Olivia’s Luck (2000) (48 page)

“Look, I’ll talk to him, Spiro, OK? Now don’t you worry, no one’s going to shoot the messenger,” I smiled. “So, where exactly are you off to in your Sunday best, then?”

“Ah yes, well, that also why I want to speak to you.” He twisted his hat nervously. “You see, I got a leetle job, a very tiny one,” he held his forefinger and thumb apart a fraction, “and it only take a jiffy, but I don’t want to step on your feet, so first, I come here, to ask your permission and see if you don’t mind.”

I folded my arms in mock horror. “Good heavens, another job? Don’t tell me one of my staff is moonlighting? Where exactly is it, Spiro?”

“Ees only down the road, at number 42. You know, at your dear friend, Meesis Nanette’s.”

I frowned. “Really? And what exactly are you doing for dear Meesis Nanette?”

“Ah,” he rolled his eyes. “Poor lady. She have beeg, beeg problems with her bed.”

“Her bed?”

“Yes,” he sighed, “an antique bed, you see, so very beautiful, but very old, and some of the springs, they go flippy floppy on her. They shoot through,” he demonstrated with a sharp upward thrust of his fist, “and hurt her something chronic she say. She want me to come with my spanner, you see, adjust them, and she say, ‘Spiro, you wear clean clothes now, please, because I have a cream carpet, and also, I may need you to lie on my bed to test it’.”

“Did she now?” I said grimly.

“Yes, and you know what,
she
may have to lie on
other
side of bed because sometimes,” his eyes widened, “the springs, they go plippy-ploppy all over! So we do a practical demonstration.” He nodded sagely.

“Ah. And I take it Roger isn’t around to help with this practical? He’s not hovering about helpfully with
his
spanner?”

“No, no, so sad. You see Meesis Nanette, she say, ‘I’m Rogerless, Spiro! And he such a handy man, my Rog, but he not here to do the business!’”

“Is he not. I see.” I nodded. Pursed my lips. “Spiro, have you ever heard of a nymphomaniac?”

He frowned. “Nymph? Ah yes, ees Greek, you know, for youth, and beauty.”

“Possibly, and in her dreams, but in England, together with the maniac bit, it means mad about sex.”

He frowned. “Ti?”

“Sex, Spiro – she loves it. Lots of it, and with dewy young men like yourself and Lance, see? Oh, there’s nothing too terrible about it. It’s a harmless enough hobby, a frivolous diversion from the ironing and the dusting, something to do between
Neighbours
and
Countdown
, and I dare say it’s a marvellous tonic too, but just so long as you know the score. Just so long as you know what you’re getting into here. Because tomorrow morning, I really don’t want to find you weeping in the back garden, sobbing into your hat about what you’ve done to your poor Atalanta, when I’d really rather you were rodding my drains.”

“Sex!” he gasped. “No bad springs?”

“Oh, I should think they’re fairly bad, pretty rotten and worn out by now, but I’m sure they’re up to just one more hammering.”

“Never!” he spluttered, backing away in horror. “Never would I cheat on my Atalanta to hammer this woman!”

I patted his outraged shoulder. “Attaboy, Spiro, that’s the spirit. Now you hold on tight to that righteous indignation and pop down the road and put her straight. Tell her you won’t be making an appearance in her boudoir this afternoon. Oh, and while you’re there, you might tell her from that she’s a terrible old slapper and to keep her thieving hands off my workforce. Tell her that if she’s that desperate for company, she can come and have a gin and tonic on the lawn with me instead. I’ll be getting the ice out right now.”

Opening and shutting his mouth he backed away. “Yes, I go, I go. And I tell her!” Suddenly he stopped, frowned. “Slapper?”

I grinned. “That’s it.”

He nodded. “OK.”

He squared his shoulders, turned and marched out of the drive, for all the world like some proud Cretan soldier off to rout a young Turk. Head high and bristling with indignation, he swept the tea-cosy hat out of his pocket and plonked it firmly on his head again.

I watched him go, smiling, imagining Nanette’s stunned face. I also felt sure she’d have the nous to see the funny side, though. I could see her, listening incredulously to his indignant, disjointed spiel, then as she shut the door, throwing back her head and roaring with laughter, before charging upstairs, ripping off her black camisole, throwing on her old sequinned jeans and coming over to have a drink with me. I’d tease her mercilessly, of course, and no doubt she’d stay a while, help me see the bottle off, and we’d roar drunkenly into the night. Yes, two single, frustrated women, knocking it back. “Ha!” I laughed out loud. Because for the first time for ages, that didn’t make me feel either sad or lonely. It simply amused me.

I was still smiling as I went down to the cellar, en route to the safe to get some money out for Mac. As I crouched down and punched in the combination number, I looked at the scrappy piece of paper Spiro had given me. I’d give Mac half, I decided, slowly opening the safe door. Two thousand pounds really was too much all in one go. I counted out the cash, popped it in an envelope, put the rest away, and then shut the safe again. God, no wonder he’d sent Spiro, I thought wryly as I mounted the cellar steps. For a start I generally paid him on a Friday, so this was earlier than usual, and also, I wanted to ask him about all these so-called building supplies. I could have sworn I’d paid for a whole lorryload only last week.

I put the envelope in my skirt pocket and wandered down the garden to the caravan. I could hear voices and a light was on. I glanced at my watch. Four o’clock. Well, they’d knocked off slightly earlier than usual, but I wasn’t going to quibble about that. They worked jolly hard during the day. I knocked on the door and Alf answered.

“Oh, Alf, look, Spiro gave me this bill, but I have to say it’s rather hefty and I’m minded to give you only half at the moment. I’ll speak to Mac about having the rest later. Is he about?”

Alf looked worried. “It’s all kosher, luv, all straight-up stuff.”

“I’m sure it is,” I soothed, “but if I could just have a word…”

“E’s in the karzy, luv, d’you wanna wait? He won’t be long.”

“Er, well, no I won’t, if you don’t mind,” I said nervously, eyeing the Portaloo door, not convinced I wanted to encounter Mac before he’d washed his hands. “Just ask him to pop up and see me, would you?”

Alf took the bill. “Swear to God it’s all stuff we need, on my life. Copper piping an’ that for the bathroom, skirting and architrave for round the doors, and – ”

“I don’t doubt it, Alf,” I interrupted patiently, “I just want to go through it, that’s all, sitting down at the kitchen table. Tell Mac I’ll speak to him later.”

“Yeah, orright.” He scratched his head, looked anxious. He glanced at the envelope in my hand. “I’ll take that little lot then, shall I? Just for the minute?”

“Oh – sure.” I handed it over. “Oh, and could I have a receipt please, Alf?”

“A receipt?”

“Yes, you know, just to say I’ve given it to you.”

“Oh! Right.” He turned, went inside, and came lumbering back a moment later with a pencil and paper. “What does Mac do then?”

“Oh, just your name and then write received, from me. You know, Mrs McFarllen,” I said, just in case he didn’t.

“Right.” He licked the end of the pencil. It hovered doubtfully over the paper. For an awful moment I thought perhaps he couldn’t write, but then slowly he began to etch away and I realised his eye probably gave him trouble. Finally he handed it to me.

“There.”

“Thanks, Alf.” I took it and glanced down.

“FROM MRS O. MCFARLLEN. THE SUM OF £1,000, RECEIVED BY MR A.J. TURNER.”

I was about to stuff it in my pocket, when suddenly I stopped. Pulled it out. I read it again. Stared. I knew this writing. Childish capitals, scrawled on cheap, lined paper, torn out of a spiral-bound notebook. Slowly I looked up and met Alf’s eye. I knew in an instant where I’d seen this handwriting before.

I
gazed into his eyes, one brown and watery, the other, unfocused and veering off to the right somewhere.

“Orright, luv? That the sort of fing?” Alf nodded down at the receipt, shuffling nervously from foot to foot, clearly keen to shut the door.

“Yes. Yes…that’s fine, Alf.”

“Right. See you later, then.”

I didn’t respond, so with a curt nod of his head, he shut the door anyway.

I stared down at the piece of paper again. After a moment I turned and walked slowly back up the lawn. Then I stopped. Turned back, and looked at the caravan door. For a moment there I was tempted to run back, bang on it, and demand an explanation, but then in another moment I’d changed my mind. I stuffed the bit of paper in my pocket and walked quickly back to the house. I marched through the French windows, made straight for the telephone in the hall, and started riffling furiously around on the chaotic hall table, searching for that scrap of paper with the number scrawled on it that had
still
not made it into the address – Ah! There it was. I pounced on it and punched out the number. Nina answered more or less immediately.

“Oh God, I’m so glad you’ve rung. I’ve been really worried about you.”

I was momentarily taken aback. “Really? Why?”

“Well, telling you all that stuff about Johnny and then letting you get in the car and drive home in that dreadful storm. Mum said it was an awful thing to do, said you must have been in a terrible state. I kept imagining you, blinded by tears, tearing down the motorway and ploughing into the middle of some ghastly pile-up or something!”

I paused. Sat down and crossed my legs. “No, not at all,” I said slowly. “In fact, quite the reverse. I’m delighted you gave me the missing pieces to the puzzle. You see it merely confirmed some suspicions I’d had all along, made me realise I’m definitely doing the right thing. But I wasn’t ringing about my husband, Nina. I wanted to ask you something else.”

“Oh! Right.” Her turn to be wrong-footed.

“That night you came to see me, the evening you sat on my terrace. Did you see anyone else in the garden?”

“Well, one or two of your builders were about, yes.”

“Which ones – Mac? The small one, quite thin and wiry?”

“Um, yes, I think so. Skinny with bristly hair.”

“That’s it. He said he was having a pee in the bushes and turned round and saw you there, is that right?”

“Oh no, he certainly wasn’t having a pee. I’d have remembered that. No, he was sitting on that little brick wall round the corner, on the other side of your patio, the main bit. He had his back to me, he was talking to the big one.”

“The big one?”

“You know, huge, funny eye. I couldn’t see much because it was dark, but I remember him.”

“Alf,” I breathed, and Mac had told me he was alone. Said that Alf had been monopolising the bathroom, getting spruced up for their night out in the curry house.

“What were they talking about? Did you hear?”

“Not really. It was all in whispers. You know, very hushed and urgent. They seemed to be arguing a bit about something, though, and that pushed the volume up occasionally.”

“But you don’t know? Not a word?”

She paused. “No, except…”

“Yes?”

“Well, something about – how to get rid of it. But I don’t know what. That was all, really. Why, is it important?”

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “So what happened next? They saw you?”

“Yes, well, I coughed actually, on purpose. I didn’t want them thinking I was spying on them or anything, and the small one swung round and saw me. I heard him say ‘Shit’ under his breath, and then the big one scuttled away, back to the caravan, I think.”

“And Mac came over?”

“Oh yeah, he came storming over, wanted to know what the hell I thought I was doing there and I sort of stuttered something about waiting for you. I’d seen the foreign one in the front drive, you see, and he’d said it was OK to wait. This one was pretty mad, though.”

“Was he?” I murmured. Yes, not at all how Mac had related this encounter. A polite conversation, he’d said, about when I might be expected back.

“Um, how is he?” she faltered nervously.

“Who, Mac?”

“No! Johnny.”

“Oh. Oh, fine, I expect. He’s not here, though. I rather thought he might be with you. Still, the traffic could be bad on the Ml. I’d expect him any time, Nina.”

I heard her catch her breath. “You mean – he’s left?”

“No, no,” I smiled. “I threw him out.” I found a nail file and picked it up, pushing back a cuticle or two. “There’s only so much crap a person can take, you know, and frankly, I’m grateful to you for showing me just how much was being dumped my way. Goodbye, Nina. Oh, and incidentally, don’t throw away any of those little notes you’ve got tucked away in that magazine. They may turn out to be what I believe is known as admissible evidence.”

I replaced the receiver before she could utter a response. Right. That, I thought with some satisfaction, had surely killed two little birds quite neatly with one stone, hadn’t it? In the first place I’d let her know that I wasn’t exactly breaking my heart over her liaison with my husband, and in the second place, I’d got her to reveal just a
soupgon
more about what was going on here. I frowned. Twisted round in my chair to face the garden. But only a
soupgon
. Because what exactly
was
going on in my back yard that I didn’t know about? What sort of scam was Mac operating here, and was it being conducted from my house? Right under my nose? I took Alf’s receipt out of my pocket again. Should I ring the police? Get them involved? I instantly decided against it. God – no, what was I thinking of? What, shop these guys; my friends, who’d helped me through some tricky times, just because my husband’s mistress had been threatened by them? No no, I ought to be grateful to them! Pat them on the backs, buy them all a pint, tell them how delighted I was that they’d put the wind up her adulterous knickers, sparked off her neurosis, which, let’s face it, had been the catalyst for Johnny leaving her. Only a few weeks ago I’d have been thrilled to bits about that. I smiled. Yes, strange to think, I mused, that in an ironic sort of way, they might have saved my marriage. Only they weren’t to know, as I did now, that there was nothing to save.