by Ann Purser
Mrs Butler's attention was immediately redirected. She'd watched so many television soaps that her antennae were well tuned to the signs of an important development. 'Reg,' she said. 'Reg, wake up!'
He awoke with some snorting and choking, and denied hotly that he had been asleep. 'Just resting my eyes for a minute or two,' he said.
'Mr Butler,' said Robert, anxious to get the whole thing over. 'I- that is, me and Mandy- urm, well, we'd like to get wed if that's all right with you...and Mrs Butler, of course.' Mandy's mother rose with a shriek and flung her arms round Mandy, while Mr Butler got slowly to his feet. Robert wondered nervously whether he was going to eject him by the scruff of his neck.
'Well done, Robert,' Mr Butler said, extending his hand. 'Me and Mother was wondering when you'd get around to it.' They all laughed with the release of tension, and Mrs Butler went happily out to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of wine put by for just such a special occasion.
'Mother,' said Mandy, as they toasted each other with glasses of the sweet, yellow wine, 'you might as well know that I want the wedding to be in Ringford.' She looked at her mother, dreading the wobbly chin and eyes filling with tears.
Her mother was a very emotional person, and it was not easy to know which way she would take things.
'Oh, I do agree, dear,' she said to her only daughter. 'A village wedding, white dress with a long train, your little cousins for bridesmaids, and Robert in one of those lovely suits. I can see it now . . .' She had a dreamy look on her face, and Mandy knew that all was well.
'It is the most beautiful village,' said Nigel to Sophie. He had returned very late the night before absolutely exhausted, but so cheerful that Sophie knew it had gone well. She made him go straight to bed, promising to listen to a full account the following morning. 'Seems the other applicant was only two years off retiring, and the churchwardens sensibly thought it would be mad to have to go through the whole thing all over again so soon. '
'Tell me about the village, and the house,' said Sophie.
'Ah,' said Nigel, 'yes, the house. Well, it is a lovely eighteenth-century, three-storey stone house. It has five bedrooms and attic rooms, and a wonderful drawing room and a huge dining room, and big kitchen, scullery, walk-in larder, tiled hall the size of this room, and big garden with paddock behind.' He waited anxiously, trying to read Sophie's expression.
A slow smile spread over her face. 'Let's go, then,' she said.
They talked about the village, and Nigel described the wide Green and the chestnut trees leading to the Hall. 'It was a beautiful evening, and I had the feeling I was stepping back in time. The village lies in the Ringle valley, and with wooded hills all round it's like a forgotten hamlet. One of the last to get main sewerage, I was told! Of course, it is an illusion. They are firmly in the twentieth century, and the folk I met were straightforward, practical people, and very kind and welcoming.'
He paused, decided not to mention Miss Beasley, and continued. 'Richard Standing seemed a nice enough chap- bit feudal, as we thought; but very approachable- and Mrs Price, the farmer's wife, was a very comfortable sort of soul. Kindness itself, I should imagine.'
'Anybody I would like?' said Sophie, already beginning to think of a donkey in the paddock, and summer walks by the Ringle.
'A very nice woman called Peggy Palmer keeps the shop. She didn't stay long at the meeting, but said some very sensible things and had a good sense of humour. Seems her husband died last year, and she works hard keeping the shop going.'
'So when do we start?' said Sophie, with a big smile.
The Welsh parish had already got wind of Nigel's intentions, and with unseemly haste had got a new incumbent in mind. He was young, known for his youth work, and one hundred per cent Welsh. He could come as soon as needed, and nothing stood in the way of a quick handover.
'End of August, I should think,' said Nigel.
'Right in the middle of harvest,' said Sophie happily. 'Round Ringford, here we come,' she said, and gave Nigel a big, impulsive kiss on his handsome face.
There was general agreement in Ringford that the Reverend Nigel Brooks seemed a decent sort of chap. One or two of the men in the pub, led by Tom Price and backed up by Foxy Jenkins, who had been bullied along to the meeting by his insistent wife, said they thought he was 'a bit smarmy', but Colin Osman had whooped at the news that Nigel was a cricketer and already had plans for the opening match on Ringford Green.
The Honourable Richard and Mrs Standing were perfectly happy with Nigel Brooks, although Richard said he could not imagine why such an all-round good sort of man should want to come to a tiny living like Round Ringford, and the village should count itself very lucky.
'Perhaps you'd want a complete change if you had been holed up in a frightful little Welsh town,' said Susan. 'I can quite see Ringford must have looked like paradise to him.'
'I think Pa knew his wife's people up in Yorkshire,' said Richard. 'I do remember him talking about some northern Fothergills quite a lot at one time.'
'That clinches it, then,' said Susan, with a quiet smile. 'If Pa knew her people, the whole thing looks absolutely meant to be.'
Warren Jenkins and William Roberts wandered idly across the Green, dribbling a football over the bridge and down past the church and Ellen Biggs's little Lodge house at the entrance to the Hall avenue. There were heavy black clouds massing over the hills on the Bagley Road, and the sunlight had a sharp edge to it, presaging a storm.
William and Warren had formed their own opinion of the vicar presumptive from their hiding place in the bell tower, overlooking Wednesday evening's meeting. Both of them were learning to ring the bells, and knew about the narrow oak door in the vestry, which led up to where thl-ropes hung, never still, always gently swaying in the draughty chamber. The ropes were looped up for safety, and William and Warren had sat cross-legged by a crack in the floorboards, listening to the conversation which had floated up from the meeting below.
'He'll be a pushover,' said William, and Warren had nodded. 'A right softie, if you ask me,' he said. 'What you bet he tries to get the choir goin' again?'
'We'll be ready for him if he does,' said William, with a sinister leer. 'It worked last time, didn't it?' They had clambered down after most people had gone, and slipped out of the church unnoticed.
No thoughts of vicars troubled their minds now as they stopped opposite the Lodge gate, staring in.
'There's the three witches of Ringford,' said Warren, seeing Ellen's front door open and three dark shapes inside. 'Come on, William!' he yelled. 'They're gettin' the broomsticks out!' They shot off at great speed, whooping with what they imagined were witch-noises, and expertly passing the football from one to another, all the way up the avenue until they came within sight of the Hall. There they turned off through a much-used hole in the hedge and disappeared.
'If I catch that Warren Jenkins,' said Ivy Beasley, 'I'll give him something to remember me by.'
Ivy and Doris Ashbourne had walked down to Ellen Biggs's house for tea. It was Ellen's turn, and she had covered a rickety little three-legged cane table with a cloth, the embroidery faded and rusty spots on the creases.
'I remember that cloth, don't I, Ellen?' said Ivy Beasley.
'Used to be on the side table in the dining room at the Hall?'
'They done with it,' said Ellen dismissively. 'Too old and faded for them.'
She set out three cups, two matching saucers and the other very nearly the same. There were hairline cracks and the odd chip, but the china was delicate, and these too had seen better days on the Standing tea tray.
'There you are, Ivy,' said Ellen grandly, bringing in an iced sponge with walnuts on top. 'Slaved all morning in a hot kitchen makin' that for your tea.'
Ivy Beasley leaned forward and took a small piece of cellophane from the side of the cake. 'How come it says "Mr Kip ..." on this scrap o' paper, then, Ellen Biggs you old liar?' she said.
The sky had darkened, and one or two spots of rain spatte
red on Ellen's mullioned windows. It was dim at the best of times in the Lodge, and now it seemed like twilight in the little sitting room.
Ellen poured cups of strong tea from a big brown pot, slopping a little into the saucers as her hand shook with the weight.
'Gettin' old,' she said. 'That's what, we're all gettin' old.'
'Speak for yourself,' said Ivy Beasley. 'You're as young as you feel, Mother always used to say.'
'Yes, well,' said Ellen Biggs tartly, 'your mother was old from the day she was born.'
'Could we change the subject?' said Doris the peacemaker. 'What did we all think of the Reverend Nigel Brooks?'
'All the same, these vicars,' said Ellen, with an evil chuckle, 'lazy men, ridin' on the backs of the churchwardens, most of 'em.' She poured second cups all round.
'Rubbish, Ellen Biggs!' said Ivy hotly. 'It's not a job I'd say thank you for, and I reckoned that Reverend Brooks was very pleasant, considering.'
'Considering what?' said Doris, licking the sticky white icing from her fingertips and making a mental note to give Ellen some paper napkins for Christmas.
'Considering he'd been listening to all kinds of nonsense from people who never go to church, except to gawp at the new man,' said Ivy, sending a poisonous dart at old Ellen, who deflected it with the ease of long practice.
'All the parish were invited,' she said, 'and Reverend Brooks said to me that he would think of himself as the pastor of the whole village, not just the churchgoers.'
'He addressed no more than two words to you, Ellen Biggs,' said Ivy Beasley, flushing with annoyance, 'you having been a fixture at the coffee table all evening, eating your way through refreshments provided by someone else!'
Doris Ashbourne stood up, brushing crumbs from her smooth navy skirt. 'If you two are going to bicker all afternoon, I'm going home,' she said. 'I've got better things to do.'
Ivy and Ellen were silent for a moment, then Ellen said, 'Oh, all right, Ivy, he never said it to me. But you do provoke on purpose, don't yer?'
Ivy's face was set. She continued to sit in silence, and the other two chatted of gardens and the price of vegetables at the shop and why they weren't fresher, considering they were surrounded by good growing land, and then Ivy put down her plate with a clatter.
'Well, if you want to know what I think of the new parson,' she said, 'I think we'll be very lucky if he decides to come. Course, we don't know what his wife's like, but I thought he was a very nice man.'
Praise such as this from Ivy Beasley was so unexpected that Ellen sat down with a bump in her chair, widening the split in the threadbare upholstery.
'What 'as come over you, our Ivy?' she said, but Doris chimed in quickly, 'I quite agree, Ivy, a very nice man indeed. He seemed to get to know everybody at once, and listened to what you had to say.'
'Well, I don't know I'm sure,' said Ellen Biggs. 'Ow much is it to join the Reverend Brooks's fan club?'
A clap of thunder drowned Ivy Beasley's reply, and old Ellen struggled to her feet. 'You'd best be off 'ome,' she said, 'else I'm goin' to be stuck with the pair of you for hours.'
They hurriedly took the tea things out to Ellen's tiny kitchen, and then Ivy and Doris, glancing apprehensively at the lowering sky, began to walk quickly back towards the Green. The rain was heavier, and streaks of lightning flashed over the Hall, lighting up the village with eerie electricity. 'Need a lift, ladies?' said a voice. With the rumbling thunder in their ears, Doris and Ivy had not noticed Bill Turner's old van drawing up behind them. 'Hop in the back quick,' he said, 'you won't be there for more 'n a minute.'
It was no time to argue, and the women scrambled into the back of the van, pulling the doors shut behind them. The rain beat harder down on the roof of the van, and Doris said, 'You came along just in time, Bill, we'd have got soaked to the skin.'
Ivy Beasley sat on a paper sack of rabbit mix and stared at the floor of the van. As it drew up outside Victoria Villa, she leaned forward and carefully picked up something from the floor. 'What you got there, Ivy?' said Doris, but Ivy Beasley shook her head. 'It's nothing,' she said. 'Just thought I saw a coin down there, but it was only a stone.'
Why, then, wondered Doris Ashbourne, did you pick it up and put it in your pocket, Ivy Beasley, answer me that ...
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
'I saw Joyce Turner in the garden after dinner,' said Jean Jenkins to her husband as they sat having their tea. 'She were still in that scruffy dressing-gown- I don't know how she has the nerve . . . anybody could see her over the fences.'
'Shouldn't think anybody would want to look,' said Foxy, wiping little Eddie's face with a wet flannel. 'Come on, my duck, let the dog see the rabbit . . . I'll get that chocolate off. . . watch out, here it comes!'
Eddie fought him off bravely, but in the end his face was wiped and he was lifted down to go and play. 'C'mon Eddie,' called Mark, 'there's a good programme on, lots of cars ... cars, Eddie!' The magic word did the trick and Eddie disappeared into the front room, where the assembled Jenkins children sat relaxing in front of the television screen.
'Suppose we shouldn't let them watch so much,' said Jean comfortably, pouring Fox another cup of tea, 'but they can't go outside in this rain.'
'What was Joyce Turner doing, anyway?' said Foxy. 'She don't usually come out of the house in daylight.'
'Dunno,' said Jean. 'She went into Bill's shed for a few minutes, and next thing I saw her goin' back into her kitchen and banging the door behind her. '
Sounds of dissension from the front room brought Jean to her feet. 'Mark! Warren! Stop it at once, whatever it is!' she said, and went through to give them a good sort out.
*
Bill drove home through the storm after dropping first Ivy at Victoria Villa, and then Doris a few doors away from his own house in Macmillan Gardens. Miniature rivers were flowing importantly down the Gardens, swelling the water in the main street when they emerged, only to disappear in a dramatic swirl down the big drain.
'It's chucking it down out there, black as night over Bagley Woods,' he said to Joyce, who greeted him with a blank stare as he came into the sitting room. The television was on as usual, and Joyce sat on the sofa, her feet up on a stool in front of her. But there was one good sign. She had changed out of the old dressing-gown and slippers, and had put on a loose dress and a pair of white, old-fashioned sandals. Then Bill realised with disquiet that the dress was a maternity one, bought all those years ago in anticipation of the longed-for baby.
Joyce rocked herself from side to side, and Bill saw that she had a cushion in her arms, and that she was humming. It was the same lullaby as always, the words varied to suit her mood. 'Wee baby bunting,' she sang, 'Daddy's gone a-hunting, Mummy's got a rabbit skin to wrap wee baby bunting in.'
The word 'rabbit' rang alarm bells, and Bill turned and dashed out into the back garden, down the path and into his shed. He went rapidly from one cage to another, checking on each to make sure they were all alive and untouched. All seemed as usual, and Bill sighed with relief.
'Might as well feed you now, my beauties,' he said, and filled up each trough from the sack of rabbit mixture in the corner of the shed. He checked their water, talking to each one as he worked. 'Better be seeing to Joyce now,' he said to them. 'I'll be back later to say goodnight.'
I don't know, he thought, as he went back up the path, Joyce cuddles a cushion, and I talk to rabbits as if they're my kids. Not much to choose between us, some would say.
He got the tea ready and took a tray into Joyce in the sitting room. She shook her head at him. 'Not hungry,' she said, pushing the tray away.
'Try a little bit, Joycey,' Bill said, 'you got to eat, keep up your strength.' He realised he was playing along with her fantasies and despised himself. But it was no good crossing her or trying to bring her back to reality. Her screams and tantrums over the years had weakened his resolve, and now he humoured her most of the time. His only defence was to leave the house, to get out of earshot . . . but the
n it all had to be faced when he returned.
'I'll just have a bite in the kitchen,' he said, gently putting the tray down on a table beside her, 'then I'd better get out there and tackle them weeds.'
Macmillan Gardens formed three sides of a square, the fourth being the main street. A rectangle of grass, designed as a play space for the children, was maintained by the Council, but old Fred Mills had taken to caring for the flower beds in the centre and mounted guard over them from his front gate, seeing off any charging children with threats and curses.
The Turners lived on one side of the square, and the Roberts family almost opposite. Michael and Renata Roberts had produced four children, two of whom had now left home, leaving William and Andrew to cope with the untidy relationship of their parents. Michael Roberts was a violent man. His wife Renata, named after her Italian grandmother, had been an attractive, dark-haired girl who fell for Michael's blustering ways. She was a weak woman, and gave in on all issues, never daring to disagree or venture an opinion of her own. This seemed to her the best course for her to take, since Michael Roberts's idea of an argument was to answer with a blow. All the children had grown up with a keen ability to dodge.
Michael Roberts was coming back from the pub late in the evening. The moon was full, and in his befuddled state he walked up the wrong side of the Gardens, passing first the Jenkins's house and then the Turners', where a light showed through a crack in the thick curtains.
'Turner's up late,' Michael Roberts said to himself. He and Bill had a wary relationship, Michael Roberts knowing that Bill disapproved of him, and he in turn despising Bill for not being able to handle a silly woman. He started on a short cut across the grass, swearing as he stepped into one of Fred's precious flower beds, and paused to regain his balance.
It was then that he heard the scream.
'Christ Almighty!' he said, looking back to the Turners' house. 'What's that woman done now!'
