himself out, given time, and although as he’d headed out the door he’d mumbled that he still intended going out with his mates that night, some of her words must have stuck because he’d promised to be home at a decent hour and not to get into any more bother.
Betty could only hope that he’d keep that promise.
Now she opened up her folding chair and settled herself to the pleasing occupation of observing people. There was nothing Betty enjoyed more than indulging in her favourite sport of trying to assess folk, to guess and sometimes cheekily enquire who a particular gift of flowers was for, and speculate on the true nature of their relationship.
Right now she could see Sam Beckett chatting to that Fran Poulson. No better than she should be that lass. God knows what she’d got up to when she went missing for months on end. Rumour had it she’d been earning a living down under the arches with that prossy Maureen. Not that you’d think so to listen to her mother Big Molly talk, who thought the sun shone out of her elder daughter’s backside.
Betty’s lip curled with disapproval as she watched the girl pat her bleached blond curls and stick her breast out in that too-tight sweater. Sam Beckett wasn’t above enjoying the show. Why young Judy put up with him Betty couldn’t imagine. She’d put rat poison in his soup if he was her husband. That would soon cool his ardour.
Something not very nice was undoubtedly being hatched between the pair of them, or she wasn’t Betty Hemley, a shrewd judge of character if ever there was one. Generally speaking her guesses were uncannily accurate, although with some customers it was more difficult and Betty knew she could at times be wildly off the mark.
Leo Catlow, for instance, was one who fell into the more enigmatic category, notoriously difficult to assess. Smiling graciously as he requested his usual bouquet Betty pretended to misunderstand. ‘Are these for the wife then?’
A slight puckering of the brow between a pair of penetrating dark brown eyes. ‘For my mother, Betty. I always visit my parents every month around this time, as you well know.’
‘I do, aye. And they’re enjoying the sea air in Lytham St Anne’s, I hope?’
‘I hope so too. Put in some of the pinks. Mother does so love carnations.’
Betty selected a dozen, together with three reflex chrysanthemum blooms and the same number of euphorbia with their long, elegantly curved branches for focal interest, slipping in a few stems of leatherleaf fern as greenery before wrapping the bouquet carefully in pale green tissue. Whatever you might say about Leo Catlow as a husband, he certainly didn’t stint when buying flowers for his mother.
Was that because he loved her, Betty wondered, or simply out of guilt because he didn’t visit very often? This trip to the coast to see his parents was cancelled more often than not, which Betty surmised was probably because Leo and his father, old Jonty Catlow, never had got on.
‘Retirement suiting your poor father, is it? He’s much improved, I trust? The dear lady must be worried sick about him.’
‘Yes, she must,’ Leo said, handing over several notes without asking the price.
Tight-fisted he may not be but tight-lipped he most certainly was, Betty thought.
She’d dared to speculate at the time about how his dear mother would cope when Leo’s father had suffered a massive heart attack and been forced to retire from the family business. Old Jonty Catlow had become increasingly irascible and in need of constant care, and everyone knew the poor lady was losing the thread. She tended to get confused, perhaps doing her shopping twice over, or boiling the kettle dry because she’d forgotten she was making herself a cup of tea. A fact which saddened all of Champion Street since Dulcie Catlow had been a familiar figure in her twin set and pearls, and the kindest of ladies, always with a ready smile and time for a chat. Leo, however, had refused to
Betty could only hope that he’d keep that promise.
Now she opened up her folding chair and settled herself to the pleasing occupation of observing people. There was nothing Betty enjoyed more than indulging in her favourite sport of trying to assess folk, to guess and sometimes cheekily enquire who a particular gift of flowers was for, and speculate on the true nature of their relationship.
Right now she could see Sam Beckett chatting to that Fran Poulson. No better than she should be that lass. God knows what she’d got up to when she went missing for months on end. Rumour had it she’d been earning a living down under the arches with that prossy Maureen. Not that you’d think so to listen to her mother Big Molly talk, who thought the sun shone out of her elder daughter’s backside.
Betty’s lip curled with disapproval as she watched the girl pat her bleached blond curls and stick her breast out in that too-tight sweater. Sam Beckett wasn’t above enjoying the show. Why young Judy put up with him Betty couldn’t imagine. She’d put rat poison in his soup if he was her husband. That would soon cool his ardour.
Something not very nice was undoubtedly being hatched between the pair of them, or she wasn’t Betty Hemley, a shrewd judge of character if ever there was one. Generally speaking her guesses were uncannily accurate, although with some customers it was more difficult and Betty knew she could at times be wildly off the mark.
Leo Catlow, for instance, was one who fell into the more enigmatic category, notoriously difficult to assess. Smiling graciously as he requested his usual bouquet Betty pretended to misunderstand. ‘Are these for the wife then?’
A slight puckering of the brow between a pair of penetrating dark brown eyes. ‘For my mother, Betty. I always visit my parents every month around this time, as you well know.’
‘I do, aye. And they’re enjoying the sea air in Lytham St Anne’s, I hope?’
‘I hope so too. Put in some of the pinks. Mother does so love carnations.’
Betty selected a dozen, together with three reflex chrysanthemum blooms and the same number of euphorbia with their long, elegantly curved branches for focal interest, slipping in a few stems of leatherleaf fern as greenery before wrapping the bouquet carefully in pale green tissue. Whatever you might say about Leo Catlow as a husband, he certainly didn’t stint when buying flowers for his mother.
Was that because he loved her, Betty wondered, or simply out of guilt because he didn’t visit very often? This trip to the coast to see his parents was cancelled more often than not, which Betty surmised was probably because Leo and his father, old Jonty Catlow, never had got on.
‘Retirement suiting your poor father, is it? He’s much improved, I trust? The dear lady must be worried sick about him.’
‘Yes, she must,’ Leo said, handing over several notes without asking the price.
Tight-fisted he may not be but tight-lipped he most certainly was, Betty thought.
She’d dared to speculate at the time about how his dear mother would cope when Leo’s father had suffered a massive heart attack and been forced to retire from the family business. Old Jonty Catlow had become increasingly irascible and in need of constant care, and everyone knew the poor lady was losing the thread. She tended to get confused, perhaps doing her shopping twice over, or boiling the kettle dry because she’d forgotten she was making herself a cup of tea. A fact which saddened all of Champion Street since Dulcie Catlow had been a familiar figure in her twin set and pearls, and the kindest of ladies, always with a ready smile and time for a chat. Leo, however, had refused to
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