that we do meet our time together, while not exactly warm, is invariably cordial. However, Primrose is five years older, and right from childhood has treated me with a mixture of pained exasperation and wry indulgence. Sometimes she can be exceedingly bossy, although I am not the sole target in that respect. For the most part, however, she is placid – provided her arrangements are not disturbed or will thwarted, when she can turn distinctly awkward. It was this latter trait that might prove a problem … If it did not suit Primrose to house the paintings she would make that abundantly clear and no amount of wheedling on my part would shift her. In any case, she was bound to ask questions, and since for some reason she always seems dubious of my activities, parrying those would not be easy.
Still, I reflected, nothing venture nothing gain. And after all, even if she did turn me down there was nothing to lose – except possibly my sanity were I lumbered with the goods indefinitely! The sooner they were away from the vicarage the better – and if I were to feel remotely at ease with Mrs Tubbly Pole during her crazy belfry project then they would have to be got rid of within the next five days. There was no time to lose, I would have to telephone Primrose immediately.
I paused, struck by the delicacy of the task. Much would depend on her mood and my tact. It seemed easier to pour a glass of delaying whisky which at least would give me time to consider my strategy and steel my nerve …
An hour later, with half the bottle gone but strategy and nerve prepared, I dialled the Sussex number. Primrose answered straightaway and I launched into my spiel. As spiels go it ran quite smoothly, most of what I said having at least a grain of truth – albeit with certain rococo embellishments.
I told her that an art dealer friend whose storage facilities were hopelessly inadequate had accepted my offer to house a couple of his paintings. Normally he would have tried to place them somewhere nearer home; but driving through Molehill shortly after Christmas he had dropped in to wish me a happy New Year, and as we chatted, happened to mention the new acquisitions which he had just been to collect from a seller in Northamptonshire. (I had never been to Northamptonshire, which is perhaps why it came into my head.) I told her he had grumbled about his lack of space, and that in a thoughtless moment I had suggested he leave them in my safekeeping until needed. Despite his protests I had been insistent, and he had gratefully agreed … But after only a few days of their presence I realized I had taken on more than my small house could cope with, especially as I was now having to accommodate some of the props for the bible class’s Nativity play. Embarrassed by my rashness but not wanting to let my friend down, I was in a bit of a quandary. Could Primrose by any chance … might she conceivably be willing to …?
There was a long silence at the other end. And then she said, ‘Did I hear you mention your safekeeping?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
There was a further pause, and then came what can only be described as a snort of derision. ‘Don’t be absurd, Francis, you’ve never kept anything safe in your life! Always losing or ruining things. You’re the last person to entrust a pair of paintings to!’ I was taken aback by that and felt quite indignant.
‘I call that very unfair,’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t you remember the infinite pains I used to take over my stamp album, not to mention my marbles collection!’
‘Perhaps,’ she replied doubtfully, ‘but what about the rocking-horse and your Hornby train set!’
I blushed. They had indeed been unfortunate incidents, and even now I can hear my father’s angry tones as he berated me for buckling the precious Hornby and thus denying him his fondest pastime.
‘They could have happened to anyone!’
‘No, only to you,’ she said firmly.
I sighed. Clearly Primrose was in no mood to be
Still, I reflected, nothing venture nothing gain. And after all, even if she did turn me down there was nothing to lose – except possibly my sanity were I lumbered with the goods indefinitely! The sooner they were away from the vicarage the better – and if I were to feel remotely at ease with Mrs Tubbly Pole during her crazy belfry project then they would have to be got rid of within the next five days. There was no time to lose, I would have to telephone Primrose immediately.
I paused, struck by the delicacy of the task. Much would depend on her mood and my tact. It seemed easier to pour a glass of delaying whisky which at least would give me time to consider my strategy and steel my nerve …
An hour later, with half the bottle gone but strategy and nerve prepared, I dialled the Sussex number. Primrose answered straightaway and I launched into my spiel. As spiels go it ran quite smoothly, most of what I said having at least a grain of truth – albeit with certain rococo embellishments.
I told her that an art dealer friend whose storage facilities were hopelessly inadequate had accepted my offer to house a couple of his paintings. Normally he would have tried to place them somewhere nearer home; but driving through Molehill shortly after Christmas he had dropped in to wish me a happy New Year, and as we chatted, happened to mention the new acquisitions which he had just been to collect from a seller in Northamptonshire. (I had never been to Northamptonshire, which is perhaps why it came into my head.) I told her he had grumbled about his lack of space, and that in a thoughtless moment I had suggested he leave them in my safekeeping until needed. Despite his protests I had been insistent, and he had gratefully agreed … But after only a few days of their presence I realized I had taken on more than my small house could cope with, especially as I was now having to accommodate some of the props for the bible class’s Nativity play. Embarrassed by my rashness but not wanting to let my friend down, I was in a bit of a quandary. Could Primrose by any chance … might she conceivably be willing to …?
There was a long silence at the other end. And then she said, ‘Did I hear you mention your safekeeping?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
There was a further pause, and then came what can only be described as a snort of derision. ‘Don’t be absurd, Francis, you’ve never kept anything safe in your life! Always losing or ruining things. You’re the last person to entrust a pair of paintings to!’ I was taken aback by that and felt quite indignant.
‘I call that very unfair,’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t you remember the infinite pains I used to take over my stamp album, not to mention my marbles collection!’
‘Perhaps,’ she replied doubtfully, ‘but what about the rocking-horse and your Hornby train set!’
I blushed. They had indeed been unfortunate incidents, and even now I can hear my father’s angry tones as he berated me for buckling the precious Hornby and thus denying him his fondest pastime.
‘They could have happened to anyone!’
‘No, only to you,’ she said firmly.
I sighed. Clearly Primrose was in no mood to be
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