“Can I be sure I have this right? One medium cappuccino, one small Americano with cold milk on the side, and one regular single shot Americano with hot milk on the side. Yes?”
They all nodded.
“Good! Now maybe you’d like a little something to eat with that? This morning I have some lovely shortbread for you to try. It’s as light as a feather, I promise. Sir? Sir!”
Roger was carefully studying his fingernails.
“Sir! Can I…?”
“Roger, pay attention to the young lady here. Oh dear, who are you again?” Hilda squinted in her direction but the name on her badge remained a hopeless blur. She could make out the large ‘Skylark’ logo on her sweatshirt, but it was too late now to dig out her glasses from her handbag for a closer view. “Oh, never mind. Look, Roger, she just wants to know if you’d like a piece of shortbread with your coffee.”
“Oh! Probably not for me, thanks. I’m sure it’s delicious, but I haven’t much of an appetite this morning,” smiled Roger, blushing slightly.
“Her name’s Marcella,” Rita offered. “I thought you knew that.”
“Yes!” confirmed Marcella quickly, with a flashing smile. “That’s me! And please say a special hello to my boyfriend, Nico, the Skylark’s master baker. Usually he is up to his elbows in flour and stuff in the kitchen, but today we are very quiet so you can meet him in person.” She pointed towards the tall, curly-haired young man at the rear of the café, who waved cheerfully to the little group.
“Marcella’s made you an offer, Roger. It would be rude to say ‘no’.” said Hilda firmly.
“It certainly would,” declared Rita. “Very rude. Well, I’m going to give it a try.”
Rita was well known in the village for having a lot to say, especially on the merits or otherwise of any particular variety of perennial geranium; that was a subject on which she could — and frequently did — talk for hours on end. And that was why, in spite of her encyclopaedic knowledge, she was hardly ever invited to give talks or judge competitions in neighbouring gardening clubs because she would hold up proceedings for hours on end and cause massive ill-feeling by requiring the tea break to be delayed far beyond what most folk would consider reasonable. After all, the chance of a good natter and to feast on egg and cress sandwiches and home-made traybakes was usually much more important than an opportunity to learn new ways of propagating geraniums, but Rita was blissfully unaware that the people who hung on her every word were simply waiting for her to stop talking.
Neither Hilda nor Roger could remember ever inviting her along to their fortnightly get-togethers, or even mentioning them in her presence. They had started to meet up in the Skylark because it was in the main street and because they were senior office-bearers in the local gardening club at the time with an AGM to organise. As the months went by, they had tacitly reached the view that it would be rude to start to challenge Rita’s presence; gardeners were, after all, supposed to be friendly people. There was no escaping the fact, however, that she knew precious little about anything except perennial geraniums and seemed to care even less.
“And I’ll have a piece of shortbread too!” declared Hilda.
Marcella waited, calmly. It was only a matter of time; men always succumbed to her eventually. She looked at Roger expectantly.
“Oh, alright then.”
“Excellent!” beamed Marcella. “You will not regret it, I promise. I will be back shortly. Nico, you can give me a hand!”
“I hope she doesn’t get the order mixed up,” grumbled Roger. “Did you notice, she didn’t write it down? She never does. Serving staff should always write orders down.”
“Mrs Benson used to write down our orders. I do wish the Bensons hadn’t retired.” Rita shook her head sorrowfully.
“Marcella’s never got it wrong, you know,” countered Hilda. “And it’s a few months now since she and her boyfriend took the Skylark over. I think they’ve done really well, far better than I expected of a pair of youngsters. They made a grand job of the refurbishment too. And poor Mr Benson wasn’t well in the end, you know, not well at all. The place was a total wreck – and filthy. I was always surprised the Council didn’t shut it down. It was a blessing for all when he passed away. Apparently, he drove the staff in the care home completely mad, always trying to get into the kitchen to give them a good shake, as he put it.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t agree. I came here with my Stanley just the other day for a bite of lunch. I had a ham and cheese toastie – well, you can’t really go wrong with that, can you? – but Stanley had to have their home-made broccoli quiche. I had a little bit, just to try it. It wasn’t nice at all. In fact, it was slimy. He was so poorly in the evening that I thought I might have to get the doctor to him. I just hope the shortbread’s going to be alright. Maybe I made a mistake ordering it, but I did feel under a bit of pressure.”
Though he’d never met Stanley, Roger felt waves of sympathy for him welling up inside. He’d absent-mindedly started to play around with the sugar sachets when he felt Hilda poking him in the arm.
“Roger, I see you. I wish you’d take your hand out of the sugar bowl. What have you been doing to get it so filthy?”
Roger looked at his hand as though it belonged to someone else. “Oh, I was down at the allotment, making an early start, you know. I’m just a bit behind at the moment.”
“So are we all! Anyway, go and give your paws a good scrub before the young lady comes back.”
If Roger had had a tail, it would have been well and truly between his legs as he headed for the Gentlemen’s Rest Room (which had just been the plain “Gents” in the Bensons’ day). He returned just in time to see Marcella unloading her tray. She’d put the plate with the shortbread in the centre of the table, and the coffees were being put in the right place without any need for prompting; she stood for a second or two, obviously expecting a word of thanks, but Hilda was the only one to take the hint. The hesitancy of her “Oh, er, thank you, er, Marcella!” did slightly spoil the effect but that was, as usual, the result of her not being entirely confident about Marcella’s name.
“Enjoy!” declared Marcella, perhaps a little too brightly.
So they nibbled at their shortbread and sipped their coffees, but there was no hiding the rattle of Roger’s cup as he put it down; it sounded like castanets. Eventually Hilda broke the silence.
“Roger, you’re among friends, so it’s okay to ask. You’re not your usual happy self this morning, are you? Your hands are as shaky as anything! Something’s obviously on your mind. Out with it!”
Roger swallowed his last mouthful of shortbread carefully, to avoid choking over a stray crumb. He then cleared his throat, as a further precaution. “Well, I’ve had a letter,” he started. He made it sound as if it were important enough to have come from Buckingham Palace.
“Really?” asked Rita calmly. “And what letter was that, pray?”
“It was from Alfie Dickinson, our new Club Secretary.”
“And what’s it about?” prompted Hilda. “Oh, come on, spill the beans, we haven’t got all day!”
“He’s-accusing-me-of-cheating-in-the-annual-giant-vegetable-competition!” The words all came out in a rush.
Rita blinked a few times. “He says you’ve what?”
“Cheated in the club’s annual giant vegetable competition.” This time Roger didn’t hurry. “Apparently there’s been a complaint from one of the other members. It’s alleged that I injected my biggest pumpkin with water, to increase its weight. It’s the oldest trick in the book, of course – everyone knows that. But why would I do such a thing, after being in the club for over twenty-five years? You remember, Hilda, I got my silver jubilee membership medal at last year’s AGM. I’ve got it right here!” Roger undid the top two or three buttons of his shirt and after some fumbling pulled out a large silver medal on a chain which he waved about in front of Hilda and Rita. Marcella, who’d been busy tidying the cutlery tray, looked up anxiously. “He wants my written resignation by the end of the week!” Roger exclaimed. “It’s outrageous!”
“Surely he has something to go on,” reasoned Hilda. “He can’t just go around…”
“Well, this member apparently says that one evening he went down to the allotments and saw me drilling a hole in a pumpkin in my greenhouse and then forcing water into it with a garden syringe. So, in the morning he phoned Alfie on his mobile, who came down right away – he lives quite close by – and tested the pumpkin in the usual way…”
“And what’s that?” inquired Rita. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Roger, but how many times do I have to tell you? I’m a geranium person through and through, and I can’t be expected to know about these things!”
“Well, he just sat on it.”
“And?”
“And, it just sort of collapsed under him and soaked his trousers. Anyway, there’s nothing remarkable about that. Everyone knows that ripe pumpkins are fragile. And Alfie’s got a bum the size of an elephant’s.”
“That’s the trouble with giant vegetables,” interjected Rita. “It’s why I won’t grow them. There’s too much risk of jiggery-pokery of one kind or another. Now my Great-uncle Cuthbert, he used to grow giant cabbages, and one year…”
“Oh, does anyone care a fig about your Great-uncle Cuthbert?” shouted Roger. “Or his rotten cabbages?”
“Roger, calm yourself!” interjected Hilda. “For shame!”
“You’re completely missing the point, Roger. You just can’t cheat with perennial geraniums, however hard you try. Everyone starts with identical packets of seed from the competition organisers, and after that it’s a true test of husbandry skills. I’ve won plenty enough competitions in my time to know that.”
By now Marcella was hovering at the end of the counter, mobile phone in hand. She’d never had to phone the police, but there was a first time for everything.
“Well, I’m going to murder him. I’m quite serious, you know.” Roger was on his feet now, and breathing heavily.
“Murder who?” cried Rita and Hilda together, looking at each other aghast.
“Alfie, of course. Horticulture has no need of people like him.”
The stunned silence was eventually broken by Marcella who’d hurried over.
“I know you’re deadly serious, sir, because I’ve been listening carefully and wondering whether I should ask you all to leave for behaving like…like football hooligans. The Skylark has no need of people like you, no need at all. Now tell me, sir, if you go and kill this Alfie person, who has the best chance of winning this year’s competition? Think about it!”
“Well, I do, for sure. Yes, it’s me! I don’t like to boast, but I was down at the allotment first thing this morning and my number 2 pumpkin is doing very nicely indeed, thank you.”
“So, who might the police come looking for in their search for Alfie’s murderer? Who stands to benefit from his death?”
Roger looked around desperately. Perspiration began to bead on his brow.
Marcella nodded. “So, I have another idea for you, I think a better one. Why don’t you all stop shouting at each other and I’ll ask Nico to bring in some fresh coffee? And some more shortbread, perhaps? Yes? Now, can I be sure I have this right? It’s one medium cappuccino…”
They all nodded.
“Good! Now maybe you’d like a little something to eat with that? This morning I have some lovely shortbread for you to try. It’s as light as a feather, I promise. Sir? Sir!”
Roger was carefully studying his fingernails.
“Sir! Can I…?”
“Roger, pay attention to the young lady here. Oh dear, who are you again?” Hilda squinted in her direction but the name on her badge remained a hopeless blur. She could make out the large ‘Skylark’ logo on her sweatshirt, but it was too late now to dig out her glasses from her handbag for a closer view. “Oh, never mind. Look, Roger, she just wants to know if you’d like a piece of shortbread with your coffee.”
“Oh! Probably not for me, thanks. I’m sure it’s delicious, but I haven’t much of an appetite this morning,” smiled Roger, blushing slightly.
“Her name’s Marcella,” Rita offered. “I thought you knew that.”
“Yes!” confirmed Marcella quickly, with a flashing smile. “That’s me! And please say a special hello to my boyfriend, Nico, the Skylark’s master baker. Usually he is up to his elbows in flour and stuff in the kitchen, but today we are very quiet so you can meet him in person.” She pointed towards the tall, curly-haired young man at the rear of the café, who waved cheerfully to the little group.
“Marcella’s made you an offer, Roger. It would be rude to say ‘no’.” said Hilda firmly.
“It certainly would,” declared Rita. “Very rude. Well, I’m going to give it a try.”
Rita was well known in the village for having a lot to say, especially on the merits or otherwise of any particular variety of perennial geranium; that was a subject on which she could — and frequently did — talk for hours on end. And that was why, in spite of her encyclopaedic knowledge, she was hardly ever invited to give talks or judge competitions in neighbouring gardening clubs because she would hold up proceedings for hours on end and cause massive ill-feeling by requiring the tea break to be delayed far beyond what most folk would consider reasonable. After all, the chance of a good natter and to feast on egg and cress sandwiches and home-made traybakes was usually much more important than an opportunity to learn new ways of propagating geraniums, but Rita was blissfully unaware that the people who hung on her every word were simply waiting for her to stop talking.
Neither Hilda nor Roger could remember ever inviting her along to their fortnightly get-togethers, or even mentioning them in her presence. They had started to meet up in the Skylark because it was in the main street and because they were senior office-bearers in the local gardening club at the time with an AGM to organise. As the months went by, they had tacitly reached the view that it would be rude to start to challenge Rita’s presence; gardeners were, after all, supposed to be friendly people. There was no escaping the fact, however, that she knew precious little about anything except perennial geraniums and seemed to care even less.
“And I’ll have a piece of shortbread too!” declared Hilda.
Marcella waited, calmly. It was only a matter of time; men always succumbed to her eventually. She looked at Roger expectantly.
“Oh, alright then.”
“Excellent!” beamed Marcella. “You will not regret it, I promise. I will be back shortly. Nico, you can give me a hand!”
“I hope she doesn’t get the order mixed up,” grumbled Roger. “Did you notice, she didn’t write it down? She never does. Serving staff should always write orders down.”
“Mrs Benson used to write down our orders. I do wish the Bensons hadn’t retired.” Rita shook her head sorrowfully.
“Marcella’s never got it wrong, you know,” countered Hilda. “And it’s a few months now since she and her boyfriend took the Skylark over. I think they’ve done really well, far better than I expected of a pair of youngsters. They made a grand job of the refurbishment too. And poor Mr Benson wasn’t well in the end, you know, not well at all. The place was a total wreck – and filthy. I was always surprised the Council didn’t shut it down. It was a blessing for all when he passed away. Apparently, he drove the staff in the care home completely mad, always trying to get into the kitchen to give them a good shake, as he put it.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t agree. I came here with my Stanley just the other day for a bite of lunch. I had a ham and cheese toastie – well, you can’t really go wrong with that, can you? – but Stanley had to have their home-made broccoli quiche. I had a little bit, just to try it. It wasn’t nice at all. In fact, it was slimy. He was so poorly in the evening that I thought I might have to get the doctor to him. I just hope the shortbread’s going to be alright. Maybe I made a mistake ordering it, but I did feel under a bit of pressure.”
Though he’d never met Stanley, Roger felt waves of sympathy for him welling up inside. He’d absent-mindedly started to play around with the sugar sachets when he felt Hilda poking him in the arm.
“Roger, I see you. I wish you’d take your hand out of the sugar bowl. What have you been doing to get it so filthy?”
Roger looked at his hand as though it belonged to someone else. “Oh, I was down at the allotment, making an early start, you know. I’m just a bit behind at the moment.”
“So are we all! Anyway, go and give your paws a good scrub before the young lady comes back.”
If Roger had had a tail, it would have been well and truly between his legs as he headed for the Gentlemen’s Rest Room (which had just been the plain “Gents” in the Bensons’ day). He returned just in time to see Marcella unloading her tray. She’d put the plate with the shortbread in the centre of the table, and the coffees were being put in the right place without any need for prompting; she stood for a second or two, obviously expecting a word of thanks, but Hilda was the only one to take the hint. The hesitancy of her “Oh, er, thank you, er, Marcella!” did slightly spoil the effect but that was, as usual, the result of her not being entirely confident about Marcella’s name.
“Enjoy!” declared Marcella, perhaps a little too brightly.
So they nibbled at their shortbread and sipped their coffees, but there was no hiding the rattle of Roger’s cup as he put it down; it sounded like castanets. Eventually Hilda broke the silence.
“Roger, you’re among friends, so it’s okay to ask. You’re not your usual happy self this morning, are you? Your hands are as shaky as anything! Something’s obviously on your mind. Out with it!”
Roger swallowed his last mouthful of shortbread carefully, to avoid choking over a stray crumb. He then cleared his throat, as a further precaution. “Well, I’ve had a letter,” he started. He made it sound as if it were important enough to have come from Buckingham Palace.
“Really?” asked Rita calmly. “And what letter was that, pray?”
“It was from Alfie Dickinson, our new Club Secretary.”
“And what’s it about?” prompted Hilda. “Oh, come on, spill the beans, we haven’t got all day!”
“He’s-accusing-me-of-cheating-in-the-annual-giant-vegetable-competition!” The words all came out in a rush.
Rita blinked a few times. “He says you’ve what?”
“Cheated in the club’s annual giant vegetable competition.” This time Roger didn’t hurry. “Apparently there’s been a complaint from one of the other members. It’s alleged that I injected my biggest pumpkin with water, to increase its weight. It’s the oldest trick in the book, of course – everyone knows that. But why would I do such a thing, after being in the club for over twenty-five years? You remember, Hilda, I got my silver jubilee membership medal at last year’s AGM. I’ve got it right here!” Roger undid the top two or three buttons of his shirt and after some fumbling pulled out a large silver medal on a chain which he waved about in front of Hilda and Rita. Marcella, who’d been busy tidying the cutlery tray, looked up anxiously. “He wants my written resignation by the end of the week!” Roger exclaimed. “It’s outrageous!”
“Surely he has something to go on,” reasoned Hilda. “He can’t just go around…”
“Well, this member apparently says that one evening he went down to the allotments and saw me drilling a hole in a pumpkin in my greenhouse and then forcing water into it with a garden syringe. So, in the morning he phoned Alfie on his mobile, who came down right away – he lives quite close by – and tested the pumpkin in the usual way…”
“And what’s that?” inquired Rita. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Roger, but how many times do I have to tell you? I’m a geranium person through and through, and I can’t be expected to know about these things!”
“Well, he just sat on it.”
“And?”
“And, it just sort of collapsed under him and soaked his trousers. Anyway, there’s nothing remarkable about that. Everyone knows that ripe pumpkins are fragile. And Alfie’s got a bum the size of an elephant’s.”
“That’s the trouble with giant vegetables,” interjected Rita. “It’s why I won’t grow them. There’s too much risk of jiggery-pokery of one kind or another. Now my Great-uncle Cuthbert, he used to grow giant cabbages, and one year…”
“Oh, does anyone care a fig about your Great-uncle Cuthbert?” shouted Roger. “Or his rotten cabbages?”
“Roger, calm yourself!” interjected Hilda. “For shame!”
“You’re completely missing the point, Roger. You just can’t cheat with perennial geraniums, however hard you try. Everyone starts with identical packets of seed from the competition organisers, and after that it’s a true test of husbandry skills. I’ve won plenty enough competitions in my time to know that.”
By now Marcella was hovering at the end of the counter, mobile phone in hand. She’d never had to phone the police, but there was a first time for everything.
“Well, I’m going to murder him. I’m quite serious, you know.” Roger was on his feet now, and breathing heavily.
“Murder who?” cried Rita and Hilda together, looking at each other aghast.
“Alfie, of course. Horticulture has no need of people like him.”
The stunned silence was eventually broken by Marcella who’d hurried over.
“I know you’re deadly serious, sir, because I’ve been listening carefully and wondering whether I should ask you all to leave for behaving like…like football hooligans. The Skylark has no need of people like you, no need at all. Now tell me, sir, if you go and kill this Alfie person, who has the best chance of winning this year’s competition? Think about it!”
“Well, I do, for sure. Yes, it’s me! I don’t like to boast, but I was down at the allotment first thing this morning and my number 2 pumpkin is doing very nicely indeed, thank you.”
“So, who might the police come looking for in their search for Alfie’s murderer? Who stands to benefit from his death?”
Roger looked around desperately. Perspiration began to bead on his brow.
Marcella nodded. “So, I have another idea for you, I think a better one. Why don’t you all stop shouting at each other and I’ll ask Nico to bring in some fresh coffee? And some more shortbread, perhaps? Yes? Now, can I be sure I have this right? It’s one medium cappuccino…”