morning. She went into the sitting-room to enjoy her drink and wait for the house to warm up.
It didn't. After half an hour it was colder rather than hotter. She felt the largest radiator in the sitting-room. No heat at all.
She checked those in the hall. They were the same.
She opened the fusebox in the kitchen. But all the fuses were intact.
She looked again in the cupboard under the stairs. Still no indicator lights. More ominously, there was not even the softest hum from the boiler.
She paused for a moment in the hall. This was a nuisance. Of course she could ring up an emergency repair service. Or she could wait till the morning and summon someone less expensive to check the system out.
But, like anyone else in a new house, her first instinct was that she was at fault. She was unfamiliar with the controls and must have switched something off by mistake. If she did call a repair man, he would most probably walk straight in and, after the patronising flick of a single switch, overcharge grossly for her embarrassment and discomfiture.
It was probably something very simple. But, as the evening got chillier, Mrs Pargeter wanted it sorted out. She hadn't paid all that money for a house to sit and freeze in it.
Of course the simplest thing would be to ring the former owner. Mrs Pargeter didn't really want to do that on her first day of residence, but, on the other hand, Theresa Cotton had seemed an extremely amiable – if anonymous – young woman who, if it were a simple matter of one switch, would be only too ready to help out.
Mrs Pargeter looked through her diary for the Cottons' new address. The husband, Rod, she recalled, had got some promotion which involved being based up North for a few years. Near York. Yes, that was right. Mrs Pargeter found the address.
But there wasn't a phone number. Of course, she remembered now. Theresa Cotton had said the phone was only being connected the day they moved, and they hadn't yet been given the number.
Still, they'd been there nearly two days now. Mrs Pargeter rang Directory Enquiries.
'What town, please?'
'It's near York. Place called Dunnington.'
'And what name?'
'Cotton. The address is "Elm Trees, Bascombe Lane".'
There was a silence from the other end of the phone.
' "Cotton" you said?'
'Yes.'
'No. Sorry, no one of that name at the address you mention.'
'They only moved in yesterday, and had the phone connected then.'
'Just a minute. I'll check.' Another silence. 'No, no record of a new number for anyone by the name of Cotton. Sorry.'
'Are you sure there isn't anywhere else you could check?'
'Certain, Madam. Maybe you were given the wrong address . . . ?'
'Hmm. Maybe. Thank you, anyway.'
After she had put the phone down, Mrs Pargeter looked thoughtful. She still looked thoughtful as she went through into the kitchen and started preparing her steak.
Must be Directory Enquiries' mistake – the service had gone downhill so much since privatisation, she decided, as she reconciled herself to a cold night. The paperwork on the Cottons' new number couldn't have got through. Or maybe there had been a delay on connecting the phone.
Yes, something like that.
It was odd, though . . .
CHAPTER 4
The next morning Mrs Pargeter made no further attempt to contact Theresa Cotton. Instead, she risked the scorn of a gas repairman and was rewarded – or at least vindicated – by the discovery that there was something genuinely wrong with the central heating boiler.
The gas repairman, obedient to the long tradition of his calling, had not got the relevant replacement part with him, but managed, in direct contradiction to the long tradition of his calling, to locate and fit it within twenty-four hours.
So Mrs Pargeter, with warmth now restored to her new home, thought no more about her failure to contact its former owner.
At eleven o'clock on the Friday morning there was more concerted movement in Smithy's Loam than Mrs Pargeter had seen since her arrival.
Up until
It didn't. After half an hour it was colder rather than hotter. She felt the largest radiator in the sitting-room. No heat at all.
She checked those in the hall. They were the same.
She opened the fusebox in the kitchen. But all the fuses were intact.
She looked again in the cupboard under the stairs. Still no indicator lights. More ominously, there was not even the softest hum from the boiler.
She paused for a moment in the hall. This was a nuisance. Of course she could ring up an emergency repair service. Or she could wait till the morning and summon someone less expensive to check the system out.
But, like anyone else in a new house, her first instinct was that she was at fault. She was unfamiliar with the controls and must have switched something off by mistake. If she did call a repair man, he would most probably walk straight in and, after the patronising flick of a single switch, overcharge grossly for her embarrassment and discomfiture.
It was probably something very simple. But, as the evening got chillier, Mrs Pargeter wanted it sorted out. She hadn't paid all that money for a house to sit and freeze in it.
Of course the simplest thing would be to ring the former owner. Mrs Pargeter didn't really want to do that on her first day of residence, but, on the other hand, Theresa Cotton had seemed an extremely amiable – if anonymous – young woman who, if it were a simple matter of one switch, would be only too ready to help out.
Mrs Pargeter looked through her diary for the Cottons' new address. The husband, Rod, she recalled, had got some promotion which involved being based up North for a few years. Near York. Yes, that was right. Mrs Pargeter found the address.
But there wasn't a phone number. Of course, she remembered now. Theresa Cotton had said the phone was only being connected the day they moved, and they hadn't yet been given the number.
Still, they'd been there nearly two days now. Mrs Pargeter rang Directory Enquiries.
'What town, please?'
'It's near York. Place called Dunnington.'
'And what name?'
'Cotton. The address is "Elm Trees, Bascombe Lane".'
There was a silence from the other end of the phone.
' "Cotton" you said?'
'Yes.'
'No. Sorry, no one of that name at the address you mention.'
'They only moved in yesterday, and had the phone connected then.'
'Just a minute. I'll check.' Another silence. 'No, no record of a new number for anyone by the name of Cotton. Sorry.'
'Are you sure there isn't anywhere else you could check?'
'Certain, Madam. Maybe you were given the wrong address . . . ?'
'Hmm. Maybe. Thank you, anyway.'
After she had put the phone down, Mrs Pargeter looked thoughtful. She still looked thoughtful as she went through into the kitchen and started preparing her steak.
Must be Directory Enquiries' mistake – the service had gone downhill so much since privatisation, she decided, as she reconciled herself to a cold night. The paperwork on the Cottons' new number couldn't have got through. Or maybe there had been a delay on connecting the phone.
Yes, something like that.
It was odd, though . . .
CHAPTER 4
The next morning Mrs Pargeter made no further attempt to contact Theresa Cotton. Instead, she risked the scorn of a gas repairman and was rewarded – or at least vindicated – by the discovery that there was something genuinely wrong with the central heating boiler.
The gas repairman, obedient to the long tradition of his calling, had not got the relevant replacement part with him, but managed, in direct contradiction to the long tradition of his calling, to locate and fit it within twenty-four hours.
So Mrs Pargeter, with warmth now restored to her new home, thought no more about her failure to contact its former owner.
At eleven o'clock on the Friday morning there was more concerted movement in Smithy's Loam than Mrs Pargeter had seen since her arrival.
Up until
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