Watkins, a whole platoon in a single body, clumsily barged open the door. The committee room became a lot more crowded with his entrance. ‘They can’t deliver today,’ he said.
Davies, his face communion wafer white, said, ‘Why not?’
‘Strike at the depot.’
‘For the best,’ said Jones.
‘This is going to be a success!’ Davies insisted.
‘It’s meant to be a do to celebrate Phil’s passing, for god’s sake.’ Jones sat up aggressively in his chair. ‘Why do we need bloody fireworks?’
‘I’ll go into town this afternoon and buy what I can,’ Davies said. ‘Mustn’t forget rockets. Carol likes those.’
‘Somebody put up a notice in the village hall saying Firework display cancelled,’ Watkins said.
‘That’s the parish council’s bash. Ours goes ahead.’ Davies, his features drawn following covid, glared at Jones. ‘Could you email all the allotmenteers and remind them tonight is on? And say good turnout required.’
Watkins nodded.
‘So: presentation to his wife, couple of speeches, couple of drinks, and then a few sparklers. Then we wrap it up,’ Jones said, as if he were itemising unpleasant surgery. He’d been a pen pusher for over three decades at the vehicle licensing centre. Making lists came easily and often to him.
‘It’ll be OK,’ Watkins said.
‘Bangers and jumping jacks in the allotment? Crazy idea!’ Jones muttered. ‘Just keep it all away from my plot.’
‘He wasn’t a bad bugger, Phil, was he?’ Watkins said.
‘It’s for his wife really,’ Davies explained patiently. ‘She fundraised for the allotment. She got us all that money for the new path and the new water pipe. She’s a marvel. It’s for Carol.’
‘He had his faults,’ Watkins said. ‘But, bobl bach, who among us hasn’t?’
‘He stole my spade. Painted the handle white. I recognised it at once.’ Jones’ eyes had a black paint of resentment in them.
‘He used to half-inch my bags of horse manure. I’d get in early for the delivery, pile `em up under tarpaulin. Next morning a couple were missing. Happened every time.’ Davies sniffed irritably at the memory.
‘Light fingered,’ Watkins agreed, ‘but not without character.’
‘The character of a rat. The police were always knocking on his door,’ Jones said. ‘If we’re having half an hour of rockets and booze for him, there’ll be a year of celebrations when you pass, Watkins.’
‘Poor Carol,’ Davies said. ‘She deserved better. That’s why we’re doing it, boys. Carol! One of the good ones!’
Watkins got off the fence. ‘You’re right, a bad lad he was. Duw if he’d been a vegetable, you’d have dug him up and chucked him away.’
‘Rotten to the root. Whose idea was this?’ Jones said. He and Watkins exchanged looks. The bachelor Davies had always had a weak spot for Carol.
‘Why does Carol like rockets?’ Watkins asked.
‘Probably phallic reasons,’ Jones murmured grumpily.
‘There wasn’t much light in her life,’ Davies said. ‘I think she detested him by the end.’
‘Yes he had his faults,’ Watkins said vaguely.
