transformed from Greek princess to her Shakespearean namesake.
‘Has she been spayed?’ she shouted, as the Great Dane twisted this way and that, refusing to leave his new girlfriend alone.
‘Yes!’ It was clearly Ellen’s day to discuss her animals’ reproductive systems, she thought, as she waited on the bank beside the gold flip-flops.
‘In that case, I’ll leave them to it.’ Pheely waded out, smiling widely. ‘Sorry – Hamlet’s totally debauched, but harmless. You walking up the path? Shall we trundle together and hope the lovers follow suit?’
She displayed such a disarming friendliness that Ellen found herself liking her immediately. As they fell into step, she realised suddenly that Pheely had set out for a dog walk in the white shift and gold flip-flops. Eccentric and impractical only began to describe it, although on closer inspection the smock looked as though it had been far from pristine before she had taken her dunk. Where the fabric was still dry above the waist, it was covered in muddy red smears and was frayed at the neck. Yet Pheely herself wasn’t as old, dishevelled or plump as Ellen had at first, unkindly, thought. Glancing across as they headed up the hill, she knocked ten years off the forty-something she’d originally taken her to be, and the flapping dress showed that between Pheely’s buxom curves there was a near-Edwardian tiny waist.
‘So you’ve bought Goose Cottage from the dreaded Jamiesons, I gather?’ Pheely was shaking the drips and reeds from her dress, which was also coated with brown, soggy blossom picked up from the river.
‘No.’ She rolled her tongue beneath her bottom lip in amusement. ‘I am a dreaded Jamieson. I’m their daughter.’
‘Oops.’ Pheely didn’t seem remotely embarrassed and let out a throaty giggle that gurgled like the river. ‘I thought I’d have heard about it if it had been sold, but Gladys has been telling everyone you moved in today.’
‘Gladys?’
‘You met her in the shop.’
‘I only met an American called Joel.’
‘GI Joel – he’s a hoot.’ Pheely pulled back her curtain of corkscrews and fixed Ellen with huge, thickly lashed eyes of the same pale green as copper verdigris. ‘Was Lily with him?’
‘Is that his wife?’ Ellen remembered him telling the silent Goth girl that he and Lily had watched the movie together.
‘Absolute weirdo, my dear,’ Pheely whispered indulgently. ‘You wait. Anyway, Gladys is about seventy and looks like a Cabbage Patch doll. Unmistakable.’
‘The elderly lady?’ Ellen raised her eyebrows. ‘She only saw me for a nanosecond before leaving.’
‘That’s all Glad Tidings needs to assess your entire personal history.’ Pheely tapped her nose. She was already panting as they started climbing up the cart track, her bare feet following the soft, grassy ridge in the centre because she’d left her flip-flops behind. ‘She can tell your age, nationality, political persuasion, marital status, guilty secrets and likelihood to help out at the village fête from a two-second encounter at the bus stop. And she has eyes everywhere. She should work for the police.’
Ellen laughed. ‘And what did she say about me?’
‘Spotted moving into Goose Cottage at one with various animals. Spotted loitering in village shop at two thirty with just one animal in tow. Trying to get rid of all animals, it seems. The spotted-walking-with-Touchy-Feely-at-six bulletin is no doubt doing the rounds now, between frantic preparations for tonight’s jamboree. And you are, I quote, “Not a natural blonde and one of them punky sorts with an earring through her belly button. She’s a bit of a spiky madam – probably unmarried, poor thing.”’
‘Nosy old bitch,’ Ellen said, without thinking.
Pheely snorted delightedly, then turned back to shout for Hamlet. ‘Believe me, she’s not as nosy or bitchy as I am. She’s got a very sweet heart.’ She carried on walking backwards beside Ellen.
‘Has she been spayed?’ she shouted, as the Great Dane twisted this way and that, refusing to leave his new girlfriend alone.
‘Yes!’ It was clearly Ellen’s day to discuss her animals’ reproductive systems, she thought, as she waited on the bank beside the gold flip-flops.
‘In that case, I’ll leave them to it.’ Pheely waded out, smiling widely. ‘Sorry – Hamlet’s totally debauched, but harmless. You walking up the path? Shall we trundle together and hope the lovers follow suit?’
She displayed such a disarming friendliness that Ellen found herself liking her immediately. As they fell into step, she realised suddenly that Pheely had set out for a dog walk in the white shift and gold flip-flops. Eccentric and impractical only began to describe it, although on closer inspection the smock looked as though it had been far from pristine before she had taken her dunk. Where the fabric was still dry above the waist, it was covered in muddy red smears and was frayed at the neck. Yet Pheely herself wasn’t as old, dishevelled or plump as Ellen had at first, unkindly, thought. Glancing across as they headed up the hill, she knocked ten years off the forty-something she’d originally taken her to be, and the flapping dress showed that between Pheely’s buxom curves there was a near-Edwardian tiny waist.
‘So you’ve bought Goose Cottage from the dreaded Jamiesons, I gather?’ Pheely was shaking the drips and reeds from her dress, which was also coated with brown, soggy blossom picked up from the river.
‘No.’ She rolled her tongue beneath her bottom lip in amusement. ‘I am a dreaded Jamieson. I’m their daughter.’
‘Oops.’ Pheely didn’t seem remotely embarrassed and let out a throaty giggle that gurgled like the river. ‘I thought I’d have heard about it if it had been sold, but Gladys has been telling everyone you moved in today.’
‘Gladys?’
‘You met her in the shop.’
‘I only met an American called Joel.’
‘GI Joel – he’s a hoot.’ Pheely pulled back her curtain of corkscrews and fixed Ellen with huge, thickly lashed eyes of the same pale green as copper verdigris. ‘Was Lily with him?’
‘Is that his wife?’ Ellen remembered him telling the silent Goth girl that he and Lily had watched the movie together.
‘Absolute weirdo, my dear,’ Pheely whispered indulgently. ‘You wait. Anyway, Gladys is about seventy and looks like a Cabbage Patch doll. Unmistakable.’
‘The elderly lady?’ Ellen raised her eyebrows. ‘She only saw me for a nanosecond before leaving.’
‘That’s all Glad Tidings needs to assess your entire personal history.’ Pheely tapped her nose. She was already panting as they started climbing up the cart track, her bare feet following the soft, grassy ridge in the centre because she’d left her flip-flops behind. ‘She can tell your age, nationality, political persuasion, marital status, guilty secrets and likelihood to help out at the village fête from a two-second encounter at the bus stop. And she has eyes everywhere. She should work for the police.’
Ellen laughed. ‘And what did she say about me?’
‘Spotted moving into Goose Cottage at one with various animals. Spotted loitering in village shop at two thirty with just one animal in tow. Trying to get rid of all animals, it seems. The spotted-walking-with-Touchy-Feely-at-six bulletin is no doubt doing the rounds now, between frantic preparations for tonight’s jamboree. And you are, I quote, “Not a natural blonde and one of them punky sorts with an earring through her belly button. She’s a bit of a spiky madam – probably unmarried, poor thing.”’
‘Nosy old bitch,’ Ellen said, without thinking.
Pheely snorted delightedly, then turned back to shout for Hamlet. ‘Believe me, she’s not as nosy or bitchy as I am. She’s got a very sweet heart.’ She carried on walking backwards beside Ellen.
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