The narrow passage which served as a cloakroom for some of the children’s coats – obviously the infants for the pegs had nursery pictures beside each of them – gave off the usual other school smell – a mixture of polish, disinfectant and that other, mysterious ingredient of which all English schools smelled. It excited her. What an opportunity to bring stimulus and excitement into the lives of these pliable young children. The sophistication of town children didn’t lend itself to her kind of teaching. She needed fresh open young minds, untainted by city streets and scepticism. Innocence – that was it …
Back in the house she made herself a drink while Cat went for a stroll. She knew Cat would be back. There was no running away, ever, for her. The two of them were kindred spirits.
Upstairs in the bedroom she had made a temporary altar in the awkward corner where she couldn’t stand up. She sat before it, legs crossed, the backs of her hands resting on her thighs. The scent of the incense crept into every nook and cranny of the room. She lit a candle and meditated. Oh yes, this ancient village was just the right place for her …
Rebecca Shaw is a former school teacher and the bestselling author of many novels. She lives with her husband in a beautiful Dorset village where she finds plenty of inspiration for her stories about rural life. She has four children and eight grandchildren.
By Rebecca Shaw
THE BARLEYBRIDGE SERIES
A Country Affair
Country Wives
Country Lovers
Country Passions
One Hot Country Summer
Love in the Country
TALES FROM TURNHAM MALPAS
The New Rector
Talk of the Village
Village Matters
The Village Show
Village Secrets
Scandal in the Village
Village Gossip
Trouble in the Village
A Village Dilemma
Intrigue in the Village
Whispers in the Village
A Village Feud
The Village Green Affair
Village Secrets
TALES FROM TURNHAM MALPAS
Rebecca Shaw
Contents
Cover
Title
About the Author
By Rebecca Shaw
Inhabitants of Turnham Malpas
Maps
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Copyright
INHABITANTS OF TURNHAM MALPAS
Sadie Beauchamp
Retired widow and mother of Harriet Charter-Plackett.
Willie Biggs
Verger at St Thomas à Becket.
Sylvia Biggs
His wife and housekeeper at the rectory.
Sir Ronald Bissett
Retired trades union leader.
Lady Sheila Bissett
His wife.
Louise Bissett
Their daughter and Secretary at Turnham House.
James (Jimbo)
Owner of the Village Store.
Charter-Plackett
Harriet Charter-Plackett
His wife.
Fergus, Finlay, Flick and Fran
Their children.
Alan Crimble
Barman at The Royal Oak.
Linda Crimble
Runs the post office at the Village Store.
Pat Duckett
Village school caretaker.
Dean and Michelle
Her children.
Bryn Fields
Licensee of The Royal Oak.
Georgie Fields
His wife.
Craddock Fitch
Owner of Turnham House.
Jimmy Glover
Taxi driver.
Revd. Peter Harris MA (Oxon)
Rector of the parish.
Dr Caroline Harris
His wife.
Alex and Beth
Their children.
Barry Jones
Estate carpenter.
Mrs Jones
His mother.
Jeremy Mayer
Manager at Turnham House.
Venetia Mayer
His wife.
Liz Neal
Playgroup leader.
Kate Pascoe
New head teacher.
Sergeant
Village policeman.
Ellie
His wife.
Greenwood Stubbs
Head gardener at Turnham House.
Sir Ralph Templeton
Retired from the diplomatic service.
Lady Muriel Templeton
His wife.
Dicky Tutt
Scout leader.
Bel Tutt
Assistant in the village store.
Vera Wright
Cleaner at the nursing home in Penny Fawcett.
Don Wright
Her husband.
Rhett Wright
Their grandson.
Chapter 1
‘She’s here, Jimbo – Miss Pascoe! We’ve seen her car. It’s just pulled up outside the school-house. She’s got here earlier than we expected. Where’s that box of stuff? Hurry up, we’re waiting!’
Jimbo was at the till taking money. He broke off to pick up a cardboard box from behind the counter. ‘Give her my regards. Here it is. Put the carrier bag in the drinks fridge in with it, will you? There’s milk and butter and things in there, didn’t want it going off.’
Pat Duckett eagerly took charge of the box and the carrier bag and Hetty Hardaker held open the door while she squeezed through.
‘You know, Pat, Jimbo really is very generous. I just hope she appreciates it. Here, let me take the carrier bag.’
‘Right, thanks. Well, you’ll have her to deal with more than me, being a teacher–I’m only the caretaker. I don’t mind telling you it’ll be a breath of fresh air, it will. Nothing wrong with old Mr Palmer, but he did need a kick in the pants as you might say didn’t he? A shaking-up like.’
‘He did, but he was still a good teacher. I shall miss him.’
‘Too right, so shall I.’ Across the road, Pat saw a young woman dressed in black struggling to get a huge cat basket out of the boot of her car. ‘There she is! Good morning, Miss Pascoe! Welcome to the school.’
Hetty Hardaker’s greeting was rather more reserved than Pat’s but just as sincere. ‘Welcome, Miss Pascoe.’
Kate put the basket down beside the car and held out her hand. ‘Kate, if you please, and it’s Ms Pascoe to the children. Nice to see you again, Hetty. Looking forward to working with you. You’ve been here such a long time, I shall look to you for advice.’ She turned to Pat. ‘And you must be the caretaker. You were away when I visited the school.’
‘Not away, no such luck, but blinking ill with one of them bugs you get nowadays.’
‘Oh, that’s right. I remember the rector telling me.’
Hetty indicated the box Pat was carrying. ‘This is a “welcome to Turnham Malpas gift” from Jimbo Charter-Plackett at the Store. There’s bread and tins and things, and in here’ – she held up the carr
ier bag – ‘is some milk and butter and cheese too, just to help you along.’
‘The fridge is switched on, I did that yesterday,’ Pat said eagerly.
‘That’s very kind. You wouldn’t get that in a city school, would you?’
Hetty agreed. ‘I don’t think you would. Look, we’ll put these inside for you and leave you to get settled in.’
Pat hitched the box a little higher, for it was beginning to slip from her grasp. ‘The door’s open, I left the keys on the windowsill in case I wasn’t here in time.’
She followed Ms Pascoe inside. Somehow, despite having given the house a good clean, Pat felt the house wasn’t ‘right’ for Ms Pascoe. Didn’t suit her personality. Too faded, too masculine. Still, that was up to her. She was a modern young thing – well, not that young – thirty perhaps. She’d make some changes and not half. Time would tell. Pat hoped she wouldn’t make too many changes too soon. New broom and all that.
‘I don’t think you could have chosen a colder day. Still no snow yet, thank goodness. I hear you’ve been teaching in Africa. Bit of a change, coming here in winter.’
‘Well, I’ve been back in England for six months now, so I’m getting acclimatised, thanks. You’ve been more than kind. I won’t hold you up.’
Seeing it as a dismissal Hetty began to leave followed by Pat, who in reality would have loved to stay for a chat. She made a stab at prolonging the conversation. ‘Hope you get settled in all right, Ms Pascoe. If you’ve any problems, give me a bell. The phone’s connected like you asked and I’ve put my number by it – just in case.’
‘Why, thank you, that’s very kind. Thank you too, Hetty, for taking the time to welcome me. See you soon. Bye bye.’
The two of them walked across the school playground without speaking. They turned to wave and Kate waved back.
When they were well out of earshot in Jacks Lane, Pat said, ‘Dad’ll be home for lunch soon, I must be off. She seems OK.’
‘She does, although I’ll reserve my judgement yet awhile. Bye Pat, thanks for coming, I’m sure she appreciated it.’
Kate Pascoe dumped the heavy basket beside the school-house door and, full of anticipation, looked up at the stone lintel above her head. A.D. 1855. Like Pat had said, the keys had been left for her inside on the windowsill. Huge old keys – good grief, they could belong to a prison! Now, alone, she could take time to savour the place. There came a faint musty smell to her nostrils. She let Cat out of her basket and watched her step swiftly down the narrow passage to the first room. Kate followed more slowly.
The room had windows looking out to the side of the playground, curious old arched windows giving a kind of churchified feeling to the place – to remind the head teacher that this was a Church of England school and that he or she must act accordingly? Kate mused.
The walk were a boring beige – a typical old-fashioned bachelor choice. The fireplace was a kind of 1930s tiled affair, a neat fan of newspaper concealing the grate. When she pushed open the kitchen door she had the distinct feeling that it really was 1855. A huge butler sink, bleached a scorching white, with a wooden draining board stood in one corner, the brass taps above the sink burnished bright. Beside what had been a fireplace, but which was now covered by a sheet of plywood, was a large cupboard, majestic in its proportions. Everywhere was clean but that was the nicest thing one could say about it. Someone had made an effort. The kitchen was large enough to have a table in, she’d do that. There was, thank heavens, plumbing for a washing machine and an outlet for a dryer, and several power points. Next to the sink stood an old and stately cooker. It worked! The gas flame flared busily blue when she turned it on. It had been cleaned, too. How many teachers had cooked a lonely supper on it? Kate wondered.
She emptied the carrier bag Jimbo had sent and was storing the contents away in the fridge, though she wouldn’t be able to eat most of it, when there came a knock at the front door.
Standing outside, well-wrapped up against the cold, was a well-dressed lady holding a plastic cake box.
‘Good day to you, Miss Pascoe. Welcome to Turnham Malpas and to the school. My name’s Muriel Templeton.’
‘Good day to you too, Miss Templeton. Do come in. It’s too cold to stand outside.’
‘I’m not staying, not when you’re so busy. I’ve just called with a cake for you. Home-made – chocolate. Mr Palmer had a sweet tooth; I thought perhaps you might have, too.’
Kate studied her visitor’s delicate features and white hair. There was a shy quality about her but at the same time a kind of strength. The light-blue eyes looked kind.
‘Well, Miss Templeton, you really are nice. You’re my second lot of visitors and I haven’t been here more than about fifteen minutes!’
Muriel beamed with pleasure. ‘Oh well, you see, we’re a very friendly village and we’re so glad to have fresh blood in the school. I do hope you like living here, though I don’t know how you possibly couldn’t. It’s so lovely hereabouts. My husband suggested I called …’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, you’re Mrs Templeton.’
‘Truth to tell, I’m Lady Templeton though I’m still not used to it myself.’
‘I see. Well, Lady Templeton, thank you so much for the cake. It sounds absolutely delicious.’
‘Has the rector called yet?’
‘No, not yet, but he promised he would.’
‘Well, he will then. He always keeps his word. Right, I’ll leave you to get on. We live along Church Lane – come to call anytime if you’re in need of help. Keep the church on your right and we’re the fourth house along.’
‘Thank you. I’ll remember if I’m in need of help.’
‘Bye bye then. See you in church!’ Muriel waved as she left the school playground.
Kate put the cake box on the kitchen worktop and carried on with her familiarisation tour of the house. The bathroom was downstairs. Brass taps, high-sided cast-iron bath, a washbasin large enough to bath a baby in, and a lavatory boasting a high cistern and chain for flushing. Upstairs, the one huge bedroom was again masculine in taste, with bare stained boards, a single curtain rail at each of the two windows. There were no clean patches on the wall to show where pictures had hung. Whoever had cleaned it for her had done a thorough job. It might be old-fashioned, but it was scrupulously clean.
Cat had investigated the entire house by now and given her approval by sitting down in front of the empty grate and washing her face. There was an hour to go before the van arrived with their furniture. Kate went out to the car again, and began lugging in boxes and bags – some for the bedroom, some for the kitchen, some for the living room. It had character, had this place, oh yes – a feeling of years long gone and plenty of atmosphere. Cat liked it and that was good. Never lived in England before and yet she’d taken to it as if she’d lived there all her life.
When she’d emptied the car, Kate went to take a look at the school from the outside. The windows were high and only by standing on tiptoes could she see anything at all. There were four classrooms: one for the playgroup, one for the Infants and two for the Juniors. She could just manage to see into the kitchen, which appeared clean and quite modern. A spotless roller towel awaited the beginning of term. The windows to the hall were even higher and she couldn’t see anything at all.
Back at the house she wandered around the ground floor, then explored the upstairs again. It would take her one day to get straight, she decided, and then she’d decorate room by room. Rich dark colours, bright curtains, and that awkward corner in the bedroom where the ceiling sloped and one couldn’t quite stand would be just right for … The sound of voices brought her back to earth.
‘Hello, any one at ’ome?’
Kate made the removal men a mug of tea each and supervised where she wanted her furniture placing. Her books would have to stay in their cardboard boxes till she bought some bookshelves. Some, her special ones, would go upstairs in that awkward corner.
Cat observed all the activity from he
r position on the living-room windowsill. After their experience with the animal when they’d been loading the van, the men walked by her with respect. The excuse for her attacking them was that Cat was nervous, having just come out of quarantine, but the scratch on Bert’s leg was deep enough, nervous or not. His trouser leg kept sticking to the blood as he walked. He quite fancied going to the hospital for a tetanus; you never could tell nowadays, specially when the damn creature had been in Africa. Yes, he decided: he’d finish this job and off he’d go.
There came a knock at the door. ‘Hello, it’s Peter Harris.’
One of the men called upstairs, ‘Vicar’s ’ere, Miss!’
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