing. There’s a loose roof panel though in one
corner of the showroom. They reckon a bird got in and with all the flapping about, the
motion sensors set the alarm off. Mr Bernstein says it should be fixed or the rain will get
in.’
‘Joshua Bernstein – spend money – that’s unheard of. Has anyone told you how
tight he is? It’s quite a standing joke with the rest of the staff – he’s always sending
memos suggesting ways of saving money. No one takes them seriously.’
By mid afternoon, Charlotte had completed her work on the estate car. Tom
drove it round to the bodyshop and left a list of repairs on the dashboard. Half an hour
later the telephone in his office rang with an internal call. The bodyshop had requested a
new radio aerial, cable and plug from stores, only to be told there were none in stock.
Making a note of the part numbers he called Charlotte over.
‘Fancy a trip out? Stores don’t have an aerial in stock for that estate of yours.
The main dealer on the other side of town’s bound to have one – I’ll ring through to
check, then you can go and collect it.’
Charlotte dug out her car keys from an overall pocket. Tom held up his hand.
‘Take a company vehicle – you’re not insured for company business. There’s a
van parked round by the workshops they use for running around for bits and pieces – see
one of the lads for the keys.’
In the workshops, Eddie the foreman searched the office and gave an exasperated
sigh.
‘Bloody Pete – the bloke hasn’t got a brain in his head. He used the van to collect
some spares this morning and now he’s gone for a dental appointment – I’ll bet the keys
are still in his pocket,’
He continued rummaging around in the desk drawers without success before
giving up.
‘Nip round to the main showroom – there’s a cabinet with a glass front on the wall by
the office – all the spare keys for company vehicles are in there, labelled up.’
Charlotte made her way across the workshop to the side door. A long wolf
whistle echoed round the place followed by an urgent whisper.
‘Nice one – that’s the boss’s daughter – you pillock.’
The offender, a young trainee mechanic, turned crimson and attempted to hide his
embarrassment under the open bonnet of a car. Charlotte continued through the door,
suppressing a smile. Once in possession of the spare keys, she collected the van and
spent an enjoyable hour away from work, driving across town and back.
By the end of the week the estate car was finished. The bodyshop had replaced
the trim, beaten, filled and sprayed the dents to the doors and wings and replaced the
broken aerial. The engine had been serviced in the workshop and given a clean bill of
health, and as a final touch, Tom had come up with a new set of wheel trims to adorn the
now spotless tyres. Charlotte had spent best part of a day polishing the bodywork before
declaring she was finished. Tom’s final inspection of the interior revealed no evidence of
the ill treatment inflicted by the previous owner.
He was about to congratulate Charlotte on a job well done when William
Longthorpe appeared.
‘Another one ready for the forecourt Tom?’
He climbed inside the estate and looked around, nodding with approval.
‘What is it now – five weeks to when we lose you? I’ve rather got used to having
you work miracles for me.’
Charlotte had just finished in the office, updating the sheet for the vehicle. She
walked over, grinning.
‘Thinking of changing cars? – You look good in an estate’
‘I’m thinking how much money I’ll lose when Tom leaves and takes his magic
with him. I’ll make an extra fifteen hundred quid on this – might even advertise it as
‘one careful owner’ it looks that good.’
‘My God – the Longthorpe seal of approval – I never thought I’d live to hear it.’
Charlotte’s remark was tinged with a certain degree of sarcasm.
Her father looked puzzled and glanced from his daughter to Tom Crabtree. The
man was giving his undivided attention to rolling a cigarette.
‘This has your hallmark stamped all over it Tom.’
It was a statement rather than a question.
‘It’s all Miss Charlotte’s work William. I just showed her how to work the
pressure washer and steam cleaner – the rest is down to her.’ He finished rolling the
cigarette and looked up. ‘I haven’t found her to be anything other than a hard worker.’
Charlotte was giving the conversation her full attention. She knew something was
going on between the two men; Tom’s manner was very defensive.
William’s pleasant demeanour had slipped into obscurity, giving way to an
undisguised look of anger.
‘I’ll see you in your office.’
The fury in his voice was evident.
Both men made their way to the office and the door was slammed shut. A few
minutes later William Longthorpe reappeared and marched off in the direction of the
showroom, ignoring his daughter.
Charlotte went into the office. Tom was seated on the stool, rolling another
cigarette; he looked shaken, and when the cigarette was lit, stared straight ahead.
‘What’s the matter Tom? – My father looked furious.’
‘Nothing – he’s just got a bee in his bonnet.’ He shuffled his feet on the floor.
‘Let’s clear up – no sense in starting another job this late in the afternoon.’
They put away all the drums of cleaning fluids, rolled up the hosepipe and stowed
the steam cleaner and pressure washer in the back of the building. In the time it took
them, Tom remained silent, going about his business in a dejected, almost resigned
fashion.
Charlotte shrugged out of her overalls and into her other clothes, whilst Tom
checked all the vehicles in the compound were locked for the weekend. Locking the
office door, he led the way through the compound gate, and placing a heavy chain
through the bars, secured it with a large padlock. He handed Charlotte the padlock key.
‘If you’re meeting Jenny round the front, drop this into reception for me – I’ll see
you on Monday.’
Swinging a leg over the crossbar of his bicycle he peddled off in the direction of
the town, leaving Charlotte standing with the padlock key: a concerned look on her face.
At St Anthony, William Longthorpe showered and shaved, taking a moment to
scrutinise his reflection in the bathroom mirror. A couple of extra pounds here and there
but in the main, still more than a match for most. The barrel chest and thick powerful
arms still retained their muscular definition that had, on occasion, brought an argument to
a swift close when words failed to make the point. His thick dark hair showed little signs
of greying, perhaps a touch at the temples, but nothing more. Bushy eyebrows all but
met in the middle over close set, piercing brown, almost black eyes. The mouth was
wide, framed by generous lips, always ready to twist into a taunting sneer when the man
was provoked.
He was still simmering from what he saw as a betrayal by Tom Crabtree. The
idea, planted in the man’s head, that Charlotte would treat her position in the company
with indifference, had failed to take root, and his plan to humiliate Constance into
grovelling on her daughter’s behalf had suffered a setback. The old fool was supposed to
have given Charlotte a hard time of things, not teach her all his skills and know-how.
Still, he’d made it plain to Crabtree where he stood regarding the generous retirement
bonus the man had been promised; he could whistle for it. When he left in five week’s
time, it would be empty handed, except for his old age pension. He made a mental note
to speak to Joshua Bernstein first thing on Monday morning, cancelling the five
thousand-pound cheque he’d authorised to accompany the old man’s last pay packet. Let
the old bugger explain that to his wife. The planned, ‘once in a lifetime’ holiday for the
couple would be history, a daydream never to be realised.
 His mind turned to more pleasing matters and his forthcoming encounter at The
Narrow Boatman. A table for two had been reserved that afternoon, and anticipating a
successful outcome to the meeting, a double room for the night. Having dressed, he
made his way downstairs to the study to fortify himself with a large brandy for what he
hoped would be a strenuous evening.
 Chapter Thirteen

Outside, a discreet distance from St Anthony, Gelly Jeffries sat parked in the dark grey
saloon, side window rolled down, enjoying a sandwich. The sound of the stream,
meandering alongside the road, drifted in through the open window, creating a peaceful
atmosphere, complimented by the setting sun. In between mouthfuls of his snack, Gelly
made a final check of his purchase. He appreciated good workmanship and attention to
detail, and was impressed by how modern technology had taken the basic tools of his
trade and elevated them to a level approaching that of an artform. He wondered how the
designers could sleep at night, knowing the product of their labours could only be used
for one conceivable purpose.
The imposing gates guarding St Anthony’s driveway swung open and William
Longthorpe’s car swept through. Gelly hunched himself down in the seat and gave the
car a chance to pass, allowing it to travel an appreciable distance along the road before
starting his own engine. The remainder of his sandwich was tossed through the open
window, supper for two passing ducks and their chicks. Gelly drove without lights to the
end of the road, switching them on as he turned left, filtering into the stream of traffic
crossing the junction. William’s car was up ahead, staying in the nearside lane,
progressing at a steady pace. The grey saloon overtook two vehicles and drifted back to
the nearside of the carriageway, fifth in line behind its quarry. Two miles further on, the
lead vehicle turned into a side road signposted toward the canal: Gelly followed at a
distance.
William Longthorpe parked at the rear of The Narrow Boatman, locked the car
and made his way to the entrance. Gelly Jeffries drove past the inn, stopping at the side
of the road a few hundred yards further on. Turning in a farm gateway, he retraced his
steps and drove into the carpark, noting William’s empty vehicle alongside an exterior
wall of the building. Turning the saloon around so it faced the exit, Gelly parked well
away from William’s car, glanced at his watch and settled down to wait. The time was
seven forty five. He’d just made himself comfortable when two more cars parked and the
occupants made their way into the premises. Just before five past eight, a taxi drove into
the carpark, dropped off its passenger and drove away.
Having given his name to a waitress, William Longthorpe was shown to a
secluded table for two in the restaurant area. Once seated he ordered a large brandy and
the wine list. Two couples entered the restaurant, took their seats and began studying the
menu. A grandfather clock in the entrance lobby chimed eight times. William checked
his wristwatch, finished the brandy and ordered another.
‘Hello William – I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.’
The brunette slid into the chair on the other side of the table, shrugging her coat
over the back. The subdued lighting of the restaurant complimented her dark hair and the
smooth tanned skin of her bare shoulders. Her red dress, with its provocative neckline
clung to a slim lithe figure. The table obscured her lower body and legs to William
Longthorpe, but his appraising look told him the woman’s sensuality extended all the
way to the floor. Smiling, she levelled a gaze at her dinner partner, before allowing her
eyes to wander over him.
‘It seems I’m not the only one to have taken care of myself over the years William
– you look wonderful.’
Rising from her seat and walking round the table she bent forward to brush warm
lips against the man’s cheek. William’s blood pounded at the sight of long, slim legs and
dainty feet.
‘You do remember me don’t you?’
William’s eyes were riveted by the slight sway from provocative hips as
she took her seat again.
The picture of an arching graceful body, taut with passion, and slim, straining legs
encircling his waist, joined the erotic images already tumbling through his imagination.
‘Yes– I remember you.’ It was only a small lie; he remembered the body and
snatches of the encounter, but not the name. ‘It’s hard to believe it was years ago: you’ve
hardly changed.’ Another excusable lie.
The wine waiter glided to the table. The woman reached across and took
William’s glass, sniffing the contents.
‘I’ll join you in a brandy if you don’t mind,’ and turning to the waiter, ‘A large
one please with just a splash of lemonade – we’ll order the wine later.’
Before returning William’s drink she took a small lingering sip. The man found the
action to be strangely inviting; an implied intimacy, yet to be fulfilled. His mind was
racing, urging his memory to provide him with a name. The face was so familiar; he
knew this woman, his instincts told him she was from the recent past, but he knew that
was impossible.
A reproachful but amused smile played across the woman’s lips.
‘You’re a terrible liar William – let me help you.’
She snapped open her evening bag and pushed a photograph across the table.
William studied the picture; a man and a girl of about twelve, standing on the steps of
what appeared to be a civic building. Both were smiling at the camera.
The photograph confused him. The man’s face held a vague familiarity, but he
was sure it was from years ago.
‘This is obviously you as a young girl, and the man must be your father – I’m sure
I know him from somewhere.’
The woman laughed. The same laugh she’d given over the ‘phone.
‘It’s my daughter – and the man was my husband – he’s dead now. You’re right
about one thing though – you did see him once…briefly – a long time ago.’
‘His daughter looks a lot like you, nothing like him at all – dead you say…I’m sorry’
A sudden hardness flickered across the woman’s face. By the time she’d
retrieved the photograph and replaced it in her bag, it was gone.
‘Don’t be – you could say, I’m here tonight because of him.’
The woman’s eyes held William’s puzzled stare, not allowing him to look away.
‘There’s a good reason the man in the photograph bears no resemblance to my
daughter – he’s not her father – you are William.’
A tide of denial swept up William’s throat, but before his lips were able to form
the necessary words, the woman continued.
‘My daughter, Jennifer Farringdon, works for you. She has no idea you’re her
father, although she’s aware my late husband was not her natural parent. I’ve kept my
secret for eighteen years. Jack, my dead husband, learned he was not Jennifer’s father
just before he died, and even then I refused to tell him who her true father is. I’ve done
everything for Jennifer over the years – Jack was a very non-caring parent and would
have been even worse had he known the truth.’
Rita’s face took on an expression of part agony, part determination, reflecting the
torment of bringing up a child single-handed.
‘I don’t want to tell Jennifer…or anyone for that matter, who her real father is – but
when he died, something happened in her head and she blamed me. Then she walked out
of the house and went to live with a school friend. It all ended up with us having a
terrible row, and her taunting me that she didn’t need me any more because she was
staying at your house and that you’d offered her a job. The whole situation was so
horribly weird I had to see you before things got even more bizarre.’
William studied the woman across the table. The likeness between her and the
Farringdon girl was remarkable, explaining why he was experiencing feelings of
familiarity, yet the dark hair, generous mouth, to say nothing of the girl’s intelligence,
could well signify her as being his daughter. His overactive ego and vanity were
straining at the leash to erode away his common sense. With an effort he managed to
tread with caution.
‘I’m an extremely wealthy man – money makes people like me vulnerable to
unfounded and indefensible accusations – how do I know if there’s a shred of truth in
what your saying?’
Rita took a handkerchief from her bag and dabbed at the sides of her eyes.
‘You don’t, and unless I tell Jennifer – if she’ll even speak to me – and then the pair of
you undergo tests, I can’t see how the matter can be resolved.’
With an angry gesture William waved a hovering waiter away.
‘How can you be sure I’m her father? – And don’t give me any clap-trap about a
woman always knowing?
‘Jack hardly ever came near me – it wasn’t his thing. You were the first man I’d had
in years. As soon as I discovered I was pregnant I had to drag him into bed and
practically force him to have sex with me. Everyone thinks Jennifer was a few weeks
premature – in fact she was born a week late. Jack resented her from the moment she
came into the world – he thought I’d tricked him into making me pregnant – he never
wanted kids.’
The waiter was skirting around the outside of the table again. Furious, William turned
on the man.
‘If you want to join us, why don’t you pull up a chair? We’ll order when we’re
good and ready – be a good chap and piss off ‘till I give you the nod. Better still, fetch us
two more large brandies, and then piss off.’
Rita smiled, pandering to the man’s ego.
‘I can see why you’re a self made man William – authority, strength and
intelligence – qualities sadly lacking in my late husband.’
‘It’s a dog eat dog world out there.’ William puffed out his chest. ‘If people want
to play games in my back garden – they better bring some fuckin’ body armour – I don’t
take prisoners.’
Rita lowered her lashes, hands in her lap, using all the right body language.
‘It’s obvious to me where Jennifer’s determination to succeed comes from – she
has the same ruthless qualities – how does she get on with your wife?’
‘Constance is involved with charity work – she sees good in everyone…everyone
except me that is. We’ve led separate lives for years – hardly spend any time in each
other’s company at all. How about you – anyone special since your husband died?’
Rita’s lie was well thought out, calculated to engender sympathy and the promise
of a possible liaison.
‘Just before Jack died, Jennifer got a ridiculous idea into her head I was having an
affair, and I believe she told her father. When he died, he’d changed his will at the last
minute, leaving Jennifer everything. I lost my home and my daughter. A friend of mine
offered to put a roof over my head – there’s nothing physical between us, but I know it’s
on his mind and I don’t want to have to sleep with him to keep myself off the streets.’
William’s ego swelled to bursting point, whilst the predatory side of his nature
sensed an easy kill.
‘That’s unthinkable – say the word and I’ll have him seen by some friends of
mine.’
‘I don’t want him hurt. He’s kind and thoughtful, but at the end of the day…he’s
only a man.’
‘A man who’s trying to get into your knickers before I do,’ thought William, full of
lust and good intentions.
‘I’ve booked a room here for the night – there’s nothing at home for me at the
weekends. Let’s eat, take a bottle of good wine upstairs and talk this thing through – you
were right in contacting me.’
Inside, Rita trembled with excitement. Here was a chance to realise her ambitions
of money and independence; a chance to attach herself to the Longthorpe millions. Not a
shred of doubt existed in Rita’s mind that William Longthorpe would take her to bed, and
she knew how persuasive she could be on her native territory.
To the outside world her façade continued.
‘You’ve no idea how it feels to share my secret – the times I’ve wanted to tell you
about Jennifer.’ The handkerchief was busy at work again.
‘My overnight bag’s in the car – why don’t you freshen up while I get it – then
we’ll eat.’
The chill of a late summer’s evening was beginning to take its toll on Gelly Jeffries, he
was desperate to relieve himself. He had no idea if William Longthorpe was stopping for
a quick drink or making an evening of it, and didn’t wish to be caught, flat footed on his
way to the toilet whilst his quarry drove off. In the end, his bladder took the decision out
of his hands.
The hedge, separating the rear of the carpark from the pub gardens looked to be as
good a place as any. He was only halfway through urinating over and amongst the privet
when William Longthorpe appeared round the side of the building, heading towards his
car. Gelly froze, clenching his buttocks together in an attempt to stem the noisy torrent.
It abated somewhat, only to redirect itself over his shoes.
William appeared to be in somewhat of a hurry, tripping the central locking
system with his key and collecting an overnight case from the boot, before re-locking the
vehicle and heading straight back toward the door.
Gelly unclenched his buttocks, sighing first with relief at not being spotted, and
then again with contentment as his bladder assumed its normal proportions. Giving his
feet a quick shake and stamp, he seated himself back in the car to contemplate his next
move. From William Longthorpe’s actions, it appeared the man was preparing to spend
the night, presenting Gelly Jeffries with the golden opportunity of being able to proceed
with his plan in a quiet and secluded environment. He checked his watch, a little after
nine thirty, far too early to make a move, people were arriving and departing the premises
in a steady stream. If he waited until after closing time, William’s overnight stay would
be confirmed and he would be able to work, undisturbed.
William’s meal was partaken in undisguised and unashamed haste; his appetite
was headed in a different direction. Waving the sweet trolley away without a thought for
his dinner guest, he ordered coffee and another brandy. Rita, with all the pretence of a
wronged woman, picked at her meal even though she was ravenous. She did however
join William in an after dinner brandy.
Much to the man’s delight Rita took the lead.
‘It’s far too public to discuss things here – why don’t you give me the key to your
room and I’ll go upstairs while you sort out the wine – perhaps you could give me a few
minutes?’
Handing over the key, William snapped his fingers at the wine waiter, watching
the retreating figure of Rita making her way across the restaurant. Her hips swung
beneath the dress as she picked her way between the tables, turning to give him a shy
smile before reaching the stairs. William caught a glimpse of long lithe legs as she
climbed the first few steps. He licked his lips; this could turn out to be quite a night.
Ordering a bottle of wine he gave some thought to Rita’s revelations. With his
past record for womanising he wouldn’t want to wager serious amounts of money against
being Jennifer’s father. The sexual encounter all those years ago would put Jennifer at the
right age, and Constance had announced her pregnancy a short time before, which would
make Charlotte a few weeks older than Jennifer. He didn’t see an issue being presented
by the possibility he was the girl’s father, after all, she was eighteen and an adult; he
would tolerate no demands being made of him.
Rita on the other hand was an attractive proposition: beautiful, alone and
desirable. For what it would cost him, the thought of having her installed in a secluded
little cottage somewhere, his to use when he chose, masquerading under the pretence of
concern for his daughter’s mother was tempting. The wine waiter arrived with a bottle
and two glasses. He waited, full of impatience as the cork was withdrawn from the
bottle.
Rita unlocked the door, dialling Gary’s number as she entered the room.
‘It’s me. Look – that friend who phoned – it’s worse than she said. That bastard
of a husband has beaten the shit out of her. She’s terrified he’ll come back and start on
her again. The Police have been round and they’re looking for him, but they don’t want
her left on her own with the kids – you don’t mind me staying – do you?’
Rita smiled as she switched the mobile off, placing it back in her evening bag: so
easy. Just give them a chance to demonstrate how unselfish they were, to exhibit their
total understanding of the little woman, and the word ‘manipulate didn’t even enter their
stupid heads. She’d made the decision, if William came across with the goods, Gary
would be relegated to the ranks of ‘small fry’ and dumped: but for the time being it didn’t
hurt to back things both ways.
Sitting on the side of the bed sipping her brandy, Rita decided on how the rest of
the night should progress. Standing up, she slipped out of her brief lace knickers, tucking
them under a pillow. Smoothing down her dress, she sat in an easy chair, knees together,
legs at an angle. William entered the room, placed the bottle and two glasses on the
bedside table, removed his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
‘If Jennifer has the house, then with the salary I’m paying her she has no money
worries – where does that leave you?’
Rita was well ahead of William’s game.
‘I’m not going to beg – I’ve come this far – the whole business has made me feel
cheap, and I knew contacting you would show me up in a bad light. I’ve lost my husband
– enough’s enough, I’m not about to lose my self respect – something will turn up.’
‘If I’m Jennifer’s father, and I agree, it’s best she doesn’t know, we should be able
to come to some arrangement – something to benefit everyone.’
Rita slipped off her shoes, and raising her feet, tucked them underneath her on the
chair. William’s eyes were riveted on her thighs and beyond, where her dress had ridden
up.
‘Perhaps we should both benefit – but I don’t have a lot to offer – what do you
think?’
William was sitting up on the bed, still staring. Rita slipped her feet to the ground
and walked over to stand in front of the man.
‘There’s a robe in the bathroom William – why don’t you go and slip it on – I’ll
pour the wine.’
When he emerged from the bathroom, Rita was kneeling upright on the bed,
facing the bathroom door. She held out the full glass of wine, inviting him to come over.
As he reached out to take the glass, Rita slipped the knot on the tie of the robe,
letting it fall open. She let out a tiny gasp, practised to perfection over the years.
‘I can see where the ‘Long’ in Longthorpe comes from,’ she murmured.
Encircling him with one dainty hand and then the other, she lent forward. It was
William’s turn to gasp, then grunt with an almost animal pleasure as his thick fingers
entwined themselves in her hair, pulling her forward.
She moved away, sitting on her haunches, one hand still holding him.
‘You make me feel so safe – nothing bad could happen to me with you around.’
She leaned forward again, this time her grasp was more firm and William groaned
with pleasure.
Later, with him lying on the bed, exhausted, she slipped from her dress and
discarding her remaining underwear, straddled him. The slow provocative movement of
her hips soon brought his interest to full arousal again. Rolling her underneath him he
savoured the gasp and stifled cry as he thrust himself forward.

In the car park, Gelly Jeffries was about to make an entry, albeit illegal, of his own. The
last of the pub’s customers had left half an hour before. The staff was in the process of
locking up and the premises were now in almost complete darkness, save for the security
lights above the bars and tills. Gelly gave it another ten minutes to be on the safe side,
then fished a key from his pocket.
The entry into Longthorpes the night before had proved to be a simple exercise,
and the triggering of the alarm had given him no cause for concern. He’d remained on
the premises for less than two minutes, time enough to locate the spare key in the
cupboard for William Longthorpe’s car, pocket it and leave. The Police had arrived at
the showrooms five minutes later, by which time Gelly was two miles away.
He was unprepared for the loud clunk made by the central locking system as he
pointed the key at the car and pressed the button. The hazard lights flashed, illuminating
the darkened carpark with a pulsating amber glow. Gelly slid forward in his seat below
the window level and listened, ears straining, through the open quarter-light. Not a
sound; he gave it another five minutes.
Keeping close to the hedge at the rear of the carpark he came to the outside wall
of the building. Edging along it he arrived at William Longthorpe’s unlocked car. The
driver’s door made little sound as he opened it and once inside his task took less than
thirty seconds to complete.
Closing the door as far as the catch, Gelly half stood up, and with his shoulder
against the bodywork, pushed with a steady pressure until he heard a satisfying click.
Exercising just as much care in departing the vehicle as he had in his approach, keeping
to the edge of the wall and bushes he retraced his steps to his own car.
Forewarned by his previous experience, he waited for a few minutes until a
vehicle approached on the road outside the public house. When he judged the noise to be
at its loudest he thumbed the button on the key. The exhaust note of the passing car
drowned out the sound of the central locking system activating, and its headlights diluted
the glare from the flashing hazard lamps.
He waited for a few more minutes, then drove out onto and along the road where
he parked, facing in the direction he hoped William would take. A thought crossed his
mind.
‘I hope the bastard’s not staying there for the weekend.’

Rita’s scream of ecstasy only served to renew William’s efforts. The woman was on her
hands and knees, clutching at the wrought iron headboard, thrusting herself backward to
maximise the effects of his onslaught. They exploded together, William letting out a
bull-like roar, Rita gasping, sobbing, laughing, all at the same time. She fell, face
forward onto the bed and rolled over on her back.
‘That was one to remember – you’ve definitely improved with age.’
William’s chest was heaving, his nostrils flaring, as he stood by the side of the
bed savouring his performance; even better than Munich where he had been aware that
national pride was at stake. Rita was giving him an unashamed look of hunger.
‘If there’s any more of that on offer, I don’t mind skipping breakfast.’
He slipped into his robe and strutted through to the bathroom. Rita was too good
to be allowed to turn into a casual relationship, a more permanent solution would have to
be sought. Back in the bedroom he poured two more glasses of wine.
‘What you need is a nice country cottage, a good income, and plenty of attention
at weekends…and perhaps during the week as well,’ he added, aware of both their sexual
appetites.
Rita felt she could have written the script.
‘I’ve never given any thought to becoming a kept woman William – I don’t want
to feel insecure – always worrying you’ll tire of me – I don’t want to end up in the
position I’m in now, five years down the road.’
William allowed his free hand to roam over the woman’s body, as she lay naked
on the bed.
‘I’ll buy a place and have the deeds put in your name – might even employ you as
my private and very personal secretary.’ He grinned, enjoying the power money gave
him.
‘My chief accountant owes me more favours than he’ll ever be able to repay – one
more employee on the books, and working from home, so to speak, won’t cause any
eyebrows to be raised. I’ll use your maiden name – even Jennifer won’t be any the
wiser.’
Rita gave a sigh; the sort of sigh a woman gives when things are going her way
but some sort of token resistance is required.
‘You make it all sound so easy – I guess that’s what money and power does for
you – let’s you do pretty much as you like.’
William made to rise from the bed. Rita caught his hand, holding it against her
bare stomach, making it obvious she still required his attentions.
By four o’clock in the morning, even Rita knew that sleep was almost upon her.
William was pinning her down on the bed, spent from his latest exertions, head buried in
the pillow, his breathing rhythmic. She managed to slide from underneath, pulling the
discarded cover over both of them, before turning out the bedside lamp. In the dark she
gave a lazy smile, savouring the onset of sleep, the warm, neither here nor there feeling
preceding the first dream of the night.

The onset of dawn saw a stiff, cold and hungry Gelly Jeffries starting the car and
switching the heater on in an attempt to restore some circulation into his cramped body.
Ever since his near fatal beating, and the broken bones it had inflicted, sitting in one
position for any amount of time caused him considerable discomfort. Forced into
nicotine abstinence whilst in hospital, his habit had returned once he was discharged, but
in a much moderated form, in part owing to the pain still felt from the puncture wound to
his lung. The discomfort caused by the cigarette was more than offset by the pleasure his
system received from the effects of the nicotine.
A good view to the rear of his vehicle was afforded by a straight stretch of road,
ending in a slight rise about two hundred yards toward the Narrow Boatman. The
condensation on the inside of the back window was beginning to disperse as the heating
elements warmed, giving Gelly an unobstructed view of the carriageway through the
interior mirror. There was no way of knowing when William Longthorpe would rise and
begin his journey, if indeed he intended staying for just the one night. Gelly told himself
he had come this far and would wait for as long as necessary. Flicking the cigarette butt
outside, he rolled up the window and let the warmth soak into his aching body.

True to her word, Rita skipped breakfast, ordering instead a pot of coffee to be left
outside the room. Recovered from the night’s exertions, William, standing in the shower,
was rinsing the soap from his body as Rita joined him. Without speaking or waiting for
him to finish, she lifted herself up and wrapped her legs round his waist, lowering herself
onto him. It was almost a repetition of all those years ago in the alleyway, except on this
occasion, William was in no hurry to leave.
 By ten o’clock, both were dressed and downstairs enjoying another coffee.
‘You’d better drop me in town – I’ll wait for you to ring me during the week.’
Rita was not relishing the thought of returning to the flat, having to make
apologies for staying out overnight to Gary. She was already giving thought to the
tremendous row she would bring about, allowing her to leave for good. The next few
weeks would prove to be difficult: the row had to take place when William had finalised
all the arrangements for her future accommodation. Until then, Rita knew she had to
keep her options open in case circumstances changed. It was important for William to be
kept interested and his appetite maintained, thus hastening his efforts to install his
mistress in suitable accommodation. Rita decided to overwhelm the man with sex, giving
him no cause to seek companionship elsewhere.
With this in mind, as William left the Narrow Boatman carpark and turned the car
onto the road, Rita unclipped her seatbelt.
‘I thought you might like one for the road,’ she murmured, nestling her head in
William’s lap. ‘Seems a pity to waste the journey.’
William’s grip tightened on the wheel as he felt the woman, soft and warm,
envelop him.
‘Jesus Christ – perhaps we ought to think about spending the day looking at
properties.’
His voice was none too steady as his concentration alternated between the act of
driving and the far more pleasant experience of Rita’s attentions.
Parked at the side of the road, an alert Gelly Jeffries readied himself. In the rear view
mirror, a vehicle had crested the rise, William Longthorpe’s vehicle, descending the
slight slope toward the parked car: Gelly could see William behind the wheel.
He removed the second half of his purchase from a jacket pocket and placed it on
the passenger seat. The limousine made little sound as it swept by – just the noise of its
tyres on the road, the large engine only a few hundred revolutions above tickover.
Starting his car, Gelly moved away from the side of the road and followed at a distance.
His mind held a vivid picture of the result of his brief visit to the limousine a few hours
before.
A tiny LED glowed in one corner of a small device - no bigger than a matchbox.
It was attached to a circular shaped charge of military explosive, in turn, attached
underneath, and in the exact centre of the driver's seat. The charge was formed in such a
way, that upon detonation, its full fury would be expended in a vertical blast, annihilating
everything in its immediate path. One thin wire of about three inches in length, hanging
from the device, served as an aerial to receive an encrypted signal in the military UHF
band. Upon receiving the signal, the device became primed. A second signal, spaced
one megahertz from the first, completed the arming procedure and triggered the
explosive. The transmitter, about the same size and appearance as a mobile 'phone,
possessed two recessed buttons situated under their respective sliding covers. Each
button keyed a separate transmitter circuit, tuned to the priming and firing frequencies;
only one button could be accessed at a time. A keypad allowed a multi-digit access code
to be entered into the device. The code was transmitted at the push of the first button,
and was a number unique to the explosive charge placed in the limousine.
William’s ability to maintain a steady course diminished on a par with the intensity of
Rita’s oral attentions. By now the vehicle had reached the dual carriageway and William
Longthorpe was aware, not only of his impending loss of emotional control, but also that
of the car.
‘Let me pull into this lay-by – no sense in ending upside down in the ditch.’
He signalled left, moving the car into the lay-by, switching off the engine as he
coasted to a standstill. A vehicle passed him, and had his attention not been elsewhere,
William Longthorpe would have recognised the driver only too well.

As he drove along behind the limousine, Gelly Jeffries glanced down at the device on the
passenger seat, checking the four-digit access code. In doing so, he almost missed the
late left indication of the vehicle in front as it moved from the carriageway into a lay-by
and stopped. He couldn’t resist a sideways glance as he drove by. William Longthorpe
sat motionless in the driver’s seat, staring downwards, arms outstretched, grasping the
steering wheel: Gelly could see no reason why the man had pulled over.
Sliding back the left cover he thumbed the small button. The digits on the LCD
display began to flash. Closing the first cover, he slid back the second, checking at the
same time he was an appreciable distance from the parked car.
‘Goodbye William old son.’
He executed a single, deliberate push to the second button: the screen cleared.
The soft, almost imperceptible click of a miniature electrical relay closing, and the
subsequent voltage the relay allowed to flow to the firing circuit of the explosive charge
took less than one millisecond to complete. Its life's work over, the circuitry melted and
vaporised as the explosion expanded from an embryonic state of fury to an unstoppable
column of solid, pulverising finality.
The blast raged through William’s lower torso, Rita’s head and shoulders, and
continued upwards through the man’s chest, neck and skull before peeling back the roof
of the vehicle. Destroying all matter in its path, it expanded outward, engulfing the
interior of the vehicle with an incandescent heat. A fraction of an instant later, a second
explosion ripped the vehicle apart, scattering debris across the carriageway.

The dark grey saloon stopped at the side of the road, two hundred yards from the scene of
the devastation. Gelly had witnessed the explosions, and familiar as he was with the
nature of high explosives, had flinched, as the shock and soundwave battered the rear of
his car.
For a split second the limousine had appeared to bulge and expand, before the
windows exploded outwards and a column of fire ripped through the roof. The second
explosion, caused by the compression of fuel vapour in the petrol tank igniting under
enormous pressure, blew the vehicle apart and blocked the carriageway.
Acrid smoke filled the air and pieces of burning debris drifted back to earth. A small
fire started in bushes along the edge of the lay-by. Small particles from the explosion
rained down on the roof and bonnet of Gelly’s car. On the opposite carriageway,
vehicles had stopped and drivers were shouting to one another. A man climbed over the
central reservation, but retreated in the face of the ferocious heat. After a few minutes,
Gelly could hear the sound of sirens approaching. He considered driving off, but thought
it would seem rather odd as everyone else was stopping. It would only take one
conscientious citizen to take his number, and if the vehicle was somehow traced back to
him he might find himself being posed questions he would be hard pressed to answer.
Forcing himself to remain calm, he placed the transmitter on the passenger seat, rolled a
cigarette and climbed from the vehicle, gazing back along the carriageway.
 Chapter Fourteen

An envelope containing concert tickets arrived in the morning’s post. Jennifer was seated
in the kitchen as Constance entered and placed the mail on the table.
‘The tickets have been printed – Sean and Gillam’s father has sent twenty five through
for friends of the family.’
Constance looked around the kitchen
‘All on your own down here?’
‘I think the past week’s caught up with Charlotte – she’s still asleep. Would it be ok if
I had two of those tickets? – I owe someone a favour.’
‘Help yourself – perhaps the pair of you would like to take some to work and hand out
amongst the staff.’
Jennifer checked the date and venue on the tickets.
‘It’s in three month’s time…and they’ve hired the football stadium.’
Constance read the note the boys’ father had included with the tickets.
‘He says they’ll be over three days before the event and stay for a couple of days
afterward. The brothers will be with them for all of their stay – and there’s a bit about
you.’
‘Say hello to Jennifer for us and tell her we’re both very much looking forward to
meeting her.’
‘Seems like Sean’s broken the news about the two of you.’
The arrival of Charlotte diverted Constance’s attention away from the slight flush
spreading across Jennifer’s face.
‘Ok – where’s the truck that hit me during the night. Every muscle in my body aches
like it’s been beaten. I’m up for breakfast and a very hot bath.’
Charlotte made her way across the kitchen: her progress was slow and she exhibited a
slight stoop.
‘I don’t know how Tom keeps it up, year in and year out – one week, and I feel dead.
Talking of Tom – I think he had words with my father on Friday – he seemed really
miserable when he went home. Not like the Managing Director to upset the staff.’
Wrapping herself around a mug of coffee she sat down and saw the tickets on the table
with the note.
‘Fantastic – they’ll be here for almost a week. Wonder if we can book a holiday
Jenny?’
‘We’ll have only been at work for a few months. I might be able to swing a long
weekend…say Friday and Monday – and don’t forget, Tom will have left by then and
you’ll be coping on your own.’
Charlotte pulled a face
‘Tell me about it – I’ll be head of my very own department if I’m still drawing breath.
In my book that constitutes a promotion and automatic pay rise.’
Jennifer shook her head, grinning.
‘When you’ve soaked that battered body of yours and managed to locate the exit to
your fantasy world, would you be able to run me into town? – Treat you to coffee and
doughnuts.’
‘Deal – I may need some help getting upstairs though.’
Charlotte limped off, one hand clutching the small of her back, the other rubbing a
stiff shoulder.
Constance watched her leave, a look of slight concern crossing her face.
‘I hope taking on Tom’s job won’t be too much for her – she’s really been thrown in at
the deep end.’
Jennifer was quick to offer the woman reassurance.
‘I think the first week was make or break. The state of the car she had to prepare was
unbelievable, but she stuck at it and did a marvellous job. Tom was very impressed and
told your husband so.’
Constance nodded and poured herself a cup of coffee. It was all beginning to make
sense. William’s attitude had been less than pleasant when Charlotte had decided to take
the job on, and knowing his malicious nature, there was a good chance he’d talked to
Tom, belittling Charlotte’s abilities to cope. If the two men had fallen out on Friday
afternoon as Charlotte seemed to think, there was more than an outside chance William
was blaming Tom for not making things difficult enough. There were times when
Constance wished she exercised more vigilance and authority her shares gave her in the
family business.
Charlotte demonstrated her party piece by slotting the hatchback into a gap of minute
proportions between two cars in a side street close to Salvatore’s. It had begun raining;
the sort of misty drizzle that makes pavements and road surfaces wet and slippery,
embracing everything with a cold clamminess. The two girls took a seat inside by the
window, and seeing Jennifer, the now familiar waiter hurried over, his last encounter with
the girl giving him a mental prod to switch into his native Home Counties accent.
‘Nice to see you Miss – how’s the…boyfriend?
Charlotte gave the waiter, and then Jennifer, a puzzled glance.
‘He’s fine thanks – did you get his note?’
‘It’s framed on the wall of my bedroom – but I haven’t told a soul…well, except for
my mum – she’s a fan too – but she’s as good as gold,’ he added, eager to reassure.
‘We’ll have two cappuccinos please.’
‘And a shed-load of doughnuts,’ put in Charlotte, still looking bemused at the other
two.
Whilst the waiter was gone, Jennifer filled Charlotte in with the details of her last visit
to the café with Sean.
‘So in a roundabout way I’ve got our waiter friend to really thank for the idea of a
charity concert – Sean and I were beating our heads against the wall.’
The waiter returned, two cappuccinos and a plateful of doughnuts on a tray. Jennifer
handed him the two concert tickets and watched the look of amazement dawn on the
man’s face as he turned them over in his hand. Charlotte’s mobile started ringing from
deep inside her shoulder bag.
The waiter half whispered to Jennifer as Charlotte rummaged around in her bag.
‘Your friend – is she…attached? – I mean…I’ve got two concert tickets.
Jennifer laughed; the man was a persistent optimist.
‘You know Gillam – Sean’s older brother…?
She left the sentence unfinished as Charlotte put the mobile away in her bag.
‘That was Mum – something’s wrong. She sounded awful.’
Turning to the waiter who was shaking his head in rueful acceptance of yet another
prospective liaison slipping away. ‘Be a sweetie and put those doughnuts in something –
we’ve got to dash.’
They both managed a mouthful of coffee in the time it took the waiter to fetch a paper
bag and wrap the doughnuts. Hurrying back to the car, Jennifer wanted to know about
Constance.
‘She sounded shocked – asked if we were able to come home right away – I thought I
could hear someone else in the background.’
At St Anthony, a dark blue saloon was parked by the steps leading to the house.
Charlotte glanced round the car and frowned.
‘Looks like the boys in blue – wonder if the showrooms have been broken into again?’
Inside, a man and women were seated at the table in the kitchen. Constance, looking
grim and white faced, introduced them as the girls entered.
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Sheppard from the local CID.’
The man nodded.
‘And this is Detective Constable Denholm.’
The woman gave the briefest of smiles at the two girls. DCI Sheppard took the lead.
‘At about ten o’clock this morning, a car was destroyed by an explosion in a lay-by on
the south ring road. The vehicle caught fire, and by the time the emergency services
arrived, nothing could be done for anyone who may have been inside.’
Whilst the man was speaking, Constance moved round the table and placed an arm
round each of the girl’s shoulders. The man continued.
‘The explosion was so powerful, and the fire so intense, we’re not even certain at this
point if there was anyone actually in the vehicle. When our forensic team arrived at the
scene, they initially searched for two things. First, any evidence pointing to a person or
persons in the car, and second, any clue as to the registered owner. They found a
numberplate, embedded in the trunk of a tree, some fifty yards from the incident. The
numberplate belongs to a vehicle registered in the name of William Henry Longthorpe.’
DCI Sheppard paused for the information to sink in. Both Charlotte and Jennifer were
looking stunned. Constance motioned for them both to take a seat at the table.
WDC Denholm asked the first question.
‘When was the last time you saw your father?’
She looked back and forth between the two girls.
‘I’m sorry…which one of you is the daughter?’
‘I am – and I last saw my father at work yesterday afternoon.’ Charlotte’s voice was
flat with resignation.
‘I saw him leave yesterday evening,’ Jennifer volunteered. ‘I was in my bedroom – it
was about half past seven.’
She felt empty – everyone in the room knew the direction the conversation was taking.
‘Would either of you know where he was going, or who, if anyone, he was meeting?’
DCI Sheppard asked.
Both girls shook their heads. It was obvious Constance had been asked the same
questions before they arrived and had been unable to provide any answers.
The detective chief inspector apologised ahead of his next question.
‘I’m sorry – but I have to ask this. Have any of you reason to believe Mr Longthorpe
was suffering from depression? Was he upset in any way…brooding or unhappy?’ He
glanced toward Constance. ‘Were there any problems with the business?’
‘My husband is not the type to suffer from depression – the family business has gone
from strength to strength over the years and is the leader in its field throughout this, and
neighbouring counties. You’re aware of course, Longthorpes’ supplies vehicles to your
own Police Force – it’s a thriving business Chief Inspector.’
‘Would the success of the business have caused your husband to make enemies along
the way?’
‘William is a blunt, sometimes brutal businessman. His success necessarily means he
has…upset people along the way – he’s a very confrontational person.’
DCI Sheppard’s next question was the obvious one. Whether William’s enemies
would feel wronged enough to want to kill him, but a knock on the door brought a pause
to the conversation.
A uniformed Constable stood outside, a clear plastic wallet in his hand. He asked to
see DCI Sheppard. Following a brief doorstep exchange, the Detective Chief Inspector
returned to the kitchen.
‘This had just been recovered from the scene of the explosion. It may have no
relevance to our enquiries, but you understand, we are obliged to check every piece of
information regardless.’
He placed the plastic wallet and its contents on the kitchen table.
‘Have any of you any knowledge of the identity of the persons in this photograph?’
Jennifer had a vivid recollection of the picture; it had been taken in her first year at
Grammar School. She’d missed a school trip to a museum through illness, and her father
had taken her as soon as she had recovered. They’d stood on the museum steps and
asked a passer-by to take the photograph.
‘That’s a picture of my father and me, standing outside a museum – I was about
twelve.’
She could feel the eyes of everyone in the room boring into her and experienced a
sudden feeling of isolation, alone in a place she had no right to be. Charlotte put
everyone’s thoughts into words.
‘Why would my father have a photograph of you and your father – am I missing
something here?’
‘The last time I saw that photo was in the album at home – it was always in the
sideboard,’ and turning to Constance, ‘The album’s one of the things on my list to collect
from the house.’
DCI Sheppard picked up the plastic bag.
‘Then it appears someone beat you to it – any ideas who that might be?’
Constance put an arm round Jennifer and held her close. Charlotte found the girl’s
hand and gave it a tight squeeze before replying.
‘You’ll need to talk to Jennifer’s mother I think – we’ll write her address down for
you.’
Constance agreed with her daughter. Both women understood Jennifer’s sudden
vulnerability with the recent death of her father and were anxious not to see her upset.
The two detectives finished their questioning and left with Rita’s address, promising to
return later in the day.

Gary had expected Rita home sometime in the morning, or failing that, a ‘phone call to
let him know what was happening. When the two detectives called round and made
themselves known to him, he assumed there had been trouble at Rita’s friend’s home.
‘I suppose her old man’s been round and beaten her up again – he better not have
touched Rita.’
The outburst brought a blank response.
‘Do you know where Mrs Farringdon is at the moment?’ WDC Denholm enquired.
‘Well… yes and no. She went out at about seven thirty last night to visit a friend who
was having a hard time with her husband. Then she ‘phoned to say she was staying the
night ‘cos your lot didn’t want her friend to be on her own in the house. Her husband had
beaten the crap out of her and you had people looking for him.’
DCI Sheppard instructed WDC Denholm to radio in and have the log checked for the
previous evening. Ten minutes later she returned and took DCI Sheppard to one side.
‘Nothing on record – I’ve checked with the main control as well as the local nick – no
record of any domestics yesterday that would tie in with our enquiries.’
‘What’s going on?’ Gary demanded. ‘If Rita’s in some kind of trouble I want to
know about it.’
Detective Inspector Sheppard was polite but firm.
‘We’re making investigations into another matter. Mrs Farringdon’s name was
mentioned and it’s possible she may have information that will help our enquiries. When
she comes home, please ask her to contact this number as a matter of some urgency.’
He handed Gary a business card.
Back at the scene of the explosion, the two detectives spoke with the head of the
forensic team.
‘What have you managed to turn up so far?’
DCI Sheppard handed the man the plastic wallet containing the photograph to store
with the gathering pile of bags containing evidence for analysis.
‘Enough to know it wasn’t just the petrol tank went up. There’s evidence of a
sophisticated explosive being used – military I’d say – the lab will let us know the exact
type. As for a body…well…the lads are busy picking tissue and bone fragments blown
clear by the blast. Everything in the immediate area was incinerated, but there’ll be
enough for DNA matching. I’m as sure as I can be there was someone in the vehicle
when it exploded.’
‘Definitely deliberate then – not an accident?’
‘No way – we’ll have the wreckage taken back to the lab to determine explosive type
and quantity – but it was deliberate – no doubt about it.’
DCI Sheppard turned to his subordinate.
‘Then you better get on to the nick and tell them to set up a murder room – I’ll put in a
requisition for some extra bods – Christ… we’re going to be popular with Headquarters.’
The forensic chief looked up from his task of cataloguing the evidence.
‘If you’ve any thoughts on who was in the car, I’ll need to have DNA samples for
cross-matching.’
‘I can arrange that – there may have been more than one person though. This is going
to get messy – I just know it. If you can lend me one of your lads, there’s two people
I’ve got in mind who’ll probably have no objections to providing samples for cross
matching.’
‘Have you a fair idea of who was in the car then?’
‘Could be – call it a hunch – sort me out with one of your boys then.’ He pulled up
the collar of his jacket as the rain began. ‘With this weather I expect they’ll all
volunteer.’
The samples for DNA testing and cross matching were obtained, DCI Sheppard
explaining to the three women the difficulty the forensic team was experiencing in
obtaining any conclusive evidence of identification.
‘The initial investigation has revealed the car was occupied at the time of the
explosion. Unfortunately, the force of the explosion, and the subsequent fire has
destroyed any evidence we would normally be able to submit for identification. One way
to proceed is to ask you to provide a sample for DNA analysis, and then cross match the
result with DNA discovered at the scene.’
He paused before addressing Constance, appreciating the picture his request was
conjuring up in the minds of the three women.
‘I have to proceed with the theory the vehicle was occupied by your husband. Because
of the photograph found at the scene, I cannot rule out the possibility Mrs Farringdon was
also present, particularly as her whereabouts cannot be established since she left the
address you provided me with earlier today.’
Jennifer’s voice was very unsteady as she spoke to the detective.
‘I don’t think my mother knows Mr Longthorpe – when I told her I was starting work
in the accounts department she made no mention of it.’
DCI Sheppard shook his head.
‘I realise it’s a long shot, and the last thing I want to do is cause you any unnecessary
alarm, but your mother didn’t return home last night and we can’t trace her whereabouts.
In my job, coincidence is something of a dirty word I’m afraid.’
Two DNA samples were taken, one each from Jennifer and Charlotte; simple swabs,
passed over the gums and inside of the mouth before being labelled and sealed in glass
phials. With the procedure finished, DCI Sheppard drew Constance to one side.
‘I understand Jennifer is staying with you at the present time.’
‘Yes she is – she’s my daughter’s friend and mine also.’
‘And the three of you were here together all last night?’
‘No one left the house until this morning when the girl’s drove into town to deliver
some concert tickets.’
‘And you have no idea where your husband spent last night?’
‘None whatsoever Chief Inspector.’
‘Can you think of any reason why Mrs Farringdon would be in your husband’s car? It
seems strange her daughter has just begun work for your husband – you’re sure they
weren’t…acquainted?’
‘Not to my knowledge, but like you, I don’t put much faith in coincidence.’
Constance took a few moments to outline the events leading to Jennifer’s stay at St
Anthony.
‘Thank you Mrs Longthorpe – you’ve been very helpful – I’ll have the DNA analysis
given top priority – I’ll be in touch.’
When Rita failed to return home that day, Gary telephoned the Police Station and asked
to be put through to DCI Sheppard. The response to Gary’s frantic questioning was non-
committal. The Police had no clue to Rita’s whereabouts and were pursing a line of
enquiry that may, or may not, throw some light on the subject. They were not at liberty
to reveal the nature of their enquiries and would contact him should the need arise.
 From the onset of DCI Sheppard’s visit to St Anthony, Constance had resigned herself
to the belief William was dead. Over the weeks, her conversations with Jennifer
concerning the girl’s mother had brought her to the conclusion Rita would stop at nothing
to cause maximum trouble to all concerned. It had crossed her mind, that William, in his
rise to wealth and power would have committed acts, either of an unlawful nature or
calculated to give rise to thoughts of revenge in others. It was understandable her
conclusions were centred on theories of blackmail and reprisals, but her ideas always
contained flaws and loose ends she was unable to resolve.
Jennifer and Charlotte were in much the same boat. Charlotte shared her mother’s
belief that her father had been blown to pieces in an act of revenge. Jennifer experienced
difficulty with imagining any reason why her mother and William Longthorpe would
have been together in his car.
Missing from all the deliberations the three women undertook was the emotional, near
hysterical state, associated with the violent and unexpected passing of a loved one. The
three felt that past events had blessed them with the ability to take a step backward, to
weigh present reality against past injustice. All felt sorrow, but not to the point of
emotional collapse or grief stricken distress.
With the DNA analysis and cross matching completed, the results were forwarded to
DCI Sheppard’s office. He scanned the pages of results and picked up the telephone,
requesting a call be placed to the forensic science laboratory. At the completion of the
call he summoned WDC Denholm to his office and handed her the results.
‘Interesting – don’t you think?’
The officer scanned through the pages, re-reading the final sheet itemising the
laboratory’s findings.
‘That’s putting it mildly sir. Shall I bring a car round so we can go visiting?’
‘Do that if you would – I’ve a feeling this has nothing to do with our investigations,
but it has to be sorted.’
The explosion and subsequent fire had received the minimum of news coverage,
allowing the three women undisturbed time to come to terms with the realisation of the
possible consequences to all concerned. Constance had made excuses to Longthorpes’ to
cover William’s absence until the findings of the forensic laboratory were made known,
but his failure to return home during the intervening days pointed to the inevitable
conclusion. She had also informed Joshua Bernstein that unexpected family business
would prevent Jennifer from returning to work for a few days, and Charlotte had left a
message for Tom in reception to the same effect. Jennifer had contacted WPC Denholm
every day, but the detective had been unable to offer the girl any news of her mother’s
whereabouts. Between them, Constance, Charlotte and Jennifer had agreed there was a
strong likelihood Rita had been in the vehicle with William. When DCI Sheppard
telephoned to say the forensic results were through and he would call at St Anthony that
morning, the announcement was greeted with feelings of absolute relief and nervous
anticipation.
‘I think we must prepare ourselves for bad news,’ Constance remarked after taking the
telephone call.
Charlotte put into words all their thoughts.
‘At least we’ll know – anything’s got to be better than all the questions going through
our heads and no one having any answers.’
 Jennifer agreed with Charlotte.
‘I think we all know the answer, but until someone in authority actually tells us –
we’ve all got doubts in our minds.’
When the two detectives arrived, Constance offered them coffee and joined Charlotte
and Jennifer, seated at one end of the table.
DCI Sheppard placed the folder containing the results in front of him on the table and
looked at the three women seated together.
‘There’s no easy way for me to start this conversation. As a result of our
investigations at the scene of the incident, a murder enquiry has begun. The vehicle was
destroyed by an explosion, and a detailed examination of the wreckage has revealed the
substance used to be of a military origin. Do any of you know of any connection between
William Longthorpe or Rita Farringdon, with any military personnel?’
All three women shook their heads.
‘The explosive used is unavailable to anyone outside the military, so it follows that the
person, or persons responsible, must have direct or indirect access to military equipment.
If you can think of any possible link, it would help us enormously with our enquiries.’
The detective spread his hands.
‘It’s early days I appreciate, but so far we have no clues to point us in the direction of
those responsible. No particular person is under suspicion and we’re struggling for a
motive – except perhaps revenge. But revenge for what, we’ve no idea as yet.’
He opened the cover of the report.
‘The results of the forensic tests have been quite conclusive. With the DNA samples
provided by Jennifer and Charlotte I regret to tell you, our forensic team have been able
to obtain a positive cross match with the samples of DNA obtained at the scene.’
The three women seated at the other end of the table were all showing signs of the
ordeal. Constance was pale but still composed: Jennifer and Charlotte had their arms
round one another, staring at the police officers.
‘Your husband was an occupant of the destroyed vehicle Mrs Longthorpe – I’m sorry
to tell you the DNA sample from Charlotte proves that conclusively.’
Charlotte began sobbing, burying her head in her mother’s shoulder. Jennifer sat,
white faced, waiting for the man to continue.
‘Jennifer, your DNA was cross matched with samples taken from the scene and the
results have been checked, and independently checked again.’
Detective Chief Inspector Sheppard glanced over toward WDC Denholm, hands
clasped in her lap looking downward.
‘After isolating the samples from the explosion, your DNA was compared to the one
not matching Charlotte’s sample. Again, I’m sorry to have to tell you, a positive match
was obtained, and at this stage we can only conclude your mother was also in the
vehicle.’
Jennifer had been preparing herself for days, having arrived at the conclusion the
photograph could have only one conceivable meaning. The revelation from the police
officer still left her numb with shock. All three women were now comforting one
another.
The folder on the table remained open. DCI Sheppard waited until he had everyone’s
attention.
‘As with all murder investigations, forensic tests are always exhaustive. Often, the
result of a trial can depend solely on forensic evidence. Therefore, as a matter of
procedure, all four DNA samples were referenced against each other. As you are aware,
the purpose of obtaining DNA from Jennifer and Charlotte was to establish beyond
reasonable doubt the identity of any occupants in the vehicle. The reverse of course is
also true. By that I mean, DNA cross matching also establishes your relationship to the
deceased. Jennifer, your sample matched both those found at the scene, and Charlotte, a
match was obtained between you and Jennifer.’
Only DCI Sheppard closing the folder broke the silence in the kitchen. All three
women were staring at him, willing the man to utter his conclusions. He levelled his gaze
at them.
‘In simple terms Jennifer, forensic analysis suggests you are the daughter of the
deceased occupants of the vehicle: the DNA results also indicate that you and Charlotte
are related in some way: presumably you’re half sisters.’
The silence descended on the kitchen once again. Each of the women was
experiencing a different emotion. Constance felt betrayed by her dead husband’s inferred
infidelity, a feeling mixed with the sorrow she felt on the irrefutable proof of his death.
Jennifer was struggling to come to terms with the knowledge of who her real father
had been, and that his death meant less to her than that of the man she had thought to be
her father for almost eighteen years. Like Constance, she felt anger at her mother’s
betrayal of the man she had known as her father.
Charlotte, in common with her mother, was experiencing mixed feelings of sorrow
and anger. Anger that even in death, her father was able to reach out and inflict pain on
her mother.
The silence continued, and getting to his feet, DCI Sheppard caught the eye of his
subordinate.
‘We’ll show ourselves out – I’ll be in touch tomorrow or the next day.’
Constance also stood up.
‘I’ll show you to the door – I’m sure we all appreciate the time you’ve taken to
personally deliver the results from the laboratory – it was very thoughtful – thank you.’
The deliberations at the kitchen table continued when Constance returned. Where to
begin, which facet of the DCI’s revelations to address first? Each of the three found she
was beset with a different priority. Charlotte was the first to break the silence.
She turned to Constance.
‘Perhaps we’ll never get to the bottom of any of it. Obviously my father and Jenny’s
mother met years ago, and I’m guessing they didn’t keep in touch. Perhaps us three
becoming friends sparked something off again – but who would want to blow up my
father and Jennifer’s mother? Don’t you have any idea at all Mum?’
‘None. Not because he was a paragon of virtue, quite the reverse. His business
methods were sometimes very brutal. I hesitate to contemplate the number of people
your father has upset, even financially ruined through the years – and I don’t suppose I’m
aware of the half of it, but that’s a matter for the Police to sort out.’
Constance put an arm round Jennifer, knowing what was going through the girl’s
mind.
‘I will not allow you to torture yourself over this Jennifer. You’re not to blame for
anything that’s happened – in fact, now you really are one of the family, and as for me –
well – I now feel I have two wonderful daughters, and together the three of us will get
through this.’
Charlotte was quick to echo her mother’s thoughts.
‘We’re sisters, but even better than that, we’re friends – we weren’t thrown together
by an accident of birth Jenny. Mum’s right – the three of us can get through this as a
family. I know the next few weeks will be difficult, but none of us has caused any of this
mess, and I for one don’t intend to let it ruin my life.’
The warmth and sincerity of the two women pushed to one side the feeling of
complete loneliness and isolation that had draped itself round Jennifer. For a moment,
she was a little girl again, sitting on the lap of the man she had thought to be her father all
her life, feeling loved, wanted and protected. It was a feeling to treasure, a gift, never to
be taken away. She reflected aloud.
‘When my dad died, there was no one around to take his place, and now you two have
stepped in and made me feel like he used to when I was a child. You’ve both given me
back a feeling I thought I’d lost forever.’
Constance summed up everyone’s feelings.
‘We’ve all drawn something from what’s happened. It’s worth remembering we were
friends before today, and the fact we now find ourselves as a family shouldn’t change a
thing. I know it’s early days, but I hope you two realise the business implications
involved.’
Both girls gave her questioning looks. Constance gazed at them before continuing.
‘Your father was a second-hand car salesman when I met him. His business had burnt
to the ground and he was left with the insurance payout to start over again. I saw the
chance to build something worthwhile – an investment for the future. I guided his choice
of premises, chose the décor and created the opportunities for him to meet the right
people. Well – I’m not about to let go of the future I dreamed of. Edward Armitage will
be very busy in the coming weeks – there are going to be lots of loose ends to tie up: but
when it’s all finished, Longthorpes will remain a family business, and I’m determined the
three of us shall run it as equal partners.’
Charlotte was the first to protest.
‘You can’t do that – what about your charities? You know how you feel about them –
you’ll never be able to give them up.’
Constance smiled.
‘On the contrary – I don’t anticipate any conflict. After all – charities exist for the
sole purpose of raising money and channelling it in the right direction. Longthorpes
reputation will be enhanced tremendously when people learn of its charitable donations
and I know exactly where the money will do most good. As a partner in the business I’ll
be in a position to do more for the needy than I ever have been before.’
The legal aspect of transferring the business empire in equal shares to its three new
owners was accomplished by Edward Armitage, who, upon completion, invited the three
women to attend his offices for their final signatures to the necessary documents. Even
when the transition of ownership was complete, Jennifer and Charlotte still experienced
difficulties in coming to terms with what Constance considered to be their inheritance.
An overall manager was installed, answerable to Constance, to run the business. Tom
volunteered to stay on, releasing Charlotte to acquaint herself with the practical aspects of
the industry under the guidance of the new manager, and devote time to a business
studies course. Charlotte made a point of speaking to her mother upon learning of her
late father’s threat to the old man.
‘Tom’s loyalty needs rewarding – Jennifer thinks so too.’
Constance agreed without hesitation, instructing Joshua Bernstein to set aside four
times the amount her late husband had authorised as a retirement bonus, and in
appreciation of Tom’s long service and loyalty, sent him and his wife on a month’s
luxury cruise, courtesy of the business. In return, Tom located an ex-serviceman with
standards to match his own and suggested to the three women he should train him as his
eventual replacement. The new owners had accepted his suggestion and employed the
man forthwith who proved, as Tom said he would, to be every bit as diligent as his
teacher.
After conferring with Joshua Bernstein, Constance approached Jennifer and suggested
she might consider enrolment at a private accountancy college. With her gift for
mathematics, the girl shone as an exemplary student from the beginning of the course, her
abilities allowing her to divide her time between attending lectures, studying and working
in the accounts department of Longthorpes.
With her natural eye for accounting detail and the unlimited access her position
afforded to the company accounts, Jennifer soon unearthed the discrepancies Joshua
Bernstein had been obliged to make for his former employer. Remembering her financial
exploits at school, and the way she had capitalised on her fellow students’ desperation to
ensure success, Jennifer understood Joshua’s dilemma at the hands of William
Longthorpe. Keeping her discovery to herself, she chose her time to approach the head
of accounts when they were alone.
‘These figures are not consistent with my calculations Joshua. I’ve checked and
double-checked and can only assume the discrepancies revealed can be attributed to
management demands, as the benefits derived would seem to profit a person no longer
with us.’
To his credit, Joshua Bernstein offered no excuse, and even admitted to the annual
bonus he had been accustomed to receiving, convinced it would only be a matter of time
before the girl unearthed a record the payments.
‘I suppose Mrs Longthorpe is expecting my resignation, or does she intend to take the
matter up with the authorities?’
‘Neither – I’m the only one who knows, and as the accounts have been independently
audited and certified correct, albeit by your cousin’s company, I see no reason to
jeopardise the jobs of innocent people. An investigation would undoubtedly uncover
financial discrepancies, causing two people very dear to me to suffer considerable pain
and anguish. I’m confident, that in the future Joshua, such demands will never be placed
upon you, or your cousin again.’
Before the man could express his heartfelt gratitude Jennifer offered one final
comment for his consideration.
‘As your ‘bonus entitlement’ is now at an end, it seems a little too generous under the
circumstances to extend the privilege of a company vehicle to your relations in future –
don’t you think?’
At the conclusion of their meeting Jennifer felt confident the company accounts would
in future, reflect the grateful and zealous honesty of Joshua Bernstein.
The charity concert at the football stadium proved to be such an immense success it was
decided to repeat the event each year. Tens of thousands of pounds were donated to local
charities, and the favourable publicity heaped upon the Longthorpe name elevated the
company’s standing in the community to the extent that sales went through the roof. The
royalties earned from spin-offs of the concert continued to flood in, long after the event.
Jennifer’s meeting with Sean’s parents proved to be a delightful encounter for all
concerned. Charlotte introduced Jennifer to the couple as her sister, guaranteeing a
somewhat interesting conversation for the remainder of the evening. The pride
Constance exhibited in the two girls was evident for all to see, and the developing
relationship between the girls and the two musicians brought wholehearted approval from
the parents.
With venues booked around the world for the band, time spent together by the two
couples was a precious commodity: airport departure lounges and brief hours spent
together backed up by long distance telephone calls becoming a way of life. When
Jennifer excelled in her accountancy exams and Charlotte gained a much-deserved
diploma in business studies, Constance was beside herself with pride. She had watched
both girls coping with the demands of their studies and their efforts made on the
company’s behalf: neither asking for holidays or time off, both electing to see the job
through and secure their futures. She was well aware of the social restrictions incurred
by the girls self imposed regime and praised them for not succumbing to the temptations
offered by their increasing wealth.
Jennifer and Charlotte sat at a table in the window of Salvatore’s café. On the table,
by Jennifer’s handbag, lay two complimentary tickets for the third annual charity concert
later that month. Their waiter friend glided over and Jennifer handed him the tickets.
‘One for you and one for your mum – how’s things?’
The waiter looked embarrassed.
‘Fine…look - this is really going to sound rude, but at last I’ve got a girlfriend who’s
also a fan, but if I take her and don’t take my mum, my life won’t be worth living – any
chance of one more ticket?’
Charlotte produced another one from her handbag.
‘It’s no problem…and great news on the girlfriend front by the way.’
Before he could reply, a young woman’s voice from inside the kitchen called out.
‘Stephano – could you give me a hand?’
The waiter shot the two women an embarrassed look before answering.
‘Of course – uno momento, amore mio,’ and as an aside to Jennifer and Charlotte,
‘She thinks I’m Italian – you won’t say anything will you? – Coffee on the house.’
‘That’s a fine line you’re treading Stephano,’ Jennifer managed to say before laughter
got the better of her.
‘It gets worse,’ replied the retreating waiter over his shoulder. ‘She’s taking Italian
lessons so she can converse with me in my native language.’
An estate car pulled up outside the flats opposite Salvatore’s: Jennifer recognised the
driver. A woman alighted from the passenger seat and opened the rear passenger door.
Gary went to the rear of the vehicle, and opening the tailgate, unloaded two carrier bags
full of shopping onto the pavement. The woman unclipped a seat harness restraining a
very young child, and swung the infant up into her arms. The child stretched its arms
toward Gary, who, hurrying over, gathered it up, ruffled its hair and pulled a comic face.
The child giggled and wrapped its arms around the man’s neck. The woman picked up
the carrier bags and all three disappeared through the front door.

The charity concert, as always, a huge success, produced an extra surprise for its
enraptured audience, in the form of the first public performance of the band’s next
release. Standing just offstage in the wings, Jennifer turned to Charlotte.
‘What have those two been up to? – I didn’t know they had a new release coming up.’
‘News to me – I thought they were in the middle of recording another album – at least,
that’s what Gillam’s been telling me.’
The lyrics had the two smiling long before the song ended and Gillam announced the
title.
‘Gold in the Sunset was a big hit for us – but we thought it would be nice to have a
happy ending – so for that ‘someone special’ in everyone’s life we’ve written and
recorded ‘Sunshine In Our Dreams’. It’s released next week – we hope you liked it.’
Later, seated on the bench in the orchard of St Anthony, Sean proposed to Jennifer and
she accepted. The slight autumn chill in the air had little to do with the couples arms
entwined round one another as they made their way back to the house to break the news.
Halfway across the back lawn Charlotte’s frantic voice drove away the couple’s
seclusion.
‘Jenny…Jennifer…hell – where are you Jenny?’
Spotting the couple on the lawn she ran up to them and dragged Jennifer away to one
side. Her whisper held a theatrical urgency.
‘I’ve done a terrible thing and I desperately need your help.’
Jennifer could just make out Gillam coming down the steps toward them.
‘Gillam’s asked me to marry him and I’ve said yes.’
Before Jennifer was able to speak, Charlotte rushed on.
‘Also…for some reason I’ve yet to understand – I’ve told him I’m a superb cook.’
Charlotte, already clinging to Jennifer’s arm, tightened her grip.
‘Please…please…you’ve got to teach me how to make pastry…and everything...now!’

'Farringdon's Daughter' is available in book format from

Amazon and High Street book shops.
The author may be contacted at drncoleman@hotmail.co.uk