could have volunteered Mrs Greville as hostess there and then.
Now, why hadn’t Fred joined his mates? For all he was a professional man, educated and not short of a pound or two, he usually mixed with the settle crowd. It was their highest praise, that he didn’t have a bob on himself. Maybe that quip about money had offended them. Maybe it wasn’t a quip at all. Both Reg and Ted Gay had got up to lean over his table, talking earnestly. Or was it meanly? Gay was jabbing the air, his dirty finger an inch from Fred’s nose. How on earth had dear little Lucy managed to spring from loins like those?
Fred managed to ignore any threat, smiling and leaning back in his chair as the others slouched off.
Lindi began to saunter round collecting glasses, and, even as I watched, what did the bloody man do but put his hand up her skirt and goose her?
I was at his table before he could remove it. ‘Mr Tregothnan, if you can’t treat my employees with more respect I shall have to ask you not to patronise this pub. Lindi, there are people waiting to be served.’
‘But it was only a bit of fun, Mrs Welford,’ she bleated.
‘It may be, until you decide to sue me for not protecting you from sexual harassment. Off you go. And you, Mr Tregothnan, have to choose whether to keep your hands to yourself or drink elsewhere.’
I wasn’t surprised when there was a thundering on the kitchen door five minutes later. I hadn’t seen him off the premises, nothing confrontational like that, so I should imagine this was his way of proving he wasn’t going quietly. I stepped out, closing the door behind me. No rows in my food preparation area. Not with all those knives ready to hand.
‘How dare you, you cow?’ he began.
I summarise: every word was accompanied by a profanity. Not that I could complain. I was about to use quite a few myself.
‘I’ll tell you how I dare,’ I said. Years before I’d heaped curses on Nick Thomas’s head. I repeated them now with interest. My voice never got above a quiet monotone. I might have discussed the weather with more animation. But he got my drift: you didn ’t mess with Josie Welford. ‘So now you know,’ I finished.‘You’re welcome here any time, any day. But you do not lay a hand on my girls. Ever again. Now, go and castrate a cat and chew on my words.’
I turned on my heel and returned to the kitchen.
A few minutes later Lindi appeared, lower lip trembling. ‘All those things you said, Mrs Welford – did you mean them?’
‘Of course not. But he needed scaring. Men have to learn that “no” means “no”, Lindi, and we’re the only ones to teach them as far as I can see. And that means some of us have to learn to say it. Go on: have a try. Go on. You don’t have to be rude. But you mustn’t giggle and wiggle your bum while you’re saying it. “Stop that, please. I don’t like it.” Go on. I mean it, Lindi.’
I was out and about early on Saturday too, equipped with secateurs and leather gloves. Sue had persuaded me against my better judgement that I had flower-arranging skills that could be used by the women decorating the church. Women? Silly me. Ladies, of course.
In the summer most of the flowers came from local gardens. At this time of year they came from a flower wholesalers in Exeter, Sue setting out well before six every Saturday morning to collect them. We tended to work in threes, the rota apparently having been worked out at random. But Jem and his wife had decided to sneak a rare weekend away from the shop so I’d been pulled in as substitute for Molly.
Sue had put the flowers – gladioli, asters, dahlias and chrysanths – in a couple of deep black plastic buckets that could, with the addition of a wodge of Oasis, double as vases. More than half, a vivid mix of colours with Michaelmas daisies and some of those imported daisies, turquoise and orange and bright blue, which always reminded me of a child’s scribble, had already been removed and lay
Now, why hadn’t Fred joined his mates? For all he was a professional man, educated and not short of a pound or two, he usually mixed with the settle crowd. It was their highest praise, that he didn’t have a bob on himself. Maybe that quip about money had offended them. Maybe it wasn’t a quip at all. Both Reg and Ted Gay had got up to lean over his table, talking earnestly. Or was it meanly? Gay was jabbing the air, his dirty finger an inch from Fred’s nose. How on earth had dear little Lucy managed to spring from loins like those?
Fred managed to ignore any threat, smiling and leaning back in his chair as the others slouched off.
Lindi began to saunter round collecting glasses, and, even as I watched, what did the bloody man do but put his hand up her skirt and goose her?
I was at his table before he could remove it. ‘Mr Tregothnan, if you can’t treat my employees with more respect I shall have to ask you not to patronise this pub. Lindi, there are people waiting to be served.’
‘But it was only a bit of fun, Mrs Welford,’ she bleated.
‘It may be, until you decide to sue me for not protecting you from sexual harassment. Off you go. And you, Mr Tregothnan, have to choose whether to keep your hands to yourself or drink elsewhere.’
I wasn’t surprised when there was a thundering on the kitchen door five minutes later. I hadn’t seen him off the premises, nothing confrontational like that, so I should imagine this was his way of proving he wasn’t going quietly. I stepped out, closing the door behind me. No rows in my food preparation area. Not with all those knives ready to hand.
‘How dare you, you cow?’ he began.
I summarise: every word was accompanied by a profanity. Not that I could complain. I was about to use quite a few myself.
‘I’ll tell you how I dare,’ I said. Years before I’d heaped curses on Nick Thomas’s head. I repeated them now with interest. My voice never got above a quiet monotone. I might have discussed the weather with more animation. But he got my drift: you didn ’t mess with Josie Welford. ‘So now you know,’ I finished.‘You’re welcome here any time, any day. But you do not lay a hand on my girls. Ever again. Now, go and castrate a cat and chew on my words.’
I turned on my heel and returned to the kitchen.
A few minutes later Lindi appeared, lower lip trembling. ‘All those things you said, Mrs Welford – did you mean them?’
‘Of course not. But he needed scaring. Men have to learn that “no” means “no”, Lindi, and we’re the only ones to teach them as far as I can see. And that means some of us have to learn to say it. Go on: have a try. Go on. You don’t have to be rude. But you mustn’t giggle and wiggle your bum while you’re saying it. “Stop that, please. I don’t like it.” Go on. I mean it, Lindi.’
I was out and about early on Saturday too, equipped with secateurs and leather gloves. Sue had persuaded me against my better judgement that I had flower-arranging skills that could be used by the women decorating the church. Women? Silly me. Ladies, of course.
In the summer most of the flowers came from local gardens. At this time of year they came from a flower wholesalers in Exeter, Sue setting out well before six every Saturday morning to collect them. We tended to work in threes, the rota apparently having been worked out at random. But Jem and his wife had decided to sneak a rare weekend away from the shop so I’d been pulled in as substitute for Molly.
Sue had put the flowers – gladioli, asters, dahlias and chrysanths – in a couple of deep black plastic buckets that could, with the addition of a wodge of Oasis, double as vases. More than half, a vivid mix of colours with Michaelmas daisies and some of those imported daisies, turquoise and orange and bright blue, which always reminded me of a child’s scribble, had already been removed and lay
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