The Bells of Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

  At Olivia’s old house Miranda was handing around some spinach and cashew bites to her house guests while a parsnip and artichoke bake cooked in the oven. Luckily the main window in her huge barn conversion looked out over the garden and the countryside and not the massive pile of dung that still festered on her drive and which, despite Miranda deploying every method she could think of to freshen the air, still permeated the house with its smell. Prior to breakfast, Valentine and Candida had had a discussion in their room and had resolved to fake a text message about a plumbing emergency in their London mansion block which would necessitate them leaving shortly after lunch. They would have liked to have gone straight after breakfast, regardless of the fact that it would mean missing out on the Christmas feast entirely, but even they thought that would be too obvious.

  Several hours later, the Clifton-Prices, followed by Miranda and Roderick, picked their way past the manure heap, lugging their suitcases to their car which was parked on the main road. Candida held a hanky to her nose with her free hand and tried to keep her feelings of guilt at bay as she ignored Miranda’s suggestion that they should return once they’d sorted out an emergency plumber.

  ‘No, we can’t possibly muck you around any more than we have. We feel bad enough about leaving you in the lurch like this as it is,’ lied Valentine smoothly as he plipped open the door to his Lexus.

  ‘But we were so looking forward to showing you around the area tomorrow. The countryside is so pretty,’ said Miranda. ‘Such lovely walks.’

  ‘And we’re devastated to be missing such an opportunity,’ responded Candida as she dropped her bag in the boot and then slid into the passenger seat. ‘But thank you for a wonderful lunch. Such a treat to have a change from turkey.’

  Valentine shook Roderick’s hand before he got into the car. ‘And good luck with your problem,’ he said, nodding at the midden.

  The Osbornes waved until their visitors were out of sight and then inched back to their front door, trying to avoid the worst of the muck.

  ‘I think I might chuck these shoes,’ said Miranda slipping her loafers off in the porch. ‘They’ll never be properly clean.’ She shuddered. ‘Do you think the Clifton-Prices really had a burst pipe in their apartment?’

  Roderick looked at his wife. ‘What do you think?’

  Miranda sighed. ‘This has been an unmitigated disaster.’ She flopped onto a sofa and ran her fingers through her immaculate hair. ‘I still can’t believe the police were so inadequate. Good God, fly-tipping, criminal damage… and that’s just to start with. And all they could offer us was a crime number for the insurance. God alone knows how much it’ll cost us to get the drive cleared and to repair the damage. ’

  ‘But there hasn’t been any damage – not really – and there were no witnesses, no evidence—’

  ‘No evidence?’ shrieked Miranda. She gesticulated in the general direction of the dung heap. ‘What the hell do you call that?’ She took a breath and calmed down. ‘And all the food we’re going to have left. A whole week’s worth.’

  ‘You can’t blame them for going. Wouldn’t you if the situation was reversed?’

  There was a pause before Miranda answered, ‘You’re probably right. Maybe we should follow their lead. Find a hotel that might put us up for a few days till we can get this sorted. We’re probably stuck here tonight but tomorrow… let’s see if we can book into Woodford Priors. It’s not ideal – all that fusty decor – but it would be better than here.’

  *

  At teatime Lewis and Alfie finished watching Cars for the umpteenth time and Bex decided that, with them now calmer, it was time to FaceTime Granny Helen and Grandpa Phil in Cyprus, so everyone could thank them for their generosity. Once that had been done and the children had had a chance to chat to them she planned to finish off the conversation in private and break the news to them about the baby. Miles followed her out of the sitting room when she went to fetch her iPad from the kitchen.

  ‘Do you want me there too, when you do that?’ asked Miles. ‘So you can introduce them to the villain of the piece.’

  ‘Not this time,’ said Bex. ‘But thanks for the offer. I can’t say I’m looking forward to this call.’ She returned to the sitting room and got the kids to sit with her on the big sofa and then she hit the FaceTime icon on the screen and pressed the dial-up for Megan and the boys’ grandparents.

  The ringtone warbled away for a few seconds before Granny Helen’s face appeared and then Grandpa Phil’s, beaming over her shoulder. ‘Hello! Happy Christmas,’ they said, before Helen continued, ‘Did you have a good one?’

  ‘Hi, Granny and Grandpa,’ chorused the children.

  Then Megan added, ‘Yes, it was lovely thanks. A bit chilly, though. How was yours?’

  ‘Quiet,’ said Granny Helen. ‘Maybe one year you could persuade your stepmum to come over at this time of year instead – then you could escape the cold.’

  Already a dig, thought Bex. ‘I’d love to, Helen. Maybe when Megan isn’t facing mocks as soon as she gets back to school.’

  ‘So next year, then.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Anyway, thank you for my pressie,’ said Megan, jumping in and changing the subject.

  ‘Did you like it? I never know what to get you – you’re growing up so fast and we see you so rarely.’

  Another dig, thought Bex. But she said, ‘And the Playmobile for the boys was wonderful. They loved it.’ She pointed the screen at them so their grandparents would see them nodding enthusiastically. Lewis jumped off the sofa and went to fetch the plastic pirate ship.

  ‘Look,’ he said showing her. ‘It’s even got cannons.’

  ‘And they fire cannon balls,’ added Alfie.

  ‘And the boys loved their Transformers too and my Turkish Delight was such a treat.’ She loathed Turkish Delight and she thought Granny Helen knew – had it been deliberate?

  Megan gabbled on for a few more minutes, filling in Granny Helen about the panto and the end of term disco. The boys began to wriggle as their boredom threshold kicked in and Bex used this as an excuse for the children to say goodbye.

  ‘I’ll just take you through to the kitchen,’ she said, carrying her tablet out of the sitting room and shutting the door. ‘I think the boys want to watch a DVD.’ She sat at the kitchen table and propped her iPad up in front of her. ‘Anyway…’ She paused as she felt her courage start to fail. ‘I didn’t just ring you to thank you for the presents. I’ve got some news.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Granny Helen sounded wary.

  ‘Yes. You’re going to have another grandchild – well… step-grandchild.’

  ‘What?’ Granny Helen’s eyes boggled.

  ‘I’m pregnant. The baby is due in June.’

  ‘June.’ She’d managed to get her feelings under control and her voice was cold. ‘And the father is?’

  ‘It’s Miles. You know, I’ve told you about him – he and I work together.’

  ‘A publican.’ The sneer was more than apparent. Even usually jovial Grandpa Phil’s smile had gone.

  ‘A chef,’ countered Bex, firmly.

  Granny Helen’s disapproving sniff eloquently conveyed that she didn’t think it was any better.

  ‘He’s very nice,’ said Bex.

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Lewis and Alfie adore him,’ she added.

  There was a pause. ‘I see. And you’re still working?’

  Bex nodded.

  ‘Is that quite wise?’ Not that Granny Helen sounded as if she really cared.

  ‘I feel fine.’

  ‘But pub work?’

  Was the implication that the baby was being exposed to undesirable influences… even in the womb? Bex didn’t feel inclined to answer but forced a smile instead.

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll be very happy with this new,’ another pause, another sneer, ‘arrangement. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ve got things I must see to.’ She watched as Granny Helen’s finger reached towards the screen a
nd the call was killed.

  ‘She’ll come round,’ said Bex to herself, knowing she was probably being totally over-optimistic.

  *

  Olivia spent the early part of the morning of Boxing Day carving the rest of the meat off the turkey and turning the carcass into soup.

  She’d just finished piling the meat onto a plate when Nigel arrived in the kitchen, yawning widely.

  ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  Olivia smiled at him. ‘You can put the kettle on and make tea and then turn some of that,’ she nodded at the turkey slices, ‘into sandwiches.’

  ‘Sure.’ Nigel bumbled around, filling the kettle, getting the bread out, finding some lettuce and the bread board while Olivia rammed the turkey bones into a huge saucepan with a bunch of other ingredients to produce a stock.

  ‘Thank you for yesterday,’ said Nigel. ‘It was a lovely Christmas.’

  Olivia paused her stirring. ‘That’s OK.’ She couldn’t remember the last time Nigel had said that to her.

  ‘I mean it. I know it was tricky for you, what with this house being a squash and work and everything and I admire you for the way you still managed to give everyone a wonderful day.’

  ‘I’m glad it all worked.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Even Jade seemed to quite enjoy herself.’

  ‘Although she bitched about having to walk back to the vicarage.’

  ‘Like anyone was in a fit state to drive her.’

  ‘I realise how much hard work it was too.’

  ‘The same as it always is,’ said Olivia, making light of her husband’s unexpected compliments. ‘Except this year it all had to be done at a less leisurely pace than I am used to.’

  ‘Even so…’

  Having felt for a number of years that her efforts – especially at Christmas – were taken for granted and under-appreciated, Olivia felt suddenly rather teary at Nigel’s kind words. She cleared her throat as she got her emotions under control.

  The pair worked in silence as the rest of the family appeared and helped themselves to breakfast. There were some quiet discussions about plans for the day but no one seemed to want to do anything very much except possibly go to the pub for a lunchtime drink.

  ‘There,’ said Olivia, as she switched off the gas under the huge saucepan. ‘Can I ask one of you to put this in the garage to keep cool in a little while? The fridge is too full. I’ll finish turning it into soup tomorrow.’

  ‘You off somewhere?’ said Mike from the sitting room where he was deflating his airbed.

  ‘Work,’ said Olivia.

  ‘But it’s a holiday,’ said Tamsin, her mouth half-full of toast.

  ‘Not in the hospitality industry, it isn’t. Which is why your dad’s made a stack of turkey sandwiches for lunch. I’m off at six so I should be back in time to make supper.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Tamsin.

  ‘Turkey fricassee.’

  ‘Yum, I like that.’

  ‘If you feel like making a start on it…’ said Olivia, hopefully.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tamsin. ‘I’ve promised to meet some of my old school friends in the pub. I’ll be back in time for supper though,’ she promised.

  Olivia managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes. ‘Never mind.’ She glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘Right, I need to get going.’

  As she picked up the car keys she asked the children to load the dishwasher and run it – and what are the chances they’ll empty it when it’s finished, she wondered – and then set out for Woodford Priors. Out of habit she glanced at The Grange as she drove past. What the…? She was the only car on the road so she jammed on the brakes and reversed a few yards to have a proper look. A bubble of laughter rose in her throat because somehow she didn’t reckon that the Osbornes had actually ordered the manure for their garden. ‘Oh dear,’ murmured Olivia to herself. ‘How very unfortunate.’

  She was still smiling when she pulled into the staff car park at the hotel. As she walked through the brightly lit service corridors to the front-of-house area, she tried to tell herself that if she felt too much schadenfreude she’d get her comeuppance but it simply didn’t work. It couldn’t have happened to more deserving people was all she could think.

  The morning passed quickly as she checked out those guests who had only opted to stay for Christmas Day itself and answered queries from others who were staying longer and needed activities to fill the oodles of time they now found they had, given that the hotel staff were picking up the household chores that would have fallen to them had they stayed at home. It being Boxing Day, Olivia knew that there were precious few local attractions open and so the most she could offer was a leaflet detailing a number of walks around the area and some suggestions of good local pubs. And, armed with local knowledge, she could suggest which walks would combine exercise with a decent meal.

  At midday, she grabbed a lunch break of soup and a roll in the staffroom next to the kitchen before she returned to the reception desk. The hotel was deathly quiet as the guests seemed to be either enjoying a postprandial snooze in their rooms or in the lounge, or had taken note of Olivia’s suggestion and were out and about.

  The front door banged open and Olivia looked up from the computer terminal where she was updating guests’ accounts, instantly recognising the woman who had come in – Miranda Osborne. Behind her trailed her husband in a pair of cherry-red trousers, pink shirt and cravat under a Barbour jacket. He was trying, she thought, to look as if he belonged to the country-landowner set. But he failed – he looked more like some escapee from a seventies fashion shoot. A wannabe James Bond with a paunch. She stood up and tried to look welcoming.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Olivia.

  There was no returned greeting just a peremptory, ‘I’ve booked a room.’ Miranda stared at Olivia. ‘You?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The woman with the bike.’

  ‘Ah, yes… the car driver who blocked my drive.’

  Miranda sniffed. ‘Hardly blocked.’ The pair stared at each other before Miranda dropped her gaze. ‘So, my booking?’

  Olivia clicked the mouse. ‘Ah yes. Four nights – in the Lloyd-George suite.’ She took a plastic key card out of the drawer and swiped it through a machine to programme it. ‘And if I could just get you to fill in this form and give me a credit card for security.’

  ‘Roderick,’ ordered Miranda. Her husband meekly offered up a Visa card.

  ‘Now, I believe you’ve stayed with us before...’ said Olivia.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you are aware of the hotel facilities.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that this is a listed building so please remember that some of the floors and stairs are uneven and we also have a few low beams.’

  ‘Then you’d better hope I don’t suffer any injury.’

  ‘If,’ said Olivia, as evenly as she could, ‘if you think you won’t be able to cope with the nature of this building, might I suggest the Premier Inn in Cattebury? That hotel is fully disabled friendly and very modern.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Miranda. She pushed the completed form over to Olivia.

  Olivia glanced at it although she knew perfectly well what address had been written on it. She feigned surprise and gave her a fake smile. ‘The Grange? Such a lovely house.’

  ‘It is now.’

  ‘I drove past it only this morning.’

  Miranda narrowed her eyes and contemplated Olivia as Roderick shifted restlessly at her side. She gazed at Olivia’s name badge. ‘You said… when we last met… that you’d lived here a while. Have I remembered right, Olivia?’

  ‘About twenty-five years.’

  ‘Miranda—’ said Roderick.

  ‘In a minute, Roderick.’ She turned back to Olivia. ‘I… we have a problem. Which is why we’re staying here. We’ve been the victims of some fly-tipping.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I need to find someone to move the… the… clear up the
mess.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Would you know of anyone?’

  ‘I can’t say I do.’ Which was kind of true, but with her contacts in the town Olivia knew she could have made a few enquiries and probably found a solution to Miranda’s problem in a matter of a couple of hours.

  Miranda blew down her nose and then turned to head for her room. Olivia half-expected her to shout ‘heel’ to her unfortunate husband who followed her, dragging the suitcase.

  Chapter 40

  Over the next few days the townsfolk of Little Woodford who happened to travel up the Cattebury road were entertained by the sight of the Osbornes getting their hands dirty – literally – as they shovelled barrowload after barrowload to the side of their garden to create a passageway for their cars. They had managed to find a commercial company which was prepared to remove the heap, for a price – an eye-watering price – and their insurance company had agreed to pick up the tab, but nothing could be done until well into January. Miranda had tried everything to persuade the company otherwise but they refused to be budged so she and Roderick had come to the conclusion that unless they wanted to take taxis for every journey they had no choice but to clear a section of their drive themselves in order to get their cars out.

  Miranda became increasingly tight-lipped as she realised that some of the passers-by had come specifically to gawp. And even more tight-lipped when she realised that, because they were on a public highway, there was nothing she could do. She considered telling them to clear off but even she realised that it was probably only going to give the local oiks even more satisfaction.

  After a couple of days the novelty of watching the incomers shovel shit had worn off for the passers-by and anyway Miranda and Roderick had cleared most of their drive. Moving the midden had stirred up the smell again but once they stopped it seemed to settle down and, despite there still being a hideous eyesore in their garden, the worst of the problem seemed to be over. Finally they were able to move out of the hotel and back to their house where Miranda spent over an hour soaking in her bath into which she’d poured half a bottle of Jo Malone bath oil. She felt that the farmyard stink had got into her very bones and she was determined to eradicate it.