The Village Green Affair

by Shaw, Rebecca

  ‘He’s Leonard, well, Lennie. Lennie Holt.’

  Grandmama gushed. She thanked them so profusely she almost offered them a fourth drink but decided that frankly three were more than enough.

  Preparing to leave, she said she hoped they’d meet another time. She’d so enjoyed their company. ‘I must go. I’m supposed to be having lunch at the Rectory and I need to call home first.’

  ‘We don’t know your name, for when Lenny rings you up?’

  Alarm bells began to ring. She dropped her gloves to give herself time to think. ‘It’s Katherine Plackett, with a double “t”. See you again. Don’t forget to give Lennie my number! And tell him that I do appreciate his help. My son is one of those who needs a good kick up the . . .’ Backside seemed appropriate for present company but she baulked at using such a common word and remembered to say, ‘posterior.’ She twinkled her fingers at the two of them and departed, praying no one would call out, ‘Bye-bye, Mrs Charter-Plackett’ as she was leaving.

  When she got home she took off her coat, phoned Mac with the name Leonard Holt, and then wrote herself a reminder that from now on when she answered the phone she had to say the number and not her name as she usually did. She propped the note on the phone and felt she’d done a good morning’s work.

  Vera had to be back on duty at the nursing home by one o’clock, so she was glad to see Jimbo returning to the stall. She’d been so busy and had so enjoyed herself that she was on a high when he arrived. She unbuckled the leather money belt and handed it to him.

  ‘Jimbo! I’ve sold two of the big ones, two, and I’ve lost count of how many slices. You’ve hit on a good idea and not half. Don’t you think you need more stock?’

  Jimbo slipped her a five-pound note. ‘Thanks ever so much, Vera.’

  ‘Thank you! I didn’t expect anything. Your mother, how’s she?’

  Jimbo grinned. ‘She’s never speaking to me again.’

  ‘Never mind. She’ll come round. She’s a feisty old bird, isn’t she? You have to admire her.’

  ‘Call at the Store while you wait for the bus and ask Harriet for some more stock. A couple of whole ones? Chocolate and lemon. Or whatever’s to hand. Here, look, take this slice for Don for his tea, with my thanks to him for lending me his wife.’

  When Vera entered the Store she got a round of applause. Everyone seemed to know what she’d been up to, and she felt enormously elated. The boater had kept falling down her forehead, and the apron was at least three sizes too big, but she’d loved it. It was kind of like performing on the world’s stage for a while. She went in the back with her message for Harriet and emboldened herself to say, ‘If ever Jimbo can’t manage the stall one day, Thursday’s my morning off. I’d be delighted to give a hand. I enjoyed myself that much.’

  Harriet saw the pleasure in her face and said, ‘Of course, yes, I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’d be glad for you to do it one day. Thanks, Vera.’

  Vera heard the bus pulling up and fled.

  Had she stayed ten minutes longer she would have been devastated. Everyone at the market was so busy doing what they were doing that the motorbikes were upon them before they knew it. Five huge motorbikes, 1000cc’s at least, roared into the village with horns blowing, loud music pouring out, and going at a speed that was asking for disaster.

  First they charged round and round the green, scattering everyone, children coming out of nursery and adults still enjoying the market. The hullabaloo was tremendous and very upsetting, but it was when they decided to spin around between the stalls that the trouble really began. Stealing, they were, anything and everything from the stalls and, as the produce was all top quality, the cost to the stallholders was considerable. They revved and braked, braked and revved, stealing as they went, or throwing around what they couldn’t carry away.

  Grandmama, about to make an early lunch, couldn’t help but hear and see what was happening, and was instantly on the phone to Mac.

  He was in Culworth, which wasn’t much help, but he alerted the police cars in the area. In the meantime the bikers roared on to the pub, where they demanded a round of strong lagers. What had been a cheerful, pleasurable morning in the Royal Oak was damaged beyond repair. Georgie had her hand on the phone, ready to dial 999 at the first hint of trouble, and Dicky opened the doors wide so his customers could escape if things got dangerous. Which they did when Alan Crimble, feeling daring for once in his life, refused to serve them.

  Georgie whispered, ‘Serve them, and get them out at the front where there’re some chairs. Do as I say.’

  Dicky called out, ‘Plenty of chairs out the front, gentlemen. Take your drinks out there, if you please.’

  But they didn’t offer to pay, and when Alan told them how much their bill was they simply laughed, and, weaving their way outside, pushed other customers to one side, angering the mildest of them by picking up their glasses and taking a drink as they squeezed by.

  Georgie couldn’t remember a time when things had been so appalling in the bar. She simply did not know how to get it back under control. They were such rough, brash men, so enjoying the mayhem they were causing, and there appeared to be no way of getting rid of them and restoring harmony. Alan and Dicky were completely helpless. What was worse, it appeared they were doing it just for fun. Fun? Yes, that was it, just for fun. They’d heard about the market and thought it would be a real lark.

  The bikers sat outside lounging about, laughing coarsely and mocking anyone who walked by. The market itself was in turmoil, and Titus, who’d been sitting in his car in the car park by Rector’s Meadow, counting money and keeping his books in order, was numb with shock. He hadn’t experienced anything like this at his other markets.

  He got out of the car and marched across to the Royal Oak, painfully witnessing his stallholders trying to create organization out of chaos. He stood looking at the men throwing down their lagers in great gulps. They were contemplating going back inside to order more drinks, and that was when Titus asserted himself.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ His voice was soft and controlled. ‘Would you be so kind as to leave the village?’

  A roar of amusement went up. But then something of his quietness got through. He had their attention.

  ‘We’re not accustomed to this turmoil,’ Titus went on, and we’d be grateful if you could leave and allow us to clear up. In fact, you could help to clear up, couldn’t you?’

  They found that idea even more amusing.

  ‘You’re not children or even teenagers,’ Titus continued calmly. ‘Come on, chaps, do us a favour and go if you don’t feel inclined to help. The police will be here soon. You don’t want to get arrested, now do you?’ He cocked his ear as though he heard them coming.

  First one got to his feet and then another, and eventually all of them mounted their bikes, revved up and, making rude gestures and shouting even ruder remarks to him, they turned into Stocks Row and then left down the Culworth Road.

  But they soon wished they’d gone the long way round down Royal Oak Road, for, just round the first big bend, they came upon two police cars parked across the road. Before they could turn round and escape, another appeared out of a side turning and blocked their retreat. They were rapidly arrested, each and every one. Three of them were known to the police - they were the raggle-taggle of a group of bikers living in and around Culworth on travellers’ sites - and the other two were from outside the area but whose acquaintance the police were glad to make.

  Back in the village Titus was the hero of the hour. He tried to shake off his new status but couldn’t. Georgie and Dicky were so grateful, and restored peace by giving everyone free wine with their meals in the dining room or a free drink in the bar. The stallholders’ nerves were calmed by Titus’s offer of half-price rent for their stalls next week. It wouldn’t do his finances much good but it would perhaps ensure they’d all be there next Thursday.

  It took much longer than usual to clear up from the market, and it was quarter past two before
Titus sank gratefully into a chair in Liz’s kitchen and began his lunch.

  They ate in companionable silence until they were halfway through, when Titus asked, ‘Was everything OK when you got back on Tuesday night?’

  ‘He guessed.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘We had a terrible time, and Neville slept in the guest room.’

  ‘It’s time he and I had a talk.’

  Liz almost leaped from her chair. ‘No! No! It isn’t, not yet. I need time.’

  ‘For what, Liz?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We both know our getting together is inevitable. It’s written in the stars that the two of us should be together. You know that. I know that. So why can’t I speak to him? I’m not going to attack him nor am I ...’ He stopped, listened carefully, then put his finger to his lips and sat quite still.

  Liz frowned at him. She drew a large question mark with her finger. Titus put his forefinger to his lips again. Then he pointed to the ceiling.

  Liz listened, and then heard a floorboard creak above her head. Oh! God. Who was it? She hadn’t heard anything when she’d first come in. She was tempted to go to the foot of the stairs and call up, but Titus shook his head. Liz knew, just knew, it was Neville. The stealthy steps were all him. One stair creaked as he came down, just one, but it was enough. Titus gripped her hand. They both sat there completely still, waiting.

  Chapter 11

  Then they heard more footsteps crossing the parquet flooring in the hall, and suddenly there was Neville, standing in the kitchen doorway.

  Titus turned his head and asked quietly, without any sign of surprise, ‘Have you had lunch, Neville?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do come and join us, there’s plenty here. Where do you keep the plates, Liz?’

  He knew but felt it wouldn’t be right for Neville to imagine he, Titus, the stealer of wives, was familiar with Neville’s own house.

  Neville stood quite still looking at Liz. She got up and found a plate, cutlery, cup and saucer, a napkin, too, then laid them out and sat down again. It wasn’t real, she knew it wasn’t real. This wasn’t actually happening, of course it wasn’t. She hadn’t instantly fallen in love with the most attractive man in the world, of course she hadn’t. She was married to Neville.

  Titus pushed the basket of rolls towards Neville, and the cold salmon, the dressing, the salad and the tureen of new potatoes. ‘A feast fit for a king, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Neville’s hands were stiff, paralysed almost, and his actions clumsy, but he did take good portions of each, though he didn’t begin to eat.

  The whole situation was more than Liz could cope with. Here they were sitting together in Neville’s kitchen eating food Neville had paid for, with Neville creeping about his own house making sure she and Titus weren’t in bed together before eventually confronting them downstairs. Not a word was spoken between husband and wife. Only Titus, the hopeful lover, was able to find his tongue.

  Titus laid down his knife and fork and began to speak. The kitchen was big, and its tiled walls and floor didn’t cushion his voice at all. It sounded harsh, so unlike his normal voice. ‘Do you normally come home for lunch?’

  Neville’s body jerked at his question because it put him on the spot. He didn’t answer.

  ‘Were you spying on Liz and me?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  In a voice as soft and gentle as he could make it, Titus suggested, ‘I think so.’

  ‘No, I came back for some papers from my study.’

  ‘You were upstairs, and your study is downstairs.’

  ‘I did not come home to spy on you.’ Neville clenched his fist and banged it on the table.

  ‘No good searching for us upstairs. I am a man of honour. I would not dream of sleeping with another man’s wife in his own house. That would not be honourable. Believe me.’

  ‘But you can meet my wife in secret. Make her deceive me by saying she’s going to an evening class. You can bring her flowers again - I’ve seen them on the hall table just out there - bring them into my house . . .’

  ‘Our house, Neville.’ As soon as she said it Liz knew it was a petty remark, but it annoyed her so when he called it his house, as she’d put in all the money for the deposit, and more, given to them by her father. This was how a parting of the ways became vicious, and she regretted what she’d said.

  Neville took a deep breath. ‘Have lunch with my wife in my house, twice, take my wife out for dinner, make my wife lie to me. Is that honourable? Mmm?’

  ‘In our defence, all I can say is we met, and knew instantly, without any doubt, that we should have met twenty and more years ago. But we didn’t. We’ve met now, and we can’t help ourselves. We’ve quite simply fallen in love, it’s as though we’ve been in love twenty five years but we’ve only just met, and there seems to be nothing we can do about it.’

  Neville appeared carved of stone. Titus poured him coffee and pushed the cream and the sugar his way. For an instant, Liz felt sorry for him. He couldn’t and never had been able to cope with emotions at this level. He’d no vocabulary for it.

  ‘What do you propose I do about it?’ Neville said eventually. ‘Give you my blessing, shake your hand and watch you walk away with my wife?’

  ‘To be honest, yes. Eventually.’

  ‘Would you like me to play the guilty party in the divorce to make life even easier for you?’ There was a snarl in Neville’s voice as he said this, and it cut Liz to the quick. She broke down in tears.

  Titus immediately went to hug her and share his handkerchief with her.

  Neville almost burst with rage. He leaped to his feet and threatened to punch Titus. The fury within him was more than he could bear. But he knew the situation was beyond him to control, and finally he raised his hands and crumpled back down onto his chair, broken by this situation he’d engineered. Liz and Titus could just about catch what he said. ‘You . . . ask . . . too much . . . of . . . me. I want my wife.’

  ‘Do you?’ The question was loaded with meaning plus a hint of mockery. Titus left a pause then continued, ‘Or simply a house-keeper? Or a decorative, socially adept person to take with you to parties?’

  Liz looked at him as he sat back in his chair, and thought: He will be so lovely to come home to. So lovely. But should he have said that?

  Startled, Neville realized that Titus knew too much about his private life. He knew they weren’t making love any more. He knew. As if that overrated past-time mattered, well, apparently it did. He felt the explosion in his brain must be visible to the other two. He stood up again and his chair crashed backwards onto the shiny tiles, his heart bursting with pain. She’d told him. Who else had she told?

  Liz was appalled by the unaccustomed emotion in Neville’s eyes as he looked at her, his eyes clouded by despair.

  He strode out of the house without a backward glance. He’d parked his car behind the Rectory in Pipe and Nook Lane, so he walked all the way past Sir Ralph’s and round the corner into the Lane with his legs in severe cramp, his heart thumping, his gait stilted and awkward. The humiliation he bore was too much. Finally he bent his body sufficiently to get into his car, put the key in the ignition . . . and couldn’t turn it. Tears, which in his adult life had never done more than trickle down his cheeks once or twice - the last time only two days ago - now ran in floods down his face, as his shoulders shook and his legs trembled.

  The sun, shining in through the car windows, went unnoticed. The birds, chirruping around the hedgerows and busy about their nesting activities, were ignored. He sat there, howling, heeding nothing until he heard the back door of the Rectory open and Peter come striding down the garden path. Not him! Not him! Not that great lover of a husband. The car engine finally fired just as Peter tapped on the side window. Neville drove off, narrowly missing running over Peter’s feet.

  All the talk that night at the weekly Anti-Market Action Committee in the Royal Oak was about the horror of the m
otorbike invasion.

  Their small group had swollen in size, as many more people saw the wisdom of stopping the market.

  ‘It was terrible. Absolutely frightening. I’ve never seen anything like it. We don’t want that happening in Turnham Malpas no more. Police got ’em, though, thank goodness.’ Sheila Bissett looked grimly round the circle waiting for a response.

  ‘Well, I agree, but if in them ancient papers it says a market can be held, how can we stop him?’ This from Sylvia, who was torn between the market being stopped and, on the other hand, wanting to wander round and have a look at everything, because those who’d been had told her how good it was. Loyalty to Jimbo had stopped her going.