Daphne
Daphne
Daphne had got so carried away with the performance that she even found herself joining in with the enthusiastic rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” at the finale. She hadn’t sung in public since an Elton John concert in 1989. Her voice had sounded thin and tremulous at the beginning, but was positively lusty by the end.
The nativity had been a triumph, and watching the excitement and joy on the children’s faces as the audience applauded had made her feel surprisingly proud, despite the fact that neither they nor the play had anything much to do with her.
“Thank you for coming to the Mandel Community Center nursery and seniors’ show!” said Lydia, with an uncharacteristic level of gumption. The woman was making progress! When Daphne had first met her, she wouldn’t have said boo to a goose. Let alone to a group of councillors.
“We’d like to thank the local council for their support for this fabulous hall, where all members of the community can come together, and we look forward to many more wonderful, collaborative and creative performances in the years to come!” Lydia continued.
She had, Daphne thought, laid it on a little thick. She might as well have worn a T-shirt printed with the words WE’RE ALL REALLY NICE. PLEASE DON’T EVICT US. But she’d forgive the heavy-handedness and overuse of flowery adjectives if it did the job.
“Let’s have a round of applause for our director—the famous actor Art Andrews, without whom none of this would have been possible!” said Lydia.
Art, flushed with success, stood up and bowed, so low that it looked for a moment as if he might never be able to come up again.
Famous actor? Art certainly wasn’t famous. It wasn’t even entirely clear he was an actor.
“Please go and help yourselves to refreshments, supplied by our lovely, clever children and our generous sponsor—Starbucks!” Lydia continued. It seemed that once she’d started there was no stopping her. Had Daphne created a monster? For pity’s sake, sit down, woman!
The audience surged en masse toward the refreshment table. Daphne could see Art through the crowd. He was surrounded by people, and had that smug, mock-humble look of someone who was being showered with congratulations, as if he’d pulled off the whole event single-handedly. Had he even stopped to consider the fact that all his planning and hard work would have gone entirely to waste had Daphne not made sure the council turned up to witness his “triumph”? She very much doubted it.
Daphne watched Art laugh at something one of the fawning crowd said to him, then he gave a little bow, his hands in prayer position, signifying gratitude. Daphne felt a knot of irritation forming in her guts. For God’s sake. Was there anything more annoyingly vomit-inducing than a goody-two-shoes?
Daphne sighed. She really should go over herself, to congratulate him. She had to practice all these social niceties, however much they stuck in her throat, if she was going to be able to tick off all the items on her whiteboard. She needed to turn over a new leaf . Become an entirely new plant, even.
Daphne pulled back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and elbowed her way expertly through the throng. Whenever she encountered a blockage, she employed a sharp prod with her walking stick, which she’d brought along for exactly this eventuality. But just as she managed to reach Art, still hoovering up all the compliments like a self-satisfied aardvark, a man dressed in a badly fitting suit, with a slightly greasy comb-over, bashed a spoon against a coffee cup.
“Everybody, STOP RIGHT NOW!” he said, showering the people in his immediate vicinity with a fine spray of spittle, as if they were a car windscreen he was attempting to wash. “DO NOT TOUCH THE PACKAGED GOODS. THEY ARE WAY PAST THEIR SELL-BY DATES. SOME OF THESE ITEMS WERE DISCONTINUED YEARS AGO!”
All around her, people were staring at the food they were holding. Some were even spitting whole mouthfuls into napkins, or their bare hands. Just as she’d thought her day couldn’t get any better.
“But these were given to us by the local Starbucks, our sponsor,” said Janine, indignantly.
“Well, I’m the manager of Starbucks, and I can assure you I did no such thing,” said the man, who was, indeed, still wearing his STORE MANAGER badge on his lapel. Did he wear it to bed, too? wondered Daphne. His name was helpfully printed under his title: GAVIN GRAVELY . This figured. He looked exactly like you’d expect a Gavin Gravely to look: pompous and unhappy.
“Art,” said Lydia, pointing at him with one of the suspect fingers of shortbread. “You told me Starbucks were sponsoring us.”
Daphne turned to stare at Art, along with everyone else.
“Uh, I didn’t, actually,” said Art, who’d certainly been brought back down to earth with a remarkably satisfying bump. “I said Starbucks were supporting us. They just weren’t entirely aware of the fact.”
“It’s precisely these front-of-till items that keep going missing from my store,” said Gavin Gravely, fixing Art with a steely gaze. “We’ve been aware for years that we’ve had a prolific thief operating in the area. In fact, I’m quite sure I recognize you from my CCTV.”
“You didn’t steal all that stuff, did you?” said Lydia, in a whisper.
“I prefer to use the word ‘liberated,’?” said Art, whose face had flushed a deep red. For a supposed actor, he was completely inept at appearing innocent.
“Oh, Art,” said Daphne, who was suddenly feeling much more cheerful. “Haven’t you been naughty?”
This was a marvelous turn of events. Perhaps Art wasn’t quite so irritatingly perfect, after all. Maybe they did actually have something in common.
Art turned to her, his face all creased and blotchy. He seemed to have aged five years, which at their time of life one couldn’t afford to do, frankly. “I’m fed up with you thinking you’re so much better than everyone else, Daphne. I’m sure you’ve never put a foot wrong in your entire life but, unlike you, some of us are HUMAN!”
Daphne was a little taken aback, and slightly disappointed. Just as she’d started to rather like Art, he’d stamped on any notions she might have had about a fledgling friendship. She should have known better.
“Unless you can produce receipts for these items, I’m going to the authorities!” shouted Gavin Gravely, leaning over Art aggressively.
There was a blur of movement as a small, wiry figure wove her way through the legs of the crowd and launched herself at Gavin Gravely’s buttocks.
“SOMETHING BIT ME!” he yelled.
“Let him go, Maggie Thatcher!” shrieked Lydia.
“Go for it, Margaret!” said Daphne.
“Ooh, she’s a wolf in a knitted sheep jumper,” said Ruby.
“Why’s the sheep eating the nasty shouty man?” asked one of the innkeepers.
This was the most fun Daphne had had since Pauline had died.