by Ann Purser
'What's that Jones man want with our Robert?' said Ellen, hobbling towards the door. 'You hear anythin', Jean?'
'Just that he wanted a private word,' said Jean.
Ellen turned to Peggy. 'There, what did I say? It's that brat of 'is causin' trouble again.'
'I don't think you should jump to ...' Peggy was interrupted by Jean Jenkins snatching Eddie from a wire basket full of cans of cola. Several had already rolled round the shop floor, and Peggy rushed round from the other side of the counter to help.
'Let me hold him for a bit,' she said, taking Eddie from his mother's scolding grasp. Eddie put his little arms round Peggy's neck and buried his face in her shoulder. She laughed and cuddled him, loving his warm little body.
What a shame, thought Jean Jenkins for the umpteenth time, what a pity she's got no family, no one to love. Except Bill, she corrected herself, and that's a bit of non-starter.
'Here, wait a minute,' she said, when peace had been restored. 'I was comin' back from the phone box last night, and that Octavia Jones was comin' along by the pub, in the dark, all by herself. I reckon she saw me, and turned round and went back the way she come.'
'What could that 'ave to do with Robert?' said Ellen, looking interested.
Jean shook her head. 'Don't know,' she said, 'but Foxy said he saw him drivin' by slowly when he come out of the pub later on.'
The shop door opened again, and Pat Osman came in, bright and fresh, and with smiles for all.
Peggy reluctantly handed Eddie back to his mother, and returned to her post behind the counter.
'We should be careful,' she said, 'about putting two and two together and making five. Hello Mrs Osman,' she continued, greeting her new customer, 'what can I get for you this morning?'
'I might be a bit late for tea today, Mum,' said Robert Bates, getting up from the table and brushing crumbs of pastry to the grateful spaniel at his feet. 'Mr Jones asked me to call in and have a private word, so I'll go in before seeing Auntie Ivy.'
The farm kitchen was very warm, full of good cooking smells, and the big wooden table covered with a checked oil cloth bore the remains of a stout meal. Behind Olive's chair, a little light filtered in from the garden, through tiny panes steamed up from the constantly simmering kettle. Robert began to feel the need of fresh air.
'What kind of private word?' said Olive sharply.
Robert shrugged. 'Don't ask me,' he said, 'probably something to do with Parish Council business.' Robert was the youngest and keenest member of the Parish Council, and was often approached to sort out a problem when villagers would hesitate to tackle Tom Price. 'See you later, then,' and he gave his mother a peck on her cheek. 'Cheer up, it may never happen!' he said, and, pulling on his boots, prepared to get back to work.
'Don't you think we should have got the police or something?' said Gabriella, staring out of her sitting room window and twisting her hands together nervously. 'How are we going to put it to Robert Bates?'
Greg put down the paper he was trying to read. 'I shall just ask him outright if he molested Octavia last night ...no, of course I shan't, Gabriella ... we shall have to be very tactful indeed. And it would have been entirely the wrong thing to get in the police at this stage. We'll give the lad a chance to tell us his side of it, and then think again.'
Gabriella frowned and turned to look at Greg. 'You don't believe her, do you?' she blurted out. 'You think she's lying, made it all up, don't you?'
Greg was silent for a moment, and then sighed. 'I don't know, Gabbie, I really don't know. It's just that I clearly remember hearing a car door slam and then the sound of it moving off seconds before Octavia came in last night. And that doesn't tie up with her story of running home on her own in a panic.'
Robert Bates's tractor drew up outside the gate, and he clambered down from the cab.
'Here he is,' said Gabriella. 'You let him in.'
Greg went to the door, and the two men returned to the room in silence.
Robert sat on the edge of the Joneses' sofa, his feet in their grey socks placed squarely on the cream shaggy rug. He had insisted on removing his boots, and Greg was nonplussed at the sight of Robert's familiar, pleasant face smiling at him across the room. How the hell was he going to begin?
Gabriella had disappeared into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and Robert exchanged with Greg a few pleasantries about the weather.
'Was it something to do with Council matters you wanted to ask me?' Robert said finally, thinking he'd be here all afternoon if they didn't get on with it.
'No, not really,' said Greg, clearing his throat. 'It's about Octavia.'
'Ah,' said Robert. 'That one.'
'Well,' said Greg, 'I don't know how to say this, but she came in very upset last night and said you'd given her a lift along the road.'
'Quite right,' said Robert. 'I was very surprised to see her out on her own.'
Greg sat up straighter. 'What happened, Robert?' he said in the confiding tone he used to encourage schoolchildren to talk to him. 'You can tell us, you know, I'm sure we'll be able to sort it all out.'
Robert looked at him in amazement. Gabriella had come back with a tea tray and was staring at him anxiously. 'Happened?' said Robert. 'Bloody nothing happened!' He stood up. 'I come across your daughter wandering along the road in the dark, all by herself, and stopped to bring her back home. Which is what I did, making sure she came up the path and into your house before I drove off again. And nothing bloody happened!' he repeated, his face bright red with indignation.
They stood glaring at each other for a few seconds, then Gabriella put down the tea tray and said nervously, 'Would you like a cup of tea, Robert?'
'No thanks,' said Robert, marching towards the door. 'I've got work to do, no time to waste here. You'll have big trouble with that Octavia if you're not careful, Mr Jones. Best you do something to stop it straight away.'
The front door slammed, and Greg and Gabriella looked at one another in silence. Gabriella poured two cups of tea, and handed one to Greg.
'What is the truth, Greg?' she said wearily. Greg sat down beside her and put his arm round her shoulders.
'I'm afraid I'm inclined to believe Robert,' he said gently. 'There was something about the way 'Tavie looked at us when she came in, something not quite right.'
'I can't believe it,' said Gabriella pathetically. 'Not my baby girl. What on earth shall we do now?'
'Talk to her again,' said Greg. 'When she comes home from school, I'll talk to her alone. You are naturally upset, and there's far too much emotion flying around. Leave it to me, and I'll see if I can straighten it out.'
'What's eating you, Robert?' said Ivy Beasley, setting down a cup of good strong tea and a large wedge of chocolate fudge cake.
'Nothing, Auntie, at least, nothing very much,' said Robert, taking a grateful gulp of the tea.
'"Always something in nothing," as my mother used to say,' said Ivy, relying on her favourite saying to help things along.
'Well, yes,' said Robert. 'It's that Octavia Jones up to her tricks again. It's her mum and dad I feel sorry for. She twists them round her little finger.'
'Where do you come into it, then?' said Ivy, gently prodding.
'Oh, it was nothing at all. Just that little tramp making up some story about me when I gave her a lift last night.'
Ivy bristled. 'She'd better not start causing trouble for you, Robert; else I shall have something more to say. And I'm not one to mince my words.'
Robert hastily assured her that it was nothing important and would all blow over, but he regretted mentioning it to Auntie Ivy, knowing her reputation for malicious gossip, and also her abiding love for himself.
'Enjoying the concert rehearsals, Auntie?' he said, changing the subject.
'Not so far,' Ivy replied. 'Mind you, Reverend Brooks is doing his best with an unruly bunch. But there's too much laughing and joking for my liking. That Gabriella Jones is. always making sheep's eyes at Reverend Brooks, and she has no i
dea about discipline. It wasn't like that in my schooldays. We all had to behave ourselves, and not be continually interrupting and making suggestions.'
'But it's not school, Auntie,' said Robert. 'It's supposed to be a bit of fun and something nice for the village at Christmas.' Ivy sniffed, and took Robert's cup to refill. 'I shall carry on with it, anyway,' she said, 'for old Ellen's sake. She can't sing for toffee, but it's an outing for her and she won't go without me. '
'That's kind of you, Auntie,' said Robert, not really listening, but thinking he should be on his way.
'You're hedge-cutting early this year, aren't you, Robert?' said Ivy. 'There'll be no blackberries left to pick at this rate. They're scarcely ripe yet.'
'Try the bottom of Fenny Moor,' said Robert. 'You know that little old field? Well, Dad never cuts the hedge there by the stream. It's got loads of blackberries and crabs and hips and haws and all sorts. You go down there, Auntie, you'll find more than enough.'
He got up and kissed her on the cheek. 'Thanks very much, Auntie Ivy, see you next week. Mind how you go .. .'
Ivy watched him disappear up the street and, when he was out of sight, returned to the kitchen.
Looks like another job for me, Mother, she said to the quiet room.
Oh, speaking to me again, are you, said the voice in her head. Thought you'd sulk for ever. You always were one for sulking, Ivy.
Give it a rest, do, said Ivy. I'm just thinking how I can make those Joneses see they can't come to this village and stir up trouble for my Robert without so much as a by your leave. I blame that Gabriella, she's always been a flibbertigibbet with her long hair and her short shorts. She's never out of Nigel Brooks's sight these days, with her 'Is this right, Nigel?' and 'What do you think, Nigel?'
You're very steamed up, Ivy. Not jealous, are we?
Mother, I'm only thinking of that poor wife of his, that Sophie Brooks. She's a poor thing, but that doesn't mean she deserves to be treated like dirt by a brassy bit like Gabriella Jones.
Ivy wiped her hands on her apron, then took it off and went out into the garden to pick a few last beans for her supper.
Octavia sensed trouble as soon as she opened the front door. Her father was standing in a patriarchal position with his back to the fireplace, and her mother was nowhere to be seen.
'Where's Mum?' said Octavia.
'In the garden,' said Greg. 'I'd like a word or two with you, young lady, before you do anything else.'
Oh shit, thought Octavia, they've been talking to Robert.
'Sit down,' said Greg, 'and tell me again exactly what happened last night.'
Octavia sat down with unusual obedience, and began to suck a strand of her ash-blonde hair. 'Well?' said Greg.
'I told you,' said Octavia.
'Tell me again,' said Greg.
Octavia went once more through her story, repeating the exact details and managing a few tears when she came to the part where Robert ripped open her blouse. Then she made a mistake.
'He stopped the car outside here and practically shoved me out,' she concluded, reaching for her father's hand, and sniffing loudly.
Greg shook her off, and stared at her.
'But you said you got out of the car way back up the road and ran home in a panic,' he said accusingly.
'No, I didn't,' said Octavia, her voice breaking in alarm.
'Tell me the truth, Octavia,' said Greg, grimly stern. Octavia stood up and faced him.
'You wouldn't know the truth if you heard it!' she screamed at him. 'And that's just it you can't hear it, you stupid... !'
She turned and ran from the room, yelling, 'Mum! Mum! Where are you?' at the top of her voice.
Greg felt as if someone had hit him hard across the face. His own daughter mocking him for being deaf. It was too cruel to take in. He wiped his hand across his eyes and coughed. Well, he thought, at least I think I have the truth now. I must ring up Robert and apologise. He looked down at his hand and saw that it was wet, and then sat down heavily on the sofa.
'Octavia Jones,' he said. 'Daddy's little 'Tavie ...'
CHAPTER TWENTY -SIX
Ellen Biggs looked into her damp, narrow clothes cupboard and wondered what to wear for tea with Ivy Beasley. Every year, at the jumble sale in the Village Hall, Ellen handed in a small pile of worn clothes, and bought herself a new selection of outfits for the four seasons, to last until the sale came round again. In this way, for a pound or two, she could indulge her passion for dressing to please herself, delighting in bright colours and rich folds of material, not caring in the least what impression she made on other people, and certainly not fearing Ivy's scathing comments. Indeed, the more she could provoke her friend's disapproval, the happier Ellen was.
She glanced out of the small, dusty window at her sunlit garden, bright with late chrysanthemums and dark purple Michaelmas daisies. Looks warm out there, she thought, but you can't trust this time of the year. Better put on something warmish, don't want a chill on top of me rheumatism.
A tough old woman, Ellen put a brave face on days when her legs ached and she could hardly turn her head. Living alone, with nobody to sympathise or nurse her, she had a grim determination not to give up her comfortless, dingy cottage until carried out in her coffin, and so she told no one about waking in panic in the small hours, unable to get out of bed and terrified of wetting herself. She joked about old age, and watched her contemporaries disappear into Bagley House, which she preferred to call the workhouse, with a secret terror that one day it would be her turn.
'This'll do well,' she said, taking out a royal blue woollen dress with a dropped waist and shawl neckline. It had been Mrs Ross's best for several years, and was still in good condition, except for a few spots down the side, where the little dog had disgraced himself.
Ellen had struggled into the dress, and was sitting on the edge of her bed pulling on comfortable black plimsolls over beige ribbed cotton stockings, when she heard a light tap and her back door opening.
'Ellen? Are you there, Ellen? It's only me ...Mrs Standing... Ellen?'
Well, thought Ellen, if it's only you, you can wait a minute or two 'til I've got me shoes on.
'Comin', madam,' she called, and stood up, pulling down the dress and admiring the effect in an old cracked cheval mirror which had once graced the nanny's bedroom in the Hall.
'Good morning, Ellen, how nice you look,' said Susan Standing. She had been frustrated and irritated by the old woman in her last years as cook at the Hall, but now she had a sneaking fondness for the independent Ellen, and called in frequently to check on her.
'Do sit down, madam,' said Ellen, always on her dignity with her former employer. 'Lovely day now, ain't it?'
Susan agreed, and sat gingerly on the edge of a rickety cane chair. 'Ellen,' she said, 'I need your advice.'
Oh yes, thought Ellen, I've heard that one before. Usually means she wants me to feed them 'orrible dogs while they're away.
'It's the concert,' said Susan, 'the Christmas concert. I believe you are singing in the choir, is that right?'
Ellen nodded and waited. So it wasn't the dogs. What's comin', I wonder.
'I would really like to contribute something, but my voice is certainly not up to choir standard,' Susan said modestly. 'I was wondering if Mr Brooks would want any kind of dramatic interlude. Perhaps a recitation or a reading from Dickens, or something like that ...what do you think, Ellen? You always know what fits in ...' Her voice trailed away into a vague, questioning silence.
'What, you mean like "The Boy stood on the Burning Deck"?' said Ellen blandly.
Susan shook her head. 'Well, no, not exactly that. More an extract from A Christmas Carol, or Pickwick Papers. Or perhaps that wonderful Hardy poem about Christmas Eve?'
Ellen reached for her long gaberdine mac that had been Mr Richard's, and began to fold it up and squash it into an old egg basket.
'I don't 'ave much idea about them,' she said. 'Best you ask Reverend Brooks. But I'm sure 'e'll be
delighted, and that Gabriella Jones will be glad of a little break 'alfway through.' And anyway, thought Ellen, it could be good for a laugh, if nothing else.
'She's talkin' of recitin' at the concert,' said Ellen, setting down her basket in Ivy Beasley's hall.
There was an unmistakable, heavenly smell of baking in Ivy's house, and Ellen sighed with relief that the threat of a couple of biscuits had been forgotten.
'Lovely smell of cookin', Ivy,' she said, and made her way into the neat front room, sitting down in the best chair under the old wall clock.
'Who's talking of reciting?' said Doris Ashbourne, already seated on the overstuffed sofa, her handbag tucked down by her side.
'Madam,' said Ellen. 'Mrs Standing 'erself. She wants to contribute, she says, and asked me first, knowing as I'm in touch with what goes on.'
'Rubbish!' said Ivy, bringing in the teapot shrouded by a crinoline lady with satin skirts and haughty demeanour. 'She knows you're a regular old gossip, that's for sure ...'
Tea poured, Ivy lifted a knife to the perfect coffee sponge sitting without a lean in any direction on a fresh white paper doily.
'You'll take a piece of cake, Ellen?' she said. 'Don't feel you have to, I shan't be offended, knowing you're not over fond of coffee.'
One of these days, thought Ellen, I shall swipe her one with my 'andbag.
'Think you must be confusin' me with Doris,' she said, causing the innocent, coffee-loving Doris to look anxiously at the mouth-watering airy sponge yielding to Ivy's knife.
'My favourite,' said Doris firmly. 'Never could get it right myself, but that looks a perfect sponge, Ivy, nothing less.'
Ivy smiled in triumph. 'So we'll all have a piece, then, shall we?' she said, offering the plate round and making sure the smallest slice made its way into Ellen's hand.
'Now then,' Ivy continued, settling back into her chair by the window, 'what's all this about Mrs Standing and the concert?'
