Leaving my van, I venture forth case in hand, crossing the road that skirts the outer edges of the village. My first port of call is the deputy’s houses with small, neat front gardens and their backs to the lesser minions. I knock discreetly on each door and am ushered in to stand and wait, hope laid bare in a broad meaningful smile. Each female occupant dressed in the same flowered pinafore as every other female village occupant, their eyes furtively sweeping the neighbours gardens as I am woman handled inside.
“Wait here, I won’t be long,” they wag the same accusing finger and vanish into the gloom.
“No problem,” I smile benignly and rock from polished heel to polished toe, trying not to look too closely at the neat and tidy trappings of the lower middle working class with upper middle aspirations.
“A tanner, right?” They reappear already brandishing the coin that catches the light from the window and sparks an unspoken threat.
“A tanner, yes,” I log the payment and allow myself to be ushered out into the glaring sunlight, politely tipping my hat before I leave and closing the garden gate behind me with unfathomable care. My heart quickening, I trot across the tarmac road, one hand securing my hat on the way back to the van.
Hope For The Tally Man
