The Ring

Last night, in Appleton Marsh, a horror story unfolded.

For the second time this year I found myself entertaining Audrey, Margaret and Flo. As you know, every three months or so, we take it in turns to cook a meal and play host for an evening of reminiscing, laughing and finding fault with the food.

I did the honours in April with a triumphant Cock a Leekie soup du jour, beef casserole and ice cream drizzled with Baileys and topped with cubes of fudge. Audrey was a trooper in July. Clearly still not over her Three Cheeses Crispy Pancake ordeal, she served up a dubious main course of lamb and pasta but finished strongly with a memorable lemon sorbet to cleanse the pallet (which was much needed). Last night it was Margaret’s turn, and you can guess what’s coming.

Margaret phoned me at the shop yesterday afternoon.

“Doris, thank goodness I’ve caught you,” she said.

“What is it Margaret?” I asked. She was out of breath.

“Oh Doris. Disaster. My George Foreman grill has stopped working. I noticed a while back that the fat wasn’t running away like it used to do.”

She rambled on but I wasn’t really listening. I knew what was coming next and I was already going over the contents of my fridge in my mind.

“Doris. I know it’s a lot to ask…”

I wasn’t going to make this easy for her.

“Is there any chance at all…?”

I knew I had some eggs, some flour and some slightly out of date sausages.

“That we could perhaps, maybe…?

“I’d made a jelly for myself only the night before. The portions would be small but that’s only like the very best restaurants.”

“Eat around at yours?”

“Margaret. I’ve got nothing in,” I said, playing hardball.

“Anything will do, Doris. It’s not about the food, it’s the company; you know that.”

By now a customer had entered the shop and was browsing the  tabards. Flo was busy with another customer. It was mayhem in there.

“Okay, okay. Will you let Audrey know and I’ll tell Flo.”

“Audrey already knows,” she said, brightly. And then, realising how presumptuous that sounded, added: “She was having a new bridge fitted in Exeter; I had to catch her before she left the house.”

So that was how my friends all ended up around at Rossetti Avenue last night. And the night started off brightly enough. After Margaret’s George Foreman misfortune, there was a spirit of the blitz feel about proceedings. My friends positively gushed over everything I placed before them. They appreciated the ingenuity that went into the flakes of corn with thousand island dressing starter. When the nights are closing in, toad in the hole, is a guaranteed crowd-pleaser and so it proved. Even the raspberry jelly drew favourable comments.

It all began to go wrong when we retired from the dining room, back into my sitting room. There, on my coffee table, was a ring stain!!

“Oh no,” I moaned. “Who did that?”

“They all looked at each other.”

“Well come on,” I said. “One of you must have done it.”

“It would have been an accident, Doris,” said Audrey.

“Was it you?” I demanded of her.

“No! It wasn’t me,” she protested.

“It could have been anyone,” suggested Margaret.

“Well Audrey says it wasn’t her,” I batted back.

Margaret and Flo looked at Audrey a bit miffed.

“Well it wasn’t me,” said Margaret, stepping back from Flo, who now looked a little isolated in the middle of the room.

Flo looked at her friends, betrayed.

“And it wasn’t me,” she declared, joining the rest of us at the edge of the room.

It was a Mexican standoff.

“Look, whoever did it,” said Audrey, her apparent guilt-free intonation judged to perfection, “Isn’t important right now. Doris you need to get some baking soda and a wet cloth, quick.”

“No,” piped up Margaret. “a wedge of lemon and a cup of boiling water. Be quick!”

“A tablespoon of vinegar, and we need grease,” ordered Flo.

“Grease?” I looked at her askance.

“Elbow grease,” she smiled.

The others laughed but I wasn’t in any mood, and I wasn’t done with the questioning either. This was a crime scene and I was the victim. This was CSI Appleton Marsh.