The Model Murder

Merl gives a sigh and pours herself another cup of tea.

There was a time when she lived in a desirable suburb, in a house with a lovely garden on a tree-lined street. But that was all snatched away from her. Now she lives in an area populated by ne’er-do-wells and petty criminals whose only aspirations are to become serious criminals. She wonders if this young man was one of them. In which case, one less is no great loss.

She checks her watch. She has a weekly appointment for a shampoo and set in an hour. Plenty of time to stop at the bookmaker’s, place her bets and arrive five minutes early – as always.

Turning to the racing section, she runs her ruler down the list of possible contenders for the Saturday races at Randwick Racecourse and underlines half-a-dozen horses. Her technique is a combination of science, expertise and cunning – skills she didn’t know she possessed until she was forced by circumstances to become a dedicated punter.

It’s not a pastime she’s proud of, and none of her friends or acquaintances are aware of her sideline. Certainly not her fellow tea ladies, Hazel Bates, Betty Dewsnap and Irene Turnbuckle. But if she is very honest, having discovered a talent for the betting business, she’s come to enjoy it. She doesn’t gamble on anything other than racehorses, never on the dogs. That’s a rougher crowd. More Irene’s type of entertainment, which speaks for itself.

Her picks selected, Merl pops on a light coat and headscarf, tucks her list into her handbag and steps outside into a fresh autumn day. On her way to the shops, she notices the swirling eddies of wind have conveniently swept the dry leaves neatly into the gutters and makes a mental note to call the council to find out when the street sweepers are due. They can be quite lax if one doesn’t give them the occasional nudge.

The bookie, Mr Cox, also doubles as a cobbler (or perhaps it’s the other way around), so she can enter his premises discreetly, masquerading as someone who likes to keep her footwear in good working order. Strangely, today, his shop, Boots ’n’ All, is closed with no sign as to when he will be open. Very inconsiderate. Perhaps he slept in or is suffering an unusually severe hangover. Merl stands outside the shop for a minute or two, willing him to appear, but then must keep going to prevent her entire morning falling into disarray.

Her next stop, Barbara’s Beauty Salon, is always busy of a Saturday, and Merl thoroughly enjoys the bustle of the place and the fog of hairspray, which always makes her feel a little tipsy, as if she’s inhaled a gin and lemonade. Entering on the dot of ten, she’s greeted by the new junior. They change so often, Merl can never remember their names. The girl takes her coat and scarf, hangs them up and seats her at a basin.

‘Hello, Mrs Perlman!’ calls Barbara, vigorously spraying a client’s hair, which has been tortured into thick petals on top of her head. ‘Sharon will do your shampoo, and then I’ll be right with you.’

A cursory glance at the client tells Merl the woman is too old for that ‘do’ – too old for long hair, for that matter. She must be at least fifty. Merl’s aware that tastes are changing and everybody wants to be young these days, but have some decorum, for pity’s sake. Barbara, going on fifty herself, wears her hair teased into a beehive with a heavy fringe almost over her eyes like a teenager. But she does have the good business sense to continue doing classic perms and blue rinses that actually suit mature women. Any style that’s good enough for the Queen Mother is good enough for Merl Perlman.

Merl removes her glasses and pops them in her handbag. The girl, Sharon, clumsily wraps a towel around Merl’s neck, flapping a cape over her and cranking the chair back until Merl is practically horizontal. As usual, this makes her feel tense and vulnerable, as if she’s on a fairground ride. But she forces herself to relax and enjoy the feel of the warm water coursing through her hair. The girl has a surprisingly gentle, almost loving touch, which brings unexpected tears to Merl’s eyes, and she quickly blinks them away.

Once Merl’s parked in front of the mirror, Barbara appears and asks, ‘Did you see about the murder? We’ve been talking about it all morning. I expect you know the bloke – you have your finger on the pulse, Mrs Perlman.’

‘I’m not sure which pulse you’re referring to,’ says Merl. ‘Besides, they haven’t named him – have they?’

Running a comb rapidly through Merl’s hair, Barbara says, ‘You get your shoes fixed at Mr Cox’s, don’t you? I’m sure I’ve seen you pop in there from time to time, haven’t I?’ She threads a thick strand of hair around a curler and clips it shut so tightly it makes Merl’s eyes water for a quite different reason.

‘That’s a little tight,’ Merl says, wondering what Barbara is implying.

‘It’s not in the papers yet, but everyone knows it’s the son, Colin Cox,’ continues Barbara, loosening the curler slightly. ‘You would have met him in there. Handsome devil. Long hair in a mod cut, oozes charm. He’s engaged to the model Samantha Simpson. And he does a bit of modelling himself. Very cute.’ Perhaps feeling she sounds a little callous, she adds, ‘So sad.’

Merl’s shocked to hear this news. She has met Colin on many occasions. Apart from the long hair, an otherwise well-groomed young man with the air of sublime self-confidence so typical of young men these days. Not what you’d expect from a Cockney shoemaker’s son.

‘You’re probably not aware, Mrs Perlman, because I know you’re very high-minded, but Mr Cox’s a bookie,’ continues Barbara. ‘We all put our bets on with him.’

‘Oh goodness, I had no idea,’ murmurs Merl, crossing her fingers.

‘Thought not,’ says Barbara, with an indulgent smile. ‘Colin was also involved with the bookmaking, and probably some other slightly illegal activities.’

‘Is there such a thing as slightly illegal?’ asks Merl.

‘Well, you know what I mean – illegal strictly speaking, but everybody does it, including the cops.’ Barbara’s silent for a moment, concentrating as she swiftly rolls the last strands into curlers and ties a netting scarf tightly over the structure. ‘There you are, now you can relax, Mrs P.’

Merl allows herself to be steered over to the row of dryer hoods along one wall. Once the hood is lowered over her head, all she can hear is a subdued roar. She picks up a magazine and flicks through it. Finding nothing of interest, she turns to people-watching. Several of the clientele are younger women with flowing manes cascading to their shoulders and flicked up at the ends. Merl once had luxuriant hair like that.

There are three older ladies who also come every week for a shampoo and set. She doesn’t know any of their names, but they’re very palsy-walsy. Sitting in a row, the constriction of dryer hoods never stops them gossiping; they simply raise their voices over the noise.

Merl’s thoughts are drawn back to Mr Cox and his son. How dreadful to lose a child, and so much worse that the boy was murdered. She has no sons herself, but four daughters with husbands who are all fine men in their own way: one a bank manager, another a senior detective. The thought of losing one of her daughters is unthinkable. They have been her whole world for as long as she can remember.

Merl is still lost in thought when the dryer hood is lifted off and she’s ushered back to the chair. Removing the scarf, Barbara combs out the set, plumping up Merl’s hair with her fingers. ‘There you are, my love. Ready to face the world,’ she says, holding a mirror for Merl to see the back, which looks the same as it always does.

Minutes later, Merl finds herself out on the street, the highlight of her weekend over and done with. She feels the usual slight let-down after her appointment but rallies and sails forth to do her Saturday shopping. Boots ’n’ All is still closed, but now there’s a sign up in the window: Due to a death in the family the shop will be closed until further notice. And her heart goes out to Mr Cox for his terrible loss, despite her inconvenience.

Walking home with her shopping bags full, Merl feels unsettled by the tragedy and wishes she could discuss the dreadful event with her one-time friend and fellow tea lady Hazel Bates. Always in the know, Hazel would have some insights. But Merl firmly pushes the thought away. She hasn’t spoken to Hazel, Betty and Irene for months and is not about to start now. It all began last year when Merl was the Chief Fundraising Coordinator of the Tea Ladies Guild, in charge of raising funds for the Sisters of Hope orphanage. Despite her considerable efforts, she was undermined and sidelined in the most disrespectful way and so had resigned.

Since that day, she hasn’t joined the tea ladies on the little wall in Zig Zag Lane where they meet for lunch, she hasn’t joined them at the Hollywood Hotel for rounds of shandies and gossip, and she certainly hasn’t attended another meeting of the Guild. When she sees these old friends in passing, she gives a polite nod or cursory greeting but that’s as far as it goes. But the truth is that her life has been all the poorer without them. She misses them more than she can say – even the dreadful Irene Turnbuckle. Harbouring this grudge has been an onerous task, but the only way to resolve it is for Merl to eat humble pie – and that she cannot face.