Chapter Seven - The Other Woman

It was Saturday. Which meant spam fritters and Columbo. Normally. 

This Saturday meant only one thing - dinner with Mr Grey. I’d hardly slept a wink, tossing and turning all night. Thank goodness I had Jean’s heartwarming words to comfort me . . .

“See you at the shop on Monday morning, Elsie. Hopefully, not in a bin bag.”

My inner goddess was doing the spin cycle. According to Betty I was in line for a night of wanton passion but if Jean was right, Mr Grey would be sticking my head in a box and posting it to the local police station.

Either way, I’d need a shampoo and set.

“Shall we try a few mauve highlights to really make your eyes pop?” asked Minnie, the mobile hairdresser, catching me in the mirror through her corrective lenses.

“Shall we not?” I replied, holding up a photo of Helen Mirren while dodging her scissors. 

“I'd like to look effortlessly elegant,” I said.

‘No problem!” she grinned, giving me a thumbs up.

No-one was quite sure how long Minnie had been coming to the retirement home, but the magazine she'd given me had Vera Lynne on the cover and an advertisement for War Bonds. 

Five hours and three sherries later, I set off unsteadily for Anastasia Terrace, looking slightly less like Helen Mirren than I’d hoped. And slightly more like Art Garfunkel.

Both Jean and Betty suggested I take precautions - for different reasons. So I put a spare cardigan and a packet of polos in my handbag, and left a photograph of myself on Llandudno pier for Jean to give to ITN in the event I didn’t make it back in one piece. 

As I approached number 50, I couldn’t help recalling those houses of horror with police tents in their back gardens, but I tried to banish the thought from my mind. 

Emboldened by the sherry, I pressed the doorbell firmly, then suddenly found myself panicking again. What if it wasn't Mr Grey who answered the door? I realised I still had no idea whether or not he lived alone. 

“You're here!” came a comforting voice. 

I looked up to see Mr Grey with a broad smile on his face and a dripping spatula in his hand. “I’m sorry," he continued, "But I'm afraid I still don’t know your name . .” 

“Oh, it’s Mrs Steel . . . Elsie,” I said, trying to hide my nerves. 

“Clifford,” he announced, shaking my hand. “Well, come on in, why don't I take something off for you?” he said, standing aside to let me through the door.  

Betty was right - he was a fast worker! My entire body tensed as he reached up my back and slowly pulled my raincoat from my shoulders.

“Sherry?” he said, holding a small glass near my face. 

I took it, smiling, even though I’d already had more than enough.

“So tell me about yourself, Elsie,” he said, patting the seat beside him on the sofa. 

“Oh, there’s nothing much to tell,” I muttered. “I’m just a widow who works in a charity shop.”

“So you're all alone too?" he said, placing his hand on mine. "Good . . ." 

I pulled my hand away sharply and took a swift swig from my glass.

“Can you hear bells?" he asked, staring intensely into my eyes. 

My eyebrows arched and I shook my head, dumbly.

"That'll be the lamb. Would you excuse me for a moment?"

I took another large gulp of sherry as he made his way to the kitchen and scanned the room quickly. There didn't seem to be any wedding photos, instead the room was adorned with a variety of unusual ornaments - chains, padlocks and an array of rubber and leather items. I stared hard into my now empty glass. 

“. . . Loneliness can be a killer," he said, stepping back into the room and resting a heavy-covered platter on the table. "I still feel lost without my Sadie."

I glanced up. So he was a widower . . .

“She was so beautiful,” he continued, tears beginning to well up in his grey eyes. “Wherever we went, men would stop just to look at her. In fact, I quite enjoyed watching them try her out.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that so I just nodded.

“At first she didn't always do as I wanted, but I soon learned to take control. And in the end we had lots of fun together. Many’s the time I’d strap her in the back of the Morris Traveller and go for a nice blow on the coast.”

"Do you mind if I ask what happened to her?" I said, with a nervous smile.

“Not at all!" he replied. "In fact she's here now!"

I frowned deeply as my eyes darted round the room. 

"Or part of her at least . ."

I stared in horror as I watched him slowly raise the steel dome from the platter . . .

Chapter Six - Sacks & Ducks & Sausage Roll

It was Friday. Which meant fish, chips and therapeutic line dancing.

Normally I’d be looking forward to a large haddock and a quick Hokey Cokey with Cool Hand Colin and his Syncopated Spoons but this morning all I could think about were the awful noises I'd heard coming from Mr Grey’s shed the day before. Even Betty’s latest window display couldn’t take my mind off my troubles. If anything, the sight of a Cabbage Patch Doll straddling a blindfolded My Little Pony made things worse . . .

Jean clearly didn’t have that Friday feeling either. When I arrived, she was huffing and puffing and sticking a laminated sign on the door.

PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE DONATIONS OF AN EROTIC NATURE OUTSIDE THE SHOP

"Good morning," I said, as breezily as I could.

“Is it?” Jean replied, nodding towards a pile of bin bags, half their contents overflowing onto the floor. "I found this little lot on the doorstep this morning - more of that weird stuff we sold out of yesterday. I’ve left R2D2 to sort it out.”

At that moment, in hobbled Betty on a zimmer frame.

“Morning!” she said, cheerily.

As she got nearer, I noticed the reason she was so unsteady - a pair of long black shiny boots with towering heels.

"Just testing them," she said.

“Ah yes," announced Jean. "Elsie, may I introduce the official face of Health & Safety Gone Mad."

Betty beamed proudly and crashed to the floor.

"AND I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Betty Puckleton!” said Jean, waving a typewritten brown envelope in her happy little face as she hauled herself back to an upright position. “We’ve had another one of those letters from the council. About your obscene window display."

“It isn’t obscene, it’s artistic!” pouted Betty. “No one called Maya Angelou's ceiling obscene."

Jean sighed. “Michelangelo didn't put a gimp mask on a bust of Winston Churchill.“

I felt we all needed some fresh air so I suggested the park for lunch. We sat by the duck pond in silence with our bread rolls, Jean with her tuna and sweetcorn, me with my cheese and onion and Betty with her foot-long sausage.

“I presume you took that mangey cat back to its owner, then," said Jean finally, wiping the crumbs from her lips with her sleeve before fixing me with an inquisitive glare.

“Ooh yes!” said Betty, clasping her little hands excitedly round her sausage. "Tell us all about it. Was he dishy? Was he married? Was he circumcised?"

“There isn’t much to tell," I said nonchalantly. “I didn’t actually see him. I just sort of . . . heard him.”

“Well, what did he say, then?” said Jean, picking at her teeth with her hat pin.

“Well, nothing really. He was in the shed in his back yard. And then there were these . . . sounds."

"What sort of sounds?" asked Betty, leaning forward.

“Well, there was a sort of banging sound. Then a sort of thrashing sound. Then a sort of . . . screaming sound."

“I knew I should have gone with you!” said Betty with a sigh. “He sounds just my type . .”

“And what was this back yard like?” asked Jean, her eyes narrowing. "Was there a patio?"

“I think so, yes," I frowned. "Looked nice and new too. Why?"

“Knew it!" said Jean, smugly. “There was a case like this in last month's Serial Killer and Puzzler Magazine. Quiet man, never said boo to a goose. Then one day his wife goes missing and the neighbours start hearing noises just like you're describing. Then nothing. Turned out she was under the patio. With half the Women’s Institute and a lollipop lady. Sounds like you had a lucky escape."

I shuddered. To think that Mr Grey might be capable of multiple homicide! And him with that nice jumper too.

“Don’t you listen to her," whispered Betty, giving my hand a reassuring pat. “She's just being all dramatic as usual. I'm sure there's absolutely nothing for you to worry about . . . he's probably just a pervert," she smiled. "We've got loads in our therapy group. And they’ve all got sheds!"

I didn’t go back to the shop with the girls. I needed some time to make some sense of what they'd said and to wait for my legs to stop shaking. By the time I finally got back, Jean's mood had worsened considerably.

“Was it you that complained to the council, Elsie?” she barked, accusingly.

“Of course not!" I answered, shocked. 'Whatever makes you think that?”

“Another one of these was on the doormat when we got back," she said coldly, thrusting a brown envelope into my face. "Only this time it's addressed to 'the very helpful lady in the powder blue Fair Isle cardigan'?"

My heart was beating fast as I took the envelope from Jean’s outstretched hand. What on earth would the council want with me? It beat even faster when I read what was inside . . .

I’m sorry I missed you yesterday, I'm afraid I was a little tied up. I assume it was you who returned Fluffy and my bag of shopping. I'd like to cook you dinner tomorrow to show my appreciation. Shall we say eight o'clock? I'm sure I'll have managed to whip something up by then. CG

I couldn’t believe it! My inner goddess did a line dance of delight before stopping suddenly. What if Jean was right? What if his wife was buried under the patio? What if he planned to do the same to me? On the other hand it was a free dinner . . .

My mind was in a tizzy and my legs felt like lead. I sat heavily down on the rocking chair we'd had since 1996 and stared up as Betty's bewildered face bobbed into view. Then, all of a sudden, I remembered something that made me calm down and realise what a silly billy I was being. Of course Mr Grey wasn't a serial killer . . .

He was probably just a pervert.

CONTINUED NEXT THURSDAY

Chapter Five - 50 Shades

It was Thursday. Which meant macaroni cheese and the post office.

Pension day was always busy at our little charity shop. No sooner did they have cash in their hands than the old dears were frittering it away on china poodles and big frilly pants. And the women were no better. It could get quite hazardous at times, especially if we had a new jigsaw in.

I was even more anxious than usual as I walked to the shop, mulling over the mess I’d somehow managed to get myself into over the last few days. As much as I never wanted to set eyes on Mr Grey again, I just couldn’t seem to get him out of my mind. Not that I'd learned anything more in the tea room except that he was a fussy eater and, judging by the carrier bag I'd mistakenly acquired, a bit of a DIY enthusiast. Although Betty informed me they had a very different use for cable ties and duct tape at the Stalybridge Swingers Society, so goodness only knows what he had in mind . . .

Quite a crowd had built up behind the riot barrier when I arrived at the shop. Jean was guarding the door, staring hard at her watch, even more stone-faced than usual.

“You’d best get in before this lot run amok!” she said, without looking up. “Heaven only knows where Betty's got to.”

I nodded and took my place behind the counter just as Betty stumbled in, carrying a large ginger cat with a frown exactly like Jean’s.

"I found him in the back yard," she gasped, trying to stop the animal wriggling out of her tiny arms. “I think he's lost, poor thing."

Jean gave her one of her stares before yelling "Only six pensioners in the shop at a time!” as the unruly rabble spilled through the door, shopping bags whirling, walking sticks thrusting and wrinkled hands snatching anything in sight. It was worse than ever this week! What with all the weird and wonderful items Betty had found in that box Mr Grey had brought in, the shop was well and truly abuzz. As were several of the items.

I stood resolutely at my post, with Betty’s pussy inches from my face. Amid the chaos, out of the corner of my eye, I could just make out the small writing on its collar. Engraved above its address, in bold capitals, was the name FLUFFY.

I couldn’t believe it, Mr Grey's cat! Now what was I going to do? I couldn’t take him back - he already suspected me of being a cat-napper, and that was before I stole his shopping! But I couldn’t bear the thought of Betty meeting him either. Not with five husbands under her belt and an advanced degree in speed dating. Without another thought, I found myself grabbing Fluffy and the carrier bag and shooting out of the door, leaving Betty flabbergasted and Jean pinned to the wall by a mobility scooter.

My heart was in my mouth when I finally reached 50 Anastasia Terrace. I stared at the unimposing red brick building with a bottle green door and the words ‘The Shades’ hand-painted on a wooden sign above the doorbell. With the cat wriggling wildly in one hand, I took a deep breath and pressed the bell with the other. I waited for some moments but nobody came. 

Just when I was wondering whether to ring again, Fluffy suddenly arched his back, leapt to the ground and vanished round the corner. To this day I don't know why I didn't just leave him there and head sharply back to the shop. Perhaps it was some sort of sense of responsibility or just sheer curiosity that made my feet trace its steps down the side of the house and into a small back yard, entirely empty apart from a small shed in the far corner.

Where on earth had he got to? I listened for the sound of purring but instead heard an entirely different noise. From behind the blacked out windows of the shed came a sound I shall never forget as long as I live . . .


CONTINUED NEXT THURSDAY

Chapter Four - A Man of Singular Tastes

I stood there nervously, my ear pressed against the stock room door, listening to all manner of grunts and groans, before finally plucking up the courage to turn the handle. And what a sight met my eyes! 

An orgy of limbs writhing on the floor, so entangled it was hard to tell where one ended and another began. And on top of it all sat Betty, frantically grappling with arms and legs like a woman possessed. Suddenly, the pile shook violently, flinging her tiny frame across the room and Jean’s big head emerged, crimson and gasping for air.

”Thank goodness for that!" she exclaimed. “Betty's been sitting on my face for the best part of an hour! That’s the last time I ask her to help me tidy the prosthetics cupboard . . ."

It was Wednesday, which meant semolina and the diabetic nurse. But for me, it meant something far more significant . . .

It was no use putting it off any longer. I waited until Jean was busy with a customer and slipped into the office - I knew I'd have to be quick if I didn’t want her listening in on the shop extension. I dialled the number I'd found in Mr Grey's wallet and waited, my heart thumping so loud I felt sure the whole street could hear it.

“Hello?” came a faint voice on the other end of the line.

“Oh hello," I replied, preparing to begin the speech I'd rehearsed a dozen times. But to my surprise, the voice continued . .

“I'm sorry, I can’t take your call at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep.”

I took a deep breath. "You don’t know me,” I said in my best telephone voice, “But I know you. And I’ve got something of yours. If you want it back, be at the Copper Kettle Tea Rooms at three o’clock sharp.” I slammed the phone down and dashed back into the shop where Betty was silently toying with her garibaldis and Jean was polishing the phone receiver.

“If you’re popping out, could you pick up a couple of things for us?' she asked, with a supercilious smile. 

I arrived at the tea shop fifteen minutes late, with lipstick on my teeth and a carrier bag full of Betty's mint imperials and Jean's haemorrhoid cream. I spotted him immediately, at a table by the window . . grey hair, grey jumper, grey eyes gazing out at the grey day. I adjusted my coat collar and made my way over to where he was sitting.

"Hello . ." I began, carefully placing my bag beneath the table so he wouldn't catch sight of the contents. He looked up suddenly, wide-eyed and twitching.

"Is it Fluffy?" he blurted as I took my seat.

I frowned. Was what fluffy? He leant forward conspiratorially.

'I'll pay anything you like,' he whispered, fingering his doily. "Whatever you think it's . . worth."

I gulped. Oh dear, what had I got myself into? I bit my lip and glanced towards the door.

"Just as long as you don't hurt it, obviously."

What on earth was he talking about? Whatever it was, I knew I had to get out of there as quickly as possible. I fumbled in my pocket, thrust his wallet onto the pink tablecloth and stood up sharply.

"My wallet!" he exclaimed. "Oh, I'm so sorry. When I heard your message I thought it was some kind of ransom demand. So you haven't kidnapped my cat, then?"

"Of course not!" I said, praying I hadn't unwittingly bundled anything else into my handbag after our collision at the cinema. "At least I don't think so . . . I just picked up your wallet by mistake yesterday. Accidentally, you understand."

“Oh," he smiled. "Well, that's a relief."

"I'm sure it'll turn up," I said. "You know what cats are like."

"Yes," he said.

"Well, I'd best be off," I murmered, eager for this awkward moment to be over as soon as possible.

"Won't you stay for a bite?" he asked, pointing to a pair of scones sitting in the middle of the table next to a couple of small pots. "As a thank you for your kindness."

"Well . . . alright then," I said, quickly smearing one of the scones with jam and cream before pushing the pots across the table towards my companion. 

"Oh, just jam for me," he said, his electric grey eyes staring deeply into mine. “My tastes are very . . . singular.”

With this, he smiled and excused himself before heading to the toilet. I wafted my face with the menu as I watched him make his way to the back of the cafe. I had heart flutters, knee tremors and palpitations. Even more than normal. Seeing my chance to escape the agony, I grabbed it with both hands, along with my shopping bag, and scurried out into the street. 

I arrived back at the shop, breathless, red-faced and relieved I would never have to see Mr Grey ever again. I opened the door to find Betty lying flat on her back with Jean bending over her, holding a cup of tea to her lips. 

“Oh dear, have you had another one of your funny turns?” I asked, forgetting my own concerns for a moment.

“No, she’s handcuffed herself to the radiator,” sniffed Jean. “She’s been rummaging through that box of yours again. You wouldn’t believe the things she found!”

I stared at the array of chains, blindfolds and bizarre rubber garments all neatly arranged and priced up on the counter next to the empty cardboard box. The box that Mr Grey had brought in! It all looked oddly familiar but I just couldn't quite put my finger on it.

"Did you get our shopping?” asked Betty from the floor.

"Oh, er . . yes," I said, reaching into the carrier bag but, instead of a family size tin of mints and a tube of haemorrhoid cream, I was surprised to find a bunch of cable ties, a coil of rope and a large roll of duct tape. This wasn’t my bag! I must have picked up Mr Grey’s by mistake in my haste to leave the tea room. And as my mind darted between the strange contents of the bag, the items sitting on the counter and the extraordinary film I'd watched the day before, it reached a sudden and horrifying conclusion . . . 

Mr Grey was going to think I had haemorrhoids! 

CONTINUED ON THURSDAY 12th MARCH 

(Please note that from now on I'll be putting new chapters up on Thursdays instead of Sundays. I hope you don't mind waiting an extra few days for the next one, dearies, but this blog is playing havoc with my Bingo habit. Love Gran x)