Whispers in the Village

by Shaw, Rebecca

  Vince began to look concerned. ‘He’d be helpful with the garden; you’re always complaining about it. He’d be no trouble.’

  ‘He’d need feeding and washing done and that. The very least you could have said was you’d ask me first before you said a definite yes.’

  ‘Come on, Greta love, he’s a nice chap.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard from our Barry. Thieving he is, wherever he can. And don’t you “Greta love” me just to save your face. I’ll think about it.’

  ‘He’d need to know tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not deciding now, not when you’ve landed it on me all unawares.’ Mrs Jones collected their cups together, clattering them as though she was in high dudgeon, and took them into the kitchen. She ran the tap full on to mask the sound of her laughter and, resting her hands on the edge of the sink, she laughed till she had to stop ’cos she could laugh no more. Talk about Vince playing right into her hands. She couldn’t believe her good luck and wondered what on earth had come over him, making dynamic decisions like this. There was life in the old dog yet then. Bless his little cotton socks. She’d never let on, no not she. He’d have to suffer for this, really suffer. The joke nearly overcame her and she almost went into the living room to tell all to that snake-in-the-grass Vince. But no, she wouldn’t. It was too good a joke to share with him. She’d wait and see how things turned out.

  In the rectory, Paddy thought about moving out to Vince Jones’s house and decided it might be a good idea. At least he wouldn’t have Goody-two-shoes-Anna-with-the-banner preaching to him. He could do as he liked there, and he’d an idea Mrs Jones would be used to cooking for men, having had three sons. No, things could turn out very well in that direction.

  Having given her decision the following morning that yes, all right, then Paddy could come to live with them so long as he paid his way, perhaps even move in at the weekend, Greta decided to take the opportunity to dye her hair as soon as she got home from the Store. She was just towelling it dry and anxiously awaiting the moment when she could admire the effect in the mirror, when the front door opened and a voice shouted out, ‘Hello-o-o there, anyone at home?’

  Greta stood motionless, feeling ridiculous that what had been going to be a private moment had suddenly become a public spectacle. She raced a comb through her nearly dry hair and walked into the living room. There Paddy stood, a holdall at his feet: her new lodger. Her heart went out to him because he looked so in need of caring for, but she masked that fact by saying, ‘I thought you were coming at the weekend.’

  He, in turn, was shocked by the brilliant red of her hair, grey with a few mousy brown strands the last time he’d seen her. But he said nothing about it while he got over the surprise. ‘Michelle told me to finish early and get myself moved in. I thought no time like the present, though if it’s not convenient I’ll take my things back to the rectory and come another day.’

  Greta looked at the half-empty holdall and said, ‘Is that all you have to bring?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, you won’t take up much room.’

  ‘No. Thank you for taking me in.’

  ‘Thank you for taking pot luck with us. I must come straight out with it, then we both know where we stand. I shall have to charge sixty-five pounds a week.’ She’d been going to say £55 but changed her mind just before she said it. ‘All in though. Laundry and that. Food.’

  ‘That sounds very reasonable.’ Best make a good impression, thought Paddy. ‘I was thinking more like seventy pounds. Would that be OK?’

  Greta swallowed hard. ‘Well, that would be lovely. Seventy it is.’ She could see they were going to get on like a house on fire. ‘I’ll show you your room. Sorry about the hair, by the way. Done it for the New Hope Fund.’

  ‘I think you’re very brave.’

  ‘Oh, God. Is it terrible?’

  ‘Well, it’s very red.’

  ‘That was the intention.’ She took a glimpse at herself in the mirror on the landing wall and nearly fainted. She’d left the stuff on far too long, and her hair grew so slowly. She’d still be bright red at Christmas. What the hell! Time she did something exciting.

  *

  Paddy sat down on the bed in Terry’s old room when she’d gone downstairs to leave him to unpack and looked around him. He heard her call up the stairs, ‘Tea and a biscuit?’

  ‘That’ll do nicely.’

  He looked round the room, seeing the comfort of it all. It wasn’t richly furnished, he couldn’t expect that, but it was cosy and friendly and homely and welcoming. Everything was as clean and neat as it could possibly be. Even a hot water bottle with a teddy bear cover on it, waiting for him in case of need. Paddy stroked its nose, patted its wobbly tummy and smiled. The mirror on the dressing table was flecked with age and the wardrobe, when he opened the door, smelt of someone else. Now he could make it his.

  For whatever reason a kind of peace came over him, a kind of belonging he’d never felt before. He remembered a picture he’d seen on the wall in that blasted Home he’d been sent to one time, of an old sailing ship coming into a peaceful harbour and in the background the wild stormy seas it had struggled through to get to safety, and for one crazy, sentimental moment he felt just like that ship. He heard the front door open and Vince’s amazement when he saw Greta’s hair, then a silence, perhaps they were whispering, then in a moment Vince shouted upstairs, ‘Greta’s got the chocolate biscuits out. Come on, Paddy.’

  Within two days the entire village knew of Paddy’s departure from the rectory, brought about by Sir Ralph. Well, so you see, that proved what they’d all been saying; he had been sleeping with her, and her the rector, that was why Sir Ralph had made a point of finding him somewhere else. Whatever would Peter think if he knew, him being that strict? And what’s more, what was Greta Jones thinking of, taking in Paddy Cleary? She wouldn’t have an ornament left in the place within a week; they’d all be in that dusty pawnshop in Culworth.

  ‘She must have taken leave of her senses,’ Sylvia said in the pub the following Saturday night.

  ‘Well,’ said Vera, ‘I think it’s ridiculous. Who’d take a thief on, I ask yer?’

  ‘Exactly. I’m amazed there’s anything left in the rectory. Wouldn’t surprise me if there’s some things missing and Anna hasn’t realized.’

  ‘He’s a double-dyed villain, he is. Still,’ Vera nudged Sylvia, ‘she’s used to thieves, is Greta, because that’s what their Terry and Kenny were, thieves of the highest order.’ They both giggled behind their hands.

  ‘Still they were her own two boys and it must hurt never seeing them. Oh good, here’s Willie with the drinks.’

  Willie put down the tray on the edge of the table. ‘Here you are, Don, your orange juice; mind, it’s a bit full. Sylvia, your Spritzer. Vera, gin and tonic.’ He placed his own beer on the table and sat down to enjoy his first sip.

  Willie had just picked up his beer when in walked Mrs Jones, a very rare sight in the bar. Even more startling was her vivid red hair. She was followed by her Vince and, believe it or not, that Paddy Cleary. A quiet hush fell right across the whole bar, broken by a loud voice saying, ‘What they brought that idiot in here for? They can’t be right in their heads, watch yer money everybody.’ It was Don, nowadays always two or three paces out of step with everyone else. Vera gave him a kick under the table. ‘Shut up, Don.’ She gave Mrs Jones an apologetic smile, and twinkled her fingers at her.

  But Greta Jones didn’t care. They could say what they liked. She’d had the most brilliant few days since Paddy had moved in. He loved her curd tarts, and the rabbit stew she’d done for the three of them that very day had gone down a treat. Even Vince had woken up after years of stupor, and had stayed up till midnight last night playing cards with her and Paddy.

  None of them made a secret of the fact they were all watching poor Paddy as he dug into his trouser pocket. ‘Can I buy you a drink, Mrs Jones? What’s your tipple?’

  ‘A gin and tonic
will suit me nicely, and I did say call me Greta. Thank you, Paddy.’

  Someone said, ‘He’s changed his tune and not half. Cost me a packet last time he was in. He was grateful, but there’s a limit.’

  Another remarked they didn’t think it was fair of Sir Ralph asking in the first place. But then he’d be protecting his church.

  ‘It’s not his.’

  ‘Isn’t it? You could have fooled me.’

  Whispers and confidences flew round the saloon bar faster than light. Paddy sensed the atmosphere and felt uncomfortable. Give a dog a bad name, he thought. Then he spotted someone on the next table had checked their wallet following Don’s remark and, in replacing it in his back pocket, not noticed it had actually dropped on the floor. Paddy stretched out a leg and silently hooked it towards him with his foot. He sipped his beer for five minutes then deftly picked it up and slid it into his pocket.

  He nodded towards the gents and said, ‘Excuse me a minute.’ When he returned he bent down to re-tie his shoe lace and pretended to find the wallet. ‘Is this someone’s? Just found it on the floor by my chair.’ He held it up. It was minus a £10 note, but he knew they’d never notice. Which the owner didn’t when he counted the money to make sure. ‘Well, everything’s here. Thanks, Paddy.’

  A surprised mutter went round the tables and a kind of acceptance that Paddy must have turned over a new leaf now he was living with the Joneses. But the crisp £10 note, fresh from the cash machine in Culworth, rustled pleasureably in Paddy’s trouser pocket. Having rashly promised £70 to Mrs Jones in a gush of enthusiasm for his new quarters, he had to find it from somewhere, and why not from someone who was so well off he hadn’t noticed it was missing? A few of the punters raised their glasses to him. More fool them, he thought.

  Chapter 12

  Sheila had been to see Louise the very day she had promised Mrs Jones she would. Louise and the children had just come back from a walk and Louise was simultaneously helping them remove their coats, hushing the baby, who’d decided it was feeding time, and serving orange juice and biscuits.

  By the time she’d got them settled with juice and a biscuit in front of a children’s TV programme, Sheila had made a pot of tea and was ready to sit down. She volunteered to give the baby his bottle. ‘Isn’t he ready for solids? He must be.’

  ‘Yes, but this is the quickest at the moment. Shut him up for a while anyway.’

  Louise sank back against the cushions with relief, while her mother fed the baby. Sheila waited until the colour had come back into Louise’s face and then said, ‘Are you sure this baby isn’t due until the spring?’

  ‘Well, the hospital says it’s much earlier than that, more like Christmas. Apparently I’d been pregnant for quite a while before I realized. What with feeding the baby myself and being so busy I simply hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘That looks more like it. Except it couldn’t be more than one, could it?’

  Louise smiled at the sound of apprehension in her mother’s voice. ‘No, it’s not two, I’m sure. Only one, thank God. And the last.’

  ‘Dottie still cleaning for you?’

  Louise nodded. Sheila sat the baby up to wind him and, while the children were absorbed in the TV, silence reigned.

  When she’d burped the baby and he was feeding again, Sheila asked, ‘You’re not as well as you usually are. Not like the other times; then you were absolutely blooming. Mrs Jones mentioned it this morning.’

  ‘Mrs Jones is a nosy old gossip.’

  ‘She’s taken on that Paddy Cleary from the rectory, gossip or no.’

  Louise took a bit of interest in that piece of news. ‘More fool her.’

  ‘She’s only trying to be kind.’

  ‘Kind! I don’t think so.’

  ‘She’s right about you, though. You don’t look a bit well. It’s as though you know there’s something wrong but you won’t face up to it.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong. Believe me. All I want is for this one to be a boy, then we’ll have three boys and three girls. And that’s just right.’

  ‘What does Gilbert think about you being under the weather?’

  Louise smiled as she always did at the mention of Gilbert’s name. ‘He’s concerned that I feel rotten, but there’s nothing he can do about it.’

  ‘Look here, I know money must be tight for the two of you with all these to feed and clothe, but if you want further advice I’m sure your dad and I could stretch to paying a specialist.’

  ‘Absolutely not. There’s no need.’

  ‘What about the scan, does that show anything?’

  ‘I don’t have scans.’

  ‘Whyever not?’

  ‘On principle. How do we know what damage they might do?’

  ‘What damage?’

  ‘Exactly, we don’t know, do we? They bring in all these new inventions without a thought as to what they might be doing to the baby long-term. Look at the problems thalidomide caused and the drug was supposed to be safe. Huh!’

  ‘But, Louise, everyone has them. They’re harmless.’

  ‘Did you have scans when you had Brendon and me?’

  Sheila hesitated and then admitted that of course she didn’t. ‘They were only just starting then and the small hospitals didn’t have them anyway.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  ‘But if you’re worried, it might put your mind at rest.’

  ‘I’m not worried.’

  A holy war broke out amongst the children at this precise moment and by the time it was sorted and they were busy playing with toys and making the house look as though a typhoon had blown through only minutes ago, the time had passed to press her point about a scan. But Sheila was determined to have a word with Gilbert and the moment she got home she rang him at the office and talked about it to him.

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Sheila. You’re right, she isn’t well, but if she had a scan and they found out something was wrong, what would we do? We both feel strongly about abortion. It is murder, whichever way you look at it, and we’re not going to have that on our conscience for the rest of our lives.’

  ‘I see what you mean. But I’m so worried about her. She’s not well and coping with the five she already has is getting beyond a joke.’

  ‘I know. I know. Got to go. By the way, I’ve finished the placards for Saturday. Busy, busy. I’ll think about what you’ve said.’

  ‘Would Dottie come more often, perhaps? Do the ironing. Take some of them out for a walk or something?’

  ‘I’ll think about it. Thanks for ringing, Sheila.’

  Sheila replaced her receiver and went to stand at her window to look out onto Stocks Row and have a think. It really was up to her to do something. If Louise couldn’t make a decision – well, she could. In fact, she’d been in decision-making mode ever since she’d encouraged the W.I. to take on the New Hope Fund. Who on earth was this going past? My golly! It was … no, it couldn’t be. It was! She’d know that figure anywhere, and not only that she recognized the purposeful walk. It was Grandmama Charter-Plackett on her way to the Store. She’d dyed her hair a real, very real orange! Same colour as a Jaffa. Well, I never. If she could dare to do it who couldn’t?

  Sheila went to assess herself in front of the sitting-room mirror. The years took their toll and not half. Those wrinkles were permanent now, especially the ones round her eyes. God! She peered more closely at herself. When you’re twenty wrinkles were something the oldies had. Now she was an oldie and not liking it. Where had the years gone? She’d better take a grip or else … The hairdresser! Now they’d got the beauty parlour at the back of the salon perhaps she could … she’d ring right now. A facial and a manicure, too and – yes, she’d do it – her hair dyed all ready for Saturday! Platinum blonde. This was being decisive and she’d think about Louise tomorrow.

  *

  Jimbo took the shock of his mother’s dyed hair very stoically indeed as she bounced into the Store, full of get up and go. ‘Good morning, Jimbo, my
dear. Harriet in?’

  ‘Good morning, Mother.’ He kissed her on both cheeks because she preferred that, and then stood back to assess the situation. ‘Give us a twirl.’

  Tom, behind the Post Office counter, had to turn away to hide his horror. Bel, shelf-filling, lurked behind the birthday cards while she composed her face. A customer, fit to burst with laughter, hid head down in the frozen desserts cabinet, unable to stop herself from looking gobsmacked.

  ‘Well, if this is what being a member of the W.I. does for you—’

  ‘Less of your cheek, Jimbo dear, I thought I’d better make an effort. This is far easier than swimming naked. I didn’t want to shock the general populace so I went for dyeing my hair instead, though it wouldn’t take much if someone would sponsor me for the swim, too. What do you think?’

  Jimbo pursed his lips. ‘Brave, that’s what, brave.’

  ‘It’s permanent. None of this spray stuff. Thought if I was doing it I might as well do it right. Wish I’d done it years ago.’

  ‘Permanent?’

  ‘Yes. Permanent. Greta Jones has gone a vivid red and I thought we’d look good together in Culworth on Saturday with the collecting tins. We shall, shan’t we?’

  ‘You’ll be the sensation of the day.’

  Grandmama Charter-Plackett went across to the mirror Jimbo had strategically placed for keeping an eye on thieves and viewed the magnified image of herself. Privately thinking she’d gone far too far, she said, ‘There you are you see, Jaffa-coloured, just what I wanted. I’ll go see Harriet. She’ll love it.’

  Harriet, concentrating hard on some elaborate decoration on the top of a massive trifle she was doing for a birthday party, looked up and promptly went into shock, which made her hand jerk and the cream burst out from the piping bag she was holding, and straight down her mother-in-law’s jacket. ‘My God! What have you done?’

  ‘Harriet! Really! I thought you’d love it.’