READER’S SHORT STORY: The Best Laid Schemes

“Godfrey, do hurry up and eat your breakfast.” Audrey Patterson scolded her husband as he stared mournfully at his bowl of organic Muesli and almond milk. Godfrey was a full English breakfast man, and eating what he likened to sawdust mush with sweet water was not his idea of how to start the weekend.

“Stay where you are,” Audrey ordered him as the doorbell rang. “It will be the postman. I want to have a word with him about all the ridiculous leaflets he has been leaving lately.” It was not the postman. Standing on the door step was a smartly dressed young man holding a brief case. “Mrs Patterson? My name is Robert Hart, and I represent-’’

“I am not in the least interested in who you represent, young man.” Audrey interrupted, “I have no wish to purchase double glazing, change my energy supplier, have my walls insulated, or take up a different religion. Would you please leave?”

As she tried to close the door, the young man stopped it with his foot. “Mrs Patterson, I am the junior partner in the London firm of solicitors, Freeman, Rogers, Welby and Hart. It is Mr Patterson I have come to see. If he would kindly spare me a few minutes, you both may learn something to your advantage.”

Curiosity got the better of Audrey, and she invited the young man to step inside.

Robert Hart explained that his firm was the executor for Miss Lavinia Forbes. She had died intestate three years ago, and an extensive search had revealed Godfrey, who had not even known she had existed, to be her only living relative. Godfrey now found himself the owner of a cottage in Sussex and £500,000 richer.

Audrey was over the moon (not that she would ever allow such a phrase to sully her lips). She began mentally crafting letters of resignation to the half-dozen voluntary organisations she was a member of. A collective sigh of relief would run through them all upon hearing of this departure.

Because Audrey Forbes-Patterson (note the addition of Forbes to her name, for she thought a double-barreled name was more in keeping with living in St. Agnes under Wimple) had personally insisted on project managing the makeover of their new home, the work had taken six months longer than it should have. Tradesman after tradesman had repeatedly downed tools in protest against her constant interference. Once the renovations were completed, Audrey, convinced that her mission in life was to organise those she considered to be less fortunate than her, was determined to find new outlets for her energies.

Leticia Askew’s heart missed a beat at the sound of a teaspoon striking one of her beloved teacups.

Her application to enter St Agnes under Wimple for the Prettiest Village in Britain competition had been accepted, and she immediately rounded up a number of volunteers. Previous committee meetings had been held on Wednesday mornings in the church hall, but Audrey had wished to hold an extra meeting on Thursday. During her short time in the village, Rev. Oswald Cuthbertson had frequently found himself on the receiving end of Audrey’s waspish tongue: on every occasion, he had remained true to his calling and had turned the other cheek. This time he stood his ground. Audrey needed to find somewhere else to host the meeting, though that somewhere was definitely not going to be her cottage (the very thought of eight pairs of feet trampling all over her new carpets sent shivers down her spine).

“I would just love to host the meeting at my house,” she told members of the committee sweetly, “but I am sure you will feel as I do that a meeting of this importance should be held on neutral ground.”

They all agreed – adding that they would have loved to host only; unfortunately, this week was out of the question. The one exception was Leticia Askew, who would have been equally disinclined to host the meeting if only Audrey hadn’t caught her unawares. She had not been able to get her little grey cells into gear fast enough to think of a reason to refuse.

Some very complex issues remain on the agenda and I do not intend to close the meeting until they have been fully discussed

“Just look at that lot gorging themselves, Godfrey. Isn’t it disgusting?” she muttered to her husband just as he bit into his second helping of homemade Lemon Drizzle cake. “If there is one thing that I cannot stand, it is people who are incapable of controlling themselves.” This was at least the tenth time that day that his wife had informed him about something she could not stand.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” Audrey barked; Leticia Askew’s heart missed a beat at the sound of a teaspoon striking one of her beloved teacups. “If I may have your FULL attention. Some very complex issues remain on the agenda and I do not intend to close the meeting until they have been fully discussed. Let me remind you again that, in six weeks’ time, St. Agnes under Wimple will be under the critical gaze of the judges.

As I walk around the village, I have become increasingly aware that several matters agreed upon at previous meetings have not come to fruition.” At this point, Audrey paused, not only for effect but also to prolong the embarrassment of those to whom her remarks had been directed.

“Would the members whom I entrusted with special responsibilities now give the meeting an update of their activities? We will begin with the floral displays and gardens project. Mr. Wainright, perhaps you would grasp the nettle and enlighten us.” Audrey smiled to herself, hoping her subtle play on words had not gone unnoticed.

Arnold Wainwright informed the members that his men had finished planting the flower beds in the centre of the village and the tree pruning had already begun, but that hedge trimming would be best done nearer the time.

Turning to her right, Audrey addressed a portly elderly gentleman whose florid complexion was framed by a bushy white beard.

“Now, I think is the ideal time to hear from our Public Amenities Coordinator, Commander Caldicott.”

Commander Horatio Caldicott, DSO, R.N.V.R Retd., coughed noisily to clear his throat and then informed the members that whatever the weather, he carried out a daily inspection of the village. Apart from the village pump on the starboard side of the war memorial requiring a lick of paint, everything was shipshape and Bristol fashion.

“How much would painting that cost, Madam Chair, and is there money in the budget for such work?” The question came from Edwina Fothergill, who was the group’s treasure, and had taken it upon herself to guard its finances with a fervour that would have put Scrooge among the big spenders. Audrey gave Edwina the sweetest of smiles. “I can assure you Edwina that it will not cost one penny. Before he retired, Godfrey worked for a paint manufacturer. He will have no difficulty in persuading them to donate the paint,  and I know he would love to do the work itself; wouldn’t you, darling?”

Godfrey nodded his agreement, but a keen-eyed observer would have noticed that his smile did not rise one millimetre above his neatly trimmed moustache.

“The last item on the agenda,” Audrey continued, “is the project that  I have accepted personal responsibility for, namely, the Village and its Environs.”

Again, Audrey paused and, after giving those around the table her most censorious stare, continued, “I must admit, ladies and gentlemen, that I am disappointed, no, extremely disappointed that not one of you has brought to my attention the matter of William Hobbs! Surely you must all be aware that this tiresome little man scours the village’s highways and byways looking for rubbish which he then takes home to decorate his garden.”

Hermione Harcourt raised her hand to make a point of order, but Audrey, now in full flow, ignored her.

“I understand that he accumulated so much detritus last year that it became a health hazard, and the Environmental Health Officer had to use the full force of the law to remove it. Hobb’s house is on the outskirts of the village, and it will be the last one the judges will see as they depart, so what is needed is some blue sky thinking.”

Audrey had been longing to use that phrase for ages.

“I am going to attack the problem on two fronts. One, I will arrange for a skip to be installed alongside his house. Godfrey will have a word with him before it is delivered. And two, I will enrol him as the village’s unofficial litter warden. Whatever he collects daily will go straight into the skip, and the village will also be kept neat and tidy.” The reaction of those around the table was one of total silence which

Audrey, quite naturally, took it as an affirmation that her suggestion had met with their approval.

The judges of the Prettiest Village in Britain arrived at precisely 10 a.m. It was a beautiful morning. The floral decorations were exquisite, the lawns and hedges were perfect, and the newly painted village pump dazzled. Most importantly, there was not a single piece of litter to be seen.

Audrey’s invitation to the judges to have lunch at her cottage was politely – but firmly – declined, and they left, saying that she would be informed of their decision at noon on the 23rd. That day, Audrey waited in the church hall with committee members and invited local media representatives. The letter informing of the judge’s decision was delivered, and with trembling fingers, Audrey opened the envelope and took out a sheet of cream-coloured parchment.

Audrey paused, and after giving those around the table her most censorious stare continued.

“Dear Mrs. Forbes-Patterson,” she read out, skimming through the letter. “I must first thank you for participating… The standard of entries this year exceeded all expectations… But – aha! – After much deliberation the judges decided that the Gold Medal should be awarded to,’’ she paused,

“Nutcombe on the Water, (Devon) who scored 950 points. I am delighted to inform you that St. Agnes under Wimple achieved 945 points and will receive the Silver Medal, and the Bronze Medal will go to Norton Parva (Cheshire), who scored 900 points. Congratulations to you all.”

“Do you know Godfrey; For the life in me, I just cannot understand why we came second,” Audrey said over dinner later that evening. “Tomorrow, you must ring that Oliphant fellow’s P. A and find out why.”

“I have already done so, my dear,” Godfrey replied. “From what she told me, I deduced that we would have been outright winners had it not been for the skip which you had put alongside William Hobb’s house.”

Audrey almost choked on some asparagus. “What about the skip? I had it taken away before the inspection!”

“So you did, my dear, so you did,” Godfrey said, desperately trying not to chuckle, “but it seemed that others in the village thought it had been put there for general use! While it was in situ, Hobb’s had a great time picking out bits and pieces to decorate his garden! To him, it was a game, really. You know, Hobbs, Skip, and Dump!”

Audrey gave her husband a look that would have stopped a runaway train. “Godfrey Patterson! If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is people who make silly childish jokes.”

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NorthernLife Sep/Oct 23