The Village Green Affair

by Shaw, Rebecca

  ‘He rings you, does he?’ Neville spat. ‘How could you meet otherwise? There is no course, is there? It’s all lies, isn’t it? You’ve lied to me. He’s made you lie, you who has always, always been so truthful with me.’

  She thought of the half-truths he must have told her about his business deals over the years, but forbore to remind him. Each of them had to escape from this confrontation with as much of their integrity intact as possible. How else could they share the same house with any degree of peace? Civilized, that was how they had to be.

  She spoke as calmly as she could. ‘Neville, we haven’t exchanged a single phone call. We arranged to have a meal tonight when he was here last Thursday. A meal is all it was.’

  ‘Text, then?’

  Scornfully she answered, ‘We’re not children.’

  She could tell Neville’s mind was springing about all over the place, and she almost saw the worst possible idea leap into his mind.

  With frightening venom he said, ‘I forbid the two of you to meet ever again. Do you hear me? You are not to meet again. I won’t have it.’

  Liz stared at him, contemplating her reply.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ he bellowed with a passion she never knew he possessed.

  She replied softly. ‘I did hear you. Whether I shall do as you say is another matter. I’m weary of what I am expected to do according to your rules. From this day forward I shall behave as I wish. No more dictates from on high.’

  Never before in the last twenty-five years had she so openly defied his wishes, and he couldn’t believe it. His pale eyes went wide with shock, his lips trembled, his chin juddered, his fists came up to his chest and, for one terrifying second, she thought he was going to punch her. But somehow, that self-control, that shut-in, closed-in attitude of his held him back, and stopped him taking a step from which they would never have recovered.

  ‘I shall sleep in the guest bedroom tonight to give us both time to calm down, and most especially time for you to consider your position. This business of a . . .’ he paused to find the best word for the situation, ‘friendship with Titus Bellamy is quite simply not on.’ He spun round and marched upstairs, his shoes making scarcely a sound as he made his way carefully up to the landing.

  Liz heard the guest bedroom door shut with an unaccustomed bang. Then the sound of footsteps into the en suite and the tap running, as Neville kept to his nightly pattern, even opening the bedroom window as he always did. Then silence.

  She wasn’t giving in to him. She wasn’t saying she wouldn’t see Titus any more because if she didn’t see him she’d wither away. What fascinated her about him? His warmth. That was it. Cuddly, loving warmth, and not just in his body but his character, too. Neville, by comparison, was . . . reptilian. Disgusted at herself for making such a comparison, Liz checked the doors and went to bed, spending the night luxuriously spread-eagled across the bed with no one to hinder her, leaving her to dream of whom she liked.

  Chapter 10

  When the villagers heard the first rumbles of the vans and lorries entering the village the next Thursday in the early hours, they braced themselves for another adventurous day. There’d been a lot of speculation during the intervening week about the possibility of more thieving, and they’d all determined, after reading Jimbo’s flyer - and not one of the houses in the three villages of Turnham Malpas, Little Derehams and Penny Fawcett had escaped having one put through their letterbox - that every single door and window would be locked, and, if possible, double-locked. They didn’t want their treasures to end up in that second-hand shop down by the old docks in Culworth.

  Poor Jackie Worsley had been in intensive care all week, with not much sign of improvement, by all accounts. Still if he would run a dodgy shop what else could he expect? Even so, not right, was it?

  According to Titus Bellamy’s rules, the stalls had to be up and running by eight-thirty. If not, the stallholder would lose his chance to have a stall the following week. But, by the looks of it, they were all present and correct by the time the first customers dashed in to get the best choice of the goods.

  Vera Wright, determined not to miss out on the steak for Don’s tea, was there at 8.29 a.m. queuing by the organic meat stall. The huge joints of beef, the legs of lamb, the pork chops and the rolled, stuffed pork, all stacked up and fringed with clumps of fresh parsley, were almighty tempting. Vera thought she might get two pork chops as well, and if that dratted Grandmama Charter-Plackett spotted her, well, hard cheese. Oh! That reminded her, she’d visit that tempting cheese stall and dazzle her eyes with choosing some cheese, too.

  She kept thinking she heard a familiar voice, and that it sounded like Jimbo’s, but of course she was wrong, wasn’t she? It couldn’t be. Finally it was her turn to be served, and she carefully popped the chops and the steak right down at the bottom of her canvas bag, before turning away to check the other stalls.

  She couldn’t believe it.

  She was seeing things.

  She must be.

  But it was him, as plain as day.

  Wearing his boater with the emerald-green ribbon and his matching striped apron was . . . Jimbo! ‘Well, I never,’ she said out loud. His stall had an awning just like the others, and the table itself was covered with a splendidly embroidered afternoon tea cloth she’d have given her eye-teeth for, laid out with the very best of Harriet’s Country Cousin gateaux. Lemon, coffee, chocolate, orange . . . complete gateaux with twelve portions, and separate slices for individual portions. She could swear the slices were cheaper than the ones in the store, with dinky little boxes to take them away and bigger boxes for a whole gateau. Vera was speechless, fixed to the grass, unable to move. You had to admire him. He was a real marketing man, was Jimbo, because although there was a bakery stall they sold nothing so gorgeous as those gateaux. He’d found his niche and not half.

  As for Jimbo, he was loving it. Having made up his mind that he might as well join the market, because it was obvious to his astute business mind that it was going to be a success, he’d rung Titus during the week and asked for a stall.

  ‘I may have a spare stall,’ Titus had said. ‘Cassandra - you know, the ceramics person - can’t afford to pay for her stall any longer. Just not doing enough trade to make it worthwhile. I did offer her three weeks free if it would help but no she wouldn’t take charity, so-o-o if you want it that’s fine. For what, may I ask?’

  ‘Top-class gateaux. I admit not organic, but the very best quality ingredients, with fresh cream, butter and no artificial colouring. Can I pay for four Thursdays at once and get it cheaper?’

  Titus had laughed. ‘OK. OK. Ten per cent off to start you on your way, money to be paid in full before eight-thirty on Thursday, and there’s not many I’d do that for. Right. Look forward to seeing you.’

  So here he was, and the life suited him wonderfully well. He had missed the cut and thrust of the front of the Store. They were coming in droves this morning, from Penny Fawcett and Little Derehams as well as Turnham Malpas and Culworth. Especially Culworth. Loads of new faces. Drat! He’d forgotten his little notices advertising the Store, and he couldn’t ring Harriet as he’d gone out in such a rush he’d forgotten his mobile.

  So here he was wrapping slices of gateaux as fast as his fingers could manage, though the boxes were a delight to pack up. To one side he had placed cheerful coloured plastic spoons and paper napkins so you could eat on the spot if you couldn’t wait till you got home. This was so much better than being angry about the market. Then he saw Vera gazing at him in amazement.

  ‘Jimbo! Does your mother know about this?’

  ‘No. I haven’t told her.’

  ‘I think I’ll stick around in case she comes by.’

  There was an evil grin on Vera’s face. Jimbo laughed, and they were still laughing when Grandmama, carrying her placard, came bustling past at 9 a.m. on the dot, intending to stand outside the Store as she had done last week.

  Determined to do her bit, she roare
d past Jimbo’s stall, giving very little time to Vera. Then she stopped, thought for a moment, reversed, and found herself standing in front of Jimbo’s stall. Jimbo’s stall.

  She was genuinely unable to speak. Horror, betrayal, disappointment and disbelief were all emotions that crossed her face. She tried twice to remonstrate with him but couldn’t. She fingered her placard, changed her grip, and lunged forward. She walloped Jimbo twice, three times. He ducked and dived, attempting to avoid her blows, but she was so outraged she went round the back of the stall to get better access to him, and he had to escape between the other stalls. She had energy beyond her years and scored more hits than she ever supposed she would.

  ‘Mother! Mother! Stop it! Please,’ Jimbo shouted out in protest, which brought the crowds, but it continued until Grandmama had no more strength left.

  Vera laughed so much she was almost ill. Finally Grandmama managed to speak. ‘You’re a rotten low-life. You toad. You unspeakable rotten traitor, you. After all you’ve said and all the support I’ve given you. You’re no son of mine. I disown you.’ She stood the end of the placard on the ground and jumped on it till it snapped, then left it all lying there. Storming off to the Store, muttering loudly as she went, she was a spectacle all of her own, and Jimbo began laughing at himself for the exhibition they’d made in front of everyone. And it was still only five minutes past nine.

  In the Store they’d heard none of the hullabaloo. The first they knew was Grandmama bursting in through the door, looking thoroughly dishevelled and gasping for dear life.

  ‘Where’s Harriet?’

  ‘In the kitchen. Shall I get her?’ Bel asked.

  ‘No.’ Gathering what was left of her dignity, she stalked through to the kitchen and collapsed on the very first chair.

  ‘Water!’ she croaked, like a woman coming home after a week wandering alone in the desert. ‘Water, please!’

  Harriet brought a glass over quickly.

  Grandmama threw down the whole of it, wiped her mouth rather inelegantly on the back of her hand, and proclaimed, ‘I’ve hit that traitor a dozen times with my placard. Next time he needs my help you know where he can go. To hell!’

  Harriet, deeply concerned that she might be making a habit of being arrested, asked in horrified tones, ‘Mother-in-law! Who have you hit?’

  ‘That snake in the grass. He who was my son, namely James Charter-Plackett. A stall. He’s got a stall. Did you know he’s got a stall? Bold as brass. A damned stall!’ She weakly held out the glass, indicating she needed more water. When she’d drunk half of that she checked Harriet’s reaction and gave a hint of a smile, which became more than a hint, and finally turned into a full-blown gale of laughter. Then Harriet started laughing, and soon the three staff working in the kitchen caught it too, and before long they were all rolling round, screeching helplessly.

  Just in time one of the girls heard Jimbo’s voice in the front of the Store and flapped her hands to hush everyone. Jimbo marched in and surveyed the scene. Apart from his mother, who was calmly finishing the last drop of her second glass of water, everyone in the kitchen was applying themselves to their work. Jimbo looked at each one in turn and eventually Harriet could not hold on to her laughter any longer.

  ‘I did warn you,’ she said, ‘but you wouldn’t listen. Who’s out there on the stall? You haven’t left it with no one guarding it, have you?’

  With immense dignity Jimbo declared, ‘I’ve lent Vera my boater and apron, and she’s holding the fort.’

  Further laughter erupted at the prospect of Vera Wright in Jimbo’s boater and apron.

  ‘Jimbo, darling! You need a plaster on your forehead. Look at the blood! I’ll get my first aid box and clean it up for you. At last I’ve found a use for one of my largest plasters. Here we are.’

  Grandmama rose to her feet, checked her appearance in her hand mirror - tucking her hair in, tidying her scarf, running a finger over her lipstick - and then marched out saying, ‘Harriet, my dear, inform your husband I shall not be speaking to him ever again.’ She nodded towards the gash on Jimbo’s forehead. ‘He may need a stitch in that.’ Jimbo piped up, ‘Child abuse that’s what that is, there’s such a lot of it about.’

  As there was no reason now for her to avoid the market for Jimbo’s sake she decided to have a meander between the stalls and see what she could see. She was agreeably surprised both by the quality of the food and the size of the crowd, and she spotted more than one person wandering along with a slice of Jimbo’s gateau in their hands, greedily eating it up with one of his plastic spoons. She had to smile . . . he’d done the right thing. Of course he had, but she . . . Grandmama dodged behind a particularly tall man to avoid being seen. There, bold as brass, was Old Peroxide from the Abbey coffee shop accompanied by Young Peroxide, their heads together examining the very tasteful homemade silver jewellery on the stall straight in front of her. The tall man taking exception to her hiding behind him, patted his pockets to check his wallet and walked away, casting a nasty glance at her as he went and leaving her completely exposed.

  This could be her moment.

  She approached them, her hand outstretched in greeting. ‘Hello! How lovely seeing you again. Isn’t it a marvellous market? Everything you need and more.’ Seeing they didn’t quite recognize her she reminded them where they’d seen her before.

  ‘Oh! of course. It’s your son who’s in jewellery, isn’t it?’

  Grandmama pulled her brains together. ‘It certainly is. Are you thinking of buying something? May I see?’

  Young Peroxide, holding a pair of beautifully worked peridot earrings in the palm of her hand, said, ‘Well, yes I am. These, look, for my daughter. What do you think?’

  Grandmama laid on the charm with a trowel. ‘Your daughter! Did you say your daughter. You’re not old enough to have a daughter, I’m sure. You’re teasing me!’

  Young Peroxide fell for her ruse and blushed with delight.

  Grandmama turned to Old Peroxide. ‘You must be a grand-mother, then? Surely not?’

  ‘Well, I am!’

  ‘Wonderful! Look, let me introduce myself. I’m Katherine and you are . . .?’

  ‘I’m Flower and my daughter’s Petal. My dad always called me his Flower right from the day I was born, so it kind of stuck.’

  Grandmama wanted to puke but said graciously, ‘What absolutely delightful names - they quite bring a tear to my eye. Now look, let’s get these earrings bought and then we’ll go to the Royal Oak and I’ll stand us each a drink. My treat. How about it? I’d love you to accept.’ She beamed so enthusiastically at them they simply couldn’t refuse.

  Flower and Petal looked at each other and decided that yes, they would, and thank you.

  With the earrings safely wrapped and in her handbag, Petal followed her mother and their new friend to the Royal Oak. It was busy but somehow Grandmama managed to secure a table. Admittedly it was one of the ones they’d started to bring out on Thursdays to cope with the crowds and it was squeezed into a very tight corner, but it did make things feel very friendly.

  The drinks ordered and paid for by Grandmama, the peroxides clinked glasses and said, ‘Bon chance.’

  ‘Oh, my word! You’ve obviously travelled abroad.’

  ‘We have indeed . . .’

  Unwittingly they were cleverly trailed along by their new friend and, enjoying her charm and her offer of a second drink, they relaxed more and more. It was when she offered, and they’d accepted, a third drink, that Grandmama went in for the kill.

  ‘Drinking this early in the morning - we are naughty! But that’s what life’s about, isn’t it? Having fun? My son, you know the jeweller, he . . . well, he finds the jewellery trade very . . . shall we say . . . quiet at the moment. Confidentially, just between us, does your husband find it so?

  Flower and Petal flicked a glance at each other.

  ‘Well,’ said Flower, ‘he’s doing rather well at the moment. Isn’t he, Petal?’

  ‘Yes, Dad
’s doing very well.’

  Triumphantly Grandmama said, ‘There you are, you see, I knew my son wasn’t getting it quite right. I wish you’d give me a few tips to pass on to him. I think he’s using the wrong ... shall we say ... wholesalers. They’re so expensive and then he can’t get a good margin because it makes his goods too dear for the general punter.’ Grandmama loathed the word ‘punter’ but it seemed appropriate for the present company.

  ‘I could ask him if he . . .’

  ‘Could I give you my phone number? He could phone me with some names, couldn’t he? I’ve got to be very circumspect with my son, he hates me interfering, but sometimes we women know we must.’

  Flower hesitated and then agreed it would be a good idea. She was sure he wouldn’t mind. ‘I don’t promise anything, mind.’

  ‘Of course not, and on my part I wouldn’t breathe a word. It would be totally confidential. Here we are, that’s my number. I shall have pen and paper by the phone in preparation for his call. Just a thought, your husband’s called . . .?’