‘You know what it means. You’re stealing from Mr Fitch, aren’t you?’
Paddy had to wet his lips before he answered. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘It’s a wild guess, because I know you can’t resist when there’s easy pickings available. Garden produce, I bet. Mr Fitch will sack you when he finds out, and also Michelle. All her family will lose the house they live in. Will that please you? Will you be satisfied then? Eh? Will you be pleased with yourself ? Real feather in your cap, won’t it be?’
Paddy looked panicky and tried to bluster his way out of it. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that, knowingly.’ He became quite indignant at this slight on his character and was amazed to hear himself say, ‘I’m not that kind of person.’
‘She gave you a job when you needed it and you’re taking a risk with her job, to say nothing of your own. Whether you admit to it or not, you enjoy this gardening lark, I can tell.’
‘Mind-reader are you now, as well as saintly?’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised. By the way, I’ve heard on the village grapevine that there’s things going missing from the Big House. What do you know about that?’
‘Nothing. Give me my sandwich back.’
‘No, I shan’t. Haven’t had my lunch yet, so I need it. You don’t like a dose of your own medicine, do you?’
Paddy began to lose his temper. ‘I insist you give me my sandwich back.’
Anna took another bite of Paddy’s sandwich before she answered. ‘What was it you took, then?’
Paddy pressed his lips together in a thin line and declined to answer.
‘You’ve made such a good start to creating a proper life for yourself, I can’t believe you’ll throw it all away because you can’t keep your hands to yourself. It’s such a pity, just when you’ve won everyone’s admiration for your stance about the bus.’
‘Huh.’
‘You have, you know. They’re all on your side and willing to act as witnesses if it comes to a court case. Please, Paddy, think long-term. It’s like giving up smoking, I expect, so very hard but with just that little bit more effort—’
‘Mmm.’ He sounded almost convinced.
‘If you’ve taken it, couldn’t you put it back? Without anyone knowing, like when you took it?’
‘Suppose.’
‘No suppose about it. Think of Greta, how upset she’ll be. She really cares about you, you know. So does Vince. She says you’re like a son to her.’
Paddy frowned, a nasty suspicion had come into his mind. ‘When did you last speak to her?’
She had to lie. ‘Last Sunday after Church.’ There was no alternative. It was surprising how often she was able to justify lying for Paddy’s sake. It was becoming a habit.
‘I’ll put it back.’
‘Put what back?’
‘All right, then, the silver dish I nicked.’
‘Pity you can’t do the same with the—’
‘All right, all right, I won’t pinch any more vegetables either.’
‘Good chap. Come for Sunday lunch, in exchange for your sandwich.’
‘OK, then. Thanks.’
‘Being trusted, that’s the thing. Remember. One o’clock sharp, Sunday. Be seeing you.’
Paddy watched her leave, realizing the truth of what she said. He was on to a good thing here. A good home where, for the first time in his life, he was appreciated, and a job which he loved. The thought of prison after all this freedom in this beautiful fresh air! Hell! Standing on a chair, peering at the sun through a barred window wasn’t to be compared to standing out in it with the breeze ruffling yer hair like it was doing today. In prison there wasn’t no wheelbarrow to sit in and no sun shining on you while eating yer lunch. He thought about that hell hole he’d been sent to as a kid and the picture of the roaring sea and the peace of the harbour where the sailing ship had found sanctuary, which had come so vividly to mind on that first day at Greta’s. He was definitely in that safe harbour now. No, he’d too much to lose. That blasted dish ’ud have to go back. Somehow.
Chapter 19
Almost before they knew it, the day of the race afternoon was on them. The excitement had been mounting all week and there’d been a lot of trying on of outfits, discarding of the impossibly tight, getting into Culworth to buy new shirts, new skirts, for hairdos and facials at Misty Blue’s, and a general surge of anticipation, which had put a spring in everyone’s step. In Turnham Malpas there was nothing they liked better than a good knees-up, as Angie Turner would say.
Jimbo and Harriet were taking Flick but not Fran; she was being left at home with Fergus, who was recovering from an appendicitis operation and didn’t feel up to standing around for hours and socializing. Fran objected strongly but Jimbo had decreed she was too young for such an event and would only be bored and very likely irritating to her parents, who intended enjoying themselves to the hilt. ‘Considering your appalling behaviour at my cousin’s wedding a few weeks ago, we certainly are not taking you. It will be a long time before I recover from that appallingly disgraceful exhibition by a spoiled brat called Fran.’ Fran had the grace to blush with embarrassment.
Harriet had supervised the provision of the food and was on tenterhooks in case it didn’t work out as she’d hoped. She was dressing in their bedroom when she said to Jimbo, ‘I just wish we’d heard from Peter and Caroline. That would have made me feel so much happier about this afternoon. It feels dreadfully selfish to be looking forward to enjoying ourselves when they’re living through such horrors.’
‘Believe it or not, it’s now two weeks since we last heard. I feel really fearful for them.’
‘It’s not two weeks, it’s at least four.’
Jimbo, knotting his tie in front of the mirror on the wardrobe door said, ‘Never! Is it really? Of course you’re right it is.’
‘What on earth can possibly have happened?’
‘I’ve stopped thinking about that, it’s too scary. Absolutely anything could have happened to them. They could all be dead. Those kind of situations are so unpredictable. All normal standards are thrown to the wind.’
Harriet shuddered. ‘Don’t, I can’t bear it. Is this suit OK, do you think?’
Jimbo turned to look at her. ‘That’s new. I like it. Style’s a bit funky though.’
‘It’s all the rage.’
Jimbo chuckled and said in fun, ‘Oh, well then …’
‘Sometimes …’
‘Yes?’
‘I could strangle you.’
‘Not your Jimbo. Come here and give me a kiss.’
She did. And held him tight, thinking how glad she was he was here in this house, safe and comforting and hers. What’s more she knew where all her children were. ‘I’m so glad I’m yours and you are mine. So glad.’
‘Ditto. Love you for ever.’
‘We are lucky.’
Jimbo released her, glanced at his watch, and called out to tell Flick they were about to leave and would she ever be ready? Finlay was downstairs having his first drink of the afternoon. Flick was proud to be going with him. He looked so handsome now he’d got past the spotty youth stage. He’d inherited Harriet’s lean figure and not the slightly portly one that Fergus had inherited from his father. Flick looked delightful. She was wearing a short white dress, too short in Jimbo’s opinion, with black spots, made of georgette. The dress was floaty at the hem but close-fitting, too close in Jimbo’s opinion, everywhere else, and she was lit up by the anticipation she felt for this swish afternoon at the races.
She wasn’t the only excited one. Everybody was looking forward to the event, including the two Senior sisters, who had squeezed the money for the tickets out of their meagre income, on the strength that they’d be able to steal enough food – well, steal wasn’t the word they used, they said ‘procure’ – to last the week. They got out their capacious bags and their ten-year-old best frocks, washed each other’s hair, snipped a bit off here and there to straighten their respective bobs, p
ut on the shoes they’d worn first at Muriel and Ralph’s wedding, even though they pinched unbearably, and began the trek up the long drive to the Big House.
They were passed by car after car, including Jimbo’s but he couldn’t pick them up as the car was full now Grandmama had joined them. She was wearing a sharply styled black suit and a white blouse with a waterfall collar that softened the severity of her suit. She also wore a tiny black hat perched on top of her Jaffa-coloured hair, its starkness softened by veiling. Finlay gave her a wolf whistle when she got in the car and he received a steely glare from his Grandmama for his vulgarity.
Close upon their heels came two of the weekenders accompanied by their snivelling son, Merlin, who rarely came to the village at the weekend, his parents having found his grandparents loved having him for the weekend. They went up the drive in their classic Cortina at a stately pace, arguing fiercely. Merlin was already crying.
‘It’s all in the upbringing,’ said Sylvia Biggs to Willie as they wended their way up to the Big House. Sylvia’s car had finally packed up and they’d decided not to replace it, so Sylvia had her strappy, high-heeled sandals in a bag and was wearing her flatties she used for the house, as she could hardly walk at all in the sandals. ‘That Merlin snivels all the time. I can’t understand it. And thin! Heaven help us. He looks as though he lives on carrots with that sandy hair and his strange complexion. Mind you, when you look at his parents … there’s no wonder he’s odd-looking. Uriah Heep, he reminds me of. I bet he cried all the time when he was little.’
Willie could tell Sylvia was put out, and he racked his brains to think what might have caused it. ‘Now, my Sylvia, what’s the matter?’
She stopped and turned to look at him. ‘You ask me what’s the matter? You ask me that?’
Willie apologized. ‘I’m sorry. Of course I know what’s the matter, just didn’t think.’
‘Here we are going to this thingy,’ she waved her hands about, ‘you know this event … and the people it’s for … we don’t know if they’re alive or dead. It’s terrible.’
Trying to take her mind off things, Willie said thoughtlessly, ‘Don’t cry, you’ll spoil your make-up.’
‘What does make-up matter at a time like this? Tell me that.’
Humbled, Willie answered, ‘It doesn’t matter one iota.’
‘What if they’re dead? Whatever shall I do?’
‘Keep going bravely forward like you’ve done all your life. With me.’
‘Oh, Willie. I’m heartbroken.’
‘We haven’t heard they’re dead, have we?’
‘No, but they must be. Oh, look, there’s the other weekenders. They do wear the strangest things. Hello!’ She twinkled her fingers at them as they sailed by in their huge 4×4, looking for all the world as though they owned the estate. ‘They’ll have got that on the never-never, I bet.’
‘Sylvia, it’s not like you to be so critical. I just hope you cheer up before we get there. It won’t do, won’t this.’
He sounded so desperately disappointed with her that Sylvia decided to cheer up. ‘Maybe we’ll hear today they’re all safe and sound and on their way home.’
Willie patted the hand she’d slipped into his. ‘I’ve no doubt that they will be. Absolutely safe and coming home before we know it. Though, knowing the rector like I do, he won’t want to come if it means leaving his work undone.’
‘He’ll have to come home if it’s not safe.’
‘We’re here now. Shoulders back and be determined to enjoy yourself. Ready?’
They had thought they’d arrived early, but as with all Turnham Malpas do’s everyone had arrived well before the time. The hall was filled to capacity already. No sign of food though, which the Senior sisters found disconcerting.
A huge screen had been erected at one end of the hall, and the race meeting at Longchamp was already in progress. But it was scarcely worth looking at the screen because all the excitement was with the people attending. There were tables all down the longer side of the hall covered with white damask cloths, holding battalions of glasses, silver trays, canapés, with smart stainless-steel refrigerators at intervals, from which seemingly endless magnums of champagne were being removed. There was a positive chorus of champagne corks being pulled and the smaller children were running about among the guests collecting them all. The photographer from the Gazette was hopping and skipping about, taking pictures of the guests, till they all became quite blasé about posing with bright smiles on their faces.
The black-and-white outfits were stunning. Dottie Foskett, who’d had her ticket paid for by Ronald Bissett in gratitude for her help during little Roderick’s short life, was dressed from head to foot in white, with a white feather boa around her skinny shoulders.
Grandmama Charter-Plackett muttered to Harriet, ‘All white? For Dottie Foskett? It’s the most inappropriate colour for her to have chosen.’
‘Katherine, really!’
‘It is. We all know what she is. I’m amazed Louise and Gilbert are willing to employ her. Still, they say she was trained to clean in a convent so her house-cleaning skills are beyond reproach apparently, which can’t be said of her occupation.’
Dottie suddenly and unexpectedly materialized in front of them, beaming from ear to ear. ‘Good afternoon!’
‘Hello, Dottie. Lovely to see you,’ said Grandmama, quickly reversing her tone of voice. ‘You’re looking dazzling.’
Harriet tried hard to cover up their embarrassment. ‘You certainly are, you look altogether splendid.’
‘Thought I’d get in the spirit of things.’ She nonchalantly flung the feather boa over her left shoulder then smoothed her hands over her narrow hips. ‘Bought this years ago. Never thought I’d wear it again, but it’s quite appropriate today, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Harriet. ‘Absolutely appropriate.’
‘I’m glad to get a chance to enjoy myself. It’s been hard these last few weeks, you know, the baby and what not.’
Harriet nodded her agreement. ‘It must have been very difficult. I’m just glad they had someone like you they could rely on. Are they feeling any better about it?’
‘Not much. I was glad to help ’em. They haven’t come. Not ready for jollification yet. They will be ready, in a while. They’ve taken it very badly.’ She shook her head.
‘Of course they have. Takes time. Which horse have you chosen?’ Grandmama asked. She needed a chance to air her views on horse-racing, having secretly checked the racing pages in her daily newspaper for weeks.
‘No contest, I’ve chosen Major Malpas. It’s sure to win.’
Grandmama nodded sagely. ‘He’s got quite a good record this season, but there’s a lot of excellent competition: Le Petit Trianon; Masquerade; Beau George; Myladymelody; Carnival Queen.’
‘I looked at them and I’ve still decided to back Major Malpas. He’s in with a chance.’
‘No contest. It’s Le Petit Trianon. Five to one. Sure to win.’ Grandmama said this with such authority she sounded as though she were privy to inside information straight from the stable yards.
Harriet and Dottie burst into scathing laughter.
Grandmama took umbrage and declared fiercely, ‘You’ve wasted your five pounds. Sorry, but you have.’
‘Wait and see.’
Dottie wandered off to find her cousin Pat while Harriet surveyed the crowd. There was Jimmy in his dinner jacket, two of the weekenders knocking back the drinks at a phenomenal speed, Greta Jones with Vince but no Paddy – he’d said he didn’t bet and wouldn’t be coming – Sheila and Ron, neither of whom looked particularly happy, and yes, Ralph and Muriel. Just emerging out of his office was Craddock Fitch.
Harriet drew Jimbo’s attention. ‘Oh, look! There’s Craddock.’
‘I can’t see the old goat. Oh, there he is. Let’s go and thank him, you know how pleased he is when his generosity is recognized.’ They pushed their way across the hall.
‘Jimbo! Harriet, m
y dear.’ Craddock Fitch held Harriet’s shoulders and kissed her effusively. ‘My dear, I’ve taken a peep at the food and it all looks very splendid indeed. What a clever wife you have, Jimbo.’
Mockingly, Jimbo replied, ‘I don’t need telling, Craddock, she reminds me every day.’
‘Quite right. She should. Isn’t this magnificent? It does us all good to get together from time to time. Now. Have you got your champagne?’
‘Not yet. We were going to head for the kitchens just to check.’
‘Believe me, there’s no need, Pat Jones is in there and it’s all going with a swing. She’s excellent, you know, really excellent. Such an unexpected talent.’
Jimbo agreed. ‘We’re very lucky. She’s found her niche, you know.’
‘Worth her weight in gold. I hope you pay her accordingly.’
‘Of course.’ Jimbo reminded himself to give her that rise he’d been intending to award her and never got round to. ‘She’s a mainstay of the organization.’
‘Ever thought of branching out now you’ve got everything here doing so well?’
Jimbo was too much of a business man to declare his plans for the future to anyone, so he passed it off by saying, ‘A few irons in the fire, so to speak.’
‘That’s what I like to hear. Never stop the ideas coming. If you do it’s the end.’
‘True. True.’
Harriet grew restless, she hadn’t come for a fun afternoon only to find herself pinned down by talking business. That was the trouble with successful entrepreneurs, they had no other subject of conversation. She wondered exactly what ideas Jimbo had up his sleeve for expanding the business; he certainly hadn’t discussed them with her. If it was another fancy restaurant like his previous one in Turnham Malpas … its failure had gone deep with her and she dreaded it happening all over again.
Jimbo, sensing her restlessness, excused himself and took Harriet’s arm. They melted away into the crowd. ‘Hells bells, but he’s splashed out on the champagne. He definitely won’t meet his costs, at ten pounds a nob.’
‘Honestly, Jimbo, you can do nothing but talk business.’
Whispers in the Village Page 22
