The Yorkshire Pudding Club Read Free

grade unless it was by email, even when sitting two metres away as Elizabeth did. There were bagfuls of evidence to substantiate the theory that Julia was threatened by other women, who were creatures to be ignored, or destroyed. Men, however, were a different kettle of fish. Then she would start flirting and sticking out her chest and batting her eyelashes in the general direction of the flirtee–the numberof bats being directly proportionate to the quality of his suit.
    Sometimes, to be controversial, Elizabeth would open a mail and shout across the reply to Julia as it really seemed to annoy her, but this past week or so she was just too tired to play the dissident. Was this the onset of old age, she wondered. Was she about to start dribbling and nodding off after a morning Rich Tea biscuit and exchanging her cappuccinos for a nice cup of cocoa? She was only eighteen months off being forty, after all.
     
    Laurence’s first visitors arrived early and hung about the entrance foyer in nervous anticipation. They were the ladies from the Blackberry Moor council-house estate and he kept them waiting an extra quarter of an hour for no other reason, it seemed, than because he could. A gum-chewing photographer from the Yorkshire Post announced himself at Reception and Elizabeth collected them all and escorted them up. Jolly poses ensued, in Laurence’s open-plan meeting area, with the great man himself, who did not manage to fully lose that uncomfortable look on his face which seemed to say, Ooh, I’ve touched a council-house person! Which way is the de-louser? Then the photographer departed with his PR snaps and the three women perched awkwardly on the ends of the big squashy seats, blushing and stuttering like 1970s teenagers who had just been granted an audience with Donny Osmond. Elizabeth could never understand the effect Laurence had on such visitors. Half the time sheexpected to have to go and find a mop to clean up excited puppy-like puddles at their feet, but on that occasion, so far so good.
    She scribbled some notes down as Julia and Laurence both held their heads at the same angle of sympathetic tilt as they listened to babble about how grateful the Blackberry Moor estate was for the support of Handi-Save. Julia flicked through the folders the ladies had brought full of Before and After pictures of dreary communal dog-toilet areas, which had been converted impressively into playgrounds and thoughtful squares of garden thanks to donations and fundraising. Laurence sat, fingers templed in front of him, head nodding in all the right spots, his one long eyebrow managing to both crease in all the appropriate places and hood a pair of eyes that showed a mixture of boredom and disgust.
    ‘So hif you could…er…just continue to let hus have that turkey or something at Christmas for hour raffle,’ said the lady with the crocheted hat, trying desperately to stuff a few posh aitches in.
    ‘The money mainly goes for the kids’ benefit,’ butted in another as if it were in some dispute.
    ‘We don’t want much, just a few bits a couple of times a year, to raffle hoff like.’
    ‘We’re just starting to get some community spirit going, you see.’
    The great Laurence Stewart-Smith nodded regally, and as if his head was attached to his assistant’s by an invisible puppet-string, it set Julia’s off as well. Neither would have looked out of place on the back parcel shelf of Elizabeth’s old Vauxhall.
    ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we could fix you up with a little more than that.’ He scribbled something with an important flourish on a piece of paper and handed it to Julia. The ladies’ eyes followed the handover of the note with great anticipation. They could not have been more thrilled if he had just written down the secret of eternal life.
    ‘That would be just marvellous,’ said the one who had the pencilled-on eyebrows, and her face lit up so much they were in danger of melting.
    ‘Good,