You couldn’t take any more . . . what?
“Craziness!” I expostulated. “Honestly, Dimity, I could have filled a trawler with the lunacy I dredged up in my nets today.”
Can you be more specific?
“I certainly can,” I said. I nudged a polka-dotted plush dinosaur closer to Bess, then leaned back against the ottoman and began to present my findings to Aunt Dimity. “Do you remember what Mr. Barlow told me when I asked him if Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage were in good shape?”
I believe he informed you that they were as sound as a bell.
“Those were his exact words,” I said, nodding, “but they’re not the words he uses when he speaks with Marigold’s clients. Instead of treading gently around the cottages’ minor flaws, he reels off a detailed list of every loose floorboard, squeaky hinge, and wobbly door knob because, according to him, every cottage has its quirks and it’s best to know about them beforehand.”
Mr. Barlow is an honest man.
“Precisely,” I said. “That’s why Marigold turns him loose on her clients. She uses Mr. Barlow’s honesty to make them think twice about buying a cottage with a back door that sticks or one with a garden that needs a lot of attention.”
Go on.
“Marigold drags her clients into the Emporium to make small purchases,” I continued. “Then she stands back and watches gleefully while Peggy Taxman scares the pants off of them.”
Peggy is rather overpowering. I’ve often wondered if she speaks loudly because she’s hard of hearing.
“It’s not just Peggy’s voice that scares them,” I said. “It’s her voice, her build, her demeanor, and her confounded sign-up sheets. Put them together and what have you got? You’ve got a tyrant who bullies newcomers into participating in village life whether they want to or not.”
Peggy’s notion of mandatory community involvement is good for the village, but I can understand why it wouldn’t appeal to everyone.
“It doesn’t appeal to me,” I retorted, “but I go along with it because I’ve gotten used to it. I’m used to the Handmaidens, too, but if I were a house hunter weighing up the pros and cons of living in Finch, I’d put all four of them squarely in the cons column.”
Elspeth, Opal, Millicent, and Selena may be inquisitive, but they mean no harm by it.
“The Handmaidens make Finch look like a refuge for the incurably nosy,” I stated flatly. “And Marigold has inflicted them, en masse, on every single person she’s brought to Finch.”
Oh, dear. Have they been intolerably intrusive?
“They’ve grilled Marigold’s clients mercilessly,” I said.
Mercilessly?
“Mercilessly,” I repeated firmly. “Let’s review a few random snippets they collected from Marigold’s clients, shall we?” I pulled my free hand away from Bess’s back and raised a finger for each snippet I recited. “The advertising executive is a martyr to hives, the banker has a rash on his private parts, the surgeon has infected hair plugs, the computer engineer is struggling with his weight, the Oxford don’s wife ran off with one of his students, and the young lawyers plan to keep their London flat while they spend weekends here.” I snorted derisively as I ran out of fingers. “I’m sure they walk away from their encounter with the Handmaidens thinking that Finch is a great place to live—if they want to live under a microscope.”
But one does live under a microscope in Finch.
“Of course one does,” I said, exasperated, “but there’s no need to advertise it. Marigold uses the Handmaidens like a big, flashing neon sign. She might as well climb to the top of the bell tower and holler: ‘If you move here, your life will no longer be your own!’”
Her clients can’t possibly find fault with Sally Cook’s tearoom.
“They can if they want fat-free food,” I countered. “Sally doesn’t have much patience with food-faddy fools, as she calls them. Clients who wish to avoid cream, sugar, eggs, and butter are out of luck at the tearoom because Sally sends them packing.”
Anyone who goes to a tearoom in search of fat-free foods should be sent packing.
“I agree, Dimity,” I said, “but if they can’t enjoy a bite to eat at the tearoom, where can they enjoy one?”
The pub, of course.
The naiveté of Aunt Dimity’s response made me giggle semi-hysterically.
“People who refuse to eat eggs and butter aren’t going to stuff their gullets with pickled eggs, pork scratchings, and sausage rolls,” I told her. “But Marigold doesn’t take her clients to the pub for the sheer pleasure of seeing them look down their noses at Christine Peacock’s pub grub.” I cocked my head to one side and asked archly, “Can you guess why she does take them there?”