Part Ten – Pamela’s Place

Another week, another set of instalments! Here is part ten of my series called ‘Stookey Hill’. If you missed anything, go back here!

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If you’re following along, we get a look at Pamela today – and a look at what she gets a look at too!

Part Ten – Pamela’s Place

Pamela never rose in the mornings with any intention of causing trouble. In fact, it came as a regular surprise to her that this was, in fact, what she did. She caused trouble. She had been told enough times in one way or another.

Pamela, stop stirring!

Pamela, mind your own business!

See what you did now, Pamela, by saying/doing/being* that? (*delete as applicable as relevant to the problem du jour).

In truth, she wasn’t particularly earnest in searching for a quiet life. And this was usually evidenced by the considerable stealth with which she managed to go from shop to shop up and down Stookey Hill, listening in to all and any and every conversation she could.

Of course, there were some wise ones now. Some folk clammed up the moment they clocked her. They did that with varying degrees of obviousness. A nudge here, or a wink. Or an audible ‘shush’ or ‘watch it’. Other just shuffled right off, looking over their shoulders as they went.

Pamela didn’t care. She would smile to herself knowingly, pleased she had got them rattled.

Except she did care. She would smile to herself, and it was knowingly – she knew fine well people were avoiding her – but she wasn’t pleased at all. It was a mask.

Pamela left the florist aggrieved. She knew she had no real right to be put out. But then, she didn’t really like that Elena Clayton. The woman behaved as though she was superior to them all – but they all knew that she was only renting a shop space on Stookey Hill because she couldn’t afford to in town. So there she was with her highfaluting, pretentious flower displays with all their raffia ribbons and hessian wrappings.

As she stepped into the street, Pamela looked down into her bag. It was a large, striped bag-for-life from one of the big supermarkets. She liked it because it had a strip of Velcro across the top and she could close it. It concealed what she had in there. Which was invariably important because what was in there was usually pilfered.

There, laying across the bottom of the bag were three calla lilies. They were her favourites. She had managed to get them in easily enough, but was concerned that their precious petals might get broken, so she hurried down the alley between the florist and the pizza takeaway to her front floor.

Pamela lived upstairs in a flat above the unimaginably titled ‘Pizza Place’. Her front room mostly smelled of cheese and pepperoni, but she didn’t mind that too much. There was also considerable rising warmth from the two industrial pizza ovens they had downstairs and on a good summer’s day, Pamela was roasting. She would complain loudly about people eating pizza in good weather, telling everyone who would listen to go and get a nice salad instead.

But, despite the dubious building fabric between her flat and the takeaway, Pamela liked it there. She could see the entire length and breadth of Stookey Hill. Well, if she leaned sufficiently out of the window.

The Pizza Place had erected a neon light advertising as such and that did obscure her view a little towards The Frog and Cricket. She had complained to Les, who owned the takeaway, but he didn’t care. Even when she said it made a near-constant buzzing sound that she couldn’t bear when her bedroom window was open. He wasn’t bothered. Well, he was a little bit because he had bought her a pack of 300 foam ear plugs. Elena said she thought he was having a joke and making fun of her, but Pamela thought they were very useful and only threw them away when they were so waxy they slipped out of her ears.

But, the weather was cooler now and she didn’t have to have the bedroom window open as much. Pushing her key into the lock of her door, she was about to turn it when she heard voices.

She paused, almost holding her breath with glee.

You see, this is where most people would continue into their homes. Shut their front doors behind them and let people get on with whatever it was they were saying. They wouldn’t eavesdrop or attempt to learn what might be private information. No, they would be on their way, letting others be on theirs too.

Not Pamela. She loved hushed voices and quiet whispers. She enjoyed the thrill of listening to something what was not for her ears. She had heard a fair bit of very interesting ‘news’, as she liked to call it, over the years. In fact, she had broken some of that news over the years too. Like when Alfred Parker was having an affair, and when Kelly Bruce ran over a cat and hid the remains – that was a bad one. She wished she hadn’t had to be the bearer of that bad news.

And while most people made an effort to avoid talking at all around Pamela, they could only do that so long as they knew she was there.

Her hand held on to the key which she had got as far as inserting into the key hole. She had one foot on the front step, and one on the paving of the alleyway. But she had to hold that position now so that she could listen without warning anyone of her presence. Her bag rustled slightly and she remembered the lilies. She would have to hold extra still.

To start with, she could only make out every few words. They didn’t make sense, and had no real meaning. And had they not been whispered, she might have just given up and gone inside.

But then…there was movement. The voices became closer. Pamela had a panic that whoever they belonged to might see her, but then she remembered. She had perfected this over the years – positioning herself to look as though she was about to do something. Always look mid-busy, she had taught herself. Although her arm was tiring, holding the key at the lock.

But then – bingo!

Muffled, muffled, muffled, “…looks like an accident. Then no one will know!”

Looks like an accident? Those words were a serial gossip’s dream come true! Her eyes near enough sparkled with possibility.

“Don’t worry, it will, there’s plenty of opportunity for that…” this was a different voice. she recognised it but couldn’t place it.

“I’d prefer if Ciara didn’t know the details. I trust her, but only a little bit – ifyaknowwhadimean!”

Laughter. She didn’t get what was funny. She wanted them to talk more about whatever it was that had to look like an accident.

“When will we do the first, though?”

Silence, as if thinking. Pamela’s arm, which was still holding her key in the lock, was shaking now with having been in one position for so long. but she was desperate to know – do the first what?

Then, muffled, muffled, muffled again.

Frustrated, she lowered her arm. Slowly and so as to stop the trembling. She could still look about to go inside if she needed to. But the voices, they were low again. Too low.

Then she did what she knew she never should. She moved, towards the voices. She had too much information and yet, not enough! She crept slowly towards the end of the alley which led towards the drying greens.

Voices still speaking quietly.

Very carefully, as slowly as she could, she leaned her head around a little to see who was there, hoping against all hope that they wouldn’t see her.

Ah! That was why she couldn’t hear! They were facing the other way and smoking. One of them – they looked familiar.

She pulled her head back. Maybe she could hear from the corner. She pressed herself against the wall, remembering this is what Tom Cruise did in those mission films. She was on a mission, all right! She chuckled to herself.

“We’ll have to wait until the shops close. We need the place to be as empty as possible!”

“Yeah, right, but what about the pub?”

That’s when she realised how she knew the voice, knew the figure – it was Mark Dorado! She narrowed her eyes. She knew he was a no-good…her disdain was interrupted when Mark spoke again.

“Power cut, Ciara says. Cut the power, send the punters home…jobsagoodun!”

Of course that was him! Always running words together like sentences didn’t even matter! She tutted then clamped a hand over her own mouth, aware that she might have been too audible.

The voices seemed to have stopped entirely. Were they on the move?

She peered around the corner again, and to her horror – indeed they were. The two men were coming right towards her. The one she didn’t know saw her and shouted an “oy!” Pamela panicked, running towards her front door, managing to get the key in the lock. She threw herself inside, almost panting with anticipation and excitement and fear. She closed the door, composing herself quickly enough to make sure she did it quietly.

Then she stood in her small entrance way holding her breath.

She heard footsteps and voices, but no one came to her door. She sighed in relief. They didn’t know it was her! The exhilaration was pumping blood round her body so hard, she could hear it pulsing in her ears.

She looked down at her lilies. They were, unfortunately, a little worse for wear. She didn’t feel so bad for stealing them now. Clearly they weren’t very good quality. Never mind, she could get them in water and…

Pamela was three stairs up when there was a knock on the door. She froze. The small half-moon of frosted glass at the top of the door betrayed a man’s head. She looked round carefully, trying to see if she could tell who it was. Les maybe? With another woodburning stove emergency?

Another knock…she almost dropped her shopper. And then, when the voice spoke through letterbox, she did. It was Mark Dorado.