"Bloody hell... Bloody sodding hell..." Oliver clearly had trouble coming up with anything more coherent to say.
"My thoughts exactly," muttered Imogen.
She'd sort of imagined a tiny closet, with a shelf, which Olly's milk jug would be sharing with some lonely china doll, or something. They were currently standing in a large study, which had been renovated, its style hideously clashing with the decor of the mansion. Everything here was black and white and chrome, just as the late Mrs. Fitzroy had fancied it.
One of the three walls had been fitted with glass door cabinetry - and behind the glass a mad assortment of most bewildering objects was presently making Imogen's head spin. Dolls, porcelain statuettes, dishes and cups, wooden carved figurines, a pair of vintage shoes, two African masks, a North American aboriginal dream catcher, five hats, hung flat on the wall, candlesticks and - to Imogen's complete terror, one of her old drawings - a portrait of Edward Rochester, as he had been imagined by the fifteen year old Mops Fox.
"Bloody hell..." Oliver once again choked out.
Imogen gathered her will and stepped forward. "We need to find your jug."
"But... All these people!" Oliver gestured over the cabinet. "All these poor, poor souls!"
"Olly, we can't do anything now. I think someone might notice if we suddenly appear in the drawing room with our hands full of knick knacks!" Imogen hissed at him. "Grab your jug, and it's time to bolt."
They started examining a shelf after shelf, and Imogen's photographic memory was cataloguing the items without her participation.
And then she froze, while Oliver was still peering into the cabinet, almost pressing his nose to the glass.
A pair of blank eyes was staring at Imogen - and she recognised the 'sister' of the Chelsea figurine of Commedia Dell'Arte Harlequin, which according to the insurance papers Imogen had filled in herself, was securely kept in a locked cabinet in Mayor Oakby's bedroom. Imogen hadn't been to the bedroom - but she'd seen the photos and also had read the description. Three figurines, presumably a part of the original set of five, had been in the Oakby family's possession for the last ninety years; and each of the children had received one for their sixth birthday. After Robert Oakby, the Mayor's Uncle died in a car accident twelve years ago, his Dottore returned into the family vault in the county bank. And here, it was clearly Deidre's Isabella who was giving Imogen a sad knowing look.
"Bloody sodding hell," Imogen exhaled, jerked the door open, and grabbed the doll.
"What the hell, Imogen?" Olly hissed.
Imogen meanwhile was trying to stuff Isabella into her clutch.
"Fox, have you lost the plot?"
"I'll explain later, Oliver. Find your jug, and—"
"Is that your Rochester?!" Oliver was clearly catching up.
"Olly!"
"Right, yes, the jug."
***
The rest of the week was busy, with the Americans ever so insistent to speed up the motorway construction. And then Saturday came, and Imogen and the children, their hair brushed and clothes ironed, arrived at Mrs. Dyre's cottage. Kathy was quiet, it was her Headmistress after all. Brian kept asking about their host's sons.
"Their names are Philip and Killian. They are twelve and nine, and you will be perfectly polite with them," Imogen repeated yet again, and the boy nodded enthusiastically.
"Do you think they have toys? Cars? Nexo Knights? I bet they have Nexo Knights!"
They did indeed. As soon as they came in, the children were whisked away by the boys, already discussing 'blasts' and 'combosuits.' Imogen was seated in Mrs. Dyre's immaculate drawing room.
"Thank you for coming, Ms. Fox," Mrs. Dyre said, after pouring them tea. "I know it's quite unusual, but the matter is... somewhat personal."
Imogen unconsciously threw a side glance at her own handbag, where the poor porcelain Isabella was wrapped in Imogen's best cashmere shawl.
"The thing is, Imogen, as you're well aware, my brother and my father do not get along."
Imogen froze with her cup lifted to her lips. It took her two blinks and one sip to catch up with this unexpected turn of the conversation.
"I've had a conversation with my father," the Headmistress continued. "And he expressed certain concerns regarding the contract with the Americans for that bypass that Tommy is planning to build. But of course, Tommy would never listen to Dad." Mrs. Dyre sighed. "That feud of theirs, I feel, will never be resolved. But you have to believe me, my Father's opinion should be taken into consideration. He had been on the city council for fourteen years before he retired."
Imogen did think of reminding the Headmistress that the said council had consulted the appropriate experts before even considering the Americans' offer, but then she chose against it. Imogen did always think that listening was a preferable option to answering right away.
"So, I was wondering if you perhaps would pay him a visit, just for an informal chat?" the Headmistress asked, throwing Imogen a meaningful look over the rim of her cup. "Of course, bringing any papers to him would be a betrayal of Tommy's confidence," the Headmistress continued, "but a cup of tea in the Oakby Mansion would surely be forgiven, if he ever were to find out about it."
The woman smiled softly, but Imogen didn't return the smile, because she suddenly had a distinct feeling that it most likely wouldn't be forgiven at all. In the three years she'd been the Mayor's assistant, nothing remotely outside their professional work had been between them - but Imogen loved to think she knew the man underneath the suit. No puns - or hopes - intended. A cup of tea with John Thomas Alistair Oakby, Esq., and especially an informal chat about Town Hall matters would, perhaps, not offend the Mayor - but 'Tommy' would never trust Imogen again.
All she could do in the present situation was to take a sip of her tea.
The Headmistress continued unnecessarily reminding Imogen about Mr. Oakby Snr's accomplishments as a barrister and as a former member of the town planning committee, while Imogen nodded and pondered what she was to do with poor Isabella now.
The conversation concluded, slightly awkward, since Imogen couldn't give Mrs. Dyre any other answer but that she would 'certainly think about it' and 'do her best.'
They then stepped out into the garden, where the children and a sitter were playing with a large army of brightly-coloured Lego people.
"Imogy, Nexo Knights!" Brian shouted and ran up to her.
He shoved something green and poky into her face after she bent down to him.
"Lovely," Imogen answered awkwardly. "Well, it's time to say goodbye, and—"
"No!" a choir of distressed children voices hollered back. "We aren't done!"
"We're under attack!"
"We need to finish the war!"
"Mother, could they stay for a bit longer?"
The Headmistress' children, Imogen always thought, were quite perfect. One blond, another dark-haired, the boys were simply beautiful, had intelligent faces, and wonderful manners. The younger one looked very much like his mother - and his Uncle, while his elder brother was the copy of his father, the late Mr. Dyre, a prominent mystery writer, sadly, lost to cancer five years ago.
"Perhaps, the children could play some more together," Mrs. Dyre offered.
"No, no, we wouldn't want to intrude. And we have... shopping to do."
Imogen was indeed quite a poor liar.
"Could they come next week then?" Philip, the older one asked, and four pairs of hopeful eyes fixed themselves on Imogen.
She gave them a plastic smile. "We shall see," she answered.
She threw a sad look at her children's handed-down clothes and old shoes, and reminded herself that they were yet too young to understand what 'social standing' was, and how out of the ordinary, never to be repeated, this playdate had been.
"I will give Imogen a ring during the week, and we shall see what can be arranged," the Headmistress answered.
Imogen felt a prickle of irritation. Giving her ducklings a false hope was quite cruel. Goodbyes were said, and Imogen and the children headed for the bus stop.
During the ride, Brian fell asleep, and Kathy just wouldn't stop talking about Philip. He was her age, and she was clearly quite smitten. She'd been given the best knight to play, she said. And then she'd become the King, and they all had listened to her, and she had the best sword, and how wonderful it had been to play with boys!
"And, Aunt Imogen, promise not to be upset, but they gave us some of their toys to take home," Kathy added in a small voice, and Imogen whipped her head.
"What?"
"Yeah, Brian has a few Lego people in his pocket, and I chose this." Kathy opened a sweaty little hand and showed Imogen a small yellow car. "It's a Lamborghini. Philip said it's his favourite car."
Imogen opened her mouth, but Kathy didn't let her speak. "Please, Aunt Imogen, don't make us return them." The girl's eyes filled with tears. "Philip said they have plenty... And he wanted me to have this one! And Brian has no Legos, and other boys in the park laugh at him, and—"
Imogen's throat suddenly felt painfully tight, and she sharply inhaled, trying not to start bawling.
"You can keep the toys," she choked out, and quickly looked away, to hide her face.
"Are you angry, Aunt Imogen?" Kathy whispered.
"No, I'm not." Imogen blinked purposefully, took her facial expression under control, and turned to the girl with a small smile. "Of course I'm not. They're your friends, and that's their toys, so if they gave them to you, it's between you."
She quickly leaned in and kissed Kathy's temple. The girl squinted like a happy cat, and Imogen made a mental note to show affection for the children more openly. Lord knew, they weren't getting any.
"And it is an ace car," she added.
The two of them spent the rest of the bus ride reading up on the model in Imogen's new mobile.