Later, wrapped in a luxurious towelling robe, she drifted downstairs, opened her laptop and began to write a vitriolic email of complaint to the local constabulary, copied to the county council and the parish council and, for good measure, the local paper. The service she’d received, she wrote, had fallen woefully short of expectations and the total lack of assistance to clear the mess had left her feeling traumatised. Her diatribe continued for two pages and by the time she’d finished writing she felt calmer. Her rant had been cathartic – whether it would achieve anything was almost incidental. With a sigh of satisfaction she pressed send. Should anyone come back to her, she thought, and ask if anything could be done retrospectively, she would demand heads on platters. But the reality, she knew, was that no one would care and her letter would probably end up in a digital waste-paper basket.
*
Business at the Talbot was brisk over the holidays and Belinda was run off her feet for a few days but, as the break went on, the novelty of having time off on a weekday wore off and trade dropped off too. Miles and James worked in tandem in the kitchen and Miles frequently wondered how he’d managed on his own before the arrival of his new assistant. He supposed people just had to wait longer for their food, or maybe, because the service had been slower, they had lost orders. Behind the bar Belinda had a number of students, back from their universities and in need of cash, to help her out on the busier shifts but she missed the quiet and efficient competence of Bex.
She wasn’t the only one. ‘’T’ain’t the same without Bex,’ grumbled Harry as he stood at the bar one lunchtime and waited for Belinda to pour his pint. He was, as happened frequently, the first in after Belinda had opened the doors. Belinda wondered what the rest of the day’s business would be like. Given that she was going to be on her own for the first hour she was rather hoping that it wouldn’t be too busy.
‘Sorry I’m not good enough,’ she responded, handing over his drink and ringing up the bill on the till.
‘Still,’ said Harry cheering up, ‘it’s not all bad. Did you hear what happened up at Olivia Laithwaite’s old gaff?’
Belinda grinned. ‘I certainly did. Not that I’ve ever met the new people but from what I’ve heard from Amy she’s not a woman to be messed with. If she finds out who dumped that manure I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes.’
‘Oh, she won’t find out,’ said Harry.
‘I don’t know how you can be so sure,’ said Belinda.
Harry didn’t say anything but raised an eyebrow and tapped the side of his nose.
‘Harry?’
‘Nope, I don’t know nothing,’ said Harry but he was chuckling as he took his drink and went over to his usual seat in the corner near the window. From his chair he called across the pub, ‘But I tell you something, young Belinda, that woman has managed to upset more people since she moved here than anyone else in half a century. If she don’t mend her ways there’s folk here who’ll make life miserable for her. Or should I say, more miserable for her.’
‘Don’t be like that, Harry. It makes it sounds as though the locals are going to lynch her. We don’t want that sort of thing here; it’s not our style.’
‘She’s upset a lot of people at the market and if she stops them bells ringing I reckon folks around here’ll turn real nasty. Maybe not a lynching…’ Harry paused and sipped his pint. ‘Mind you, the Catte Witch got drownded back in the reign of old Queen Bess.’
‘Yes, well,’ said Belinda, ‘let’s hope there won’t be a repeat of that sort of behaviour either.’
‘What? Drownings or witchcraft?’
‘Both.’
A few minutes later, Amy pushed open the door of the pub and found it to be much quieter than she expected. Behind her Ashley and Mags trooped in and made their way to an empty table.
‘Refugees from turkey leftovers?’ asked Belinda as Amy stood at the bar.
‘What?’ The penny dropped. ‘Yeah, kind of. And Mum’s had her winter fuel allowance but her new house is dead cheap to heat so she hasn’t had to use it. She’s treating us to lunch out.’
‘That’s nice.’
Amy ordered drinks and took the bar menu over to her mum and Ashley.
‘Hey… Amy,’ said Harry from his table.
‘Harry?’
‘You clean for that there Osborne woman, don’t you?’
‘What if I do?’
‘What has she had to say about that pile of sh…’ Harry glanced at Ashley, ‘dung that got dumped there.’
‘Dunno, Harry. I’ve not been up there since the week before Christmas. I start back again next week. She rang me just after it happened – asking me if I knew anyone who could move it. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have told her – miserable bat.’
‘I’ve heard she’s a right piece of work.’
‘Don’t get me going. I mean, I know I shouldn’t say anything but she’s proper barking. She’s all into being veggie and animal rights and meat is murder but you should see her shoe collection – honestly, how many Milano Blahniks can a woman want?’
‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’ asked Harry.
Belinda butted in. ‘And don’t you mean Manolo Blahniks?’ she asked, confused.
‘Manolo... Milano... the shoes are still made of leather – you know, an animal product.’
‘Well, that ain’t right.’
‘And then there’s her being all environmental and yet she only ever drives anywhere in that ruddy great Range Rover. I mean, Olivia’s a bit potty on that score but at least she puts her money where her mouth is; she never takes her car if she can ride her bike. Frankly, Harry, if Mrs O wasn’t a good payer I’d sack her. There’s no pleasure in working for her, I can tell you. If I knew who’d dumped that manure on her drive I’d buy them a drink.’
‘Almost worth owning up then,’ said Harry.
‘So it was you,’ said Belinda from the bar.
‘Nope, I never said it was,’ said Harry quickly. ‘Besides, where would I get a load of manure from? I don’t own no farm, do I?’
‘All I can say,’ said Amy, ‘is that it couldn’t have happened to a nicer woman. Only don’t you go telling anyone I said that. You know as well as I do how people in this town gossip.’
Chapter 41
On New Year’s Eve Miranda drove into the centre of Little Woodford and parked her car in the market square. She had several errands she needed to run before everything shut down for yet another bank holiday. Ye gods, was another break really necessary? If people were more self-restrained and less overindulgent at New Year there wouldn’t need to be a holiday while they recovered from their self-inflicted hangovers. Honestly, giving the proletariat the next day off was akin to the state actively encouraging people to get recklessly drunk. What was wrong with people that they thought that getting legless was acceptable behaviour? If she had her way, alcohol sales would be banned – well, apart from decent wines. She barely drank herself but she did enjoy a very occasional glass of vintage wine.
She got out of her car and looked at her fellow townsfolk. They were all shapes and sizes and some of them looked like unmade beds. No one was coiffed or manicured, no one had any idea about style or fashion and some of the shoes were a joke. But no one cared, no one judged and amazingly, despite their down-at-heel appearance, they all looked pretty happy as they smiled and nodded to acquaintances as their paths crossed, or stood in small huddles exchanging news and gossip. London had never been like this where ladies-who-lunched only made eye contact with themselves as they checked out their appearance in shop windows, where almost every pedestrian wore earbuds and existed in their own world or, if they were talking, it was to some invisible presence at the end of a phone line. It was a long time since she had noticed people actively seeking out and enjoying each other’s company just on spec without complicated dinner arrangements or plans for long weekends. When, she wondered, had she last run into a friend and decided to stop and chat, or go for a coffee? How long a
go? She sighed. Years. Years and years. Maybe as far back as uni. It certainly hadn’t happened in chambers because everyone there was a potential rival. She hadn’t wanted to get chummy with people she might have to clamber over to reach the top. And she did have acquaintances who she and Roddy saw socially but in their circle everyone knew that such friendships were based on mutual usefulness and not on actual camaraderie.
As she watched she saw a mother with a child hanging off each of her hands greet another mother pushing a buggy. They seemed genuinely pleased to see each other and Miranda felt an unaccustomed pang of jealousy as she wondered what it must be like to have a circle of friends whom you didn’t have to try and impress, who just liked you for yourself. Or maybe it was the connection that having children gave them? Maybe if Emily had lived...? Maybe if she hadn’t married someone so much older she might have had another chance of children? Maybe if she hadn’t been so flattered that Roddy, a QC, had taken such an interest in her, a junior partner...? Maybe... maybe... Miranda gave herself a shake and told herself not to be so ridiculous and sentimental before picking up her basket and sweeping into the florist to buy some lilies.
The door pinged as she entered and she was assailed by the scent of a dozen different types of flowers. She examined the huge buckets of cut flowers that were ranked on the staging that ran down one side of the shop. Ranunculus, roses, freesias, gerberas, sweet William, carnations – how naff – daffodils… And Miranda supposed if you liked that sort of thing then as a selection it might do – at a pinch. But no lilies.
She went to the counter and peered into the room behind it where the two florists were busy tying up bouquets.
‘Excuse me!’
‘With you in a moment, dearie.’
Miranda breathed in and out slowly in an effort to stop her blood pressure rising. Maybe expecting shop workers to show some deference was expecting too much in a backwater like this but dearie…?
A woman came out of the back room wiping her hands on her apron.
She smiled. ‘Yes, dear, what can I do for you?’
‘Good morning. And I am not your “dear”.’
The smile vanished and her eyes hardened. ‘As you wish. But that doesn’t answer my question.’
‘I want to buy some lilies.’
‘Then you’ll have to want, won’t you? We’re fresh out of lilies and we’re not expecting a delivery until after the holiday.’
‘Well, really.’
‘If you’d ordered them earlier in the week I’d have kept some back. I can’t be stocking expensive flowers on the off-chance that someone will want them, not with a bank holiday coming up. I’m running a business, not a charity.’
‘Yes, yes, I understand that.’
‘Good.’
‘So what have you got?’
The woman looked at Miranda and… did she actually roll her eyes? No, surely not. But she pointed at the buckets.
‘Is that it?’ God, not much of a selection.
‘If you want to know if I’ve got a secret stash the answer is, no I haven’t.’
Miranda sighed. ‘So be it. I’ll have two dozen of the white roses, then.’
‘Sorry, they’re spoken for.’
‘There’s no indication of that.’
‘There doesn’t have to be. I know what’s been ordered and what hasn’t.’
Miranda examined the rest of the flowers. Everything else came in twee pastels or garish shades of red, or orange or yellow. Everything except the white carnations and she wasn’t going to sink to that.
‘I’ll leave it, then.’
‘As you wish.’ The florist returned to the back room leaving Miranda to stalk out of the shop wondering if the roses really were on order or whether she’d been the victim of yet another example of how small-minded and petty this town could be. It might be a tight little community if you fitted in but it seemed that they had a way of closing ranks against incomers.
Feeling disgruntled and strangely irritated, Miranda strode to the bakery and pushed open the door. The smell of warm chocolate, baking bread and some sort of jam greeted her. Ahead of her, at the counter, was the vicar’s mousy little wife – the woman who had refused to help her with the manure debacle. Miranda was sure Heather would have known someone who might have helped, but no… she’d almost certainly, deliberately, withheld such information. And her a Christian. Miranda stared at her back and hoped her conscience was really troubling her. It ought to be.
Heather finished buying some bread and a couple of cakes and carefully put her paper bag of purchases in the bottom of a wicker basket. She looked up as she turned.
‘Ah… Mrs Osborne. Happy Christmas. Or at least I hope that’s what you had. And did you manage to resolve your problem with the… manure?’
Did Miranda detect a suppressed smile? ‘Yes, thank you.’ She almost added and no thanks to you. ‘Although the contractor can’t come till next week.’
‘I’m glad you found a solution. So sorry I was unable to help.’
She didn’t sound it.
‘And,’ Heather continued, ‘I expect you heard our good news – about the bells? We’ve raised the money and work is going to start in the New Year. Isn’t it exciting?’
‘I think you know my views on noise pollution.’
‘Then we’ll have to agree to disagree.’ Heather beamed at her.
Miranda felt it was a smile of triumph – it certainly wasn’t one of friendship. She stared after Heather as she left the shop.
What was it with this place? In London, she’d been able to voice her views, protest against things she vehemently disapproved of, belong to activist groups and while she hoped people paid attention to what she was saying, no one knew – or even cared about – who was saying it. It was the message that was important – not the messenger – but these people in this town didn’t see it like that and seemed hell-bent on making it personal. And in scoring petty points – like Heather not helping with the manure and the florist refusing to sell her the roses.
She bought a sourdough loaf which she asked to be sliced. As the bread rattled through the slicer, she looked at the array of baked goods on display. She wouldn’t dream of buying such things herself, filled as they were with fats and sugars and Lord only knew what other additives, but she supposed there was a market for them. You only had to look around for a few minutes to see chunky people who ought to know better, grazing on food and calories that they certainly didn’t need. Miranda shook her head.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ said the shop assistant as she bagged up Miranda’s loaf and put it on the counter.
‘No, thank you.’
‘One eighty, please.’
As Miranda got out her change purse and rummaged for the right money another customer entered the shop. It was a stocky bloke in paint-splattered coveralls.
‘Two sausage rolls and an apple turnover, please,’ the chap ordered.
Miranda gave up the search for the right money, got out her wallet instead and extracted a fiver. She watched as the shop girl picked up the sausage rolls and then the turnover with a pair of tongs and dropped them in a bag.
‘Excuse me,’ said Miranda tersely.
The girl looked over and put the bag down. ‘Sorry, are you ready to pay?’
‘Yes, but I am more concerned about contamination.’
‘What?’
‘Are those turnovers suitable for vegetarians?’
‘Er, yes, I suppose so.’
‘And yet you touched them with the tongs you used with the sausage rolls.’
‘Look, missus,’ said the bloke. ‘I don’t care, I’m eating all of it. It’s all going to be touching once it’s in my belly.’
‘That is not the point.’
‘For gawd’s sake, lady, I’m in a hurry.’
‘I’ve a good mind to report this shop to environmental health and trading standards.’
The girl behind the counter looked ready to cry. ‘One eighty, plea
se,’ she repeated.
‘Do you have other tongs?’ asked Miranda.
The girl nodded.
‘Bloody hell,’ said the man. ‘I want my lunch, so if you don’t want your stuff at least let me pay for mine.’
Miranda glared at him. ‘I don’t think you realise the gravity of this.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ muttered the man. ‘Forget it,’ he said more loudly and stamped out of the bakery.
‘Is the manager here?’ said Miranda.
‘She’s on her break,’ whispered the assistant.
‘Then I suggest you call her.’
The girl, looking terrified, went out of the door at the back and Miranda could hear her pattering up the steps. A minute later, a much older woman returned.
‘Mary’s told me what the problem is and it was a mistake,’ she said smoothly, as she entered the shop.
‘And what would have happened if I hadn’t been here? Hmm? How often has your employee already committed the same act this morning?’
‘Well… I—’
‘Exactly. You have no idea how many items have been contaminated. I demand that you dispose of everything on display and then educate your staff on correct procedures.’
‘But… but this is our busy time. People rely on us for lunches.’
‘That isn’t my problem. Either you do as I suggest or the next people through that door will be representatives from the food standards authority.’
‘But the food isn’t unfit for consumption.’
‘It is if you are a vegetarian.’ Miranda glared at her opponent.
‘Then supposing I put a notice on the counter, advising that today our goods are unsuitable for vegetarians?’
Miranda considered this option. ‘That’s far from ideal.’
‘It’s better than food waste.’
It was. ‘I shall be back to check.’
‘Be our guest.’ The shop owner smiled but Miranda knew she wasn’t being friendly. Well, tough. It wasn’t as if she cared. Besides, if the town was set on making life difficult for her she was perfectly prepared to repay the favour.
The Bells of Little Woodford Page 30
