Fear on Friday (14 page)

The guest list this year had increased, and Jean was finding it difficult to keep within the allotted finance. She reached the Mayor’s Parlour, and went straight into Howard without knocking. He was on his feet, staring out of the window. He turned rapidly, and seeing that it was her, said, “Ah, there you are, Jean. I didn’t hear you knock. Now, sit down. I have something to tell you.”

He had made up his mind. As he had not long to go in this term of office, he had evolved a plan which he congratulated himself was very cunning.

“You’re looking tired, my dear,” he began.

“So would you, Howard, if you had a husband and a job to cope with, and never quite enough money to go round.” She knew immediately what he was about, and decided to forestall him. “If I didn’t have this job—which I hope you’ll agree that I do very efficiently—it would be hard for us to make ends meet. I don’t suppose Ken ever mentions it. Beneath his dignity! But it’s true. I hope you’ve no fault to find with my work, Howard?”

“Of course not,” he said swiftly. “But I have been thinking about you. I often do, you know. Think about ways of lightening your load here in the office. Now, what do you think of this? We will get you some help, an assistant. I intend to round off my term with a bevy of engagements and activities for the good people of Tresham to remember me by! So there’ll be more for you to do. Too much, I think, to ask of you. I am well aware of how little you are paid. So I have decided to supplement that with a small honorarium from me personally. Then I shall request an assistant for the extra amount of work, and push that through the necessary channels with no difficulty. I have a girl in mind …”

I am sure you have, most of the time, thought Jean sourly. “Oh yes,” she said. “Who’s that then? Susanna Jacob?”

Howard sniffed, and did not reply. “All settled then?” he said, after a moment.

“Except for the small honorarium from you personally,” said Jean flatly. “No thanks. Not in a million years, Howard. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make some telephone calls. I’ll have a final report on arrangements for this evening’s reception for you this afternoon.”

She walked away with a straight, stiff back, and closed the door quietly behind her.

Howard sighed. That had not gone quite as he’d planned, but at least she hadn’t turned down the assistant idea. He cheered up. Now, he must get that going as soon as possible. He picked up the telephone.

•    •   •

R
UPERT
F
ORSYTH HAD BEEN AS PUZZLED AS HIS SON
over the invitation to the Mayor’s reception. He knew such things happened, but never dreamt his business would be included on the list. And why Fergus? He was known to many people in Tresham, being the front man, as it were, for Rain or Shine. Had it anything to do with Daisy’s scheme for persuading Howard Jenkinson to help them with planning permission?

“Daisy?” She was ironing in the kitchen, and listening to the radio. It was the afternoon play, and she turned to him, frowning him into silence. He waited until it had finished, then asked her if she had any clues as to why Rain or Shine should be honoured by the Mayor in this way.

She folded a shirt neatly, and shook her head. “God knows,” she said. “Doesn’t sound like Howard, does it? Anyway, things are different these days. Different attitudes, an’ that. Maybe he wants to show how broad-minded and sophisticated he is!”

“Nonsense!” Rupert was irritated by her light-hearted reaction. He smelled a rat, but couldn’t place it.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Rupert,” Daisy said. “It’ll be nice for Fergus, won’t it? He can mix with the high and mighty, and maybe do a bit of business on the side. No doubt that’s part of the reason for the whole thing. You know, like Rotary and them.” Rupert had never attempted to join the Rotary Club, though several of its august members were well known to him.

“I suppose so,” he said. It was no good worrying about it. “I just hope he behaves himself,” he said, and left her to the ironing.

F
ERGUS HAD TAKEN GREAT TROUBLE WITH HIS APPEARANCE
, and set off for the Town Hall feeling quite pleased with himself. He’d had his hair cut, shaved off his designer stubble, and had his one good grey suit cleaned and pressed. A modest old school tie completed the respectable
conservative impression he wished to give, and he walked into Reception with a jaunty air.

“Up stairs, turn right, and you’ll see the others,” said the friendly receptionist. Fergus nodded his thanks, winked at her, and set off up the wide stone staircase. An attractive girl with a clipboard stood at the door to the large, oak-panelled room, with its long, velvet-curtained windows looking over Tresham. Standing by one of the windows was Howard, monarch of all he surveyed.

“Fergus Forsyth, Rain or Shine,” he said confidently. The girl looked down the guest list that Jean Slater had given her, and ticked off the name. “Welcome,” she said brightly. “Champagne is circulating … just go on in. You’ll find lots of friends, I’m sure,” she added, and turned to the person waiting behind Fergus.

Jean, standing unobtrusively chatting to Doreen in the corner, watched carefully. “He’s here,” she said, and Doreen nodded. “Should be interesting,” she said lightly, and walked across to join a group of women from the Soroptomists. These businesswomen would have been the last people Doreen would have sought out, except that she wore her chain of office, and that, for the moment, was her passport to their snooty circle. And, more importantly, from their position in the room, she could keep an eye on Howard.

Jean, too, made sure she had a clear view. Fergus was working his way round the room, and Jean smiled at the startled faces of some of those he passed on the way. He was approaching Howard now, and … yes, Howard was turning in his direction. She saw Fergus’s smile freeze, and then watched with increasing gratification as Howard’s colour rose to a vivid purple.

Fergus, on the other hand, was puzzled. Howard Jenkinson hissed at him, “What the hell are
you
doing here!” Fergus produced his invitation. “Same as everyone else, I suppose,” he had answered. “I was invited. Look …” But Howard did not look at it. He glanced swiftly round the room, and took Fergus by the elbow. “You’re leaving,” he
said. “
I
did not invite you, and you have to go. Right now.” All this was said in a desperate undertone, as he hustled Fergus through the dense crowd towards the exit.

“Ah, Mr. Forsyth, how nice of you to come!” It was Jean’s cool voice, and she placed herself squarely between the pair of them and their route to the door. “Let me show you where refreshments are,” she added sweetly, without a glance at Howard. “Just follow me … Fergus, may I call you?” she said. “It’s a bit of a scrum!” Finally she turned to look at Howard. “So sorry to interrupt, Mr. Mayor,” she said, with a social smile, “but don’t worry, I’ll bring him straight back. How’s your own glass?” she added. “Shall I get you a refill? You look as if you need it,” she whispered, so that only he could hear.

Howard glared at her. There was nothing he could do without making a scene, and he turned away in despair. As he did so, he intercepted a look from his loving wife across the room to her old friend, Jean Slater, and did not like it. He did not like it at all. He returned to the window and made a great effort to listen to the parking problems of a transport company director, but he was uncomfortably aware of the silence that had fallen, and that only now was the buzz of conversation resuming. He was not imagining that voices were lowered, and heads swivelled between himself and that interloper now lifting a full glass of champagne to his lips?

After all the guests had left, Howard went to find Jean. She was in her office, waiting for him. “Right!” he said furiously. “What’s the explanation?”

“For what?” she said.

“You know perfectly well,” he said.

She shook her head.

“That Forsyth man!” he shouted at her. “How did he get an invitation?”

“He was on the list,” said Jean calmly. “Didn’t you notice his name? I did show you the final list this afternoon.”

“No, I bloody well didn’t notice!” Howard yelled. “Of course I didn’t! I trust you, you stupid bitch, to do your job
properly! I’ve a good mind to send you packing right now!”

“I shouldn’t, if I was you,” said Jean, standing up and reaching for her handbag. “It wouldn’t look good, would it? People might put two and two together, and you know how rumours circulate. Now, I must be going, Howard. Ken and I are off to the pictures tonight. Another re-run of
Brief Encounter
at the Classic Cinema. Quite appropriate, really,” she added with a smile. “See you tomorrow. Good night, Howard. And don’t bother to thank me for all my hard work. I really enjoyed it. G’night!”

R
UPERT
F
ORSYTH SAT ON A RICKETY CHAIR IN THE
back room of Rain or Shine, and stared angrily at his son. “Well, what did you expect?” he said. Fergus had told him of his humiliation in the Mayor’s Parlour.

“You’d have thought I was a dirty old tramp off the streets!” Fergus said again. “He was about to turf me out by the scruff of the neck, when that nice Mrs. Slater rescued me. I kept on telling him I’d received an invitation and been checked in on the list at the door, but he wouldn’t listen. Just kept spluttering and pushing at me to get out. God, what a nasty piece of work!”

Rupert was silent, thinking. If Howard had been as angry as Fergus reported, he’d be unlikely to help them now with the planning permission for the extension. The boy had undone all the good done by his mother. Daisy had been so sure it would all be fine. “No problem,” Howard had said. And he, Rupert, could not pretend he did not know how she had persuaded him. It rankled still, after all these years, although Daisy protested, now as always, that she regarded the whole thing as a means to an end.
“Nothing serious, dear,” she always said. “Think of it as a job I quite enjoy. And a little hold on Howard Jenkinson is all to the good, you can’t deny that. We’ll need a fair bit of influence to get those plans through.” Now he saw his son looking at him as if expecting an answer to some question.

“Are you listening, Dad?” Fergus was still simmering. “I’ve a good mind to get my own back on the two-faced old devil!” he added. “We bloody well know enough about his private life to humiliate
him
in spades!”

“Don’t swear in this shop,” Rupert said automatically. “And anyway, I reckon he was already humiliated,” he added flatly. “What’s more, this business depends on absolute confidentiality. So don’t even think of it.” He was silent again, and after a few minutes stood up. “Well, I must be getting back,” he said. “There is one thing you can do with your hours of spare time,” he said acidly, “and that is give some thought to the question of how your name came to be on that invitation list.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to do anything about it, then?” asked Fergus angrily.

Rupert’s fists were clenched. “Oh, I promise I’ll do something about it, all right,” he said, and added fiercely, “but it’s nothing to do with you, so I’d be glad if you’d just get on with your work and keep your eyes away from that window. The women in New Brooms are also nothing to do with you. I want to see some improvement in our sales figures, otherwise I shall have to come back in the shop myself and keep a check on you.”

Fergus looked at his father, at the veins throbbing in his temples and his high colour, and decided to say no more on the subject of Howard Jenkinson. Dad had said he intended to do something about it, and he seldom broke his promise.

I
N THE KITCHEN OF THE
J
ENKINSON HOUSE
,
THE ATMOSPHERE
was heavy with tension. After the reception the previous evening, Howard and Doreen had been driven home in complete silence. Neither said a word. Howard was too
furious to speak, and Doreen was waiting patiently until he did, in order to assess the damage. She knew from the way he sat in the back of the big limousine, with a good metre of space between them, that he suspected her involvement in the Forsyth fiasco. She hugged herself with delight when she thought about it. So she had been right, then, about his den and what it contained. Den of iniquity, she reckoned! She’d seen the stack of videos through the keyhole, and the rest was easy, knowing Howard’s proclivities.

His reaction to young Fergus Forsyth couldn’t have been more revealing. Goodness, in some ways Howard was a complete fool. Anyone with a grain of sense would have welcomed Fergus with a smile, pretended not to know him, asked his name, got away with it smoothly. But then, Howard was in some ways not a sensible man. He always said, at every possible opportunity, that he was a man who called a spade a spade. “Plain man of the people,” as he had once sickeningly described himself to a local journalist. He never looked beyond the obvious, not even when—as in the case of Ken and herself—it stared him in the face.

Now, the next morning, they studiously ignored each other, and read their separate newspapers. Finally, Doreen decided to push things forward, one way or another. For one thing, she wanted to know how far they’d got with the Farnden house. One or two telephone calls from Howard could usually circumvent the most slow-moving bureaucrats or, come to that, any of the solicitors, agents, surveyors and all the company of hangers-on involved in house purchase.