A Village Feud (10 page)

‘Your mother can cope. After all, there’s only Fran to cook for, she won’t mind, I know.’

‘I’m going by myself.’

‘Sorry, Jimbo, you’re in no position to argue. I’m coming.’

By the time the ambulance arrived Harriet had organized her mother-in-law, sorted out the kitchen staff, who were only too willing to put themselves out when they saw how ghastly Jimbo looked, and talked to Tom about being in charge until tomorrow.

The ankle was a complicated break and Jimbo had to stay in hospital overnight under heavy sedation. He came home by ambulance the following evening with his ankle intricately pinned, feeling grumpy, exhausted and miserable, to find his mother in residence again.

‘Well, Jimbo dear, you know Anna found refuge in those weekenders cottage? Well, as it turned out the husband was taken seriously ill in Australia almost immediately and he got the idea that coming home was all he wanted to do. Didn’t like the idea of being buried in Australia, he said. So they’ve come back, and Anna’s back in my cottage again and I’m here to help Harriet and Fran to take care of you till you’re mobile again. There now, isn’t that lovely? It’s all worked out well. Anna and I have had a nice little chat and we’re friends again. I’m so glad.’

‘I’m pleased my agonizing broken ankle is fitting in with everyone’s plans.’

His mother ignored his sarcasm because even she could see he was feeling acutely depressed.

Jimbo was so very rarely ill that he’d had little practice at being a patient and this time was no exception. He snapped at every suggestion made for his greater comfort, refused painkillers, developed a delicate appetite and generally hated the world. The TV came in for a lot of criticism so it became easier to turn it off than have him complaining right through each and every programme. Harriet had to spend more time at the Store, which left Jimbo with his mother virtually all the time, and that became a further irritation for him.

On the fourth day after his fall Harriet suggested he went into the Store, sat on a chair in his office and did some work. ‘After all, you’ve hurt your ankle, not your brain. I’ll drive you round there, then you’ll only have to walk from the car into the Store. You could even sit on the seat outside for a while.’

Jimbo visibly bristled at the suggestion. ‘I’m not an old age pensioner yet, thank you very much.’

He received a sharp retort. ‘You’re certainly behaving like one.’

Jimbo raised a sceptical eyebrow at her, and suddenly saw the truth of what she said and burst out laughing. Harriet did, too, and it cleared the air. He let her drive him round to the Store and he hobbled out on his crutches and back into his life.

Harriet lingered in the kitchens for a while, leaving him to organize himself. She’d just finished discussing a menu with the kitchen staff when she heard Jimbo roaring her name. ‘Harriet! Harriet!’

She dashed into his office and found him clutching the poison pen envelope and reading the letter. Her heart sank.

‘When did this come, might I ask? Greta’s just found it in the storeroom.’ He thrust the letter at her.

‘I’ve read it. It came the day you broke your ankle and I decided it best not to show it to you. It’s been worrying me ever since.’

‘I should say it has. No signature, I notice. How do they intend ruining me?’

‘No signature, that’s right.’

‘Do you recognize the writing?’

‘Of course not.’

‘What evil-minded beggar would do such a thing? Did you see who put it through the letterbox?’

‘I don’t stand at the back of the door waiting for the post to arrive, you know. It came at the same time as a flyer advertising
Cottage Beauty
, or rather I picked it up at the same time. They may have been delivered at different times, I don’t know.’

‘This is serious. Who the hell could it be.’

‘I’ve no idea. But they mean business, don’t they?’

‘Oh! Yes.’

They both glared at the letter.

Jimbo looked up at her. ‘You should have given it to me sooner. This needs stamping out.’

‘These last few days I’d all on not to strangle you, you were behaving so badly. Even your mother couldn’t love you. You’re right, though, it does need stamping out. But how can we do that when we don’t know who sent it.?’

‘Get Greta.’

‘She’s up to her neck with orders.’

‘Get Greta.’ Jimbo shouted in a tone which brooked no argument.

‘Right. Right.’

Greta read the letter but could throw no light on the writer. ‘I don’t know the handwriting. I mean, who wants to bankrupt you? We were almighty glad for you to take over Mrs Thornton’s flyblown, understocked, scruffy shop
and
provide us with a Post Office, what’s more.’

‘It’s a mystery to me. Get Bel.’

Mrs Jones disappeared and in came Bel, anxious that trouble was brewing and unable to think what on earth she’d done to merit an interview in his office.

‘You wanted me? I’ve only a minute; we’re very busy this morning.’

‘Read this. Any clues. Have we upset anyone that you know of? Disappointed someone? Not dealt fairly with a customer over an order? Can you give us a clue?’

‘I’m absolutely horrified. This is evil. Whoever in this village would want to do such a thing?’

‘So you’ve no clue?’

Bel shook her head and patted Jimbo’s arm comfortingly. ‘It must be a crackpot. Don’t worry about it. Honestly, just someone with an imaginary grievance, that’s what. They couldn’t possibly carry it through. I mean, who would?’

‘Perhaps you’re right. Yes, maybe you are. Nevertheless, we all need to keep our eyes and ears well open the next few days. Listen to gossip, you know.’

Bel grinned. ‘Don’t we always?’ She nudged his shoulder. ‘You included. You’re the worst.’

Jimbo was particularly lacking in humour that morning and didn’t respond in kind to Bel’s jocular answer. ‘You may be right, but if there’s any more of these,’ he waved the poison pen letter in the air, ‘then we shall have to be rather more serious about it. We’ll let this go for now. Thanks, Bel.’

Bel went back to the cash till, but she was less buoyant about the letter than she’d seemed.

Jimbo was weary by three o’clock that afternoon and had to ring Harriet to ask her to collect him. It was when he had relaxed enough to give his mind time to roam that he thought about Andy Moorhouse and his problem with the Brie. Who the devil was he? There was something about him that rang bells. Perhaps if he pushed the fellow to the back of his mind, his name, and why he felt he knew him, might pop into his head unexpectedly.

Dottie Foskett was having the time of her life working at the Rectory. It was nothing like as hard as working for Louise and Gilbert when they lost the baby. All them kids. My God! The washer never stopped going and neither did the iron with Dottie wielding it. As for the washing up! She felt like Ruby in
Upstairs Downstairs
, always faced with a sink full of pans and dishes. Still, Sir Ron had paid her handsomely and it had all been added to her retirement nest egg.

But working at the Rectory – she couldn’t have chosen a better place. The furniture, the bathrooms, the pictures, the ornaments. When she looked at the attic where Sylvia used to sleep before she married Willie Biggs, she wished she’d been there when the twins were babies. She could just see herself sitting the other side of the Aga from Caroline, each with a twin and a feeding bottle, like Sylvia had described. Contentment. That was it. Complete contentment.

As for the twins now. If she’d had children she’d have wanted two exactly like Beth and Alex. Both so well-mannered, never a cheeky answer back and so polite to her. They’d asked if they could call her Dottie and she’d said yes. Made yer belong, like.

Apparently Beth had started coming downstairs to eat her breakfast so that when she, Dottie, arrived to begin work Beth could have a word with her while she munched her toast and honey and drank her tea.

Inevitably Beth would ask if she would like a cup and of course she always said, ‘Yes, please.’ And they’d sit and natter for ten minutes, putting the world to rights and Doctor Harris never seemed to mind. Almost appeared to be glad that Beth was able to talk to her. Funny situation really, her not going to school, seeing as Alex went every morning on the school coach that picked up in the village.

The day after Jimbo read his poison pen letter Dottie and Beth got talking about it. Everyone knew that the first day back at work after he’d broken his ankle the letter had been found and half the village had heard him bellow, ‘Harriet! Harriet!’

‘But Dottie, I can’t see why someone would do such a thing. Jimbo’s always so kind and considerate.’

‘Don’t know about that, Beth. Look at that time when Flick was missing. Well, you won’t remember. Only about six or seven she was. He was so angry he could have killed someone with his bare hands. He’s a powerful temper on him when moved.’ Dottie mopped her lips and got up to leave the table and get cracking but Beth delayed her.

‘Dottie, is it ever right to kill someone?’

She seemed to have a frog in her throat because her voice was deep and choky as she spoke and that alarmed Dottie.

She sat down again and thought for a moment. ‘I can remember when my sister Iris had a baby when she shouldn’t have, and it wasn’t any too good, up here you know.’ Dottie tapped her head. ‘You knew it wasn’t right because its eyes was so blank kind of, and it was backward in everything. I can remember as clear as day my dad saying it should never have been allowed to live, and he cursed modern science. Then there’s some people so wicked they deserve to die. It seems so anyway, but it’s not in our hands, is it? As I’m sure your dad would say, it’s God’s decision not ours.’

Beth wouldn’t let the matter go, and Dottie wished she would because it was getting too deep for her.

‘But what if someone wanted to kill your own sister?’

‘Ah! Well, that’s different, I suppose. In any case, it’s something you’ve got no need to worry about because, (a) you’ve no sister and (b) there’s not much chance anyone you know would want to kill her if you had, so just let the matter rest. There’s no need to be depressing yourself about it, now is there? It’s a lovely morning. You should be out in the garden or something. Must go, or your mother will be after me.’

Beth cleared her dishes away while Dottie collected her cleaning things.

‘Your mum would love some of them late roses in a vase. Why don’t you go cut her some, there’s a good girl. There’s some nice vases on that shelf in the cupboard under the stairs. Cheer you up.’

Dottie fled upstairs to the attic with the vacuum and her cloths to escape the interrogation. What the dickens was the child worrying herself about killing people for? She’d have to stop having cups of tea with her. She’d come to clean not be a psychiarisk or whatever. Out of the window she saw Beth taking her advice and stayed to watch her.

There was such precision in the way Beth cut the flowers. She’d got the secateurs and was choosing the roses slowly, one by one, so tenderly, admiring each one, lost deep in a world of her own. Dottie was going to open the window and say something but changed her mind, Beth was best left alone to work things out, whatever it was that was worrying her.

She finished dusting the window-sill and turned away to find Caroline also in the attic watching Beth from the other window.

‘That’s the first time Beth’s gone outside the house on her own. Thank you for that.’

‘I only suggested—’

‘I know you did, don’t apologize. And don’t feel unable to talk to Beth because you have work to do. She urgently needs someone to talk to and if you’re the one that’s all right by me. Thanks.’

So their chats over Beth’s breakfast continued each of the three mornings in the week that Dottie went to ‘housekeep’ as she called it. Sounded good, that did. She’d quickly mastered the art of saying casually, ‘oh! I’m housekeeper at the Rectory now.’ True she got some sceptical sideways looks when she said it but she didn’t care. She knew people thought her an ageing trollop. So what? She’d had a great life and comforted more than she could remember.

But now things were on the up. She fervently hoped that Beth would soon be going to school and then the Doctor would go back to doctoring and maybe Dottie Foskett would be at the Rectory to overlook the twins coming home from school and making them a drink or something when they got in. She could fit it in very nicely with cleaning for Harriet Charter-Plackett and the odd morning doing for Louise and Gilbert. She was earning more money than for a long time and feeling her weekly pay from Caroline in her pocket she spotted Jenny Sweetapple’s board outside her house and decided to give it a go. What had she to lose? Could be fun. But should she? When she needed a new washing-line and certainly a winter coat of some kind. She’d be an idiot if she … why not be an idiot? Treat herself now she was on the up.

She rang the bell full of confidence, only to be brought up short when Andy answered her ring.

‘Good morning. Can I help you?’

‘Well, I wanted to make an appointment with Jenny. Is she in?’

‘She is. Come in. She won’t be a moment. Jenny! Client for you.’