BAD BLOOD

By Nel Barton

The residents of Ashcroft House were busy that long, sweltering summer. Such a period of intense heat was unusual in England.

Christa struggled with her play; Nerys and Jerry were actively seeking his mother, while Miss Dingle was being her usual interfering opinionated self.

As they languished in the oppressive atmosphere none could possibly have known that their lives were about to change forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nel Barton
• Release date: Aug 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502267566

Book preview

THE FIRST WEEK

SATURDAY

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Christa Dawn tossed her pen irritably across the desk, bundled her notes into some semblance of a pile and sat back in her chair, sighing. It was not going well. Perhaps historical plays were not her forte after all. She picked up the top paper and re-read her notes on the gallant knight, Sir Martin Bradshaw. She began to doodle, scribbles of helmets and swords and crosses of St George, but inspiration did not come. Something was wrong with Sir Martin which eluded her. Romantic attachment probably, she mused. She simply did not like him enough, hero or not. She went to the window and looked out on the busy, dusty street. It seemed most of the city had gone into slow motion under the heavy oppressive heat of that summer. Cars still fled by of course,  their plumes of blue exhaust hanging in the air like poisonous ghosts which soon filtered through her open window and settled as black spots on window sill and furniture alike. There was no choice though. Open the window or die of suffocation.

The nights were worse. She was obliged to close the window then for fear of burglars or other intruders. The city could be dangerous for women on their own, especially after dark.  Being on the ground floor of a small block had its disadvantages as well as its advantages. She would have to invest in an air conditioning unit one of these days ‘when her ship came in’. Until then she would make do with ineffective and noisy fans which were a distraction and an annoyance, interrupting as they did her flow of imagination. Perhaps Sir Martin would enliven the whole play once the heat had died away. Meanwhile, she would put the entire shebang to one side and relax with an iced tea.

Christa had always written – short stories (she didn’t have the stamina to tackle a novel), articles, letters to the Editor, but mostly plays. She had never been published. How could she? She had never sent anything to an agent, her nerve failing at the last hurdle.  Why risk humiliation and disappointment?  Even J.K. Rowling had been rejected umpteen times, and Christa was sure Shakespeare would receive a rejection slip if he sent in one of his plays these days. They’d say it was out of date, not in keeping with the times etc. etc. So what hope had she? No, better to keep her little hobby to herself until the moment came when she no longer cared to be accepted or rejected. At 55 though, that moment ought to come soon.

Like the other flats in Ashcroft House, Christa’s was double aspect. From the living room one could see into Moreton Street, whilst the kitchen afforded a view of the communal garden. Pulling the net curtain to one side, she noticed the garden was empty. That was good. She wanted to be alone, to think.

Ashcroft House had three floors, ground, middle and top, each floor separated into flats, one to the left and one to the right. A central  hallway with door to the street at one end and door to the garden at the rear on the ground floor, accommodated the staircase which connected each floor.  It was an old red brick building which in its heyday had been a dwelling for a single family but had long since been converted to apartments. Christa’s was on the ground floor front left of the entrance, her door facing Miss Dingle’s. Above Christa was Jeremy Harrison – a bit of a nuisance with his guitar music at times – and above Miss Dingle was Nerys Lloyd, a Welsh woman in her early twenties . A ‘good time girl’ by Christa’s estimation, a view shared by the starchy Miss Dingle who did not like Nerys. She was too loud, too colourful,  too headstrong to be browbeaten by a couple of elderly women who had their own way of doing things and thought their example ought to be followed as some kind of divine right.  Nerys wouldn’t conform. Somehow she threatened them. Perhaps it was her youthful energy which set their nerves jangling. Or maybe it was the men she attracted? Christa Dawn and Miss Dingle did not approve of them either,  though Nerys neither knew nor would have cared if she had. That thought jolted Christa as she sat on the wooden bench in the shade, sipping her iced tea. Just maybe that was the reason Nerys set her nerves on edge whenever they collided in the hallway?  Nerys didn’t care what others thought, and Christa had patterned her whole life around eliciting  good opinions from others. 

Different ends of the same pole, Christa thought.  Both extremists in their own fashion while Miss Dingle was even further down the scale and more set in her ways than she was herself. At least she had had some sort of life, a love affair or two to hold close in her heart and to remember fondly in the long night hours when sleep was evasive. She wasn’t sure Miss Dingle had known anything except being a decent human being, polishing her mask (which Christa strongly suspected she hid behind ),  and earning a living, for Miss Dingle had worked for the same local solicitor nearly all her adult life. She was past retirement age now, being fifteen years senior to Christa, but they continued to keep her  on as she was reliable, punctual and understood the meaning of confidential. Miss Dingle did not make waves. She kept her head down and her thoughts to herself. At least at work. 

At Ashcroft House she continued some of the same characteristics, hardly acknowledging the other residents as worthy of her time, except for Christa, with whom she had developed a respectful friendship sharing as they did, many of the same opinions on a variety of subjects. There was always an invisible line which should not be crossed however, a line Christa was careful to avoid wandering over.  Nonetheless, at Ashcroft Miss Dingle felt free to voice her opinions at every opportunity, which made her a prickly person to deal with or get to know. It was as if a week of being tight lipped in the office caused her pent up frustrations to play out as soon as she was back in her home surroundings.  In her mind she was being very helpful, showing the others the right path and getting them to looks beyond the obvious. But to them she was an interfering old busybody who said too much, too often.

Fortunately for Christa, she was not in the same financial position as Miss Dingle, who had no choice but to continue working for a weekly wage. Christa had inherited money from both her long deceased parents. It wasn’t much and didn’t allow for extravagance, but it did provide her with a mortgage-free flat and sufficient weekly income to meet the bills, keep a modest table, and devote herself to her writing.

She looked up suddenly when she heard the back door open. It was Miss Dingle, emerging with a cup of herbal tea.

Another hot one by the look of it, Miss Dingle observed, seating herself at the further end of the garden bench.

I should be glad to have it come to an end, Christa replied, a good storm would clear the air and settle the dust. Dammit. She had forgotten it was Saturday and the others would be about. That was the trouble with being freelance. Every day was very much like every other and she lost track of weekends. Been busy at work?

Much as usual. Divorce season starts immediately after Christmas. That’s the time most family break-ups occur, but right now it’s the usual grind of conveyancing payments.

You must have come across some very interesting cases, Christa probed, hoping to hear something which would kick-start her imagination regarding Sir Martin.

Not really. It’s conveyance time, she repeated.

Would you like some iced tea? There’s plenty in the fridge?

No thank you. I’ll stick to herbal. It’s much better for you. You should try it.

Maybe, Christa lied. She had tried it once and it tasted to her like a combination of gnat’s wee and floor sweepings, but perfumed. No sense in telling Miss Dingle though. She’d only receive a lecture on the benefits and she was in no mood for it.

You should be wearing a sun hat, Miss Dingle continued, the sun can be very dangerous at this time of year and you hear so much these days about melanoma. You have a sun screen on,  I take it?

Of course, Christa lied again.

I use it all the time. Winter and summer. It’s very protective.

They do one on the shopping channel which is supposed to be exceptional but I don’t suppose you’ve seen that?

Of course not. I wouldn’t have television in my home. It’s the work of the devil if you ask me. It takes over people’s lives and leads to all sorts of bias and injustice. It’s turning the people into a nation of robots who operate at the lowest level. No, while I’ve got Radio 4 that’s all I need.

Christa was beginning to get rather irritated at the way the conversation was leading. She loved the shopping channels, especially when things were difficult with Sir Martin. They were a distraction and led into a dream world of nice people who were totally pleasant to each other and to the viewers, a world of products which promised elegance, charm and confidence as well as offering  a huge variety of goods with the promise ‘you will certainly be noticed in this’ or ‘people will come up to you and admire your taste, asking ‘Where did you get it?’’’ She had even been sucked into this dream world on rare occasions when she had bought herself a trinket or two – but nobody had ever come up to her and admired her purchases. You paid for the dream and acquired a bauble to remind you of it. That was the essence of tele-shopping, but she still enjoyed the escape it afforded from the restrictions of daily life.

She caught herself wondering how Miss Dingle would look in  flowery floaty chiffon, her bare hands festooned with sparkly rings, a fake diamond perhaps, a gold watch dangling from her skinny wrist. Now that really would cause some to comment. She glanced across at her companion whose face was shielded by a wide brimmed straw hat, her white short sleeve blouse buttoned to the neck and fastened with an old cameo brooch,  her dull grey skirt... And tights and shoes! On a day like this!

At that moment the back door opened again and Nerys came bounding out, hatless, long tanned limbs exposed to the sun. She was wearing the skimpiest denim shorts on the planet, and a sleeveless scooped neck T which displayed an alarming amount of cleavage.

Morning all, she called over to them. Glorious isn’t it, now?

It was, Miss Dingle whispered under her breath, and turned her attention to sipping her herbal tea.

How are you both?  Nerys, hands on hips, arched her back to look directly into the sky, this weather can go on as long as it likes. I just love it, don’t you? She didn’t wait for an answer but continued in the same breath: Tommy said he’ll take me for a boat trip up the river this afternoon. Should be fun. You two ought to do something like that. Get out of the old place from time to time. It would do you good to see new things, meet new people. You could come with us if you want? We could make a day of it and I’m sure Tommy wouldn’t mind. He’s good with -  she was going to say ‘old people’ but changed it to ladies.

I’m sure he is, Miss Dingle answered with a note of sarcasm.

Some other time, perhaps, Christa offered, I think it might be a bit much for us right now. You young things go off and enjoy yourself.

Oh we will, you can bet on it, Nerys flashed a wicked grin. Best be off and get the day started I suppose. Just gorgeous, isn’t it now? She went as she had arrived. Quickly and noisily.  They could hear her padding about in the hallway, heard her shout at the top of her voice, Jerry! Can you hear me? There’s a letter for you down ‘ere. A wait, then more urgently, Jerry! A letter! Occasionally a new postman would leave their mail in a heap on the hall table, rather than trudge up the stairs to use their individual letter boxes. It was illegal, as Miss Dingle pointed out on several occasions, and she was a good mind to report it. A door opened and slammed shut. Quick heavy footsteps on the stairs. Muffled voices in the hall. The front door slammed shut as the back door opened and Jerry emerged into the sunlit garden. He was holding a sheet of paper and an opened envelope, squinting to read in the sudden brightness. The two women observed him and waited. When nothing was forthcoming, Christa took the initiative:

Good news, I hope?

Could have been better, he answered without looking up.

Nothing wrong is there?

Stuffing the paper into his rear jeans pocket, he evaded the question and returned indoors, leaving  Christa and Miss Dingle alone in the garden again.

He’s a surly one, said Miss Dingle, the only time he opens his mouth is when he’s singing along to that wretched guitar of his. Plonk, plonk, plonk, she mimicked strumming on an imaginary instrument, he thinks it’s music. Music? A cacophony more like.

I must admit he can be a bit of a nuisance with it. I don’t mind too much in the evening as the tv can drown it out, but it’s a terrible interruption when you’re trying to concentrate on your own business.  Her thoughts reverted momentarily to Sir Martin. Perhaps she should give him a wife? That might stir up a bit of love interest?

It ought to be banned, Miss Dingle had the bit between her teeth now. Actually it is, you know? Our leases are all the same and it specifically states in there nobody may interfere with the peaceful enjoyment of others. Those are the actual words: ‘peaceful enjoyment’. And what else is his blooming guitar but an interference of that? We could probably do something about it if we took the matter up with the Landlord. Or the noise abatement people.

It really isn’t that much of a nuisance, Christa tried to draw some perspective. Much as she would like to see the guitar turned to matchwood, she had no desire to start any kind of action against one of the people she had to live with. That sort of thing could only escalate and cause a lot of problems and ill feeling in the future.  Have you ever had a word with him about it?

Frequently. I have knocked on his door and politely and firmly requested he stop, but does he take any notice? Of course not. The young are all the same these days. They do what they want when they want and everybody else can go hang.

Perhaps it’s louder in your flat than in mine.

"Hardly. You’re directly below him. You must hear more of it, though of course my hearing is exceptional, everyone at work comments on it. They say I can hear a pin drop in the next building, which of course is an exaggeration."

Christa had had enough. Finishing the last of her iced tea, she stood up and made to leave. Miss Dingle was obviously in a scratchy mood and since she was feeling a little low herself she sought more uplifting company.

Better make a move, she said.

Writing again?

No. I think I’ll walk along to the deli and get some of their cured ham for later. It’s too hot to eat anything other than salad. She had reached the back door when she remembered. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about a new person coming into Flat 6?

Miss Dingle spun around on the bench and tilted her head back to peer out from under her sun hat.

No. I haven’t actually. My firm isn’t handling that one, but I did see a couple of men go in there on Wednesday morning as I was leaving for work. One looked like an estate agent, the other was foreign, Eastern origin I should guess. Have you heard anything then?

No. I was just curious... I’ll see you later. Much later.

Back in Flat 1, which was Christa’s home, all was stuffily quiet. She opened her kitchen window and through the net observed Miss Dingle who was now reading a broadsheet newspaper. Of course. No tabloid rubbish for her. She poured another iced tea and returned to her notes. What to do about the problem of Sir Martin? She had already written 22 pages and it seemed a pity to waste them. But if she started again... or abandoned Arthurian knightly tales and tried something more modern.... Not today though. It was all too much effort. Instead she seated herself comfortably and switched on the tv,  tuning to the shopping channels. The ham could wait.

The presenter was demonstrating a non-stick baking tin. It came in many exterior colours.