Trouble in the Village (Tales from Turnham Malpas) (11 page)
Read Trouble in the Village (Tales from Turnham Malpas) Online
Authors: Rebecca Shaw
Don sat a while longer contemplating his orange juice. He’d never been a sociable man so no one bothered to come over to keep him company. After a while if they’d
been watching him they’d have seen him almost visibly come to a decision. He got up, drank his orange juice right to the bottom, banged down the glass and marched out, leaving the swing door crashing back and forth behind him.
It must have been close to eleven o’clock, because the last of the Royal Oak customers were leaving for home, when the village became aware of loud noises coming from Don’s cottage. There were horrendous hammerings, vicious bangings and huge thunderings as though someone was taking a fourteen-pound hammer to the entire contents of his cottage.
Grandmama Charter-Plackett, sitting up in bed in her silk nightgown and matching bed-jacket enjoying her nightcap of whisky and water, leaped out of bed with alarm, convinced that very soon, if not sooner, Don would be appearing through a hole in her bedroom wall. She put on her fluffy mules and her winter dressing-gown and marched down the stairs preparing for war.
When she saw the crowd gathered outside she tightened her belt and joined them. ‘Someone,’ she said, ‘must go in there and do something. The man has gone mad.’
There were murmurs from the crowd but no one stepped forward. It was as well they didn’t because the front door flew open and Don came out of it backwards dragging large pieces of wood, which jammed in the doorway and brought him to a halt. Willie, who’d been on his way upstairs to bed and had just come out to tear a strip off the person about to disturb his sleep, offered his help.
‘’Ere, let me give you a hand.’ Between them they freed the wood and got it out in the road. ‘Now, what’s all this?
You can’t be a-doing of this now. It’s eleven o’clock. We’re all off to bed.’
Don simply climbed over the wood and back into the house where the banging began all over again.
Grandmama asked, ‘Is the Rector in?’
Willie shook his head. ‘Gone to a meeting in Gloucester. Should be back any time, though.’
‘Then who’s going to put a stop to it? He’s gone mad. Quite mad.’ She looked imperiously around the crowd to find several of them avoiding her eyes and others looking very sheepishly at her. Windows were opening, voices calling out asking what was going on and could they keep quiet. Two weekenders came out to see which of the local yokels had finally gone mad, and were obviously looking forward to some good entertainment.
‘In that case, then, I shall have to go in. Though what you men are made of I cannot begin to imagine.’
Sylvia protested. ‘Mrs Charter-Plackett, I don’t think it’s fit for you to …’
But she was already climbing over the wood.
The front door led straight into the sitting room, a sitting room stacked on every surface with the contents of the kitchen cupboards. Don was in the kitchen at the back. Inside the house the noise was ear-bending. She couldn’t actually get into the kitchen because pieces of wood were flying off his hammer in her direction as he attacked the dresser right by the door, but she recognised the terrible desperation which had triggered his lunatic attack: telling him to stop would only increase the frenzy. Sweat was rolling down his face, a puce-coloured face which caused her extreme anxiety about whether or not he would see the
night through without having a heart-attack. Telling him off would be like putting a match to a very short fuse. When he paused to get his breath she shouted, ‘Mr Wright! It’s me from next door. I’ve just called to see if everything’s all right?’ Looking into the kitchen she added, ‘My word, you have been busy. What a good idea. Just what it needed. Shall I give you a hand getting it all out? Here, you get the other end of this piece and between us we’ll take it out, then you’ll have more room to work.’
When the banging stopped those outside had smirked at each other, imagining the dressing-down Don would be receiving, but when Grandmama appeared backwards out of the door heaving another large piece of wood out on to the road they couldn’t believe their eyes. She threw it on to the pile and marched back in without a word.
Taking their cue from her there followed a glorious united effort from everyone to rid Don and Vera’s kitchen of every single last inch of shelving and cupboard: the sink and the cooker and the fridge-freezer were all dragged out too. Under Grandmama’s instruction some marched in and out removing the results of Don’s manic attack, others stayed outside stacking the remnants of the kitchen as they were brought out, while Don continued to swing the hammer. Finally the entire kitchen was outside on the road.
‘Well,’ said someone under their breath, ‘that lot’s what I call rubbish and no mistake. That cooker isn’t even good enough for Culworth Museum. As for the cupboards! And that table and chairs! Every leg ready to fall off any minute, and not a decent lick of paint left on ’em!’
‘Wait till Vera hears!’
To their final astonishment they heard Grandmama
inviting Don round for breakfast. ‘You can’t even boil a kettle in there now, so, I breakfast at eight thirty prompt on Sundays and you’ll be more than welcome.’
For the first time since the whole episode had begun Don spoke. ‘Thank you, Missus, eight thirty it is. Goodnight.’
It had always been recognised that they broke the mould after Mrs Charter-Plackett was born, but to their total amazement as the church bells rang out for the ten o’clock service on Sunday morning and everyone was making their way to church, she topped even her Saturday night performance. They were stunned to see Grandmama Charter-Plackett, a scarf tied over her summer going-to-church hat to secure it against the wind, graciously waving to them from Don’s sidecar and the two of them steaming down the Culworth Road as though the hounds of hell were after them. And, yes, it was true then, they had cleared Don and Vera’s kitchen out, right to the bare walls, because there was the evidence for all to see, still stacked outside the door.
‘Boss in?’
‘If you mean Mr Charter-Plackett, yes, he is.’
‘Can I have a word?’
She looked him up and down. ‘Heck! What’s happened to you? Surprise, surprise! Quite the country gent, aren’t we?’
‘Cut the sarcasm, Linda. You should have married me instead of that creep you call husband, then you’d have been sharing in my good fortune.’
Linda flushed. She’d always known people thought of her Alan as a present day Uriah Heep but to have it said outright, on a Monday morning too, was a bit much. ‘Nasty sod! I’d a lot rather be married to him than a no-good like you.’
‘Watch your tongue, you. I might need a stamp or two and I’m not having a cheeky bitch serving me.’
‘Didn’t know you could write.’
‘There’s no law that says I’m compelled to serve you.’
‘No? We’ll see about that.’ Being securely locked in her post-office section, according to regulations, he’d no means of getting to her other than unlocking her door. He slotted his fingers through the wire triangles around the door lock as though intending to gain entry. His furious rattling alarmed her and she pressed her panic button.
Jimbo, busy in the mail-order office in the absence of Mrs Jones, sprang into action picking up as he ran the rounders bat he kept for the purpose. When he saw Kenny collapsed with laughter propped against the stationery shelves Jimbo felt disappointed. He was just in the mood for confrontation.
‘What the blazes, Linda? It’s only Kenny.’
‘Only Kenny! He was rattling the door trying to get in here.’
‘Were you?’
‘Only kidding, just to get her going.’
‘It’s not funny, Kenny, not funny at all.’
‘Sorry. But she was impudent to me. Refused to serve me.’
‘I didn’t, you didn’t ask.’
‘I said I might.’
‘Well, there is no law that says I must.’
Jimbo interrupted, ‘There’s the law according to Jimbo. That says you must.’
‘Does it indeed? Insulting he was to my Alan. Real insulting, and I won’t stand for it.’
Aware that another row with Linda was looming, which might end with him sacking her yet again, Jimbo turned his attention to Kenny. ‘What’s the reason for your appearance at this early hour?’
Kenny nodded his head in the direction of the back office. ‘Can I have a private word?’
‘If it’s about your mother getting her job back, no, you can’t. She isn’t. Full stop.’
‘But –’
‘Sorry, but no. I’ve put a notice in the window advertising her job and the first suitable applicant to walk through that door gets it.’
‘But she’s done a good job here. I know she has.’
‘Agreed. But she isn’t coming back.’
‘You can’t sack people like that nowadays.’
‘I have done.’
‘We’ll take you to a tribunal.’
‘You will? Try me. Behaviour prejudicial to the good conduct of my business.’
‘Sod off! You think ’cos you’ve got money you can throw your weight around, well, just you wait and see. Next it’ll be Kenny Jones with money and then I’ll get my own back on you.’
‘That’s likely. What money I have I’ve got through sheer hard graft and that’s something you know nothing about.’
‘Then you’re daft. There’s ways!’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Anyway, you’ll regret sacking my mother, just you wait and see.’ He prodded the air with his index finger and stepped closer to Jimbo.
Jimbo raised the rounders bat. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Me? No! Threatening you? Certainly not.’ He laughed, made a rude two-finger gesture to Linda and slammed the door behind him.
‘Oh, Mr Charter-Plackett, you are brave. The no-good disgusting slob that he is. Wait till my Alan hears about this!’
‘I should advise your Alan to steer clear. He isn’t a match for someone like Kenny Jones.’
The slight on her Alan’s capacity for standing up to that loathsome slob upset Linda and she burst into tears. ‘Let me out! Let me out!’
‘You’ve got the keys.’
‘Oh, yes!’ She unlocked herself and fled into the back. Jimbo threw his hands up in despair.
‘God! What have I done to deserve this? Linda! Linda!’ He locked the post-office door and, taking the keys with him, followed her through and put the kettle on. A cup of tea always did the trick with Linda.
Kenny, angry because he’d hadn’t succeeded in getting his mother’s job back for her, realised he’d gone about it in totally the wrong way. Men like Jimbo appreciated good manners and civility and he should have remembered that, like he had done when he asked Sir Ralph to let him rent the house. He really would have to curb his tongue. No good wearing the smart new clothes if the man inside didn’t fit them.
He wandered across to the church. Pushing open the main door he recalled his conversation with Muriel. That had been pleasant and he’d managed it very well. Given her such a good account of himself that he’d made her feel better about him. Almost sympathetic she’d been.
He went to sit in the church to wait for Tom.
Tom had a big rubbish bag in his hand and was going round the churchyard collecting up the dead flowers from the graves, and generally casting his eye about for any imperfections which might offend the Rector. He hadn’t had a
chance to speak to him yet but no doubt he’d be in later this morning to see what was what. Of course he’d have been in for his early prayers before most people had opened their eyes and then off for his morning run. Such discipline. Such dedication.
He leaned against a headstone and thought. Thought about how much he loved this place. Never imagined in all his life he’d come to such a position. Verger of St Thomas à Becket! Men he’d worked with in the past would have reeled about laughing at the thought. Let ’em. He had the last laugh. He had the peace, the comfort. The trees waving in the breeze, the flowers flowering, the grass growing, the pulse of life at his fingertips. Yes! He wouldn’t swap it for all the money in the world. There’d felt to be something so right about buying the house in this sleepy village. He likened himself and Evie to a ship crossing the stormy oceans, plunging through wild waves as high as mountains and finally coming into a safe haven at last. He liked that idea and ruminated on it for a while.
The only fly in the ointment was Kenny. A blast from the past. He shook his head and decided not to dwell on him.
Straightening himself up he went off to the very back of the churchyard to try out the gate which led to the grounds of the Big House. It swung easily on its hinges now he’d used WD40 on it, useful stuff. Satisfying that. He stroked the old timbers of the gate. Nobody used it now, but it was nice to keep such a lovely old gate in good fettle. Better get on. According to Willie’s schedule, it was the day for polishing the pews. With the rain just beginning to come down it seemed an appropriate time for doing it, and he was looking forward to it.
He went through into the church, faced the altar and bowed his head as part of his ritual for keeping Lady Luck on his side. He prised the lid off the tin and dipped a cloth into the polish. Must take care to rub it all off, otherwise they’d all be complaining about polish on their clothes. Absorbed in his task he whistled a hymn tune and looked forward to a rewarding morning’s work. The church clock struck quarter past ten. Nice that. Glad they’d got it mended. He pondered what Evie might have put in his lunchbox. If it was one of her good days it would be appetising, if not he wouldn’t fancy anything she’d put in and he’d have to tip it in the bin and say nothing … He smelt smoke. Cigar smoke. He looked up and there was Kenny, sitting at the back, his feet propped on the pew in front.
‘Morning.’
‘Have some respect, Kenny, if you please.’
After a pause Kenny very slowly removed his feet from the pew and sat up, taking another drag on his cigar as he did so.
‘And the cigar. You know we’re not allowed to smoke in here.’
‘I haven’t finished it yet.’
‘Well, stub it out.’
‘On the pew?’
‘Well?’
‘What’s up?’
‘What’s up? You tell me.’
‘I’ve nothing to say.’
Kenny leaned an elbow on the top of the pew in front of him to get closer to Tom. ‘What the blazes
are
you doing here?’
‘Making a real life for myself. All I want is leaving alone.’
‘You call this a real life? God! Tom, you must have lost your marbles.’
‘No, I haven’t. It’s what Evie and I want. We’ve never been happier.’
Kenny shrugged his shoulders. ‘Each to his own.’
‘Exactly. Now buzz off and let me get on.’
Kenny leered. ‘Pity about Ron and Sheila.’
When Tom looked closely into Kenny’s eyes he found they were giving nothing away. ‘Surprising how you can get beaten up and you’ve done nothing at all to deserve it. Not fair, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Could have been killed.’
‘Yes. They could.’
‘Good morning, Tom.’ Kenny got to his feet, picked up the parcel beside him on the seat and left.
Tom eased the collar of his overalls away from his throat, and felt the sweat trickling down his neck. Picking up the lid of the polish tin he carried it to the outside wheelie-bin
and tipped the stub in. There were flecks of ash left behind so Tom brushed them away, and wished he could brush Kenny away as easily.
Tom took his lunchbox home. Evie was eating silently on a seat in the garden.
‘Thought I’d have mine at home with you.’ He put his box beside her and sat down. The sun, though warm, wasn’t really quite warm enough to sit outside but that was Evie all over. If she wanted to eat outside she would, even in the depths of winter.
‘Bit cold for you.’
Evie nodded.
‘Happy?’
Evie nodded again, shielding her eyes against the sun to watch a robin pecking at crumbs.
‘Grand little chap. Nice to have time to watch him.’
Evie smiled.
‘Been working this morning?’
Evie gave him the thumbs up.
‘Good. Nearly finished the Nativity?’
‘Yes.’
Rewarded at last with an answer Tom said, ‘Good. Good.’
‘I’ve got an idea for the next one.’
‘Excellent. You could have an exhibition.’
‘No, not an exhibition.’
‘Why not? It could trigger off this embroidery class Sheila’s keen on.’ Remembering Sheila brought Kenny to mind. Tom, impatient with himself, stood up and headed
towards the house. He put the kettle on, made them a coffee each and went back to Evie.
‘Is it your sugar day? It had better be because I’ve put it in without asking.’
Evie gave him one of her infrequent smiles.
‘Kenny’s been round to see me.’
Evie began to shake. Her coffee spilt out of her mug and scalded her hand.
‘Don’t worry, now. You’re not to get worried. Here, let me take your mug. There, there. Now, now.’ He put an arm round her shoulders. ‘I wish I’d never said.’
‘You won’t, will you, Tom? You won’t.’
‘No. You’ve got my promise on that.’
‘I can’t bear it starting all over again.’
‘It won’t. I made a promise.’
Tom kissed the side of her head, smoothed her hair back from her face and kissed her cheek. ‘You and me’s all right, Evie, believe me.’ He sank his teeth into a piece of Evie’s flapjack. It was so hard he thought for a nasty minute he’d broken a tooth.
When Tom returned to church after his lunch Peter was in the vestry. ‘Ah! Tom!’
‘Good afternoon to you, Rector. Had a good holiday? Nice to see you back. Never quite the same without you in the Rectory.’
‘Yes, I have. Thank you.’
Tom looked at him and decided he’d got some of his old energy back. ‘Nothing happened since you went. Downright dull it’s been.’
‘Not dull enough. I smelt cigar smoke in here when I walked in. You don’t smoke, do you, Tom?’