wide – and boots!
Pink boots! And long blonde hair – blimey … She looked like that Middle-Eastern woman.’
Zillah shook her head in non-comprehension.
‘He means Jordan,’ Mrs Jupp spat in disgust. ‘Silly old devil. And no she doesn’t. She’s much, much prettier than that. She’ll
turn a few ’eads in Fiddlesticks and that’s for sure.’
‘Bet young Lewis has got her in his little black book already,’ Goff gurgled, helping himself to a hefty chunk of Mrs Jupp’s
pasty in his excitement. ‘He’ll be all over her come St Bedric’s Eve, you mark my words.’
Mona Jupp, so intent on not missing a thing across the road, didn’t even notice her pasty had mysteriously diminished.
‘Zillah!’ Constance’s voice screeched imperiously across the solid, broiling, dizzy dazzling garden. ‘Could we have some more
mustard for Slo, please?’
Zillah, tearing her eyes from Moth Cottage, turned back towards the pub like an automaton, and completely ignored her.
Chapter Six
Fly Me to the Moon
‘There you go then, duck,’ Gwyneth said happily, stepping over the sprawl of bags, cases and holdalls. ‘This is your room.
All your other stuff arrived yesterday. Big Ida got it all upstairs – you can arrange it as you wish.’
‘Oh, it’s lovely. Really lovely,’ Amber peeped over Gwyneth’s head at the top of the narrow, twisty, dark-green staircase.
‘You’ve gone to so much trouble for me – thank you so much – it’s a wonderful bedroom.’
And it was: cream and pale blue and girlie, exquisitely pretty, with a low sloping ceiling and a glorious panoramic view of
Fiddlesticks’ village green through the sash window.
And very, very tiny.
Which figured.
Amber had been stunned at how small Gwyneth was – almost as broad as she was high with her head not quite reaching Amber’s
shoulder – and how minute the cottage’s downstairs rooms were, so she really should have been prepared for her bedroom to
be on a similar scale.
But of course she hadn’t been.
Where on earth was she going to put her mountains of clothes and bags and shoes and make-up and CDs and DVDs and magazines
and books and stereo and portable tv-cum-dvd player and ceramic hair straighteners and other vital life-paraphernalia?
Apart from a beautiful flounced and sprigged three-quarter bed, there was an elderly single wardrobe and a matching two-drawer
chest, and that was it.
‘Why don’t you have a freshen up first?’ Gwyneth patted her arm. ‘It’s so darned hot and that train journey must have taken
it out of you. Then we’ll have something to eat before you even think about unpacking. The bathroom’s along here. It’s quite
new. We didn’t have indoor bathrooms for ages in these cottages and Dougie Patchcock, he’s the local builder, duck – ’e did
a smashing job on the conversions for us. Mind, we’ve all still got our lavs in the garden.’
Amber performed a sort of pincer movement with Gwyneth at the top of the staircase and another door was opened.
‘It used to be part of my bedroom,’ Gwyneth said proudly. ‘But you’d never know, would you?’
‘Um, no. Not at all …’ Amber blinked again. The bathroom – minuscule sink and Gwyneth-sized bath – was about the size of
a coffin. No loo, no shower, no window other than a skylight in the sloping ceiling directly above the bath. ‘Um … it’s lovely.
And the loo is where?’
‘Downstairs. Just outside the back door, duck. Big Ida’s is still right at the bottom of the garden but I had mine moved into
the old coal house. We’ve got all mod cons here. There’s plenty of hot water in the Ascot. You just turn that knob on there
and make sure the pilot light is on. Like I said, all mod cons. I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready.’
Half an hour later, having made the most of the miniature bathroom, which had been lovely really as the plentiful hot water
was silky-soft and Gwyneth had left
Pink boots! And long blonde hair – blimey … She looked like that Middle-Eastern woman.’
Zillah shook her head in non-comprehension.
‘He means Jordan,’ Mrs Jupp spat in disgust. ‘Silly old devil. And no she doesn’t. She’s much, much prettier than that. She’ll
turn a few ’eads in Fiddlesticks and that’s for sure.’
‘Bet young Lewis has got her in his little black book already,’ Goff gurgled, helping himself to a hefty chunk of Mrs Jupp’s
pasty in his excitement. ‘He’ll be all over her come St Bedric’s Eve, you mark my words.’
Mona Jupp, so intent on not missing a thing across the road, didn’t even notice her pasty had mysteriously diminished.
‘Zillah!’ Constance’s voice screeched imperiously across the solid, broiling, dizzy dazzling garden. ‘Could we have some more
mustard for Slo, please?’
Zillah, tearing her eyes from Moth Cottage, turned back towards the pub like an automaton, and completely ignored her.
Chapter Six
Fly Me to the Moon
‘There you go then, duck,’ Gwyneth said happily, stepping over the sprawl of bags, cases and holdalls. ‘This is your room.
All your other stuff arrived yesterday. Big Ida got it all upstairs – you can arrange it as you wish.’
‘Oh, it’s lovely. Really lovely,’ Amber peeped over Gwyneth’s head at the top of the narrow, twisty, dark-green staircase.
‘You’ve gone to so much trouble for me – thank you so much – it’s a wonderful bedroom.’
And it was: cream and pale blue and girlie, exquisitely pretty, with a low sloping ceiling and a glorious panoramic view of
Fiddlesticks’ village green through the sash window.
And very, very tiny.
Which figured.
Amber had been stunned at how small Gwyneth was – almost as broad as she was high with her head not quite reaching Amber’s
shoulder – and how minute the cottage’s downstairs rooms were, so she really should have been prepared for her bedroom to
be on a similar scale.
But of course she hadn’t been.
Where on earth was she going to put her mountains of clothes and bags and shoes and make-up and CDs and DVDs and magazines
and books and stereo and portable tv-cum-dvd player and ceramic hair straighteners and other vital life-paraphernalia?
Apart from a beautiful flounced and sprigged three-quarter bed, there was an elderly single wardrobe and a matching two-drawer
chest, and that was it.
‘Why don’t you have a freshen up first?’ Gwyneth patted her arm. ‘It’s so darned hot and that train journey must have taken
it out of you. Then we’ll have something to eat before you even think about unpacking. The bathroom’s along here. It’s quite
new. We didn’t have indoor bathrooms for ages in these cottages and Dougie Patchcock, he’s the local builder, duck – ’e did
a smashing job on the conversions for us. Mind, we’ve all still got our lavs in the garden.’
Amber performed a sort of pincer movement with Gwyneth at the top of the staircase and another door was opened.
‘It used to be part of my bedroom,’ Gwyneth said proudly. ‘But you’d never know, would you?’
‘Um, no. Not at all …’ Amber blinked again. The bathroom – minuscule sink and Gwyneth-sized bath – was about the size of
a coffin. No loo, no shower, no window other than a skylight in the sloping ceiling directly above the bath. ‘Um … it’s lovely.
And the loo is where?’
‘Downstairs. Just outside the back door, duck. Big Ida’s is still right at the bottom of the garden but I had mine moved into
the old coal house. We’ve got all mod cons here. There’s plenty of hot water in the Ascot. You just turn that knob on there
and make sure the pilot light is on. Like I said, all mod cons. I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready.’
Half an hour later, having made the most of the miniature bathroom, which had been lovely really as the plentiful hot water
was silky-soft and Gwyneth had left
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