be getting weaker and weaker. Alice visited her every day and brought news of Danny the dog, now her full time companion in Duck Cottage.
When she had been taken into hospital by the paramedics, Alice had given them the telephone number of Mrs Tinker’s nephew, Peter the surveyor. However, she had since wondered about any other relatives the old woman might have. One day, she decided to ask.
‘We only had the two children.’ There was regret in the old voice. She was propped up on three pillows, her face close to Alice’s ear, but her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Robbie died young. He was a sickly boy. His younger brother Derek was quite the opposite. He was into all the sports; rugby, football, you name it, he played it.’ The smile had returned to her face.
‘And how do I contact him if there’s ever any need?’
‘He lives in Canada. He emigrated with his wife the best part of thirty years ago. He comes over every few years, though, and he phones me.’ She was looking much more cheerful now. ‘Peter’s been in touch with him and he phoned me a few days ago, here at the hospital. He’s going to come over in a week or two. If you need his number, it’s in the address book on the shelf above the Aga.’
Alice was delighted to hear the news and could imagine how much it would mean to Mrs Tinker to see her only surviving child again. She could also see that the old lady was tiring. She changed the subject and told her how the house in Beauchamp was progressing.
‘The Burrell boys are doing a terrific job. The kitchen looks about twice the size and the new bathroom upstairs is ready for plastering. The electrician and the plumber started today. They have to put in all their wires and pipes before the walls can be finished off.’
‘Who are you using to do that?’
Alice gave her a smile. ‘The plumber has more tattoos than a gang of Hell’s Angels, and the electrician would make your decorator friend, Neil, look like a dwarf.’ Seeing the expression on the old lady’s face, she giggled. ‘I’m exaggerating a little bit, but he’s so tall he has to duck to get in the door. But he’s as thin as a rake. His name’s Gerry, and they all call him the giraffe.’
Mrs Tinker reached out and caught her arm. ‘I know Gerry, he’s a lovely boy.’ This was not the phrase Alice would have used to describe the fifty year old beanpole of a man, but she nodded as Mrs Tinker went on. ‘And is the plumber called Scottie?’
‘That’s right, Mrs Tinker. He’s even got “Scottie” tattooed on the back of his head. You know everybody round here, don’t you? Which reminds me, you never did finish your story about my dog-walking companion, Mandy.’
‘Did I not? Well,’ Mrs Tinker cast a watchful eye around the ward. There was nobody awake within earshot. ‘She didn’t tell you why her husband left her, did she?’
Alice shook her head.
‘She and her daughter arrived back in the village a couple of years ago.’
Alice looked up in surprise. She had imagined that Mandy would have been born and bred in Woodcombe to have such an encyclopaedic knowledge of everybody and everything. Mrs Tinker read her expression.
‘She was from here originally, and her mum’s still here, but she’s gone a bit doolally. Mandy moved to London and got married. She had the one daughter. A nice girl, but a bit of a tearaway, though that was probably because of the divorce. Anyway, a couple of years ago, she and her husband split up, so she came back to Woodcombe. Mrs Armstrong, who used to run the butcher’s before it closed, knows her and her mum very well. The reason for the divorce was infidelity.’ Mrs Tinker looked suitably disapproving. ‘And she was the guilty party. She had an affair, and the marriage collapsed because of it. There, I bet she didn’t tell you that.’
‘Oh dear, what a shame. It must have been awful for their daughter.’ Mrs Tinker nodded sadly. Clearly, her knowledge of the
When she had been taken into hospital by the paramedics, Alice had given them the telephone number of Mrs Tinker’s nephew, Peter the surveyor. However, she had since wondered about any other relatives the old woman might have. One day, she decided to ask.
‘We only had the two children.’ There was regret in the old voice. She was propped up on three pillows, her face close to Alice’s ear, but her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Robbie died young. He was a sickly boy. His younger brother Derek was quite the opposite. He was into all the sports; rugby, football, you name it, he played it.’ The smile had returned to her face.
‘And how do I contact him if there’s ever any need?’
‘He lives in Canada. He emigrated with his wife the best part of thirty years ago. He comes over every few years, though, and he phones me.’ She was looking much more cheerful now. ‘Peter’s been in touch with him and he phoned me a few days ago, here at the hospital. He’s going to come over in a week or two. If you need his number, it’s in the address book on the shelf above the Aga.’
Alice was delighted to hear the news and could imagine how much it would mean to Mrs Tinker to see her only surviving child again. She could also see that the old lady was tiring. She changed the subject and told her how the house in Beauchamp was progressing.
‘The Burrell boys are doing a terrific job. The kitchen looks about twice the size and the new bathroom upstairs is ready for plastering. The electrician and the plumber started today. They have to put in all their wires and pipes before the walls can be finished off.’
‘Who are you using to do that?’
Alice gave her a smile. ‘The plumber has more tattoos than a gang of Hell’s Angels, and the electrician would make your decorator friend, Neil, look like a dwarf.’ Seeing the expression on the old lady’s face, she giggled. ‘I’m exaggerating a little bit, but he’s so tall he has to duck to get in the door. But he’s as thin as a rake. His name’s Gerry, and they all call him the giraffe.’
Mrs Tinker reached out and caught her arm. ‘I know Gerry, he’s a lovely boy.’ This was not the phrase Alice would have used to describe the fifty year old beanpole of a man, but she nodded as Mrs Tinker went on. ‘And is the plumber called Scottie?’
‘That’s right, Mrs Tinker. He’s even got “Scottie” tattooed on the back of his head. You know everybody round here, don’t you? Which reminds me, you never did finish your story about my dog-walking companion, Mandy.’
‘Did I not? Well,’ Mrs Tinker cast a watchful eye around the ward. There was nobody awake within earshot. ‘She didn’t tell you why her husband left her, did she?’
Alice shook her head.
‘She and her daughter arrived back in the village a couple of years ago.’
Alice looked up in surprise. She had imagined that Mandy would have been born and bred in Woodcombe to have such an encyclopaedic knowledge of everybody and everything. Mrs Tinker read her expression.
‘She was from here originally, and her mum’s still here, but she’s gone a bit doolally. Mandy moved to London and got married. She had the one daughter. A nice girl, but a bit of a tearaway, though that was probably because of the divorce. Anyway, a couple of years ago, she and her husband split up, so she came back to Woodcombe. Mrs Armstrong, who used to run the butcher’s before it closed, knows her and her mum very well. The reason for the divorce was infidelity.’ Mrs Tinker looked suitably disapproving. ‘And she was the guilty party. She had an affair, and the marriage collapsed because of it. There, I bet she didn’t tell you that.’
‘Oh dear, what a shame. It must have been awful for their daughter.’ Mrs Tinker nodded sadly. Clearly, her knowledge of the
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