by Ann Purser
CHAPTER TWENTY -NINE
'Are we agreed, then, that Peggy and Doris and me will do the roasts, and Pat will organise puddings from all them as has offered to help?'
Doreen looked round her sitting room at the assembled women. Peggy and Doris Ashbourne sat on the sofa, and Ivy Beasley on an upright chair by the window. Pat Osman, Mrs Ross and Sophie Brooks occupied assorted chairs brought in from the rest of the house, and Doreen herself sat at a card table with her notepad in front of her, making notes as decisions were taken.
Peggy looked at the massive stone fireplace, and saw Roundhead soldiers leaning on the mantle shelf, spitting into the flames and cursing the weather. Small leaded panes in the stone-mullioned windows rattled in the wind, and Peggy thought of all the Price farmers who had struggled through storms to rescue isolated animals, returning to this room to dry their soaking clothes and warm their chilled bones. The grating, matter-of-fact voice of Ivy Beasley brought her sharply back to the present.
'I'm to be in charge of laying up the tables as usual, then?' said Ivy. So far, no specific job had been handed out to her.
'Thank you, Ivy,' said Doreen diplomatically, 'that is one of the most difficult jobs. Have you got the posies for the tables organised?'
'Should be enough flowers, if we all chip in,' said Peggy, and Ivy frowned.
'I shan't need any chipping in,' she said, 'everything's arranged.'
Miserable old bag, thought Peggy, and turned to Sophie. 'Are you happy to make an apple pie, Sophie?' she said.
There was a tradition that apple pies were always part of the menu, but in latter years other, more sophisticated puddings had been added. Mrs Ross had offered a couple of large Pavlovas and now Pat Osman suggested a nice chocolate roulade would go down well with everyone.
'And biscuits and cheese, of course,' said Doreen. 'They're meant to be an alternative to pudding, but most people - especially old Roberts - take both. Old Roberts always calls for biscuits and cheese.'
'Don't forget soup,' said Ivy Beasley sharply, 'the men have to have their soup. Wouldn't be right without soup.'
'Would you like to organise that, then, Ivy?' said Doreen smoothly. 'Whatever flavour you think would be best. Your soup is always so good.'
How could you, Doreen, thought Peggy. But she had to acknowledge that Doreen was an excellent chairman, especially in a gathering of women. She always said exactly the right thing, and knew how to juggle the various warring personalities.
'I shall be providing the sherry, of course,' continued Doreen, 'that being my prerogative as churchwarden.'
'Should have thought it was Mr Richard's turn for once,' said Ivy.
'I'm only too pleased,' said Doreen, smiling sweetly. 'And now shall we get on to the entertainment?'
'Nigel said he'd like to say grace,' said Sophie, just to show it is a church occasion, but nothing further, no prayers or anything. We save that for the Harvest Festival service, don't we?'
She looked anxiously round the room, and saw relief in their faces. Perhaps they thought Nigel was going to give them a sermon on loaves and fishes, she speculated. They forget he has two other parishes with harvest suppers and harvest festivals, and all wanting it differently.
'That's fine,' said Doreen. 'We have to decide between Robert Bates and his guitar, and an offer from Colin Osman.'
She smiled encouragingly at Pat, who shuffled her feet and looked embarrassed.
'Well, actually, Colin would like to withdraw his offer if that's all right, now that he's got involved in this newsletter idea.'
Once more relief flooded the room. Robert Bates always did a turn, singing folk songs and some ditties with words he made up, lampooning village personalities in the nicest possible way. It was a popular act, anticipated eagerly by the village, and it had become almost an insult not to be included in Robert's list of those he gently mocked. The problem raised by Colin Osman's offer now evaporated, and Doreen relaxed.
'We'll just leave it to Robert, as usual, then,' she said, ticking off the last item on her list. 'Now, is there anything else anyone wants to discuss?'
The women started to collect themselves together, ready to leave, but were stopped by Ivy Beasley clearing her throat purposefully.
'There was one thing we've forgotten, I think, Mrs Price,' she said.
Now what, thought Doreen. There's always one last little bombshell from old Ivy.
'It would be fitting,' said Ivy, 'if one of us regular churchgoers made a short vote of thanks to our new vicar for all his hard work and enthusiasm since he arrived.'
Wow, thought Sophie.
In the amazed silence that followed Ivy's uncharacteristic contribution, Doreen closed her note pad and fastened it with a rubber band. For once she was at a loss.
'Urn, yes, Ivy, quite right,' she said, looking round at the others for help. 'Now, who would be the right person to do it?'
In unspoken agreement, they all turned and looked at Ivy Beasley.
She nodded, and said in her flat voice, 'Right, that's it then. I shall be happy to oblige.'
The lights burned late in the Village Hall as the newsletter meeting progressed. Colin Osman had been gratified to see so many people drifting through the door and sitting in groups round the hall. He had been even more pleased when, ten minutes after the meeting had begun, Richard Standing came bursting through the door and motioned to Colin to continue the meeting.
So many ideas were put forward it was difficult to keep up with them. A gardening column, said old Fred, with topical tips and hints on growing in the local soil. How about a monthly competition, said Mr Ross, perhaps a crossword using local knowledge: he would be quite happy to set one or two. Nigel Brooks sat quietly at first, tactfully allowing other, more experienced village people to have their say.
After Colin had summed up the ideas put forward, and added his own suggestions for layout and editorial control, Nigel spoke.
'In my last parish,' he said, 'the newsletter was used in a forum for discussion on topics of the day, broader issues perhaps than mere village concerns. Famine and civil war, for example, were subjects we put forward, and it was a most useful exercise. Many people had strong views, and it was a very cathartic experience to give them an airing.'
"Ere,' said Fred Mills to his neighbour, 'what's 'e talkin' about?'
'Don't we get enough of that in the daily papers?' said Bill Turner, who had been dragooned into attending by Greg Jones. 'I think a village newsletter should be just that: a monthly bulletin of news about the village, and a way of letting people know what's going on.'
'Absolutely,' said Richard Standing. 'Well said, Bill, them's me sentiments entirely. And maybe we could have the odd verse or two, perhaps a country couplet, just to break up the prose, you know. I'd be glad to have a stab at that.'
Jean Jenkins, sturdy and cheerful, stood up. 'I'd like to second Bill's opinions,' she said. 'We get enough doom and gloom in the papers and on the telly. I propose our village newsletter should cheer people up, get them going, helpin' with village events and such like.'
Nigel Brooks settled back in his chair. It wouldn't work, he knew that, but he saw it as his duty to try and broaden the village outlook. Well; he'd done his best.
'May I put in a first paragraph or two on the coming concert, then, Colin?' he said. 'Most people know about it, but just a reminder of the date and where to get tickets and so on. Gabriella will be getting a programme together soon, isn't that right, Greg?' Nigel looked across at Greg Jones with a smile. It was not returned.
'No doubt,' said Greg flatly.
It was cold and damp when they emerged into the night air from the Village Hall, but Colin glowed with success and walked home smartly, impatient to get on with the first issue.
'There was a good deal of support,' he said to Pat, 'and the Rev Nigel was not at all pushy, apart from a short-lived attempt to bring the outside world inside Ringford's cosy boundaries.'
'Who else was there?' said Pat.
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br /> 'Oh, Mr Richard - he came in late - and good old Fred, and Bill Turner and Greg Jones ...'
'And Gabriella?' said Pat, looking closely at him.
He shook his head, 'No, I expect she was at home with Octavia. They've been sticking to that childlike glue lately. Not sure it's the right thing, but you can't blame them.'
'So did Nigel Brooks talk to Greg Jones at all?' said Pat casually.
'Goodness, I didn't notice, Pat,' said Colin. 'Except that Greg was a bit terse with the vicar when he mentioned the concert. I expect he's getting fed up with the demands on Gabriella's time.'
'Ah,' said Pat. 'Yes, you could say that, he must be ... quite fed up.'
'And how did your evening go?' said Colin, perfectly aware of what Pat was up to, and determined to change the subject.
'Very smoothly,' said Pat. 'Doreen Price is a wonder. So calm and efficient, and apart from Ivy Beasley wanting to thank her precious Nigel for being so wonderful, it all went much as every other year, I should imagine.'
'Nice thought, though,' said Colin. 'Old Ivy's probably got a heart of gold lurking there somewhere.'
'Not a chance,' said Pat. 'No chance at all.'
Peggy lingered outside the shop, looking across the Green at the moon. It was on the wane, and veiled with a thin layer of cloud passing slowly across. The black woods on Bagley Hill were forbidding and impenetrable. How far away and cold that moon looks, she thought, how completely unaware of me and Round Ringford and this country and this planet.
'Makes you feel small, doesn't it, gel,' said Bill at her side. 'You made me jump,' she said. 'Where have you been?'
'Newsletter meeting,' he said, taking her hand and putting it with his own into his warm jacket pocket.
'Bill!' she said warningly. It was quite dark, but the hazy moon gave enough light for accustomed eyes to pick out shapes in the night, and certainly to identify two people standing too close outside the Post Office Stores.
'There's nobody about,' he said. 'I was last one out of the hall, and then checked on a few things before I locked up. The others are all gone home.'
He drew her quietly from the pavement into the little alley going up beside the shop, and when they reached Peggy's back door he put his arms round her and pulled her close, kissing her cold face until the blood rushed into her cheeks and she tightened her clasp round his neck, twining her fingers in his thick, wiry hair.
'Dear, dear Bill,' she said. 'Mmm ... it's just like being sixteen again, standing outside Mum's door and hoping she wouldn't come and open it too soon.'
Bill groaned. 'Peggy, come on, please ... let's go in, for God's sake. We're not sixteen, we're nearer sixty, and grown-up people responsible for our own . . . oh God, Peggy, please . . .'
A window opened with a sharp clatter above their heads. It was next door, in Victoria Villa, and as they froze a voice yelled raucously out into the night.
'Get off, get off! Randy old tom cat! Get off, get out of it!' The window banged shut, and silence reigned.
Bill backed away from Peggy and stood leaning his head against the wall. Peggy looked at him anxiously, then saw his shoulders begin to shake. He straightened up and looked across at the now blank window of Ivy Beasley's bedroom.
'Mee ...ee ...ee ...owl' he whined, in a very passable imitation of a tom cat on the prowl. Peggy began to laugh and stuffed her handkerchief in her mouth. Bill continued to call, walking over to the fence and following up the yowl with some spine-chilling fighting, spitting sounds.
'Bill, stop it!' whispered Peggy. 'She'll know it's you.'
'She knows anyway,' said Bill. 'Might as well give her her money's worth.'
Ivy Beasley, rigid and quiet in her white cotton nightdress, lay listening to the noise outside her bedroom window.
It's not right, Mother, she said. They'll both go straight to Damnation.
There was no reply from the voice in her head, and Ivy sighed and turned over between the cool cotton sheets. She's asleep, wherever she is, she thought, and began to think about Nigel Brooks, and his lovely straight nose, and those warm grey eyes ...
CHAPTER THIRTY
One day to go, and the preparations for the Harvest Supper were going smoothly. Ivy Beasley had got up early, and, with the Village Hall key collected from Doreen the previous evening, had let herself into the dim, dusty interior long before the village street had come alive with children and cars disappearing off to Tresham and Bagley.
She had a flask of tea with her, and sat on the steps leading to the stage to have a break. She had already been round with the broom and duster, and now planned to clean the windows and give the curtains a good shake before old Fred and Robert turned up to help her set up the trestle tables.
Cupping a mug of good strong tea in her hands, she looked round the old hall, with its wooden floor and yellow-painted walls. The windows were certainly smudgy, and cobwebs looped across high corners. Ivy dipped a plain biscuit in her tea and ate it slowly. Dad helped build this hall, she thought, and remembered how particular her mother had been about keeping it clean and tidy, with all the crockery neatly stacked in the kitchen cupboard, and the spoons polished after every use.
Nobody bothers much now, she thought. The WI paid jean Jenkins to come and have one of her quick turn-outs every so often, otherwise it was neglected. Cups and saucers, milk jugs and old lidless teapots were jumbled together in the cupboard, and most of the cups had tea-stain rings round the insides.
Pity you can't do more to keep it in order, said her mother's voice. People don't appreciate what they've got these days, not like when we built this place. And you're just as bad, Ivy. We were so excited and proud, all of us, when we had the opening dance. Your dad was a good dancer, Ivy.
She remembered Dad dancing, upright as a ram-rod, her mother held a good eighteen inches away from him, his feet twinkling and accurate.
She'd learned to dance herself, briefly, as a young girl, attending classes in this same Village Hall. Now she thought of it, it was her father who had persuaded Mother to let her go. Dancing? said the voice. What did you want with dancing? Dancing won't make the beds and cook the dinner.
But Ivy had stopped listening. She stood up and screwed the plastic mug back on her thermos flask, putting it down on the stage. She walked a few steps into the middle of the hall, and slowly put up her arms, one on an imaginary shoulder, the other resting lightly on a strong brown arm with its dark grey clerical shirt sleeve rolled up beyond the elbow in a manly fashion.
Slowly Ivy began to gyrate round the room. One, two, three- one, two, three. Dum dum dum de-dum, dum-dum, dum-dum, she hummed. And the handsome grey head bent down to whisper something in her ear, warm breath stroking her cheek.
'You all right, Auntie Ivy?' said Robert, coming in and finding to his amazement that the stern spinster was standing in the middle of the floor, her arms raised like a bird about to take off, and her face with a moony smile turned up to the ceiling above.
'Just wondering if that needs a bit of paint, up there where it's peeling round the light fitting,' improvised Ivy, collecting herself together rapidly.
Robert nodded and said he'd have a go at it some time. He was impatient to get the tables up, having decided to take the morning off and go with Mandy to buy the bridesmaids' presents. There were still months to go to the wedding, but Mandy wanted everything organised, every item on her list ticked off, so she could enjoy the excitement of looking forward, discussing all the details with her ladies as they relaxed under her snipping scissors.
'There's always something left to do, something at the last minute that you've forgotten,' she had said wisely to Olive Bates.
The door opened again behind Robert, and old Fred stumped in, his pipe belching clouds of smoke like a bonfire of old motor tyres.
'You can put that thing out, for a start,' said Ivy, 'then we must get to work. I've a great deal to do here, and l doubt whether there'll be any help forthcoming after you two've gone.'
Robert
and Fred manhandled the old trestle tables out from under the stage, where they had been since the last Roberts wedding reception, when daughter Sandra, carrying all before her, had married her Sam, and had a rowdy party to celebrate, just as if her parents had approved all along, and her father's attempt to knock all that bloody rubbish out of her had never happened.
'Still got bits of cake sticking to this one,' said Ivy, straightening the stained wooden top on its primitive trestles.
'It don't go there, Ivy,' said Fred Mills. 'It always goes up by the stage, that one.'
'No, it doesn't,' said Robert. 'That one goes by the wall there, and this one here goes by the stage. It's longer, and gives room for the vicar and his missus and Mr and Mrs Richard, and other nobs who think they should be on the top table.'
'No, no,' said Ivy, 'we have two tables shoved together for that, these two here, with the initials cut in them. Young Mr Richard did that with that Josie girl he was sweet on. His dad was not at all pleased, if I recall correctly.'
'Never mind about recalling the past, Auntie Ivy,' said Robert. 'I must be in Tresham by ten thirty, so we'd better get a move on. Come on Fred, heave ho!'
I could do it twice as quick on my own, thought Robert, but that'd hurt old Fred's feelings. Doesn't do to make him feel unwanted, he'll sulk for weeks.
'I remember when each farm used to 'ave its own harvest supper,' said Fred, 'when there were dozens of farm workers livin' in the village. It were a kind of competition to see which farm give the best supper. Old Mrs Price, Tom's mum, were generally the best. 'Course, now it's all machinery and one man and his boy. Do you remember, Ivy,' he continued, resting his elbow on the edge of a vertical table top, much to Robert's irritation, 'do you remember 'ow we used to keep the last sheaf of the harvest for the next year? It were a kind o' good luck charm for the followin' harvest.'
'Fred!' said Robert, out of patience. 'Are you going to get these tables up or not? If you want to sit down and chat to Auntie Ivy, that's fine by me, but I got to get going.'
