Rosemary

There are uncharitable feelings at the charity shop

‘It wasn’t her fault that you blundered in and tore Mrs B off a strip!’

My charity-shop colleague Wendy was furious, as is so often the case these days. Regular visitors to this page (irregular visitors are also welcome, we’re not proud) will know that Wendy is a retired hippy, and possibly the last person outside California who still thinks the kaftan is a good look. As such, she has always been relaxed and easy-going. However, in what could be her one concession to traditional fashion, she is becoming grumpy in her old age.

‘It’s a ruddy disgrace,’ she said, although ‘ruddy’ wasn’t quite the word she used. ‘She’s come here to spy on us, that’s what it amounts to. The ruddy Beasley woman doesn’t trust us, so she’s planted a big, fat cuckoo in our cosy little nest. It’s a disgrace.’

If you’re an irregular visitor, you’ll probably be wondering what all the fuss is about, and who exactly are the dramatis personae. (When you become a regular Woman’s Weekly reader, be assured that words such as dramatis personae will become second nature to you. We’re not the type of publication that believes bona fide is some sort of dog treat.)

The ‘Beasley woman’ in question, known more politely as Mrs Beasley, is the charity shop’s manager. The ‘cuckoo in the nest’ is our new colleague Helen. And the reason that Wendy is going off on one is that she (Wendy) was in the middle of a furious rant about Mrs B the other day, only to come to a sudden halt when Helen announced that Mrs B was her cousin.

‘The question is,’ said Wendy, ‘what are we going to do about her?’

We were briefly interrupted by a smart gentleman in a Panama hat, who wanted to know whether we could tell him the plot of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie. He didn’t want to fork out good money if he’d read it before, and he couldn’t remember whether it was this one he’d read or Lord Edgware Dies.

As it happens, dear Mr Dear is the neighbourhood’s biggest Agatha bore, and I’ve learned a thing or two over the years.

‘This is the one where Monsieur Poirot retires to the country to live next door to his old friend Roger Ackroyd, only for Poirot to come out of retirement when Mr Ackroyd is found dead in mysterious circumstances.’ ‘Oh,’ said Mr Panama Hat, looking rather put out. ‘There was no need to spoil the plot for me like that.’ He supposed, though, that he’d take it anyway.

‘Should we tell him it was butler who did it?’ whispered Wendy loudly as he left.

‘But it wasn’t the butler.’

‘I didn’t think it was,’ she said. ‘But he won’t know that, will he? Never mind him, though. What on earth are we going to do about Helen?’

As it happened, I had arrived that morning fully prepared in my mind for just such a conversation.

‘I already have a plan,’ I revealed with a flourish – or what passes for flourish in a woman who was up at 4am unwittingly eavesdropping on our new neighbours – a field full of noisy sheep.

‘I thought you might,’ said Wendy with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Well? What are we going to do, then?’

‘Absolutely nothing,’ I said.

‘Oh,’ she said, with much less of a twinkle. ‘That’s not much of a plan.’

‘What were you thinking of, Wendy? Bundling her into a packing case and sending her to the left-luggage department at John O’Groats Station?’

‘Not a bad idea. Except I’m pretty sure that John O’Groats doesn’t have its own railway station…’

‘That’s what makes it even more fiendish,’ I remarked, admittedly with some sarcasm. ‘Actually, we’re going to be grown up about this. It’s not her fault that she’s Mrs B’s cousin. And it wasn’t her fault that you blundered in and tore Mrs B off a strip in front of her!’

‘Well, Rosie, you really are a great disappointment to me. If you’re not going to help, it looks as though I’ll just have to do something myself.’

With that, she packed up her things and took herself off to lunch.

As chance would have it, Wendy was taking the afternoon off, and she was replaced at one o’clock by Helen. For about an hour, we barely exchanged a word because it was suddenly very busy. Then, just as suddenly, things calmed down. I made a cup of tea, and we began to chat.

‘I suppose you all think I’ll be spying on you and reporting back to Liz,’ she said after a few opening preliminaries. (Liz, by the way, is what we never call Mrs Beasley. On the rare occasions when we’re granted a chat on the most intimate of terms – perhaps when she wishes to seek our advice about her soap opera of a love life – we might venture to address her as Elizabeth.)

‘Tush! No, no, not at all,’ I assured her, quite possibly crossing my fingers behind my back. ‘Spying? I mean, the very idea.’

‘I’m sure that’s what Wendy thinks,’ she continued. ‘Honestly, the look she gave me when I said I was Liz’s cousin.’

‘I’m sure that was nothing – just Wendy annoyed with herself for putting her foot in it. Really, I’m sure she’s forgotten all about it. Honestly, Helen, what do you think we’re like here! You make us sound like silly, plotting teenagers.’

She picked up her tea and headed for one of the stools behind the counter.

‘Oh look,’ she said before sitting down. ‘Somebody’s left a drawing pin on the stool, pointy end up. Lucky

I spotted it!’

Oh, Wendy, you didn’t, did you?