The Newcomer

by Fern Britton

  ‘Like Pals?’

  ‘Pals?’

  Robert stopped abruptly and clicked his thumb and fingers. ‘The Pals! The Pendruggan Association of Ladies.’

  Angela thought for a moment. ‘I rather like that.’ She said the words aloud, letting them roll around her lips. ‘The Pals. Let’s try it out on a few people and get their reaction.’

  ‘Good. Feeling a bit better now?’

  She poked her arm through his, and hugged it to her. ‘Thank you. As soon as you have the website up and running, I shall advertise for members. And we need to announce that the Big Village Pond Dig is happening. When do you think it’ll be ready?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The website.’

  Robert extricated himself from Angela’s arm and picked up the sandy tennis ball Mr Worthington had dropped at his feet. ‘Good boy. Shall I throw it again?’

  With his head to one side, Mr Worthington raised one eyebrow and then the other.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?’ Robert threw the ball and Mr Worthington cantered off after it.

  ‘So?’ Angela asked, taking his arm again.

  ‘Helen and I need to do a bit more work but it should be soon. Now, how about that pint?’

  In the end, Angela didn’t go to the pub but sent Robert off with the instruction to have just ‘the one’ and not to discuss the letter with anyone.

  ‘I won’t be long, I promise,’ he said as he kissed her goodbye and whistled up the dog, who was happy to go out for another sniff about.

  Angela watched them go, grateful to have a husband who was not only a lover but also her best friend. As they disappeared into the twilight she went to the kitchen to rustle up some supper.

  Robert, certain he was now out of sight of the vicarage, diverted across the green and headed for Mike Bates’ cottage. As he walked up the flagged path he could see Mike settling down into a well-worn armchair with what looked like a Scotch in one hand and the TV remote control in the other. Robert caught his eye by waving outside the window.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ Mike beamed. ‘Come on in. I was just settling down to watch the early news. Want a drink?’

  ‘I’ve got the dog. I was going to the pub. Wondered if you’d like to join me?’

  ‘Well, that’s awfully kind of you. I’d love to. Could do with the walk. I’ve got a fish pie in the oven. It’ll keep for half an hour or so. Let me get my coat. Mind if I bring my boys along too?’

  Mike’s boys were a pair of red cocker spaniels who squirmed round the kitchen door as Mike opened it and ran to Robert and Mr Worthington for a good sniff.

  ‘Danvers! Davey! Stop that.’

  ‘They’re fine. Honestly,’ Robert said, protecting his nether regions from their probing noses.

  The lights from the bar of the Dolphin pub shone invitingly to the two men as they approached the heavy oak door. Landlord Don and his wife, Dorrie, were behind the bar chatting to a customer. Dorrie looked up.

  ‘Hello, Mike. And you must be the vicar’s husband?’ she said, holding her hand out across the counter. ‘Welcome.’

  Robert shook her proffered hand and then Don’s too.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ Don asked.

  They ordered two pints of Tribute and took them to a table in a cosy corner where Robert hoped no one would overhear him.

  The dogs settled themselves on the rug by the fire.

  ‘So,’ said Mike, brushing beer froth from his lips, ‘you didn’t just call on me for a drink in the pub. How can I help you?’

  ‘Ah.’ Robert was embarrassed at being found out so quickly but his confidence in Mike’s astute and trustworthy nature grew. ‘My wife has had an unpleasant letter. Anonymous.’

  Mike frowned, shaking his head. ‘Oh dear me, no.’

  ‘And I wanted to ask you if this sort of thing had ever happened before?’

  Mike looked thoughtful. ‘This village is full of some difficult characters but I would be very surprised if one of them would be capable of anything so underhand and unpleasant. May I ask what it said?’

  Robert told him.

  ‘How horrible.’ Mike was clearly upset. ‘As far as I can see, Angela has been a breath of fresh air to Pendruggan. I have heard nothing but good reports.’

  Robert toyed with his empty pint glass, twisting it in circles on the table. ‘Maybe we should never have come here. To Cornwall. She misses her friends.’

  Mike gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘And what about you? Do you miss your friends? Your work?’

  Robert gave a short laugh. ‘Gosh, no. I mean this was all about Angela and her vocation. For too many years she has stood in the shadows, allowing me to build my career.’

  ‘You must miss the excitement that your work brings? The recognition? The well-known face of television politics.’

  Robert stopped twiddling with his glass and looked at Mike squarely. ‘Angela and I made a joint decision. This is the year she can prove to herself and others that she is a good vicar. This is the year that I support her in that.’

  Mike nodded sagely. ‘I see. That’s good and very noble. So, how are we going to make sure that Angela has the best time here?’

  Before Robert could answer, Dorrie, the landlady, came by. ‘I was meaning to ask, when will the vicar’s women’s group start? Only, a few of us would like to try it out.’

  Robert and Mike shared a quick smile across the table before Robert asked her, ‘How many are interested?’

  ‘Gasping Bob’s wife and me, deffo.’

  ‘How does Thursday night sound to you?’ Robert was excited. ‘Seven until nine? At the vicarage?’

  ‘Sounds fine.’ Dorrie replied. ‘Shall I spread the word?’

  ‘By all means. Angela will be so pleased.’

  12

  ‘You’re doing a grand job there, young man,’ said Mamie the following morning as she walked to the village store.

  Simple Tony was filling an array of Queenie’s wooden tubs with compost and colourful bedding plants. His sleek head bobbed up. ‘Thank ’ee, missus.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful day for it.’ She smiled at him. ‘You look as if you could do with a cold drink. What can I get you?’

  ‘I like Ribena,’ he said shyly.

  ‘Then I shall get you one from Queenie’s drinks fridge.’

  ‘Thank you, missus.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Inside the shop, Queenie was balanced on a set of small steps, removing several yellow and curled notices from her window.

  ‘Queenie, be careful up there. What are you doing on those steps anyway?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ Queenie said crossly. ‘I’m painting my blooming arse pink, ain’t I!’

  ‘Oh, now don’t be like that.’ Mamie put her large shopping bag down. ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘If you want to do something useful, put the bleedin’ kettle on.’

  ‘Someone hasn’t taken her charm pills today, have they?’ Mamie retorted. ‘And don’t put the steps away, I have one or two notices from the vicarage to put in your window.’

  ‘Fifty pence a week per notice and no discounts,’ Queenie responded. ‘And fetch some of me custard creams.’

  ‘Your blooming niece must be costing the world a few more rainforests with all this paper she’s using.’ Queenie, now in her shop armchair, was shuffling Angela’s notices. ‘Running club. Cycle club. Paint the dog poo bins party. Don’t she ever stop?’

  ‘No she doesn’t,’ Mamie asserted. ‘We are a very energetic family.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, darling.’ Mamie bit into her custard cream.

  ‘With all these in me window, how’ll I display me half-price Easter eggs?’

  ‘Put them away for next year and advertise them as “vintage”.’

  Queenie laughed her crackly smoker’s laugh. ‘You’re a tonic, you are. Have another biscuit.’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m thinking of
my figure.’

  ‘Oh, right. Good job too. No one else is thinking of it. That ship’s sailed, love.’ Queenie laughed again until it gave way to one of her rasping coughing fits.

  ‘Serves you right,’ laughed Mamie, but nonetheless she got up and rubbed her friend’s back. ‘You ought to see the doctor.’

  ‘He’ll only tell me to pack up me smokes. What does he know?’ She wiped her mouth with one of the many cotton hankies she always had up her sleeve. ‘How many cards does your Angela want to put in me window?’

  Mamie counted them. ‘Running. Cycling. Poo bins. The Pals. And …’

  ‘The what?’ Queenie stopped her. ‘The Pals. What’s them when they are at ’ome?’

  ‘The Pendruggan Association of Ladies.’

  ‘Oh.’ Queenie was disappointed. ‘Women’s Institute by any other name, eh?’

  Mamie defended her niece. ‘Good God, no. This will be a place where, as women, we can talk about the day-to-day things relevant to all our lives.’

  ‘That’s what she told you, is it?’

  ‘Well, she may have said something similar.’

  ‘Boring.’

  ‘All right then. What would entice you to a meeting?’

  ‘Chat. Good chat.’

  ‘You mean gossip.’

  Queenie had the grace to agree. ‘I want interesting stuff.’

  ‘I shall pass that golden nugget of information on,’ Mamie said huffily. ‘And you will be coming to the inaugural meeting on Thursday. I shall pick you up before seven. No argument.’

  She picked up the final card she’d been given to put in Queenie’s window. ‘This last one is my favourite. The Big Village Pond Dig. Scheduled for the first weekend of the children’s summer holidays. Rather exciting, don’t you think?’

  Queenie looked at her as if she was mad. ‘No. In my opinion, if something’s buried there’s a reason for it.’

  ‘Do you honestly think there may be the drowned bodies of medieval witches lying in the mud? Mind you,’ Mamie added, ‘you would have been a prime candidate back then.’

  ‘Oi,’ Queenie grumped, ‘it’s just, like I say, I don’t want no trouble brought to this village.’

  ‘What’s the worst thing that could happen? It’s just a dried-up old pond. Nothing more. Now, let’s get these notices up. Got any Blu Tack?’

  Once the notices were displayed to their satisfaction, Mamie helped Queenie down from the steps.

  ‘There. Now shall I pop the kettle on again?’

  ‘Yes, please, me duck.’

  ‘And may I buy a Ribena for Tony?’

  ‘I’ll take that to him. Check on his planting out there. You get the tea ready.’

  Ensconced once more in her armchair, a cup of tea to hand, Queenie rummaged in her pocket for her tobacco pouch. ‘’Ere, when are we going to have our naughty smoke? Only me knees and hips could do with easing up.’

  ‘I have news on that front.’

  ‘Well, come on. Spill.’

  Mamie lowered her voice. ‘Where will you be on the day of the Big Pond Dig?’

  ‘Nowhere near that bloody pond, that’s for certain.’

  ‘Exactly. And where will everyone else be?’

  ‘Out digging the bleeding pond. What you asking me for?’

  ‘Well, if everyone in the village is taken up with the pond, you and I shall be left by ourselves. Get it?’

  Queenie gave Mamie a sly look. ‘Oh. Gotcha. Good thinking.’

  13

  By Thursday afternoon, Angela had worked herself into a state of anxiety over the inaugural Pals meeting.

  ‘I’ve no idea how many will come,’ she said anxiously to Mamie as they shifted the lounge sofa against the corner by the fireplace. ‘I suppose we could bring extra chairs from the kitchen.’

  ‘Who have you invited?’ asked Mamie.

  Angela pushed the sofa the final inch against the wall with her knee.

  ‘Well, Helen put it out on the village website and says she’s had two replies. Audrey and Mrs Whatsit from the farm.’

  ‘Evelyn?’ Mamie’s ears pricked.

  ‘That rings a bell. She’s not a churchgoer but I have seen her about. I must get around to visiting her. It’s no good preaching only to the converted, is it?’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Mamie pushed her hand through her silver-blond curls. ‘I think Evelyn could do with a kind shoulder to lean on.’

  Angela looked at her aunt. ‘If this is idle gossip I don’t want to hear.’

  ‘OK then. My lips are sealed,’ Mamie replied. ‘Shall I get some kitchen chairs in or not?’

  ‘Let’s wait.’ Angela’s lips twitched. ‘So, what have you heard about Evelyn? It may not be true and some strange people enjoy spreading lies behind people’s backs, you know.’ She had not told Mamie about the anonymous letter and wasn’t about to, but suppose this other poor woman was also suffering?

  Mamie spilled. ‘Evelyn is having man trouble. Her husband has a roving eye.’

  ‘And do you believe that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From a reliable source?’

  ‘Queenie has excellent sources. Rarely wrong.’

  ‘I might have known it was her.’ Angela picked up a cushion and began vigorously bashing it into shape, spreading Mr Worthington’s fur around the room. ‘I’m shocked at Queenie. She needs to keep her own counsel.’ She gave her aunt a sharp glance. ‘I hope you haven’t been discussing with her what goes on here in the vicarage?’

  ‘Darling. Of course not. Queenie and I are very discreet. No names, no pack-drill. Your grandfather taught me that very early on. Careless talk costs lives and all that.’

  Angela didn’t believe this for a moment. ‘So what have you told her?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Mamie was the picture of innocence.

  ‘If I find out that you have been telling Queenie anything about me or Robert or Faith,’ Angela was at her most fierce, ‘I shall be most disappointed!’

  ‘Understood,’ said Mamie meekly as she swiftly changed the subject. ‘Shall I put the kettle on? I think you could do with a cup of tea after all this work.’

  Angela’s mind immediately returned to the evening’s meeting. ‘Do you think I should make sandwiches?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Mamie said firmly. ‘Guests are best left unfed. It’ll stop them hanging around.’

  ‘So just tea and coffee?’

  ‘Much too much work. A family bag of ready-salted from Queenie’s and a box of her cheap pinot will be a feast.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can run to a case of wine,’ Angela fretted.

  ‘I said box, not case. It comes with a little plastic tap on the front and holds about a gallon for threepence. All the rage in the seventies. Filthy to drink but it hits the spot. You and I can have a glass of the good stuff from the fridge. They’ll never know.’

  ‘I’m better sticking to water.’ Angela went to the piano and fussed with the jug of tulips there, picking up a dropped petal. ‘I must keep a clear head.’

  In the kitchen Mamie put a cup of tea in front of her niece and opened a packet of Jaffa Cakes. ‘Now, tell me, what is the order of play tonight?’

  Angela cupped her hands around her mug. ‘Six forty-five arrivals. Seven o’clock kick-off.’

  ‘And what are we going to discuss?’

  This was the part that Angela was most nervous about. She smiled brightly to cover her anxiety. ‘I think we should start with a “getting to know each other” thing.’

  ‘They already know each other.’ Mamie was dismissive. ‘But if you like, I could get the ball rolling by telling them a little of my life …’

  Angela’s anxiety multiplied. ‘That may be a little too racy for them.’

  Mamie cocked an eyebrow. ‘Have I ever let you down?’

  ‘I’m not saying that you have ever let me down, it’s just that your life has been, well, rather less conservative than theirs.’

  Mamie reached across the table and put her
hand on Angela’s. ‘Now don’t go all po-faced on me. When your mother first told me that you wanted to be a vicar, she made me promise to never allow you to become all holier than thou. And that is a promise I intend to keep. You come from a long family line of liberal, non-judgemental, kind and free-thinking folk and I will not allow the Church to squeeze that out of you. God gave us the ability to laugh at our mistakes and accept people for what they are, and don’t you forget it. Now shut up and have a Jaffa Cake.’

  Robert stuck his head round the door. ‘Is it safe to come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ Angela was pleased to see him.

  ‘When does the coven start brewing up?’ he asked, rubbing his hands together briskly.

  ‘First arrivals six forty-five,’ said Mamie.

  He checked his watch. ‘That gives me time to avoid them by getting ready to go to the pub.’

  Angela gave him a pleading look. ‘Can you not stay just long enough to welcome them with me and then go to the pub?’

  ‘I would but I have to meet someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  Robert reached for a Jaffa Cake. ‘The editor of the Trevay Times. He’s interested in me becoming the regular food critic.’

  Angela rocked back in her chair. ‘Really? That’s wonderful. Do you want to do it?’

  ‘I do. It means I can whizz you out to dinner once a week. No bill to pay and the extra benefit of a date night!’

  ‘And when you can’t take your wife,’ Mamie said, ‘can you take a glamorous slightly older guest?’

  ‘Certainly. A plus-one every time.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But I’ll have to skip the pleasures of your meeting tonight.’

  Angela was disappointed but said, ‘You are forgiven.’ Robert bent to kiss her as she added, ‘Could you take anyone to these dinners?’

  ‘I can’t see why not. Why?’

  ‘Well, Helen is doing an awful lot on the social media stuff for the village, so maybe you could take her as a thank you?’

  Robert straightened up. ‘Providing Piran doesn’t lamp me, yes.’

  Mamie laughed. ‘You’d better get going or you’re going to bump into the female hordes wanting to flirt with you. And I have to collect Queenie.’

  ‘And pick up the crisps and wine at the same time?’ Angela reminded her.