to be remembered at Christmas and Easter, with the occasional reversed-charge call in between.
“Well?” The beauty spot on Mrs. Malloy’s cheek quivered and indeed seemed to buzz like a bee about to launch into the air. But before I could respond, the door from the hall opened and in walked a woman all in black, from the draped scarf around her head to her coat, gloves, and sunglasses.
I had been sent my sign. I could hardly go fleeing past this person without causing serious alarm. Sinking back in my chair, I whispered to Mrs. M, “Sorry, the wait was getting to me. This is worse than the dentist.”
The woman in black took a chair across from us, and the three of us sat in uncompanionable silence. A couple of times I cleared my throat in an attempt atconversation, but I couldn’t get out so much as a “Good afternoon.” Those sunglasses spoke loud and clear. Unfortunately, Mrs. Malloy can be in some ways remarkably deaf. She was almost falling off her chair gawking; I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if she had produced an autograph album from the supply bag and gone groveling across the room. The woman is a confirmed celebrity-hound.
“That’s not the late great Greta Garbo,” I whispered.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Her hoarse whisper would have filled a stadium. “That there is Mrs. Norman the Doorman.”
“No!” Now I was the one with eyes as big as Frisbees. What an incredible experience: to be in the same room as the wife of my children’s favourite TV personality. I had known he was local, of course, but I had never dreamed, never dared hope that I would come this close to touching the cape of the Noble Defender of Tinseltown Toys. “Quick!” I jogged Mrs. Malloy’s furry arm. “Pencil … paper!”
“Hold your horses.” Opening up the supply bag, she produced a toilet roll. “Here, I can spare this. I took a couple from your airing cupboard this morning when I got all teary.”
She expected me to beg Mrs. Norman for a signature on toilet paper? Not even a pencil? A lipstick was the best she could produce. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. I was stumbling up from my seat, when the door to the inner sanctum opened and out came Mrs. Huffnagle, unquestionably the snootiest person in Chitterton Fells, one of those well-corseted women whose own hair never dares to come unpermed or stir in the wind. Amazing to find her here, cradling an armload of plastic containers and pamphlets as she stalked past without deigning to recognize any presence but her own.
“Barracuda.”
I dropped the toilet paper. The words fitted Mrs. Malloy’s style of commentary, but the voice … Mesmerized, I watched the woman in black slide back her head scarf and unpeel her sunglasses. “Relax, girls. If hoity-toity Huffnagel isn’t afraid to show her chassis here, why should we worry?” Raising a well-groomed eyebrow, she smoothed back her ash-blonde hair. Not a beauty exactly, but she possessed a ropy thin chic. Those sleepy eyes had a downward tilt and her mouth an amused twist. “Did either of you bring an extra toothbrush? We are planning on being here overnight, aren’t we?”
“It looks that way,” I managed.
“Indeed it do!” Mrs. Malloy contributed in her poshest voice. “It has been a frightful long wait. I were just saying to Mrs. H here that it don’t make a speck of difference to us. We’re nobodies. But a lady such as yourself, well, it do seem wrong, it do indeed.”
“We guessed who you were.” I leaned forward in my chair. “The glasses didn’t fool us at all, Mrs.…?”
“Diamond. Mrs. Norman Diamond.”
It suited her. In removing her gloves she revealed enough rings on her fingers to light up a room. “But feel free to call me Jacqueline.”
“And I’m Ellie Haskell.”
“Roxie Malloy.” Snap went the catch of the supply bag. “If I may present me card—all household services provided and I do mean all. Ceilings, gutters, chimneys—you name
“Well?” The beauty spot on Mrs. Malloy’s cheek quivered and indeed seemed to buzz like a bee about to launch into the air. But before I could respond, the door from the hall opened and in walked a woman all in black, from the draped scarf around her head to her coat, gloves, and sunglasses.
I had been sent my sign. I could hardly go fleeing past this person without causing serious alarm. Sinking back in my chair, I whispered to Mrs. M, “Sorry, the wait was getting to me. This is worse than the dentist.”
The woman in black took a chair across from us, and the three of us sat in uncompanionable silence. A couple of times I cleared my throat in an attempt atconversation, but I couldn’t get out so much as a “Good afternoon.” Those sunglasses spoke loud and clear. Unfortunately, Mrs. Malloy can be in some ways remarkably deaf. She was almost falling off her chair gawking; I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if she had produced an autograph album from the supply bag and gone groveling across the room. The woman is a confirmed celebrity-hound.
“That’s not the late great Greta Garbo,” I whispered.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Her hoarse whisper would have filled a stadium. “That there is Mrs. Norman the Doorman.”
“No!” Now I was the one with eyes as big as Frisbees. What an incredible experience: to be in the same room as the wife of my children’s favourite TV personality. I had known he was local, of course, but I had never dreamed, never dared hope that I would come this close to touching the cape of the Noble Defender of Tinseltown Toys. “Quick!” I jogged Mrs. Malloy’s furry arm. “Pencil … paper!”
“Hold your horses.” Opening up the supply bag, she produced a toilet roll. “Here, I can spare this. I took a couple from your airing cupboard this morning when I got all teary.”
She expected me to beg Mrs. Norman for a signature on toilet paper? Not even a pencil? A lipstick was the best she could produce. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. I was stumbling up from my seat, when the door to the inner sanctum opened and out came Mrs. Huffnagle, unquestionably the snootiest person in Chitterton Fells, one of those well-corseted women whose own hair never dares to come unpermed or stir in the wind. Amazing to find her here, cradling an armload of plastic containers and pamphlets as she stalked past without deigning to recognize any presence but her own.
“Barracuda.”
I dropped the toilet paper. The words fitted Mrs. Malloy’s style of commentary, but the voice … Mesmerized, I watched the woman in black slide back her head scarf and unpeel her sunglasses. “Relax, girls. If hoity-toity Huffnagel isn’t afraid to show her chassis here, why should we worry?” Raising a well-groomed eyebrow, she smoothed back her ash-blonde hair. Not a beauty exactly, but she possessed a ropy thin chic. Those sleepy eyes had a downward tilt and her mouth an amused twist. “Did either of you bring an extra toothbrush? We are planning on being here overnight, aren’t we?”
“It looks that way,” I managed.
“Indeed it do!” Mrs. Malloy contributed in her poshest voice. “It has been a frightful long wait. I were just saying to Mrs. H here that it don’t make a speck of difference to us. We’re nobodies. But a lady such as yourself, well, it do seem wrong, it do indeed.”
“We guessed who you were.” I leaned forward in my chair. “The glasses didn’t fool us at all, Mrs.…?”
“Diamond. Mrs. Norman Diamond.”
It suited her. In removing her gloves she revealed enough rings on her fingers to light up a room. “But feel free to call me Jacqueline.”
“And I’m Ellie Haskell.”
“Roxie Malloy.” Snap went the catch of the supply bag. “If I may present me card—all household services provided and I do mean all. Ceilings, gutters, chimneys—you name
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