“I’ll be off, too,” Mr. Barlow announced. “My job’s done.”
Jack demonstrated great tact by waiting until he and Mr. Barlow were in the kitchen before bringing up the delicate subject of payment. Mr. Barlow didn’t mind discussing money matters in front of me, but he thought it unwise to mention them within earshot of the Handmaidens.
“Make it a tenner for the bucket and twenty for the rope,” said Mr. Barlow.
“And your labor?” asked Jack.
“Tuppence,” said Mr. Barlow, with a wry smile.
“Wait here,” said Jack. “My cash stash is upstairs.”
He left to fetch the money and Mr. Barlow wandered over to stand beside me in the doorway.
“Daft old biddies,” he said scathingly, observing the Handmaidens. “Look at them, pretending to take an interest in the trellis and the pergola, when they know very well why they’re here. Each one’s making a wish as soon as the others’ backs are turned.”
“Did you make a wish?” I asked.
“Do I look daft to you?” he retorted.
“No,” I said. “But if you were daft enough to make a wish, what would it be?”
“I wouldn’t say no to a Jaguar,” Mr. Barlow replied after a moment’s thought. “Not to own—the maintenance is too dear—but I wouldn’t say no to working on a Jaguar. A classic E-Type, for preference. Not likely to get my hands on one in Finch, but if I believed in all this make-a-wish malarkey, I’d ask the old well to bring one to me.”
“Here you are, Mr. Barlow,” said Jack, striding into the kitchen.
Mr. Barlow took the bills Jack offered, counted them, and tried unsuccessfully to return a few. Jack adamantly refused to take them back, saying that Mr. Barlow had earned every pence.
“A fool and his money are soon parted,” Mr. Barlow said gruffly.
“A fair day’s wages for a fair day’s work,” Jack countered, grinning.
Mr. Barlow glanced over his shoulder, saw an incoming tide of Handmaidens, said a hasty good-bye to Jack and me, and made his way rapidly to the front door, his tool kit clinking as he ran. Elspeth, Opal, and Serena swept in and allowed Jack to sweep them out with admirable dexterity. I savored the silence for a few seconds, then headed outdoors.
I found Jack leaning against the front gate to catch his breath while Bree continued to wield her brush hook.
“It’s like being swarmed by a flock of budgies,” he marveled.
For the second time in two days I resisted the temptation to say “I told you so,” but Bree was merciless.
“You can’t say you weren’t warned,” she said. “I told you yesterday that Peggy Taxman was indiscreet, but did you listen?”
“Stone the crows,” Jack said incredulously as a gray Land Rover pulled up behind Bree’s car. “Here comes another one.”
“You’re in luck, my friend,” I said. “It’s not another one. It’s Emma Harris, who bears no resemblance whatsoever to a budgie. I promised her a cup of tea, by the way.”
“I could do with one myself,” said Bree, wiping her sweaty brow with the hem of her T-shirt.
“I’ll lock the gate behind Emma,” Jack proposed, “and we’ll all take a lunch break.”
“At last!” Bree exclaimed. “The boy’s talking sense!”
? ? ?
Emma Harris was the most capable woman I knew. She could knit a sweater, tend a garden, train a horse, write a computer program, and run a business without ever seeming overwhelmed or frantic. She was the kind of woman I would have aspired to be if I’d aspired to fight a losing battle. As it was, our friendship proved that, as with Jack’s parents, opposites attract.
She arrived at Ivy Cottage with a digital camera, a notebook, and a laser tape measure tucked into a canvas tote. She’d drawn her graying, dishwater blond hair back into a neat ponytail and dressed with equal simplicity, in blue jeans, a lightweight, long-sleeved jersey, and black Wellington boots. She greeted Jack cordially, apologized for missing his uncle’s funeral, and welcomed his invitation to sit down to lunch.
“I eat most of my meals at my desk,” she explained. “A dining table will be a great luxury.”
While Emma, Bree, and I put a sizable dent in Jack’s casserole collection, he explained that he’d applied to Lilian Bunting for help in finding a lab to test the well water and that he’d used a sterilized milk bottle and a length of his late uncle’s fishing line to retrieve the sample.
He then went on to discuss horticultural matters with Bree and Emma. Since I had nothing worthwhile to contribute, I allowed my gaze to wander around the room and noticed almost immediately that something new had appeared in it. A slightly squashed reddish-brown kangaroo—a soft toy, not a product of taxidermy—sat atop the bookcase. I waited for a break in the conversation to mention it.