by Ann Purser
'I shall have a glass of elderflower,' Ivy said, 'and you can have the top of the milk, Tiddles. A small celebration is called for, I think.'
The tall green bottle was broached, and Ivy settled again with a sparkling glass and her book. She began to read on, but then put down her glass and carefully pulled the brown wrapper from the cover, screwing it up and throwing it from her chair into the glowing coals. It burst into a triumphant flame and Ivy laughed aloud.
'There we are, Tiddles,' she said, 'that's a start. And tomorrow ...'
Tomorrow, Ivy Dorothy Beasley? And just what are you going to do tomorrow?
Ivy whipped round as if to catch the ghostly form of her mother, cruelly returned to shatter her liberation.
Very nasty this afternoon, wasn't it, the voice continued. You were quite restrained, Ivy. You'll have to do better than that, you know, if you're going to put a stop to it. Who knows what that Joyce Turner will do next?
Ivy's face had fallen into an expression of disappointment and despair, and she did not bother to reply. She hid her book in the folds of her apron, and stood up wearily to dish up the food.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The summer advanced with more sunshine than rain, and even the farmers were forced to admit that the prospects for the harvest were good. Every day the combine harvesters roared through the village, and great grain trailers shook the foundations of the old houses. Elderly people mourned once more the passing of the horse and cart and the old threshing machine that had once caused such a stir in the village when it arrived to service each farm. Each year these memories receded further into the distance, and young Mark Jenkins scoffed when his gran told him about picnics in the harvest fields, and gleaning for straw to make dollies and hats.
'Vicar's settled in, then,' said Ellen Biggs, coming into the shop in an outfit Peggy had not seen before.
'Where did you get that lovely dress?' said Peggy, thinking that Ellen never failed to surprise with her extraordinary flair for getting it wrong. She had on a long, Indian cotton skirt, rich with the colours of the East, and with a few bright beads still clinging to it; and over it, worn as a tunic, Ellen had put a deep purple mini-dress of generous proportions. Round her neck, remembering Ivy's strictures, she had tied a yellow chiffon scarf. A bow at the front, she had said to herself, will be a nice touch.
' 'Arrods of course,' said Ellen, laughing loudly. 'No, my dear, I do all my shoppin' at the jumble sale. Get some lovely bargains there, if you're quick.'
Peggy laughed with Ellen, vowed to be the first in the queue when the time came, and then reverted to the subject of the Vicar.
'Did you see the Brookses, then, Ellen? Most of the village walked by yesterday to watch them arrive. Not so many offered to help, I noticed.'
'No, well, they wouldn't, would they?' said Ellen. 'No good gettin' too friendly and then wishin' you 'adn't. Can I take one o' them chocolate cake mixes, dear, that'll do nicely for the next time Ivy and Doris come down.'
Peggy handed the packet to Ellen, and said, 'We shall be glad, anyway Ellen, to have a vicar in the village again. It's not the same in church, is it, with lay readers and visiting parsons?' Ellen was not much seen in church, but she agreed wholeheartedly. 'You got to 'ave somebody over you,' she said, 'somebody you can look up to. Reverend Collins were just right for that, God rest 'is soul.'
'We've got a couple of weeks before we take up duties, Sophie,' said Nigel. 'You don't have to get everything done in twenty-four hours. Come on, sit down for a minute and have a cup of coffee. I'll make it.'
Sophie wiped her face with a dirty hand, leaving a smear across her freckled nose. Her hair, once so flaming red and now a little faded and speckled with grey, was protected by a clean duster, and she was wearing an old boiler suit several sizes too large for her, and covered in paint splashes. With its sleeves rolled up she looked like an exploited factory child, and Nigel put his arms round her as she leaned on her broom.
'Happy, Soph?' he said.
'It's wonderful,' she said, 'all this lovely dirt and dust. Just what I've always wanted.'
'You're not sorry... ?' He looked anxiously at her.
She shoved him with a dirty hand, leaving a smudge on his fresh linen jacket. 'You know I'm not, Nigel,' she said. 'As long as no one speaks to me in the Celtic tongue I shall be perfectly content.'
Nigel made the coffee and took it into the drawing room, newly decorated on the instructions of the churchwardens, and called Sophie. Why she has to turn out attics when there's so much clean space elsewhere, I do not know, thought Nigel. Women were a never-ending source of puzzlement to him.
They sat happily drinking coffee and looking out into the garden which had been licked into shape by Michael Roberts and his old father. Roberts’s father and son worked on Price's farm and had for generations been the village's gravediggers. It was a rough job, and there was tacit agreement that Michael Roberts was the best man to do it. And anyway, he's got the right, they said, his family's been digging graves in this village for donkey's years. He could be worse, they said.
The vicarage doorbell rang once, touched lightly and briefly.
'I'll go,' said Nigel, and walked through to the hall, his leather-soled shoes tapping neatly on the tiled floor.
'Mrs Jones,' he said, 'how nice! Come in, my dear.'
Gabriella Jones, slender and sun-tanned, wearing jeans and a simple white cotton T-shirt, walked into the sitting room and smiled at Sophie, who looked down at her boiler suit and apologised for her appearance.
'Such a lot to do, I know,' said Gabriella, 'when you move house. It's not so long since we did it ourselves.'
'What can we do for you?' said Nigel, indicating a chair. Gabriella perched on the edge, shook back her blonde hair, and said she did hope she wasn't interrupting anything.
'I was wondering,' she said, 'if you would like to choose the hymns for this Sunday? I know you're not officially in charge for a week or so, but it would be nice for us, and perhaps help to make you feel at home ...'
'What a perfectly lovely idea!' said Nigel, and immediately fetched a hymn book and pen and paper, and sat discussing tunes and words with Gabriella.
'We are so lucky, Sophie,' he said, after Gabriella had left with precise details of what Nigel wanted, 'to have a smashing girl like that to play the organ. It's usually some old tab who plays everything at the pace of a funeral march, and sulks if you suggest anything new.'
'Don't count your chickens, Nigel,' said Sophie. 'We've been disillusioned before, don't forget.'
'Oh, I don't think so this time,' said Nigel, picking up the coffee tray and starting out on the long trek to the kitchen. 'I've had an idea for Christmas. What do you think about a concert in the church? I'm sure that nice Gabriella would help.' Sophie frowned.
'It doesn't matter what I think,' she said. 'There are a number of others who will have very strong opinions, no doubt, and Miss Beasley is well up there in the front line.'
She took up her broom, and climbed several flights of stairs to the attic, where she sat on the floor and looked with delight through tiny dormer windows across the village and down the shining valley of the Ringle.
Gabriella walked down the lane, picking off dried heads of hog weed and rubbing the seeds through her fingers. She heard the church clock chiming twelve noon and quickened her pace. What a pleasant couple the Brookes’ are, she thought, so relaxed, and, well, ordinary. Cyril had been a dear old man, but he was always very much the priest, and she never dared to suggest anything new.
She stopped and leaned on the old stone bridge to look into the water. Sooner or later, she thought, I suppose I shall have to get a job. She felt no burning ambition to go back to teaching, and loved the slow pace of life in the village. But Greg had dropped one or two hints about the expense of keeping a lively young daughter on his meagre salary. It wasn't meagre, she knew, but Octavia's demands were more and more ambitious, and she was in such a hurry to grow up.
A car appro
ached the bridge, and Gabriella saw it was Robert Bates. She flattened herself against the side of the bridge and waved as he went slowly by. He didn't wave back, and only half smiled at her in return.
Oh dear, she thought, is Octavia still being a nuisance? She had tried to talk to her daughter about her all consuming passion for Robert Bates, tried to tell her about her own teenage crushes on her brother's friends, all of whom had regarded the young Gabriella as beneath their notice. She'd tried laughing it into proportion with a sullen Octavia, who barely listened, and rushed off the minute the one-sided conversation approached an end.
Gabriella turned away from the water and walked on by the side of the Green. Greg refused to take any of it seriously, but Gabriella knew that, foolish as it was, it was very real to Octavia. She'd had so many brief enthusiasms- riding, roller skating, theatricals, playing the trumpet - and none of them had lasted long. But her obsession with Robert Bates was undimmed. Sometimes it frightened Gabriella, but Greg laughed at her fears, and said it was perfectly normal. He'd been the victim of schoolgirl crushes on many occasions himself, he'd said, it was quite normal.
'Good morning, Mrs Jones.' It was Ivy Beasley, marching purposefully along the Green, heading for the bridge. She stopped and shifted a bulging carrier bag from one hand to the other.
'Morning,' said Gabriella. 'Lovely morning, Miss Beasley.'
She felt trapped, and edged slowly away. But Ivy Beasley had a reason for stopping.
'Glad I met you, Mrs Jones,' she said. 'I've wanted a word.' Gabriella's heart sank. She waited, and Ivy Beasley crossed the road and stood in front of her, her dark eyes fixed accusingly on Gabriella.
'Your daughter, Mrs Jones,' she said, 'is making a fool of herself and our Robert. I'm not one for mincing my words, and someone should tell you.'
Gabriella sighed. 'I am perfectly aware of Octavia's crush on Robert Bates, Miss Beasley,' she said, and added to herself that it was nothing to do with the old bat, anyway.
But Ivy had not finished. 'I had a word with your daughter at the bus stop,' she said. 'Our Robert is too shy. I've told her that he's getting engaged to Mandy Butler any minute now, and she'd better stop her silly tricks.'
Gabriella frowned, angry that Ivy Beasley should have taken it upon herself to speak to Octavia.
'I am not at all pleased to hear this, Miss Beasley,' she said.
Ivy smirked, thinking that at least she had got her point home to this silly woman.
'I mean,' said Gabriella, warming up, 'that I think it extremely wrong of you to have talked to a young girl without first speaking to her parents. Girls of that age are extremely impressionable, and need careful guidance. Which, you may rest assured, Miss Beasley,' she added fiercely, 'Octavia's father and myself are quite capable of handling.'
'Needs a good smack bottom,' said Ivy tartly, and before Gabriella could reply she crossed the road again and went swiftly on her way.
Gabriella walked home, her peace of mind shattered, cursing Ivy Beasley for not minding her own business. She opened her garden gate and was surprised to see Greg standing at the open front door. He had just started back at school for the autumn term, and had no reason to be home at midday.
'Greg! What's up?' she said. 'Why are you back? Are you ill?'
'No, Gabbie, not me, it's Octavia. Her form teacher asked me if she was ill, as she was not at school. She did get the bus this morning, didn't she?'
Octavia Jones refused to travel to school with her father. It was difficult enough having a parent who was also a teacher, without having to arrive in his car and be laughed at by the other kids.
Gabriella thought immediately of abduction and worse, and her heart began to thump. She rushed indoors, pushing Greg to one side and yelling, ' 'Tavie...'Tavie!'
'I've done that,' said Greg reasonably. 'That's all I have done, so far, I haven't been home many minutes.'
Gabriella continued to call, dashing from room to room, and then upstairs. She tried Octavia's door and found it locked. ' 'Tavie! Are you in there? Open up at once!' There was no reply, and Gabriella shot downstairs again.
'Greg! She's in her room, and the door's locked and it's completely quiet in there! What are we going to do?'
They both ran upstairs once more, and tried knocking and shouting and cajoling. Absolute silence greeted their efforts. 'She couldn't have got out of the window and left her door locked, just to frighten us?' said Gabriella. Greg shook his head. 'Her windows are shut,' he said. 'I looked.'
He took a deep breath and got hold of Gabriella by both arms. 'She's in there,' he said, 'and either she's doing this deliberately, or ...' He hesitated, trying to find moderate words. '... or she can't hear us.'
Gabriella began to cry, and Greg shook her. 'Stop it, Gabbie, stop it,' he said. 'We have to get in there, and quickly.' He stepped back and took a run at the door, but he was a slight man, and made little impact, only hurting his shoulder.
'We need help,' he said, and started off downstairs. The Joneses' house was opposite Macmillan Gardens, and as Greg ran out, not really sure where he was going, he saw Bill
Turner coming down the Gardens on his bike.
'Bill!' he yelled. 'Bill, can you give us a hand!' His relief in seeing Bill's tall, solid figure was great. He opened his garden gate and pulled Bill inside, rapidly filling him in on the situation.
'Right-o, boy,' said Bill, 'we'll get in there, don't you worry. I've had plenty of practice with locked doors.'
They joined Gabriella, who still stood rooted to the spot outside Octavia's door. Her hands were tightly clenched by her sides, and she seemed to have gone into a trance. 'Shock,' said Bill. 'Don't worry, Mrs Jones, we'll soon have her out safe and sound.'
Bill gathered himself together, and heaved his bulk at the modern, flimsy door. It gave way at first shove, and Gabriella came to life. She rushed into the room and flung herself at the prone figure of her daughter, childlike and vulnerable, curled up on the bed, her blonde hair over her face and her thumb in her mouth.
' 'Tavie!' she shouted, and shook the girl by her shoulder.
' 'Tavie, darling, wake up, it's Mummy!'
But there was no movement, no flickering of eyelids, no yawning awakening, no smile of recognition for her mother. Bill came forward and put his fingers to the girl's narrow neck. 'There's a pulse,' he said. 'Go and phone the doctor and the ambulance, Mr ]ones, and be quick about it. She's taken something.'
Gabriella sat by the hospital bed watching over her only daughter. Octavia's eyes were big dark shadows in her pale face, but she slept apparently peacefully. Gabriella wished they would take away the angular drip apparatus, with its snaking tube. It was alien, forbidding, separating her from her child.
A close vigil was maintained by the nursing staff, and Gabriella was reassured, but she had been upset by the Sister's callous remark as she looked at Octavia's notes. 'Don't worry, Mrs Jones,' she had said cheerfully, 'she took just enough to give you a good scare.'
It had been a nightmare of empty aspirin bottles and the stomach pump, and Octavia being sick until Gabriella thought the girl would die of exhaustion. Bill Turner had been steady as a rock, seemed to know exactly what to do. Poor Greg looked just about as ill as Octavia, until Gabbie had packed him off to buy some tissues and squash from the hospital shop.
'But why?' said Greg, over and over again. He seemed reluctant to believe that Octavia might be in real trouble, stressing to Gabriella that their daughter had a core of good common sense. He clung on to the Sister's words. 'Just meant to give us a scare, Gabbie,' he said.
Several times Gabriella had started to tell him about her conversation with Ivy Beasley, but each time she hesitated, hearing again the derisive 'needs a good smack bottom'. I expect it's my fault, thought Gabriella. She is a bit spoilt, I suppose.’
'We shall just have to wait until she's well enough to tell us,' Greg had said.
'There may be just one clue,' said Gabriella tentatively. 'When she was conscious and betwe
en bouts of vomiting, she said something, and I thought it sounded like "Robert, how could you." I know, I know,' she added quickly, before Greg could scoff, 'it does sound stupid, but teenage crushes are very strong. I remember . . .'
'Gabbie dear,' said Greg, 'I doubt it, I really do.'
But in her feverish dreams, Octavia was walking down the aisle of Ringford church, a floating vision in white, on the arm of Robert Bates, her newly wedded husband.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Nigel Brooks walked smartly down Bates's End, his black cloak protecting him from the rain, his four-cornered hat set flatteringly over his wavy grey hair.
He obeyed the unwritten Ringford rule, and stopped on the bridge to look into the water. Through the clear swirls he could see shoals of small fish darting through the weed. Raindrops fell in concentric circles on the surface, and Nigel thought once more what a good job the Lord had made of his creation. I will make you fishers of men, he reminded himself, and set off again with renewed vigour to widen his acquaintance with his parishioners. His official induction service had yet to take place, but Nigel was not one for wasting time, and he was confident that the parish was as anxious to get to know him as he was to become one of them.
The shop was first on his list of visits. 'Morning, Mrs Palmer,' he said; and Peggy answered him politely, but without her usual smile.
'You're looking worried, my dear,' said Nigel, chancing a personal remark, pretty sure that Peggy would not retreat.
'Yes, well,' said Peggy, sighing, 'it's been a nasty twenty-four hours in Ringford. I expect you've heard about Octavia Jones?'
'Gabriella's daughter?' said Nigel, feeling stupidly uninformed.
