Greta Jones had to say something. ‘Seeing as my employer has decided to break ranks and have a stall—’
Sylvia’s eyes almost popped out of her head. ‘Did I hear you aright?’
Vera, having been a participant in the event, piped up, ‘You did. That’s why Mrs Charter-Plackett ain’t here; she hit him and almost split his head open.’
‘Split his head open?’ Curiosity got the better of her. ‘What was he selling, Vera?’
‘Gateaux like he sells in the Store. I know ’cos I had to put his boater and apron on when he went back to the Store for ten minutes to get a plaster for his head.’
Uproar ensued at the image this created in everyone’s minds. A further round of drinks was called for. Decisions needed to be taken!
‘I reckon,’ said Willie, ‘that we need to make a protest. Why don’t we barricade the Culworth Road at six o’clock to stop the vans? Then there’s no point, is there? No one in a month of Sundays will manage to go the other way down Royal Oak Road. You can barely get bikes down it, never mind vans and lorries. Same goes for Church Lane and Shepherds Hill. Too narrow and twisting. They’d never make it that way, and it’s too far round anyway. This is serious. No burglaries this time, but there might be more bikers racing round once word gets about. We need a discussion with the police about more officers being on duty on Thursdays.’
‘For the sake of the village we’ve got to stop it. Shame, though, ’cos the market’s bloomin’ good,’ added Vera.
Lots of nodding took place, and Don added, ‘That Sergeant’s no good on his own; he needs back-up, he does.’
Vera patted his hand. ‘Quite right.’
Finally Ron Bissett was charged with going to see the police. Willie, Greta and Vince took responsibility for making placards, and Sheila, now hailed as good at organization after the glory of her fundraising for Africa, would gather people prepared to lie down in the Culworth Road by 6 a.m next Thursday. She already had plans for bringing her clipboard out of retirement, and six names of volunteers were written down on a piece of paper. She’d show ’em.
The man whose business was on the brink of ruin if they succeeded in all their projects, was sitting in the Wise Man dining room comforting his sweetheart.
‘. . . I know it’s hard for him, of course it is, but there’s no point in not being honest.’
‘Gently honest. He’s all figures and columns of figures and everything adding up right, and love isn’t like that. He doesn’t know what to do. I’ve never seen him so upset. To be at home creeping about. I can’t believe he’d do such a thing.’
‘He knows, anyway, how we feel and what we’re hoping to do. Here, have some more sauce, you might as well.’
‘And what about the motorbikes? I didn’t see any of it, being in the church hall, or hear it, for that matter - the double-glazing is very effective - but it is very serious, isn’t it? For you?’
‘I’ll try it for another two or three weeks, and if things don’t improve . . .’
‘But I thought you said Turnham Malpas was the icing on the cake?’
‘It is. Five markets makes the whole lot viable. It’s what I’ve been wanting, but I can’t expect these dear people to put up with what happened today just to make money for me, now can I?’
‘Bit of excitement never did anyone any harm.’
‘It could be the best market yet. It’s even started well, which is a good omen. Liz . . . come home with me?’ He carefully turned the fingers of her right hand in his, examining each one carefully. ‘Mmm?’ Caring not a toss for any other customer in the restaurant, he reached over the table and touched her lips with his own, lingering awhile, begging for satisfaction. ‘Will you? Come home with me? If we leave now you will still be home by eleven. Will you come? I’ll drive, and you can pick your car up from here when I bring you back. Will you?’
‘Why?’
‘I have an urgency about me, to hold you, to make you swoon with my kisses.’ He burst into laughter. ‘Sorry, that sounded very Shakespearean! Sorry about that. Will you, though?’
Liz knew there wasn’t a chance of it stopping at kisses; their need for each other was so obvious. She traced the shape of his lips with her finger, allowing it to linger and then retrace itself, and she felt him tremble at her touch. If she went with Titus now, she and Neville would be finished.
Liz drew back. ‘I can’t, not yet. Absolutely not yet. I’ve finished eating. I’m going home. Thank you, my darling. Thank you for wanting me.’
Titus stood up, bitterly disappointed. He escorted Liz to her car.
‘Goodnight, my darling, and thank you.’ Liz briefly kissed his cheek and stepped away from him.
But he gently restrained her. ‘Please?’
Liz put her hand on the arm that held her close, intending to say, ‘No,’ very firmly. Instead, to her amazement, she heard herself say, ‘Yes. Yes, I will.’ She can’t have said it! She was going home to her husband as any dutiful wife should. But then, clear as day, she saw she was no longer a wife, only a woman living with a man she didn’t love.
They each drove their own car to Titus’s flat. It was on the ground floor and there was room for both of them to park in the driveway. He stabbed his key into the Yale lock, flung the door wide, drew her inside, kicked the door shut with the sole of his shoe, pulling her into his arms at the same time, and, almost miraculously, kissing her with an abandonment they had never known before. Certainly, an abandonment Liz had never known; every single inch of her body throbbed to his passionate embraces. He gradually drew her into the bedroom, stripped her clothes off, laid her on the bed while he removed his own, and then made love with thrilling, persuasive emotions such as Liz had never encountered with Neville.
They both slept afterwards locked in each other’s arms, and it was only when Liz woke abruptly and saw it was already dark that the beautiful superb satisfaction they were both enjoying was disrupted.
‘My God! Titus! What time is it?’
Titus struggled awake and switched on the bedside light. ‘It’s only a quarter past ten. Plenty of time.’ He began kissing her again, obviously intending a wonderful repeat. For a few seconds Liz responded, but felt she had to get home, to Neville. Old habits die hard. She pushed him away.
‘Sorry. No can do. Let me go.’
Titus relaxed his hold on her and studied her from head to toe, caressing her with his fine, sensitive hands.
‘I don’t want to leave, Titus. But I must.’
‘It’s been wonderful. Perfectly wonderful.’
Liz smiled at him, as she half-sat up ready for flight. She bent her head to kiss his lips. ‘You’ve woken me up from a lifelong sleep. Did you know that?’ Liz kissed him again, picked up her clothes from the floor and began dressing as fast as she could. ‘I’ll phone tomorrow. Right?’
Titus was sitting on the edge of the bed admiring the elegant manner in which she was dressing, despite her rush. He loved every part of her, and admitted it willingly. ‘I love every bit of you, from head to toe.’ He stood up and kissed her, then walked with her to the door.
‘Don’t put the light on - someone might see you. You’ve nothing on!’
‘Oh! I’d forgotten. Goodnight, my love.’
‘Goodnight.’
But when she got home, Neville had company. Whoever could it be at this time of night? Help! Oh no. It was Peter’s voice she could hear. She guessed, without looking in the mirror, that her love for Titus would be written all over her face. But there seemed to be nothing she could do about it.
‘Good evening, Peter.’
Peter got to his feet. ‘Good evening, Liz. I shan’t be long with Neville.’ Those penetrating blue eyes of his seemed to see through to her very core.
‘Oh! Right.’ Peter, she thought, had a subtle method of dismissal. At the same time she was grateful. ‘I’ll close the door, leave you to it. Can I get you a drink of some kind?’
But Peter showed her his glass of whiskey to i
ndicate he was well catered for. So Liz closed the door without even acknowledging Neville. Must be church business, she thought, and went to make the coffee she hadn’t had with Titus. She sat in the kitchen in the chair Titus had occupied at lunchtime, her hands wrapped round her coffee mug, and thought about him. How she would have loved to have stayed and slept in his bed tonight. But then Neville sprang to mind again, and she wondered what Peter was talking to him about in the study.
Peter had rung the doorbell earlier that evening. Neville, when he saw who it was, expected he’d come to discuss church finances, which wouldn’t have been at all unusual except for the late hour.
But Peter had come to talk about finding him weeping in his car in Pipe and Nook Lane that afternoon.
‘I know it’s late,’ he said, ‘but I’ve been busy all day and this is my first chance. Perhaps I can help? You were very distressed when I saw you.’
Neville was horrified. ‘So sorry, Peter, about that. Thought no one would see me. Just a bad moment, nothing that mattered at all. Not in the slightest.’
‘Come, Neville, it was much more than any bad moment, and people’s pain is part of my job description. Shall we talk?’
Neville didn’t want to talk, but at the same time it would feel good to confide in someone he knew would never divulge a word of their conversation, no matter how tempted he might be.
Peter cleared his throat and opened their discussion by asking outright, ‘Is it about Liz? Is that why you were so distressed?’
‘You know, then.’
‘I do. To be honest, most people do. Let’s go and sit down.’
‘In my study,’ Neville said, leading the way. ‘Whiskey?’
‘Yes, please. I’ll sit here, shall I?’ He was too tall and broad-shouldered for the imitation Edwardian tub chair, but he sat down nevertheless.
Neville poured the whiskies, intending to sit at his desk to put some distance between them, then changed his mind and sat in the other tub chair, placing the bottle on the table between them.
Whiskey wasn’t Peter’s first choice but in view of what he’d come to say he hoped it might help him. ‘It must be very distressing for you. I saw . . . them at your anniversary party and guessed instantly what had happened.’
Bitterly Neville answered, ‘They say they can’t help themselves. That they should have met twenty-five years ago. That it’s inevitable. But she’s my wife. We’re married to each other. What does he mean?’
‘Love is a complicated thing. Have you ever been in love?’
Neville stood his glass down on the table with a sharp tap. ‘Of course I have. I’m married. I must have been.’
‘Oh, there’s no must about it. One can marry and not be in love. One can think one is but one actually isn’t.’
‘You’re talking in riddles now.’
‘For me, loving and being in love means . . .’ Peter put the fingertips of both hands together and propped his elbows on the arms of his chair, while he thought about what to say first. ‘Being willing to sacrifice anything to make the other one happy, at whatever cost to oneself. That your loved one is the beat of your heart, your all-consuming passion. That you belong to them and they to you. That without them you are only half a person, and to lose them for whatever reason is like death itself.’
Neville listened, kept intending to interrupt but didn’t. Was this what love was then? He couldn’t have been in love, then, because this wasn’t how he felt about Liz. That was, if Peter was right. Being closer to God than most people, maybe he had higher expectations, higher ideals than ordinary men. He, Neville Neal, had never felt anything of that. Pride, yes. Pride that she looked good, that she was well spoken and belonged to him. Pride that she’d borne him two sons. For his part, he dutifully remembered birthdays and anniversaries, hence the diamond necklace. But was she the beat of his heart? His passion? If he lost her would it be like death itself? No, he concluded, that was for people who lived in a fantasy world.
‘Well, to be frank, I don’t know anything like that,’ he said. ‘It all sounds like romantic rubbish to me and nothing at all to do with real, everyday life. I’ve never thought like that at all. Ever.’
Peter picked up the bottle of whiskey and offered it to Neville. He shook his head, so Peter poured himself another double.
‘Do you never wish it was like that?’
A longer silence ensued and it was Peter who broke it.
‘I committed the most grievous act of unfaithfulness to Caroline when Suzy Meadows and I ... came together, but Caroline overcame it, because, despite the terrible distress of my betrayal, she quite literally could not live without me, nor I her for that matter. I’d no right to expect her to forgive me, still less had I any right at all to expect her to want to adopt Suzy’s and my children, but she did, all because of love. So Caroline gave me the children she, herself, could not carry, and our love is stronger and more vibrant because of it. That is the kind of love I’m asking you if you have.’ There was still no reply to his question, so Peter answered himself. ‘If you haven’t then you should let Liz go, if that’s what she needs.’
Neville almost choked with anger. ‘Let Liz go? Let her go without a fight? Just let her go, if that’s what she needs. Are you mad? Have you lost your senses? The whiskey must have gone to your head.’ He couldn’t believe he was saying such things to Peter the man to whom he’d always shown such deference. So he must have passion, somewhere buried deep.
‘But why do you want to keep her? For what? She wouldn’t have found love with Titus if she already had enormously satisfying love with you.’
Neville was stumped by Peter’s logic. ‘Why should she need to be in love? What happened to keeping one’s promises? What about loyalty? What about being faithful? I’ve clothed her and fed her and housed her for twenty-five years. Does that count for nothing?’
Peter smiled a little ruefully. ‘Not much where love is concerned, I’m afraid.’
‘How can she love him more than me? That Titus Bellamy has done nothing to earn her love. They only met a couple of weeks ago, for heaven’s sakes.’
‘He’s a charming man. Cuddly and warm, is how Caroline describes him, and he is. Widower, you know. His wife died in childbirth, I understand, and the baby, too. Terrible blow for him. Splendid husband material, Caroline says.’
Sarcastically Neville asked, ‘Are you writing a job reference for him?’
Peter was dismayed by how obdurate Neville was proving to be. ‘If you care for Liz you should care that she finds a good person to share her life with.’
‘She already has a good person. Me! I don’t care what he’s like. He’s not having her. She’s mine, you see. I’ve spent thousands on her, on holidays, on clothes, jewellery, you name it. She owes me.’
Peter gave up trying. He got to his feet saying. ‘It’s late. I must go.’ Gently and with great compassion, he concluded, ‘Love, to thrive, needs to be freely given, Neville, without counting the cost. Think about it. God bless you. Goodnight.’
The moment Peter’s foot left the front step Neville slammed his extremely expensive, genuine solid oak door, and the sound reverberated right around the village. He listened until the echo had died away. He’d show Peter, and every person in Turnham Malpas, who had passion. He raced up the stairs two at a time ready to satisfy the passion he thought he’d discovered.
Chapter 12
Harriet, who always rose early to give herself time for half an hour of yoga before she began her day, was downstairs on her yoga mat halfway through her exercises when she heard urgent, discreet knocking on the front door. Who the blazes was it at 6.40 a.m.? Her yoga outfit emphasized more of her curves than she liked the general public to see, so she wasn’t quite on top of things when she opened the door and saw who was there.
It was Liz, with a holdall at her feet. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course you may.’
She stepped over the threshold and fell into Harriet’s arms.
Her voice muffled by tears, Liz whispered, ‘Can I stay for a couple of days? You’ve none of the children at home, have you?’
‘Fran’s here, that’s all.’
‘I could have a bedroom, then?’
‘Of course you could.’
‘Can I go to sleep right now?’
‘Yes, if you like. Come on, bring your bag.’
Harriet took her upstairs, showed her the bathroom, put her holdall in Flick’s old bedroom and, when Liz had finished in the bathroom, Harriet stood outside on the landing till she knew Liz had got into bed. Then she popped in.
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