The Village Newcomers (6 page)
‘Who should know what?’
‘The twins should know that Mr Palmer has died. After all, it will affect their mother.’
‘Why should Michael Palmer dying affect Caroline?’
‘Well, the twins, you know,
the twins
.’
the twins
.’
Harriet, who was more astute than Jimbo at understanding teenagers’ shorthand, said, ‘What do you know about the twins that I didn’t know you knew?’
‘Well, that . . . well, they’re the Rector’s and Suzy what’s-its, and Caroline’s not their biological mother.’
Jimbo moaned, ‘Oh my God. I didn’t know you knew. You’ve never said.’
Harriet demanded to know who had told her.
‘Oh, for goodness sake! I’ve known for years.’
Jimbo, still sitting on the floor, looked up at her and said, ‘It isn’t discussed openly amongst your crowd is it?’
‘No, but we know.’
‘You never say anything, do you, to Beth? Nor Alex?’
‘Give us credit for some sense, please. I wouldn’t dream of it.’
Harriet hugged her. ‘Of course you wouldn’t. It’s not our secret, you see.’
‘No. But it must have been big news at the time. My God! In a village like this, the gossip must have been flying round the tinned soup shelves like fury. Just wish I’d been old enough to know. People like Sheila Bissett must have had a field day.’
Jimbo and Harriet exchanged glances, both of them reflecting on the accuracy of Fran’s comments.
Harriet, who fully understood Caroline’s motives in being willing to adopt the twins, found it harder to forgive Peter. She decided to change the subject.
‘Right, well, I’m going for a box of chocolates that have been in the cupboard a whole week and never been touched. Don’t you think I’ve been good? They’re Belgian chocolates from the smart shop in Culworth, present from a grateful client.’
These diversionary tactics on Harriet’s part cut no ice with Fran. At fifteen there wasn’t much that got past her because she loved gossip as much as her dad did. In fact, she was better than him at picking up the latest news now she worked in the Store on Saturdays. She had her wilder moments when she planned how she would expand the business by starting another Store in another village. How she’d love to be in charge of it all by herself.
The three of them sat very comfortably, eating the chocolates and watching TV for at least an hour, when the doorbell rang. Jimbo got up to answer it.
Standing on the doorstep were Ford and Mercedes Barclay, dressed to kill.
‘Good evening. We’re Ford and Mercedes from Glebe House, just moved in. It’s not a social call. It’s business. May we come in? We know it’s late but we’ve been out all day and made a decision, and we want to sound you out about it.’
‘Certainly. I’m Jimbo Charter-Pl—’
‘Yes, we know, that’s why we’re here.’ This was Mercedes speaking. ‘Can we come in?’
‘Oh! Sorry, I beg your pardon. Yes, please do. Shall we sit in my study or—’
But Ford was already in the sitting room greeting Harriet. ‘My dear Mrs Charter-Plackett. I understand you are a cordon bleu chef. I’m honoured, yes,
honoured
, to meet you.’
honoured
, to meet you.’
‘Ah! Right. You must be—’
‘Ford Barclay. And this is—’
‘This is Frances. We call her Fran.’
‘What a very pretty young lady. Do you work in the business? ’
‘I’m the Saturday girl, that’s all. I’m still at school, you see.’
‘Ah! Young ladies grow up so quickly now. This is the wife, Mercedes.’
They all shook hands, then Jimbo offered them a drink.
‘Thank you. A gin and it for both of us.’
Harriet suggested they sat down. By the time the drinks had been served Mercedes was quizzing Fran about school. ‘I loved school. Do you love school?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘What’s your favourite subject?’
‘Well, I’m best at French.’
‘Oh! Hear that, Ford? Fran is best at French. She could come in useful when we go to our gite in the summer. Have you been to France?’
‘Yes, several—’ But she got no further because Ford interrupted her, so anxious was he to get on with the business he had in mind.
‘Now see here, Jimbo. I’ve heard on the village grapevine that you do catering.’
Jimbo almost choked at being reduced to ‘catering’. It seemed rather to lower his treasured gourmet standards. He nodded.
‘I understand you own the Old Barn on the estate belonging to that old man . . .’ he snapped his fingers while he tried to remember the name, ‘Craddock Fitch, and you have parties there - balls, smart lunches, weddings. That right?’
‘It most certainly is, yes. You name it, we organise it. I have the highest standards . . .’ Jimbo intended expanding on the idea but was stopped by Ford.
‘Well, I have this idea, you see. Now I’m not working I’ve got time to spare thinking up original ideas and I’ve come up with one.’
‘Right!’
‘It’s soon to be our twentieth wedding anniversary and Mercedes wants us to have an Elizabethan banquet. Different, you see, from the usual wedding anniversary party. How do you feel about it? Of course, we’d have to see the Old Barn, decide if it’s suitable for what we have in mind.’
Jimbo, ready for anything, cut in. ‘It was a Tudor barn originally; we’ve kept all mod cons as discreet as possible. Last year we had a whole cow roasting on a spit. It gave the guests a real thrill. They had roast beef for the meal but not all of it from the cow roasting outside, obviously. Logistically that wouldn’t have been possible. We served—’
Mercedes burst in. ‘Could we have serving wenches with all their bosoms showing? I’m very keen on that - makes it realistic, you see.’
By this time Harriet was almost in hysterics. Jimbo’s mind was too busy encompassing the whole idea to take in what Mercedes had said, but Fran had to leave the room before she made an exhibition of herself.
The plans were discussed for a whole hour and a half with Jimbo busy making notes, and Mercedes coming up with even more surprising ideas. Eventually Jimbo grew too tired to care. There was so much to take in. ‘Look, before we go any further, come tomorrow at 9 a.m. to see the barn and judge for yourself if it’s OK. We have a business lunch on so we must be there on time. The staff need to lay tables etcetera, because my clients have drinks at eleven-thirty and lunch at twelve. So, 9 a.m. sharp, right? In the meantime I’ll have a think. We’re well booked up, so any decisions have to be made pronto. Lovely to meet you.’ He stood up to shake hands, and finally the pair of them made their way to the door. Mercedes was still coming up with ideas as they were leaving.
Afterwards Harriet fell back in her chair exhausted. ‘God! What a pair! I need a drink after all that. Are you willing to fall in with their plans?’
‘Oh, yes! It’s the ideal venue. We’ll have Ford as the Earl of Leicester and Mercedes as Queen Elizabeth. They’ll love it. Could have some “strolling players” coming in to entertain them, couldn’t we? Mead by the gallon, though it’s very potent. We’d have to ration it as she suggests serving wenches. The whole idea is brilliant. Afterwards we could do them for the general public. Eh, what?’
‘You’re over-reaching yourself. Let’s do this first and see if it’s successful.’
‘
See
if it’s successful? What does that mean? Of course it will be successful. How can it be anything else?’
See
if it’s successful? What does that mean? Of course it will be successful. How can it be anything else?’
Harriet leant across and kissed him. ‘You’re right. I’m going to bed with my gin. Goodnight, darling.’
‘You’ll never sleep.’
‘Try me. And don’t start talking to me when you come to bed. I need my sleep even if you don’t. Write your ideas down and I’ll read them in the morning.’
On her way upstairs Harriet put her head round Fran’s door to find her still reading. ‘Fran, you really must get some sleep. It’s awfully late.’
Fran laid her book on the bedside table and snuggled down. ‘Mum, they’re not quite us, are they?’
Harriet thought about this. ‘No, not quite, but it doesn’t mean to say that diminishes them. They are very worthwhile people, even if they don’t sing from the same hymn sheet as we do.’
Fran giggled. ‘Mum, you sound just like Peter. He sees the best in everyone.’
‘Well, he’s right, isn’t he? Everyone has their slot in life, you know.’
‘I can’t stand snobs.’
‘Do you think I’m a snob?’
‘No, but Dad is.’
‘Fran!’
‘When she said about serving wenches and could they have all their bosoms showing, I thought I’d die laughing.’
‘Fun way to go! Goodnight, darling.’
At 9 a.m. sharp Jimbo was pulling up at the Old Barn, but Ford and Mercedes were there before him.
‘Early bird catches the worm. We decided not to go in until you arrived. Lovely morning, isn’t it? We can’t wait to see the barn.
‘Is it really, really old, Jimbo? Genuine?’ Mercedes asked, staring up at the old redbrick walls.
‘My word, yes. It really was an old barn, the biggest in the area. You should have seen it. There was a lot of work to do. We did a very sympathetic conversion, you see, which takes time. Let’s go in.’
Rather than let them in through the side door which the staff used, Jimbo opened up the huge main doors so they got the very best impression as they entered. It gave him a lift each time he walked in, so he knew the impact for them would be tremendous.
It silenced them, as he guessed it would. They stood open-mouthed, staring first at the soaring height of the roof and the wonderful ancient beams that supported it, the sun gloriously pouring in through the roof windows, the long, gleaming tables. Mercedes trailed appreciative fingers along the panelled walls. ‘Is this wall real? Not modern tarted up to look old?’
‘Tudor panelling taken from an old place in the City that was being pulled down to make way for a road. Criminal, really.’
Very tenderly Mercedes stroked the panelling to show her delight at its authenticity. ‘No! That
is
criminal. It’s so very beautiful.’
is
criminal. It’s so very beautiful.’
Ford was fascinated by the huge wrought-iron sconces placed strategically along the walls. ‘These candles are lit when you have a do?’ he asked.
‘Yes, we have no electric lights in this part. They’d have been intrusive.’
‘I don’t think we’d have enough friends to fill all these long tables, would we, Ford?’ said Mercedes nervously. ‘How many does it hold, seated and having a meal?’
‘One hundred and fifty at a pinch,’ Jimbo replied. ‘One hundred more comfortably, and certainly no more than that if you want a performance of some kind.’
Mercedes gasped. ‘A performance?’
‘Well, I thought about having some strolling players, wandering in to sing and dance and things, appearing to have arrived by chance, as they perhaps would do in the olden days . . . except organised, if you get my meaning. In costume, like they used to do, strolling from one town to another and giving performances to entertain the lord’s guests. And I did think of you being Queen Elizabeth, and you, Ford, as the Earl of Leicester, with all your guests in costume, too. Perhaps Mercedes could knight someone for bravery or something.’
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