Basil: update on the War on Squirrels

Any crime?

Biscuits, tea

AOB

Basil does the teas, which means they’re all atrociously weak and half of us still have teabags floating in our mugs because he’s too short-sighted to notice which ones he’s not fished out. Betsy has brought a very good range of biscuits, though. I munch my way through a ginger snap while Piotr talks earnestly about ‘those of us who park our mobility scooters across two car parking spaces’ (he means Roland) and ‘consequences for other patients’ (he means Basil, who always complains about it).

I think of the list on my dining-room table and idly try to imagine making love to Dr Piotr, which results in a piece of ginger snap going the wrong way and the Neighbourhood Watch meeting briefly descending into panic as everyone thwacks me on the back. Betsy is just preparing to do the Heimlich manoeuvre when I get my voice back and inform them that I’m quite all right. And that, should a time arise when I am actually choking, I’d prefer it if Piotr was the one doing the manoeuvres. We exchange an amused glance over Betsy’s head as I say it. With a flicker of hope I wonder whether the look might even be a little flirtatious, though it’s been a while and I’m not exactly sure how you’re supposed to tell.

Betsy gets predictably miffed at my comment, but is soon distracted by the discussion of whether culottes are fashionable. This one arose because last week Kathleen told Betsy they were all the rage, and Betsy bought six pairs off of the shopping channel. (Kathleen, at thirty-five, brings down the average age of the Neighbourhood Watch considerably. With three children under six she’s so desperate to get out of the house she’s signed up for every village activity going.) Betsy has had a crisis of confidence about her new purchases and needs a poll to be conducted. This is her favourite way of ensuring nobody can judge her for doing something – if it’s decided democratically, it’s everybody’s fault.

The Neighbourhood Watch rules that culottes are indeed back in, though I believe Basil thinks they’re some sort of French vegetable, and he was the deciding vote.

After round two of biscuits I make my case regarding Jack Nicholson films, but am overruled: Penelope is a surprisingly ardent fan. Next Basil blathers on about squirrels for a while, which is always a good part of the meeting in which to catch some shut-eye if you need it, and then it’s time for more biscuits and the most important point on the agenda: ‘any crime’. Otherwise known as ‘new gossip’.

‘Eileen, Betsy says you’ve sold your car?’ Penelope says, blinking owlishly at me across the circle. Penelope is built like a tiny little bird; she looks so frail I’m always nervous she’ll snap something, but really she’s made of pretty strong stuff. I saw her shoot a cat with a water pistol the other day when it was after her bluetits’ nest – she got it right in the eye.

‘I think it’s very wise of you to call it a day on the driving, Eileen,’ Betsy says.

‘I’m still driving,’ I say, sitting up straighter. ‘I’m just sharing Marian’s car.’

‘Oh, you are still driving?’ Betsy says. ‘Gosh. Aren’t you brave, after that mishap on Sniddle Road!’

Betsy is a kind soul, and a very dear friend, but she is also excellent at saying rude things in a tone of voice that means you can’t object to them. As for my ‘mishap’ on Sniddle Road, it’s hardly worth mentioning. I’ll admit it wasn’t my best attempt at parking, but who would’ve thought that man’s four-by-four would dent so easily? The thing looked like a ruddy tank.

‘Given up on your latest project, then, have you?’ Basil asks, rubbing biscuit crumbs out of his moustache. ‘Weren’t you ferrying lost dogs around in that car?’

‘I was helping the kind folks at the Daredale dog rescue centre,’ I say, with dignity. ‘But they have their own transportation, now.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be on to something else soon enough!’ Basil says with a chuckle.

I narrow my eyes.

‘Have you given up on getting us a sponsor for May Day yet?’ he goes on. ‘No big businesses willing to lend their name to a little village fete?’

I grit my teeth. As it happens, I have struggled to find a sponsor for the May Day festival. I’d hoped we could use any funds raised for the cancer charity that did so much for Carla, rather than for covering the costs, as we usually do. But these days it’s hard to even get somebody to speak to you at the big companies in Leeds, and the local businesses I tried are all tightening their belts and don’t have any money to spare.

‘Funny that!’ Basil chortles.

‘I shan’t apologise for wanting to make a difference in this world, Basil,’ I say icily.

‘Quite right, quite right,’ Basil says. ‘And it’s very brave of you to keep at it against the odds, I say.’

Conversation shifts, mercifully; Penelope turns to Piotr, discussing Roland’s latest ailment, and I take the opportunity to snatch a word with Betsy.

‘Have you spoken to your daughter again, love?’ I ask her in a low voice. ‘About visiting?’

Betsy purses her lips. ‘I tried,’ she says. ‘No luck.’

It’s Betsy’s husband who’s the issue. Her daughter won’t be in a room with him any more. I understand – Cliff’s a nasty piece of work, and I don’t know how Betsy’s borne it over all these years. Even Wade couldn’t stand the man. But cutting Betsy off from her family is surely only going to make everything worse. Still, it’s not my place to interfere; I give her hand a squeeze.

‘She’ll come when she’s ready,’ I say.

‘Well, she better not leave it too long,’ Betsy says. ‘I am eighty!’

I smile at that. Betsy’s eighty-five. Even when she’s trying to make the point that she is old, she can’t help lying about her age.

‘… Knargill buses are down to one a day,’ Basil’s saying to Roland on the other side of me. ‘Can’t help thinking that’s part of the problem.’

Basil’s favourite things to complain about are, in this order: squirrels, transport links, weather conditions, and the state of the nation. You shouldn’t get him started on any of these topics, but it is particularly worth avoiding the last one, as it becomes very hard to like Basil once he starts talking about immigration.

‘And there she was,’ Basil’s saying, ‘drowned in her leek and potato soup! Ghoulish sight, I expect. Poor young lady who found her had just come round to see if she wanted new double glazing, found the door unlocked, and there she was – dead a week and nobody knew it!’

‘What’s this, Basil?’ I ask. ‘Are you telling horror stories again?’

‘Lady over in Knargill,’ Basil says, sipping his tea complacently. ‘Drowned in her bowl of soup.’

‘That’s awful!’ says Betsy.

‘Were there flies and maggots by the time they found her?’ asks Penelope, with interest.

‘Penelope!’ everybody choruses, then we all immediately turn to Basil for the answer.

‘Likely,’ he says, nodding sagely. ‘Very likely. Poor lady was only seventy-nine. Husband died the year before. Didn’t have a soul in the world to care for her. The neighbours said she’d go months without speaking to anyone but the birds.’