throw a sicky.’ She dashed away to clean her teeth.
‘You won’t, young lady,’ Jimbo shouted after her. For a brief moment he dwelt on the talent Fran had developed for languages, and then returned immediately to the market problem. ‘Once it gets established it will be all too late to protest. I’ll ring our Kev straight up on nine, to find out about permission.’
The clock on his desk was old and decrepit, but well loved by him, and when it chimed nine, Jimbo was dialling. By some underhand means he’d ferreted out Kevin’s direct line.
‘Good morning, Kevin. Brilliant day, isn’t it? Jimbo Charter-Plackett speaking, from Turnham Malpas. Have you time for a word?’
Kevin may not have risen very far in the echelons of the council hierarchy, but his knowledge of the goings-on in the council, legitimate or otherwise, was unparalleled.
‘Just.’
‘Right, I won’t beat about the bush. This business of a market on the village green every Thursday. Just how legit is it?’
‘Very. Titus Bellamy’s found an old charter in the archives from the early fourteenth century signed by a Templeton, giving permission for it. There’s nothing that can be done. Health and Safety’s noses are considerably out of joint, but as yet they haven’t come up with any concrete objections to it. Even the car parking’s been solved by Mr Fitch; he’s opening up a field for it.’
‘So you’re saying it’s all signed and sealed?’
‘Oh, yes. Could hit your Thursday trade, I expect?’ Kevin sniggered.
‘Exactly.’ Jimbo could have knifed him straight through his heart for that snigger.
‘Some of these old agreements in rural areas cause an awful lot of problems. Health and Safety are always gnashing their teeth about something or another, but often their hands are tied.’
‘Keep me informed, mmm? I wonder, would you be able to make use of a couple of tickets for the British Grand Prix? Been stuck with a couple and I can’t use them. How about it?’
‘Certainly, I could. Thanks, much appreciated. Glad to take them off your hands. You know the chap who’s running it has four other markets doing really well. The stalls are mostly organic - meat, dairy, bakery, fish . . . Let me see,’ Jimbo could hear a rustling of papers, then Kevin continued, ‘Organic greengrocery, collectables, jewellery, an artist, a potter, you name it.’
So much for Harriet’s ‘load of old tat’, thought Jimbo.
‘Well, that just about covers everything I sell, but there you are. Nice to talk to you. I won’t forget about the tickets.’
Jimbo banged down the receiver and cursed the world in general, and himself in particular, for lining the pocket of a slimy little sneak. Well, at least now he knew what he was up against, and it was no good anyone saying, ‘It won’t affect your trade.’ It would !
Now he’d have to set to and bribe someone to get the Grand Prix tickets for our Kev. But he had an idea about that, and when Liz Neal came in that morning he beckoned her into his office, placed his boater on the top of a carton of Brazil nuts and, as he always did, gave her a huge welcoming kiss.
‘Liz, have you lost weight?’
‘Maybe. You want to tell me something? If it’s about the market I’m sick of hearing about it. Everyone I meet has an opinion on it.’
‘Are they keen?’
Liz smiled. ‘Keen? I’m afraid they are. In fact, some of them are thinking of having stalls.’
Had Jimbo had hair in any quantities on his head it would have stood vertical with shock. ‘ Villagers , you mean?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Jimbo groped blindly for a seat. ‘Traitors, the lot of ’em. Traitors!’
‘They’ve a right—’
‘What about my rights? Mmm? I, who serve them every single week, not some fly-by-night here one morning and then gone the next. I’m deeply grieved by their lack of loyalty to