‘Oh no.’ Sweeney gave a half laugh. ‘You’re still on the hook for that.’
Connie grinned, her eyes shiny with happiness and unshed tears. ‘Fair enough.’
The bell dinged over the door outside and Connie squeezed Sweeney’s hands. ‘I’ll get it. Do you want to start with that lot over there?’
Sweeney glanced at the bric-a-brac section. A jumble of items took over the entire top of an old Formica table as well as underneath. ‘Sure.’
The beaded curtain clattered quietly as her mother passed through and Sweeney heard Marjorie Weaver’s voice.Ugh.Of course. Ducking out of sight of the curtain, she made her way to the stack of assorted household goods, unsure of where to start on the pile of junk—her mother preferredpre-loved—that seemed precariously stacked. Like a Jenga tower, ready to collapse should the wrong piece be removed.
Just on a cursory inspection, Sweeney could see several boxes of old books, a toaster, an old-fashioned vase, a handheld electric mixer with only one beater, a decades-old turntable, a drawer that contained what must be hundreds of marbles, a pile of old towels and a triffid-like light fixture straight out of the seventies.
God alone knew what lay beneath. A partridge in a pear tree?
Connie returned a few moments later in another clatter of beads, just as Sweeney was about to open a plush velvet drawstring bag. The big things had been a tad overwhelming so she’d figured she’d start small. The bag was quite posh, although not heavy, and she wondered if it might contain jewellery. The shop seemed to sell a lot of second-hand necklaces, rings, watches and brooches.
‘What did the busybody want?’ Sweeney asked as she looked over her shoulder at her mother.
Connie smiled as she neared. ‘Just checking in to see if there’s been a date set yet.’
Sweeney rolled her eyes. ‘Of course.’
Her mother laughed, but it morphed quite quickly into a frown as she saw what Sweeney was holding. ‘Ooh, careful of that,’ she said. ‘You might want to wear gloves. I got a selection of butt plugs in a bag like that once.’
Sweeney dropped the bag.‘What?’She blinked at her mother. There really should be a law about sixty-year-old mothers sayingbutt plugs. For a moment she didn’t know what to do or say, then she laughed, thinking about how that moment must have gone down. ‘Oh my god, what did you do?’
Connie opened a plastic bag of clothes as she said, ‘We scrubbed them, soaked them, washed them, repackaged them and put ’em on the shelf.’
Sweeney blinked again. Good god.‘Whaaat?’
Connie shrugged. ‘They were an excellent brand. I googled it. And people who can’t afford new ones need butt plugs too.’
This particular conversation was not one she’d ever pictured having with her mother. And she was pretty sure that butt plugs didn’t come inanywhereon Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. ‘Okay…’
‘I mean,’ Connie continued as she shook out a pair of jeans, ‘do you know how much a good butt plug costs?’
Sweeney blinked a third time. She was starting to feel like one of those old-fashioned, creepy dolls with the blinky eyes. ‘No… doyou?’
‘Expensive.’ Her mother nodded. ‘And we sold them in two days to—’
‘Nope.’Sweeney jumped in, interrupting sharply, holding up her hand in the universally recognised sign forstop for the love of god STOP!She did not want to know who might be innocently walking around town with a plug in their ass.
It could be freaking Marjorie for all she knew!
*
After donning gloves, the bag contents were revealed to be several sets of decorative dice—praise the lord. They were quite beautiful, and Sweeney was surprised anyone would part with them. But then, people apparently parted with sex toys, so what did she know?
Still, the biggest surprise of the day was not the revelation that her mother knew the brand names and pricing structure of the butt plug market.Thatcame about twenty minutes later, when she’d cleared enough stuff to reveal a stunning discovery.
Sweeney gasped as she picked it up. ‘Oh my god.’
‘What?’ Connie asked, looking over her shoulder.
Turning to face her mother, Sweeney held up the item, still not quite believing what she was brandishing. A gleaming canary yellow chamber pot.
Betty Hitchin and her bloody water!
Twenty-Two
