presenters in these parts…well, at least not normally.”
“Just chancellors of the exchequer,” Jen said, smiling.
The woman laughed. “Aye. Them and a few other politicians, but that’s about it.”
“I met him last night in the Hog. He was having a drink with a friend of his, someone named the Cat.”
Martha giggled. “Aye, that’s it, Sir William Catesby. He owns a farm down the lane. He’s the chairman of the parish council.”
The hairdresser ran her hands through Jen’s hair, silently inspecting the damage.
“How about we start with a nice little wash,” Martha said. “Would you like any highlights?”
“I really love Kate Hudson.”
“Ah, butterscotch blonde – that’s what she’d be,” Martha said, impressing Jen with her instant knowledge.
Martha walked toward the door that connected the salon to the rear of the shop and shouted her daughter’s name. “Anthea.”
Almost immediately she returned to Jen with her hands full of cosmetics.
“One Kate Hudson coming up.”
A young woman emerged through the doorway – evidently the same person Jen had seen from across the street. The girl was brunette, petite – no more than five feet four – and had a slender physique and pale skin. She looked seventeen, which agreed with the known facts.
If Martha was telling the truth, the girl had been in Debra Harrison’s year at school.
Anthea walked shyly toward them and placed two coffee mugs down on the side.
“Anthea, pet, this is Jennifer, the lady I was telling you about.”
Jen held up a hand, the outline of her fingers barely visible beneath the cloak. The girl smiled, but made practically no eye contact. Her gaze instead drifted to the walls.
“Pass me that bottle, will you, pet,” Martha asked.
The girl obliged, again silently.
“Now, you hold the fort while I take care of Miss Farrelly’s highlights.”
“Okay, Mum.”
The girl’s voice was little more than a whisper. Jen smiled at her via the mirror, receiving the briefest of eye contact and another nervous smile before the girl left the room.
“She’s very shy.”
“She’s lovely,” Jen said. “Has she been with you long? As a hairdresser, I mean.”
“Started the day she left school. She was never cut out for the real world.”
“How do you mean?”
“Growing up in Wootton isn’t the same as in the olden days. Back then, the cubs and kittens would follow the parents – most of the businesses in Wootton have remained in family hands. Nowadays, those with ambition move on: university, gap years, corporate jets…it’s all strange to me.”
The hairdresser brushed Jen’s hair to make a perfect middle parting before stopping to examine the results. Satisfied, she opened the nearest bottle of hair dye and made a start on the highlights.
Jen smiled, taking the first sip of her coffee. “What do the teenagers do on leaving school?”
“Most of them go to college.”
“St Joseph’s?”
“That’s right, pet.”
Jen took a second sip of coffee before placing the mug down on the side. “I was thinking of paying a visit later – one of our researchers arranged an interview with one of the teachers. A Mrs Cartwright.”
“Miss Cartwright,” the hairdresser corrected.
Another admin error.
“Miss Cartwright was the English teacher there – everyone’s favourite.”
“I understand the former headmaster also lives in Wootton? Dr Lovell.”
“Aye,” Martha replied. “Another favourite in these parts.”
“I’ve heard he’s quite a character.”
“That’s one way of putting it, luvvy.”
Jen laughed. “I couldn’t help notice that many of the graves in the cemetery were of Lovells, Catesbys or Ratcliffes. I assume they all go back a long way?”
Martha nodded, concentrating on Jen’s hair. “Most of us can trace our roots in Wootton. It’s the same for most places on the moors, really. We never really went in for all that gentrification process up this way.”
The interior of
“Just chancellors of the exchequer,” Jen said, smiling.
The woman laughed. “Aye. Them and a few other politicians, but that’s about it.”
“I met him last night in the Hog. He was having a drink with a friend of his, someone named the Cat.”
Martha giggled. “Aye, that’s it, Sir William Catesby. He owns a farm down the lane. He’s the chairman of the parish council.”
The hairdresser ran her hands through Jen’s hair, silently inspecting the damage.
“How about we start with a nice little wash,” Martha said. “Would you like any highlights?”
“I really love Kate Hudson.”
“Ah, butterscotch blonde – that’s what she’d be,” Martha said, impressing Jen with her instant knowledge.
Martha walked toward the door that connected the salon to the rear of the shop and shouted her daughter’s name. “Anthea.”
Almost immediately she returned to Jen with her hands full of cosmetics.
“One Kate Hudson coming up.”
A young woman emerged through the doorway – evidently the same person Jen had seen from across the street. The girl was brunette, petite – no more than five feet four – and had a slender physique and pale skin. She looked seventeen, which agreed with the known facts.
If Martha was telling the truth, the girl had been in Debra Harrison’s year at school.
Anthea walked shyly toward them and placed two coffee mugs down on the side.
“Anthea, pet, this is Jennifer, the lady I was telling you about.”
Jen held up a hand, the outline of her fingers barely visible beneath the cloak. The girl smiled, but made practically no eye contact. Her gaze instead drifted to the walls.
“Pass me that bottle, will you, pet,” Martha asked.
The girl obliged, again silently.
“Now, you hold the fort while I take care of Miss Farrelly’s highlights.”
“Okay, Mum.”
The girl’s voice was little more than a whisper. Jen smiled at her via the mirror, receiving the briefest of eye contact and another nervous smile before the girl left the room.
“She’s very shy.”
“She’s lovely,” Jen said. “Has she been with you long? As a hairdresser, I mean.”
“Started the day she left school. She was never cut out for the real world.”
“How do you mean?”
“Growing up in Wootton isn’t the same as in the olden days. Back then, the cubs and kittens would follow the parents – most of the businesses in Wootton have remained in family hands. Nowadays, those with ambition move on: university, gap years, corporate jets…it’s all strange to me.”
The hairdresser brushed Jen’s hair to make a perfect middle parting before stopping to examine the results. Satisfied, she opened the nearest bottle of hair dye and made a start on the highlights.
Jen smiled, taking the first sip of her coffee. “What do the teenagers do on leaving school?”
“Most of them go to college.”
“St Joseph’s?”
“That’s right, pet.”
Jen took a second sip of coffee before placing the mug down on the side. “I was thinking of paying a visit later – one of our researchers arranged an interview with one of the teachers. A Mrs Cartwright.”
“Miss Cartwright,” the hairdresser corrected.
Another admin error.
“Miss Cartwright was the English teacher there – everyone’s favourite.”
“I understand the former headmaster also lives in Wootton? Dr Lovell.”
“Aye,” Martha replied. “Another favourite in these parts.”
“I’ve heard he’s quite a character.”
“That’s one way of putting it, luvvy.”
Jen laughed. “I couldn’t help notice that many of the graves in the cemetery were of Lovells, Catesbys or Ratcliffes. I assume they all go back a long way?”
Martha nodded, concentrating on Jen’s hair. “Most of us can trace our roots in Wootton. It’s the same for most places on the moors, really. We never really went in for all that gentrification process up this way.”
The interior of
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