Chapter Eleven
An hour later I was showered and dressed, my sleeves metaphorically rolled up. I was also back in the marital bedroom and armed with a roll of black sacks. Shaking one out, I stationed myself by the floor-to-ceiling wardrobes that filled the entirety of one wall.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the first closet door and peered inside.
Peter’s work clothes were hanging in a neat formation.
Shirts on the top rail. Trousers on the bottom.
I systematically reached in, checked pockets, and then carefully folded every single garment before placing it within a sack.
The charity shop would have a field day.
There was all manner of expensive shirts here with high-end names. Peter had always worn the best.
I spent the rest of the morning methodically checking every wardrobe, cupboard and drawer that held Peter’s belongings – from jackets and coats to boots and shoes. Even his socks and underpants had been inspected before being rolled and folded.
Being so meticulous had paid off. I’d discovered a bundle of cash in the left foot of a pair of socks.
A thousand pounds no less. I’d then slipped my fingers into the right foot of the same pair of socks and retrieved a business card.
However, there was no name upon it. Just a printed mobile number in a smart font. My lip had curled at the sight of it.
Another one of your dodgy contacts, Peter?
I’d looked at the neatly folded bundle of money in my left hand.
Most wives might have been grateful to stumble across such a large amount of cash, but I wasn’t one of them.
As far as I was concerned, I didn’t want one penny of it.
In fact, I knew exactly what I was going to do with it – make a donation to the Starlight Society.
Cilla had wasted no time in setting up a fund and pinning a large progress chart to one of the pub’s walls.
Currently the sum was rather paltry. It stood at forty-five pounds and five pence.
But, then again, the fundraising ideas were still in their infancy and had yet to gather pace.
Meanwhile, Peter’s cash would give the pot a nice boost.
For a moment, the air in the bedroom seemed to shiver with my husband’s presence. If he were here now, he’d be apoplectic.
You’re going to chuck a grand at a crappy fund to save a crummy hall? Are you mad?
‘Yes, Peter,’ I said to the quivering air.
‘I am indeed mad. But not nutty mad. Rather, hopping mad. And just because I’m on one side of the veil and you’re now on the other, don’t think my feelings on the matter have dissipated, because they haven’t.
I’m as angry with you now as I was on our last night together. Comprendez?’
Sighing at my fanciful imagination, I lugged all the bagged-up clothes downstairs and loaded up the car.
Minutes later, I headed off along Starlight Street, stopping to park rather haphazardly outside the pub, rather than in its carpark. Never mind. This shouldn’t take long.
‘Hey, Polly,’ I said, heading over to the bar. Thankfully nobody was waiting to be served, and the place was quiet. ‘Is Cilla around?’
‘Hi, Jen,’ Polly smiled. ‘She’s on the phone to the local newspaper. She should only be a couple of minutes. Can I get you a drink while you’re waiting?’
‘Er, thanks, but I’ll pass. I’m driving.’
‘What about something non-alcoholic?’
‘Honestly, I’m fine. This morning, I drank enough tea to qualify as a liquid asset.’
At that moment, a door marked Private opened, and Cilla emerged.
‘Hello, Jen,’ she said. ‘What did I just hear you say? You’re not drinking anything? In my pub, that sort of language is blasphemy.’
‘Ah, sorry about that,’ I grinned. ‘But another time. Meanwhile’ – I lowered my voice – ‘I want to make a donation to the fund.’
‘That’s kind of you, love. In which case, you’ll be wanting the bank details. It’s all been set up – right and proper, no funny nonsense – via that solicitor I mentioned at the last meeting. Let me fetch the details.’
‘No, no,’ I whispered, shaking my head. ‘I want to donate a cash sum. Er, it’s quite a bit.’
Cilla raised her eyebrows.
‘In which case, we’ll pop it in the safe until it can be banked. Come on through.’
She indicated I move around the side of the bar. Suddenly I was following her back through the door marked Private.
Inside Cilla’s sitting room, she made her way over to a painting on the wall. She touched one corner of the frame. It swung open to reveal a safe.
‘Goodness!’ I exclaimed in astonishment. ‘I thought it was only in movies that people kept secret stuff behind artwork.’
‘Nope,’ she chuckled, pressing some buttons. Seconds later there was a loud bleep and a small steel door opened. ‘So, what have you got for the fund, love? A hundred quid?’
‘A thousand.’
‘Whaaat?’ she squawked. ‘That’s an awful lot of money, Jen. Are you sure?’
‘Totally,’ I said, fishing in my handbag. I passed her the wad. ‘After all, it’s for a good cause.’
‘Well,’ said Cilla, looking awestruck. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ She looked bemused as she took the notes from me. ‘Thank you. You’re a star.’ She popped the cash inside the safe, then locked it. The oil painting was pushed back into place. ‘Let me give you a receipt.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ I protested.
‘Oh, yes there is,’ she said firmly. ‘I want everything above board.’ Cilla moved over to a small writing bureau and dropped down the lid.
Extracting a notebook, she then removed a biro from a pen pot.
As she wrote, she spoke. ‘The sum of… one thousand pounds’ – her writing was bold and flamboyant, like her – ‘received… with thanks… from… the Starlight Society.’ She tore the sheet from the pad.
‘Here you are, love.’ She handed me the piece of paper.
‘I have a few tricks up my sleeve regarding the fundraising.’
She then proceeded to give me a potted history of her plans – one of which had already been set in motion.
‘Exciting,’ I said, quietly impressed.
‘It’s going to be,’ she nodded. ‘Meanwhile, let’s go back to the bar and register your donation on the wall chart. Let everyone see that we’re making progress.’
For years Peter had made me feel small and insignificant, but suddenly I felt ten feet tall. Transformed. What an amazing feeling! I’d taken money from a situation that had caused immense emotional pain. Then, like an alchemist, all that bad feeling had changed into deep satisfaction.
Taking a neon pink Sharpie pen from Cilla, I coloured in some squares on the chart. This informed anyone who cared to look that the Starlight Society’s fund now stood at one thousand and forty-five pounds and five pence. Polly – and a few patrons who had wandered in – gave me a round of applause.
‘Awesome,’ said Cilla, retrieving the pen and giving me a hug. ‘Thanks, love.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I said, my eyes unexpectedly brimming. I blinked hastily, then said my farewells.
Seconds later I was back in the car and, in no time at all, exiting Starlight Croft via its horrendously steep road.
In places, this was nothing more than a single-track country lane which eventually led to the busy A227.
At the bottom of the hill, I set off towards Borough Green.
There was a Heart of Kent hospice shop on the high street.
Hopefully they would be glad of my second donation of the day.
Once again, I parked somewhat precariously, this time on double yellows.
A dear little bell tinkled my entry into the shop. Thankfully, an elderly volunteer confided they were low on stock. All the black sacks of clothes were gratefully accepted.
‘My goodness, dearie,’ wheezed the elderly volunteer. ‘Look at all these sacks! Did someone die?’ she joked.
‘Yes,’ I nodded.
‘Gawd,’ she said, nearly dropping one of the sacks in horror. ‘Me and my big mouth. I’m so sorry. My condolences.’
‘It’s fine,’ I assured. ‘Don’t give it another thought.’
Upon leaving the shop, I felt unexpectedly chipper. Two good deeds in one day. Result.
I decided to celebrate by visiting Susie’s Coffee Shop on the corner of the high street. One of her cappuccinos and a giant blueberry muffin would go down a treat, while watching the world go by.
But when I swung through the café door, I was surprised to see that I wasn’t the only one with such an idea.