The Village Green Affair

by Shaw, Rebecca

  His mind dwelt for a while on the barn. They were getting very cramped at the back of the Store, with the mail order having gone through the roof since he’d established his website. There’d certainly be no more expansion there, but the barn . . .

  He dashed in, heading straight for the kitchens. Harriet was back in there, as Bel had come to do her middle-of-the-day stint on the counter. ‘Harriet!’ He beckoned her with an eager finger. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘I’ll get nothing done at this rate. What are you up to?’

  He closed his office door behind them and sat her down on a stool. ‘Listen!’ His voice full of enthusiasm he placed his boater on the top of the boxes of dried fruit, smoothed his bald head and wondered briefly how on earth to phrase his idea in a very tempting way that would excite her interest and more so her support.

  ‘Yes? Be sharp about it; I’ve a lot on today.’

  ‘I’ve just been up to the Big House. Old Fitch is restoring that big old barn, the one you can see on the right through the trees when you’re going up the drive.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, he’s going to rent it out for business purposes.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, you know you were saying the other day how you’d no room to move in the back here . . .’

  Harriet’s face lit up, but being a practical businesswoman her first question was, ‘Can we afford it?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. Old Fitch returns Monday, so I shall hasten up there on winged feet and ask. Then I’ll do my figures and we can make up our minds after that. Expansion here we come, hopefully.’

  Harriet, more cautious than Jimbo, sat thinking for a moment. ‘There’s one thing for certain: we simply cannot expand where we are, and I’d have more room for some state-of-the-art kitchen equipment I hanker after.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And maybe we could hire it out for events, too. Yes, it’s a brilliant idea. If it looks right on paper then let’s go for it. Not too far away for us to keep an eye on things, is it? Is that what that strange man was after?’

  ‘I didn’t find a thing out about that, except it’s something to do with the village green and holding an event on it. What exactly I don’t know, but apparently everyone in the village is convinced they have inside knowledge.’

  Harriet stood up ready to go. ‘Well, whatever it is, it won’t affect us, will it?’

  But the rest of the village thought differently. Not affect them? Of course it would, and whatever it was had to be stopped. As of now. This week! This minute! So, after church on Sunday morning, there was a gathering in the churchyard which mushroomed into a crowd, and Willie Biggs, being in charge of the keys while Zack had a short break, thought they’d make more of a fist of it if they had chairs and a roof over their heads, so he opened up the church hall for an impromptu meeting. It just materialized out of a combined urgency to put a stop to this invasion of Turnham Malpas by someone without even the slightest connection to the village.

  Grandmama Charter-Plackett was the first to get to her feet. ‘This very morning I’ve spoken to someone who knows someone, and they reckon this chap is after starting a market every week here in Turnham Malpas.’

  The air was filled with gasps of complete astonishment and horror, and everyone jabbering at top decibels. Grandmama was enormously gratified by the reception her statement received, learned that very morning by a couple of judicious phone calls to a friend who’d happened to mention the market in her own village only twenty-five miles away.

  ‘He’s called Titus Bellamy and he’s got four other markets going,’ Grandmama continued. ‘He’s discovered a charter from the archives that gives him permission to hold a market on a Thursday morning in Turnham Malpas from eight till one. Apparently, it lapsed at the time of the Black Death and he’s going to resurrect it. We’re talking history here and no mistake. If it is true, I don’t want it, not when my son pays rates and staff to keep the Store open week in week out for everyone’s benefit. He can’t keep going with that kind of opposition. This chap doesn’t allow trash apparently, he’s got very high standards, and my Jimbo is very uptight about it because that’s in direct competition to him, believe you me. We’ll kill it quite simply by none of us shopping in his pesky market. No trade, no market. Sound common sense. Who’s on my side? Hands up!’

  This colossal shock raised a myriad of hands in the airs but some were slow and others hovered well below shoulder level. Grandmama’s eagle eyes noted the reluctant ones and vowed to target them with her persuasive tongue. She sat down in a flurry of indignation. How dare they not support her Jimbo wholeheartedly? How dare they? She’d show ’em!

  There was a small number of those present who were fascinated by Grandmama’s revelations, and sneakily thought that a bit of competition might bring down Jimbo’s prices. But they kept their own counsel. After all there were times to stand up and be counted, and times to keep well below the parapet. Grandmama on a mission was not to be taken on lightly.

  At the back of all their minds was the next piece of news: that their old adversary Craddock Fitch was encouraging the whole affair by renting out his field to be used as the car park, without which the entire idea would be stymied.

  ‘But,’ said Vince Jones from down Shepherds Hill, ‘the chances of us persuading Old Fitch to abandon his money-making scheme for the sake of the village are absolutely nil.’ He emphasized his point by slicing the air with his hands.

  They all had to agree. After all, money was old Fitch’s prime consideration, though he had softened a little since his unexpected marriage to Kate Pascoe.

  ‘We’d do better if we called in the Health and Safety from the Council,’ Willie Biggs called from the back row, having entered later than he’d intended because of standing in for Zack the new verger. ‘They have a lot of clout, they do, more than ever. Anywhere people gather, whatever for, is of interest to them. And an event on the green means people gathering. They can put a stop to his plans.’

  Someone was designated with the task of finding out this Titus Bellamy chap’s address or phone number. Another vociferous opponent was charged with speaking to Health and Safety, another to confront the leader of the council with the intention of getting the council to stop the whole thing, and yet another to formulate plans of a protest. Having explored as many avenues as they could think of they dispersed with a rallying cry of, ‘If we fail then our motto must be don’t shop in the market, no matter how tempted we are. That’ll sort it in a matter of weeks.’

  The idea that the market would simply collapse if they ignored it carried a lot of weight, and they all felt heartened by the meeting, thinking they’d got the better of Titus Bellamy, whoever he was, before he’d set up a single stall.

  The silent, uncommunicative man faded from everyone’s mind as the weeks sped by. Summer had just arrived and there were more interesting matters to discuss, such as the disastrously bad start to the season the Turnham Malpas cricket team was suffering and the fact that the school house was being altered to provide more classroom accommodation as the number of children at the school was escalating. Mainly due, they all decided, to the large families now occupying the newly built houses down the Culworth Road.

  ‘Breeding like rabbits they are down there. All young and newly married - well, some of ’em are married - and babies popping out like shelled peas,’ said Maggie Dobbs, who was suffering the most due to the disruption the builders were making to her daily life as school cleaner. ‘Bringing dirt in to the school like there was no tomorrow, it simply isn’t fair. Bet my wages won’t go up with all the extra work. I’ll have two buildings to clean. One’s bad enough.’

  Jimbo also had other things to concentrate his mind, like arguing with Mr Fitch about putting in another floor in the barn, so they could have a first floor as well as the ground floor, and who was going to pay for it, and if he could sublet any part of it he didn’t need for now. Everyone in the village knew about Jimbo’s new idea to
expand his website business, and the comments in the bar varied from, ‘How well he must be doing’ to ‘Still, that’ll be more jobs for the village’.

  On the surface it appeared that only Jimbo continued to have a nervous twitch about that silent Titus Bellamy. Everyone else thought it had died a natural death, before it ever got started. It nagged Jimbo now and again, but in the end, racking his brain to puzzle out the real significance of the man’s visit became futile.

  It wasn’t that he came and then went - lots of people did that, tourists and the like - it was, as Dottie said, the fact that he asked questions, visited Jeremy at the Big House, leaned over the gate to Rector’s Meadow with our Barry, talked to Zack in the church, and sat quietly listening in the bar. A genteel man he was, unusual to look at, but nevertheless acceptable and well spoken - when and if he did choose to speak.

  ‘No, there was definitely something very mysterious about him,’ said Greta to Sheila, as Sheila selected a tin of lentil soup for the new fad diet she’d imposed on her Ron. ‘Very definitely.’

  Willie, seated at his usual table in the bar, muttered into his homebrew, ‘Lovely man, they all say, but what was he doing? That was the question. Was it really about starting a market?’

  Jimmy the taxi said philosophically, ‘It’ll all come out in the wash.’

  Willie found his acceptance of the situation irritating. ‘Do you know something I don’t? If so, out with it.’

  Indignantly Jimmy said he knew nothing, that he’d better things to do than gossip. He got to his feet and departed from the bar, leaving Willie to his own thoughts.

  The man certainly wasn’t from the planning department, he wasn’t that kind. Ordnance Survey? Drains? Street lighting? Street signs? No, they’d seen the lighting committee off before now; after the last episode they wouldn’t be trying that on again. Willie downed the last of his homebrew and wandered home, hoping his Sylvia’s spate of spring-cleaning would have worn itself out and he’d be able to sit in his favourite chair in peace and nod off for an hour.

  It was Tom who was the first to find out what Titus Bellamy really was up to, because he caught sight of the headline on the front page of the Culworth Gazette as he was hauling the bundles of newspapers into the shop first thing one Thursday morning. Bold as brass it was, in large capital letters.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Oh, my God!’ shouted Tom. ‘I don’t believe this.’ His disbelieving eyes scanned the headline and then he read out loud: ‘THURSDAY MARKET FOR TURNHAM MALPAS.’

  So here it was in black and white, cutting a swathe through all the speculation, all the planning, that had gone on ever since Titus Bellamy had first visited the village. He speed-read the piece beneath the heading and dwelt for a long minute on the effects it would have on the village, and on Jimbo and the Store in particular. He couldn’t decide whether or not it was a plus or a minus. After all, it was only one morning a week, but it could cause sizeable damage to Thursday’s trading. It might not be groceries, though it did say organic a couple of times, which was significant. So Grandmama was right, after all. It was a market. Having read it through twice, he decided to ring Jimbo, but, realizing it was not yet seven o’clock, he delayed his call until he’d set up the Store for the day’s trading.

  As he switched on the coffee machine something else hit him right out of the blue. Here was Jimbo facing lots of expense setting up the old barn as his major bakery and as a venue for events, and now this threat was hanging over him. No warning. No nothing. He could delay no longer and dialled his number immediately, dreading Jimbo’s response.

  There was silence on Jimbo’s end of the phone as Tom read out snippets from the Gazette. Tom had expected a tirade, but Jimbo didn’t explode. He simply said, ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

  His response made Tom realize that the news had devastated him far more than he had imagined it would.

  Jimbo sat on the bed with the receiver in his hand, head bent, thinking.

  Harriet came in from the bathroom. ‘Who was that at this time in the morning? Some minor catastrophe that could well have waited until nine o’clock?’

  Jimbo didn’t appear to have heard her.

  ‘Darling! What’s the matter?’ She touched his shoulder and lowered her head to see his face.

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘A market on the green.’

  Harriet, struggling to get into her too-tight jeans, thought she’d misheard him. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘That snooping man, Titus Bellamy, claims he’s holding a country market on our village green each Thursday morning, starting next week.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Believe it or believe it not, Rector’s Meadow will be the car park. That was why he was leaning on the gate looking at it, and Old Fitch is charging car parking fees - with a man on the gate. And we’ve just pledged ourselves to vast and possibly damaging expense to expand our business, plus the capital it took to re-open the Store. Hell’s bells! So while Old Fitch and I were negotiating about the barn he was also talking to this Titus fellow. Talk about stabbing us in the back, and then some.’

  ‘Darling, it’s only one morning a week. Surely it can’t hurt us that much? It’ll be a load of old tat and it will die a natural death, believe me. It’ll be like a car boot sale, most of it rubbish, apart from two matching Georgian wine glasses or something or other which someone has the luck to find. Honestly! Country market indeed. Huh!’ But at heart Harriet felt sick.

  ‘I shall ring the council. This minute.’

  ‘Too early. Have your breakfast first, and ring them when your brain has cleared.’

  ‘He can’t have had permission, can he? Have you ever heard of a market on the green?’

  Harriet shrugged her shoulders. ‘No, but then we haven’t lived here five . . . six hundred years. There might have been at one point.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. I do not believe it. I will not believe it.’ Jimbo stomped off into the bathroom, muttering to himself.

  At breakfast, Fran, munching her muesli, said, not very helpfully, ‘There could have been a charter for the market, but for some reason it fizzled out. That was how it used to be; the local land-owner got a charter from the king for a market. In St Alban’s, in Hertfordshire, they’ve had an outdoor market for over a thousand years in the same place and it’s still going strong. Every Saturday, I think it is, or is it Wednesday? Or Wednesday and Saturday.’

  Harriet, desperate for Jimbo not to get too worked up, gave Fran a slight shake of her head, hoping she’d shut up. But she didn’t.

  ‘It could bring business to the village, you know, Dad. To the Royal Oak, the church, and why not our Store? Could be a godsend. ’

  Jimbo, trying hard to be rational about it, felt close to throttling her. He tightened his grip on the butter knife, pressed too hard, and the dish skittered across the breakfast table, before being brilliantly fielded by Harriet, who reminded Fran that the clock was ticking and the school coach would be leaving shortly. ‘I’ve put the envelope with the permission for you to go to that French day at Lady Wortley’s on top of your school bag.’

  ‘Huh! French day! I think I’ll throw a sicky.’ She dashed away to clean her teeth.

  ‘You won’t, young lady,’ Jimbo shouted after her. For a brief moment he dwelt on the talent Fran had developed for languages, and then returned immediately to the market problem. ‘Once it gets established it will be all too late to protest. I’ll ring our Kev straight up on nine, to find out about permission.’

  The clock on his desk was old and decrepit, but well loved by him, and when it chimed nine, Jimbo was dialling. By some underhand means he’d ferreted out Kevin’s direct line.

  ‘Good morning, Kevin. Brilliant day, isn’t it? Jimbo Charter-Plackett speaking, from Turnham Malpas. Have you time for a word?’

  Kevin may not have risen very far in the echelons of the council hierarchy, but his knowledge of th
e goings-on in the council, legitimate or otherwise, was unparalleled.

  ‘Just.’

  ‘Right, I won’t beat about the bush. This business of a market on the village green every Thursday. Just how legit is it?’

  ‘Very. Titus Bellamy’s found an old charter in the archives from the early fourteenth century signed by a Templeton, giving permission for it. There’s nothing that can be done. Health and Safety’s noses are considerably out of joint, but as yet they haven’t come up with any concrete objections to it. Even the car parking’s been solved by Mr Fitch; he’s opening up a field for it.’