Grandmama almost collapsed with horror when he told her.
‘I’m going where, did you say?’
‘To Cottage Beauty for a massage. It’s for your birthday, Mother. Thought it might interest you. New experience, you know. One’s never too old to experiment with new things.’
‘I most certainly shall not.’
‘But I’ve paid for it.’
‘I don’t care. I am not giving her the opportunity to benefit from something I wholeheartedly disagree with.’
Fran piped up. ‘Go on, Gran. You’ll come back a new woman.’
‘I don’t want to be a new woman, Fran. I’m quite satisfied with the old one, I mean … I mean, satisfied with how I am.’
‘Well, if I was saying no so emphatically to a birthday present, you’d say I was a very rude girl and where were my manners and compare me to angelic Flick.’ Fran primly folded her arms and waited for Grandmama’s reply, which was a long time coming.
Harriet was fit to burst trying to hold back her laughter. Talk about hoist by your own petard, Mother-in-law. Let’s see how you get out of that, she thought.
Jimbo’s eyes sparkled with amusement while he waited for her reply.
‘I do believe, Fran my dear, you have a point.’ She patted Fran’s arm with approval, ‘Thank you, Jimbo, for a wonderful idea. I shall report fully on the experience on my return. Not only that, I shall use it to do my research on how best to put a stop to her antics. Excellent idea, Jimbo, wish I’d thought of it first.’
‘Er … I have a truce with Jenny at the moment.’
His mother was appalled. ‘A truce! How could you? What form does it take?’
Rather sheepishly he admitted to allowing her to shop, but only her, not Andy.
Harriet and Grandmama both registered shock.
‘You’ve what? After all you’ve said about them.’ Harriet couldn’t believe his volte-face. ‘You turncoat, you.’
‘Jimbo! A son of mine should be above such treachery.’
Jimbo held up his hand to silence the pair of them. ‘Like I said, only Jenny, not that Andy fellow. I’ve done it now, so it’s too late to protest.’
His mother gave him a lop-sided wry kind of smile. ‘She’s charmed you, has she? I didn’t realize you were still susceptible to a pretty face.’
‘It’s not just that … I …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, anyway, she smiled sweetly and I couldn’t say no. It’s all money in the pot. Blame it on my broken ankle. I’ve been through a lot of late, my judgement must be skewed.’
But Jimbo wasn’t nearly so philosophical when he received another poison pen letter, threatening blackmail.
Chapter 8
Soon it was all round the village that he’d got another poison pen letter, and more than one decided on the spur of the moment to go to the pub that night to hear the latest gossip. The contents of the letter weren’t known, but that only served to increase the speculation.
‘Well, I reckon,’ said Willie, wiping the froth from his mouth on the back of his hand, and neatly placing his pint of home-brew on a beer mat, ‘it’s from someone who thinks they’ve got a hold on Jimbo.’
‘We all know that’s what poison pen letters are about, but who the blazes knows something about Jimbo that isn’t truthful and above board? He’s led a blameless life, he has, ever since he came here. Totally blameless.’ Sylvia sat back in the certain knowledge she’d said something which couldn’t be questioned.
The rest of them seated round the table nodded in agreement.
‘Absolutely, that’s very true.’
Vera Wright leaned forward and whispered, ‘Since he came here. Yes, exactly. Maybe it’s something that happened before he came to Turnham Malpas.’ She looked at each of them in turn. But they couldn’t believe that. After all, as Sylvia pointed out, he and Harriet were newcomers, so which of them had ever met him before he came to the village?
A silence fell while they studied this matter in depth. Their thoughts were interrupted by Paddy Cleary slapping Don on his back and cheerfully calling out to them all, ‘What’s the news, then? You’re all looking mighty conspiratorial.’
‘Oh, hark at him! Going to that college is bringing out the scholar in you, is it?’ mocked Willie.
‘They’re teaching me a lot but I don’t think it’s turning me into a scholar, more a son of the soil.’ He cheerfully grinned at his own wit.
Don, having one of his good days, said, ‘Good for you, Paddy, you’ll be in charge up at the Big House before long.’
‘Naw. Too much responsibility for the likes of me. Quiet life, that’s what I’m after. In any case, Michelle’s too well entrenched with that sod Fitch for me to have a chance.’
Willie had no time for Mr Fitch but even he could see the injustice of Paddy’s remark. ‘That’s not fair, Paddy, he’s had a mind to send you to college where you wouldn’t never have got without him and, what’s more, you’re enjoying it.’
Paddy acknowledged the truth of what Willie said by patting him on his back. ‘Hit the nail on the head, you have, Willie. So, what’s the topic of conversation tonight at the high table?’
Sylvia laughed. She’d always had a soft spot for Paddy, thief though he’d been. ‘Same as everyone else. Jimbo’s poison pen letter. What do you think, Paddy?’
He leaned confidentially over the table and asked, ‘Anyone taking bets?’
‘Bets? We’ve nothing to bet on.’ Sylvia smiled. ‘Trust you to think of betting on it.’
Paddy declared emphatically, ‘I guess it’s Andy Moorhouse.’
‘Andy Moorhouse?’ they all said in surprise.
‘Why, I ask yer?’ Willie scoffed. ‘We know he’s a slimy beggar, but what could he possibly have on Jimbo? He isn’t likely to have met him at afternoon tea at his mother’s, now is he?’ They all hooted with laughter at the prospect of Andy Moorhouse having tea with Grandmama Charter-Plackett.
Paddy tapped the side of his nose and leaned closer. ‘You may well laugh. I’ve no idea why or how, but just you wait and see. You’ll find I’m right. There isn’t another person living in this village as slimy as him, nor as underhand and shifty, is there?’
‘What are the odds, then?’ Don asked.
‘Don’t know yet. I’ll let you know nearer the time. Who else, eh? You have to admit he’s the likeliest customer. Must move on, it’s my turn to buy Vince and Greta a drink. Be seeing you.’ Paddy gave a cheery wave and left them to discuss his suggestion.
‘Well, he could be right, though why I don’t really know.’
‘Load of rubbish. Why on earth should it be him?’
Dottie and Beth speculated on the matter during their morning chat the following day.
‘You see, Beth, I always thought poison pen letters came about because one had a hold over the other. You know, something that had happened in the past that could be used as a lever to drag money out of someone for keeping quiet, and it goes on and on.’
‘You mean the writer knows something bad about Jimbo?’
Dottie paused a moment before she replied. Had she said too much? Hinted at a truth when it was really only speculation? Well, do I mean that? I think I do. ‘Yes, otherwise why would they expect Jimbo to pay up?’
Beth leaned forward and whispered, ‘You mean, you know what’s in the letter?’
‘Oh, no. No one does, least of all me. No, I was just thinking aloud.’
‘I can’t believe that anyone knows anything bad about Jimbo, I’ve known him all my life. He always seems to be honest and open, and he’s so kind.’
Dottie felt herself getting into deep water yet again. ‘Anyways, there’s nothing you and I can do about it. Well, I must press on.’
Later that morning Dottie was doing the bedrooms and came to Beth’s last. There was a spider which needed chasing out because Beth had said she hated spiders. It ran along her bookshelf above the bed as fast as a greyhound, with Dottie standing on the bed in hot
pursuit. Then, as she swiped at it with her duster, it ran quickly up a bracket supporting the highest shelf and paraded itself triumphantly along the front edge of it very confidently, looking as if it had no intention of moving house.
Dottie saw this as a definite challenge and lunged at it, but she missed her footing, almost fell off the bed and had to grab the shelf to save herself. All Beth’s papers and her drawing pad and box of pastels cascaded down, along with the spider. It escaped across the duvet and Dottie captured it in her duster, rushed to the window to tip it out. ‘Nasty thing. Go on, find somewhere else to live.’
She picked up the drawing pad first, which had fallen open as it landed on the carpet. When she saw Beth’s drawings she was horrified. Oh, my word. Oh, my word. Dottie went white with shock. She was no psychiatrisk but only a fool could not guess at Beth’s state of mind. One grotesque drawing was of a soldier with gun raised, and a girl kneeling in front of him, hands held as though praying, head down … waiting to be shot? Another was even more horrifying: a lurid black and white picture depicting the girl struggling to undress and just the barrel of the gun pointing straight at her from the edge of the page. Only the girl was in colour. It was obviously a school uniform dress she wore, but dirty and dishevelled. The face could only have been Beth’s, with those rounded cheeks, the deep-blue eyes, so like her real mother’s, and the ash-blonde hair.
Dottie sat down on the bed to think. What on earth could she do about this? When she heard footsteps already halfway up the stairs she shot to her feet and put the drawing pad back. She hadn’t time to put it back exactly where it had been or to collect the papers, but she hurriedly switched on the vacuum and hoped no one saw her quick movements.
But it was Beth coming to look for the novel she was currently reading. Dottie switched off the vacuum. It must have been the look of furtiveness and anxiety on Dottie’s face at having been caught out, and the papers spread about the floor, that made Beth stare at her. Her eyes flicked up to the top shelf, registering the disturbance to the drawing pad. Neither of them spoke a word but looked for a long moment directly into each other’s eyes and each knew the other knew. Beth’s eyes were large with remembered horrors, Dottie’s tormented and narrowed.
‘I – I was trying to catch a spider and I had to climb on the bed and I almost fell and had to grab the shelf and everything came toppling down. I know you don’t like them, spiders, you know. Sorry.’ She bent to collect the papers.
Beth ignored her apology. ‘Did you catch it?’ Her voice was throaty and strained.
‘Yes, it’s out the window now.’
‘Good.’ Beth glanced up at the shelf again and then looked again at Dottie and silently put a finger to her lips, and walked out without her book.
Dottie shouted, ‘It’s here! The one you’re looking for.’
Beth had gone.
But she was waiting in the hall when Dottie was about to leave. ‘Would you come into church with me, Dottie? Please? I’ve been promising myself I’d do it but I can’t, not by myself. I will, if you will.’
‘Yes, of course. If you want me to. What about your mum though? Wouldn’t she …’ Dottie’s throat was dry as a bone and she dreaded what might happen next.
‘I want to go with you. Won’t be long, Mummy.’
‘Very well, darling.’
The church felt damp and cold. Beth thought what a contrast it was to the heat of Africa. The sweat and the flies. The burning sun and the dust and the restless nights.
Dottie remembered the last time she’d been in church was at her mother’s funeral, and she felt weak and giddy.
Beth sat down in the back pew and tapped her hand on the pew cushion, inviting Dottie to sit down beside her. ‘Not a word to anyone about the drawings, please,’ she said. ‘No one knows about them not even Alex. I didn’t really intend anyone seeing them. You won’t tell, will you? Cross your heart and hope to die?’
Dottie nodded and did as Beth had said, crossing herself fervently and damning spiders at the same time. She found her voice. ‘But why? What made you draw such ghastly pictures with you in them of all things?’
There was a long silence with the two of them gripping hands, until Beth burst into tears, gut-knotting tears which Dottie could not bear, so she wrapped Beth in her arms like a mother would and hugged her tightly, saying, ‘Hush, hush, hush. There, there, there.’ They rocked back and forth, but nothing could console her.
‘Does your mum know about this, about what happened when they couldn’t find you?’
‘No! She mustn’t know. No one must.’
‘Why not? That’s what mothers are for. For crying and telling, they’re the best.’
Beth lifted her head from Dottie’s shoulders and shuffled about, trying to rescue a hankie from her skirt pocket. Dottie got her a tissue from her bag and dabbed her cheeks and dried her eyes. ‘Who are you going to tell? You’ve to tell someone. You musn’t keep it all bottled up. Better out than in.’
Beth grimly shook her head. ‘Alex says we mustn’t tell anyone. Not anyone.’
‘But your mum, she’d want to know. I know I would if you were my girl.’
‘I could tell Dad.’
‘But he’s not here till next July. You can’t keep it bottled up till then, you’ll never get better at that rate.’
Beth shook her head.
‘That soldier with the gun; he’s real, isn’t he?’
Beth nodded.
‘I expect a girl of your age, nowadays, knows all there is to know about what goes on between men and women, making babies and that.’
Face hidden against Dottie’s shoulder, Beth nodded.
‘He didn’t do it to you, did he? You must tell if he did.’
To Dottie’s great relief Beth shook her head. ‘No, he didn’t.’
‘And that picture you’ve drawn with you …’ Dottie took a deep breath, fearing to trespass, ‘taking your dress off – did you have to undress completely for him? Did he touch you? Anywhere at all?’
Beth jerked violently at the memory. ‘Almost.’ She rested against the back of the pew and stared at the altar. ‘I just wish Daddy was here. He’d understand. I could tell him, because you can tell him anything at all and he isn’t angry or embarrassed or judgemental. He always has the right words to say and solves your problems. He sees straight through to the truth of it all, you see. But I’m not saying any more, not now. Thank you for being so understanding. I don’t know why, Dottie, but I can talk to you about almost anything. It’s such a relief and that’s funny because I’ve never really known you.’
Grateful, Dottie kissed her cheek and said, ‘Thank you for that, it feels like a real compliment.’
Beth gave a watery smile and took hold of Dottie’s hand again. Dottie stroked Beth’s hand while she thought of what to say next.
‘I’m not clever, Beth, far from it. Perhaps you know what I’ve been in the past … but … anyway, I’ve seen a lot of life and people and that. Maybe that’s why you can talk to me. Talk to me any time. Whenever, if you need someone. I shan’t let on to a living soul, right? But I’d feel happier if your mum knew about them drawings.’
Beth stood up, wanting to go.
Dottie stepped out into the aisle to make room for her to leave the pew. ‘Show them to her when you can. She needs to know, for she loves you more than life itself.’
‘I know. But that’s why she must not learn about what happened, because she loves me and Alex so. It would hurt her so much.’
‘Are you sure, you know about, well about … sex, you know? I mean, he didn’t, did he? You’re not just shutting it away? Are you? Because it won’t actually make it go away if that’s what you’re doing. You know you’d need tests and things, in case. That is, if he did.’ Dottie looked up at Beth, staring directly into her eyes and trying to analyse her state of mind, but Beth’s eyes gave away none of her secrets.
Beth began to tremble from head to foot. ‘No, I’m not shutting it away. He
didn’t.’
‘Thank God for that, then.’
They walked slowly down the aisle and stepped out onto the path to find the sun shining and everywhere looking its beautiful, almost-winter best, so different from the agony they’d experienced inside the church.
Beth let go of Dottie’s hand and said, ‘I can manage to get home by myself. Thank you, Dottie, for talking to me. You’re full of common sense and so very very honest. You say what needs to be said outright, no messing. You’ve helped, more than any sermon would.’ She gave Dottie a faintly wicked grin and turned to go home. ‘Stay there till I get in the house. Please?’
Dottie stood watching her, suddenly afraid she might not be able to keep Beth’s secret. It was such a weighty burden. If she didn’t have to undress completely, what on God’s earth happened next? If only the child would tell her mother, Caroline would have the wisdom to know how to deal with it. That was for definite. Much better than her, that old bottom-of-the-class, good-for-a-laugh, cheap tart called Dottie Foskett, for whom no one had any respect … except Elizabeth Harris. Bless her.
But of course they’d been seen. What else could she expect? Nothing, but nothing, could go on in this village without someone peeping through their net curtain, or hearing in the Post Office queue, or overhearing on the bus. So when Dottie went into the Store after waiting for Beth to get back into the Rectory it was already the talk of the village.
‘So. Privy to a lot of secrets, are you, Dottie? We saw you talking to Beth. Have you found out why she isn’t going to school, then? Because we’d all like to know,’ asked Greta Jones, who was just leaving for home.
Dottie put a finger to her lips and said, ‘Shush! I’m not telling, I’ve given my word.’
‘Spoilsport. You haven’t been at that Rectory more than a few weeks and already you’re just like Sylvia. Not a word passed her lips. You know we all want to know why.’
‘I dare say you do but I’ve promised her I won’t discuss it. She’s one of the very few, if not the only one, in this village who has some respect for me, and that counts for a lot. Anyway, I bet you’ve got hotter news than me. I understand Jimbo’s had another letter and it mentioned blackmail.’
A Village Feud Page 10
