going on. “Roy can manage,” she said sternly.
Nine
BRONWEN EVANS, NEE Wilson Jones, had received bad news in the post. She and her husband Trevor were having their customary gins and tonics in the smart drawing room of their new house on the outskirts of Thornwell. The builder had described the houses as executive dwellings in the best part of town, but in spite of exterior additions such as coach lamps and a Doric pillar here and there, they were pattern-book estate houses with little space between them. Bronwen had expected more, at her time of life, having lived at home with her mother in a large Victorian villa with kitchen garden and greenhouse until she met Trevor, who had swept her off her feet with practised ease.
Trevor was a salesman, as good at selling houses as he was at selling himself. He was an up-and-coming competitor in the residential property market, and had negotiated a good deal from the developers on the purchase of his own house, although now there was a financial slump—temporary, he hoped—and he was not in the best of tempers.
“What’s the matter with you, Bron?” he said. “It’s me who should be looking grim. Haven’t sold a house for two weeks now, but staff have to be paid and expenses met.”
“Well, at least you’ve got a job,” she said dully. She handed him a letter she had stuffed in her handbag this morning, waiting for the right moment to show it to him.
“Bloody hell!” he said. “This is a bit sudden, isn’t it? They’ve only just taken over!”
The letter said in shockingly brief terms that in view of the economic climate, the new owners of the brewery were having to cut down on staff numbers, and regrettably Bronwen’s post as public relations officer would no longer exist. They would be using a central department within the group. They thanked her for past service and wished her well for the future.
Bronwen watched him read through it again and waited for his reaction. He looked at her for a full minute, and then said, “You know what this means, don’t you.”
She nodded. “We’re going to have to extend our loan. I suppose we’d better make an appointment with the bank.”
“Some hopes!” he said bitterly. “We’re up to our limit, and beyond what most people would get, thanks to my weekly games of golf with our friendly neighbourhood bank manager.”
A flash of fear crossed Bronwen’s face. “So what will we do? Don’t tell me we’ll have to sell up our home, after all the work and loving care I’ve put into making it half decent?”
“And the rest. It’ll have to be your mother,” he said baldly. “She’s the only alternative. Rich as Croesus, if all indications are correct.”
“Not from the Joneses! It’s all dribbled away over the years.”
“Not just because of your father?” He knew he was on thin ice here, as Bronwen would not allow any mention of her father, and he had always respected this. But now things were dire, and he needed to know as much as he could about his mother-in-law’s likely pot of gold.
“Give me another gin,” she said. “And if Mother has what you hope for, it’s Wilson money from her own family. And,” she added with emphasis, “she’s not telling. Nor, I’m afraid, would she in any circumstances lend us more than twenty pounds. If that. Scrooge is her middle name, and she’s renowned for being a lifelong miser.”
Trevor stared at her. “Then you’re going to have to play Tiny Tim Cratchit, my dear,” he said. “I’m off to the club.”
“It’ll be too dark to play a round,” she objected.
“I don’t intend to play golf. More important things to discuss.”
She heard him slam the door and rev up his car, skidding off down the drive and disappearing at speed.
“Fool,” she said, and poured herself another gin.
NEARLY SEVEN O’CLOCK, Gus said to himself. Just time to ring Deirdre and make a date and time for their visit to the newspaper archive. Then off to
Nine
BRONWEN EVANS, NEE Wilson Jones, had received bad news in the post. She and her husband Trevor were having their customary gins and tonics in the smart drawing room of their new house on the outskirts of Thornwell. The builder had described the houses as executive dwellings in the best part of town, but in spite of exterior additions such as coach lamps and a Doric pillar here and there, they were pattern-book estate houses with little space between them. Bronwen had expected more, at her time of life, having lived at home with her mother in a large Victorian villa with kitchen garden and greenhouse until she met Trevor, who had swept her off her feet with practised ease.
Trevor was a salesman, as good at selling houses as he was at selling himself. He was an up-and-coming competitor in the residential property market, and had negotiated a good deal from the developers on the purchase of his own house, although now there was a financial slump—temporary, he hoped—and he was not in the best of tempers.
“What’s the matter with you, Bron?” he said. “It’s me who should be looking grim. Haven’t sold a house for two weeks now, but staff have to be paid and expenses met.”
“Well, at least you’ve got a job,” she said dully. She handed him a letter she had stuffed in her handbag this morning, waiting for the right moment to show it to him.
“Bloody hell!” he said. “This is a bit sudden, isn’t it? They’ve only just taken over!”
The letter said in shockingly brief terms that in view of the economic climate, the new owners of the brewery were having to cut down on staff numbers, and regrettably Bronwen’s post as public relations officer would no longer exist. They would be using a central department within the group. They thanked her for past service and wished her well for the future.
Bronwen watched him read through it again and waited for his reaction. He looked at her for a full minute, and then said, “You know what this means, don’t you.”
She nodded. “We’re going to have to extend our loan. I suppose we’d better make an appointment with the bank.”
“Some hopes!” he said bitterly. “We’re up to our limit, and beyond what most people would get, thanks to my weekly games of golf with our friendly neighbourhood bank manager.”
A flash of fear crossed Bronwen’s face. “So what will we do? Don’t tell me we’ll have to sell up our home, after all the work and loving care I’ve put into making it half decent?”
“And the rest. It’ll have to be your mother,” he said baldly. “She’s the only alternative. Rich as Croesus, if all indications are correct.”
“Not from the Joneses! It’s all dribbled away over the years.”
“Not just because of your father?” He knew he was on thin ice here, as Bronwen would not allow any mention of her father, and he had always respected this. But now things were dire, and he needed to know as much as he could about his mother-in-law’s likely pot of gold.
“Give me another gin,” she said. “And if Mother has what you hope for, it’s Wilson money from her own family. And,” she added with emphasis, “she’s not telling. Nor, I’m afraid, would she in any circumstances lend us more than twenty pounds. If that. Scrooge is her middle name, and she’s renowned for being a lifelong miser.”
Trevor stared at her. “Then you’re going to have to play Tiny Tim Cratchit, my dear,” he said. “I’m off to the club.”
“It’ll be too dark to play a round,” she objected.
“I don’t intend to play golf. More important things to discuss.”
She heard him slam the door and rev up his car, skidding off down the drive and disappearing at speed.
“Fool,” she said, and poured herself another gin.
NEARLY SEVEN O’CLOCK, Gus said to himself. Just time to ring Deirdre and make a date and time for their visit to the newspaper archive. Then off to
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