The Knapthorne Conspiracy Malcolm Ballard (most popular novels of all time .txt) 📖

a car parked beside hers and was busy locking the door. Two cars drove past, not at excessive speed, in the direction of Spinney Lane, then a lorry appeared coming towards her from the other direction. Picturing in her mind’s eye, the chaos at the Shepherd’s Bush roundabout, at this time of the morning, she conceded that the old girl in the Post Office might have a point.

“Mornin’ miss.” The stout old gentleman who had just locked his car, greeted her as they passed, even raising his hat.

“Good morning!” she replied, merrily. “It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?”

“’Tis that an’all!” he answered, over his shoulder, disappearing into the gloom of the shop.

“’Tis that an’all!” Bella repeated, as she got into her car.

The general store was a little further down the road, she had discovered, in a block of four similar-sized shops which between them seemed to cater for the basic needs of the village. It wasn’t that far away that she couldn’t have walked, but old habits were hard to shake off. In London, you didn’t walk anywhere. Only two cars were parked in front of the parade of shops so she slipped the Alfa into the space next to the nearest one.

“Now, what do I need? Milk, for sure. Fruit. Breakfast cereal and tissues.” She looked thoughtful. “There was something else, what was it?” Why hadn’t she made a list? Too much on her mind, obviously. She got out of the car and locked it, as she tried to remember what else it was she wanted but without success. On entering the store, Bella was delighted to discover that, as well as the usual groceries and provisions one might expect to find, the shop also featured a small delicatessen. There appeared to be an accent on Greek fare, with taramasalata, hummus, pita bread, feta cheese and olives that she could recognise, plus some other dips that she couldn’t. In addition there were a range of meats, salami and sausages together with a number of salads. The only people in the shop, two middle-aged women, were at the counter in animated conversation with the man serving them who, at first glance, did not appear to be a local. Possibly in his late forties or early fifties, he had that swarthy look of someone from the Arabic countries or, maybe, the Mediterranean. Like he hadn’t shaved for a day or two. There was a constant smile on his big, round face and his dark eyes sparkled as he spoke with his customers. The impression was of a man who enjoyed life, enjoyed women. Dressed for his part behind the counter, he wore a blue apron with thin, horizontal stripes, over a long-sleeved shirt and sported a straw boater, at a jaunty angle, on his head. A more unlikely character to have found in the middle of Knapthorne, she could not imagine.

“Good morning.” The woman’s voice, which made her jump, came from behind her and Bella turned to see who it was. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright! Is there anything I can help you with?” It was said, with a smile, by a woman about the same height as Bella but around fifteen or twenty years older. Her grey hair was permed and taken back off her longish face, which was given depth by the fact she didn’t appear to have a chin. With her small, glassy eyes and tight mouth it gave her a slightly odd, cyprinoid, look which Bella found vaguely comical.

“I was just admiring the delicatessen,” Bella explained. “Not what you’d expect to find in these parts.” She received a condescending smile from the chinless woman.

“Really? My husband’s Greek. We had an importing business in London, before moving down here about five years ago.” Ah, a possible kindred spirit, Bella thought. “The boys run the business up there, now, and we supply restaurants and shops in quite a wide area around here.”

“And how do you find life in Knapthorne? A little slow after London?” Did the woman bridle at the comment, or was it her imagination, Bella wondered.

“I’m from Knapthorne, originally,” the woman answered, reverting to her native accent and drawing out the first syllable. We ‘ad some pretty classy customers in London, so I saw fit to drop the accent. Are you just passing through?” The question was posed in her adopted voice.

“No.” She held out her hand. “My name’s Bella Foxton, I’ve recently moved into…”

“Willow Cottage, yes.” She completed the sentence before Bella could finish, shaking her hand, briefly as she did so. “We’ve heard all about you. I’m Maureen Aristides and that’s my husband, Paul.” Her arrival was common knowledge then but it was hardly surprising given the fact it was a tightly-knit community. “Everything alright up at the cottage?” The question seemed innocent enough and Bella was heartened by Mrs. Aristides’ interest in her welfare.

“Yes, it’s wonderful. I’m loving every minute of it!”

“That’s good, then. I’ll leave you to it, I’ve lots to do this morning. If you can’t find anything, ask Paul.” In no time at all Bella had located the things she was looking for but couldn’t bring to mind what it was she’d forgotten. Paul Aristides was still talking to the two women at the delicatessen but broke off and came over to the counter immediately he saw her approaching.

“Hello!” The word came out as a deep, gravelly sound, the first consonant pronounced as if he were trying to clear his throat. It was very sexy, and he was a handsome man for his age. He would have been quite something with the girls when he was younger, she guessed, especially with those eyes. Mrs. Aristides didn’t seem his type though.

“You find everything you want?” His accent took her back to holidays in Greece, redolent of souvlaki and metaxa.

“Do you have any calimari?” she asked, suddenly prompted by her memories.

“Yes, we do. Would you like some?”

“Please!” Bella’s taste buds were drooling now. “And some taramosalata, a