Regret to Inform You... (3 page)

‘Surely a night to remember,' smiled Eleanor, who had been Peter's major helper in setting up the reading room. She had done her best to ensure that some of the books might appeal to the younger females in the village, in spite of some early snide comments at her efforts. ‘And mentioning the success of that football team was very kind with some of the lads being there. I remember Peter telling me how you used to support the team, Arthur. Of course, that was just before we met and I'm sorry I never got to see the school's great success on the football field. Altogether, a lovely evening.'

‘Indeed, it was. Thank you dear, for all your preparation at the school,' smiled Arthur, ‘you all made it a wonderful evening.'

They prepared for bed; the Revd Arthur Windle first retiring to his small dressing room, book-lined and less than tidy. He first jotted down notes of things that had occurred to him during the day for inclusion in the coming Sunday service: prayers must be given for God's protection of the brave young men that had just set off from Liverpool on their way to Canada. He thought about the newly appointed schoolmaster to take over from his friend Peter; then, his meeting the next evening attempting to improve the village street lighting, hoping that he could lead people round the usual disagreements that were notorious among the lighting board members. Finally, he reflected on the letter he had received that morning from the bishop's palace.

He
knelt down in front of the simple wooden cross, one of the few gifts from his father who had brought it back from some foreign place, and prayed: ‘Be with me God when I meet with the bishop. In truth you know that I would be sad to leave this village, but if you are speaking through the bishop to tell me to move on, may I fulfil that with determination and service to you. Your will, not mine be done. Amen.'

This tall, misleadingly austere-looking man of God crossed himself, got slowly to his feet, undressed and retired to bed; the moon cutting a narrow band of light across the bed. His arm went round his beloved Eleanor who turned towards him, gave her loving smile and kissed him. He was awake long after she had fallen asleep and, in spite of a joyful evening, he was a rather troubled man.

T
HREE

Evening, Friday, 22 March

The George, a small and sparsely furnished cottage, was of indeterminate age. One of three small public houses in Rusfield, it owed its offer of ‘a room to sleep' to a badly written notice in the window for the unsuspecting traveller. In need of a fresh coat of paint, both inside and out, it still had its share of regular drinkers and being close to the school, Willy Johnson had suggested that the six friends pop in after the farewell event for the schoolmaster. Whether or not there was a legal age for drinking barely mattered to John Harrowell; he had a high regard for the six young lads who had brought glory to the village and in making an addition to his takings.

The room in which the six pulled up chairs around an unenthusiastic fire was draughty, gloomy and low ceilinged. The stocky and ever-cheerful Willy had always been the recognised leader of these lifelong friends, thus the natural captain of the school football team. Not renowned at school for being an academic, he had charm, tenacity and an ability to bring peace to arguments; everyone knew that once he set his mind on something, his terrier-like qualities generally won the day.

‘It was good of old Meadowman to mention the team, if it hadn't been for his coaching we would never have made
it,'
Willy said as their full mugs of beers were passed around, just Albert Jones with lemonade. ‘He doesn't seem to have changed since we left and that look of his tonight was just like the times he dished out punishments. Anyway, it's great being together again. Long time since that happened.'

They sat quietly for a moment, each recalling times shared in the past. ‘Remember,' said Jammy Carey whose calloused hands revealed the heavy work of this muscular, well-tanned builder, ‘how we used to meet in old Fatty Jackson's barn at Pond Corner, mess about and share what we thought were dirty jokes. It's a shame the others couldn't be here tonight. I know Tom and Copper are working in London and I guess the others just didn't get to hear about Meadowman's retirement or weren't interested.' He turned his stocky frame and looked at Fred Smith for he, along with the others, always felt for their friend's hard life. No father and Liz, his mother, taking in endless washing to raise enough money for the two of them and her own elderly and sick mother. At least with Fred working at Joe Bacon's smithy, the money situation had greatly improved. ‘What have you been up to lately, Fred?'

‘Not a lot, we've been going through a thin time with horse shoeing.' He glanced across at Willy for all knew that they were the very closest of friends. ‘Willy is amazing, he knows so much about these things. Last Sunday we wandered across Bramrose Hill and good old Willy again tried to help me name some of the trees and plants that are just coming into bud, but best of all, and even I knew this from one of the school bird books, we saw a couple of buzzards circling high up. I thought they'd all been wiped out.'

‘You're right,' chipped in Willy, his kind, weather-worn and strong features always evident. ‘Let's hope they've come back for good. Since that bugger de Maine up at the big house imagines that even crows and jackdaws are a danger to his pheasants and shoots them, we'll have to keep an eye on him. Mind you, his son, Lionel, isn't much better. If he thinks he'll
do
anything about the buzzards I'll really sort him out. Lose my job up there, or not.' The others all knew that he meant just that. ‘How's your job, Boney, going at the brewery?'

‘All right,' his tall friend replied, ‘it's only seasonal, but we're kept busy most of the time, ‘specially when the harvest comes in. I'll be fine for a month or so although it's pretty boring at the moment cleaning all the machinery. A few weeks ago poor old Walter Mayling had his hand badly mashed up and I can't see him being able to work at such a job again. Not as bad as my dad's accident, but bad enough. They are not nice people to work for, but then a job's a job. But that's enough about me. You're the one who's becoming famous, Racer, how are things with you?'

The handsome, well-bronzed and charming Abraham Richards smiled in his usual modest way. ‘Oh, I'm a very lucky one. It's healthy working on the farm and Mr Mansfield, my boss, lets me have time off to run which I can usually make up at weekends or in the summer evenings. He even took me in his car to a couple of races last year. It's all going very well, thank you.'

‘So tell ‘em Racer about your fastest time,' interjected the baby-faced, red-haired and normally quiet Jack Atkins. ‘You know, when I came and watched.'

‘Well, it was nothing special,' replied Racer. ‘I managed 51.8 for the quarter mile in the season's last race in September last year and I certainly hope to beat that this year. The track last time was grass, but I'm up at Stamford Bridge in London in August and the track there is cinder and should be a lot faster. I hope to manage something around or just below 51 seconds.'

‘Well,' said the ever-supportive Jack, ‘you should be in the Olympics in the summer.'

‘No chance of that, although I'd love to go to Stockholm. I hear that a couple of Americans have managed around 48 seconds for 400 metres and that's only a couple of yards
shorter
than what I do in three seconds more. That's some going. No Stockholm for me, although I'm determined to try for the team at the Olympics in four years.'

He raised himself slowly from his chair and the others watched as he poked the fire and put on an extra log. The immediate warmth from the burning logs replicated the warmth that each of them felt in their first get-together for all too long. Since knowing each other from a very young age, they had always rejoiced in each other's achievements, jealousy never seemed to rear its ugly head. Living so close to each other, their parents had always been friends, as had their grandparents. Willy, Boney and Abraham were cousins, a relationship much repeated in the tight network of village families. It was sometimes like sharing each other's parents as well as having one's own and when there was a family sadness that, too, was shared. They all knew that Jack's father, Edward Atkins, had been killed in a terrible thunderstorm and how all the community had given huge support to Olivia, his lovely widow.

The six went on to swap stories of their schooldays, recent family and village news, as although most lived at home still, work gave them little time to all meet up.

‘Do you know,' chipped in Jammy Carey, ‘I've sometimes felt a bit ashamed of some of the things we used to get up to.'

‘Like what?' asked Racer.

‘Well, like the time we moved old Grumpy Grout's privy.'

‘I don't know about that one,' intervened Jack Atkins.

‘Well,' went on Jammy who had first mentioned this old exploit, ‘you remember old Grumpy whose cottage backed on to the pond? He always seemed a miserable old devil anyway, but I'd been ticked off by him for skimming some stones across the pond. I know it didn't involve you, Jack, but Fred, Boney and I decided we'd play a bit of a trick on him. At that time Grumpy's privy was a small shed in his rear garden that backed right on to the pond. We all knew that he went to The
Queens
Head every night, so during the evening we slipped into his back garden and managed to lift the privy up and turn it right round, so the door almost hung over the pond. We then waited nearby. Eventually old Grumpy came home and, just as we knew he would, he walked down his garden to the privy. Of course, he couldn't understand what had happened as he obviously couldn't get inside it.'

‘So what happened next?' asked Racer who had certainly not heard this one before.

‘Well, he just went and pissed in the pond. A bit disappointing really,' answered Jammy. ‘Poor old Grumpy.'

‘Well, I never knew about that, though of course, I remember Grumpy Grout well enough. One thing I must tell you,' continued Racer, ‘as I expect you know Mr Mansfield always has a party night just before Easter at Spinney Farm. He says it's his way of thanking everyone. It's always on the Wednesday before Easter. He says that as there aren't so many workers now that he's brought in more machinery, we can each take along three or four friends. So, how about it? It will be a good evening, anything up to fifty people.'

Jammy Carey knew he could not make the event as he would still be in Ilford working on a building site that had to be finished by the end of April, but the rest thought they could manage it and agreed on a seven o'clock meet up in The George.

‘We can then all walk up to Spinney Farm,' added Racer. ‘There will be plenty of beer, some girls if we're lucky. You've got a good voice, Boney, so we can rely on you for our singsong.'

Other things they had done were recounted. Jammy Carey, who had spent much of the time since leaving school working away from the village, asked about the vicar's wife. ‘I hadn't really seen her before. She is beautiful. Do you have to be a man of the cloth to get a wife like that?' There were smiles and laughs; Jammy's interest in girls had started well before
leaving
school, although all of them had regularly swapped stories about village girls, tales often exaggerated. Before long their evening came to an end with warm handshakes as they left, either singly or with friends. All of them had jobs to go to the next day, even though it was a Saturday.

That they were now not able to meet together so regularly probably caused them to be a little out of practice in sharing each other's troubles: Fred, worrying about his overworked and sickly mother; Willy, of his beloved sister Ruby; and Boney Jones about his injured father who would probably never be able to work again. Most surprisingly, was a very worried Racer Richards who had recently been approached by an unknown, but obviously unpleasant character who offered him £5 to lose his next race, or face the consequences.

Racer's parents had been particularly kind to Jack's mother when her husband had been killed, so it was natural that the two boys had become great friends almost as soon as they could walk to each other's home. On leaving The George, Racer made certain that he and Jack set out together on the short walk home. A few minutes later these close friends were deep in conversation, Jack's normal, smiling face changing to a deep frown.

F
OUR

Morning, Thursday, 28 March

The sky remained a leaden grey, the drizzle falling on the following Thursday morning as Arthur let himself out of the vicarage. He had taken particular care in dressing for the occasion; Eleanor had insisted on ironing his clerical shirt, frock coat and trousers and with his moustache neatly trimmed and his thick, fair hair suitably parted, she had said how proud she was of him as they parted with a kiss.

The thirty-mile journey to the bishop's palace in Canchester would take until mid-morning, so an early start was necessary. The old, rather battered Georgian clock in the hall was showing a few minutes to seven o'clock as he let himself out. He put up his umbrella, wishing he had chosen rather more suitable footwear, but galoshes would hardly be suitable wear to visit the bishop.

Although he was a well-known figure cycling around the village on pastoral visits, the state of the road to Steepleton and the continuing rain, made such a start inappropriate for his appointment. He was delighted to see that the bowler-hatted and full-bearded Sparky Carey, no one knew why this nickname, was outside with a pony and cart. He seemed able to get his hands on most things needed by villagers and, whatever doubt some may have had about his total
honesty,
his redeeming quality of kindness was a byword in Rusfield.