Village Gossip

by Shaw, Rebecca

  Sylvia giggled. ‘You’re in top form tonight I must say. But I can see you’re jealous.’

  ‘I’m not. Have you done? Let’s go.’

  ‘In a minute. Let’s wait for instructions.’

  Hugo had completed his list and wanted to get on with the first rehearsal. ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll be in touch with all backstage people within the next few days and have some in-depth discussions with each of you regarding duties, expenses, what’s needed, et cetera. We haven’t much time left to get the show on the road, but we will do it if we all put our shoulders to the wheel! Thank you so much everyone.’ He pointed to Michelle Jones standing at the back with Dean. ‘Got a small part for you if you fancy it.’

  Michelle looked around, realised Hugo meant her, blushed bright red and pointed to herself saying, ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. Fancy it? Stay for rehearsal if you do.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Hugo searched the crowd and pointed to Rhett Wright. ‘Hi there! You in the green top and jeans. Yes, you. Fancy a part?’

  Rhett nodded.

  ‘Not a lot to learn but every part is vital to our success. Fancy it?’

  ‘Right. Yes, I’ll do it.’ Rhett rubbed his hands together with delight. ‘Great, just great.’ Then he remembered his grandma and some of the gloss went the evening. She’d never forgive him.

  And she didn’t. When Rhett got home, Don had gone to his night shift and his gran was sitting in front of the electric fire drinking a shandy. By the looks of the cans on the table it wasn’t her first.

  ‘Where’ve you been till this time?’

  ‘Well, Gran, Hugo offered …’

  ‘Shandy?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He waited till he’d sprung the can open and taken a drink before he continued. ‘Hugo’s offered me a part. Just a little one, like, but it’s a part.’

  Vera lunged at him and missed the side of his head by a whisker.

  ‘You traitor, you. You should’ve left when I did. I’ve never been so insulted in all my life. Never. That Mrs Jones. Since she took over the mail order at the Store she’s thought herself a cut or two above the likes of you and me. With her “Jimbo” this and her “Jimbo” that. I can remember when she was only too glad to clean at the pub when her boys were all little. How low can you get? Cleaning at a pub. I could tell her a thing or two about her Kenny and Terry that’d make her toe nails curl up. They are disgusting.’

  Rhett eagerly demanded ‘Are they? What do they do then?’

  Vera scowled at him. ‘I’m not telling you.’

  ‘I am eighteen, nearly nineteen.’

  ‘So you may be. What’s this part then? Not that I’m interested.’

  ‘I’m Dr Harris’ son, and Michelle’s her daughter.’

  ‘Michelle? Another feather in Mrs Jones’ cap. Is there no end?’

  ‘Here’s the script. Look.’

  Vera gave it a sideways glance. Her lips trembled and she blurted out, ‘Just once in my life I thought I’d grab the chance to work with someone who had genius. Real genius. They’re few and far between are people with genius, do you know that? Your grandad and me, we’ve grubbed along all our lives, struggling just to make ends meet, not improve ourselves, but to keep the wheels oiled. Then yer mum went off the rails and we got you.’ She patted his arm apologetically. ‘I don’t mean we didn’t want yer Rhett, because we did, you were such a good baby, but just when we thought we could start to make progress you came along and I had to give up me job. I ’aven’t regretted one minute having yer, but yer did ‘old us back. Yer mum promised us money every month but o’ course, as yer can imagine, that lasted for about six months and then … yer know the rest.’ She wiped her eyes and gazed at the imitation flames curling round the imitation coals on the fire.

  Rhett said softly, ‘I’m sorry, Gran.’

  ‘Nothing for you to be sorry about, love. But when the idea came to me to be wardrobe mistress I knew I longed to be involved with something beautiful. D’yer know what I mean? Something special, something people would admire me for. I know exactly where I am in the pecking order in this village and it’s bottom. Bottom. Even Pat Duckett that was, she used to be at our level, talking over the fence and moaning about ‘aving no money and now look what’s happened to ’er. A new husband, a grand big house, a car now and a right good job with the Charter-Plackett’s catering service. And where am I? Still at the bottom of the pile. I could truthfully say I yearned for that job with the costumes.’

  ‘Look, if it means that much to you, how about eating humble pie, apologising and getting stuck in. Hugo announced that you and Mrs Jones were doing the costumes together.’

  Vera looked at him through her tears. ‘Not Pygmalion likely. Yer see you make beautiful things all day long in that garden. Yer in touch with beauty, and I never am.’

  ‘You’ve flowers in your garden.’

  His answer was a shrug of his gran’s shoulders. ‘Say a few of your lines for me, love, will yer?’

  Rhett said he wouldn’t, he’d be too embarrassed.

  ‘All right then.’ Wistfully Vera went back to thinking about the dresses. ‘They’ll have lovely materials for them dresses, I could right fancy handling materials like that. Touching it and holding it soft like against yer cheek. Lovely. All pretty and beautiful. All beads and embroidery. And the colours, them illustrations in ’er books! All pastel colours, yer know. Peaches and silver greys and soft greens and turquoise. Wonderful! And having that lovely, lovely man saying how pleased he was with them. That would be great. Yer see Rhett, yer grandad’s a good man, faithful and that, never a word out of place, but he lacks sparkle. Yes, sparkle. And after all these years, so do I. But making them costumes, that’d make me sparkle and not half.’ She stared into the distance and Rhett saw such a lovely smile on her face, a smile like he couldn’t remember seeing before. Vera sighed. ‘Still, there yer go. Mrs Jones has got the job and good luck to her. Go get me slippers, Rhett, me feet are killing me.’

  Mrs Jones popped into the Store the next morning to finish off some orders she hadn’t had time to do the previous day. Jimbo handed her a coffee as she swept through. ‘Thanks, Mrs Jones. That’s what I like to see. Enthusiasm. I hear you’ve had a promotion.’

  ‘Promotion?’

  ‘Yes. Wardrobe mistress. Hidden talents, eh?’ Jimbo smoothed his striped apron, red and white this morning, raised his straw boater to her and bowed.

  ‘Don’t know about promotion, but it caused a commotion. That Vera Wright. Huh! Thinking she could do the costumes. That’s likely!’

  ‘She’s had a hard time has Vera. She needs a leg up, you know.’

  Humbled, Mrs Jones continued on to the mail order office. While she sorted and checked and packed the orders, one to Bristol, another to Newcastle, two to Devon, and yet another and another, she pondered on what Jimbo had said. The uproar had not been her own fault, but wild horses wouldn’t make her go to Vera and suggest she helped despite the quarrel. Not likely. Never. The orders finished, she marched them to the post office counter and handed them to Linda.

  ‘There you are, Linda. Six. There’s your list. OK?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’m off now. Off to Culworth on the lunchtime bus. Got some materials to look at. I know just where to go.’

  ‘Exciting, isn’t it? If I was more free I’d have a go too. Just imagine acting with that wonderful man. He could butter my bread anytime!’

  ‘Linda! He’s full of charm but he’s not like that. It’s only good fun and part of his lovely nature.’

  ‘Oh yes. That’s not what I’ve heard.’ She leaned her elbows on the counter and put her face close to the grill. ‘On Monday night …’

  An old man from Little Derehams elbowed Mrs Jones aside. ‘Hurry up. I need my pension. I’m catching the lunchtime bus to Culworth.’

  ‘All right. All right. Keep yer hair on.’

  She served the angry pensioner and by the ti
me they’d argued about her rubber stamp not being clear enough and whether or not she needed a new one and she’d do better if she didn’t gossip so much, Mrs Jones had to leave to make sure she didn’t miss the bus.

  Rhett, who’d gone round to see her about his gran’s disappointment, missed her. He knew he owed his gran a lot. Everything, if the truth be known, because he might as well not have a mother for all she cared. And some days that hurt. Now he’d missed Mrs Jones so his idea had fallen on stony ground. He thought over his conversation with his gran last night and how she’d revealed more of herself than she’d ever done before. He thought about beauty. She was right. He touched and saw beauty every working day. Flowers, plants, fruit trees, vines. The scent of them after the rain, the mingled pleasurable aromas he inhaled greedily when he opened the glasshouses first thing in the summer. The smell of soil freshly turned with his spade, the crumbly moist feel of it; the new paths he laid, feeling his way, making the patterns with the stones; the satisfaction of … Then it hit him: energising shock waves ran through him right to his toes. Of course. The stones. He’d repair the crazy paving at the back of Gran’s cottage, extend it a bit here and there and buy her a little plastic table and chairs so she could sit out. There were those old pots at the back of the kitchen garden wall that Mr Fitch wanted rid of. Greenwood Stubbs would let him have those for nothing and he’d buy some plants and … His head full of ideas, he pedalled furiously up the drive to the Garden House to find Greenwood. This would be the surprise of his gran’s life. He’d see to it that she had some beauty.

  Chapter 6

  True to his word, Hugo went to see Sir Ronald Bissett. He rang the bell and waited. Lovely old cottage, thatched roof, roses around the door, the lifelong dream of thousands of town dwellers. A cottage in the country for himself? No, not quite his scene.

  The door opened and Sheila Bissett was standing there beaming, dressed as though expecting visitors.

  ‘Hugo Maude, you remember me? Good morning, Lady Bissett.’

  ‘Do please call me Sheila. Everyone else does.’

  ‘Sheila, then. Is your beloved in?’

  Sheila asked, ‘My beloved?’

  ‘The renowned Ron. His name’s been volunteered to help backstage with the play and I promised I’d come to see him this morning. Told he’s a very practical chap.’

  ‘Oh he is. He does all our DIY. Every bit. Come in. Come in. Do.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He meticulously wiped his feet. He knew Sheila would notice that and like him for it.

  ‘Do sit down. I’ll tell Ron you’re here, he’s in the shed at the bottom of the garden.’

  ‘You send him down there when you’re fed up with him, do you?’

  She was so flustered she didn’t notice he was teasing. ‘Oh no! Of course not. He’s cleaning the mower. I won’t be a moment. Coffee when I get back? It’s not one of my mornings, but you’re most welcome.’

  ‘Why thank you, most kind.’ He watched her open the french windows and trot down the garden. She lacked dress sense, she was too fat, she’d no savoir faire whatsoever, she had an almost pathetic desire to be liked, but there was something about her you couldn’t help but be drawn to. An honesty and a simplicity he had to admire.

  Sir Ron removed his garden shoes before he came in and Sheila opened up a copy of the Daily Mirror, placing it carefully in the easy chair before Ron sat down in it.

  ‘You will excuse me, won’t you? I’ll leave you two to your men’s talk while I make the coffee.’ With a coy little nod of her head she disappeared from the sitting room.

  ‘So, you’re the Hugo Maude that’s causing such a sensation.’

  Hugo feigned surprise. ‘Sensation?’

  ‘Of course. Yes. They’re all talking about you. Husbands as well as wives. There’s a few husbands who are being told they’re not coming up to scratch, you see.’

  ‘Oh dear. I hope I’m not causing any trouble.’

  ‘All in good fun. Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘Barry Jones is doing the scenery for the play, but really it’s a two-handed job or even a three-handed one, and you were recommended as a very able assistant.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You. I do hope you’ll say yes. We’re running short on time, you see.’

  ‘Well, now I don’t see why not. I’d quite enjoy that and Barry’s very easy to get on with. Yes, I will. Thank you for thinking of me.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, everyone agreed you’d be a good choice.’

  ‘Right. I’m well pleased with the idea.’

  ‘Barry and I had a long chat earlier today and he knows exactly what’s needed. Mr Fitch has promised the wood and told Barry to buy whatever paints et cetera are needed, so it’s plain sailing really. Just needs the time devoted to it and plenty of elbow grease.’

  ‘Well, I’ve plenty of that. Turned this place inside out all by myself, you know. Took a while but I made it in the end. I’m well accustomed to public speaking but not acting, so backstage is all right by me.’

  He appeared to Hugo to be flattered that he’d been asked and he wondered if the Bissetts weren’t exactly accepted in Turnham Malpas.

  Sheila came bustling in. ‘Here we are, then. Coffee for three. I didn’t get to the meeting, did you get plenty of helpers?’

  ‘I did indeed. More than I needed. Do you know Mrs Peel?’

  ‘Of course, she’s the church organist. Very nice person she is, she’s really blossomed since Peter came. You see, Mr Furbank that was the Rector before Peter, had no idea about music. But Peter is an organist himself, you know, so he knows how to get the best out of her.’

  ‘I see. Well, she came up with the brilliant idea that we could have live music instead of canned for the overture and during the interval. She has a repertoire of the most unbelievably suitable music and she has a genuine nineteen twenties’ dress and the piano’s just been tuned, she tells me. So right where you expect a desert you find an oasis.’ Sheila handed him his coffee and placed the sugar bowl and cream jug at his elbow on a small side table.

  ‘Of course.’

  Hugo helped himself to sugar. ‘So wonderful when gems like that fall into one’s lap.’

  ‘Indeed. I’m glad you got help like that. They’re really very good in this village, but I expect it was your good looks and charm that carried the day.’

  Hugo denied this by pursing his lips and waving a deprecating hand.

  ‘Oh yes, it is, you can’t fool me. I just wish there was something I was clever at that I could do to help.’

  ‘But I believe there is. Flowers? Hey?’

  Embarrassed, Sheila lowered her gaze. ‘Someone’s been telling tales out of school.’

  ‘They have very justifiably too, I understand. Flower festivals and the like. Now, it means doing some research.’

  ‘Research. Oh, I don’t think I’m …’

  ‘Oh yes, you are. Perfectly capable. The set is that of a country house in about 1921, not a large one but certainly an elegant one and I want flowers, two vases full, on stage to go on the grand piano.’

  Sheila’s eyebrows went up in amazement. ‘A grand piano? Where are you going to get that from? In any case it would fill the stage and there’d be no room for the actors.’

  ‘A baby grand, actually, from Mr Fitch’s flat at the Big House.’

  ‘My word, he certainly means business, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Oh yes. He does. No stone unturned. Back to the flowers. One vase a winter arrangement and the other a summer one. Now, how did they do flowers in country houses then? I know they weren’t done like I saw them in church on Sunday, all thanks to you no doubt.’ He reached across and patted her knee and she had to restrain herself from clasping his hand. ‘And they certainly wouldn’t be Japanese style. Ikebana, isn’t it? So could you find out and arrange them for me? What do you say?’

  ‘Well.’ Sheila took a deep breath. ‘Well, yes I’ll have a try. Yes, I certainly will. Research, yes. Of course. I’m
honoured that you thought of me.’

  ‘To whom should I turn but to an expert.’

  ‘Oh! Really! Hugo. You’re too kind. How about the hall itself, shouldn’t there be some in there?’

  ‘Well, of course that would be wonderful if you have the time. Within reasonable limits Mr Fitch is paying all expenses, so keep your bills. The flowers in the hall must be in keeping. And very, very important, the vases themselves must look right too.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. I can see that. Authenticity. Research. Right. Well, I never expected this when I opened the door. How exciting! The ladies in the flower club will be most impressed. I shall ask you to sign my programme.’

  ‘Well, there’ll be an acknowledgement in there.’

  Sheila, to whom an acknowledgement meant an announcement in the paper thanking people for their floral tributes at a funeral, looked puzzled.

  ‘You know “Flowers by Lady Sheila Bissett”.’

  ‘Oh, right, I see.’

  Hugo could tell how delighted she was and he was glad he’d asked her and glad she was on his side.

  ‘Dr Harris is in the play, I hear.’

  ‘Yes, she’s playing the leading lady opposite me. Lovely lady to work with.’

  ‘Oh, she is. I’m a great fan of hers. She’s always so pleasant, so kind and she hasn’t had it easy. No, not at all.’

  ‘Really?’ He knew he’d learn a lot if he played his cards right.

  ‘No, she’s had cancer recently but she seems to have got over that now. Then her parents were very badly injured in a road accident – touch and go for a while. Then she had all the trouble about the twins, no that was before the accident and the accident was before the cancer, yes that’s right. It wasn’t easy, but what a gesture taking his children on like she did for his sake. Wonderfully loving that was. Of course we all love the Rector, he’s quite simply wonderful. One look from those blue eyes of his and we’re all his slaves. I don’t wonder she …’

  ‘I know they’re adopted, so they’re actually his, not hers, are they?’

  Suddenly Sheila knew she’d said too much, but he was looking at her with such a sympathetic expression on his face she knew he wouldn’t use what she was going to tell him.