the pub for a convivial pint of Jones Brothers Best and a game of darts with James the Shop.
His eye was caught by the envelope he had stuck behind the dusty clock with a broken spring that stood on the mantelshelf. That letter. He supposed he should think seriously about it. Perhaps his persecutor would settle for monthly repayments? Thank God he’d agreed to a retainer from his previous employer. “You might be the only person who can help us,” they had said. “Naturally we would not wish to disturb your, um, retirement, but we’d like to think we could call on you in an emergency. A small retainer, Gus? Would that be acceptable?”
He could just about spare a small regular sum, which would allow him to pay off his debt in one hundred and fifty years. He sighed. “Worth a try, anyway,” he said to his ever-faithful Whippy, who lay curled up on the best of a bunch of shabby chairs. “Maybe you’ll have to make a sacrifice, too, little dog,” he said, and an ear twitched to show she was listening. “No more luxury dog feasts made with best cuts of beef and lamb. Back to evil-smelling tripe blocks in packets impossible to open.”
A knock at his front door interrupted his conversation, and he peeped from behind the curtain to see who it was. Miriam Blake, of course. Ah well, he had the perfect excuse for getting rid of her.
“Hello, Miriam! Nice to see you! Can’t ask you in, as I’m due at the pub. Meeting James for a game of darts.”
Her face fell. She had come bearing a neatly arranged basket of salad items from her garden. She thrust them at him, and said maybe he’d like to come to supper tomorrow? She’d got lovely lamb chops from the butcher and wanted to try a recipe with white wine and herbs.
“Yum,” said Gus. “Lovely! Can I confirm tomorrow? Good-o. Must fly now.” He eased the door shut as politely as he could, and watched her droop past his window. Oh dear, if only he fancied her, how easy it would be. She might even lend him a few bob. . . .
“MONEY IS THE root of all evil,” said Ivy, pushing a small pile of matches over to Roy. They were having a leisurely game of cribbage in Ivy’s room, an arrangement hard fought by Roy and only recently won.
“You’re right, Ivy,” he said. “Thank goodness I’ve never had any.”
She squinted at him, and said that she really must make an appointment with the optician. “Can’t even see the numbers on the cards now,” she said crossly. Ivy did not like to lose, and Roy went along with the fiction that it was trouble with her eyes that accounted for him winning.
“Another game?” he said. “Or would you like to listen to that play about two blokes living together and wanting a baby? It’s all about how they manage it, apparently. Using a surrogate mother, of course,” he added hastily.
“If you ask me,” Ivy said stoutly, “a baby needs a mother and father of the usual kind. What sort of a childhood is it going to have?”
“Better than some regular ones, they say,” Roy said mildly.
“Well, I’m glad I don’t have to think about it,” Ivy said. “Let’s have another game of crib.” She reached for her spare pair of specs. “These might do the trick,” she said, and Roy shuffled the cards.
“I wonder what Gus is doing,” he said. “I thought he was a bit down today?”
“Playing darts at the pub with James the Shop,” Ivy said.
“How do you know that?”
“I know everything,” Ivy replied, and burst into a very rare shout of laughter.
They concentrated on the game, and Ivy duly amassed a respectable number of matches. The room was quiet, broken only by a couple of doves cooing appropriately outside the window. Suddenly Roy thumped the table, giving Ivy such a shock that she dropped her hand of cards.
“What on earth was that about?” she said, scrabbling on the floor with difficulty.
“I’ve remembered,” Roy said triumphantly. “That thing I couldn’t bring to mind about the
His eye was caught by the envelope he had stuck behind the dusty clock with a broken spring that stood on the mantelshelf. That letter. He supposed he should think seriously about it. Perhaps his persecutor would settle for monthly repayments? Thank God he’d agreed to a retainer from his previous employer. “You might be the only person who can help us,” they had said. “Naturally we would not wish to disturb your, um, retirement, but we’d like to think we could call on you in an emergency. A small retainer, Gus? Would that be acceptable?”
He could just about spare a small regular sum, which would allow him to pay off his debt in one hundred and fifty years. He sighed. “Worth a try, anyway,” he said to his ever-faithful Whippy, who lay curled up on the best of a bunch of shabby chairs. “Maybe you’ll have to make a sacrifice, too, little dog,” he said, and an ear twitched to show she was listening. “No more luxury dog feasts made with best cuts of beef and lamb. Back to evil-smelling tripe blocks in packets impossible to open.”
A knock at his front door interrupted his conversation, and he peeped from behind the curtain to see who it was. Miriam Blake, of course. Ah well, he had the perfect excuse for getting rid of her.
“Hello, Miriam! Nice to see you! Can’t ask you in, as I’m due at the pub. Meeting James for a game of darts.”
Her face fell. She had come bearing a neatly arranged basket of salad items from her garden. She thrust them at him, and said maybe he’d like to come to supper tomorrow? She’d got lovely lamb chops from the butcher and wanted to try a recipe with white wine and herbs.
“Yum,” said Gus. “Lovely! Can I confirm tomorrow? Good-o. Must fly now.” He eased the door shut as politely as he could, and watched her droop past his window. Oh dear, if only he fancied her, how easy it would be. She might even lend him a few bob. . . .
“MONEY IS THE root of all evil,” said Ivy, pushing a small pile of matches over to Roy. They were having a leisurely game of cribbage in Ivy’s room, an arrangement hard fought by Roy and only recently won.
“You’re right, Ivy,” he said. “Thank goodness I’ve never had any.”
She squinted at him, and said that she really must make an appointment with the optician. “Can’t even see the numbers on the cards now,” she said crossly. Ivy did not like to lose, and Roy went along with the fiction that it was trouble with her eyes that accounted for him winning.
“Another game?” he said. “Or would you like to listen to that play about two blokes living together and wanting a baby? It’s all about how they manage it, apparently. Using a surrogate mother, of course,” he added hastily.
“If you ask me,” Ivy said stoutly, “a baby needs a mother and father of the usual kind. What sort of a childhood is it going to have?”
“Better than some regular ones, they say,” Roy said mildly.
“Well, I’m glad I don’t have to think about it,” Ivy said. “Let’s have another game of crib.” She reached for her spare pair of specs. “These might do the trick,” she said, and Roy shuffled the cards.
“I wonder what Gus is doing,” he said. “I thought he was a bit down today?”
“Playing darts at the pub with James the Shop,” Ivy said.
“How do you know that?”
“I know everything,” Ivy replied, and burst into a very rare shout of laughter.
They concentrated on the game, and Ivy duly amassed a respectable number of matches. The room was quiet, broken only by a couple of doves cooing appropriately outside the window. Suddenly Roy thumped the table, giving Ivy such a shock that she dropped her hand of cards.
“What on earth was that about?” she said, scrabbling on the floor with difficulty.
“I’ve remembered,” Roy said triumphantly. “That thing I couldn’t bring to mind about the
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