‘Not that I can think of.’ Basil pushed his trilby back and scratched the side of his head, acquiring some Brylcreem beneath his fingernail. ‘Was there anything specific you were thinking of?’
‘This is a very delicate subject.’ Anise cleared her throat gently. ‘I am concerned – extremely concerned – at the number of male visitors that Miss Stevens seems to entertain.’
‘Men?’
She lowered her voice. ‘They come out looking quite flushed and very pleased with themselves.’
‘Oh, men!’ Basil exclaimed. ‘Now I know what you mean. Mr Patel said that you thought she was running a bawdy house.’
‘Basil, please keep your voice down.’ Anise spun round. ‘Angelica is Rose’s keenest champion. She will hear nothing said against her. If I didn’t know better I would suspect that she was dabbling in this . . . this . . . aromatherapy herself.’
He pushed his trilby back further, until it perched with gravity-defying properties on the back of his head. ‘Can’t say I’ve seen anything funny. She seems a busy little bee, but I’ve never seen what you might call “goings-on”.’
‘Well, Basil, I can assure you there are goings-on. Going on right under our noses.’ Anise held her forehead and fluttered her eyes closed. ‘She is brazen and shameless.’
Basil rubbed his chin. ‘You do surprise me. Like everyone, I had my reservations, but she seems so nice.’
‘That’s what they said about Sarah Ferguson and look what happened to her!’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I get your drift.’
‘Perhaps I could prevail upon you to give this matter some attention during the course of your duties.’
‘I don’t see why not. If I stand on my tiptoes I can see straight into the room where she does this aromatherapy business. Tell me though –’ Basil followed Anise’s lead and also surveyed the garden to check that there was no one in earshot ‘– exactly what sort of thing am I looking for?’
‘Basil! You are a man of the world, are you not?’ Anise giggled coquettishly. ‘I don’t think you need me to tell you what you’re looking for.’
‘Don’t I?’ His eyebrows met in the middle.
‘Look for anything out of the ordinary, Basil. Out of the ordinary.’
‘Out of the ordinary.’
‘Out of the ordinary.’ She mouthed it silently. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to your tea,’ she said loudly as if playing to an audience. Basil spun round but no one was there. ‘Don’t let it get cold.’
Winking theatrically at him, she turned and strode back to the house. Basil picked up his tea. It was cold and the barrow full of leylandii clippings looked more appetising than the cake. His eyes followed Anise’s ramrod straight back, her sturdy calves and her severe snatched-up hair. Good grief, she was a formidable woman. If anything was out of the ordinary, it was her. Strange though – he allowed himself a little self-satisfied smile – he never had her down as a winker.
Chapter Seventeen
GIVING UP GUILT
Jasmine, Vetiver, Ylang-Ylang.
We all have things to be guilty about. But there are times when those feelings of guilt overwhelm us, giving rise to feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness. This powerful blend of oils will help you to gently let go of that guilt – if only you’ll allow them to!
from: The Complete Encyclopaedia of Aromatherapy Oils by Jessamine Lovage
In order to assuage the guilt she felt about her attraction to Dan, Rose looked up oils under the judgemental heading in The Complete Encyclopaedia of Aromatherapy Oils and settled for the ‘Giving Up Guilt’ remedy. She hoped it would be more successful than her giving-up-chocolate-for-Lent fiasco which had lasted about four days before she succumbed to the hedonistic delights of a Cadbury’s Creme Egg.
So far, the riot of oils had done nothing to allay the butterflies in her stomach as she readied herself for the Viking evening ahead. Someone had once told her that all you had to do with butterflies was persuade them to fly in formation. Hers still seemed intent on Kamikaze missions. So she slipped a small bottle of lavender oil into her pocket for good measure.
Perhaps Dan wouldn’t come tonight, she thought as she made her way to the village hall. He wasn’t exactly Mr Popular as far as the hall was concerned and it hardly seemed like the kind of bash that Gardenia would be eager to be seen at.
Standing in what was euphemistically called the ‘cloakroom’ of the village hall, Rose surveyed the dank room with half a dozen rusting coat pegs clinging precariously to the wall. The water marks that trickled down from the ceiling would soon be in headlong collision with the rising damp, and she couldn’t understand why Dan was being viewed as the big, bad wolf. It wouldn’t take very much huffing and puffing at all to blow this particular house down.
Rose regarded herself critically in the cloakroom’s chipped and grimy mirror. Brown hessian was not her colour. It drained her, making her look wan and tired and in need of a good night’s sleep. She was in need of a good night’s sleep, thanks to the pervert, but there was no need to accentuate it. It had encouraged her to be heavy-handed with the blusher and she tried to smooth the excess away with the back of her hand. Her hair had been expertly coiffured by Suzette for the princely sum of £10 but, she had decided to walk to the church hall and, in that short distance, the wind had added its own tousling, so that she now sported a more ‘ravished’ look. Or, more accurately, ‘ravaged’. Viking was not a word that leapt to the front of the mind. She looked more like one of the cast of Les Misérables.
Trying to analyse her feelings about Dan had proved tricky. It was easy to be casual about him when she didn’t have to see him. And she hadn’t seen him since she had stormed out of his Discovery in a huff. Her fireplace remained steadfastly unfinished. Rose sighed at the mirror and braced herself to join the growing crowd of people, all in various states of Viking ensemble, in the main part of the hall.
She sidled into the room nervously, wishing that she hadn’t, for the sake of authenticity, left her handbag at home. It meant that she had nothing to do with her hands and her money jingled uncomfortably against the bottle of lavender in the pocket of her brown hessian sack dress. Angelica swept towards her, greeting her with a kiss on both cheeks. She was wearing a long black dress, bound with rope at the waist which matched the rope-type band wound through her hair. Angelica had no qualms about authenticity and carried a black patent leather handbag over her arm. ‘You look divine, dear,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Let’s go and get you a drink. I expect you’ll need one. These things can be quite an ordeal if you’re a newcomer.’
Reg from the pub was running the bar and had tried to enter into the theme of the evening by supplying copious quantities of Carlsberg lager and something called ‘Pillager’s Punch’. Feeling like a killjoy, Rose eschewed the lager and the punch – which appeared to be Ribena with a tin of fruit cocktail floating in it – and stuck to the safety of a glass of dry white wine.
‘Come and say hello to Anise,’ Angelica urged. ‘She’s in a good mood – relatively speaking. It might help matters if she gets to know you.’
Anise was busy turning her nose up at the buffet table, or the smörgåsbord, if you were a stickler for accuracy. ‘Are you sure that Vikings ate pizza?’ she asked Mrs Devises who seemed to be shaking with fear.
‘Mrs Took was dispatched to the library to research it, Anise. She borrowed a book called Dining With the Danes. Some of the ingredients were terribly difficult to get hold of. They don’t sell reindeer in Tesco, so I think some largesse was allowed.’
‘I think this amounts to the largest largesse I’ve ever seen.’ Anise held up a Plumrose pork chipolata wedged with a pineapple and some cheddar cheese on a stick and eyed it disdainfully. ‘Hardly fodder for plundering primitive countries.’
‘Can I introduce you to Rose Stevens?’ Angelica interrupted the dissection of the buffet. ‘The nice young lady from number five. I know you’ve been dying to meet her.’
&n
bsp; Anise looked suspiciously at Angelica’s innocent smile. ‘Good evening,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘We hope you’ll be very happy in the village.’
‘Thank you so much. The warm welcome I have received has made me feel very at home,’ Rose replied sweetly.
‘We’re quite friendly – unless you upset us,’ Anise said tightly.
Rose stood her ground. ‘So am I.’
Anise looked thunderous, aware that she was being made to look a fool. At that moment, a small, dumpy woman wearing a sack and a metal helmet appeared at the door.
‘I must have a word with Mrs Took about the eclectic nature of the provisions,’ Anise said curtly and took her leave.
As Mrs Took made an unsuccessful attempt to dodge Anise’s attention, Dan appeared in the doorway. It was a stunning entrance. He dwarfed the door and looked terribly menacing without even trying. So far, he was the only one in the place who could successfully carry off the Viking look. He wore tight black leather trousers bound to the knee with braiding, a billowing white shirt open to the waist and a furry cape slung round his shoulders. The spear on top of his broom handle looked frighteningly realistic and he carried a proper shield rather than the dustbin lid favoured by the other warrior men. His blond hair formed an unruly mane round his head and his face had a shaggy look that said he hadn’t shaved for quite a few days. He looked magnificent and from the emotions that tugged inside her body, it was clear that Jessamine’s best efforts with the ‘Giving Up Guilt’ oil hadn’t a snowball’s chance in hell against him.
She hoped, for one giddy moment, that he had come alone. It was then that the two siren sisters, Gardenia and Cassia Wales, sauntered up behind him. He stood aside for them to enter. They had spurned the traditional attire of Vikings, much as Mrs Took had taken liberties with their cuisine, except the effect on Gardenia and Cassia was more eye-catching. They both wore diaphanous chemises of white gossamer material, transparent to a degree that even Madonna would think twice about.
They were both bound about the waist and breasts with a fine gold cord that performed the duties of lifting and separating better than anything Playtex had ever designed. If they had worn these in Denmark, even in the summer, they would have gone blue with cold within minutes. In Great Brayford in March, Rose thought they ought to freeze to death. In fact, they both emitted a healthy glow, as if they had been reclining for an hour or two under the ultra-violet lights at Tans R Us in Milton Keynes. To top the look, elfin-face and smoke-voice wore immaculately applied Cleopatraesque make-up and tiny tiaras of gold laurel leaves. It was the Danes go on holiday to ancient Greece.
Despite the fact they had both taken a somewhat liberal interpretation of the theme, there was no arguing with the fact that they looked wonderful. Rose knew that in a million years she could never compete with Gardenia, in or out of fancy dress. It wasn’t guilt that she should be ladling the oils on against, it was a fast burgeoning inferiority complex. Every fibre in her being wished she wasn’t wearing brown hessian. Her heart sank resolutely to the bottom of her espadrilles and refused point-blank to come back up.
It was proving a long evening. In deference to the Vikings, Rose had also left her wristwatch at home and, consequently, had no idea what time it was. She had drunk more wine than was sensible and, as a result, had a thumping headache. The clock in the hall had long since ground to a halt at ten past three – about two years ago – and it seemed rude to ask anyone else the time. Dan mouthed ‘Hello’ to her from across the room, and she managed to return what she hoped was a demure smile, before he was steered away towards the Carlsberg lager and Pillager’s Punch by a thunderous looking Gardenia.
Solace was served up in the form of the buffet and Mrs Took nervously set to, removing clingfilm from the Viking sausage rolls, pizza squares and vol-au-vents. People made their usual charge to the table and by the time Rose reached the queue it was snaked down the hall and she was near the end, holding her paper plate forlornly. Dan was ahead of her, standing behind Gardenia, resting his hands on her shoulders. Rose could have quite happily grabbed one of the myriad fake spears that were propped against the wall and fallen on it.
Anise was ahead of her too, looking sniffily at the array of food spread before her. Mrs Took hovered anxiously, her hands visibly shaking as she gulped her Pillager’s Punch.
‘There’s an awful lot of people here, Mrs Took,’ Anise observed. ‘Do you think there’s going to be enough Viking fare to go around? It’s a bit late in the day to run to Mr Patel’s for some extra sausage rolls.’
‘Oh well. Really. I’m not sure . . .’ Mrs Took mopped her brow with her handkerchief. Her metal helmet had tilted to an alarming angle over her eye. Rose looked at her with concern.
Anise continued, ‘We should be like John Lewis – their motto is “Never Knowingly Undersold”. As the ladies of the village hall committee, our adage should be “Never Knowingly Under-catered”,’ she said smugly.
‘I think there’ll be enough.’ Mrs Took looked worriedly at the table, which seemed to be groaning under the weight of food, as far as Rose could tell. Mrs Took was pink with panic. She tugged uncomfortably at the neck of her sack dress. ‘It’s always so difficult to . . .’
Rose saw the woman’s knees sag and dashed forward to catch her before she hit the floor. Dan also rushed from the queue and they were able to support her weight together and lay her down gently without her harming herself.
‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Took said, trying to push herself up. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I could feel myself swooning.’
Rose looked over the top of her to Dan, who was still supporting Mrs Took’s head. Their eyes met and lingered on each other for a fraction too long. Rose knew exactly how Mrs Took felt. She broke away from Dan’s gaze and rummaged in her pocket.
‘Here,’ she said, producing her bottle of lavender oil. ‘Just breathe gently and inhale this. It’ll make you feel better in no time.’
After a few moments, they helped her to sit up. ‘Doesn’t this smell lovely, dear,’ she said to Rose.
‘It’s lavender. I’ll put a couple of drops on your temple. It’ll help you to relax.’ Rose smoothed the oil on Mrs Took’s forehead. ‘Shall we sit you in a quiet corner for a little while? I’ll bring you a glass of water.’
‘Thank you, dears,’ she said. ‘I don’t like to cause a fuss. This has all been a bit too much for me.’
‘You’re not causing a fuss,’ Rose reassured her. ‘Can I get you something from the buffet? You’ve probably been so busy making all this lovely food, you haven’t had time to eat.’
A worried look crossed her face. ‘I don’t know if there’ll be enough to go round.’
‘Mrs Took,’ Rose said kindly, ‘if the five thousand arrived, there’d be enough salmon sandwiches for them. Don’t worry.’
‘It’s not very Viking, either,’ she said apologetically.
Rose ignored Anise, who was skulking in the background. ‘I think it all looks perfectly wonderful. And anyway I’m not sure that elk or beaver would go down a storm in Great Brayford.’
Mrs Took giggled girlishly.
‘Are you feeling better?’ Rose asked.
‘Much.’ Mrs Took squeezed her hand.
Rose turned round to smile at Dan, but he had gone. He was back at the buffet table, passing a chicken drumstick to Gardenia. Before she put her lavender oil in her pocket, she put it under her own nose and gave a determined snort.
Apart from the brief excitement caused by Mrs Took’s faint, the evening continued to drag. Melissa, who still managed to look mind-bogglingly voluptuous in her hessian creation, was intent on ensuring that Rose enjoyed herself. She was a good friend – her only friend – and Rose didn’t know how she would have managed without her. She was a good customer too. Rose didn’t think the Chippendales got through as much body oil as Melissa managed to. Still, what Melissa and Frank did in the privacy of their own bedroom was their affair. Mel chatted animatedly to her and asked her
to dance with her and Frank. She lasted about three numbers with them – it was patent for all to see that Frank couldn’t keep his hands off his wife. There was a good chance it was going to be a body oil night. Rose, feeling enough of a gooseberry as it was, excused herself as soon as it was politely possible. Everyone else had pretty much ignored her, apart from Angelica who had done her utmost to see that she was kept regularly supplied with wine, and a few people who had congratulated her on ministering to Mrs Took so well that she was now sitting splay-legged on the floor doing the rowing motions to ‘Oops Upside Your Head’. Rose wasn’t sure whether the rest of them were wary of her because of the rumours that Anise had been spreading or if it genuinely took five years before you could even begin to be thought of as a ‘villager’.
Dan had abandoned his spear and shield and was dancing with Gardenia. He was quite a mover. Fred Astaire to Gardenia’s Ginger Rogers. Was there nothing this woman couldn’t do? Apart from work. She shimmied and sashayed seductively enough to slot seamlessly into any of the Spice Girls’ routines. Anise was dancing with Basil, whose idea of Viking costume was his lilac shell suit worn with a shiny metal helmet with cow horns sticking out at jaunty angles. It appeared to make no difference to Anise, who was giggling maniacally and even went as far as rotating her hips in front of him. Rose tutted to herself with amusement. And she was supposed to be the one who had no shame!
She caught Dan’s eye over Gardenia’s shoulder and he gave her a look that said he wished he was somewhere else. The feeling was mutual. She couldn’t bear this a minute longer. Gardenia was thrusting rhythmically towards Dan’s groin and Rose thought she was going to be sick if she watched it any more. Primarily because she wished she was doing it herself. She was going to go home and look up ‘Jealousy’ in the Jessamine Lovage bible and order whatever the woman recommended by the gallon.
Pushing her way through several men in smelly costumes, she fought her way to the door. She would go outside, have a few minutes of fresh air and check the time on the church clock to see if it could be considered late enough to leave.