did us proud, Mrs Raisin,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘If you ever feel like going into business again, you could be a professional caterer.’
Agatha looked at her sharply and the vicar’s wife gave her an innocent look. But Agatha knew she had been rumbled and felt silly.
For the first time in her life, she began to feel that living alone was an effort. Not that she had ever lived with anyone else, apart from a brief sojourn with James. If she lived with someone,
then that someone would be there to chatter to her as she contemplated washing out the foil trays. After the catering company had called to pick up theirs, she reminded herself that the main
purpose of foil trays was that they were disposable and put the whole lot in a rubbish bag.
The heat was suffocating. She wandered out into her garden. She had lost interest in gardening and hired a local man to do that. Mrs Simpson did her cleaning for her. Pity she couldn’t
hire someone to do the living for her. The gardener was not due to call for another two days, and despite the recent rain the flowers were beginning to wilt in the heat.
She got out the hose and went to fix it to the tap in the garden but sat down in a garden chair instead. The depression she had been fighting off all day engulfed her and immobilized her.
She sat there while the sun slowly sank in the sky and the trees at the end of the garden cast long shadows over the grass. The pursuit of money and success had been everything in her life.
Money meant the best restaurants, security, the best medical attention if she fell ill, and, at the end of her days, a good old folks’ home where they actually looked after the patients. She
felt as if the tide of life had receded, leaving her stranded on a sandbank of money.
‘I will not sink down under this,’ she muttered to herself. Feeling like an old woman, she rose from her chair and went to the garden shed and wheeled out her bicycle. Minutes later,
she was cycling off down the country lanes, pedalling fast like one possessed, racing to leave that tired failure of an Agatha behind her.
She pedalled while darkness fell over the countryside and light came on in cottage windows. When she at last turned homewards and free-wheeled down the hill into Carsely under the arched tunnels
made by the trees on either side of the road, she felt calm and exhausted.
She let the cats in from the garden, locked up for the night, made herself a ham sandwich, then showered and went to bed and fell into a deep sleep.
When Agatha awoke in the morning, she felt stiff and sore from the exercise, but prepared for the day ahead. She put the little Asprey’s box in her handbag and drove to the
hairdresser’s. On the other side of Broadway she looked up at the sky. Mares’ tails streamed across the blue of the sky. The weather must be about to change.
By the time she drove into Evesham, the sky was changing to grey. To her delight, there was actually a legal parking space right outside the hairdresser’s.
With a twinge of apprehension, she opened the door and went in. With something like triumph, the receptionist informed her that Mr Garry would do her hair.
‘Who the hell’s Mr Garry?’ snarled Agatha. ‘And stop grinning when you speak to me.’
‘Mr Garry is Mr John’s assistant,’ said the receptionist, Josie. Agatha was about to cancel her appointment, but she got a glimpse of herself in one of the many mirrors. Her
hair looked limp and sweaty.
Yvette washed her hair and then she was led through to the ministrations of Mr Garry, who proved to be a youth who chattered endlessly about shows he had seen on television. Agatha interrupted
the flow by asking, ‘What’s Mr John got?’
‘He phoned in to say he was under the weather. He didn’t say exactly what it was.’
‘Does he live in Evesham?’
‘Yes, one of those villas on the Cheltenham Road.’
Agatha’s hair emerged as shiny and healthy as it had recently become, but she was unhappy
Agatha looked at her sharply and the vicar’s wife gave her an innocent look. But Agatha knew she had been rumbled and felt silly.
For the first time in her life, she began to feel that living alone was an effort. Not that she had ever lived with anyone else, apart from a brief sojourn with James. If she lived with someone,
then that someone would be there to chatter to her as she contemplated washing out the foil trays. After the catering company had called to pick up theirs, she reminded herself that the main
purpose of foil trays was that they were disposable and put the whole lot in a rubbish bag.
The heat was suffocating. She wandered out into her garden. She had lost interest in gardening and hired a local man to do that. Mrs Simpson did her cleaning for her. Pity she couldn’t
hire someone to do the living for her. The gardener was not due to call for another two days, and despite the recent rain the flowers were beginning to wilt in the heat.
She got out the hose and went to fix it to the tap in the garden but sat down in a garden chair instead. The depression she had been fighting off all day engulfed her and immobilized her.
She sat there while the sun slowly sank in the sky and the trees at the end of the garden cast long shadows over the grass. The pursuit of money and success had been everything in her life.
Money meant the best restaurants, security, the best medical attention if she fell ill, and, at the end of her days, a good old folks’ home where they actually looked after the patients. She
felt as if the tide of life had receded, leaving her stranded on a sandbank of money.
‘I will not sink down under this,’ she muttered to herself. Feeling like an old woman, she rose from her chair and went to the garden shed and wheeled out her bicycle. Minutes later,
she was cycling off down the country lanes, pedalling fast like one possessed, racing to leave that tired failure of an Agatha behind her.
She pedalled while darkness fell over the countryside and light came on in cottage windows. When she at last turned homewards and free-wheeled down the hill into Carsely under the arched tunnels
made by the trees on either side of the road, she felt calm and exhausted.
She let the cats in from the garden, locked up for the night, made herself a ham sandwich, then showered and went to bed and fell into a deep sleep.
When Agatha awoke in the morning, she felt stiff and sore from the exercise, but prepared for the day ahead. She put the little Asprey’s box in her handbag and drove to the
hairdresser’s. On the other side of Broadway she looked up at the sky. Mares’ tails streamed across the blue of the sky. The weather must be about to change.
By the time she drove into Evesham, the sky was changing to grey. To her delight, there was actually a legal parking space right outside the hairdresser’s.
With a twinge of apprehension, she opened the door and went in. With something like triumph, the receptionist informed her that Mr Garry would do her hair.
‘Who the hell’s Mr Garry?’ snarled Agatha. ‘And stop grinning when you speak to me.’
‘Mr Garry is Mr John’s assistant,’ said the receptionist, Josie. Agatha was about to cancel her appointment, but she got a glimpse of herself in one of the many mirrors. Her
hair looked limp and sweaty.
Yvette washed her hair and then she was led through to the ministrations of Mr Garry, who proved to be a youth who chattered endlessly about shows he had seen on television. Agatha interrupted
the flow by asking, ‘What’s Mr John got?’
‘He phoned in to say he was under the weather. He didn’t say exactly what it was.’
‘Does he live in Evesham?’
‘Yes, one of those villas on the Cheltenham Road.’
Agatha’s hair emerged as shiny and healthy as it had recently become, but she was unhappy
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