Fate Worse Than Death by Sheila Radley Read Free Book Online Page B

much a creation as an assisted happening. Marjorie on the other hand, a born organizer, liked to keep everything about her well under control. The climbing roses on her walls were orderly, her lawns were frequently shaved, her borders were stiff with hotly coloured municipal bedding-plants. Any flowers that had the temerity to put in an appearance where she had not planned they should grow were ruthlessly given the chop.
    So efficient was Marjorie’s gardening that she still had plenty of energy for other projects. She had taken charge of every community activity in Fodderstone, but there were too few of them to provide sufficient scope for her abilities. With time to spare, she had turned her attention to her disorganized neighbour.
    â€˜What on earth are you doing , Constance?’ she demanded, marching into the kitchen of number 9 without so much as a token knock.
    Con flinched. It was, she knew, ungrateful of her to do so; her neighbour was generous and usually brought with her some small gift. The gifts were often edible, presumably because Marjorie thought that Con, who was built in the classic English gentlewoman shape with a long narrow face, long narrow hands and feet, and a body as flat as a plank, needed feeding up. This morning’s gift was a bowl of home-made muesli. Marjorie lectured both publicly and privately on the importance of dietary fibre, especially for the over-fifties, and the principal constituent of her muesli was bran.
    â€˜What are you up to?’ repeated Marjorie. Con often thought that her neighbour’s frequent visits were made for the purpose of finding out what she was doing and telling her either to stop it or to do it some other way. Marjorie was not a particularly large woman, but everything about her – firm features, greying hair worn straight with a fringe, spectacles worn with a retaining chain that hung in loops on either side of her cheeks, home-made summer tent-dress, strong flat sandals – proclaimed a formidable practicality. Con found her overpowering: too loud, too inquisitive, too personal, too interfering. She wished Marjorie would leave her alone, but she was too polite to say so.
    â€˜I’m making a casserole for supper,’ she replied patiently. It was an unwelcome job on such a hot day. She knew that her face must be shining, and she hoped that Marjorie would not comment on it. ‘I’m not sure when my nephew will be arriving, so I thought I’d make something now and heat it up this evening.’
    Con ate little and cooked less. During the last few years of her working life she had cared for her aged mother, and after the old lady was removed to a nursing-home Con had thankfully given up the practice of cookery. Her favourite meal was bread and honey, or a piece of cheese and an apple, eaten absent-mindedly while she read a book.
    Having got out of the way of cooking, she found it difficult to do so while anyone watched her. That was why she had decided against giving Martin a steak, because he would be sure to come into the kitchen to talk to her while she grilled it. She was becoming so forgetful, so easily confused … as she was now, under Marjorie’s disapproving eye.
    â€˜A casserole , in this weather?’ her neighbour hooted. ‘No wonder you’re sweating – what an idiotic thing to do! Why on earth aren’t you giving your nephew a cold meal?’
    â€˜Er …’ Con tried to remember whether she had seasoned the neck of lamb before browning it. At the moment she was frying chopped onion – and gosh it was so hot, standing over the cooker. If only Marjorie would go away instead of watching and criticizing …
    Despite her lined face and grey head, there was something almost coltish about Con Schultz. Her hair was cropped, her movements were nervous and awkward, her manner gauche. It was impossible to imagine her as a 1940s good-time girl, but not at all difficult to see what she