1
‘Did you hear the latest? Venetia Prescott’s coming back to Willowbrook after all this time. Who’d have thought we’d see any of that family again? Not me, that’s for sure.’
Neither of Beryl’s companions replied to her remark. Anthea was staring out of the taxi window, sucking on a humbug and wondering if her cleaner would have thought to put the heating on to welcome her back from her jaunt, and Winnie had dug out a bag of knitting and was frantically clicking away to finish a jumper for her smallest grandson’s birthday. Beryl tried again.
‘Youdoboth remember her, don’t you? Venetia Prescott? The kid from the family that lived next door to me? Called herself Vee. Skinny little thing with those big brown eyes and all that curly hair. An innocent kind of smile, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Huh!’
The other two were looking more interested now. ‘The Prescotts left in a bit of a hurry, didn’t they? I never knew what really went on before they disappeared, did you?’ said Winnie. ‘Vee’s dad was called Ivan.’
‘Huh,’ said Beryl.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing, ignore me.’
‘I always find that’s the best option when you’re being mysterious. You’ll tell us what’s on your mind eventually. Anyway, as I was saying, Ivan was a mate of my bloke. They used to play darts together at the pub. I heard he died a good few years back. I wonder if her mum Tallulah’s still going strong? She was something of a firecracker back in the day, wasn’t she? A real looker too. We were the only two exotic girls in the village, so we always stuck together.’
‘Exotic? Oh, I get what you’re saying. I thought you meanterotic,’ said Anthea. ‘Although…’
‘Less of your cheek. You knew very well what I meant. Tallulah had a Spanish mother and an Italian father. I think it was that way round. I can’t remember the exact details but they gave her some stunning looks. I wonder what happened to make them all do a flit like that? It was the talk of the village for a while.’
No comment came from Beryl. Winnie turned to stare at her. ‘You know something about this, don’t you, you minx? Come on, spill the beans. I suppose you were bound to hear all the gossip, living next door.’
Beryl shook her head. Her expression was bordering on smug, and Anthea was finally rattled enough to join in the conversation.
‘That’s typical of you, Beryl,’ she said. ‘Leading us on and then refusing to come up with the goods. Where’s the fun in keeping shtum after so many years? Why are you hogging the secrets? And more to the point, what are they?’
The taxi turned left and made its way around the edge of the village green towards Beryl’s terraced cottage and the driver pulled up outside. ‘First of your three stops, ladies,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘Whose house is this?’
‘It’s mine. My suitcase is the bright red one with the sparkly ribbon tied to it,’ said Beryl. ‘And the matching rucksack too, please. You take a leaf out of my book and try smartening up your luggage, Winnie. You’ve had that battered brown case for years.’
‘Don’t try and distract me. We’ll talk about your new neighbour tomorrow when we have our film night at yours. Who’s cooking? I’m guessing it’s me again. Jerk chicken?’ said Winnie.
The other two nodded enthusiastically and their driver got out to open the boot of the car. The three ladies surveyed the row of cottages. They were right outside Beryl’s home, number five, which had a glossy scarlet door that was even brighter than Beryl’s luggage. The lavish hanging basket that hung on a hook beside it had survived the heat of the summer thanks to regular watering and now, in early September, it was still sporting a flourishing ivy and some geraniums that matched the door.
To the left stood number six with its frontage painted a tasteful gunmetal grey, but the eyes of the group rested on the house on the other side of Beryl’s. Number four Fiddler’s Row was not living up to the standard of its neighbours. Faded green paint peeled from the door, and instead of the pristine white double glazing of Beryl’s home, its window and door frames looked distinctly shabby. Weeds grew around the front step and through smeared panes of glass, elderly curtains could be seen sagging sadly. A wooden dragonfly with a broken wing hung lopsidedly from a nail underneath the tarnished number four and below them, the sign with the name of the house was almost too faded for the letters to be seen.
‘Dragonfly Cottage,’ read Anthea, with difficulty. ‘What a shambles. It must be driving you bonkers, darling, seeing that mess every day when your place and Kate’s the other side are so nice and neat.’
Beryl nodded, her grey curls trembling in her agitation. ‘It really is beyond a joke now. There’s been a whole stream of tenants in there ever since the Prescotts left and the place has just got worse and worse with each lot. Venetia’s going to have her work cut out to get it back into a decent state. I’ve heard on the grapevine that it belongs to her now because your old pal Tallulah died a few months ago, Winnie. I thought I’d told you?’
‘No, you definitely didn’t mention it. I’d have remembered. At least, I think I would. We’re all going a bit doolally these days when it comes to that kind of thing.’
‘You speak for yourself,’ said Anthea. ‘Nothing doolally about me, thank you very much. I’m just as sharp as I ever was.’
Beryl shrugged. ‘Must’ve slipped my mind. Oh, I think our driver’s getting impatient, I’d better go. I’ll chip in with my share for the taxi when you come round tomorrow evening, okay?’
Anthea and Winnie waved to Beryl, who had flatly refused any help getting her belongings inside. As the taxi moved away, she hefted her rucksack onto one shoulder and wheeled her case into the house, feeling the silence and slightly musty air close around her like a dark cloud. Beryl didn’t usually mind living alone but after spending five action-packed days in the Majorcan sunshine with her two sidekicks, it was hard to come back down to earth. Her only sister had long-since settled far away from the sleepy village of Willowbrook, in Australia – how far away did she and her man need to get, for goodness’ sake? Only Beryl’s niece Sophie was still relatively handy, although the girl travelled around so much, it wasn’t possible to see Sophie as much as her fond aunt would have liked.
Beryl’s beloved husband had died some years ago and as for her only son… her mind shied away from the thought of Patrick. She gave herself a little shake and thanked goodness for village life. Many of the locals and in particular Winnie and Anthea were Beryl’s main source of entertainment and affection. The three of them were affectionately known in the village as the Saga Louts due to their penchant for a certain type of holiday and their shared love of Prosecco. Having good neighbours was very important to Beryl. The series of less than satisfactory tenants next door had been a thorn in her side for a very long time.
‘Times are changing, and it’s a good job too,’ Beryl said to herself, as she filled the kettle for her first cup of tea. The weedy brews they’d been drinking on their mini-break weren’t a patch on the real stuff. It was good to be home. She carried on with her monologue as she pottered around the kitchen. ‘Young Venetia… who actually isn’t young any more of course, she must be in her mid-fifties by now… she’s bound to be a better option than the last crew who burnt a mattress in the garden and smoked those funny cigarettes day and night.’
Opening the fridge to find the carton of long-life milk she’d put in there to chill before setting off on her travels, Beryl decided a trip to the corner shop was in order. She’d need a few bits and bobs to tide her over before she asked Anthea to drive her to the big supermarket in Meadowthorpe. She shuddered when she remembered the last trip there, when Anthea had taken it into her head to go the wrong way round a mini roundabout at the entrance to the car park. The resulting chaos had quite put Beryl off the tea and cake she always treated Anthea to in the café afterwards. Maybe she’d start buying more of her shopping from Maryam and Rashid on the corner of Fiddler’s Row. The extra cost would be a better option than being on tenterhooks for the entire journey there and back with her friend who still thought she had the driving skills of a souped-up Jeremy Clarkson.
Two mugs of tea later, Beryl was bustling down the road to the shop, an ancient wicker basket over one arm and her handbag over the other, in the style of the late queen. She hummed to herself as she walked, belatedly realising that the song was ‘Agadoo’, a tune which had been in her head ever since the balmy evening at the beach bar when she’d reminded Winnie, Anthea and all the other customers how to push a pineapple and shake a tree. Her hula-hula dance had been the envy of them all, she could tell. Youngsters these days had no idea how to party. That had been an excellent night but on the whole, it was good to be back home.
The shop bell clanged as she entered and the smiling lady behind the counter greeted her warmly. Yes, Willowbrook was the best place in the world to live, that was certain, Beryl reflected.
