by Luna Snow
Eric gave a weak laugh.
“I’m sure it’s not worth getting worked up about Miss Green. We are all God’s children you know and all have to live together, share this lovely space God has granted to us.”
Pat grunted.
“Well, no-one asked him to move here. In fact I don’t know how he even got permission to build that monstrosity on Green Belt land in the first instance.”
“Have some tea, Pat. Mr and Mrs Pemberton are actually a very nice couple.”
Narrowing her eyes, Pat leaned across the table, looking Eric Thomas straight in the eye.
He never called her Pat. She suddenly felt very suspicious.
“So you have met them then, eh?”
The vicar fiddled with his hands.
“Well of course, they called here a few days ago to introduce themselves.”
“And to complain about the bell?”
Pat reached across for the sugar, she needed the extra energy.
“Well yes, he did mention the bells, but only as an aside.”
The tea was weak and sweet, yet Pat had a bitter taste in her mouth.
“So the Pembertons are a religious pair, good Christians are they, we will see them in church every Sunday?”
The room was suddenly becoming very hot and the sun filtering through the ivy coated windows made the poor vicar’s skin look positively green
“Are you feeling alright vicar?”
It was true; Reverend Thomas did feel quite queasy. The woman unnerved him and he hadn’t had time to even digest his breakfast properly. The whole thing was quite unsettling.
He sat down, placing his head between his hands.
“Don’t tell me that you have agreed to his request Eric?”
Now it was Pat’s turn to despair.
“Am I to take your silence as an admission of guilt then?”
The poor man raised his head slowly, not quite looking her in the eye.
“Well, Miss Green. As I say, they are a very generous couple…”
“So that’s it. I knew there was something you weren’t telling me. I could see something shifty in your eyes Eric. He’s offered you money hasn’t he, money to help with the church funds and the organ restoration no doubt. Thinks he’ll buy his way into heaven eh? Well, no man gets in to heaven by being rich, camel and the eye of a needle and so on. You’ve been bought Eric, you have taken the 30 pieces of silver and sold your soul to the devil No it’s worse than that, you have sold the church bells Eric, a little bit of village life now history. It’s a slippery slope Eric, a slippery slope. Who knows what they will want next. It’s a liberty, a bloody liberty, and that’s swearing.”
Picking up her battered bag she stormed out of the kitchen and across the hall with the Reverend Thomas close in pursuit.
“Miss Green…”
But it was too late and she slammed the door behind her.
Chapter 3
Patricia Green was fuming. It was worse than she thought. Well Mr and Mrs Pemberton would get a piece of her mind. The red bricked villa was built just a little way out of the village and by the time she reached the imposing front gates she was quite out of breath. Gasping for air she eyed the impressive array of cars, their private number plates gleaming in the morning sunshine.
The gates were locked electronically and she stabbed a grimy fingernail towards the intercom placed on the wall, jabbing it several times. She could hear a beeping noise and imagined a butler in full livery striding to answer the intercom.
“Hello?”
The voice was a woman’s, polished and clipped.
“I’d like to speak with Mr Pemberton. My name is Patricia Green from the village.”
She was surprised then there was another low buzzing sound, and the gates clicked open, she had psyched herself for battle, expecting a flat refusal to see the man, and somehow it caught her on the back foot. As she stepped towards the imposing façade, she almost began to lose her nerve.
“Keep going Patricia old girl, fight the good fight and all that”, she muttered to herself.
The front door swung open and a rather obese woman appeared, sat in a wheelchair.
“Do come in Miss Green. It’s so good to have a neighbour drop by. We missed that in the City. I’m Mrs Pemberton, but please call me Trish. My husband won’t be a minute. Now can I get you anything? The coffee’s just brewing.”
Pat had always wanted people to call her Trish, but it had never stuck and she had been plain old Pat or Patricia. Trish had a certain ring to it.
The entrance was all marble tiles and made a smooth runway for the wheelchair.
“Follow me Miss Green.”
Patricia had never been jealous of anything in her life, but as she stepped into the kitchen, she felt a slight wave of envy. She loved to cook and to bake, was well known for her puddings, it was amazing what delicacies she could whip up in her pokey kitchen, which was crammed with cook books and herbs and spices and strange utensils with hardly any space to cook. The Pemberton kitchen was the largest and most opulent she had ever seen.
A gleaming marble square island stood in the centre of the room and a fancy worktop with two inlaid hobs ran beneath the window. A fancy coffee machine gurgled away in the corner and the smell of freshly ground coffee wafted deliciously in the air. There was a walk in larder and all the ‘white goods’ were integral, housed in expensive and sleek looking units. A floor to ceiling glass fronted cupboard held shelf upon shelf of cookery books that looked clean and glossy. Pat thought about her well-thumbed ‘Bero’ book back home, complete with gravy stains and other past culinary delights. For once she noticed her own grimy and un-manicured finger nails and hid them conspicuously in her coat pockets.
“I’ll get you a coffee Miss Green. Would you like milk or cream with that, don’t know how people can stand drinking it black, do you?”
She gave a shrill little laugh as she wheeled over to the coffee machine and started to pour some of the dark liquid into two glasses. Placing three lumps of sugar into her cup, she handed it across to Pat.
“Sugar?”
The glass cups were quite tiny, and Pat placed one lump onto her coffee before being handed the cream. The coffee was like the kitchen, rich and opulent and it tasted good.
“It’s a lovely kitchen you have here Mrs Pemberton, I mean Trish. Must be a pleasure to bake in here?”
The woman laughed again.
“You can probably see from my size that I like to eat Miss Green. Unfortunately I’m not a good cook, and since the accident, well. I have someone in take care of that, of course. This place is seldom used”
Of course, what was she thinking? Fancy having such a kitchen and nit using it, but then the poor woman was in a wheelchair.
“Do you like to cook Miss Green?”
“Call me Pat please. Yes, I love to cook and bake. I grow a lot of my own produce of course. And keep bees.”
Trish pulled a face. “Oh I can’t stand honey, too sweet for me, but my husband just loves it. I should so love to be able to work outside, but of course, since the accident”
Pat nodded, not daring to ask.
“So, l what’s your speciality Pat?”
Suddenly Pat began to feel quite bashful.
“Well, I have won a few prizes at the WI over the years. Puddings are my particular favourite, especially something with lots of cream in the recipe, I just can’t resist it.”
“Me too” Trish Jones licked her lips, but since I was diagnosed with diabetes then I try and keep off those things. My husband is worse than me. Such a sweet tooth as well. That’s why he likes honey so much. It’s his birthday next month; perhaps I could commission you to make his favourite. You don’t happen to know a good recipe for raspberry parfait do you?!”
Pat shook her head. “It’s not something I have made, but I do have a bumper crop of home grown raspberries this year, I’m sure I can have a go.”
With all the talk of baking, Pat had almost forgott
en the reason for her visit until the sound of footsteps could be heard outside in the hallway. The door opened and in walked Mr Pemberton.
Like his wife he was obese, round and rather pig like, Pat thought. Harvey Pemberton had a red face, and small piggy eyes and an unfortunate kind of perpetual sneer on his face. His mouth was full with thick lips, the kind that looked permanently moist.
“Typical greedy banker’ Pat thought to herself. Her first impressions were not good, but she was already warming to his wife and thought she ought to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Miss Green. How can I help?”
He held out a chubby hand in greeting, the small signet ring on the little finger of his left hand cutting into the ample flesh. His welcome was not as warm and friendly as his wife’s. More like the cold and formal hand shake of a bank manager.
“Of course perhaps you are only paying a social call, welcoming us to the village so to speak. I’m afraid we haven’t quite got around to introducing ourselves to the locals as yet. It’s not easy with my wife, not since the accident…”
He indicated the wheelchair and Pat found herself nodding inanely.
“Yes, yes.”
“In fact the only person I have spoken to so far is the local vicar. The church bells were keeping my poor wife awake at night. Of course she doesn’t sleep well, not since the accident.”
“Of course”.
She nodded again, not quite knowing what she agreeing with, and drained her coffee cup for the want of something else to say.
There was an awkward silence and Pat struggled to fill it, finding it now difficult to state her intentions and not having another reason to hand.
“Well, I suppose I better be going. I have to be at the school, My, my is that the time. I really must be going, I just wanted to say hello as I was passing.”
Walking quickly over to the table to leave her empty coffee cup, Pat glanced down at the table, looking for an empty space to place the glass before she made her hasty retreat. The table was covered in papers, what looked like architect drawings and an artist’s impression of a swanky designer apartment block. Before she had time to scan the detail, a large hand swept up the papers and removed them out of sight.
“Well, it’s been lovely to meet you Miss Green. Don’t hesitate to call again. My wife rarely gets any visitors. Now let me see you out.”
Pushing the papers into a drawer, he grabbed her arm and led her along the marbled hallway and back to the front door.
“Goodbye Miss Green.”
And the front door was slammed shut, leaving Pat outside and alone once again.
“Well goodbye, Mr Pemberton, it was nice meeting you too”.
Pat muttered under her breath as she slowly made her way back through the electronic gates that swung open as she approached. Despite the warmth of the morning, she gave a slight shiver, as if she could feel the beady, cold stare of Harvey Pemberton watching as she walked away.
At least she had her reading at the school to look forward to. Pat loved to be with the children and wondered if she had taken the wrong vocation in life, if she should have been a primary school teacher rather than librarian? Well, hindsight was a wonderful thing and she couldn’t change the past, indeed she had been happy working in the library amongst the books and the peace and quiet. Retirement had opened up a whole new world for her and one that she was embracing to the full.
As she entered the gates of the school, she noticed the head teacher – Mrs Wilcox waving from her office window. Pat waved back and soon realised that it was more than a friendly greeting, she was being beckoned into the office.
Susan Wilcox was a young woman, under 40 at least, and to Pat she seemed no more than a slip of a girl. The two women got on well, and Susan often liked to mull things over with Pat, and use her as a sounding board when she had a problem.
It was obviously going to be ‘one of those days’.
Never the less, there was something about the old school that put a spring in her step, probably all of the energy emanating from the children, and she skipped like a schoolgirl up the steps and along the polished wooden hallway to the ‘Head’s’ room. The door was slightly ajar and she pushed gently as she stepped inside.
“Susan, it’s only me, its Pat.”
Pat had thought that she detected a low sort of sobbing sound as she entered the room and almost expected to see one of the pupils, crying after a scolding, or falling down and hurting their knee. She was surprised to see only Susan Wilcox, sat white faced and red eyed, as if she had been crying.
“Oh Pat, I’m so glad you’re here. Close the door and I’ll put the kettle on. Something awful has happened and I don’t know what to do about it.”
Closing the door carefully, Pat braced herself for bad news. Susan Wilcox was a compassionate and thoughtful Head, but she was also a tough cookie. Things must be serious to make her cry.
“Tea or coffee?”
Susan sniffled into her handkerchief, trying to keep herself together as she set out the mugs and opened a packet of chocolate biscuits.
“Whatever is wrong, Susan, surely whatever it is, it’s not that bad?”
The poor young woman tried to smile, but only managed to start crying again.
“Here, let me do that, now you sit down and I’ll make the tea.”
The headmistress blew her nose once again, and like a good little girl sat in one of the easy chairs.
“Now, here we go. I’ve put two sugars in that and there are two chocolate biscuits in your saucer. My old mum said the world always looks better after a good cup of tea. You can’t beat it. Now, whatever is the matter?”
The chocolate on the biscuits started to melt where it came into contact with the hot mug, and Susan licked the chocolate off her fingers. Sometimes it was good to let someone else be in charge, just for a while; even it was just over the simple things like tea and biscuits.
“I don’t know where to start Pat?”
“At the beginning, It’s a very good place to start?”
Looking into the depths of her cup, Susan Wilcox began to tell her story.
“An urgent meeting was held of the Board of Governors last night. Pete Bateman attended representing the Council.”
Pat made a harrumphing sound. She had dealings in the past with Pete Bateman, a slimy, officious man whom she did not trust. She had come to blows with him over the ‘fracking’ project, and the two had disliked each other ever since.
“Go on.”
“Well, several children left the school during the summer holidays. Mrs Metcalfe has put her two boys in boarding school, and the McPherson’s have now emigrated , taking Emily and Margaret with them. That means we now have less than 30 pupils left in the school, and the council say that we are no longer viable.”
“No longer viable!”
Pat bit aggressively into a chocolate biscuit, the crumbs scattering on the blue carpet below.
“And the upshot is they say we will have to close by Christmas.”
Pat finished the biscuit and picked up another.
“By Christmas, well that’s ridiculous; it’s only 3 months away. Oh you know what the Council are like Susan. We’ve been here before. They are always threatening to close the school, but we always manage to stop it somehow.”
Susan shook her head slowly. “But it IS different this time Pat. The Council, well Pete, seemed almost to be supporting the closure. In the past they were always against such a move, but now. I don’t know what to think.”
The poor woman started crying again.
Pat could feel a strange sensation in her stomach, a sinking sort of feeling. Susan wasn’t easily upset; there had been threats before, but now?
“But what about the Council, they’ve always been supportive before, what did they have to say?”
Susan blew her nose again into a paper handkerchief.
“Well, that’s the thing. They seemed to be supportive of the closure, blamed Government cuts and
the like. Without their support, we’re doomed Pat.”
Biting into a third chocolate biscuit, Pat could feel her blood pressure start to rise.
“I wouldn’t trust that Pete Bateman as far as I could trust him. I think I need to find out first hand from my friends at the council what is really going on here. Now, you just leave it with me Susan, it will be alright, I promise you.”
The young headmistress smiled like a child as she wiped away her tears with a clean tissue. There was something about Pat Green, her grim determination and tenacity, that made people believe in her.
“Thanks Pat, I know you will do your best. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry to make such a show. I need to pull myself together and get ready for the school assembly.”
Although Pat loved to hear the children read, she kept looking at her watch all morning, counting the minutes until 11:00 a.m. when she would be finished and could catch the local bus into town. She had many friends in the council from her librarian days, and would soon find out what was happening.
She knew the bus driver – Ed – he was a local lad and she had known him since he was a child. That was one of the things about village life that Pat was so keen to hang on to; a sense of community, which she was keen to preserve. Slowly, all the good things in life, the old traditional ways were going. The Post Office had already closed down, moved into the local Spar shop as the result of a nationwide strategy. One by one the old ways were being eroded. Not that Pat wanted to live in the past; times were always a changing, as Bob Dylan rightly said. It’s just that some things were sacred. The school was integral to the village, a focal point, just like the church and the village hall. It was lovely to hear the shouting and laughter of the children at playtime, like the ringing of the church bells, they were the sounds of the village, the sounds of life and without them the village would die. Once things were gone, they were gone forever. The school was definitely worth fighting for.
Rita Harris, her friend in the Planning Department was just putting on her coat to go out for lunch when Pat arrived at the concrete block that constituted the council buildings; a nasty 1970’s office block that was an eyesore on the old local market town.
