by Ann Purser
She had a quick bath and dressed warmly for a routine day in the shop. Her Christmas corner was going well, and she would have to ask Bill if he would fetch more supplies from the wholesaler. By the time she had served in the shop all day, her feet were either frozen solid or achingly hot, and she accepted with relief his offers of help. She made a list of things she needed, but there were always one or two extras tentatively included by Bill.
'Should go well, gel,' he would say, and then watch the shelves anxiously to make sure he hadn't lumbered her with slow movers.
She pulled back the curtains in the kitchen, and unlocked the back door, opening it and calling, 'Gilbert! Gilbertiney!' She looked down at something bright and colourful.
On the back doorstep was a large bunch of chrysanthemums, bronze shaggy heads and dark green leaves, vibrating with life in the cold air.
Peggy looked at them for several seconds before picking them up. Then she buried her nose in the chilly, special scent, and took them back into the kitchen. She knew who had left them there, and why, but she looked nevertheless for a card.
She found it tucked into the leaves. 'Thinking of Frank, and of my love for you, Peggy. Bill.'
A good ten minutes passed before Peggy was able to get up from the kitchen chair and look for a vase. She arranged the flowers and took them through to the sitting room, putting them in the window where Bill would see them if he passed. The hours went slowly. It was one of those winter days which never get much beyond the cold grey light of dawn. The incessant humming of the cool cabinet in the shop, and a flickering neon tube which needed replacing, combined to get on Peggy's nerves, and she snapped, 'Please shut the door!' when William Roberts drifted in, leaving it open behind him. Peggy watched him making for the Christmas corner, where he stood in silent contemplation. How he's grown, she thought, looking at his long, thin legs in their rubbed jeans, and the back of his neck, spindly and somehow vulnerable, with the shock of short hair sticking up in angry spikes above. His anorak was a couple of sizes too small, and she wondered whether the Roberts children had to wait for outgrown clothes from the one above.
'How's Sandra and the baby?' she asked. 'All right,' said William.
'Are they coming for Christmas?' said Peggy, wondering why she was bothering with William, who clearly did not want to talk.
'Dunno.'
Peggy began to stack new packs of butter in the refrigerated display, and left William to it. After a minute or two, he came to the counter, carrying a pen and pencil set in a plastic bubble pack.
'D'you think our Andrew would like this?' he said. Andrew was the next one down, and Peggy confirmed that he would love it.
William handed over the money, and then fumbled in his anorak pocket, bringing out a tiny metal screwdriver, with an elaborate criss-cross machine-tooled pattern on the brass handle.
Peggy picked it up, and said, 'It's lovely, William, where did you get it?' She had an uncharitable thought about the Robertses' light-fingered reputation.
'Made it,' said William, 'at school, in metalwork. It's for you.'
Peggy stared at him. 'For me, William? But it's not my birthday, or anything ...'
'No, but ... you know,' said William, shifting from one foot to the other in embarrassment.
'Oh, William,' said Peggy, rescuing him, 'yes, of course, I do know. And it's very, very kind of you. Thank you.'
'Should be useful for doin' electric plugs, and that,' said William, sighing with relief, and making for the door. 'Bye, then, Mrs P.'
Peggy sat over a ham sandwich at lunchtime and wondered how to get through to the end of the day. Jean Jenkins had come in and given her a hug, and little Eddie had been bidden to give one of his warm, chocolatey kisses. Doreen Price had rung up, ostensibly about eggs for the shop, but really to make sure Peggy was all right.
The shop bell jangled, and Peggy got up wearily. It was Ivy Beasley, and her face was grim.
'Half of lard,' she said, banging the money down on to the counter.
Peggy fetched a packet from the fridge and put it in a white paper bag.
'Anything else?' she said.
'Yes,' said Ivy, 'yes, I've something to say, and you'll do well to listen, especially on this particular day.'
Peggy felt her heart begin to thud. She wouldn't, surely, not even Poison Ivy, not today.
'Just as well there's nobody else in the shop,' continued Ivy, 'because what I have to say is for your ears only. No doubt you will convey the meaning to Bill Turner yourself.'
Peggy gripped the edge of the counter, and waited.
'The pair of you,' said Ivy Beasley, her eyes glinting, 'should be ashamed of yourselves. The whole village knows what you're up to, but even worse, poor Joyce Turner knows and it's driving her mad.'
What shall I do? thought Peggy. I'm trapped here in the shop. Why doesn't somebody come in?
The hard voice droned on, piling recrimination on exhortations to examine her conscience, until Peggy thought she would never stop. And then the door opened, and Ellen Biggs came in.
'Mornin', my dear,' she said to Peggy, and then, seeing her white, horrified face, she turned to Ivy Beasley.
"Ere, Ivy, what you bin sayin'?' she said, "Ave you bin 'avin' a go at Mrs Palmer?'
Ivy Beasley was breathing hard, and began to push her way past Ellen to leave the shop.
'Oh no,' said Ellen, immovable as a rock, 'just you stay 'ere a minute, Ivy.'
The cold silence in the shop told Ellen all she needed to know, and she leaned her face close to Ivy's.
'I wouldn't be you, Ivy Dorothy Beasley,' she hissed, 'for all the tea in China. You will reap what you 'ave sowed, mark my words. You'd better go 'omeand pray as 'ard as you know how, because you're surely goin' to need some 'elp from the Almighty.'
Ivy backed away from her, pushing at her with grey-gloved hands, and then turned and ran out of the shop.
Ellen hobbled up to the counter, where Peggy stood without moving, her face bleak and withdrawn.
'It's no good my sayin' to take no notice, dear,' said Ellen, 'I can see that. But don't forget that 'er wickedness will be punished, nothin' surer than that.'
Peggy shook herself, and stared across at Ellen.
'And what about my wickedness, Ellen?' she said. She looked away, all colour and life drained from her face, looked out of the window and over the Green towards the church yard. 'It's a year ago today, Ellen,' she said. 'Frank died a year ago today.'
CHAPTER THIRTY- THREE
It was very quiet in Victoria Villa. Ivy Beasley had not taken off her coat, or her grey woollen gloves, and was walking rapidly round the house, from room to room, not looking for anything, just walking.
She stopped eventually, and found herself in her mother's bedroom. The quiet was so thick in here that she crossed to the window and opened it a fraction, replacing the heavy net curtains quickly.
The Green was empty, except for the distant figure of Mr Ross, muffled and disguised, taking his little dog for a walk by the river. As Ivy looked, old Ellen came out of the shop and headed for home. She did not once glance in the direction of Victoria Villa.
Ivy took off her gloves and coat, and let them fall in a heap on the floor. Then she sat down on the dressing-table stool and looked at herself in the mirror. That can't be me, she thought, that's not me. She got up again quickly, and began to walk towards the door.
Stand still! Stand still at once! said the voice in her head. Ivy halted, for once relieved that her mother was still there. What exactly do you think you are doing? said the voice. Ivy tried to speak, but words would not come.
You've really messed it up now, haven't you, you stupid girl. Ellen Biggs will tell everyone and the few friends you have got will turn against you. Why did you have to choose today of all days?
Ivy sat down on the edge of the bed, her hand repeatedly smoothing the cold white cover.
I thought you'd given up on Pushy Peg? said the relentless voice. Thought it was Gabriella Jone
s you were after? Well, answer me, girl!
But Ivy could find nothing to say. She slowly slid off the edge of the bed, down on to the rag rug made by her mother in winter evenings long ago, and curled up like a child, closing her eyes tight against a hostile world.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Gabriella gathered her music together and put it into her old brown music case, the one she had had at school, and had promised to give to Octavia if she wanted to follow her mother's career in teaching music.
'That old thing?' Octavia had said. 'No thanks. I'm going to be a model, anyway, marry some rich old man who'll die quickly and leave me lots of money to enjoy myself.'
It was a bitterly cold evening, and Gabriella looked at her cosy sitting room with some regret. Greg had built up a big log fire, and sat buried behind the newspaper in his deep armchair.
'Hope not to be too late back,' she said, wrapping her scarf several times round her neck. Greg did not answer, and she walked over to him.
'Greg, you might say good luck, or something,' she said.
He put down the paper with deliberation and looked up at her.
'It's only the dress rehearsal, isn't it?' he said. 'I'll save the good wishes for tomorrow night.'
Gabriella frowned. 'Is something wrong, Greg?' she said. He shook his head and began to read.
'It's not that ridiculous thing Robert said that night, is it? You're not still brooding about that?'
'Don't be silly, Gabriella,' he said. 'You'd better be going, you don't want to be late.'
'Is it Octavia, then, is there something you're not telling me?'
'Gabriella, there is nothing wrong ...and I have never kept anything important from you, you know that. I hope you can say the same thing. And now leave me in peace, there's a good girl.'
It is what Robert said, thought Gabriella. Sophie Brooks has been very off with me ever since, and Doreen and Peggy have been giving me funny looks. And then there's old Ivy, dripping her poison all over the village. She's probably been spreading untruths, as usual. Perhaps I shouldn't have moved her to the back row, mortally offended her, no doubt.
Most of the company, including Susan Standing, were already in the church, and from the excited level of conversation Gabriella knew that tension was mounting. It was all very well to sing just for themselves, and have a lot of fun doing it, but now the prospect of an audience was sending shivers through many of them.
'Here she comes,' said Nigel Brooks, dignified in his full cassock, his face shining with benevolence and encouragement.
'Hello, everyone,' said Gabriella, forcing her mind back to the concert, and the importance of conveying confidence to her nervous choir.
'Take your places, and we'll make a start,' she said.
'Remember the stopwatch, Colin?'
'Yes, Miss!' said Colin, full of good cheer.
The Reverend Nigel Brooks had stepped forward to welcome the invisible audience and announce the first item, when the door opened and Ellen Biggs hobbled in. She looked cold and furious, and Nigel halted mid-sentence.
'Ellen,' he said, 'come along in, we're just about to start.'
'Where is she?' said Ellen, her voice cracked and gruff with the cold.
'Where is who?'
'Ivy,' said Ellen. 'Ivy Beasley- where is she?'
Nobody had noticed Ivy's absence, but now they all began to talk at once, and Gabriella moved into her conductor's position.
'Quiet, please, everybody, quiet.' She took Ellen's arm and helped her up the chancel steps into the altos, telling her to keep on her scarf and gloves until she had warmed up.
'Anybody seen Miss Beasley?' said Nigel. He turned and looked at the choir, his face genuinely concerned.
Nobody had, and various suggestions of indisposition and unexpected visitors were put forward.
'Well, it's most unlike her to be late.' said Gabriella, 'but we must begin.' She looked at Nigel.
'Will you do the welcome again?' she said, and nodded to Colin Osman, who restarted his stopwatch with a flourish.
It was a ragged, unsatisfactory dress rehearsal, and, despite her best efforts, Gabriella felt the choir's exuberance draining away. By the end of the programme, everyone looked miserable and low. Small groups formed as usual, but the conversation was quiet, desultory.
Sophie Brooks found herself at odds with the rest. She had a nasty, mean feeling of pleasure that things had not gone well. I don't care, she thought, if it is a disaster. In fact, I rather hope it is a disaster, then Nigel and his beloved Gabriella will stop preening themselves like a couple of love birds and get back to their proper work and families.
'Now, everyone,' said Nigel, standing on the chancel steps, 'you know what they say, a bad dress rehearsal means a good performance, and vice versa, of course. So I, for one, am not downhearted, and with the good Lord's help we shall have a triumph tomorrow night. So let's cheer up, and away to our beds.'
Bill Turner offered to run Ellen home in his van, and the rest walked away from the church in twos and threes, chattering in a more lively way, their spirits somewhat restored by Nigel's little pep-talk.
"As Peggy told you about Ivy?' said Ellen, as she settled back in Bill's sagging front seat.
Bill wiped condensation off the windscreen with an old rag and grunted. 'She did say something, but didn't want to talk about it when I asked.'
'It was wicked, on this particular day,' said Ellen, pulling up her coat collar against the draughts. 'Shouldn't be surprised if old Nick hadn't come for 'er. That's where she's gone, I shouldn't wonder, straight to Purgat'ry.'
'Who? Peggy?' said Bill, only half listening.
'No, old Ivy,' said Ellen. 'What you and Peggy Palmer mean to each other is your own business. And don't let that Ivy tell you it's driving Joyce mad. You and me and most of the village know that Joyce has been unhinged for years. You done your best by 'er, Bill, and no man could 'ave done more.'
'Thanks, Ellen,' said Bill. 'You're not such a bad old devil yourself.'
Ellen chuckled, and scrambled out of Bill's van outside the Lodge.
'Ta, Bill,' she said. 'You'd best go and check on old Ivy. Wouldn't want even that old misery lying cold on 'er kitchen floor and nobody to find her.'
Sophie lingered in the church, putting away chairs and helping to move the piano back against the wall. Nigel seemed in good spirits, but Gabriella would not be cheered up.
'It was terrible, Nigel, wasn't it. Sophie, wasn't it terrible?' she said. 'The tenors were flatter than usual, and Ellen went wrong several times. Her mind seemed to be elsewhere, and with her strong voice the mistakes are really noticeable. Then Susan Standing was stammering with nerves - she's never done that before- and the Gloria at the end sounded more like a Requiem ...'
'It wasn't nearly as bad as that!' said Nigel, patting her on the shoulder. 'You'll see, they'll all come up trumps tomorrow. It's a sense of occasion does the trick, always works.'
But Gabriella shook her head, her blonde hair swinging, and walked disconsolately to the door.
'Come back with us and have a cup of tea,' said Nigel, an impulsive offer made on the spur of the moment. 'I hate to see you disappearing into the night with such a long face. We always have a cuppa last thing, don't we, Soph?'
I don't believe it, thought Sophie, how can he be so insensitive? Does he think I am some dutiful handmaiden, who will jump to the kettle and the teapot when he feels like indulging his fancy woman?
'Of course,' she said. 'Do come over, Gabriella. I am sure you and Nigel still have final details to discuss.'
'Are you sure?' said Gabriella, unwilling to go back to the unresponsive Greg. 'Well, then, thank you very much, Sophie.'
In the big kitchen at the vicarage, the three of them sat drinking tea round the table, and, as they talked sensibly about the rehearsal, Gabriella seemed more optimistic.
'I suppose it wasn't all that bad,' she said. 'It was just that I was so anxious for it all to be perfect.'
She
stood up. 'I must be going, Greg will be wondering where I am,' she said, and Sophie and Nigel also got to their feet.
'I'll walk back with you,' said Nigel. 'It's a very dark night.'
Sophie felt sick. He can't do that, she thought. If he walks her home, I shall leave. Straight away. I shall just get in the car and go, anywhere, anywhere to get away. I can't take any more.
'Shan't be many minutes, Soph,' said Nigel, pulling on his coat and following Gabriella across the black and white tiled floor and out of the heavy front door. It shut with a thud behind them, and Sophie rushed to the cupboard, pulling out her own coat. She took her car keys from the board over the hatch, and walked quickly out of the kitchen. At the foot of the stairs in the hall, she stopped.
Ricky, the old black dog, stretched out on the door mat where everyone fell over him, lifted his head and looked at her with his bluey-black eyes. It wasn't an invitation to a walk, he knew that. He also knew that his favourite person was in trouble. He walked in his meandering way over to Sophie and pushed his nose into her hand, tentatively wagging his ratty old tail.
She looked down at him, and patted his bony head. Then she took off her coat, put the keys back on the board, and went wearily upstairs to bed.
CHAPTER THIRTY -FIVE
Ivy Beasley stared out of her mother's bedroom window at the falling snow. Her face was closed, and the thin skin under her eyes bruised and black from crying and restless sleep. She had heard Bill Turner banging at the door the night before, and finally, to get rid of him, she'd gone down and yelled, 'Go away!' through the locked door.
She turned and went out on to the landing, where she hesitated, then continued on downstairs and into the kitchen. The range fire was out, and the house cold and damp smelling. She put on the electric kettle, given to her by Robert last Christmas, spooned tea into the pot, and went to sit down by the dead grate. The kettle boiled and switched itself off, and Ivy did not stir.
