Trouble in the Village (Tales from Turnham Malpas) (9 page)
Read Trouble in the Village (Tales from Turnham Malpas) Online
Authors: Rebecca Shaw
‘Darling!’
‘Hush! Let me finish. I know now that given a little more time the old Caroline you once knew will be back. Can you wait for her?
‘I can. I’m sorry to have left you like I did, but I couldn’t cope any longer.’
‘You’d every right, I behaved abominably. I must have been out of my head. In fact today I am positively cringing about what happened. When I went to church the morning Hugo left and I saw the love and the compassion you were offering me in front of everyone …’ Caroline shook her head. ‘It was only because I had died inside that I couldn’t accept it, and it’s only everyone else’s love for you which has saved my bacon over this.’
‘They love you too.’
‘Only because I stand in your shadow.’
‘Leaving you was selfish, I thought only of myself and my own pain.’
‘Not before time. Everyone needs to put themselves first some time or other in their lives.’
Very tentatively he stretched out his hand to touch her hair. He fingered the soft dark curls above her forehead, trailed the back of his finger along her jawline, traced the outline of her mouth; his finger excessively gentle.
‘Whatever happens, you are the great love of my life and always will be. I’ve read somewhere the line “you are the
beat of my heart” and you are, just that. I’ve pined for your touch.’
Caroline pushed his knees wider so she could kneel between them and get closer to him. ‘Pine no more.’
They put their arms around each other and held each other close, not speaking. The simple humane gesture of hugging each other made them both feel cherished, and it comforted and nourished each of them more than words could ever have done.
After a time Caroline said, ‘It’ll be a while before things are as they were before, but we’ll get there, I know that now, given time.’ She sat back on her heels and asked, ‘You love me still despite everything?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you’re on my side about this hedge business?’
‘Of course.’
‘God bless you then. Welcome home. Had the children gone to bed when you got back?’
‘No. I saw them both.’
Caroline placed a hand on his cheek. ‘They have missed you.’
‘Have you?’
‘Now you’re here I realise I have. But, like I said, it’s going to be a while before I get my life with you completely sorted out, you understand what I’m saying?’ Very tenderly Caroline saluted him by kissing his mouth, then in a businesslike tone said, ‘However, first things first. This campaign …’
First thing the next morning Peter went up to the Big House and insisted upon seeing Mr Fitch. He held up his
hand when the receptionist said he was too busy saying, ‘I insist. It’s important.’
‘Very well, Rector. I’ll go plead your case.’ Succumbing as always to his masculinity she twinkled her fingers at him and disappeared into Mr Fitch’s study returning in a moment saying, ‘He’ll see you now.’
Peter towered above Mr Fitch but in no way at all did it intimidate the man. They shook hands and Peter seated himself in a chair.
‘Good morning, Rector, nice to have you back with us again. Had a good holiday? Good. Good. What can I do for you?’
‘I came home last night to find Caroline was at a protest meeting. I understand you had left just before I arrived so you don’t need me to tell you what it was about.’
Mr Fitch nodded. ‘I know. So they’ve sent you to persuade me otherwise, have they?’
‘No one sends me anywhere I don’t want to go.’ Peter left a silence.
Mr Fitch tolerated it with an amused smile on his face until eventually it was he who gave in. ‘One of your well-known silences won’t trick me into giving in. I’m not one of your parishioners.’
‘Oh, but you are, Craddock. You live here and if you never darken the door of my church you are still in my care. Like it or not you are.’
Mr Fitch shuffled in his chair and settled himself more comfortably. ‘So?’
‘As it is obviously a commercial decision, what is there in it for you pulling down this hedge?’
‘What possible commercial benefit could I get from pulling down a hedge which is good to neither man nor beast and for which I can’t find anyone with the skill to attend to it as it should be attended to? It’s fast becoming an eyesore and it needs dealing with.’
‘You tell me.’ Peter waited and so too did Mr Fitch.
Eventually Mr Fitch said, ‘All at my expense, please note. I did intend putting the fence a little further into Rector’s Meadow so that your access to the garages would be wider and it would make life easier. Of course, the fact that I am losing two or three feet of my own land is nothing in anyone’s eyes I expect.’
‘We like it as it is. That end of Pipe and Nook is perfectly adequate for our needs. We enjoy the cut and thrust of squeezing our cars past if someone else is in the lane.’
Mr Fitch shrugged his shoulders. ‘Stuff and nonsense.’
‘So, I can’t change your mind. Not even if I find someone who could tackle the hedge and put it to rights?’
‘No. I’m sticking to my guns on this one.’ But he couldn’t meet Peter’s eye and Peter guessed he was getting too close for comfort to Mr Fitch’s real reasons.
A wider lane, better access, what did that add up to? For the moment he couldn’t answer his own question so Peter decided to fire his broadside and leave. He stood up and leaned his hands on the desk. ‘Please think again. There are more things in life than money; qualities like love and affection and admiration and loyalty. The village is intensely loyal as I have found in the past, isn’t that worth something to you? It is to me. Ask yourself what your relationship with
them really is right now.’ He didn’t get an answer. ‘I can tell you if you don’t know. They will take with both hands anything you offer, they’ll thank you and then go home and mock at your generosity, simply because they don’t care a fig for the man who is doing the giving. Wouldn’t it be immensely worthwhile to have their enduring affection and admiration?’
Peter shut the door behind him as quietly as he could.
‘Them in white overalls ’ave been through it three times now. I reckon they suspect something serious.’
‘Couldn’t be more serious, could it, with Sheila and Ron nearly killed?’
‘One thing for certain they won’t find any dust. Sheila, bless ’er, might have her faults, but dust isn’t one of ’em.’
‘All right you saying “bless ’er”, that wasn’t what you said that time when she put the flower arrangement you’d done for the festival right at the back and no one couldn’t see it.’
‘Well, I know, but she ’ad a cheek, ’adn’t she?’
‘Comes to mind you called ’er something disgusting.’
‘You would have to bring that up right now, wouldn’t
you? Just show some respect.’ A large car pulled up and out of it stepped the well-dressed man who’d been interviewing everyone since the first day.
To the assembled crowd he said, ‘Excuse me! There’s nothing to see, I think it might be best to move on.’ He went into the house without waiting to see if they did what he asked.
‘That’s Detective Superintendent Proctor from Culworth CID. Our Kev says …’
Someone raised their eyes to the sky and said scathingly, ‘As if we didn’t know. He’s practically lived here since the attack.’
‘That’s ’im what came when the Baxter sister kidnapped poor little Flick, isn’t it? Remember? ’Cept he was Inspector then. I don’t think he’s got anyone left he could interview. Course, he could always start questioning Sheila’s cat if he’s short of clues. Just think what Topsy could tell if she could talk.’
‘Where is her cat, by the way?’
‘At the Rectory. Dr Harris took her in. They aren’t half taking it seriously, yer know. After all, it was only a burglary that went wrong, not like it was a gangland revenge for something. I mean, Sheila and Ron aren’t those kind of people, are they? Come on.’
‘I ’ave ’eard a rumour that they’re thinking of opening up the police house and us ’aving our own constable again.’
‘Really? Well, not before time. That Kenny Jones and their Terry need a policeman all of their own.’ She nudged her companion and winked significantly.
They drew closer together. ‘What d’yer mean?’
‘You know my Amanda? Well, she goes clubbing up in
town – them in Culworth think they’ve got brilliant clubs but she says they’re nothing to the ones she goes to – and she’s seen the two of ’em these last few weeks hanging about, two and three o’clock in the morning.’
‘No! That’s where …’ She thrust out her chest and, hand on hip, imitated a provocative walk. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Exactly, and they have had a lot of money just lately, haven’t they? Renting the cottage and that and buying furniture. So are they pimps or what?’
‘A bit of stealing’s all well and good, but pimping! ’Ow low can yer sink?’
‘Might as well be off, there’s nothing going on ’ere. We’ve run out of Ovaltine and our Amanda loves a cup before she goes to bed. Coming?’
‘Might as well. Pimping though. I bet their mother doesn’t know.’
‘And if Mrs Jones did know, what could she do about it?’
They both wandered into the Store, one to the shelf where the Ovaltine was kept and the other to look around to see what kind of a treat she could buy for her lunch, both of them relaying their conclusions about Kenny Jones and their Terry to anyone who would listen. It was their misfortune that Mrs Jones had come through from her mail-order office to collect a jar of apricot preserve. ‘I’ve run out, Mr Charter-Plackett, so is it all right if I take one from the shelves in the Store?’
‘Of course. I thought you’d rung the woman who makes it and told her we were running short?’
‘I have, last week, but it’s not arrived.’
Jimbo’s lips tightened. ‘It won’t do. That’s the second time she’s let us down.’
The listener nearest to her burst into hysterical laughter, which Mrs Jones immediately choked at source by bringing her arm back and smacking her hard across her face. What had been a bustling cheery morning, busy with customers from Little Derehams and Penny Fawcett as well as Turnham Malpas, turned instantly to chaos. Tins flew from shelves, packets cascaded to the floor, customers clutched the freezer cabinets as they tried to prevent themselves from being knocked down by Mrs Jones’ flailing arms. Her intended victim scuttled between the shelves desperately trying to avoid being caught by this friendly neighbour turned raving lunatic. Linda, safe though she was behind her grille, took to screaming; at the till Bel made for cover as the customer she was serving took a lunge at Mrs Jones, who was hurtling by in pursuit of the woman who had maligned her boys. ‘How dare you! How dare you! My boys aren’t pimps! I know they’re not.’
The attack continued right the way around the Store: hardly a shelf or a display escaped destruction. Finally by the stationery Mrs Jones caught hold of the front of the woman’s cardigan with both hands and shook her violently. ‘That’s disgusting that is. Disgusting! You foul-mouthed old
bitch
!’ Bursting into tears, Mrs Jones fled from the chaos
she’d created into her office at the back, and left behind her a stunned and shattered collection of shoppers.
For a moment there was complete silence and then uproar ensued. The customer on the receiving end of her wrath cried, heartbroken, on Bel’s shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t mind, I never said a word! Not a word!’ The two who’d started the ball rolling by accusing the Jones boys of being pimps crept quietly out, while others began picking up the tins and packets which had flown from the shelves and the rest pulled themselves together and tried to continue collecting their shopping.
Jimbo stood arms akimbo, for once lost for words. His straw boater askew, his moustache bristling with temper, he viewed the ruin of his beautiful Store and vowed Mrs Jones would have to go. He went to go in to the back to tell her so before he changed his mind.
The Store was a shambles. Linda came out from the post-office section and began putting the stationery back on the shelves, Bel went to start tidying the fruit and vegetables: apples and oranges and pears had rolled all over the floor to say nothing of the grapes, which had been stamped on and flattened and therefore posed a danger. Anyone coming in at that moment would have thought the fight of the century had just taken place.
‘Go out through the back. I don’t want to see you on these premises again. Never!’ Jimbo’s loud voice boomed round the mail-order office and Mrs Jones cowered. ‘Never, do you hear? A brilliant career in mail order has just ended. I will not have my business ruined in this manner. I shall send what I owe you at the end of the month. After that your name will be
expunged
from my records, never to be seen
again. You understand? You’re not even to shop here.’ He turned on his heel and left her perched on her beloved stool, quivering with the shock of what her temper had brought about. The humiliation! Mrs Jones fingered the marking pen she was so fond of, the address book she loved with the glorious roses in full bloom on the cover, the fancy sticky labels with the pattern of summer fruits around the edge which she’d introduced, and the stapler, red and businesslike, which had always given her such pleasure when she used it.
She picked up her cardigan and bag, looked round her well-stocked shelves and remembered Jimbo always lodging his boater on top of the jars of chutney while the two of them had a policy meeting, and her eyes filled with tears again. Such an understanding man, but where his business was concerned … All this lost because she’d sprung into action, as usual, in defence of her boys. What mother wouldn’t? But suggesting they were pimps!
She marched round to Hipkin Gardens and shouted through the letterbox of number six, ‘It’s your mother. Come on, open up, I know you’re in!’ While she waited for one of the boys to open the door she had a good squint at the inside. She could see they’d had carpet laid and that looked like a new table to the right of the door.
Peering through the letterbox at the same time as hammering on the door she eventually saw Kenny’s stockinged feet coming down the stairs.
‘About time!’
She did him the courtesy of waiting until the front door was safely shut before she began her tirade rounding it off with ‘So now because of you I’ve lost my job. Them saying
something like that about my boys! I was wild.’ Kenny shook his head. ‘Saying you and our Terry were pimps! As if my boys would be involved in such a filthy business. Pimps! I almost died of shame. What your father will have to say I don’t know.’
‘Well, he’s never said anything all my life so I don’t expect he’ll start now.’ Kenny leaned forward and with his eyes only inches from hers he said, ‘We are not pimps! Right! So you can go and put those nosy old besoms right on that score. See?’
‘That’s what I said. I said you weren’t. But I’ve lost my job for ever. He meant what he said. Nicest job I’ve ever done. I’m not allowed in there even to shop, let alone to work.’
Kenny rubbed his eyes and then his face to wake himself up. ‘Coffee, Mum?’
‘Oh, yes, please.’ She went to sit in their living room and her jaw dropped when she saw the latest addition; a huge leather armchair with wings. Mrs Jones sniffed it. Yes, it was, it was leather, none of your imitation. The real thing. This had cost a packet and not half. She gently lowered herself into it and practised resting her head against the right-hand wing. My! This was comfortable.
‘Kenny! What did you pay for this new chair?’
‘Too much!’
‘All right then, don’t tell me if you don’t want to. But I bet it wasn’t a penny under a thousand pounds. You are doing well. Wait till your dad sees it, he will be proud. I ’ope you’re making our Terry pay his way.’
Coming in with the coffee Kenny replied, ‘Don’t you fret, our Terry’s doing well for himself too.’
‘I’ve forgotten the sugar.’ Kenny went back to the kitchen and when he returned not only did he have the sugar in his hand but two fifty-pound notes. ‘Here, add this to your housekeeping. Say nothing to no one. Right? It’s a thank-you for defending me.’
‘What we’ll do now I’m out of work as well as your dad I don’t know. It won’t be any good me crawling back and apologising, ’cos he’s that blazing mad with me. Thank you for this. Thank you very much, it won’t half ’elp. I’m that grateful.’
‘Shut up, Mum. Take it and say nothing.’
‘Well, thanks. Thanks very much.’
When she was leaving she turned back to say, ‘You’re not doing anything wrong, are yer, Kenny? Yer know.’
‘Course not.’ But he didn’t look her in the eye as he said it.
With Sheila in hospital it fell to Muriel to polish the brass every week. She’d got over her fright about the mice, with Tom reassuring her he’d caught two, and went off happily to do her polishing thinking she would say a prayer for Sheila and Ron while she was there. Ralph she left studying the
Financial Times
, with a pot of coffee beside him and a small fire lit as autumn was creeping in and the mornings could be cold.
Tom had been hosing down the path leading up to the main door of the church so when Muriel got inside she made a point of wiping her feet well on the doormat before
she walked down the aisle. She heard a sound and stopped. But to her relief it was only the Superintendent. He was standing looking at the Templeton tomb.
‘Why, good morning, Lady Templeton. You look as though you’re going to be busy.’
‘I clean the brass alternate weeks with Lady Bissett, but I’m doing her turn for her.’
‘Of course. I’ve been to see her this morning and been able to speak to her.’
Muriel’s pale face lit up. ‘Oh, how lovely! How was she? Could she tell you anything? We’d be so glad to get it cleared up. It has been such a worry, Sir Ralph has been most concerned. So unlike our village to have anything quite so ghastly happening. The odd argument, the occasional bit of bad feeling, but this! Of course, there was poor Sharon McDonald and Toria Clark. Now that was dreadful! But it’s all been so peaceful since. I expect it’s an everyday occurrence for you, Superintendent, but for us, well, it’s so puzzling. I’ve racked my brains for an answer to it and the only thing I can come up with …’
‘Yes?’ Mr Proctor, his stern world-weary face grey with fatigue, stood looking down at her waiting, hoping, for some dynamic clue.
‘Mistaken identity. They were beaten up in mistake for someone else. But then who else? Oh dear. Maybe that’s not grammatically correct but you understand me, don’t you? If they were not deserving of a beating up, then who was? Who in this village is less than well behaved? Kenny and Terry Jones spring to mind but that’s just petty thieving and car crime …’