Gossip Girls

A job opportunity arises from an unlikely source in this inspiring short story by Valerie Bowes.

They were in the club to discuss books, but that wasn’t all the members wanted to know . . .

NO Sheila today?” Rose wasn’t sure if Gwen was asking her directly or not, but no-one else was jumping in with the answer.

“I think she’s got a visitor,” she replied, accepting the cup of tea Gwen held out to her.

“Oh?”

Gwen’s ears were positively twitching and Rose regretted saying anything.

She should have denied all knowledge of Sheila’s whereabouts.

“Who is it? Have you seen them?”

“I saw a man going up her path yesterday.” Rose made her voice as off-hand as possible.

They were a nice enough crowd, the Thursday Book Club.

She enjoyed reading the books and taking part in the discussions, but she hated it when they turned to gossip over tea and cake.

“Her brother?” Rose suggested.

“She doesn’t have a brother, does she?” Gwen looked around.

Some of the women shook their heads. Sheila Parkinson didn’t have a brother.

“A sister, I think,” someone murmured. “But I’m not sure. She tends to keep herself to herself.”

“I thought she said she was going to be here today. I hope there’s nothing wrong,” Gwen remarked.

“Perhaps you should call in and ask her, Rose. You live nearest.”

Rose smiled noncommittally. She wouldn’t dream of intruding on Sheila unless she saw an ambulance stationed outside and thought she might need some help.

“What made you think she’s got her brother staying with her?”

Rose looked down at her lap and shrugged.

“She’s only been widowed for a few months, hasn’t she?” someone asked.

“That’s why I expect it must be her brother,” Rose said. “This is such a good sponge. Who baked it?”

“Me,” Gwen replied. “I wonder what Sheila’s up to? She definitely doesn’t have a brother. A cousin, maybe?”

It was clear what they were all thinking. Rose glanced around before looking down at the cake again, as though it were the only thing on her mind.

If spreading gossip about her neighbour was what it took to be accepted into this tight circle, she didn’t know if it was worth it.

But she’d give almost anything to feel included in a group.

“There was a car parked outside all night,” she said with a touch of defiance.

“Oh, Sheila!” Gwen tried to look disapproving. “What are you up to?”

****

As she sat in front of the television that evening,

Rose felt ashamed of herself.

She hadn’t told any lies; there had been a car in Sheila’s drive and she had seen a man. But it was nothing to do with her.

What Sheila did was her own business and not to be used as a means of getting in with Gwen and the rest.

She thought about the first time she’d gone to the Thursday Book Club.

She’d known nobody, and although she couldn’t say she’d been made to feel unwelcome, they all knew each other so well that she’d felt a bit left out.

She’d almost decided not to return, but what else did she have to fill her time?

Every bit of advice in magazines or self-help books recommended joining a club or doing some activity.

That was how you made new friends and gave yourself a purpose in life.

All her purpose had been taken away and she was surprised by the depths of her anger towards a world that could do that to her.

For 30 years she’d enjoyed being personal assistant to a well-regarded academic.

Rose had been the power behind the throne, removing hazards before he saw them, packing him off to meetings at the appointed time with the necessary documents, dealing with e-mails and getting more coffee.

She’d been at the centre of things.

Everyone knew if they wanted to get to Montague Brown, they had to go through Rose Jameson.

It was as though she’d been tipped into cold water when the phone call came one afternoon when she thought Montague was safely at a conference.

“Miss Jameson? Roger Hargreaves here. I’m afraid I have some bad news . . . ”

She took efficient control. Of course she did.

Montague’s family had dealt with the personal side of things, but anything connected with his work was hers to attend to.

It had been busy and stressful, and she’d missed the old boy more than she would have believed possible.

The day it was all over and she returned the office keys to the solicitor, her world came to an abrupt stop.

She had stood on the pavement outside the lawyer’s office.

People hurried past, dividing around her as if she was a rock in a river.

People with things to do, places to go.

Where had she to go, except back to her flat where the only thing to do was water the plants?

Maybe she should have tried to get another job.

She had plenty of contacts amongst other Montague Browns, with their minds several thousand years in the past and needing a means of communication to the present.

Somehow, it didn’t appeal. The idea of learning a whole new set of preferences and granite-set ways of doing things made her feel tired and stale.

If she’d known that she’d end up among a group of women whose only interest was gossip, she’d have changed her mind.

It was too late now. She’d been out of the academic loop for six months, and she was only weeks away from being officially retired.

Montague wouldn’t have realised or cared.

So long as she came in every day and sorted out all the niggling things that needed done, she could have been twenty-five or eighty-five.

Most of his fellow academics would take the same line, but they all had their own Rose Jamesons and nobody had been beating a path to her door. She was on her own.

The Thursday Book Club had appeared to be a lifeline, but if gossiping about her neighbour left her feeling like she needed a shower, it was too big a price to pay.

****

“Hello, Rose! Where have you been hiding?”

Rose looked up from her coffee. Sheila Parkinson was standing in front of the table, smiling at her.

She felt a flush making her face uncomfortably warm, but smiled welcomingly.

“Come and join me,” she offered.

“Oh, I can’t stop. I just came in to buy a cake to take home.

“Actually, I’m dying for a nice cup of tea. Been on my feet for what seems like hours!”

“Have you?” Rose said, hoping she didn’t sound too envious. “You’ve been keeping busy, then?”

This was safer ground. Being on her feet wasn’t exactly what the Thursday Book Club ladies had been suggesting Sheila was doing.

Sheila rolled her eyes. “Have I? You know the little library up on the hill? The one that closed because of the cuts in council services?”

Rose nodded.

“Someone told me it’s reopening soon.”

“It is. The council can’t fund it, so we’re reopening it with volunteers.

“We’re thinking of doing tea and coffee, as well as book readings for some of the playgroups.

“I’ve been helping to give it a coat of paint and a good scrub.

“It had got a bit dingy, but my brother-in-law’s painting some murals to brighten it up.”

“Oh!” Rose sat up. “That sounds like a really good idea. Perhaps I could join you?”

She tailed off, seeing the regretful look cross Sheila’s face.

“You have enough people already?”

“I’m afraid we have. For the moment, at least.” Sheila looked thoughtful.

“I’ve rather lost track of the days, but isn’t it Thursday? Have you stopped going to the book club?”

Rose felt the warmth returning to her cheeks.

She hadn’t been able to face going today.

Sheila seemed to guess what was bothering her.

“They’re such a lot of gossips.

“Don’t take any notice.

It’s the only reason they go

– not for the books.”

Rose bit her lip.

“I’m awfully sorry, Sheila. They asked where you were because they know I live opposite you, and I told them about your visitor.”

“Oh, did you!” A grin began to stretch across Sheila’s mouth.

“Well, if you’ve finished your coffee, how about you come and meet him?”

As they walked back, Rose tried to work out if Sheila was annoyed or not.

She didn’t get the impression that she was, although she didn’t say anything until she pushed open the front door.

“Anybody home?” she called.

“Where else do you expect me to be?” a voice called back.

Rose detected laughter beneath the words.

Sheila ushered her into a room where a woman was sitting, her leg in a plaster cast propped upon a stool.

“At last! I was beginning to think you were growing the flour to make that cake!”

“Rose, meet my sister, who, as you can see, has been in the wars. Lorna, this is my friend Rose. We met at book club.”

Lorna smiled.

“Pleased to meet you, Rose.”

The flush of warmth that washed over her at being introduced as Sheila’s friend was of a different quality from the previous flush of guilt.

“Is Ralph back?” Sheila asked.

“Not yet.”

The sisters exchanged wry grins.

“Right, I’ll make some tea and cut this cake.”

Before she could move, the front door opened and a man stalked into the room.

The glower on his face told them he wasn’t a happy bunny.

“Had a good day, dear?” Lorna’s exaggerated air of innocence wouldn’t have fooled anyone.

“Chocolate teapots, the lot of them! I’ve had enough. Given them the sack. Now what am I going to do?”

“Ralph’s setting up an exhibition of some of his work.

“He’s a well-known artist, so we’re lucky he’s doing the murals at the library,” Sheila explained. “Ralph, this is Rose.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I’ve had a frustrating day. I can’t see us being able to open in time at this rate.

“The people who were

She’d give almost anything to feel included in a group

supposed to be doing it couldn’t organise a novena in a nunnery!”

“I could.”

The words were out before Rose could stop them.

What did she know about the art world? Nothing.

But if she could get Montague to a country on the other side of the world with his notes and documents in order and enough clothes to last three weeks, she could easily sort out an exhibition.

Sheila looked as smug as the cat that got the canary.

“She could,” she told her stunned brother-in-law.

“You told us what you did that first day at book club, remember, Rose?”

He looked as excited as a schoolboy.

“Would you?”

As Rose walked home, her thoughts buffeted her from all sides.

Had she bitten off more than she could chew? No, of course she hadn’t. She knew her organisational skills were legendary.

Lorna’s husband would be a different kettle of fish from old Montague, but she’d handle him.

Those magazines and self-help books were right. Join a club to meet people and start a new life.

She’d followed their advice – just not quite the way they’d had in mind.

The End.