Read Online The Village Newcomers by Rebecca Shaw - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Shaw
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deserved a better home than they’d had, but it had been close to friends, within walking distance to the shops, and was familiar and comfortable. But here!
In their old house, she’d opened the front door and there was the narrow passage with the old Victorian tiled floor in soft browns, ochre and dark red, and the picture rail with the prints and the narrow hall table with the bowl of dried flowers on it. What had she got here? A huge hall twice as big as the front room in the old house, a shining, glossy parquet floor, definitely not laminate . . . She’d never feel at home in it, not in a thousand years, and couldn’t understand why Ford liked it so much.
At the house, as she switched the kettle on, Mercedes said, ‘He very nearly thumped you.’
‘ Me ? Thumped me ? I thought we’d hit the right note.’
‘When you said about his daughter, I could have crawled away.’
‘Well, I thought she was - she’s too young for that old man. I mean!’
‘You didn’t see the huge diamond engagement ring and the thick gold wedding ring, nor the wedding photo on the table?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I did. I’m having my hot chocolate in bed, in that huge master bedroom you’re so proud of. You know, I much preferred our little bedroom with the furniture you put together for us.’
‘But look at the wardrobes you’ve got here! Massive, they are, plenty of room. Those wardrobes I built were as cheap as chips, and almost too narrow to take hangers, which was a big mistake on my part, I admit.’
‘So? I liked them.’
‘You’ve got to grow into this new lifestyle, Merc. Move on. Move up.’
‘That Mr Fitch. Don’t ever use his first name again, and don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s a small-time man. I’ve an idea that our bank balance will be a drop in the ocean compared to his. He’s got power, has that man, and he’s ruthless if he puts his mind to it. He could ruin you in a second, and don’t think he won’t if the thought occurs to him.’
Ford put on his sceptical look when he heard this. ‘Now, honestly, how could he?’
Mercedes nodded bleakly at him. ‘You know full well how.’ She marched up the sweeping staircase, carefully gripping her mug of hot chocolate in fear of spilling it on the thick ivory carpet, sat on the edge of the bed and put the mug down on the mat she had there for that very purpose. Her alarm clock was round and comfortable, big and made of brass, old and traditional, and, after she’d put the alarm on, she held it to her chest, loving the comfort of it and wishing . . . how she wished . . .
Downstairs in his posh study Ford sipped his hot chocolate, his feet propped on the desk. He looked round and admired his pictures of famous racehorses which now lined the walls instead of the cold, bare, unimaginative pictures that had belonged to Neville Neal. Red Marauder 2001. My, what a horse! Bobbyjo, Papillon in 2000, and last but not least Red Rum in the seventies. Three times he won the Grand National, three times! Lovely horse. He could name every horse in every picture, and was proud to do so. When he thought about his miserable start in life, and where he stood now, he brimmed with self-satisfaction.
Niggling at the back of his mind, though, was Mercedes’ comment as she was setting off up that beautifully impressive staircase, which was what had sold the house to him. He was always of the opinion that Merc was not as bright as himself, then she came out with a remark like that and it floored him. He could only describe it as hitting the nail on the head, because she’d guessed correctly what kind of a man Craddock Fitch was. He, Ford Barclay, thought he had the measure of him, but he hadn’t. Fitch had sneered at him. He’d despised him for earning a living in scrap metal, which was indeed the correct name for his business. He, Ford Barclay, would show that Fitch the way to go home with
In their old house, she’d opened the front door and there was the narrow passage with the old Victorian tiled floor in soft browns, ochre and dark red, and the picture rail with the prints and the narrow hall table with the bowl of dried flowers on it. What had she got here? A huge hall twice as big as the front room in the old house, a shining, glossy parquet floor, definitely not laminate . . . She’d never feel at home in it, not in a thousand years, and couldn’t understand why Ford liked it so much.
At the house, as she switched the kettle on, Mercedes said, ‘He very nearly thumped you.’
‘ Me ? Thumped me ? I thought we’d hit the right note.’
‘When you said about his daughter, I could have crawled away.’
‘Well, I thought she was - she’s too young for that old man. I mean!’
‘You didn’t see the huge diamond engagement ring and the thick gold wedding ring, nor the wedding photo on the table?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I did. I’m having my hot chocolate in bed, in that huge master bedroom you’re so proud of. You know, I much preferred our little bedroom with the furniture you put together for us.’
‘But look at the wardrobes you’ve got here! Massive, they are, plenty of room. Those wardrobes I built were as cheap as chips, and almost too narrow to take hangers, which was a big mistake on my part, I admit.’
‘So? I liked them.’
‘You’ve got to grow into this new lifestyle, Merc. Move on. Move up.’
‘That Mr Fitch. Don’t ever use his first name again, and don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s a small-time man. I’ve an idea that our bank balance will be a drop in the ocean compared to his. He’s got power, has that man, and he’s ruthless if he puts his mind to it. He could ruin you in a second, and don’t think he won’t if the thought occurs to him.’
Ford put on his sceptical look when he heard this. ‘Now, honestly, how could he?’
Mercedes nodded bleakly at him. ‘You know full well how.’ She marched up the sweeping staircase, carefully gripping her mug of hot chocolate in fear of spilling it on the thick ivory carpet, sat on the edge of the bed and put the mug down on the mat she had there for that very purpose. Her alarm clock was round and comfortable, big and made of brass, old and traditional, and, after she’d put the alarm on, she held it to her chest, loving the comfort of it and wishing . . . how she wished . . .
Downstairs in his posh study Ford sipped his hot chocolate, his feet propped on the desk. He looked round and admired his pictures of famous racehorses which now lined the walls instead of the cold, bare, unimaginative pictures that had belonged to Neville Neal. Red Marauder 2001. My, what a horse! Bobbyjo, Papillon in 2000, and last but not least Red Rum in the seventies. Three times he won the Grand National, three times! Lovely horse. He could name every horse in every picture, and was proud to do so. When he thought about his miserable start in life, and where he stood now, he brimmed with self-satisfaction.
Niggling at the back of his mind, though, was Mercedes’ comment as she was setting off up that beautifully impressive staircase, which was what had sold the house to him. He was always of the opinion that Merc was not as bright as himself, then she came out with a remark like that and it floored him. He could only describe it as hitting the nail on the head, because she’d guessed correctly what kind of a man Craddock Fitch was. He, Ford Barclay, thought he had the measure of him, but he hadn’t. Fitch had sneered at him. He’d despised him for earning a living in scrap metal, which was indeed the correct name for his business. He, Ford Barclay, would show that Fitch the way to go home with
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