When Claire walked into Knitting Kitting on Monday morning, to her surprise, there was a customer. At least she thought at first that he was a customer, though an unlikely one. For one thing he was a man. For another, he was very well dressed in a business suit and actually rather good-looking – what Imogen might call ‘dishy’. He was very fair with eyelashes, eyebrows and hair almost the same light color as his skin. That made the blue of his eyes even more startling when he turned them on her.
Claire had a smile ready but didn’t have a chance to greet him. ‘Ah. Here she is. I think I need to speak to you,’ he said. Claire smiled at him inquiringly. To her surprise he didn’t smile back. Actually, his lips compressed into a narrow white line. ‘Are you the one who’s done this?’ he asked and held out one of her flyers. Claire nodded. Perhaps he wanted to enroll his wife in a class. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Don’t you know people don’t like trash tied to their private property? And that you don’t advertise a business the way you do a church fête?’
‘Now Nigel,’ Mrs Venables began.
‘Don’t “now Nigel” me. This is irresponsible behavior. And it’s illegal. Full stop.’
Claire had put signs up all over but didn’t know it was illegal or wrong. Could he be from the police department? Certainly not in that suit. More likely an angry neighbor. But she had been careful to space out the notices. Could somebody be annoyed over one page of paper tied to a lamp post? ‘I don’t think …’ she began.
‘You certainly don’t. And do you read? You posted all over the “No Hoardings” signs.’ Claire had seen signs saying that. She’d thought they were about some law against saving up food or something. She had tied up flyers right over them.
‘I’m sorry …’ she began, but he gave her no time for apologies.
‘And whose idea was this? Who asked you to interfere?’
Claire was completely chagrined, then relieved when Mrs Venables came out from behind the counter. ‘Nigel, stop that right now. You may be a barrister but Claire is not on trial. She asked me if she could do it and I agreed.’
Clearly this pale and angry man wasn’t threatening to Mrs Venables. The old woman put her arm around Claire’s shoulder. ‘She was helping me. I asked her to. You have no right to blame her. And I certainly don’t approve of your tone of voice.’ Claire felt Mrs Venables’s arm tighten. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. Permit me to introduce you to my son. Claire Bilsop, this is my son Nigel. He’s a good boy but sometimes he’s overprotective. Please excuse him.’
‘Mother, I …’
‘Nigel, don’t raise your voice.’
To her surprise, Claire felt tears rising, blurring her sight. How humiliating. She didn’t want to wipe at her eyes but she certainly didn’t want this arrogant man to see her cry.
‘I didn’t raise my voice. I was simply taken off-guard. I had to respond to half a dozen phone calls.’
‘Were they complaints?’ Mrs Venables asked.
Nigel Venables turned his head, walked to the window and looked out onto the street. ‘No. Not exactly. But you must understand that homeowners don’t want commercial establishments to post notices …’
Claire, so excited about her list of possible class attendees, now felt ashamed of them. And why had people called Mrs Venables’s son? His number wasn’t listed.
‘Were they inquiries about the class, Nigel?’
He looked back at them. ‘I suppose so. And I felt a proper fool knowing nothing about it. The point is, Mother, this idea is ridiculous. It’s going to come a cropper.’
Claire hated to appear pathetic, but even worse was to appear ridiculous. Her idea, which had sounded so practical and effective, something she’d been so proud of, was ridiculous? But people had called, not only Toby but this detestable Nigel. Her heart lifted a little. And some were people who wanted to register? How had they gotten Nigel Venables’s number? Why hadn’t they called Toby’s?
Nigel crumpled one of the flyers and tossed it onto the window seat. ‘Since I bought this property the neighborhood has been watching to see if I plan to develop it. I don’t need any extra attention.’ He looked back at Claire. ‘You can’t treat people’s private properties as if they were billboards. This isn’t the United States, you know. Next you’ll be handing out freebie subs at tube stations.’
‘Nigel, that will be quite enough.’ Mrs Venables turned to Claire. ‘I’m sorry, he’s not at his best right now.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Claire’s idea is a good one. Shake hands with her, Nigel, and behave properly.’
Reluctantly, Nigel extended his hand which was long, very pale and surprisingly warm. But he made the handshake brief and hardly looked at her. Then he sighed, letting both of his hands drop helplessly to his side. ‘You’re quite impossible,’ he told his mother. ‘If you need help, why didn’t you tell me? You know how I feel. This place is altogether too much for you to manage.’
‘I know, dear. I should stay home and dust the Staffordshire. But you see, I don’t like to dust.’ She turned to Claire. ‘Come and sit over here at the pattern table. I’ll make you both a cup of tea.’
‘Oh, fine! Let us make you extra work. Why not cook us dinner?’
‘I’d be delighted to,’ said Mrs Venables, already filling a kettle. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come to dinner sometime next week, Claire?’
‘Mother, you’re getting into one of your moods and …’
‘I? In one of my moods? I can’t imagine what would ruffle my normal calm, except perhaps for an over protective son descending like an enraged headmistress and scolding his mother as well as an innocent stranger.’ Mrs Venables turned off the tap. ‘Do you want a biscuit as well? I have your favorite macaroons.’
Nigel put a long hand over his eyes and Claire almost felt sorry for him. He seemed calmer now, resigned almost, and not nearly as frightening. He leaned against the counter, took a deep breath and made quite a production of exhaling. ‘Can we discuss this whole idea? I take it it was Miss Bilsop’s?’
‘Well, don’t be so sure. You underestimate your mother,’ Mrs Venables said.
‘It was my idea,’ Claire admitted. ‘But I asked permission. I just thought it might increase business …’
‘Just what my mother doesn’t need, increased business! Which means increased work. Which means increased blood pressure. Don’t you know …’
‘Nigel, I don’t want to have to be sharp with you but I am going to insist you drop this subject and change your tone of voice,’ his mother interjected. ‘Claire isn’t interested in my medical reports. Is this what they teach you at the Inns of Court? Now, tell us how many phone calls you have had about the class.’
‘Well, about five,’ he admitted, ‘but there’s probably another three on the ansaphone.’
‘And they all objected to a bit of paper tied with wool to a lamp post?’
Nigel sat on the corner of the pattern table. ‘No. Some did, but some inquired about the class. They said they didn’t get an answer at that phone number. So they rang my number on the shop sign.’
Claire wondered if Toby had taken the phone off the hook. Had she imposed on him too much?
Mrs Venables filled the teapot and brought it to the table. Then she took out a tin of homemade cookies – they looked far too moist and good for Claire to think of them as biscuits – and put them on a plate. ‘Claire, my dear, how many signs did you hang?’
‘Almost fifty.’
‘Fifty!’ Nigel repeated.
‘Well, then. Two or three complaints over fifty signs. That’s one in twenty-five. My goodness, with the number of cranks in London I would think that’s a low percentage.’ She poured out the three cups of tea. ‘Claire did it with my permission and didn’t mean any harm. A couple of complaints aren’t going to ruin your property empire. Now, apologize to Claire nicely and we can move on.’
Nigel cleared his throat, but before he said anything Claire spoke up. ‘I’m sure it’s all my fault. I didn’t realize what the signs meant or that the fence posts were private property. I won’t do it again.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Nigel said. ‘My mother doesn’t need to advertise the shop as if it were a side show. And she certainly doesn’t need the income. Let’s just forget about it, shall we? No harm done.’
‘Exactly what I was trying to say,’ Mrs Venables told him serenely. She handed the plate of macaroons to Claire, who took one but felt that the lump in her throat would make it impossible for her to choke it down. Nigel felt no such difficulty and took three, making short work of them. ‘He’s loved them since he was a little boy,’ Mrs Venables confided. ‘I used to send them to him at school.’
Nigel bit into yet another macaroon. He turned to Claire. ‘Bilsop?’ he asked. ‘Where are your people from?’
It reminded her of Im. Did everyone in this country want to place you in some hierarchy? She wasn’t second-cousins to the Queen. ‘I don’t have any people,’ Claire said. She stood up. ‘I’m afraid I have to go,’ she told Mrs Venables. ‘I’m going to be late for work.’ That, of course, wasn’t true.
‘I understand,’ Mrs Venables said, and it looked as if she did.
Claire left the shop and trudged the two streets home. Things had been going so well. She should have known that meant too well. Being cornered and scolded as if she were a child or an opportunist was deeply disturbing. But she hadn’t pushed Mrs Venables into anything, she told herself. It was just that detestable Nigel who made her feel so guilty. Now, she would be too embarrassed ever to go back to the shop again. Claire felt tears spring to her eyes once more, but this time she didn’t have to hold them back.