❝ PICKET FENCE! ❞ → GRAY ✓

→ iii.iii

Act Three, Scene Three

→ ❝ this fucking mess! ❞

             Carol stood for a moment, taking in the message on the card. Who was Luca Changretta? And how on earth did he know who her fiancé used to be? From what she could vaguely remember catching through broken conversations when she was in Birmingham, she knew that Changretta was not a family that were very pleased with the Shelbys, but couldn't quite place the reason why.

             Carol nervously twisted the engagement ring on her finger as she closed her eyes, trying to understand what was happening. It was useless, and the only sensible thing her brain was urging her to do was make a telephone call. She banged her foot on the carpet floor three times as she made her mind up, hating the suggestion that was being raised but struggled to come up with a better solution. It would have to do.

             "Mama," Carol called into the kitchen as she quickly put her coat back on, shuffling the card into her pocket, "I left my, uh, my wages back at the shop. I think run back and get them, if you don't mind."

             "But Mrs Ainsley paid you yesterday?" Janet replied. Carol could hear the suspicion in her tone and the clatter of cooking utensils as Janet frantically placed them into the sink.

             "Christmas bonus." Carol lied quickly, smiling when she met the seething eyes of her mother, and quickly dipping out of the front door, slamming it behind her. She ignored the commands of her mother to 'get back in the house, this instant!', and her fast walk swiftly transformed into a run.

             There was only one building in the village that Carol knew had a telephone and an owner kind enough not to rat her out to her mother. She turned down the street, taking a shortcut, and began to wish she hat put her hat back on, or at least a scarf. The snow was falling much heavier now, and the thick sheets falling down made Carol feel like she was being followed She was conscious of her step, not wanting to fall and break her ankle before she could get her answers.

             Usually a fifteen minute walk, the journey to Crocombe's Confectionaries (Carol's second favourite place in the world outside of Michael's embrace) took a solid six minutes, and Carol was positively out of breath as she stumbled through the door, jingling the bell in the process.

             "Mrs Crocombe?" Carol asked gingerly as she entered the shop, rubbing her red raw hands together (in her haste, she had no time to put on any gloves, and the winter wind had proved to be a harsh enemy) in an attempt to warm her frozen fingers up. She couldn't see the sweet old lady behind the counter like she usually did, "Hello? Mrs Crocombe?"

             "Carol Goodwin, my dear!" the red faced Mrs Eileen Crocombe emerged from beneath the counter, popping her head up, "What can I get for you?"

             "Just a bag of lemon sherbets, please, Mrs Crocombe. And, well, I hate to be a bother, but could I use your telephone?"

             "It's no bother at all, deary!" Mrs Crocombe laughed heartily, weighing out two hundred grams of sweets, even though she knew Carol only ever brought enough money for one hundred. It was Christmas, after all, "It's in the back, dial nought for the line!"

             Thanking the old woman with a nod of her head, Carol moved quickly through the shop, her coat dripping a trail melted snow across the floor. She frantically flipped through the directory that Mrs Crocombe had stashed below the telephone table, sucking on her finger as she received a papercut in her haste. There. She sighed in satisfaction as she found the number she was desperate for, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for the operator to connect her.