which had taken a bit of explaining away at Catch, where the employees – a grand total of three including Daisy herself – were on wages that would have caused the tightest employer to blush.
Daisy hadn’t always been poor. In fact until she gave up her job as a solicitor specializing in family law her salary, being firmly tied to the divorce rate, had been buoyant and rising fast. But three years ago, taken by the thought that there had to be more to life than the breakdown of the family unit she’d decided to go for broke, quite literally, by joining the anti-chemical group. She hadn’t regretted it. Well, only when she was stupid enough to worry about money.
The newspapers didn’t get any lighter, not even when Mr Patel handed them over with an apologetic smile. By the time she had bought Coco Pops, milk, jam, butter (a cholesterol no-no in SW3), a tin of mackerel, fruit, and a sticky cream cake (roughage-free), the walk back up the hill to number 50C Augustus Road became something of a trek.
Climbing, she planned her day. Coco Pops, papers, then work on the flat. The word flat was estate agent’s hyperbole really: it was more of a one-roomed space with cubbyholes daringly described as bathroom and kitchen. The place was a new conversion of a Victorian house in a shabby terrace, and it was only after she’d moved in that she began to understand why the rent was affordable. The ceiling was so thin you could hear the two Greek waiters in the flat above arguing, which, being lovers, they did frequently; the fittings were so flimsy that the lever-type plastic door handles had assumed permanent downward curves, there was a chronic shortage of hanging space, and there wasn’t a single door that wasn’t slightly warped. That said, it was on the first floor with a large bay window which faced south, and the girl she shared it with, a social worker called Anthea, spent four days out of every seven at her boyfriend’s.
She struggled in through the flat door just as the phone rang. A social call. One lived in hope anyway.
It was Alan again.
‘Don’t want to hear from you.’
‘Didn’t you get my message?’ he asked. ‘Listen – your Mrs Knowles. Something’s come up.’
‘Oh?’
‘She’s planning a one-woman demo at some agricultural show in Berkshire.’
Daisy groaned softly and said, more to herself than to Alan: ‘What does she want to go and do that for?’
‘Don’t know, but it could spoil your coverage.’
Daisy didn’t need reminding. She’d been working on the Knowles story for two months and now it was within a week of being ready to tout round the quality press as a subject for a serious investigative piece. The last thing it needed was Mrs Knowles making scenes at some agricultural show, and having the tabloids make her look like some kind of agitator.
‘How did you hear?’ she asked.
‘Local pressman. Left a message on the office machine. Wanted some background. Apparently Mrs Knowles has talked to him and promised him the whole story. He says he’s going to try to string it to a national.’
Daisy sat down heavily on the bed. ‘Why, for God’s sake?’
She could almost see Alan shrugging at the other end of the line. ‘Finally got to her?’ he suggested. ‘Flipped her lid?’
‘Don’t even mention it.’ But the thought had already occurred to her. Alice Knowles was under intolerable pressure; many lesser people would have cracked before now. ‘When’s this meant to be happening?’ she asked.
‘At three this afternoon.’
End of quiet Saturday.
Daisy tried calling Alice Knowles, but there was no reply. Already left for the show, perhaps. Or lying low, avoiding the phone.
There was nothing for it then, not if all the work wasn’t going to go up the spout. Quite apart from anything else, she rather liked Mrs Knowles; it would be dreadful to see her disappointed, maybe even humiliated.
The case was typical of many that came Catch’s way. The Knowleses were a
Daisy hadn’t always been poor. In fact until she gave up her job as a solicitor specializing in family law her salary, being firmly tied to the divorce rate, had been buoyant and rising fast. But three years ago, taken by the thought that there had to be more to life than the breakdown of the family unit she’d decided to go for broke, quite literally, by joining the anti-chemical group. She hadn’t regretted it. Well, only when she was stupid enough to worry about money.
The newspapers didn’t get any lighter, not even when Mr Patel handed them over with an apologetic smile. By the time she had bought Coco Pops, milk, jam, butter (a cholesterol no-no in SW3), a tin of mackerel, fruit, and a sticky cream cake (roughage-free), the walk back up the hill to number 50C Augustus Road became something of a trek.
Climbing, she planned her day. Coco Pops, papers, then work on the flat. The word flat was estate agent’s hyperbole really: it was more of a one-roomed space with cubbyholes daringly described as bathroom and kitchen. The place was a new conversion of a Victorian house in a shabby terrace, and it was only after she’d moved in that she began to understand why the rent was affordable. The ceiling was so thin you could hear the two Greek waiters in the flat above arguing, which, being lovers, they did frequently; the fittings were so flimsy that the lever-type plastic door handles had assumed permanent downward curves, there was a chronic shortage of hanging space, and there wasn’t a single door that wasn’t slightly warped. That said, it was on the first floor with a large bay window which faced south, and the girl she shared it with, a social worker called Anthea, spent four days out of every seven at her boyfriend’s.
She struggled in through the flat door just as the phone rang. A social call. One lived in hope anyway.
It was Alan again.
‘Don’t want to hear from you.’
‘Didn’t you get my message?’ he asked. ‘Listen – your Mrs Knowles. Something’s come up.’
‘Oh?’
‘She’s planning a one-woman demo at some agricultural show in Berkshire.’
Daisy groaned softly and said, more to herself than to Alan: ‘What does she want to go and do that for?’
‘Don’t know, but it could spoil your coverage.’
Daisy didn’t need reminding. She’d been working on the Knowles story for two months and now it was within a week of being ready to tout round the quality press as a subject for a serious investigative piece. The last thing it needed was Mrs Knowles making scenes at some agricultural show, and having the tabloids make her look like some kind of agitator.
‘How did you hear?’ she asked.
‘Local pressman. Left a message on the office machine. Wanted some background. Apparently Mrs Knowles has talked to him and promised him the whole story. He says he’s going to try to string it to a national.’
Daisy sat down heavily on the bed. ‘Why, for God’s sake?’
She could almost see Alan shrugging at the other end of the line. ‘Finally got to her?’ he suggested. ‘Flipped her lid?’
‘Don’t even mention it.’ But the thought had already occurred to her. Alice Knowles was under intolerable pressure; many lesser people would have cracked before now. ‘When’s this meant to be happening?’ she asked.
‘At three this afternoon.’
End of quiet Saturday.
Daisy tried calling Alice Knowles, but there was no reply. Already left for the show, perhaps. Or lying low, avoiding the phone.
There was nothing for it then, not if all the work wasn’t going to go up the spout. Quite apart from anything else, she rather liked Mrs Knowles; it would be dreadful to see her disappointed, maybe even humiliated.
The case was typical of many that came Catch’s way. The Knowleses were a
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