by Ann Purser
CHAPTER FORTY -FIVE
Robert Bates's car had been parked in a layby on the Tresham road for fifteen minutes, and the row which had blown up between him and Mandy had run out of steam. The rain hurled itself against the windscreen, insulating them from the outside world. They sat rigidly upright, not touching, a wall of ice between them.
After a few minutes, Robert said, 'Mandy...' He choked, cleared his throat, and began again. 'Mandy, you don't really mean it, do you?'
She turned and looked at him, and her face was unforgiving.
'Yes, I bloody well mean it,' she said. 'I'm fed up with the whole thing, and I'm especially fed up with your mother and all the bloody Bates’s, generations of ‘em, wonderful bloody farmers every one.'
Robert's features contracted, as if someone had punched him. He looked away from Mandy and hunched his broad shoulders.
'It isn't Mum's fault,' he said. 'She's never been away from the farm, not much, anyway, and then always with Dad. She doesn't know about anything else. She just wants to help you get used to it all, I'm sure that's it.'
Mandy said nothing, and Robert soldiered on.
'It'll be different once we're wed, and settled into the cottage,' he said. 'It will be our home, and -'
‘- and your mother will be on the doorstep every day,' interrupted Mandy vehemently, 'telling me what you like to eat, how you like your shirts ironed. Christ!' she added, her temper rising, 'I shouldn't be surprised if she comes on the honeymoon with us!'
Robert flinched. He reached out and turned the key, pressed his foot on the accelerator and drove out on the dual carriageway. There was a squeal of brakes and fierce hooting from behind, and he realised he had pulled out without looking in his driving mirror.
'I'd better take you home, Mandy,' he said. 'There's no point in our going to the farm if you're in this mood.'
'It's not a mood!' said Mandy, bursting into tears. 'I just don't want to go through with it. I don't, Robert, I really don't.'
Robert drove stolidly on, back into Tresham, and drew up outside the Butlers' house.
'I'll phone you tomorrow, Mandy,' he said. 'Don't fret, my duck, we'll sort it out.'
The rain eased off as he drove back to Ringford, and as he came down the long hill a watery sun lit up the village. Over Bagley Woods, where heavy clouds still hung threateningly above the trees, a shimmering, miraculous rainbow appeared, and Robert stopped the car. It was just here, he thought, that I found Mr Palmer that day. It's a funny old world. He sat for several minutes looking at the rainbow, and then set off again, back to the farm to explain to his mother why Mandy had not come to tea after all.
In the morning, Mandy still felt miserable and confused. She had not told her parents anything about the big row, just saying she was tired and going up to have a good rest. She had not reappeared for supper, in spite of her mother calling up the stairs.
'I think she's gone to sleep, poor little thing,' Mrs Butler said. 'There's such a lot to think about with a wedding, she's quite worn out, don't you think?'
Mr Butler dared not say what he really thought. He had watched Mandy lose weight over the past weeks, looking thin and pale. He had seen his own bank balance dwindle alarmingly, and was certain it was all a lot of unnecessary nonsense. When he'd led his wife to the altar, they'd had a knife and fork tea at the pub afterwards, and gone off on the train to Yarmouth for a week.
But Mrs Butler was revelling in the whole fantastic edifice of dresses and flowers, wedding presents, reception, speeches, limousines and confetti, horseshoes and photographers.
'Do we need all that?' he'd said mildly to his wife. 'We're only ordinary people, you know, my dear.'
'Our only daughter is not ordinary!' Mrs Butler had replied. 'Don't be such an old killjoy.' So he had held his peace.
Mandy rang the salon and said she thought she had a touch of flu, and would stay at home for the day, just to be on the safe side. With only four weeks to go, she didn't want to risk a major bout of illness, she said. She went back to bed, but could not sleep. She looked round her room, at all the souvenirs of her childhood. Her battered baby doll sat in the little chair that had been hers, and the pictures on the walls were of rabbits and squirrels having picnics, going to school, playing among autumn leaves in the woods. And then her teens: posters of pop concerts and pictures cut out of magazines, made into a collage and framed by her dad. Photographs of herself, camping, swimming, acting in the school play, laughed at her from the chest of drawers.
I wouldn't really care if I never saw it all again, she thought, burying her face in the pillow. It's Mum that's kept it all going, dusting it all and arranging it round the room. It isn't me anymore. Oh, I don't know what to think. Why does it all have to be so complicated?
She considered going down to have a chat with her mother, but she could hear her parents talking in the kitchen. Dad's not gone to work, she thought. Probably having a worry session about me. The person I really want to talk to is Robert, but I've messed that up good and proper. Anyway, we argue all the time these days, and it's usually my fault.
Mandy got out of bed and looked down on the rows of back gardens. She knew every square of lawn and vegetable patch, who worked in them and what they grew from year to year. The cat climbing over the wattle fence belonged two doors down, and she remembered it as a kitten. She thought of Bridge Cottage in Ringford, with no neighbours except the lofty vicarage and the dark, damp churchyard. Ellen Biggs would be her nearest neighbour. Well, that would be a real ball of laughs.
Then Mandy remembered Ivy Beasley. Robert had taken her to Victoria Villa once or twice, and Ivy had been polite but not particularly friendly. But there was no mistaking how she felt about Robert. Her eyes warmed when she looked at him, and her voice changed. No doubt at all, she loves him like her own son, thought Mandy, and she's known all the Bates’s for years. Mandy began to dress, pulling on an old sweater and jeans.
'Ah, here she is,' said Mr Butler, as Mandy came into the kitchen, pale but composed.
'Would you like some breakfast, duckie?' said her mother.
Mandy shook her head and reached for her jacket. 'I'm not hungry, thanks, Mum,' she said. 'I'm off out for a bit. May not be back for dinner, but soon after. Don't save me anything. See you later, then.'
At the bus station she had half an hour to wait, and bought herself a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Now she was out of the house, with people around her going about their lives and taking no notice of her, she felt hungry. On the bus, there were one or two people going to Waltonby, but only one person besides herself asked for Round Ringford.
Ringford main street was completely empty when the bus drew up opposite the Stores. Mandy stepped down, and waited to cross the road. As she lifted her hand to knock on the front door of Victoria Villa, Ivy Beasley drew the bolt and opened it.
'Mandy,' she said, 'this is a surprise. You'd better come in.'
*
Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea, thought Mandy, sitting on the edge of a hard chair in Ivy's immaculate front room. There was a strong smell of furniture polish, and although a small electric fire burned in one corner, the air was chilly.
Ivy came in, carrying a tray with cups and saucers, teapot and fruit cake. Mandy was too nervous to notice that Ivy's hands were shaking a little, making the teacups rattle.
'I won't ask why you've come to Ringford on the bus,' Ivy said. 'No doubt you'll tell me in your own good time.' Her voice was even, flat, but not unfriendly. She had looked at the girl's face as she stood on her doorstep, and knew something was up.
'What a lovely cake, Miss Beasley,' said Mandy. 'Looks like a picture in a cookery book! It's perfect. I'd never be able to. . .' Her voice tailed away, and Ivy said, 'You'd better call me Auntie, seeing as you'll be a Bates very shortly.'
Mandy choked on a mouthful of tea, and set her cup down carefully in the saucer. Ivy got up and took it from her. Then, hesitantly, she gently patted the girl's shoulder.
'What is it, then?' she said. 'You'd best tell me, if that's what you came about.'
There was a long silence, and Ivy settled herself in her chair, folded her hands and waited.
'I'm not sure,' said Mandy, 'not sure about anything. I'm not sure about being a farmer's wife, or living in Ringford when I've always lived in town. I know I'll never be good enough for Robert's mum, and I just can't see myself being the other Mrs Bates. I have nightmares about that Bridge Cottage, and the churchyard and old Ellen Biggs. I don't know who to talk to. Robert and I quarrelled yesterday and he turned round and took me back home. Mum's so excited about the wedding she can't talk of anything else, and if I told Dad he'd look at me as if I was barmy.'
'So you came over to me,' said Ivy.
Mandy nodded. 'You've known the Bates’s a long time,' she said. Ivy chewed her lip, and poured another cup of tea.
'I've got one thing to say, Mandy,' she said, 'and it's the only important thing. Do you love our Robert?' Ivy seemed to have difficulty getting out her words, but she repeated it, to make sure Mandy understood.
'Of course I do.' Mandy's voice was low, but she looked Ivy straight in the eye, and they understood one another.
'Right, then,' said Ivy. 'Now you listen to me, young Mandy.'
The children came out of school, squealing and shouting under Ivy's window, and then the bus from Tresham Comprehensive disgorged its Ringford contingent. They all made for the shop and emerged eating chocolate and drinking from cans, throwing down wrappers and banana skins on the grass verges.
Ivy Beasley and Mandy Butler still sat in the quiet front room, as Ivy talked slowly, in fits and starts, and Mandy listened without speaking. It was a sad story, of chances missed, misunderstandings of love forgone in the name of duty. Ivy told Mandy all she knew about the Bates’s, and tried to be fair to Olive and Ted and their much-loved only son. She also said that if anyone asked her, she would give it as her opinion that Robert Bates was one of the best, if not the best, of the lads Ringford had produced.
From over towards Bates's End, the church clock struck a sonorous five o'clock, and Mandy jumped up. She helped Ivy carry the tea things into the kitchen, drying up the cups and saucers, and carefully putting the fruit cake back into its tin.
'What now, then, Mandy?' said Ivy, tipping out the washing-up water and squeezing the dishcloth.
'Well,' said Mandy, 'I think I might go up the farm, see if Robert's come in for his tea.'
'Good girl,' said Ivy, and helped her on with her jacket.
'Thanks, Auntie.' Mandy leaned forward and kissed Ivy Dorothy Beasley lightly on her cheek, then quietly left the house.
Ivy went upstairs and into her mother's bedroom. She picked up a book, still in its Smith's bag, from the little table by the bed.
I think I'll take this back next week, Mother, she said. 'Change it for something more suitable.'
CHAPTER FORTY -SIX
Several days had gone by since the Ringford Newsletter had hit the streets, and Greg's article had fuelled village gossip. Reaction had been mixed, from Jean and Foxy Jenkins threatening to bang Brooks's and Jones's heads together, to Mr and Mrs Ross refusing to speak to anyone about it in case they should be thought to be taking sides.
'Why 'e can't come straight out with it, face to face, like a man, I don't know,' said Fred Mills, leaning on his gate and chatting to Michael Roberts. 'No need for all that fancy stuffin’ the Newsletter, takin' up all the space. My gardenin' tips were squashed into a bit of a corner.'
'I know what I'd do with 'er, that Gabriella Jones, I'd put 'er over my knee and -'
'Oh yeh,' said Fred. 'We all know what you'd do with 'er. It ain't Mrs Jones I worry about. Not that I lose much sleep over any of' em, but it don't seem fair on that poor vicar chap. He ain't been here five minutes, but what he's under fire from several quarters.'
Michael Roberts nodded, and reached out to cuff William ritually round the ear as he went by on his bike. Bill Turner came out of his gate on the opposite side of Macmillan Gardens, and the three men nodded a greeting.
'And as far as I can see, Reverend Brooks ain't done nothing wrong,' continued Fred. ' 'E's bin a bit of a silly bugger, but that ain't no crime. Forget the whole thing, and give him another chance, that's what I say.' He heaved his fork over his bent shoulder, and left Michael Roberts standing at the gate, with no chance to reply.
Up at the vicarage, Nigel and Sophie worked hard and spoke little. Sophie was busy with domesticity and long walks with Ricky. In the evenings she knitted small garments and watched television, occasionally switching it off in disgust, but always turning on the radio or playing a music tape, not wanting a silence between them.
'The best thing we can do,' Nigel had said that evening when Peggy came to warn them, 'is ignore it. The more you prolong these things with accusations and denials, the longer it takes for the whole thing to be forgotten.'
He went about the parishes, comforting the sick and dying, rejoicing with proud parents at the arrival of new babies, planning his confirmation classes and a revived church choir. His confidence seemed totally restored. Surely, thought Sophie, the sight of Nigel flying round the village in his black cape, Superman of the Church of England, will quell the rumours and restore his position in the village. She felt herself slowly recovering, getting back to normal.
But alone in his study, Nigel brooded on the cold, monosyllabic conversations with Gabriella, and the sight of Greg crossing the road to avoid him was like a wound that would not heal. He prayed for guidance, and knew that the answer was patience. It was not one of his strong suits, patience, and he spent far too much time plotting ways of healing the rift instead of thinking out his sermons.
'Not quite back to the old Nigel,' said Richard Standing to Susan after morning service on Sunday. 'The sermon was a bit simple-minded, I thought. Not much to think about there.' He handed Susan carefully into the passenger seat of the car, and they drove off for lunch with Richard's brother over at Fletching.
'Did you notice anything different about Susan Standing?' Doreen Price walked down the little path from the church with Peggy. It was a grey morning, heavy layers of fog hanging over the wooded hills, and a thick claustrophobic mist enveloping the Green. The air was quite still, not a breath of wind to stir the trees.
'No,' said Peggy, 'but I did think Mr Richard was fussing over her more than usual. Not the usual marching out of church with his little wife following meekly behind.'
'Yes, well,' said Doreen, 'there was something about the way she got into the car. Don't laugh, but I think she's pregnant.'
'What!' said Peggy. 'But she must be past it, surely?'
'Need not be,' said Doreen. 'Their son's only nineteen, and she was very young when she came to Ringford. Had her twenty-first after they were married. She's not more than forty, forty-one.'
'Oh, Doreen, do you really think so?' said Peggy, feeling excited. It was just what was needed in the village, after all the doom and gloom of the Brooks affair. And even the Bates wedding was rumoured to be having problems.
'I'm not taking bets,' said Doreen, 'but you can treat me to a box of chocolates if I'm right. Come on, now, Peggy, step out, the beef will be overdone and Tom hates that. You sure you won't eat with us?'
Peggy shook her head and thanked Doreen, but said that she had a lot of work to do in the stock room and this afternoon was her only chance. This was partly true, but she had also told Bill that he could come round and fix a broken window catch in the sitting room.
As she opened the side gate and bent down to greet Gilbert, Peggy heard a shout from the road.
'Peggy! Can you spare a moment?'
It was Greg Jones, standing with one foot on the ground, the other on his bicycle pedal. He had been for a ride in the fog, and droplets of moisture clung to his hair and beard.
Peggy stood leaning on the gate, not making any move towards opening it, and waited as he crossed to her side of the road.
'What is it, Greg?' s
he said. Ever since the article in the Newsletter she had avoided the Joneses. Maybe right was on Greg's side, but it was on Nigel's too. It was a conflict without a guilty party, unless you looked at the real root of it, and that lurked, if anywhere, in Victoria Villa.
Old Ivy was on a better wicket with me and Bill, thought Peggy. At least we are obviously guilty.
'We were wondering if you would like to come to supper some time?' said Greg, nervously clicking his gears. 'Gabriella's been a bit low lately, and we've decided to do more socialising in the village.'
Peggy was taken aback. She had lived in the village for nearly two years, and the Joneses had never asked her to supper before, not even after Frank died. She thought quickly, and thanked him kindly, saying she was rather busy at the moment, but perhaps in a few weeks' time it would be very nice.
He nodded, complimented her on the creamy white magnolia in her garden- 'Amazing, isn't it, how those great waxy blossoms come out so early!'- and rode off on his bike towards Barnstones.
Peggy made herself a quick omelette with three cracked eggs from the shop, and sat at the kitchen table, eating and reading the Sunday newspaper at the same time. Solitary meals were not much fun, not like when she and Frank lingered over the roast and chatted about the shop and the village, relishing Sunday's peace and quiet. It had been her favourite time of the week, and now she got it out of the way as soon as possible.
Stacking and sorting in the stock room absorbed her attention, and it was only when she heard Ivy chopping wood next door that she looked at her watch. Half past three, and Bill had said he'd be round soon after two. Peggy finished unpacking a large, slithery polythene pack of toilet rolls, and went back into the kitchen. She washed her hands and looked again at the old clock over the Rayburn. A quarter to four, and no Bill.
She stared out of the window, up and down the street. A breeze had sprung up, and the mist had cleared. Small patches of blue sky allowed momentary shafts of sunlight to warm up the village. Gemma and Amy Jenkins were walking hand in hand along the side of the Green, prim and neat in their new dark blue raincoats. Behind them came Warren, obviously deputed to keep an eye on them, but unable to resist occasional running passes with his football up and down the pavement, and round the empty seat under the chestnut tree.
