‘Morning Mrs G.’ Sammy pocketed his key, closed the door behind him, and put the kettle on in the kitchen. He shouted louder. ‘Morning Mrs G.’ Hearing no response, he went through to the sitting room. ‘Ah, there you are!’
Mrs G. – Muriel to her friends – sat in her armchair, white hair tied into a bun, head bent down as she fiddled with something in her lap.
‘Hello, Mrs G.’
She jumped, hand to heart, sending whatever she’d been holding scudding across the carpet. ‘Oh my… You gave me such a start.’
‘Sorry. I did knock. And shouted.’
‘What’s that, dear? My hearing aid’s gone flying. I’m trying to replace the batteries.’
‘Here, let me.’ Sam knelt down, retrieved the pieces, inserted the tiny batteries, and handed them back.
Mrs G. grimaced as she plugged them into her ears. ‘You’re a good lad, Sammy boy. Now how about a nice cup of tea?’
Waiting for the kettle to boil, he noticed a lottery ticket pinned to the noticeboard beside the back door, between a postcard from Skegness and another from Perth.
He studied the ticket. Only that morning, there’d been talk on the local radio about an unclaimed £3 million. Some lucky bugger from the village had come up trumps, but the ticket would only be valid for another three weeks.
He placed teacup, saucer, and milk on the tray, and took it through. ‘I’ll wash and dry your breakfast things, and put the crocks out ready for your lunch. Is there anything else you’d like done?’
‘They don’t give you much time, do they? Mean sods! It’d be nice to have a chat over a cuppa.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll do the washing up extra quick, then tell you another of my jokes.’ He flashed a mischievous smile. ‘Or maybe you could put one of those Glen Miller numbers on that gramophone of yours, and we’ll have a dance?’
Mrs G. chuckled. ‘Get off with you, you daft thing.’
In the kitchen, he noted the date on the ticket, took a pen from his breast pocket and scribbled the numbers on his wrist. Leaving the rinsed breakfast things on the drainer, he took another cup and joined Mrs G.
‘Not too pressed for time today, then?’ she asked as he poured.
‘Can’t abandon my favourite girl just yet, can I?’ He didn’t tell her his 10:30 slot had been cancelled. The day before, he’d arrived at Mr Kelsall’s to find him stone dead, face down in his cold porridge. ‘Besides,’ he said, leaning into Mrs G.’s hearing aid, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘You’ve not heard the one about the actress and the bishop yet.’
Mrs G.’s lips formed a perfect ‘O’. She clasped her hands. ‘Oh, Sammy, do tell!’
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