by Ann Purser
'Right, then,' said Tom, 'what was it you come about?' He looked at Greg trying to balance a cup and saucer on his bony knee, and wondered what that lovely girl Gabriella saw in him.
Greg put his cup down on the low table in front of him and cleared his throat.
'I expect you heard about the fracas at Christmas over the concert, Tom?'
'The what?' said Tom, speaking louder than usual, remembering Greg's deafness.
'Gabriella's difficulty with Sophie Brooks?'
Tom shook his head. 'Better begin at the beginning,' he said, 'but don't take too long. Time and tide and pigs wait for no man.' He smiled kindly at Greg.
Stumbling over his words at first, Greg gave Tom a well organised account of what had happened, and outlined his plan for a complaint.
Tom looked dumbfounded. He shifted his bulky figure uneasily in the big armchair. 'We never done that before,' he said, 'though I've heard of it in other parishes. You sure it were that Serious, Greg?'
Grey sat up straight. 'It was sufficiently serious to bring Gabriella and myself near to the first major dispute in our marriage,' he said stiffly. 'Anyway, I can't take it further unless I get five other people in the parish to join me in making the complaint.'
Tom knew from long experience on the Parish Council that it didn't do to make a decision on anything straight away. Bide your time, boy- that had been his father's most useful piece of advice.
'Well now, Greg,' he said, 'this'll take a lot of thinking about. You'd best give me a few days to consider what's the right thing to do. Villages are difficult, you know,' he added. 'It isn't just what you do today that matters. You have to look to how things'll be next week, next year. We've all got to get along together somehow, you know.'
Greg stood up. He thought he knew what Tom's considered answer would be, and wanted to be gone. He was not at all sure now that the plan was viable, seen in the light of Tom's reaction. Still, he would canvas one or two others. He needed to do some more thinking.
On his way back to Barnstones, he met Colin Osman, walking along with a new puppy. It was a very small brindled Cairn pup, and bounced all over the pavement, not yet sure what was required of it. It looked so incongruous at the end of its narrow lead, in turn attached to the tall figure of Colin Osman, that Greg laughed.
'What have you got there, Colin?' he said.
Colin Osman looked embarrassed, and laughed loudly. 'It's not mine, of course,' he said. 'It's Pat's new toy.' He pulled at the lead and said, 'Sit, Tiggy! Sit!' The little dog looked at him in surprise.
'Tiggy?' said Greg.
'Short for Mrs Tiggywinkle,' said Colin, looking even more embarrassed. 'It's a she.'
They stood for a few minutes, discussing the junior football team, and then Colin asked Greg if he had anything he'd like to contribute to the Newsletter, now coming along nicely, but in need of a few more general items.
'I'll give it some thought,' Greg said. 'What's the deadline?'
'Next Friday,' said Colin, and tried to ignore the little dog, now crouching in the gutter with a pained expression on its whiskery face.
'You should praise it,' said Greg. 'It's like training a child, so they tell me.'
'Yes, well, I think it's time we were getting on,' Colin said, tugging at the lead. 'Come on, Tiggy...Cheers, Greg, speak to you soon.'
Greg went on his way, aware that he had not sounded out Colin Osman, but with the germ of a new idea stirring in his mind.
By Monday, Greg had talked to Don Cutt, the Rosses, and the new chap, Bright, who lived opposite the school. He'd had varying responses, but in general there was an unwillingness to take a step as serious as a formal complaint to the Bishop. Don Cutt had advocated a good going over on Ladies' Path on a suitably dark night. 'Get him where it hurts,' he guffawed, 'that'll cool him down!'
Greg was horrified, and retreated from the pub without buying a drink, thereby forfeiting any support he might have got from the landlord.
Roger Bright, a straightforward man with a pleasant wife and easy-going children, was sympathetic but detached. 'Not a churchgoing man myself,' he said, 'but it would have to be pretty serious to do what you suggest, I would say.'
Mr and Mrs Ross both looked terrified at the suggestion that they should join him in a course of action which would mean drawing attention to themselves in the village. 'We agree that Reverend Brooks is not half the man Cyril Collins was, but he must be given time to settle.' Mr Ross spoke for them both, and his wife nodded meekly from behind the teapot.
Greg was forced to admit that his idea for a complaint had foundered, but on Monday evening he came home from school in a cheerful mood. The day had gone well, and he'd been congratulated by the headmaster on his new plan for fieldwork in the spring.
'There's a nice concert on the radio this evening,' said Gabriella after they'd had tea and stacked the dishes in the machine.
'Great,' said Greg. 'You switch on, and I'll join you later. I must just jot down a few words for Colin Osman- promised him something for the Newsletter.' The new idea had begun to take shape.
He took a pad of paper from his document case, settled down at the dining-room table, and began to write.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The entrance hall in the vicarage was cold, a chill rising up from the black and white tiles, and Sophie thought for the hundredth time that they should have the telephone moved to another room, where she wouldn't have to put on a coat to make a call. She'd had one or two lengthy chats to Paris, usually when Nigel was out on his rounds. She knew they were expensive calls, but she needed to talk, especially to someone outside the village. And anyway, she rehearsed her excuse, since Milly had announced her pregnancy with such excitement, she had wanted to keep in touch, wishing they were nearer.
Nigel wouldn't have the telephone in his study. His sermons were difficult enough to write, he said, without his train of thought being interrupted by the telephone. He had found it particularly difficult lately, ever since that terrible business with Gabriella Jones. He wasn't guilty of anything but stupidity and thoughtlessness, he believed, but didn't feel quite so sure as before of his right to stand in the pulpit and preach.
'Hello?' said Sophie. 'Ringford Vicarage- who is it?'
'Hello, Sophie, it's Peggy here.'
Sophie moved from one foot to the other, in an effort to keep her circulation going. Old Ricky, stretched out on the draughty door mat, bony and arthritic, watched her hopefully.
'Peggy, how nice,' she said.
'How are you?'
'Fine,' said Peggy, 'And you?'
'So-so,' said Sophie. 'We are still a bit gloomy up here at the vicarage. Why don't you come and have a coffee and cheer me up?'
'That is just what I was going to suggest,' said Peggy. 'I'll be up soon after I've shut up shop.' That's odd, thought Sophie. It sounded more than just a casual call.
Peggy put down the telephone and went to serve Jean Jenkins in the shop.
'Eddie Jenkins,' she said, 'you've grown several inches since yesterday!'
Eddie laughed at her, putting out his arms to be lifted up on to the counter. Peggy cuddled him close, then sat him on the edge in front of her, supporting him with one hand and reaching into her apron pocket with the other.
'What have we got here?' she said, and brought out a small fruit sweet wrapped in paper. 'Healthy ones, so it says on the packet,' she reassured Jean, who shrugged.
'It's a losing battle, Peggy,' she said. 'Once they start school you might as well forget it. All mine have got good teeth, thank goodness. Foxy says it's his fresh vegetables, and he could be right.'
'Well, this one's not starting school yet awhile,' said Peggy, lifting him down carefully, and leading him by the hand into the kitchen. 'There you are,' she said. 'There's Gilbert waiting to say hello.'
'If you ever give up the shop,' said Jean Jenkins, 'you should start a play group, you're a natural.'
Peggy smiled, and came back into the shop. 'What's new today in
the village, Jean?' she said.
'Not a lot,' said Jean, retrieving Eddie from a shelf stacked with packets of biscuits. "Cept they say Greg Jones is getting up a petition against the vicar.'
'Ah that,' said Peggy. 'I don't think there can be any truth in that one, Jean, do you?'
'Not so sure,' said Jean. 'Mrs Ross were telling Mary York, and her Graham told Fox, that Mr Jones had been to see Mr Ross, wantin' his support.'
Peggy shook her head. 'Well, I think the less we say about it the better,' she said. 'I think Sophie Brooks has probably had just about enough of it. And after all,' she added, looking directly at Jean and hoping she would take in what she was about to say, 'nothing at all happened. It was all rumour and gossip, spread mostly by you-know-who, and blown up out of all proportion.'
'Enough to cause a lot of trouble, though,' said Jean obstinately. 'They say Mr and Mrs Jones were at each other's throats, not to mention the Brookses ...and anyway, Peggy, there's no smoke without fire, you know that as well as me ...'
Peggy ignored the heavy hint, and took Jean's wire basket.
'What's important, though,' she said, 'is that we don't make it any worse than it is. It might be very serious for Reverend Brooks, could cost him his job. I'm not sure Greg Jones realises that. '
But Peggy's well-meant advice was too late. Almost every person who came into the shop during the day referred to Greg Jones's perambulations round the village. By the time Peggy shut up the Stores, had a quick wash and put on a warm coat, she was very worried.
'My goodness, it's cold!' she said, as Sophie opened the heavy front door of the vicarage. Peggy remembered the first time she came to see the Brookses, when Sophie had been waiting with Ricky at the open door, beaming with delight at her new home and the bright prospect of country life ahead of her.
They went into the big kitchen- 'The only warm room in the house,' said Sophie - and Peggy sat down at the table, taking off coat, scarf and gloves.
'How's Nigel?' she said.
Sophie made a face. 'Not really back to his old bounce,' she said. 'It's really knocked him for six, this one.'
'Have you ever had anything happen like this before?' Peggy said. Nothing was spelled out. It wasn't necessary.
Sophie shook her head firmly. 'Never,' she said. 'We've had our ups and downs with the children, but never anything like this before. But then, we've never lived in a small village before.'
'Have you heard about Greg Jones?' Peggy said, getting round to the purpose of her visit.
'What do you mean?' said Sophie. 'We haven't seen or heard anything of either of them. Gabriella beetles off after church, and anyway, Nigel is trying to keep out of their way for a bit.'
'Oh dear,' said Peggy. 'Then I think I should warn you that Greg is thinking of making some sort of complaint against Nigel.'
Sophie's colour changed. 'Complaint?' she said. 'Who to? What about, exactly?'
Peggy sighed. She explained that once more it was all rumour, but that Greg was said to be trying to drum up support for a statement of Nigel's unsuitability for the parish of Round Ringford. If he got the backing he needed, a formal document would be sent to the Bishop.
'Oh my God!' said Sophie. She sat down heavily opposite Peggy, and stared at her. 'It's my fault, isn't it, Peggy. If I hadn't lost my wits and telephoned Gabriella Jones, it would all have come to nothing. What can we do?'
She looked pleadingly at Peggy, as if there might be some way of stopping the gathering storm. But Peggy was silent.
'It could drive us out,' Sophie said, her voice rising. 'It could be the end for Nigel! Do they realise that?'
'Did I hear my name?' said Nigel, coming in with a smile for Peggy. 'How are you, my dear?' he said. 'Heavens,' he added, looking at them both. 'Is the end of the world nigh, and no one told me?'
Sophie took a deep breath, stood up and went over to Nigel, taking his hand and leading him to a chair by the table. 'Sit down, dear,' she said. 'We need to talk, all three of us.'
Colin Osman stood at the big picture windows overlooking the park, and studied a sheet of closely written paper. I can't print this, he said to himself. What can he be thinking of?
When he'd met Greg in the street, he'd been pleased to see his interest. At least Greg could be relied on to write reasonable English, unlike some of the contributors he'd had. Something jolly about school, or geography trips to Cheddar Gorge, anything of that nature would have been welcome. But this? Colin read it again, and wished Pat would come back. She had gone round to Jean Jenkins with the new pup, ostensibly to ask her to do a bit of extra cleaning, but really to show off Tiggy to anyone who happened to be around.
It was nearly dark, but Colin could see well enough across the park. The trees were still bare, black branches against a cold sky, and in the distance there were lights at the Hall windows. Standings must be back, he thought. They're always pleading poverty, but seem to manage a skiing holiday every year.
He heard Pat at the front door, and turned to greet her. 'Can she oblige?' he said with a smile. Then he saw small, muddy footprints on the cream carpet, and his smile faded. 'At this rate,' he said, fetching a floor cloth from the kitchen, 'we shall need Jean Jenkins as a permanent fixture.'
'Sorry I'm a bit later than intended,' said Pat, bending down to take off Tiggy's lead, her cheeks rosy with the cold, 'but you know Jean Jenkins. There's no such thing as a quick word with Jean.'
'What's the latest, then?' said Colin, sitting down in his chair and picking up Greg's piece of paper.
'Oh, it's still the Brooks-Jones saga,' said Pat, 'Same old thing.'
'Speaking of which,' said Colin, 'take a look at this.'
Pat read through to the end without comment. Then she echoed his own thoughts. 'You can't print this,' she said. 'We'll be sued for libel.'
'I don't think it's libellous,' Colin said. 'Greg's too clever for that. But it will put the cat among the pigeons in a big way. What the hell am I going to do about it?'
'Don't print it,' said Pat. 'Tell them you haven't got the space. Tell him that's not what the Newsletter is for. Tell him anything, but for God's sake, don't print it!'
Colin absentmindedly patted Tiggy's fuzzy head, and she wriggled with delight, sprinkling the carpet with a few excited droplets.
'Bloody hell!' said Colin, getting up for the cloth.
Pat smiled indulgently and took the puppy on to her lap. She read through the paper once more, and shook her head.
'It's quite clever really, isn't it,' she said. 'It's what he doesn't say that's really shocking. All this stuff about the problems of a modern-day parson, and the difficulty of selecting the right man for the right parish . . . and then this bit at the end, it's quite obvious what he means.'
She read aloud, causing Colin to shudder. '"Those most at risk of forgetting their calling," ' read Pat, '"are the late comers to the cloth. Too used to a worldly life, to its pleasures and temptations of the flesh, they do not see the danger signals in time. Vanity and insensitivity are the chief enemies of the contemporary parson . . ."'
'No more, please,' groaned Colin. They sat in silence for a while, and then Pat jumped up. 'I know,' she said, 'you can edit it. That's part of your job, remember.'
Colin grasped at the straw. 'Right!' he said. 'That's the solution. I should be able to water it down and make it relatively harmless.'
Ivy Beasley watched Peggy return from the vicarage in the twilight, and concluded she had had another secret assignation with Bill Turner.
Now the weather's on the turn, Mother, she said, they'll be off to the woods like rabbits again.
She drew the curtains against the falling darkness, and took up her knitting, a pullover for Robert, a Fair Isle pattern and needing concentration. She had had television for several years, but seldom turned it on. It was such rubbish, and even when she was enjoying a programme she had a faint feeling of guilt, of her mother looking over her shoulder, shocked and disapproving.
She looked up at the pho
tograph of her mother and father on their wedding day. Ivy's mother's face had a faint, worried smile, and the tips of her fingers rested lightly in her new husband's palm.
You weren't exactly the radiant bride, were you, Mother? said Ivy. There was no reply. There never was, when Ivy got personal.
Ivy looked at her father's face, straight and stern. His thick, wavy hair was cut brutally short, and his eyes had a startled, staring expression as if he were being slowly throttled by his stiff white collar.
But he was a handsome man, said Ivy. I can see why you married him, Mother. Silence.
Reminds me of Reverend Brooks a bit, Ivy thought, this time to herself, when he's up in the pulpit, serious and thoughtful, preaching his sermon and trying to change the wicked ways of this village. Mind you, there's precious few of them there to listen. Poor man, I feel sorry for him. And now there's this petition, or whatever it is, from Mr Jones.
Satisfied, are you, Ivy? Her mother had found her voice again.
Don't know what you mean, said Ivy, twisting in her chair, and yanking more wool from her knitting bag.
Who was it spread the rumours about him and Mr Jones? You had a big success there, Ivy Dorothy.
Somebody had to stop what that Jones woman was up to! Ivy gripped her knitting needles hard. Her hands were sweating, and the wool struck, making it difficult to slide off he stitches.
Backfired, though, didn't it, said her mother's voice, sharply knowing.
Shut up, do, Mother! I'm getting this all wrong. Can't change the subject, Ivy.
Ivy threw her knitting, with all the colours tangled, into her knitting bag, and went through to the kitchen. As she filled her kettle, turning the tap on full to drown her mother's relentless voice, she thought she heard scratching at the back door.
'Tiddles!' she said, opening the door a crack. 'What you doing here at this time of night?' She opened the door wider, and the little cat rushed in, rubbing herself ingratiatingly round Ivy's stout legs.
