For some reason her thoughts drifted back to her trip into town the day before and all the people she’d seen meeting and greeting each other and, inexplicably, she felt another tiny stab of jealousy. What would it be like to be a part of a community? She realised she didn’t have a clue. At school and university she’d been too busy with her studies to bother with irrelevances like acting groups or choirs. Her entire focus had been on succeeding, on being the best, on having a career that would be the envy of her peers – peers who had sneered at her for being the poor kid in a rich kids’ school. Admittedly she’d joined the debating society when she’d been studying for her degree but only because she’d felt that would hone skills she’d need in a courtroom. And then when she’d specialised in medical negligence law and had been called to the Bar she never cared a jot about being liked – it was all about winning. But then there had been Emily… And her breakdown… And her retirement from her chambers. And the start of her isolation.
She was, she admitted to herself, lonely. There were days, when Roderick was in court or at his chambers, when she didn’t speak to a soul the whole day. As she stood by the window and gazed at the idyllic countryside she wrapped her arms around herself. Outwardly she had an enviably perfect life; the house, the clothes, the lifestyle. She fingered her emerald earrings – no, she didn’t want for anything material, not now. But if anything desperate happened to her, who would run to her aid? And the answer was, besides Roderick, probably no one. Not even her mother, whom she had alienated when she’d refused to listen to her doubts about marrying a much older man.
‘You’re looking for a father figure,’ her mother had counselled. ‘Just because your father died when you were little doesn’t mean he needs to be replaced by your fiancé. You’ll regret it.’
‘I won’t.’
‘He’s stealing your youth.’
‘For God’s sake, Mother, I’m twenty-nine, not nineteen.’
‘You’re still young and he’s fifty-five.’
‘You just don’t want me to be happy, that’s it, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t want you to be left a widow, like me.’
‘At least I’ll be a rich widow,’ she’d spat back. ‘At least Roderick will make sure of that. Not like Daddy who left us dirt poor.’
‘Apologise for that,’ her mother had hissed.
‘Why? It’s the truth.’ Which it was because he’d been conned out of his savings and his pension scheme by some shyster who sold him a too-good-to-be-true, get-rich-quick scheme. The only person to get-rich-quick was the shyster.
‘You’re wrong, it wasn’t his fault,’ said her mother.
But Miranda had shaken her head, told her mother she was as deluded and foolish as her father and had walked out. And she wasn’t going to back down, not till her mother told her she was right. Miranda went back to one of her cream sofas and curled up in a corner. The sobering reality was that she’d spent her entire adult life achieving, getting on, then creating a perfect home, a perfect marriage, a perfect lifestyle… but what did it all count for? Was she happy? Contented? A tear rolled down her cheek as she addressed the answer. It was all very well wanting to be better than everyone else but all it did was push them away – the people who couldn’t or didn’t match up, or who got fed up with competing in a race they weren’t going to win. And that included her mother. And now it was too late because her mother was dead.
Maybe if she’d had Emily things would have been different. Before the miscarriage she had already made up her mind that Emily was to have lots of friends because being socially accomplished would always stand her in good stead. She’d had it all mapped out. Emily was destined for a nice little private nursery, maybe somewhere like Thomas’s Battersea where she’d have met the right sort of child. And then maybe a private prep school followed by Benenden or Roedean or perhaps Cheltenham Ladies College? She would have met other mothers, made friends with them, had their children for play dates… It all promised to be so perfect. Another tear plopped onto her cashmere roll-neck.
Maybe being perfect wasn’t the answer. Those people she’d seen the day before seemed quite content with their humdrum lives and they all looked far from perfect. And if she wanted friendship maybe she should become more accepting of the way this town did things. Maybe she ought to go with the flow and not try and swim against the tide.
She made a decision.
‘Roderick,’ she called.
From his study upstairs she heard him answer.
‘I’m going out for a walk. I may be a while.’
‘OK, dear.’
‘I’ll be back in time to cook dinner.’
‘That’s fine, dear. Enjoy your stroll.’
Miranda grabbed a notebook and pencil which she dropped in her handbag, picked up her coat and let herself out of the house. She flung a glance at the midden, which, thankfully, had stopped steaming and reeking and was now piled at the side of the drive. There was still an unmistakable agricultural tang in the air but, compared to what they’d endured over Christmas, it was nothing. And by next week it would be gone.
Miranda walked purposefully down the hill and then along the high street. The town was deathly quiet. Everyone sleeping off their hangovers, she thought. She passed a large Victorian villa and heard the sound of children shrieking and squealing. She slowed her step to look over the five-bar gate and saw two small boys being chased by a man pretending to be an ogre, to judge by the way he was acting, and being watched by a woman who was leaning against the porch, her hand resting on the little bump of her belly. Pregnant? A happy family, she thought, and about to get happier if she was right about the baby. The woman in the porch flashed her a smile and Miranda smiled back.
‘Happy New Year,’ she said tentatively to the stranger.
‘And you,’ came the hearty reply.
Feeling uplifted by this ridiculously small exchange, Miranda continued on her way. She passed the pub where the landlady was saying goodbye to the last of her lunchtime customers and was about to lock up. Once again there was a brief exchange of greetings and wishes for a Happy New Year. Maybe, thought Miranda, some of the locals weren’t so bad after all.
She arrived at the town hall and extracted her notebook from her bag. She peered at the noticeboard and began to note down some of the long list of the various clubs and societies which seemed to abound in the town. She was reasonably selective in her choice – she didn’t want to do gardening, nor did she want to join the Men’s Shed, even though it promised it welcomed all for ‘chat, coffee and tinkering’. But the book club looked promising, as did the running club – she’d run quite a bit in her youth but had given it up in London – and the Friends of the Earth group might be interesting. Oh, and Amnesty International. She jotted the details of that down too and snapped her notebook shut. A second later she reopened it to check her notes. The book club contact was down as Bex Millar, The Beeches, High Street. Wasn’t The Beeches the house where the kids had been playing?
Miranda turned and retraced her steps and checked the plate attached to the five-bar gate. The Beeches. The garden was now quiet and deserted so she leaned over and unbolted the catch before pushing the gate open. She closed it carefully and crunched over the gravel to the front door.
After she rang the bell she had to wait a few seconds before it was opened by a black-haired beauty with smouldering eyes.
‘Yes?’
‘I was wondering if I might speak to Bex Millar. I’ve been led to believe she lives here…’
Languidly the teen opened the door fully and said, ‘She’s in the kitchen.’
Gales of laughter billowed from the room to the right of the door, the hall had pairs of shoes in a number of different sizes strewn across it, the newel post was lost beneath a mound of coats and somewhere a radio was blaring pop music. Miranda was part-appalled by the chaos and part-fascinated by this insight into family life.
The sultry teen pointed out the door to the kitchen before s
he shut the front door and drifted into the sitting room.
Miranda clacked across the tiles towards the sound of the radio which had now been joined by the high-pitched whine of a small electric motor. The noise was almost untenable.
She stood by the door and watched the blonde who had wished her a Happy New Year beat yellow goo in a bowl with a hand mixer. She switched the mixer off and the radio was able to reassert itself.
‘Hello,’ said Miranda.
The woman jumped.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Your daughter let me in.’
‘Hello.’ The woman, Bex presumably, creased her brow. ‘Although, didn’t we say hello to each other just a few minutes ago?’
Miranda nodded. ‘I’m Miranda Osborne. I moved into The Grange a little while ago.’
‘Oh – so you’re the new owner of Olivia’s place.’
‘Olivia? Olivia Laithwaite?’ The woman who was on the reception at Woodford Priors, the woman with the bike, the woman who ‘didn’t know’ of anyone who might be able to clear the manure. Olivia had owned The Grange? Well!
‘You’ve met her? Well, no surprise there, Olivia is one of the main movers and shakers in this town.’
‘I don’t really know her. Our paths crossed when I stayed at the hotel.’
‘Of course, she works there but that’s not really meeting. Then I must introduce you properly. Olivia is the fount of all knowledge about what goes on around here.’
‘Is she now?’ And yet she didn’t know anyone who could have helped with the manure. Hmmm.
‘Anyway, I’m being terribly rude. I’m Bex Millar.’ She stuck out her hand for Olivia to shake. ‘Can I offer you tea? I’d offer you cake too but I haven’t finished making it yet.’
‘Um… no to either, thank you. I’m vegan.’
‘Oh dear.’ Bex looked nonplussed. ‘Oh yes, of course you are, I’d forgotten. The protests…’ Her voice petered out.
‘I’m not here about that. Your name is down as the person to contact about the book club.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Would you like to join?’
‘It depends. It depends what sort of books you read?’
‘Anything and everything. To be honest it’s not entirely about the books – it’s much more of a friendship group, a get-together, you know with a glass of wine and a few nibbles. We meet on a Monday once a month, above the pub. It’s great fun. You ought to come along.’
‘I don’t know…’ It sounded awfully frivolous. Not at all what she was expecting. ‘What’s your current book?’
‘This one.’ Bex reached over to a work surface and picked up a paperback with a pastel cover and curly script. She tossed it across the kitchen table to Miranda who caught it deftly.
Dear God, did people actually read books like this? Chick lit? She saw the banner at the top of the book. Sunday Times Number 1 Bestseller. Really? Did tens, possibly hundreds of thousands of people buy books like this? Miranda despaired. What was the human race coming to? ‘I… I don’t think…’
‘It’s a great read. Honestly. I’m loving it. It’s very… uplifting. Life affirming.’
‘Really?’ But what was wrong with the classics, with literature…?
‘I’ve nearly finished it. I can drop it in when I take the boys back to school next week. You’ll still have a few days to read it before the meeting.’ Bex smiled at her. ‘Do come along – it’s a great way of getting to meet people. Trust me, I know. I was new to Little Woodford last Easter and through the book club and the WI and working at the pub I’ve made lots of friends.’
But this was a wealthy educated woman with children and yet she was a barmaid? Miranda couldn’t help herself and blurted out, ‘The pub?’
‘Yes, I work there weekday lunchtimes. It gets me out of the house, gives a bit of purpose to the day and Belinda – the landlady – is very good about letting me have the school holidays off because there’s always a student or two who’d like a holiday job.’
Involuntarily, Miranda glanced at Bex’s tummy. ‘But you’re…’
‘Pregnant? Yes. So?’ She sounded a bit prickly; maybe she’d had this criticism before.
‘Yes, yes, I know.’ But she wasn’t going to confide just how much she knew. Besides, she’d been reassured that working during her own pregnancy had had no effect on the tragedy which had subsequently happened – but it had done nothing to assuage the guilt.
‘So,’ said Bex, obviously wanting to move away from the subject of pregnancy and working motherhood, ‘shall I drop the book round next week?’
‘Yes, yes, that’d be lovely.’
‘And we meet in the function room at the pub the Monday after.’
‘I’m looking forward to it.’ Miranda wasn’t sure she was, if she was brutally honest. But maybe she’d stick out the club for a couple of meetings just to get to know a few people. Maybe next time they’d read something more challenging. If she could exert any influence she’d make sure of it. Some Dostoyevsky maybe, or perhaps Julian Barnes. Anything but chick lit.
Chapter 44
A few days later, Ashley was questioning his commitment to acting as he stood outside the stage door of the Players Theatre wishing his knees weren’t shaking quite so much. Shit, if he was this nervous about an audition for the local am-dram group what would he be like when he went for real parts in real theatres? The stage door was down the side return of an old cinema and the lighting wasn’t great. Ashley had deliberately tucked himself in to the deepest shadow he could find while he observed the members of the company arrive, tap the code into the keypad and let themselves in. He’d counted about a dozen people enter and decided that he had to make a move sooner rather than later. Would they laugh at him for turning up on spec? He just needed the courage to find out. Courage which, he’d found out, seemed to be in rather limited supply. He steeled himself, stepped out of the shadow and rapped sharply on the door.
What, he asked himself as he waited to be admitted, was the worst that could happen? And no one had died of rejection. Or, at least, he didn’t think they had.
‘Pullen?’
Oh, shit a brick. Mr Johnson.
‘What are you doing here, Pullen?’
Ashley resisted the urge to give his maths teacher a facetious response. Instead he said, ‘Hoping for an audition, sir.’
Mr Johnson stared at him and tapped the keypad, then held the door open for Ashley. ‘Much as I’m not a fan of your attitude in school, I have to admit you might be an asset here.’
Ashley was stunned. It was only faint praise but Mr Johnson never handed out bouquets – only brickbats.
Mr Johnson stopped in the doorway and turned, blocking Ashley’s path. ‘But if there is any repeat of the appalling insolent behaviour you demonstrated at the end of last term I will have you excluded from this company and every other theatre group in the county. Do I make myself clear?’
Ashley swallowed and nodded. This was more like the teacher he knew and hated. What a git. Fuming internally, Ashley followed Mr Johnson into the theatre and found himself walking down a long badly lit corridor. Along one side of the passage were stacked scenery flats – left over, he presumed, from previous productions. And suddenly he was surrounded by dark drapery – the wings – and then, to his right, the brightly lit expanse of the stage. A gaggle of people were standing around chatting in amongst the furniture that presumably set the scene for their next production.
‘I’ve got a new recruit,’ said Mr Johnson, suddenly exuding bonhomie and good cheer. He clapped Ashley on the shoulder. ‘This is Ashley Pullen, the star of the school’s panto in December. He wants to audition.’ He gave Ashley a slight shove that propelled him into the middle of the group. It was almost, thought Ashley, as though Mr Johnson, having introduced him, wanted to distance himself from him. Well, if that was the case, it was mutual.
There was a general murmuring of jolly good and that’s great before a stout woman, with a mass of scarves and huge cl
unky beads draped around her neck, stepped forward.
‘I’m Cassandra – the theatre director.’ She held out a small, soft, pudgy hand, also decked out in lots of clunky jewellery, to Ashley. He shook it but then, from the expression on her face, got the impression that she’d expected him to kiss it. ‘Anyway,’ she said, whisking it back out of his grasp, ‘I am sure we can fit you in before we start tonight’s rehearsal.’ She clapped her hands. ‘If everyone would like to take a seat in the stalls…’
The cast and crew shuffled off the stage and down the flight of steps at the sides into the gloom of the stalls. They were joined by Cassandra who sat in the middle of the auditorium.
‘When you’re ready,’ she called.
Ashley’s heart raced and his palms sweated but he took a deep breath. ‘I’m doing a speech from the play of Kes, by Barry Hines. It’s a speech from a lad called Anderson.’ He stared through the brightness of the lights into the darkness, trying to discern if there were any approving nods. But he couldn’t see a thing.
‘Off you go,’ called Cassandra.
And Ashley began to recite his prepared piece. ‘“Well it was once when I was a kid. I was at Junior School, I think, or somewhere like that, and went down to Fowlers Pond, me and this other kid. Reggie Clay they called him…”’ He warmed to his monologue, describing the two kids catching tadpoles and, not having a jam jar to hand, they put them in his wellies. And describing how they filled the boots to the brim with the creatures until there was no water… nothing but tadpoles. And then came the description of putting his foot in the wellington, in amongst the tadpoles. He mimed this bit, screwing up his face as he described the way they squashed between his toes.
The Bells of Little Woodford Page 32
