12. A PAIR OF SHORTS

Christie’s Detective Agency part 12

“Now this,” smiled Horace, “is a lovely cup of coffee. That’s what my mum would call it: a lovely cup of coffee.”

“It’s always quite nice here, and so reasonably priced,” Jenny told him. “On my way out I usually take a peek on the clothing rails to see if there’s something I fancy. It’s amazing what people donate, some of it as close to being brand spanking new that you can’t tell the difference. Wait until you see that one pair of shorts you can’t live without!”

Horace became Captain and sipped his drink before changing the subject by saying, “that tin was a disappointment though. I rwally did believe that it would be filled with thick and nasty grease.”

“We still wouldn’t know the who even if it confirmed the how,” Jenny pointed out.

“That’s true, but I would think that it’s a step towards finding out,” he murmured.

“Talking about tins,” whispered Jenny, “I see one being propelled through the door by a clergyman!”

“Oh no,” groaned Captain.

The Reverend Pyke was looking at the row of ladies swimwear as though he intended to buy a bikini, but in reality he was slyly checking out the customers using the cafe corner.

“He’s noticed us,” whispered Jenny.

“Let him. He can hardly give us a ticking off for being here,” breathed Captain.

The Reverend Pyke made his way past rails of second hand clothing and up to the counter where two ladies, probably volunteers, scowled at him.

“I’m doing my rounds, ladies,” he said, “it seems the church has lost the promise of a sizeable donation, the poor fellow who was going to benefit us has passed away, and we need to top up the roof fund from small donations. So do you mind if I ask your customers if they’re willing to help?”

“This is an Islamic shop,” one of the two ladies told him, “as if you didn’t know! You can ask, but there’s no guarantee you’ll succeed.”

“Thank you,” muttered the vicar, sounding far from grateful, and he went up to a table where two elderly ladies were making a cup of coffee each last for as long as they could.

“No need to ask us,” one of them snapped at him, “there was nowt coming from you when my bairn passed away and I was deep in grief.”

“I’m sorry…” he stammered, “but the Lord is there for our spirits and not our stomachs.”

“Anyway, the church has got more than enough cash to pay for your wretched roof, so I don’t know why you have to go about begging like you do,” added her companion.

Seeing that he was unlikely to swell his funds from those two he reluctantly moved towards Jenny and the Captain, the only others in the small cafe.

“Hello again!” he smiled, as if their last meeting had been hearty and joyous.

“That lady made a good point,” said Horace, “I thought the church was as rich as Croesus, so why can’t it afford to keep up its buildings? Can’t you sell of a few trinkets? I mean, why do you need so many images of a man suffering on a cross when one would do?”

The Reverend Pyke looked at him reproachfully. “Now then, young Sorsse,” he said, “you know better than that! I hope you’re not falling under any unsociable influences.” He cast a brief glance at Jenny as he said that.

This provoked the young Horace to reply almost angrily. “I’m not at Sunday School now,” he said, “and when my home needed a repair to its roof my folks had to pay for it themselves. And they’re not rich, you know: far from it. So we can’t afford to pay for the church roof as well as our own!”

“Not very Christian now are you, young fellow!” Pyke almost snarled, and he made his way through the rails of second hand clothing and out of the shop faster than he had when he ambled in.

“Well said young man!” laughed one of the elderly ladies at the other table.

“You can come again,” added one of the serving ladies with a chuckle.

“Anyone would think the only thing the world needs is a church with a roof that doesn’t leak when there are kiddies starving,” added the other. “It’s a matter of the rich need money for the fun of having piles of it, so they take it and the poor are those they take it from. And the church is no better than a billionaire when it comes down to it.”

Jenny finished her coffee. “I’ll just take a peek at the rails while you finish your drink,” she said to Captain Horace quietly.

Horace watched her as she went towards a rail of skirts and picked one out. From a small distance it looked almost new, and was both short and smartly pleated. He even liked the pale shade of blue dotted with colourful flowers round the hem.

“What do you think, Cap?” she called, holding it against herself.

Horace knew instantly that she would buy it. It was in the same category as the skirt she’d worn last night. A different style, yes and a different colour, certainly, but he could tell that it suited her.

“Now for men’s shorts,” she grinned at him, and crossed the floor to wear a sign announced men’s clothing. There was a lot less than on the female rails, but in a few moments she found a pair of shorts, picked it out and called to him.

“Hey, gorgeous, there’s a changing room over there. Try these on, will you?”

“Er…” he stammered.

One of the elderly ladies cackled “the lad’s shy! Poor love!”

“Er…” he said again.

Jenny returned to the table where he was sitting, took him by one elbow and led him to a small changing room.

“There,” she said, “in here where nobody will see you. Just be an angel and try them on. I absolutely know they’ll suit you, and it might be useful for you to have something different to change into when you’re under cover!”

Horace hadn’t thought of that, so reluctantly and frowning slightly he edged into the changing room and removed his trousers. The shorts, when he had pulled them up, happened to be a perfect fit, probably testament to Jenny’s judgement, and even he thought he looked reasonable in them, nothing like the schoolboy PE failure he remembered that he’d been.

“Show yourself!” called Jenny when she sensed he might be about to change back into his own clothes.

Very reluctantly he stepped out of the changing room and stood outside it feeling like a spare part.

“Don’t he look gorgeous?” one of the elderly ladies exclaimed, “ought to be on the stage, he ought, looking like that!”

He couldn’t help wondering, you’d put me on the stage, but what as?

“A romantic lead in a sexy drama!” cooed the other elderly lady, answering his unspoken question, and then laughing at her own witticism.

“Take them off, and you must have them,” instructed Jenny, “bring them here. They’ll be my gift to you for working so hard.”

He was about to protest that he hadn’t done anything, but the four eyes of the ladies at the other table seemed to devour him, and he slipped back into the little changing room, replaced his trousers and handed the shorts to Jenny.

“You look gorgeous in these,” she told him as she paid.

And, to his everlasting shame, he rather thought she might be right as memories of school PE vanished to where they really belonged, the past, and he considered himself walking the Earth today in the sunlight with warm air teasing his legs.

“I’ve never looked gorgeous in all my life,” he grumbled, then grinned.

© Peter Rogerson 22.09.21

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