‘So you’re saying it’s all signed and sealed?’
‘Oh, yes. Could hit your Thursday trade, I expect?’ Kevin sniggered.
‘Exactly.’ Jimbo could have knifed him straight through his heart for that snigger.
‘Some of these old agreements in rural areas cause an awful lot of problems. Health and Safety are always gnashing their teeth about something or another, but often their hands are tied.’
‘Keep me informed, mmm? I wonder, would you be able to make use of a couple of tickets for the British Grand Prix? Been stuck with a couple and I can’t use them. How about it?’
‘Certainly, I could. Thanks, much appreciated. Glad to take them off your hands. You know the chap who’s running it has four other markets doing really well. The stalls are mostly organic - meat, dairy, bakery, fish . . . Let me see,’ Jimbo could hear a rustling of papers, then Kevin continued, ‘Organic greengrocery, collectables, jewellery, an artist, a potter, you name it.’
So much for Harriet’s ‘load of old tat’, thought Jimbo.
‘Well, that just about covers everything I sell, but there you are. Nice to talk to you. I won’t forget about the tickets.’
Jimbo banged down the receiver and cursed the world in general, and himself in particular, for lining the pocket of a slimy little sneak. Well, at least now he knew what he was up against, and it was no good anyone saying, ‘It won’t affect your trade.’ It would!
Now he’d have to set to and bribe someone to get the Grand Prix tickets for our Kev. But he had an idea about that, and when Liz Neal came in that morning he beckoned her into his office, placed his boater on the top of a carton of Brazil nuts and, as he always did, gave her a huge welcoming kiss.
‘Liz, have you lost weight?’
‘Maybe. You want to tell me something? If it’s about the market I’m sick of hearing about it. Everyone I meet has an opinion on it.’
‘Are they keen?’
Liz smiled. ‘Keen? I’m afraid they are. In fact, some of them are thinking of having stalls.’
Had Jimbo had hair in any quantities on his head it would have stood vertical with shock. ‘Villagers, you mean?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Jimbo groped blindly for a seat. ‘Traitors, the lot of ’em. Traitors!’
‘They’ve a right—’
‘What about my rights? Mmm? I, who serve them every single week, not some fly-by-night here one morning and then gone the next. I’m deeply grieved by their lack of loyalty to me.’
Liz studied his face and saw his wrath was genuine. ‘I’m sorry, Jimbo, very sorry.’
‘Change of subject. Neville goes to the Grand Prix, doesn’t he? Could he get me two tickets, do you think? I don’t expect them for free.’
‘Oh! Are you going? That would be lovely. I’d be delighted for some sympathetic company, instead of all those stuffed shirts Neville invites.’
‘Er! They’re not for Harriet and me; it’s a sweetener for that Kevin in planning. He’s given me the latest on the market so I had to reciprocate, though I hate myself for it. Apparently this chap, Titus Bellamy, has got four other markets in full swing. Wait till I see him; he’ll wish he hadn’t been born.’
Liz looked at Jimbo and felt she needed to bring some sanity into their conversation. ‘He’s a businessman like you, Jimbo, earning his crust, doing his best. You should cooperate with him, welcome him. See how you could use his market to your advantage as well as his.’ Liz kissed his cheek and handed him back his boater.
‘Thanks.’ Jimbo absentmindedly smoothed his hand over his remaining hair and placed the boater on his head.
‘Was that it?’
Jimbo didn’t reply so Liz went back into the Store to get her shopping. She felt quite intrigued by this Titus Bellamy person. There were such exaggerated stories about him going round the village, the most ridiculous being that he was Richard Branson wearing his gardening clothes as a disguise - ‘Well, he was tall and thin, and he did have a beard, didn’t he? And that Richard’s always looking for openings.’
Behind the tinned soups appeared to be the hot spot for the morning, but only if you hadn’t tired of the market. Vince Jones, ostensibly there to pick up Greta’s weekend shopping order, but in reality meeting his bowling club cronies over a freshly brewed coffee from Jimbo’s machine, as they did regularly as a kind of mid-week committee meeting during the bowling season, slunk behind the soup section, steaming coffee in hand. Club matters had been pushed aside by the immediate urgency of the threat of the market.
‘Well, I don’t agree. A market’s going to bring nothing but trouble. There’s going to be all the riff-raff from Culworth gathering, and guess who’ll catch the fall-out?’
‘Us.’
The smallest member of them all, insignificant but with a permanent mission to be different from everyone else, piped up, ‘You’re all making a mountain out of a molehill. One morning a week, that’s all. A bit of competition won’t do Jimbo any harm. A chance to buy good food at reasonable prices, and it can’t be said the prices in here are cheap.’ He waved his paper cup of free coffee about to emphasize his point. ‘I for one will patronize it. Well, I will if I like what I see.’
‘You won’t get no free coffee in the market, don’t forget that,’ someone reminded him.
Those opposed to the market nodded sagely in agreement, and the smallest member of the committee had to admit they were right about that.
‘It’ll all fall on us, will the clearing up,’ said the treasurer.
‘Exactly. Us. You and me. They’ll leave mountains of rubbish when it’s all over. Before we know where we are we’ll be overrun with rats.’
There was silence while his cronies shuddered at the thought, and unintentionally Vince worsened the situation by telling them that he’d just seen the council vermin officer out the back of Hipkin Cottages with traps. ‘It’ll be Alan Crimble’s compost heap encouraging ’em, I bet. He’s obsessed, he is. Takes all the food waste from the pub home with him. He’ll be selling compost soon he has that much. I wouldn’t mind, but his garden’s no bigger than my hen run.’
Vince muttered loudly, ‘I bet the council won’t send no one round to clear up, and if they do volunteer their help they’ll put our rates up. No, the rubbish’ll be our problem. And rubbish there’ll be. Cardboard boxes of all sizes, bubble wrap, food waste, paper cups and plates from the food stalls, wrapping paper, you name it.’
Consternation took hold, just as Willie Biggs came round the corner of the soup section.
Vince, fired up with gloom, continued, ‘We’ll all have rats. To say nothing of the thieves and the fly-by-nights. The noise. The hullabaloo. The crowds. Place won’t be our own, it won’t. Good old Turnham Malpas will be gone for ever. We’ll have street lighting and house numbers before we know where we are.’
Street lighting and house numbers were always bound to create a kind of strangulated fury amongst the villagers, not least in Willie Biggs.
‘Well, I’m against the market for all those reasons and more. Here we have Jimbo running a store, which, let’s face it, is a blessing, an absolute blessing, and he doesn’t need that kind of competition. No, my word he doesn’t, and I for one will oppose it in support of Jimbo. After all, he’s here six days a week, open till seven now. My Sylvia won’t spend a single penny there, no matter how good the food is. It’s not on. And if I see anyone I know, which is everyone, buying stuff, I shall let them have the sharp edge of my tongue and not half.’ He nodded his head briskly, whisked a can of tomato soup from the shelves for his and Sylvia’s lunch, and hastened off, leaving Vince and his bowling cronies well satisfied that in Willie Biggs they had an earnest supporter of their protest. What form their protest should take was another question.
Liz told Neville about Jimbo’s request for Grand Prix tickets that night when he came home.
‘But, and I mean this, he’s not to have tickets with us. Buy some as far away as possible. Please.’ She fully expecte
d Neville would be in agreement with her, but he said he owed Kevin himself so he’d get him seats next to them if he could.
‘Feather in my cap,’ he added, ‘because I can make it look as though I’m treating him but it’ll be at Jimbo’s expense.’
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’
Neville was still smiling at his crafty trick, that stiff smile of his which barely cracked his face. ‘I’ve said I owe him, so I will get them. Leave it with me.’ He picked up his glass of whiskey and found the remote control.
‘Neville, I am not, I repeat not, sitting with Kevin even within earshot. It would ruin my afternoon. I find the Grand Prix unbearable at the best of times but Kevin Smickersgill as well? Oh, no!’
Her protest was completely ignored so Liz picked up the remote control and switched the TV off.
‘Do you hear me? I shan’t go if I have to tolerate that man. Then you won’t have a hostess and you’ll have to cope on your own. Right?’
Neville wagged his finger at her. ‘This is a storm in a teacup. There’s nothing wrong with the man, and in the past he’s been very, very useful to me. That property I bought in Old Fold Yard, you remember? Kevin told me the day before it came on the market and I snapped it up for a song. We made fifty thousand with that, and I did no improvements whatsoever, simply because Kevin knew exactly the right person to buy it, and the chap couldn’t put his money down fast enough. So, Kevin is joining our party. My final word. Put Channel Four on, please.’
‘I’m embarrassed that you have any dealings with him whatsoever. He’s a sleazebag.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about my business acquaintances in that tone. Put it on, then.’
Liz flung the remote control on to the carpet and got to her feet. ‘Put it on yourself. All you do in this house is switch on the remote control.’
‘I see. Making a cool fifty grand for us doesn’t count.’
‘Of course it does, but I’d rather you enjoyed my company and paid some attention to me as well. Or rather to us. It’s over a year since you looked at me with desire. Let alone did something about it.’
Neville looked nonplussed. He tossed back the remains of his whiskey, picked up the decanter and refilled his glass. He opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind, and instead switched the TV back on as loud as he could bear it.
‘Well? Have you nothing to say?’ Liz shouted above the TV but knew he couldn’t hear her. So she pulled out the plug and stood in front of him, hands on hips. ‘Neville! Answer me!’
At his most scathing he declared, ‘You sound and look like a fishwife.’
‘No wonder. A fishwife is all you deserve. I see Peter look at Caroline and I crave for you to look at me like he does her. His face glows with love, and hers for him. I’m so envious of them, jealous even. That’s a prize I would love to have, it’s way above any fifty grand. Poor as a church mouse I’d be, gladly, willingly, if you and I had love like that.’
Somewhat triumphantly Neville roared back, ‘Ha! But you’d miss your designer clothes and your fantastic holidays. Oh yes you would, and don’t deny it. It’s true.’
‘I’d live in a hovel with you if we had love like theirs.’ Liz flung herself down in her chair and wept angry, despairing tears.
Neville shouted over the noise of her abandonment, ‘Liz, we’ll soon have been married twenty-five years. My God, woman, you can’t expect passion at our age. It’s disgusting even to think about it.’ The look of disgust came into his eyes and by the time it reached Neville’s mouth his face was twisted with it.
Through her tears Liz saw his expression and knew whatever they’d had between them was surely over. She accepted her defeat almost with relief.
‘It’s half-term, next week’ she said. ‘I’m going away for a few days, right? Don’t know where, just going. I need time to think. I’ll go tomorrow, after nursery.’
Neville leaped to his feet. ‘Think? What do you need to think about? And what about me?’
‘You? You’ll die of starvation, I expect, but that’s up to you.’
Neville didn’t die of starvation. He had a couple of meals out, though it felt lonely sitting all by himself in restaurants which were well past their best, but he couldn’t afford to go to established places like the George, not because of the cost, but because he didn’t want to meet anyone he knew as they’d only ask about Liz, and what could one say? It wasn’t normal for a wife to go away on her own. In fact, it was very, very unusual, though the married women in his office sometimes went away together for a ‘girls’ weekend’ in Barcelona or somewhere, but that was different from going alone.
What the blazes was she going to think about? What was there to think about that she couldn’t share with him? Not for one moment did Neville think he might be to blame. She was being completely unreasonable. He’d never been very enthusiastic about that side of marriage anyway, and was very surprised to find himself the father of two sons in less than two years of marriage. He’d been quite glad to find a valid excuse of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary coming up to forget all of that and concentrate wholly on making a fortune so they’d be able to leave money to the boys.
In his position as church treasurer he needed regular opportunities to confer with Peter, and he decided that he might just make it this week in the hope Caroline would ask him for a meal so that would be three evening meals taken care of, and the kitchen could remain immaculate, which he much preferred.
He spoke to Peter after morning service and they agreed he’d call at the Rectory on the Monday evening. ‘About five-thirty?’
Peter had agreed, thinking it was an odd time for him to suggest, but there was none so ruthless as Neville when he had a project in mind that could be to his advantage.
‘He’s on his own this week,’ Caroline replied when Peter told her Neville would be coming the next evening. ‘I expect he’s hoping for an invite to a meal.’
Peter looked up at her. ‘Do you mind? Is it convenient?’
Caroline thought carefully about her reply. ‘I wouldn’t mind. It’ll give me a chance to find out about him.’
‘He’s an excellent treasurer, I can’t fault him on that, but I don’t know if I want to dig any deeper.’
‘We’ll see, we’ll see. Just to be difficult, I’ll do enough food for him but we won’t let on until the very last minute. I want to see him squirm when he thinks he isn’t being asked.’
‘Caroline! That is an aspect of your character I haven’t come across before.’
She passed him the thick wad of the Sunday paper. ‘Read this and ignore me.’ She laughed. ‘It’s only Neville who brings it out in me. He is a . . .’
‘Yes, I know, a slimy toad.’
‘Well! Really! And you the Rector.’
‘Give me a kiss?’
‘I certainly will.’ Caroline wrapped her arms around his neck, sitting herself on his lap as she did so, and kissing his mouth with fervour. Peter held her down with his right arm across her thighs and enjoyed kissing her some more.
When they were finally breathless she stood up and laughed. ‘Poor Neville.’
‘Why poor Neville?’
‘He’s given it up.’
‘Given what up?’
‘Sex.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Liz told me.’
‘Poor Liz.’
‘Indeed. That’s why she’s gone away. She’s very upset. He won’t have anything at all to do with her, you see.’
Peter picked up the paper and shook it out. ‘Now that is very sad, but he’s always been what Sir Ralph calls a cold fish, and I don’t expect he’ll change now.’
‘Liz is still attractive, though, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, yes, very. Someone would find her just right if she ever left Neville.’
‘Perhaps he just needs a nudge in the right direction.’ Caroline looked speculatively at him. ‘You’d be just the right person to do it.’
�
�I would not.’
‘You’d do it so beautifully he’d scarcely notice what you were driving at, but he’d take it to heart without realizing. You could be saving their marriage.’
‘Hush! Someone’s coming downstairs.’
It was Alex. ‘I’ve finished my homework and Beth almost has. What shall we be doing this afternoon?’
Peter groaned, realizing he’d have to give up his Sunday paper before he’d even begun reading it. ‘Swimming?’
‘Excellent! You coming, Mum?’
‘Yes, OK. I need some exercise. Does Beth want to come?’
‘She won’t want leaving behind.’
The Village Green Affair Page 5
