by McNeir, Leo
“Night, Marnie. And you.”
“We’d have to be sure it was comfortable enough as a bed-sitter for you, check there are no bats living up there.” She heard Anne giggle under the duvet.
“Marnie, there’s nothing that could possibly spoil things here for me.”
*
The landlord at The Two Roses was calling last orders. One or two customers ambled over to the bar. In the furthest corner, George Stubbs and Albert Fletcher paid no attention. Each sat with a half pint of beer in front of him, the little they had consumed, untasted.
“I don’t see how he can go ahead, not now, not after the vote,” said George Stubbs. “That puts a different complexion on things. It was a good idea, forcing that vote on him.”
“Don’t you believe it. I wouldn’t put anything past that one. I just wanted proof that he was acting on his own.”
“He only got one vote. That’s proof enough, all right. That Val Paxton would stick her head in the gas oven if the vicar said to.” He took a sip of beer. “The question is, what do we do now?” Albert picked up his glass and stared into it.
“We could go to the Rural Dean and tell him the school ought to have the church funds, rather than the fabric of the building. Huh! Him sitting there telling us it’s God’s house and his decision. We’ve been attending that church since before he was born. We were christened there. And he comes along and thinks he owns the place. Just like those bureaucrats in Brussels, telling us how to farm, when all they know about is expense accounts and sitting behind a desk.” George Stubbs had heard it all before. Sooner or later Albert Fletcher got round to EC farming policy. He knew he just had to wait patiently until the speech ended. He sat nodding in agreement, even though he knew enough farmers who were happy accepting cheques from Brussels for set-aside and had made good money from selling milk quota. “Anyway,” said the old farmer. “That’s another matter.” He drank most of the beer in his glass in one swallow.
“I’m not sure the Rural Dean would be the best one to approach,” said George. “I thought he gave him the job in the first place. He’s another of your born again variety. I think we’d be wasting our time.”
“What then?”
“The bishop, I suppose.”
“Would he listen?”
“Perhaps he would if we sent a petition signed by all the members of the PCC.”
“All except Val Paxton,” said Albert.
“And the vicar,” said George.
11
“Sarah! Sarah!” The cries of her mother running down the lane brought Sarah Anne to the door, dropping the sewing and overturning the chair in her haste. “Horsemen, Sarah! They’re back!” Sarah hurried out, her head spinning. She took hold of her mother by the shoulders.
“Did you see them? Where are they?” She felt her mother slump in her arms, shaking her head. “How many are there?” Her mother gasped for breath.
“I only saw one, I think, but I saw his uniform, a soldier.” Sarah guided her mother into the house and sat her down before making her way quickly and quietly up the lane to the high street. She at once found herself confronted by the soldier, a lone horseman, holding no weapons, his leather coat reaching to the top of his thigh boots, his horse snorting and damp with sweat. She looked up into the man’s tired face, half hidden, enclosed in a cage of iron. He pulled off the peaked helmet and shook out his long hair.
“Madam,” he said. “I am looking for Mistress Day. I have news. They said I would find her in the smithy at the end of the lane.”
“That is my mother, sir. And that is the house. Will you come?”
“I have little time and far to ride.”
“Then give me your news, if you can. I hope you bring good news, but I fear you would not have come here just to tell us that all is well.”
“Indeed not,” he said. “I am to tell you that William … is dead.” Sarah went pale at mention of her uncle’s name, her father’s youngest brother. She bowed her head.
“Is there more to tell?”
“And Jonathan is wounded.”
Sarah raised her face. “How wounded?”
“They say he will live, but his right arm is shattered. He lies in Huntingdon with the other wounded, left behind by the regiment. I was there two days ago. I am sorry to bring this news.”
“Will my father, that is Jonathan, fight again?”
“No, miss. He will not. That is perhaps a blessing.”
“A cruel blessing,” said Sarah Anne. “A blacksmith without two strong arms is not a blacksmith.” More than anything she wanted the man to leave now. “Will you take some refreshment before you ride on?”
“I cannot stay, but thank you.” He turned his horse and set off at a trot. Sarah turned back to the house, heavy with the weight of the news.
*
Friday 16 June
“Mrs Paxton?” The head teacher, appearing in the doorway of her office, found herself addressing the back of the school secretary, who was standing at the window. There was no response. “Mrs Paxton? Is everything all right?” Thoughts of a scuffle in the playground crossed her mind and she began to advance towards the window. The secretary turned suddenly, a startled look on her face.
“Sorry to alarm you, Mrs Paxton, but I’d like you to do a note to Mrs Walker.”
“Mrs Walker? I don’t think we have a parent of that name.” The head teacher frowned. In a school of less than seventy pupils, everyone knew everyone else by name.
“Mrs Walker is the young woman who’s moved into Glebe Farm.”
“Glebe Farm?” Mrs Paxton repeated. The head teacher sighed.
“She has bought Glebe Farm from Mr Fletcher senior, whom you know, and I spoke with her briefly in the street yesterday afternoon at home time. You came out and fetched me to the phone while we were talking. Don’t you remember?”
Mrs Paxton looked confused. “I’m not sure. I was busy with other things.” She shook her head in a gesture that could have been taken for annoyance. “Anyway, how could this Mrs Walker move into Glebe Farm? It’s derelict. There’s nowhere to live down there.”
“Apparently, she has a boat, a canal boat, and she’s living on that while she does things to the house.” This was quite beyond the imagination of Valerie Paxton. To her, a house had to be comfortable, with a fitted kitchen, central heating, a roof. How anyone could move into a ruin that had practically been burned down was unthinkable.
“Does she have children coming to the school?”
“No, but she has a boat. And before you ask what that has to do with it, let me tell you that I’m thinking of asking her to let a group of the children visit her, look at the boat, find out about canals and so on.”
“Didn’t you do that last year?”
“We just looked at the wildlife. This would be different. It would be about canals as transport. Mrs Walker seems an intelligent person. Perhaps she could explain that sort of thing to the children.”
“You want me to make an appointment?”
“Yes, please. Only I don’t suppose she has a phone installed yet and in any case I’d like to give her some idea of what I have in mind, so she’s prepared in advance for our meeting. That’s why I want to write. Perhaps after assembly you might like to practise your shorthand?” The head returned to her office and Mrs Paxton sat down to resume sorting the small pile of mail on her desk. She slit open the envelopes with her paper knife, carefully tearing off the stamps for the charity box.
The head stepped briskly from her office with a folder under her arm, on her way to assembly. She was seldom seen without a folder. It gave her an official appearance, the outward sign of her professional status. She looked down at Mrs Paxton as she passed. They had known each other for five years, since Mrs Giles was promoted from deputy head at a school in Brackley, and they had developed a good working relationship, without ever becoming friends outside the hours of work. Each valued the other for their qualities, but was glad to keep at a distance in the
ir personal lives.
“Mrs Paxton, you will be sure to keep that knife shut away in your desk when you’re not using it, won’t you? It looks very dangerous.” The secretary looked at the knife. It was a dagger with a black handle, its end shaped like the head of an eagle, its blade bright and shiny. They had had this exchange on other occasions and the head wished she had asked Mrs Paxton years ago not to keep it at school, but she had missed her moment and now it seemed too late to raise the matter without causing bad feeling. Even so, Mrs Paxton resented the implied criticism that she could not be trusted to take care of her possessions, or that she might do anything to put the children, or anyone else, at risk. Assuring the head that she would be careful as she always was, she bent to her task, slit open the last envelope and put the dagger, the paper knife, as she regarded it, into the top drawer out of harm’s way.
*
By lunch-time, Marnie and Anne were ready for a short break after another busy morning. Anne had the computer fully operational and had completed the filing. Marnie liked the way Anne could be trusted to use her initiative without having to be told what to do. For her part, Marnie spent much of the morning on the phone, talking over details of the Irish Navigator rebuild with the brewery and with Philip in London.
“Anne? Are you ready for a bite? It’s nearly one-thirty. I don’t even remember having coffee. It seems so long ago.” Anne raised a hand to her mouth in dismay. The cups were standing clean and unused on the tray in the corner.
“Oh, Marnie! I don’t think I made any. I must have been too absorbed with the computer. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. I’m just as capable of making coffee for us as you are.” She switched on the answerphone and they closed the office behind them to walk the short distance through the spinney to Sally Ann’s mooring. “You know, I think you had a point about recording an explanation of what we’re doing here to answer everyone’s questions. I could have used it this morning on the phone. My calls took twice as long as they should have.”
“It’s a pity we didn’t think to send out a statement, like a press release, with the change of address announcement.”
“That’s a thought, but I didn’t have you with me then, did I? Would you know how to do a press release?”
“Sure. I did that sort of thing at school, Media Studies. I got an ‘A’ for the course work.”
“I might have known.” Marnie unlocked Sally Ann and went into the galley. “Shall we just have a sandwich for now and I’ll cook something this evening?”
“Great. We can make something together.” They prepared lunch and sat out on deck. It was a fine afternoon with a gentle breeze and a dappled pattern of sunlight through the branches of the trees around them.
Over coffee Anne went through her list of queries. It was still growing, but by now there were more lines crossed out than matters to be discussed. They decided to continue the work they were doing until four o’clock and then walk up to the village to post letters and visit the shop.
*
At the far end of the village, at Rooks Farm, Mr Fletcher’s daughter-in-law Maureen was pouring tea for their visitor. She had known George Stubbs for ten years, since first she had come to live in Knightly St John as a young bride, newly married to Albert Fletcher’s older son, Leonard, but she still thought of him as Mr Stubbs and probably always would. Leaving the pot on a tray on the side table, she withdrew to her kitchen and left the men to their talk. The ins and outs of the local church were no business of hers and of no interest, either.
“Well, George, what’s next?” The old farmer seemed subdued, almost resigned to being beaten. He absent-mindedly picked up his tea cup.
“I rang Emily’s boy, the one who works for the newspaper in Northampton, and told him what happened last night. He thinks there could be quite a bit of interest. Stories about vicars usually go down well, especially in the summer when there’s not much real news about. That’s what he said, anyway.”
“So what do we have to do?”
“I gave him an account of our meeting and told him we were thinking of writing to the Bishop. He thought that was a good idea and said we should go ahead. When we get a reply, he’ll do a story, depending on what the Bishop says. Trouble is, he thinks the Bishop will first try to put a damper on everything, calm it all down till after the holidays and hope everyone will have forgotten about it after they’ve had two weeks on a beach bored out of their minds.”
“Who’s going to write, then?” said Albert. George produced an envelope from which he extracted a piece of paper. He read the letter out loud while the old farmer listened. It was short and summarised the main points of contention. At the end it described the vote taken at the meeting and asked the Bishop to intervene to stop the vicar going ahead with any more changes.
“When it’s written down like that, it all seems trivial,” said Albert.
“Trivial? Bricks and mortar against the interests of the whole village? And the attitude of the man. Anyone would think we were heathens, the way he goes on, Talk about holier than thou!”
“I’m not saying we’re not in the right. It’s just that a letter doesn’t tell the proper story. I prefer action to words.”
“I was wondering whether we might get up a petition, too,” said George. “We could get most of the village to sign it, I reckon.”
“I’d rather go up and have it out in words, face to face. Better than letters or petitions. Bits of paper!”
“It’s worth thinking about” said George. “And we couldn’t get to see the Bishop as easily as that. My nephew reckons the Bishop might want to do something. Might act quickly. He’s already brought in one or two ideas while he’s new to the diocese. His honeymoon, they call it.”
“Changes of his own, you mean? Looks like they’re all at it. Can’t leave well enough alone.” Albert took another sip of tea.
“What does it matter if it helps us?” said George. They both drank and looked at each other thoughtfully.
“Well, we’ll see what happens. But don’t expect any miracles.”
*
“How’s your list going, Anne?” There was a gap of some seconds before the reply came.
“Nine points to deal with at the moment. But nothing urgent.”
“Right. It’s four o’clock. Time for an executive decision. Do we have a cup of tea now, or go to the village and have it when we get back?”
“Mm, tricky one,” said Anne. “I’m easy.”
Marnie read her own list. “Suppose we go now? That’ll give us time to look in on Mr Fletcher, just a courtesy visit, post the letters and go to the shop. Okay?”
“Fine.”
Their route took them to the other side of the village, about twenty minutes on foot. Rooks Farm was large and business-like, with a long driveway between rows of oak and ash and fields of sheep and cows. There were outbuildings of varying sizes, glimpses of tractors and a combine harvester in barns old and modern, cow-sheds, stores and Dutch barns half filled with hay. The centre of the complex was a fine stone farmhouse, standing in gardens stocked with delphiniums and roses, sunflowers and hollyhocks, each flower bed neatly bordered with bedding plants, the cream stone a perfect backdrop for the blue and pink, the white and red and gold. As they approached the house, they saw a woman gathering in washing from the line. It was the picture of an English farm on a summer’s afternoon. There was even a black and white collie lying in the corner of the yard outside its kennel. It watched the newcomers without stirring.
“Good afternoon,” said Marnie. The woman turned, noticing them for the first time. She smiled, an open, friendly, countrywoman’s smile, a person at ease with herself and with her life.
“Hallo.” She folded a towel loosely and dropped it into the basket at her feet.
Marnie made the introductions. “I was hoping to see Mr Fletcher, if that’s possible. He doesn’t know I’m coming. It’s just a casual visit.” As she spoke, Marnie wondered if that kind of thing was really ac
ceptable in the country. She had assumed you could just call by without making an appointment.
“I have two of them about the place. Which one did you want: my husband or my father-in-law?”
“Mr Albert Fletcher, who sold me Glebe Farm. I’ve just called to say hallo and tell him we arrived yesterday.”
The woman bent down and picked up the basket. “I’ll call him for you,” she said.
“I hope I’m not disturbing anything,” said Marnie.
“That’s all right. He’s probably in the tool barn. He often goes there when he’s got something on his mind.”
“I could come back another day if he’s busy. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“He’d be sorry to miss you. It may not always seem like it, but he likes a bit of company.” She put her basket down by the porch and indicated an old outbuilding. “Let’s see if he’s there.” As they approached the barn, she called out “Dad! Dad!” and Mr Fletcher appeared in the entrance, an unlit pipe in the corner of his mouth. He looked dour and pre-occupied but on seeing his visitors he smiled. He shook hands with Marnie and with Anne and asked if they were going to be all right at Glebe Farm. Marnie assured him they were. Maureen returned to her chores.
“I wouldn’t know what to do with the place myself,” said Mr Fletcher, “but I daresay you’ve got your own ideas about that. This is my home.”
“It’s a very fine place,” said Marnie. “Whatever we do, Glebe Farm will never be like this. Still, we’ll do our best.”
The old farmer looked thoughtful, as if he wanted to confide in them. “You see, I like young people to come in and bring new ways with them. I’ve had my turn, now it’s yours. I don’t mean to criticise everything, just because it’s different.”
“I wasn’t aware that you had, Mr Fletcher.”
“Of course not. I want you to succeed, do the things you want to do. I wouldn’t want to interfere.”
“Is there something I’m doing that you don’t like?”
