Guilty Pleasures by Judith Cutler Page A

which my father drank more willingly than poor Robin, no doubt dying for a proper caffeine fix, to raise the subject of the fête’s goodies.
    My father weighed the snuffbox in his hand. ‘I thought this looked familiar when you showed it me the other day,’ he said slowly. ‘And it still does. It used to be shinier here, where you use your thumb to flick it open. Dashed if I can remember whose thumb it was, though, if you get my meaning. Though I suppose there can’t be all that many. Filthy habit, taking snuff. Though the stuff people sniff up their nostrils these days is more expensive. Is it true they do it in lavatories? Dear God!’ He remembered his company. ‘What about you, vicar? I mean, do you recognize it?’
    â€˜Absolutely not, sorry. Nor that book of yours, Lina.’
    Bracing myself, I produced it. To my huge relief, my father looked interested, but not cunning. Not immediately, anyway. Not until he’d held it and looked at several of the pages, especially the blank ones at the end. Just what he needed for his handiwork, a few authentically old pieces of paper. Well, he wasn’t getting them from this, not if I had anything to do with it.
    Seeing my face, he switched to looking interested again. ‘I’ve not seen this before,’ he said slowly. ‘But I’d bet my last sixpence I know some of the things it illustrates. This design for a door frame and the door knobs and finger thingies and the whatsits – there’s a word for everything.’
    â€˜Furniture?’ I supplied.
    â€˜Right. I’ve seen them all.’ Then his face fell. ‘But I suppose they’re pretty standard. Not exactly Woolworths, but off the shelf. I miss Woolies, you know. All those sweeties. Pick and mix. Not that Lina’d let me eat sweeties. And the funny thing is, I quite like that choc she brings me. Your line, I’d have thought, vicar.’
    Robin looked puzzled.
    â€˜It’s called Divine,’ I explained. ‘That lovely dark choc. Full of something with a long name that’s good for the heart. Can’t beat it.’
    â€˜Bit rich for me.’ He touched the folio. ‘So could this be what your father thinks, Lina – a sort of eighteenth-century IKEA catalogue?’
    â€˜If it had been, I’m sure Griff would have recognized the designs. Even though he’s not a furniture man, he can pick out anything by Adam at a hundred paces. And Hepplewhite and Chippendale. But he doesn’t know any of these.’
    â€˜Those are all upmarket,’ Robin said. ‘Even I’ve heard of them. But there must be some lower down the scale.’ You could see him groping for a comparison.
    I supplied it. ‘The sort of thing the Bennet family would have, not Mr Darcy.’
    â€˜The man that went swimming in the lake with his clothes on?’ my father asked. ‘Stupid thing to do, if you ask me.’
    â€˜Actually, that wasn’t in the original text,’ Robin began.
    â€˜But I saw it. On TV.’ As if that made it Holy Writ.
    This was going nowhere fast.
    â€˜I wonder if Colonel Bridger would know anything about it,’ I said to Robin. ‘Is he the sort of person I could ask?’
    â€˜Bridger! You’re not talking about old Bugger Bridger?’ My father slapped his thigh.
    â€˜Are we?’ I asked Robin. ‘Talking about a man who might be one of my father’s acquaintances, that is?’
    â€˜Colonel Bridger is the right age and – shall we say – from the right social milieu. He lives near Kenninge. Never comes to church. But he does know Fi Pargetter, of course.’
    The Commandant.
    â€˜I bet he knows her in the Biblical sense, too, if it’s old Bugger Bridger. Liked a bit of bum whether it was male or female,’ my father added helpfully. He picked up the TV zapper. He must be getting bored.
    â€˜What sort of place does he have?’ I asked