ears. And then he noticed that Asha Kanjaria was standing next to her and it all clicked into place.
‘This is my mum, Chief Inspector Hart,’ volunteered Asha, a little too late to be really helpful.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Kanjaria,’ and Hart shook the gloved hand that she held out for him.
‘That’ll be six pounds fifty please, Harry,’ said the butcher as he placed the white plastic bag on the counter. ‘And what can I get for you, Mrs K?’
‘Nothing for me, Mr Wainright, thank you. I just popped in after noticing the cheery face of Mr Hart through your window.’
As Hart counted out his money, Asha’s mother carried on.
‘I can see you’re in a rush, Mr Hart, and this nice man wants to close his shop, but I just wanted to ask you if you would do us the honour of visiting us for Christmas dinner.’
Hart hadn’t seen that one coming, hadn’t see it coming at all. Mrs Kanjaria filled the silence by trying to persuade him.
‘I know what you are thinking, Mr Hart. Vegetable curry and a banana lassi will not be much of a feast on the big day. Well, you can put your mind at rest. The turkey is already on order from Mr Wainright’s very own shop and so I think we can safely say therefore that it will be one of the very finest to be eaten in Lockingham over the festive season.’
Hart still didn’t say a word, he just itched to get home and get his beef stew into the pot and bubbling over some lighted gas.
‘And my naughty husband would very much enjoy having an excuse for a little drink. So please do come, Mr Hart. I’ll send you a card shortly with our address and phone number. If you can let us know in a few days, that would be lovely. But just turn up if you like. Asha said you were so nice last night and she would love you to come along.’ And Asha’s face verified her mother’s commendation by smiling a welcome from underneath its sky-blue woolly hat.
‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you both. I’m not sure whether I’m free, but I will let you know.’ Crafting a polite and plausible refusal is always easier through the written word.
After Mrs Kanjaria and her daughter had said their goodbyes, George the butcher proffered a few opinions that Hart could have done without.
‘She’s right about the turkey, Harry, they’ve ordered a monster. If you’re not doing anything better on the day and you fancy a good feed, you’d be a mug not to go, even if she can’t stop nattering nineteen to the dozen.’
‘Thanks, George,’ said Hart as he picked up his braising steak from the counter. He didn’t say goodbye as he walked out of the shop, more than a little miffed that everyone seemed to be wanting to tell him what he should be doing on his Christmas Day.
*****
There are a couple of pubs near Lockingham nick which are used by the local coppers, and pretty lively they are, too. There’s always something to celebrate, such as the promotion of a colleague, the cracking of a case, or the end of an exhausting shift. Of course, some of the more interesting characters in town stay away, having to be careful with the choice of company they keep while enjoying a social drink. But everyone was happy with that unspoken arrangement; it didn’t suit anybody to try and force water to mix with oil.
Hart possessed a fondness for beer which he indulged whenever he could. And he enjoyed spending time away from a house that was so still and empty he sometimes felt he was rattling around inside a gigantic barn. So it was to be expected that he would be found in a pub when he wasn’t working. But hanging out in one of the two fuzz pubs near Lockingham Central Police Station? Not a chance. He cherished a more subdued boozer, one where he could sit and imbibe the company of other people without having it shoved down his throat along with the beer.
His vast meal still doing its slovenly best to sink down, Hart set off to his local for a rendezvous with Arthur Rhodes. The Pickled Firkin
‘This is my mum, Chief Inspector Hart,’ volunteered Asha, a little too late to be really helpful.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Kanjaria,’ and Hart shook the gloved hand that she held out for him.
‘That’ll be six pounds fifty please, Harry,’ said the butcher as he placed the white plastic bag on the counter. ‘And what can I get for you, Mrs K?’
‘Nothing for me, Mr Wainright, thank you. I just popped in after noticing the cheery face of Mr Hart through your window.’
As Hart counted out his money, Asha’s mother carried on.
‘I can see you’re in a rush, Mr Hart, and this nice man wants to close his shop, but I just wanted to ask you if you would do us the honour of visiting us for Christmas dinner.’
Hart hadn’t seen that one coming, hadn’t see it coming at all. Mrs Kanjaria filled the silence by trying to persuade him.
‘I know what you are thinking, Mr Hart. Vegetable curry and a banana lassi will not be much of a feast on the big day. Well, you can put your mind at rest. The turkey is already on order from Mr Wainright’s very own shop and so I think we can safely say therefore that it will be one of the very finest to be eaten in Lockingham over the festive season.’
Hart still didn’t say a word, he just itched to get home and get his beef stew into the pot and bubbling over some lighted gas.
‘And my naughty husband would very much enjoy having an excuse for a little drink. So please do come, Mr Hart. I’ll send you a card shortly with our address and phone number. If you can let us know in a few days, that would be lovely. But just turn up if you like. Asha said you were so nice last night and she would love you to come along.’ And Asha’s face verified her mother’s commendation by smiling a welcome from underneath its sky-blue woolly hat.
‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you both. I’m not sure whether I’m free, but I will let you know.’ Crafting a polite and plausible refusal is always easier through the written word.
After Mrs Kanjaria and her daughter had said their goodbyes, George the butcher proffered a few opinions that Hart could have done without.
‘She’s right about the turkey, Harry, they’ve ordered a monster. If you’re not doing anything better on the day and you fancy a good feed, you’d be a mug not to go, even if she can’t stop nattering nineteen to the dozen.’
‘Thanks, George,’ said Hart as he picked up his braising steak from the counter. He didn’t say goodbye as he walked out of the shop, more than a little miffed that everyone seemed to be wanting to tell him what he should be doing on his Christmas Day.
*****
There are a couple of pubs near Lockingham nick which are used by the local coppers, and pretty lively they are, too. There’s always something to celebrate, such as the promotion of a colleague, the cracking of a case, or the end of an exhausting shift. Of course, some of the more interesting characters in town stay away, having to be careful with the choice of company they keep while enjoying a social drink. But everyone was happy with that unspoken arrangement; it didn’t suit anybody to try and force water to mix with oil.
Hart possessed a fondness for beer which he indulged whenever he could. And he enjoyed spending time away from a house that was so still and empty he sometimes felt he was rattling around inside a gigantic barn. So it was to be expected that he would be found in a pub when he wasn’t working. But hanging out in one of the two fuzz pubs near Lockingham Central Police Station? Not a chance. He cherished a more subdued boozer, one where he could sit and imbibe the company of other people without having it shoved down his throat along with the beer.
His vast meal still doing its slovenly best to sink down, Hart set off to his local for a rendezvous with Arthur Rhodes. The Pickled Firkin
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