by Ann Purser
That was it. In what seemed to be his present frame of mind, Jack Jr. was quite likely to flout the law, if it was only to draw attention to himself. The classic cry for help.
“Coffee,” said Gran, coming in with a steaming mug. “You going to be much longer?”
“Why?”
“The sun’s shining, there’s people going up and down the village street, the garden needs weeding and you’ve got a grandson in Tresham who’d probably like to see his grannie more than once a month.”
“Oh! Right! Thanks for the lecture, Mum! I’ll certainly bear in mind your helpful suggestions.”
“Huh!” said Gran, and banged the door behind her.
Lois sighed, stood up and looked out of the window. Gran was right, as usual. She opened the window, letting in fresh air and sunlight. This afternoon she would go into Tresham and see Susie and little Harry, maybe stay until bath time. She could also call in at the office first and see if Hazel had any news about the local thefts.
But for now, she would ring Paula and ask her to call in on her way back from the hall, just to have a chat.
MRS. T-J WAS IN THE ROOM SHE CALLED THE DEN. THE BELL ON the board in the kitchen, no longer in use, was labeled “The Den,” and she perpetuated the name in an attempt to preserve something of the old atmosphere at the hall, when her father had sat at his big desk working on the affairs of his estate, collecting rents, hiring and firing workers, dealing with his bank manager.
As she now settled down in the big leather chair, more like a throne than a chair, she was reminded of hiring and firing as she checked her diary. A hopeful applicant for the gardener job was due at eleven o’clock for interview. His letter was in good English, clear and comprehensive, listing the jobs he had done. He had worked in municipal parks, as well as in smaller private gardens, and was looking for work only because he had been made redundant in the present climate of financial squeeze.
It was a shame, she thought, as she put down the application on her desk, that there were earthy smudges on the paper. Still, perhaps that was a good sign! At least he could have no qualms about getting his hands dirty, unlike one young man who’d expected to be supplied with gardening gloves at her expense.
Paula, busy cleaning silver in the kitchen, looked at the clock. A quarter past ten. She just had time to finish her favourite job before making coffee. Mrs. T-J had said she was expecting a possible new gardener, and would have her coffee early. “I don’t wish to offer him refreshment,” she had said firmly. “You never know with these out of work people. They’ll trump up any kind of a story to get a job.”
Paula thought to herself that if Mrs. T-J was desperate for money and work, she too might tell a few white lies. But she just nodded, and said she would bring in coffee at half past ten.
At eleven o’clock exactly, there was a knock at the kitchen door. “Damn!” Paula said. She supposed it was the gardener man, and she was on the point of collecting Mrs. T-J’s coffee cup. Still, at least he had not rapped loudly on the front door, opened it and yelled, “Anyone there?” which had scuppered another applicant’s chances.
She walked over to the door and opened it. A man stood there, and he was very familiar. She saw first that he was very thin, with dark hollows beneath his eyes. For a gardener out in the open air, he looked very unhealthy. Then he smiled and spoke to her.
“Morning, Paula,” said her husband. “I have an appointment to see Mrs. Tollervey-Jones.”
AN HOUR LATER, GRAN USHERED A WHITE-FACED PAULA HICKSON into Lois’s office. Lois could almost see a “Told you so” think bubble form above Gran’s head, and said at once that they’d be really grateful for a couple of cups of strong coffee. Gran shrugged, and left the room.
“Sit down, Paula,” Lois said, “before you fall down. You look terrible.”
“I feel terrible,” Paula said in a small voice.
Lois could see she was fighting to keep control. “No hurry. Take some deep breaths, and then we’ll have a coffee before you tell me what has happened. I’ll just finish these schedules, so you can sit quietly.”
After hot strong coffee and encouraging smiles from Lois, Paula began to speak. She described the shock of seeing her husband at the back door, and the superhuman effort needed to take him through to the den and announce him to Mrs. T-J. As they had walked through the long corridor, Jack had whispered to her that there was no need to say who he really was. His name was Jack Stevens now. He relied on her to keep her mouth shut, he said, and there was menace in his voice.
“He was so changed, Mrs. M!” Paula said. “Thin as a rake, but cleaned up.” Her lip wobbled. “He used to be such a tough chap, big and strong,” she said.
Lois came straight to the point. “Did he get the job?” she said.
Paula nodded. “He was always a good talker,” she said. “Could charm the angel Gabriel if it were necessary.”
Lois raised her eyebrows. “Mrs. T-J is far from that,” she said. “Now, we have to make a plan, Paula. The first thing is to decide how you’re going to tell Jack Jr.”
“Oh, I can’t tell him yet!” Paula said. “He’s so difficult to handle at the moment. This’ll tip him over the edge, I reckon. The headmaster wants to see me next week, to have a serious talk about Jack Jr., he said.”
“So are you going to the police? Tell them that your husband has been violent towards you, and has now come to work just up the road? Are you going to say you’re scared stiff of what he might do, and ask them to take action? Because,” Lois added, before Paula could answer, “if you do, they’re certain to take up the matter. Domestic violence is common enough, but they still have to take action if a case is reported to them.”
Paula frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, Mrs. M, and that’s the truth,” she said sadly. “I thought it would be all right now, living in Farnden with the children, and working for you. I was just beginning to feel safe, and now this happens.”
“Does there have to be secrecy?” Lois said. “Why can’t he use his real name, let Mrs. T-J know he’s your husband, but tell her you’re separated, and intend to live apart?”
“I expect that’s what he’d like to do, but he’s got these charges hanging over him.”
“What charges?” Lois said. “What else has he done, apart from beating up his wife?”
“It was at his job. There was a man there who’d come to work there long after Jack started, but he was kept on and Jack got sacked. He was a nasty piece of work, but had a friend in the management. He crowed over Jack in front of his mates. Jack went for him. Knocked him to the ground and left him with a broken tooth. Jack’s mates stood up for him, told the bosses it was all the other bloke’s fault for taunting Jack, and Jack was warned. O’ course, they’d already given him his notice, so they couldn’t use dismissal as a punishment. Anyway, up to then Jack had always been a good worker, so they decided not to take it any further. But if the police do get a whiff of what happened, Jack will be in for it.”
Lois was quiet for a minute or two, debating whether to tell Paula about her encounter with the man in the ruined cottage. She didn’t know for certain that he was Jack Sr. All she had was a suspicion based on a likeness to young Jack and his reaction when she used his name. No, for the moment she would keep quiet. This new crisis was more important.
“So what would you advise, Mrs. M?” Paula said.
Lois realised that Paula had nobody else to ask. She had been an only child, and apparently her parents were killed in a motorway pileup. She appeared to have no friends left from her working days at the building company in Tresham, and had not been in Farnden long enough to find a best friend. Reluctantly, Lois said that bearing in mind all the circumstances, Paula should break it to Jack Jr. that his father was working at the hall. It was bound to upset him, but it was entirely possible that the boy might meet him accidentally and that would be much worse.
“Has he been approached by his father, since you split?” Lois said.
<
br /> Paula shook her head. “Not that I know,” she said. “Jackie hardly says a word to me from one week’s end to another. It’s not good for him, I know, but I’m so busy with the others I just hope it’s a phase and will pass.”
Stalemate, thought Lois. She tried to imagine what Cowgill’s reaction would be if she told him. After all, what was there to worry about? The Hickson family’s problems were their own, nothing to do with anybody else. The father needed a job desperately, that was clear. He had wanted Paula to keep quiet, and if he meant to stay clear of her and his family, then it was up to him and Paula to work it out, wasn’t it?
But there was Jack Jr., a young kid already seriously disturbed.
Paula’s next request was what Lois had been anticipating. “Mrs. M,” she said slowly, “I don’t suppose you could be around when I tell Jackie? You’re right. He must be told. But if it’s just me, he’ll be out of the door and gone before I get started. Please?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
TONY DIBSON HAD COOKED TEA FOR HIMSELF AND HIS WIFE, Irene, and now quietly whistled to himself in the kitchen as he washed up their crocks.
“You sound happy!” Irene shouted to him from the living room. “I thought you said these meetings—SOS did you call it?—were a waste of time, and you’d thought of not going tonight?”
Tony dried his hands, took his jacket off a hook in the hall, and came into the room to say goodbye. “And so I did,” he said, bending to kiss the top of her head. He winced, finding it increasingly difficult to bend down to be on a level with her, face-to-face. “So I did,” he repeated, “but now things seem to be moving. I met Derek in the street, and he said there’d been a good few entries for the soap box race, and Floss has got them going at the Youth Club with all kinds of extra plans for raising money. Should be an interesting meeting tonight.”
“How about that new chap, Gavin Whatsit?”
“Haven’t heard any more from him,” Tony said. “Maybe he’s one of those blow hot and cold types. Didn’t get his own way at first, so lost interest. I don’t know, Irene, but I’ll tell you more when I get back. Must go, love, else I’ll be late.”
As it happened, Tony caught up with Gavin Adstone halfway along the High Street. “Evenin’ squire,” Tony said. “Lovely evening. How’s the family?” In spite of his doubts about Gavin’s use to the committee, he was beginning to like the chap and there was room for a sleeper, so long as he woke up before the event.
“All well, thanks,” Gavin replied with a smile. “Bit of an emergency this morning, when Kate had to take Cecilia to the doc. But it was nothing much, thank goodness. This parent lark is quite a worry, isn’t it! Do you have children, Tony?”
“No, sadly,” Tony said, and changed the subject. It had been Irene’s greatest wish to have a family, and none had come along.
“Here we are then. Look, there’s Chairman Derek, looking out for us. Let’s hope we can make some sensible decisions tonight,” Gavin said, and stood back to allow Tony to go in first. It was polite things like that, thought Tony, that made you think maybe Gavin’s heart was in the right place.
Hazel was the last to arrive, and she stood for a moment, looking across the playing field, with its fenced-off swings and slides for the younger children. There were enough teenagers to make a football game tonight, and a group of giggling girls watched them from the sidelines. It was warm, the trees moved gently in the evening breeze, and a benevolent sun still lingered. She looked up at the village hall and thought of all it had seen in its long life. It was part of the village scene, and as she went through the door to join the others she felt a renewed determination to keep it going. How awful to see it razed to the ground and a ghastly new brick-built monstrosity in its place!
“Right,” said Derek. “We’re all here, so let’s make a start. Any apologies, Hazel?”
“Not if we’re all here,” muttered Gavin under his breath.
“No? Then let’s have the minutes of the last meeting.”
Hazel read them smoothly, aware that she had done a good job. Not too verbose, just the facts.
“Matters arising,” said Derek, looking around.
“I think the rest will come under that heading,” Hazel said. “Shall we have a progress report from each member?”
“Good idea,” said Derek. “We know about the Youth Club keen to enter a soap box, and getting help with its design an’ that. Now the others. Would you like to start, Floss?”
“Yep, thanks, Derek. Well, I braved the group of kids who lurk behind the village hall, and asked them if they had any ideas for the soap box day. Much to my surprise two or three were really keen, and after a bit of persuasion, the others began to join in. One of them had seen a bucking bronco at the church fete in Waltonby. People pay to have a ride, and if they can stay on the horse longer than three minutes they get a pound back. It’s not a real horse, of course, but it bucks mechanically and it’s difficult to stay put. Apparently it’s very popular with the pony girls in the village, as well as almost everybody else! They made a mint over at Waltonby. One of the kids knows where to hire the horse.”
“Well done, Floss,” Derek said.
“There’s more,” she said proudly. “Once they’d started thinking, they got fired up, and said they could recruit other friends and there’d be twenty or so. So I’ve divided up the kids into the various projects they’ve come up with, and there’s five teams, four or five in each, and I’ve said the most profitable team gets a day out at Alton Towers. My dad says he’ll sponsor that.”
“Brilliant, Floss! Thank him very kindly from us,” Derek said. “So what are the other projects, and how much space do they want in the playing field?”
“Well, as well as the bucking bronco, there’s the tug-of-war, always popular with Young Farmers, and then ‘pelt the vicar’ with a wet sponge.” Here she looked tentatively at Father Rodney, who gulped bravely and said it was fine by him.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Derek said. “Don’t want him getting pneumonia.”
“Oh, I’ve done it before, in my last parish,” the vicar said. “You have a big board in front of you, with a funny figure painted on it, and a hole for you to put your face through, then you shut your eyes and pray. Ritual mortification of the flesh, I suppose you’d call it!”
Gavin laughed in spite of himself. It was a simple idea, but he looked at the vicar and saw the potential.
“Right, thanks, Vicar,” Derek said. “So what else, Floss?”
“Those were mostly the lads’ ideas. The girls suggested ‘dance ’til you drop,’ a sort of marathon, where each person is timed, and, a bit like the bronco, if you go on more than twenty minutes, you get a pound back. They’d need a reasonable space, and one of the girls said her dad could get hold of a wooden dance floor they could put down. They’d have more than one dancer at a time o’ course. Probably quite a few. Could be quite an entertainment to watch, as well as raising money.”
“Bags me first go,” said Hazel. “I love it, Floss!”
“There was one I had some doubts about,” continued Floss, “but I said I’d ask the committee. They suggested a ‘bonny baby show.’ Certificates for all, and each one having a studio type photo taken. Entry money reasonably high, and a parade of bonny babies at the end of the afternoon. They said it would be best if they didn’t do it themselves, but it would be one for responsible adults to organise.” She did not report their comments about responsible adults, most of which were decidedly uncomplimentary.
“Sounds good,” Hazel said. “Why the doubts, Floss?”
“I know why,” said Tony Dibson, smiling. “We used to have one of those bonniest baby competitions at the church fete, but it nearly caused a punch-up one year. This beefy mother from Fletching claimed the judge picked a Farnden baby that was not nearly as bonny as hers. Then the winning mother started arguing, and it took Mrs. T-J to sort them out. Which she did, o’ course, with no trouble at all!”
“Ah, yes, Tony,�
�� Derek said. “But this one wouldn’t be competitive, would it, Floss? They’d all get certificates and a photo. Could be a real attraction, an’ there’s plenty of girls with babies in the villages combined. I reckon we should go for that one. For all of ’em, Floss. You’ve done really well.”
“Not me,” said Floss modestly. “It was the kids. They’re not a bad lot, whatever people say.”
Gavin cleared his throat, and Hazel was sure he blushed. “Um, I’d like to enter Cecilia straightaway for the ‘bonny babies.’ She could be an example to the others,” he added proudly.
“Good lad,” Tony said.
“Shouldn’t we have a vote on all the projects?” Hazel said, remembering her duty as secretary.
“So we should,” Derek said. “Right, then. Any objections to any of the ideas? Or shall we take a block vote?” There was a general nodding of heads, and the vote was unanimously in favour.
“What’s next, then, Hazel?” Derek said.
“The soap box race itself,” Hazel said. “John has been collecting up entries already, and Gavin has kindly offered to help. So over to you, John.”
“We’ve got eighteen entries so far, so it looks like we’re going to be a real success,” John said. “Me and Gavin have been getting together over some of the arrangements to be made. My jobs are lining the track with straw bales for safety, and fixing up a starting ramp. This’ll give them a good start, enough to get them down to the finish.”
“Which is where?” Derek said, adding that nobody needed three guesses.
“Right first time,” Gavin said. “The pub is the obvious choice. Should be good for business, and a great place to celebrate a good run, or drown sorrows on a bad one. Okay, everyone?”
Then he and John took turns to list other important matters, like public toilets, mobile phone communication between start and finish, dividing entries into classes, like Sports Clubs, Local Hunt, Youth Club, rerouting through traffic, and so on.
