Surprisingly, she giggled. "Fred treats her like royalty and Molly treats her like muck. It's a stunning combination."
"I expect they're grateful to her."
"The reverse. I'd say Phoebe is more grateful to them."
"Why? She's given them a new home and employment."
"You see the Grange as it is now but when I moved in nine years ago, Phoebe had been managing on her own for a year. She was shunned by everybody. No one from the village or even Silverborne would work for her. She had to do the gardening, the housework and house maintenance herself and the place was like a tip." A stone lurched sickeningly in her mind as memories struggled to get out. It was the stench of urine, she thought. Everywhere. On the walls, the carpets, the curtains. She would never forget the terrible stench of urine. "Fred and Molly's arrival a couple of months after us changed her life."
McLoughlin stared about the library. There was a good deal that was original, the carved oak bookcases, moulded plaster cornices, the panelled fireplace, but there were other things that were new, the paintwork, a radiator under the window, secondary glazing in white stove-enamel frames, all certainly under ten years old.
"Have the local people changed their attitude to Mrs. Maybury now?"
She followed his gaze. "Not at all. They still won't do any work for her." She flicked ash from her cigarette. "She tries from time to time without success. Silverborne's a dead duck. She's been as far as Winchester and Southampton with the same result. Streech Grange is notorious, Sergeant, but then you already know that, don't you?" She smiled cynically. "They all seem to think they're going to be murdered the minute they set foot in the place. With some justification, it would seem, after yesterday's little discovery."
He jerked his head at the window. "Then who put in the central heating and the double glazing? Fred?"
"Phoebe."
He laughed with genuine amusement "Oh, for God's sake! Look, I know you're on some personal crusade to prove that women are the be-all and end-all, but you can't expect me to swallow
that
." He got up and strode across to the window. "Have you any idea how much glass like this weighs?" He tapped a pane of the double-glazing and drew the unwelcome attention of Phoebe outside. She looked at him curiously for a moment then, seeing him turn away, resumed her gardening. He came back to his chair. "She couldn't begin to lift it, let alone set it professionally in its frame. It would need at least two men, if not three."
"Or three women," said Anne, unmoved by his outburst. "We all lend a hand with the lifting. There are five of us after all, eight on the week-ends when the children come home."
"Eight?" he queried sharply. "I thought there were only two children."
"Three. There's Elizabeth, Diana's daughter, as well."
McLoughlin ruffled his fingers through his hair, leaving a dark crest pointing towards the ceiling. "She never mentioned a daughter," he said sourly, wondering what other surprises lay in store.
"You probably didn't ask her."
He ignored this. "You said Mrs. Maybury also did the central heating. How?"
"The same way plumbers do it, presumably. I remember she favoured capillary joints so there was a lot of wire wool involved and flux and soldering equipment. There were also numerous lengths of fifteen- and twenty-two-millimetre copper piping lieing around. She hired a pipe-bending machine for several weeks with different sized pre-formers to make S-bends and right angles. I got a damned good article on women and DIY out of it."
He shook his head. "Who showed her how to do it? Who connected up the boiler?"
"She did." She was amused by his expression. "She got a book from the library. It told her exactly what to do."
Andy McLoughlin was intensely sceptical. In his experience, a woman who could connect a central-heating boiler simply didn't exist. His mother, who held unenlightened ideas about a woman's place in the home, rooted herself
"I expect they're grateful to her."
"The reverse. I'd say Phoebe is more grateful to them."
"Why? She's given them a new home and employment."
"You see the Grange as it is now but when I moved in nine years ago, Phoebe had been managing on her own for a year. She was shunned by everybody. No one from the village or even Silverborne would work for her. She had to do the gardening, the housework and house maintenance herself and the place was like a tip." A stone lurched sickeningly in her mind as memories struggled to get out. It was the stench of urine, she thought. Everywhere. On the walls, the carpets, the curtains. She would never forget the terrible stench of urine. "Fred and Molly's arrival a couple of months after us changed her life."
McLoughlin stared about the library. There was a good deal that was original, the carved oak bookcases, moulded plaster cornices, the panelled fireplace, but there were other things that were new, the paintwork, a radiator under the window, secondary glazing in white stove-enamel frames, all certainly under ten years old.
"Have the local people changed their attitude to Mrs. Maybury now?"
She followed his gaze. "Not at all. They still won't do any work for her." She flicked ash from her cigarette. "She tries from time to time without success. Silverborne's a dead duck. She's been as far as Winchester and Southampton with the same result. Streech Grange is notorious, Sergeant, but then you already know that, don't you?" She smiled cynically. "They all seem to think they're going to be murdered the minute they set foot in the place. With some justification, it would seem, after yesterday's little discovery."
He jerked his head at the window. "Then who put in the central heating and the double glazing? Fred?"
"Phoebe."
He laughed with genuine amusement "Oh, for God's sake! Look, I know you're on some personal crusade to prove that women are the be-all and end-all, but you can't expect me to swallow
that
." He got up and strode across to the window. "Have you any idea how much glass like this weighs?" He tapped a pane of the double-glazing and drew the unwelcome attention of Phoebe outside. She looked at him curiously for a moment then, seeing him turn away, resumed her gardening. He came back to his chair. "She couldn't begin to lift it, let alone set it professionally in its frame. It would need at least two men, if not three."
"Or three women," said Anne, unmoved by his outburst. "We all lend a hand with the lifting. There are five of us after all, eight on the week-ends when the children come home."
"Eight?" he queried sharply. "I thought there were only two children."
"Three. There's Elizabeth, Diana's daughter, as well."
McLoughlin ruffled his fingers through his hair, leaving a dark crest pointing towards the ceiling. "She never mentioned a daughter," he said sourly, wondering what other surprises lay in store.
"You probably didn't ask her."
He ignored this. "You said Mrs. Maybury also did the central heating. How?"
"The same way plumbers do it, presumably. I remember she favoured capillary joints so there was a lot of wire wool involved and flux and soldering equipment. There were also numerous lengths of fifteen- and twenty-two-millimetre copper piping lieing around. She hired a pipe-bending machine for several weeks with different sized pre-formers to make S-bends and right angles. I got a damned good article on women and DIY out of it."
He shook his head. "Who showed her how to do it? Who connected up the boiler?"
"She did." She was amused by his expression. "She got a book from the library. It told her exactly what to do."
Andy McLoughlin was intensely sceptical. In his experience, a woman who could connect a central-heating boiler simply didn't exist. His mother, who held unenlightened ideas about a woman's place in the home, rooted herself
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