A Tangled Web (14 page)

'What's eating you, Robert?' said Ivy Beasley, setting down a cup of good strong tea and a large wedge of chocolate fudge cake.

'Nothing, Auntie, at least, nothing very much,' said Robert, taking a grateful gulp of the tea.

'"Always something in nothing," as my mother used to say,' said Ivy, relying on her favourite saying to help things along.

'Well, yes,' said Robert. 'It's that Octavia Jones up to her tricks again. It's her mum and dad I feel sorry for. She twists them round her little finger.'

'Where do you come into it, then?' said Ivy, gently prodding.

'Oh, it was nothing at all. Just that little tramp making up some story about me when I gave her a lift last night.'

Ivy bristled. 'She'd better not start causing trouble for you, Robert; else I shall have something more to say. And I'm not one to mince my words.'

Robert hastily assured her that it was nothing important and would all blow over, but he regretted mentioning it to Auntie Ivy, knowing her reputation for malicious gossip, and also her abiding love for himself.

'Enjoying the concert rehearsals, Auntie?' he said, changing the subject.

'Not so far,' Ivy replied. 'Mind you, Reverend Brooks is doing his best with an unruly bunch. But there's too much laughing and joking for my liking. That Gabriella Jones is. always making sheep's eyes at Reverend Brooks, and she has no idea about discipline. It wasn't like that in my schooldays. We all had to behave ourselves, and not be continually interrupting and making suggestions.'

'But it's not school, Auntie,' said Robert. 'It's supposed to be a bit of fun and something nice for the village at Christmas.' Ivy sniffed, and took Robert's cup to refill. 'I shall carry on with it, anyway,' she said, 'for old Ellen's sake. She can't sing for toffee, but it's an outing for her and she won't go without me. '

'That's kind of you, Auntie,' said Robert, not really listening, but thinking he should be on his way.

'You're hedge-cutting early this year, aren't you, Robert?' said Ivy. 'There'll be no blackberries left to pick at this rate. They're scarcely ripe yet.'

'Try the bottom of Fenny Moor,' said Robert. 'You know that little old field? Well, Dad never cuts the hedge there by the stream. It's got loads of blackberries and crabs and hips and haws and all sorts. You go down there, Auntie, you'll find more than enough.'

He got up and kissed her on the cheek. 'Thanks very much, Auntie Ivy, see you next week. Mind how you go .. .'

Ivy watched him disappear up the street and, when he was out of sight, returned to the kitchen.

Looks like another job for me, Mother, she said to the quiet room.

Oh, speaking to me again, are you, said the voice in her head. Thought you'd sulk for ever. You always were one for sulking, Ivy.

Give it a rest, do, said Ivy. I'm just thinking how I can make those Joneses see they can't come to this village and stir up trouble for my Robert without so much as a by your leave. I blame that Gabriella, she's always been a flibbertigibbet with her long hair and her short shorts. She's never out of Nigel Brooks's sight these days, with her 'Is this right, Nigel?' and 'What do you think, Nigel?'

You're very steamed up, Ivy. Not jealous, are we?

Mother, I'm only thinking of that poor wife of his, that Sophie Brooks. She's a poor thing, but that doesn't mean she deserves to be treated like dirt by a brassy bit like Gabriella Jones.

Ivy wiped her hands on her apron, then took it off and went out into the garden to pick a few last beans for her supper.

Octavia sensed trouble as soon as she opened the front door. Her father was standing in a patriarchal position with his back to the fireplace, and her mother was nowhere to be seen.

'Where's Mum?' said Octavia.

'In the garden,' said Greg. 'I'd like a word or two with you, young lady, before you do anything else.'

Oh shit, thought Octavia, they've been talking to Robert.

'Sit down,' said Greg, 'and tell me again exactly what happened last night.'

Octavia sat down with unusual obedience, and began to suck a strand of her ash-blonde hair. 'Well?' said Greg.

'I told you,' said Octavia.

'Tell me again,' said Greg.

Octavia went once more through her story, repeating the exact details and managing a few tears when she came to the part where Robert ripped open her blouse. Then she made a mistake.

'He stopped the car outside here and practically shoved me out,' she concluded, reaching for her father's hand, and sniffing loudly.

Greg shook her off, and stared at her.

'But you said you got out of the car way back up the road and ran home in a panic,' he said accusingly.

'No, I didn't,' said Octavia, her voice breaking in alarm.

'Tell me the truth, Octavia,' said Greg, grimly stern. Octavia stood up and faced him.

'You wouldn't know the truth if you heard it!' she screamed at him. 'And that's just it you can't hear it, you stupid... !'

She turned and ran from the room, yelling, 'Mum! Mum! Where are you?' at the top of her voice.

Greg felt as if someone had hit him hard across the face. His own daughter mocking him for being deaf. It was too cruel to take in. He wiped his hand across his eyes and coughed. Well, he thought, at least I think I have the truth now. I must ring up Robert and apologise. He looked down at his hand and saw that it was wet, and then sat down heavily on the sofa.

'Octavia Jones,' he said. 'Daddy's little 'Tavie ...'

CHAPTER TWENTY -SIX

Ellen Biggs looked into her damp, narrow clothes cupboard and wondered what to wear for tea with Ivy Beasley. Every year, at the jumble sale in the Village Hall, Ellen handed in a small pile of worn clothes, and bought herself a new selection of outfits for the four seasons, to last until the sale came round again. In this way, for a pound or two, she could indulge her passion for dressing to please herself, delighting in bright colours and rich folds of material, not caring in the least what impression she made on other people, and certainly not fearing Ivy's scathing comments. Indeed, the more she could provoke her friend's disapproval, the happier Ellen was.

She glanced out of the small, dusty window at her sunlit garden, bright with late chrysanthemums and dark purple Michaelmas daisies. Looks warm out there, she thought, but you can't trust this time of the year. Better put on something warmish, don't want a chill on top of me rheumatism.

A tough old woman, Ellen put a brave face on days when her legs ached and she could hardly turn her head. Living alone, with nobody to sympathise or nurse her, she had a grim determination not to give up her comfortless, dingy cottage until carried out in her coffin, and so she told no one about waking in panic in the small hours, unable to get out of bed and terrified of wetting herself. She joked about old age, and watched her contemporaries disappear into Bagley House, which she preferred to call the workhouse, with a secret terror that one day it would be her turn.

'This'll do well,' she said, taking out a royal blue woollen dress with a dropped waist and shawl neckline. It had been Mrs Ross's best for several years, and was still in good condition, except for a few spots down the side, where the little dog had disgraced himself.

Ellen had struggled into the dress, and was sitting on the edge of her bed pulling on comfortable black plimsolls over beige ribbed cotton stockings, when she heard a light tap and her back door opening.

'Ellen? Are you there, Ellen? It's only me ...Mrs Standing... Ellen?'

Well, thought Ellen, if it's only you, you can wait a minute or two 'til I've got me shoes on.

'Comin', madam,' she called, and stood up, pulling down the dress and admiring the effect in an old cracked cheval mirror which had once graced the nanny's bedroom in the Hall.

'Good morning, Ellen, how nice you look,' said Susan Standing. She had been frustrated and irritated by the old woman in her last years as cook at the Hall, but now she had a sneaking fondness for the independent Ellen, and called in frequently to check on her.

'Do sit down, madam,' said Ellen, always on her dignity with her former employer. 'Lovely day now, ain't it?'

Susan agreed, and sat gingerly on the edge of a rickety cane chair. 'Ellen,' she said, 'I need your advice.'

Oh yes, thought Ellen, I've heard that one before. Usually means she wants me to feed them 'orrible dogs while they're away.

'It's the concert,' said Susan, 'the Christmas concert. I believe you are singing in the choir, is that right?'

Ellen nodded and waited. So it wasn't the dogs. What's comin', I wonder.

'I would really like to contribute something, but my voice is certainly not up to choir standard,' Susan said modestly. 'I was wondering if Mr Brooks would want any kind of dramatic interlude. Perhaps a recitation or a reading from Dickens, or something like that ...what do you think, Ellen? You always know what fits in ...' Her voice trailed away into a vague, questioning silence.

'What, you mean like "The Boy stood on the Burning Deck"?' said Ellen blandly.

Susan shook her head. 'Well, no, not exactly that. More an extract from A Christmas Carol, or Pickwick Papers. Or perhaps that wonderful Hardy poem about Christmas Eve?'

Ellen reached for her long gaberdine mac that had been Mr Richard's, and began to fold it up and squash it into an old egg basket.

'I don't 'ave much idea about them,' she said. 'Best you ask Reverend Brooks. But I'm sure 'e'll be delighted, and that Gabriella Jones will be glad of a little break 'alfway through.' And anyway, thought Ellen, it could be good for a laugh, if nothing else.

'She's talkin' of recitin' at the concert,' said Ellen, setting down her basket in Ivy Beasley's hall.

There was an unmistakable, heavenly smell of baking in Ivy's house, and Ellen sighed with relief that the threat of a couple of biscuits had been forgotten.

'Lovely smell of cookin', Ivy,' she said, and made her way into the neat front room, sitting down in the best chair under the old wall clock.

'Who's talking of reciting?' said Doris Ashbourne, already seated on the overstuffed sofa, her handbag tucked down by her side.

'Madam,' said Ellen. 'Mrs Standing 'erself. She wants to contribute, she says, and asked me first, knowing as I'm in touch with what goes on.'

'Rubbish!' said Ivy, bringing in the teapot shrouded by a crinoline lady with satin skirts and haughty demeanour. 'She knows you're a regular old gossip, that's for sure ...'

Tea poured, Ivy lifted a knife to the perfect coffee sponge sitting without a lean in any direction on a fresh white paper doily.

'You'll take a piece of cake, Ellen?' she said. 'Don't feel you have to, I shan't be offended, knowing you're not over fond of coffee.'

One of these days, thought Ellen, I shall swipe her one with my 'andbag.

'Think you must be confusin' me with Doris,' she said, causing the innocent, coffee-loving Doris to look anxiously at the mouth-watering airy sponge yielding to Ivy's knife.

'My favourite,' said Doris firmly. 'Never could get it right myself, but that looks a perfect sponge, Ivy, nothing less.'

Ivy smiled in triumph. 'So we'll all have a piece, then, shall we?' she said, offering the plate round and making sure the smallest slice made its way into Ellen's hand.

'Now then,' Ivy continued, settling back into her chair by the window, 'what's all this about Mrs Standing and the concert?'

Ellen explained, and Doris said that she had always loved that poem by Thomas Hardy, 'Christmas Eve', and she thought Mrs Standing would read it beautifully.

'She went to dramatic school, you know,' Doris said, 'before she married Mr Richard.'

'Well,' said Ellen, squashing the remaining cake crumbs on her plate into a little ball and popping it into her mouth, 'I've certainly seen a drama or two up at the 'all in my time.'

'Could be a very good idea,' said Ivy. 'If Mrs Standing came to rehearsals, it would give a bit of order to proceedings, not so much larking about. Perhaps that Gabriella Jones would get on with it a bit better if Mrs Standing was there, perhaps she'd not waste so much time making eyes at Reverend Brooks.'

Doris and Ellen exchanged glances, and then Ellen began to laugh. 'So that's it, Ivy, is it?' she said. 'You're suspicious of Mrs Jones, as well as Peggy Palmer. What makes you think they're all after your precious Nigel?'

Ivy glared at Ellen, and move the coffee sponge further away from her. 'Peggy Palmer's disgracefully busy elsewhere,' she said, 'but if you'd been doing your duty with the brasses like I was, and seen Reverend Brooks and Gabriella Jones with their heads together over the organ, laughing and whispering over bits of old music, you'd be suspicious.'

Doris Ashbourne sat up straight, and opened and shut her handbag with a snap.

'Ivy,' she said, 'I can smell one of your campaigns coming on. For goodness sake, can't you just mind your own business for once? Reverend Brooks is a very nice, kind man, and Mrs Brooks is a nice, kind woman, and they're obviously very fond of each other. They can do without tittle-tattle such as this, and I for one intend to talk about something else.'

In the silence that followed this, Ivy stood up and turned her back on the others, staring angrily out of her window and across the Green.

'Go on,' then,' said Ellen, finally. 'Go on, what?' said Doris.

'Talk about somethin' else,' said Ellen. 'Otherwise we might just as well go 'ome.'

Doris shifted about in her sent, and said, 'Well, are you going to the Harvest Supper, Ellen?'

'You know I am, we got it all sorted last week,' said Ellen unhelpfully.

Doris was silent and discouraged. Then Ivy leaned forward and peered carefully through the lace curtain, turning her head to watch something happening in the street.

'What did I say?' she said gleefully. 'Well,' said Doris, 'tell us.'

'There he is again,' Ivy said, 'our handsome vicar going down the lovely Gabriella's path and knocking at her door. There ... she's let him in ... and Mr Jones not yet home from school. No wonder,' she added, turning in righteous indignation to the other women, 'her daughter's such a wicked miss. She's got no example to follow, none whatsoever.'