Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death (3 page)

“I remember old Johnny Yates at the bakery,” Annie said. “When I was a child he’d bake your pies for you in his big oven. And the blacksmith’s only been gone a few years—when Ted Andrews died.”

“Still, his son, Geoff, has kept on the business,” Ellen said. “Well, he’s just a farrier now and drives around with a portable forge in the back of his truck.”

“I suppose that’s something,” I said, “but it’s very sad, to think of how things have changed, and not necessarily for the better.”

“Well, and that’s what this book’s all about,” Annie said briskly, “putting it all down so it isn’t forgotten.”

Called to order, we went back to sorting through the photos.

“Well,” I said, “it’s a splendid start. Do we have the promise of any more?”

“I asked Diana to see what she can find of Toby’s family,” Annie said. “They’ve been in the village for generations—gentleman farmers, is what they used to be called. I must get her moving on that. There are all mine, of course. I didn’t get them out today because there’s still a lot of stuff in a chest upstairs and I wanted to see what I’ve got.”

“And I suppose there should be some from Rachel and Phyll,” I said. “Dr. Gregory’s family goes back quite a long way. Has anyone asked them?”

“Oh, I’ve got Rachel on to that. She’s more organized than Phyllis,” Annie said approvingly. “And Ellen here has some old newspaper cuttings and objects that could be interesting.”

“That’s splendid,” I said. “Lovely to have things like that. I wish we did.”

“Oh, nobody ever throws anything away in our house,” Ellen said. “The place is full of stuff. Honestly, trying to keep it clean and tidy is a nightmare!”

“Now, Sheila,” Annie said. “I’ve asked Father William to let you have access to the church records so you can deal with all that side of things, and I want you to write a history of the village—it was mentioned in the Domesday Book, you know.”

My heart sank. “A
history
?”

“It can be quite short, and I’m sure you can find a lot of material in the County Records Office.”

“Yes,” I agreed despondently. “I’m sure I can.”

Ellen gave me a sympathetic glance. “Well, then, if that’s all, I’ve got to be on my way. Fred’s moving the sheep up into the top field and he’ll need me to lend him a hand.”

She got up and I looked at my watch and said hastily, “Oh, is that the time? I really ought to be going too.”

“Well,” Annie said disapprovingly, “we haven’t got nearly as much done as I thought we would. Now, Sheila, do keep me up-to-date with how you’re getting on, and, Ellen, if you can look out those old farm implements soon, Jim Fletcher said he’d photograph them.”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“As soon as I can,” Ellen said as we both backed quickly out of the room.

When we were outside, we walked a little way along the village street together and Ellen said, “Do you fancy coming back for a coffee?”

“What about the sheep?” I asked.

She laughed. “I always go prepared with some excuse when Annie corners me like that. I advise you to do the same!”

“How very sensible,” I said admiringly. “Yes, please, I’d love to come.”

“We’ll go down in your car. I walked up because I know how impossible it is to park anywhere near the shop in the morning.”

I looked back along the village street. It was lined with a variety of vehicles and with people standing about in the middle of the road chatting, oblivious of a large van trying to make a delivery and a dilapidated Land Rover attempting to make its way through, with two Jack Russell terriers, their paws on the open windows, barking furiously.

“I do see what you mean,” I said.

We retrieved my car from the driveway of the Exmoor Hotel at the edge of the village, where I’d left it in desperation earlier on, and drove down to Black-well Farm. A couple of sheepdogs came bounding out to meet us, with Fred Tucker coming in behind them.

“So you managed to get away, then,” he said. “Hello, Sheila. So she’s got you roped in as well, then.”

“I’m afraid so,” I said ruefully. “I suppose I did sort of offer, but I’d no idea what I’d let myself in for— hours in the County Records Office in Taunton for a start!”

“Never offer to do anything for Annie,” Ellen said. “You’ll always get more than you bargain for. Come on in to the kitchen, Sheila, and I’ll put the kettle on. Do you want one too, Fred?”

“Can you fill a flask for me? Dan and I are going to put up that new pig arc.”

“Dan is working for you now, then?” I asked. Dan, their youngest son, has just left school; Mark, the older one, is away in the army.

“He’s helping out for a bit before he goes to agricultural college next year,” Ellen said.

“And then he’ll come back here?”

“If there’s anything to come back to,” Fred said. “I don’t know why I bother with pigs—they don’t fetch enough to cover the feed. If the wheat prices keep up, I can put some more fields down to arable, but a lot of the land, on the edge of the moor, that’s only fit for sheep, and they’re no more profitable than the pigs.”

He sat down opposite me at the kitchen table and seemed prepared to continue to air his grievances.

“Fred’s always been one to look on the gloomy side,” Ellen said, spooning some coffee powder into a jug, filling it with hot water and milk, pouring it into a flask, and screwing the top down tightly. “There you are, then,” she said, picking up a packet of biscuits from the table and giving it to him along with the flask. “That’ll see you and Dan all right for a bit.”

A young man put his head round the door and called out, “Are you coming, Dad? Those weaners’ll be here in an hour and we haven’t got that pen ready for them.”

“I’ll be off, then.” Fred got up reluctantly. “Nice to see you, Sheila. Don’t let Annie work you to death.”

Ellen laughed. “Poor old Fred. He does love a chat and we don’t get many visitors he can let off steam to.”

She pushed a cup of coffee towards me. “It’s only instant,” she said. “I gave up the proper stuff years ago—too much effort.” She opened another packet of biscuits and put some on a plate. “And I never seem to have time for baking anymore.”

“It must be pretty hard,” I said.

“Market prices are dreadful and the feed goes up all the time. I do all the paperwork now—there’s no way Fred could spare the time. I mean, in the old days there’d be two or three men working on the farm, but now, even with the machinery, and
that
costs the earth, it’s still a lot of work for the two of us.”

“Dan must be a great help.”

“He’s a good lad, and I do hope Fred’s just being gloomy and we
can
manage to carry on somehow
.
”

“Oh, you must!” I exclaimed. “You’re the last farm in the village. Everyone would be devastated if you had to give up.”

“Not everyone,” Ellen said. “We get all these complaints.”

“Complaints?”

“Oh, the tractors leave mud on the road; it isn’t nice to have trailers with manure going through the village; the bird scarers are too noisy; the pigs smell—that sort of thing.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” I exclaimed. “How can they complain about country living?”

“That’s it, of course,” Ellen said bitterly. “They don’t want to live in the country—they want to live in some idyllic rural spot with people just like themselves and no nasty noises or smells.”

“Not all of them, surely,” I said.

“No. It’s the Fletchers, really. The others are more or less all right—the Sanderses are quite sympathetic. Though, mind you, I don’t think they realized what they were taking on with the village shop.”

“People have a dream,” I said, “and I suppose it’s inevitable that reality sometimes gives them a real awakening.”

“I must say, though,” Ellen said, “that Maurice has been very clever.”

“Really?”

“He’s worked out that people in the village are going to go to the supermarket for their main shopping, just for cheapness, and he knew he couldn’t make a living relying on them coming to him if they’d just run out of sugar or something, so he’s specialized in fancy foods and deli things. They cost the earth, but all the newcomers are well-off and can easily afford them. They think it’s rather smart to have a speciality shop right here in the village—they’re always boasting about it to their friends when they come down from London.”

“Well, good for him. Come to think of it, I seem to remember he stocked a rather nice smoked eel pâté. I must call in on my way back to get some.” I took a biscuit and said, “It really is awful to think how the village has changed—even in the past few years.”

“What really gets me,” Ellen said sadly, “is not having the school bus stopping here anymore. There’s not a single child in the village now—not since Dan left school.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Oh, people’s grandchildren come to stay in the school holidays, but it’s not the same.”

“No continuity,” I said.

“No. When these villagers die they’ll simply be replaced by other people who’ve retired and so it’ll go on.”

“Well,” I said encouragingly, “your Dan will marry and have children one day.”

“I hope so—if we haven’t been driven away by the Fletchers.” She laughed. “Listen to me—I’m beginning to sound like Fred!”

 

When I left Riverside I managed to park quite near the village shop. I looked in through the window to make sure Annie wasn’t there. Fortunately she wasn’t, though there were quite a few other people in there and a great deal of conversation, though not, as far as I could see, much trade being done. I suppose Mere Barton is lucky to have a village shop and, I suppose, it’s mainly thanks to the off-comers who can afford to pay fancy prices to keep it going. When I went in I gradually identified some faces that I knew: Mary Fletcher, Diana Parker, George Prosser and Judith Lamb, who, perched on a stool by the counter, looked as if she was a permanent fixture there. She greeted me warmly.

“Sheila—fancy seeing you again so soon!”

I explained my involvement with the village book. “Annie’s just been giving me my orders,” I said.

Captain Prosser gave a bark of laughter. “I bet she has!” he said. “I’ve served under admirals who frightened me less than our Annie.” Sometimes he overdoes the bluff seafarer.

“Isn’t she marvelous,” Judith said. “All the things she does for the village—I can’t imagine what we’d do without her. And always full of new schemes, like the Book—such a marvelous idea, and, of course, she has all those wonderful family photos and things going way back!”

“There certainly seems to be a lot of material,” I said without enthusiasm. I turned to Diana. “I believe Toby has quite a few things that we might include.”

“There’s a lot of junk out in the barn if the rats haven’t got to it,” she said carelessly. “A couple of old trunks full of God knows what. You’re welcome to have a look at it if you like.”

“It’s very kind of you,” I said hastily, “but I’m sure Annie would rather look through things herself—she is in overall charge. I’m just doing the background stuff: the history of the village itself, documents in the County Records Office, things like that.”

“Documents, how
interesting
,” Judith said reverently. “As well as all the things from people in the village—people from every walk of life. The rich man in his castle, the poor man at the gate, as you might say.”

There was a slightly uneasy silence at this politically incorrect statement.

“Did you know,” I said hastily, “that Mrs. Alexander wrote that hymn when she was staying down here at Dunster? I believe the purple-headed mountain was Grabbist and the river running by was the Avill.”

Diana raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating,” she said.

“Of course, you’d know all about that sort of thing,” Mary Fletcher said, “since you’re such an expert on the Victorians.”

“I’d hardly say that,” I protested.

“When I was working in the library at Farnborough,” she went on, “I found your books were quite popular—for books of that sort, of course.”

“Really,” I said weakly, “how interesting.”

“Well,” Judith said, “what with your books and Father William’s broadcasts we have two celebrities in the village! Oh, and Mr. Parker, of course.” She turned to Diana. “It’s a great privilege to have a real live Member of Parliament right here on our doorstep!”

“I must remember,” Diana said, “to tell Toby that he is real and alive.”

Judith gave her an uncertain smile. “Anyway,” she said, “I know we’re all looking forward to this book.”

“I hope you can get it out soon,” Captain Prosser said. “Quite a few villages have already published theirs—I’ve seen them in Smith’s—and we don’t want to be seen lagging behind.”

“These things can’t be rushed; there’s a great deal involved in publishing a book, you know,” Mary said, with the confident air of one who had professional knowledge of such matters. “Even today with the new technology.”

“Oh,
that,
” the captain said. “I can’t make heads or tails of it. Wouldn’t have one of those computers if you gave it to me!”

“I took a very good course when I was at Farnborough,” Mary said. “It was quite advanced—well, you had to be right up- to-date in the library—but I believe there are several really simple ones for beginners.”

While this exchange was going on I’d edged my way to the counter and addressed Maurice Sanders, who’d been listening to his customers’ conversation in an abstracted way.

“What I really came in for,” I said, “is some of that delicious smoked eel pâté you have.”

“I’m so sorry.” He shook his head. “It’s very popular— goes almost as soon as I get it in. But I’m expecting some next Tuesday. I’ll put some by for you.”

“Thank you so much,” I said. “I’ll look forward to that. I expect I’ll be back and forth to the village quite a bit now.”