Dorothy could not get to sleep for excitement that night. Now
the feud with Laura Finch was over, she could give her full attention to the
free holiday. She lay in bed gazing through the gap in the floral chintz
curtains at the full moon. Minor hated full moons because they lit up all the
secret corners where his juiciest bones were buried. On nights like this one,
he spent anxious hours crawling under his hole in the fence to guard his bone
sites next door, not even allowing himself to be distracted by somebody's
roaming cat, which could reckon with a chase on moonless nights.
Seeing that the light was on in the kitchen, Minor decided
that his bone sites needed no further surveillance and wriggled through his
dog-flap hoping it was breakfast-time.
“Don't bother me, Minor. I'm going to read all about India,” Dorothy
told him, thumbing through the travel section of the Sunday paper. He flopped
down under the kitchen table and went to sleep.
“Why can't I just switch myself on and off like Minor?”
Dorothy mused. At three o'clock in the morning, the Taj Mahal was a far cry
from Upper Grumpsfield. Normally, Dorothy’s holidays were family visits to her
sister Vera’s daughter Victoria and her family. North Wales had a much better
climate than India, she was sure. She wondered if she would be able to stand
the heat. In no time at all, Dorothy was nodding off over her brochure. Memories
of her last trip to Wales crowded in. She wondered if the donkeys still paraded
up and down the sands. What was that funny donkey man’s name again?
It was nearly lunchtime when Dorothy stepped off the train at Frint-on-Sea
Station. She could smell the ocean and hear the seagulls screaming angrily
overhead. She climbed the wooden stairs and crossed over the bridge to the
exit. It was quite strenuous with a large suitcase to drag behind her on its
little wheels, so Dorothy took her time. She couldn’t quite remember the way to
her niece’s house. Fortunately, a police officer was writing car-numbers down
in his little book. In Frint-on-Sea, the parking swaps sides of the road every
other day, and people never seem to get it right. Today there had already been
a bumper haul.
Dorothy went up to the police officer, parked her suitcase on
the pavement and tapped him lightly on the arm.
“Yes, Madam, what is it?” said the officer, startled out of
his calculation of how many parking tickets he would need to secure promotion
to detective status.
“Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all. I’ve been doing this all morning,” he said, not
meaning the trance he seemed to have been in. “It’s always the same cars
anyway. You’d think they’d have learnt not to park this side of the road on
Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays by now. It costs money.”’
“I just want to know if I’m going the right way,” said
Dorothy.
“That depends on where you want to go, Miss.”
“Of course. I want to go to Queen's Avenue. That's where my
relatives live.”
“It's not very far from here, Madam. You just turn right at
the first corner, then keep on walking. You can’t miss it,” said the officer.
The church is on your right . Don’t cross over to that side. Just keep going
till you see the house.”
“It sounds a long way, officer. Perhaps I should take a taxi.”
“Not necessary. I'll walk you there, if you like. These cars
will still be here when I get back.”
“Well, if you’re quite sure.”
“Quite sure. Let me wheel your suitcase.”
The police officer was at least a head taller than Dorothy was
and he took very long strides, so she had to run most of the way to keep up
with him. He didn’t say anything and he didn’t even look round to see if she
was still there. Less than ten minutes later, they were at their destination. Dorothy
thought she would definitely take a taxi next time. The distance between the
station and Victoria’s house seemed to get longer each time she came.
“Here we are, Miss. Are you all right? You look a bit worn
out.”
“I'll be fine, officer, Dorothy panted. “I'm just a bit out of
breath.”
“Well if you’re sure, then I'll bid you good day!” he said, striding
off at a very brisk pace to get back to his car spotting. With a bit of luck
he’d be able to write another dozen or so parking tickets before he went off
duty.
There was no one at home.
“Of course there can’t be. Victoria must be at work and Lucy
is at school.”
Dorothy wrote a message and pushed it through the flap of the letterbox.
Then she hid her suitcase behind the rhododendron bush and set off for the
beach. It was a very hot day. When she finally got to the promenade, the tide
was far out. Elderly holidaymakers were sitting in deckchairs dozing fully
dressed except for shoes and socks. The younger generation wore bathing suits
or less and sunbathed. There weren’t many children about.
Dorothy always caught her fingers in deckchairs, so she bought
an ice-cream cornet instead of hiring one, took off her shoes and knee
stockings and walked along the sands. She loved the feeling of the cold sand on
her feet. Dorothy was just finishing her ice cream when she reached the
donkeys.
“What lovely animals,” she sighed, remembering her childhood.
“Want a ride, mum?”
Dorothy looked at the stout little man who had issued this
startling invitation. He was wearing a Mexican sombrero and poncho. His
moustache was curled up artistically and waxed at the tips. He had red cheeks
and a large nose. The little man was fond of a drink or two after he’d parked
the donkeys on a field for the night.
“Are you talking to me, my man?” Dorothy asked in her
piano-teaching voice.
“Yes, mum, it’s Sombrero Sam in person. How are you then?
Enjoying the sunshine, is it?”
The man didn’t look like a Mexican, despite the sombrero, and
he certainly didn’t sound like one. Don Williams was a Welshman from top to toe,
but that was bad for trade.
“I'm very well, thank you, Mr Sombrero.” She hated being
called 'mum' by this portly Welsh donkey-man, or anyone else, for that matter.
“It’s Don the Donkey Man really, Mum. Sombrero Sam was my dad
and my uncle.”
“I can’t see anyone else,” said Dorothy.
“They have both passed over, Mum,” said Don.
“Oh dear, I am sorry,” said Dorothy.
“So am I,” said Don.
“You aren't doing very much business, are you?”
“Nobody much bothers about donkeys anymore, Mum.” Don removed
his sombrero and shook his head. “It's all computers and iphones these days, isn’t
it? Nobody's got 50 pence left over for the poor old donkeys.”
Don wiped his eyes with the corner of his poncho. Then he
wiped his brow. It was hot on the beach. The poncho was made of wool and very
heavy. Shaking his head and patting the rump of the lead donkey, he remembered
the good old days and wished he’d stuck to bingo, where he could put his talent
for rhyming to better use. But his dad
had made him promise to look after the donkeys when he went and a promise is a
promise.
“Twenty-two on the blue, how I wish that I was you!” or “Thirty-three
is up a tree, bingo makes us rich and free!” he had called out through his
microphone in his bingo days. The crowds had poured into the bingo hall to
listen to the funny rhymes and try their luck. . Bingo halls are dry and warm
even when you aren’t wearing a woolly poncho He didn’t have to look at the sky
and wonder when the clouds would burst and soak him.
Don’s mother had told him that his dad was dead, but that was
not true. He had scarpered. She had never mentioned him again and the only
photo he had was of taken when Don could ride on his dad’s shoulders. One day
he would look for him and ask him why he had deserted his donkeys. Don
understood quite well why his dad had deserted his mum.
Don’s uncle, his mother’s brother, who had run a rival chain
of donkeys and also called himself Sombrero Sam, had fallen off a bus and
suffered fatal injuries, leaving his donkeys bereft of a master. As the only next
of kin left, the donkeys fell to Don. So he had two lots of donkeys to look
after and trade was so bad that he sometimes wondered if he should scarper like
his dad had done.
“50 pence?” said Dorothy, breaking into Don’s reverie. She was
genuinely astonished. “When I was young, you could get a ride for a penny!”
“When we were young, everything was cheaper,” he told her,
twirling one end of his moustache and making a dent in his sombrero before
putting it back on. Italian westerns had left a deep and lasting impression on
him. Since Don was still quite a young man, Dorothy thought that remark
inappropriate.
“Would you like a ride?” he invited, and the donkeys jingled
their bells at the word 'ride'. “The donkeys need a bit of exercise. They get
very bored just waiting around all day.”
And so do I, he muttered to himself. He could just imagine
this starchy old woman bobbing up and down on one of the saddles. And maybe
someone else would see her and want a ride, too.
“No, thank you. I'm much too old for that sort of thing.”
She started to walk away, but Don did not give up that easily.
“Nobody's too old to ride on a donkey,” he shouted.
The donkeys nodded their heads in agreement or perhaps because
he had just said the word ‘ride’ again. Their bells jingled in anticipation.
“They haven't been up and down the beach for at least two
hours,” said Don in a mournful voice.
“Didn’t I see them running up and down just now?” said
Dorothy.
“Keeping them warm,” Don explained.
“They can’t be cold. The sun is shining.”
“It’s the wind, isn’t it?”
Dorothy was not convinced.
“Go on, mum. Be a sport. Which one would you like to ride on?”
“Can I really choose my own donkey?”
“Yes mum and the ride won't cost you a penny, either!”
“Are you quite sure? I only want a very short ride.”
Don did not tell Dorothy that the donkeys always went the same
distance in the same direction and back again. If you let them do as they
pleased, they just kept going back and forth. No. Now wasn’t the time to tell
her that. Those people further down the beach near the turning point of the
ride needed to see the donkeys in action.
Dorothy chose a small donkey with sad eyes and a Christmassy
red garland round its neck. The man hoisted her onto its back, smacked its
flank, and shouted ‘Alli-op!’
Dorothy set off down the beach on her donkey and all the other
donkeys set off as well because they were all tied together. All the donkeys were
wearing bells that jingled merrily to the rhythmic plip-plopping of their
hooves on the moist sand.
At first the donkeys walked, but very soon they got tired of
walking so they started to trot. No sooner had they started trotting than they
got tired of that, too, so they gathered speed. Soon they were galloping full
pelt down the beach parallel to the water.
“Whoa! Whoa! Stop!” Don shouted, not expecting his donkeys to
charge off so fast that he had serious trouble catching up with them.
“Stop! Stop!” Dorothy shouted, hanging on to the reins for
dear life, but nobody heard her above the jingling bells except for the
donkeys, who thought she was exhorting them to go even faster.
The people on the beach watching the donkeys and Dorothy
racing down the sands realized what was happening and set off after them. Very
soon everybody on the beach seemed to be chasing after the donkeys and Dorothy.
When the donkeys finally got to where they usually turned back
again, they stopped so suddenly that Dorothy fell off her sad-eyed donkey in a
most indecorous way, but she was so glad to be off that she didn't mind falling
off. The sand took the brunt of her fall and she picked herself up ruefully.
Everyone applauded.
Don the Donkey Man alias Sombrero Sam finally caught up. He
had abandoned his poncho in the flurry, revealing a brightly coloured tropical
rainforest patterned shirt, short pants, and braces stretched taut over his
generous paunch. His face was as red and round as a tomato and he was snorting
heavily.
“You can have another free ride tomorrow, mum” he offered when
he had enough breath back. He was as pleased as punch that his marketing
strategy was working. “The first three get a free ride back up the beach” he
shouted, hoping against hope that this would distract everyone from reproaching
him for losing control over his donkeys and even motivate people to pay for
another ride. He had to admit that the old girl had done trade a power of good.
The droning of the milkman’s electrically driven float and the
clanking of milk bottles broke into Dorothy’s dream. Sombrero Sam must have
changed his job, she heard herself saying. She groaned as she stretched out of
her cramped position at the kitchen table. Dorothy had a terrible headache. Spending
half the night asleep with her head resting on the newspaper had not been such
a good idea.
Dorothy felt too ill to face breakfast or any of the other
things she normally enjoyed. She swallowed a headache remedy and crept into her
bed. When the telephone rang, she ignored it. The dustmen came on their usual
Monday mission. They always dragged the dustbin up the garden path to the dust
-cart, its trail over every flagstone caused a clatter that was repeated all
the way back again. It was much louder than usual, Dorothy decided and buried
her head under the pillow.
A few minutes later the doorbell started to ring with
threatening persistence. Dorothy heard Minor trying to deal with the intruder
by barking, but whoever it was, he was having no success. Exasperated, Dorothy finally
dragged herself to the door and opened it just wide enough to see who was
there.
“Cross my palm with silver and I'll tell you what the future
has in store for you.”
Dorothy squinted into the bright daylight and looked hard at
the woman standing on her doorstep.
“Whatever it is, I don't want to know.” snapped Dorothy
turning to go back inside the cottage.
“Wait until Gypsy Rose has told you what's in store for you,
Mrs.”
“I know what's in store for me,” retorted Dorothy. “It’s Miss
and if I don't lie down soon, I shall fall down.”
Dorothy’s head was now throbbing as though it were too big for
the skin around it.
“You're in for a big surprise, Mrs.” Said the fortune-teller.
She was nothing if not persistent.
“I’ve had enough surprises to last me a lifetime and I don’t
know any Gypsy Rose, so go away!”
Dorothy slammed the front door. But the woman wasn't giving up
that easily. She bent down and shouted “I’m Gypsy Rose and it's for your own
good,” through the letterbox.
“Go away, do you hear! I've got a terrible headache.”
“I can cure that if you open the door.”
Dorothy hesitated. Anything was better than lying in bed all
day feeling dreadful. She opened the door a fraction and peered through the
crack. Gypsy Rose was dressed in a long, colourful gown with a lacy-fringed
shawl draped round her shoulders. Her long hair was black and glossy. She
certainly looked the part.
“Here you are.” Gypsy Rose offered Dorothy a bottle. “This
ought to do the trick.”
“What's in it?” asked Dorothy with understandable caution. The
bottle looked remarkably like a ketchup bottle.
“The secrets of centuries of healing at your service,” the
gypsy revealed in the chanting tones she reserved for the most important part
of her sales strategy.
“If you mean witchcraft, I won't have anything to do with it,”
Dorothy told her and Gypsy Rose laughed in the same thin voice she normally
talked with.
“I'm not a witch. Well, not the sort of witch you would know.”
“I don't know any witches.”
“You probably do but they don’t own up, Miss. But don't worry.
Nothing terrible is going to happen. We white witches don’t cast spells.”
The woman opened the ketchup bottle and poured a small amount
of putrid-smelling liquid into the palm of her own hand.
“This is how we take it,” she demonstrated, swallowing the little
pool of liquid without even pulling a face.
“Have you got a headache, too?’ Dorothy felt bound to ask.
“No, Miss. This is a secret remedy you take before you get
your headache.”
The lack of logic in that sales ploy was a provocation.
“So you take it prophylactically, do you?”
“I don’t know what that is, Miss.”
“It means beforehand, but I already have a headache so it's
too late for me.”
Dorothy decided it was high time to put an end to the
nonsense.
“It’s never too late,” insisted the gypsy, and despite herself
Dorothy found herself holding out her hand to receive a few drops of the
evil-looking brew, hoping that if she played along with the illusion she might
get back to bed sooner.
“Nature cures aren't really my cup of tea, but if you truly
think....”
The gypsy nodded and Dorothy swallowed the putrid liquid.
“You mark my words, Miss. My potions are famous. My ancestors
have been brewing them for over five hundred years. You'll feel better in no
time at all.”
Dorothy was just about to wipe her sticky palm on her dressing
gown when the gypsy grabbed her hand and examined it minutely. “You think you
are going on a journey to distant parts,” she announced, pointing at one of the
lines on Dorothy's palm that she could apparently see despite the sticky mess.
“It's none of your business where I'm going,” replied Dorothy,
trying unsuccessfully to pull her hand away. The woman scrutinized the hand
even more minutely.
“Oh yes. Gypsy Rose can see it quite plainly. Someone out of
the past has crossed your path quite recently.”
A bony finger traced the path across Dorothy's palm.
“Here she is. She’s that little squiggle just below your index
finger.”
Nobody in his right mind could describe Laura Finch as a
squiggle. Whatever next?
“You're going on a journey with the woman in your hand, Miss,
but I can see clearly from this line here...” she drew in a sharp breath and
pointed to a tiny crack just below Dorothy’s middle finger, “...that it won’t
be a very long journey. You won’t get very far.”
“And that's where you're wrong. It's going to be a tour of the
whole universe.”
But the gypsy was insistent. She had heard about the Duggy
prize from Cleo Hartley, whose future she had predicted as being as rosy and
full of romance with a dark handsome stranger who sometimes wore a uniform but
no not a butcher’s apron in exchange for a jar of peanut butter and a huge
bunch of dahlias. People did strange things if they thought it would bring them
luck. Mrs Barker had given her a whole box of vegetables as a reward for being
promised that she would be a grandmother within a year.
“I'm never wrong, you mark my words.” That was pure
improvisation. Gypsy Rose was not herself aware of having anything approaching
the third eye, but that did not stop her from encouraging people to think
otherwise. The gypsy tradition did the rest. In fact it was good for trade if
you made people think they would be cursed if they ignored a gypsy’s warning.
Dorothy was of sterner stuff than other clients. She hid both
hands behind her back before the fortune-teller had time to peruse any more of
the lines on them. The gypsy switched her weight from one leg to the other and
back again, aware of Dorothy’s scrutiny.
“Your headache is better now, isn't it, Mrs?”
“Come to think of it, so it is.”
“You'd better have a whole bottle of my headache medicine then.”
The woman rummaged in her capacious woven bag for a full
bottle.
“Only three silver coins, dearie. A special offer for my
favourite customers.”
Now she was about to make a sale, the gypsy’s mystique was
replaced by bureaucracy.
“It's all right. You can close the door while you get your
money.”
Dorothy fetched her purse while Minor, whose fur had been
bristling ever since he had set eyes on the strange woman, guarded the front
door zealously.
“Bless you, Dearie,” said Gypsy Rose as she counted the
takings. “May you and your dog live happily ever after!”
Dorothy said they would try. She really did feel much better. “Thank
you for your help. I must go in now.”
“But Mark my words, Miss! That journey of yours is phony. That
journey isn't what you think it is.”
“Don't be silly. I won it in a competition.”
“There's something fishy about it, mark my words.”
“Nonsense!”
“Mark my words! I’m never wrong,” the woman said, shrugged her
shoulders, and set off down the road.
Dorothy went into the kitchen. Gypsy Rose’s parting words were
ringing in her ears. Somehow the idea of a tour round the universe didn't seem
quite as exciting with a gypsy's warning hovering over it. Perhaps I shouldn't
go after all, she was thinking. If the headache medicine worked, maybe her fortune
telling is genuine, too.
Dorothy would never have admitted it, but the gypsy’s prediction
was still reverberating hours after it had been uttered. To reassure herself, Dorothy
decided to telephone Duggy's. After all, you can't just go off on a tour of the
universe at the drop of a hat, and anyway, she had waited long enough for them
to call her.
“Duggy's enterprises. Whacha want?” asked a cheeky voice at
the other end of the telephone.
“Good morning. I'm Miss Dorothy Price.”
“And I'm Miss Dora Buckley, reception. Who d'you wanna speak
to?”
“Is Mr Duggy there?”
“Which one?”
“How many are there?”
“Three. Senior, Junior and Junior-Junior - he’s marketing.”
Dora Buckley was bored. She wanted to get off the phone and back to painting
her fingernails.
“Which Mr Duggy is organizing the competition?”
“Oh, that Mr Duggy,” replied the cheeky voice. “He’s out I
think.“
“Aren’t you sure?”
“Junior's gone to the butcher's for some kidneys,” the girl
informed her voluntarily.
“Kidneys aren't good for you.”
“I'm not eating them, am I? Neither is he. They're for his dogs.”
“Can't he give them Duggy's dog biscuits?”
“You must be joking.”
The girl sniggered unpleasantly. Dorothy was now quite irritated.
She wasn’t getting anywhere.
“Just give me any Mr Duggy,” she commanded.
Dora Buckley launched into her usual telephone patter with
more animation in her voice than there had been up to now.
“You can have Mr Duggy Senior, he's iron rations for wars and
emergencies, dog food and the party service, or Mr Duggy Junior- Junior, he's human hamburgers, cold meats and
marketing....” After a pause she continued. “I told you Junior’s out, so you
can’t have him. He processes human food, but not kidneys, when he has time. And
he shops around for horses.”
“Oh. Does he ride?”
“He doesn’t ride, Mrs, he buys them up to put in our premium
beef dogfood.”
Dorothy wasn't in the mood for any more of the girl's chitchat,
however scandalous it was. She was amazed that Duggy’s also processed food for
humans (for humans or containing humans?) and hoped she had not eaten any of
it. Minor had not eaten any horsemeat, she was sure.
“I want the Mr Duggy who is organizing the competition.”
“Oh, ‘im! Why didn't you say so in the first place? That's Mr
Duggy Senior...I think, unless it’s all of ‘em.”
“I did tell you. Now just think harder and tell me if he's in.”
Dorothy was now extremely irate.
“I am thinking and he is.”
“Then I'd like to talk to him, please,” commanded Dorothy,
using the same acid articulation she used to complain at the baker's when the
bread wasn't fresh enough or the cobbler’s if a heel fell off her shoe..
“Hold the line!” drawled Dora and disappeared into the ether.
An irritating little tune offended Dorothy's ear as she waited for someone to
pick up the phone. A few seconds later a bossy voice shouted “Good morning,
Duggy Senior here” down the line.
“‘This is Miss Dorothy Price. I...”’
“Well, woman, get on with it. I haven't got all day.”
“Neither have I. I'm your prize-winner.”
“Prize-winner? What prize?”
“The Duggy's-dog-biscuit-tour-of-the-universe prize. Surely
you can't have forgotten!”
“What? Not my department, my good woman.”
“But the receptionist said...”
“I don't care what she said. I've had nothing to do with it. Competitions
are marketing. You want Duggy Junior-Junior. I'll send you back to reception.”
With these words, Mr Duggy Senior pressed a button on his
telephone and Dorothy found herself listening to the same snippet of music she
had heard two minutes earlier.
“Duggy's enterprises, whacha want?”
The now familiar voice
of Dora Buckley accosted Dorothy’s ears again.
“You put me through to the wrong Mr Duggy, young woman,” Dorothy
complained.
“Did I?” retorted Dora indifferently. She often did that just
to get rid of whoever was phoning. It was usually someone wanting to complain.
Dora did not deal with complaints. In fact, no one did.
“Is Mr Duggy Junior-Junior back from the butcher's yet?”
“Have you been spying on us?”
“This is Miss Dorothy Price again. Is he there? You told me
he’d gone to the butcher’s.”
“Oh, it's you. No, that was Mr Duggy Junior. Hold your horses.
I'll put you through. Hang on!”
The music had hardly any time to plink-plonk before Dorothy
heard a new voice.
“Duggy Junior-Junior marketing,” it announced rather
breathlessly, and Dorothy explained who she was all over again.
“So you’re Dorothy, are you?” said the voice.
“I just want to know when we leave for the tour of-the-universe
prize.”
“What are you talking about? There must be some mistake, young
woman.”
“I’m not young and there’s no mistake, I have the letter to
prove it.”
“Damn and blast.”
“Don’t swear at me!”
“Well you’d swear if you had a secretary like Miss Buckley. She
usually gets things wrong.”
Dorothy was inclined to agree.
“For instance, she never gets the post right,” he continued,
and Dorothy wondered if there was anything Dora Buckley could do.
“But she did post the letters with the prize-winners. I got
mine and the postman told me he had delivered Laura Finch’s letter, too.”
“She did?”
“And what’s more, I have talked to the other prize-winner.”
“You have, have you?”
Dorothy heard papers rustling, some swearing down a different
phone line and then a massive throat-clearing exercise.
“Still there, are you?”
“Yes, of course. Well?”
“My dear Dorothy,” a much subdued Mr Duggy Junior-Junior
started. “You’re quite right. Give me your phone number and I’ll phone you back
about the arrangements.”
“Is that a promise, Mr Duggy?”
“Of course, dear lady. Duggy’s Dog Biscuits always keep their
promises.”
Dorothy would have to wait. To her surprise, less than an hour
later Mr Duggy informed her that the trip would be the following Monday.
“We'll pick you up in the company limousine and take you to
the bus station on Monday morning.”
Mr Duggy Marketing was just about to ring off when Dorothy
protested.
“Wait a minute. That’s very short notice. I don't see how I
can get everything ready in time. I'll need a lot of things for a world tour.”
“Just hold on a minute, will you?” Duggy Junior-Junior Marketing
told her. He had to find out exactly what Dora Buckley had been up to, but Dorothy
wasn’t to know that.
It didn’t take long for Mr Duggy to discover the dimensions of
the prize Dora had awarded on Duggy’s behalf. Dora was definitely for the high
jump.
“Still there, are you, Dorothy?”
“Of course. You do understand don’t you? If I'm going on the
tour of the universe I need to know all the details.”
“Ah yes, indeed. Just leave it to Duggy's,” the man
improvised.
The gypsy’s warning was pushing itself into Dorothy’s consciousness.
But before she could ask any salient questions about what to pack, Mr Duggy was
snorting down the phone “Good-bye. See you on Monday!”
and slammed the phone down. In no time at all he was draining
the flask of whisky he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. That had been a
narrow scrape. He had all but spilt the beans. Good job the silly woman was
more concerned about what she had to take with her than anything else. He would
give Dora her notice if his brothers agreed, but first she must go to the
off-licence and procure a new bottle of his stand-by whisky.
At both ends of the line there was a good deal of organizing
to be done, Dorothy, because she was going on a tour of the universe the following
week, and Duggy Junior-Junior because he had no idea how he was going to
appease the two ladies without actually sending them anywhere. To make matters
worse, he had now set himself an entirely superfluous deadline for awarding an
entirely superfluous prize that had not been meant to be won by anyone. They’d
always managed to get away with consolation prizes up to now. Dora Buckley was
quite used to stepping in as winner for a small consideration.
She’ll have to go, Mr Duggy decided after drinking a glass of
the sherry normally reserved for visitors. It’s one thing to try to raise your
job status with erotic interludes with one of the Duggy brothers - another of
Dora’s ploys aimed at promotion or, better still, marriage - and quite another to
let the company down by indulging in cheap revenge when you don’t get promotion
or marriage. Dora was definitely past her sell-by date.
