Threats at Three

by Ann Purser

  “Hello, young Jack!” It was Derek Meade, cruising by in his van. He pulled up and got out. “Just the man I wanted to see,” he said, crossing the road and smiling kindly at Jack. “How’s the soap box going?”

  “All right,” Jack muttered.

  “Good. I’ve heard you’re a handy bloke, and wondered if you’d like to give me a hand? Paid work, o’ course. I’ve got a job to do over at Fletching, and it’ll probably be in the school holidays by the time I get round to it. Nothing regular, of course, and not to interfere with schoolwork. But we could see how you get on.”

  Jack looked away, down the road and into the distance. “No thanks,” he said, and walked off with Frankie in his arms, not looking back.

  “SO MUCH FOR A GOOD DEED IN A NAUGHTY WORLD,” DEREK SAID later, as he sat down to watch the evening news.

  “What are you on about?” Gran said. Lois had insisted on washing up this evening, and sent her and Derek out of the kitchen to watch television.

  Derek told her what had happened with Jack Jr., and Gran said that she was not surprised. “What do you expect, with a family all at sixes and sevens? I don’t care what the modern generation says, a child needs a mother and a father, and a mother staying at home until they’re old enough to look after themselves. Some of these kids of seven and eight have a door key slung round their necks to let themselves in when they get home from school! And then they’re surprised when their kids go off the rails!”

  “Better not say all that when Lois is around,” said Derek.

  “As if I would!” Gran said, and fidgeted in her chair until she had calmed down.

  “I shall tell her about me having a go at child therapy,” he said. “I suppose I’ll get Brownie points for trying?”

  “Doubt it,” said Gran. “Anyway, shush, they’re talking about that reality show that’s gone all wrong.”

  When Lois joined them, she sat down next to Derek on the sofa and tucked her hand in his. “I know what you did,” she said. “Paula rang me and said I was to thank you, and Jack had told her about you offering him work and was saying he wished he’d not turned you down. So it’s on, if you still want him.”

  “There you are, then,” said Gran. “Virtue rewarded. Now could you please both be quiet while I watch my favourite program?”

  THE LIGHT WAS GOING AS JACK SR. WORKED HIS WAY INTO THE wood, avoiding footpaths and keeping his progress as quiet as the thicket would allow. He had managed to filch a few potatoes out of the store at the hall, and he’d picked some nettle tops on his way home, knowing from his horticulture studies that they were palatable as young shoots. On his way home! That was a joke. Still, this old gamekeeper’s hut was better than a hole in the side of a bank, like some bloody badger’s sett. He’d stayed in one for a single night in desperation, but then he’d found this place and had made it watertight at least. In fact, it was so comparatively comfortable that he was tempted to work on it and make it more so. But if he faced facts, he knew he should keep on the move, a successful policy so far. He’d given Mrs. T-J a fictitious address, and she had obviously not checked. She was being quite nice to him when she saw his work was good.

  It would have been a perfect sanctuary, if only Paula had not been working at the hall. Much as he loved to see her now and then, even if she was as cold as charity towards him, he realised that sooner or later she would split on him. Probably tell her boss at New Brooms. But would it matter? He’d got so used to living rough and keeping out of sight, that he had almost forgotten why he was doing it. At first it had been because he couldn’t think of an alternative. Paula had chucked him out with threats of going to the police, so he’d gone. But if she’d not put them on to him by now, she was probably not going to.

  There was still that bloke he’d punched. Nasty piece of work, he’d been, and swore to get back at Jack sooner or later. That sort never forget. No, it’d be safer if he kept to his secret life for a while yet. He’d learned so many tricks and dodges now, that he was quite capable of disappearing at a moment’s notice, should the need arise.

  One thing he had learned and was sure he would never forget. He would never hit anyone, especially Paula, ever again. The thought sickened him now. But what would he do if he found somebody else threatening his kids? They were still his kids, and he was only too well aware of how vulnerable they could be without a father to defend them. Not against violence, perhaps, but bullying and all that stuff that schoolkids had to go through. That would be the test.

  He opened the padlock and walked inside. The pheasant seemed to accuse him with its milky eye. “You needn’t look at me like that,” Jack said. “I’ll have your head off and your feathers out in no time, see if I don’t.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  FATHER RODNEY WOKE EARLY. HE TURNED IN HIS LARGE BED and looked at the clock. Half past six. Too early to get up, even though Sunday was his busiest working day. His first service was a nine o’clock Communion over at Waltonby. The sun was shining strongly through the flowery curtains his late wife, Anthea, had loved so much, and he wondered whether to get up and get some fresh air before spending most of the day in the cold, stony interiors of his village churches. He had four parishes in his benefice: Long Farnden, where he lived, Waltonby, Fletching and a tiny village, Hallhouse, with only half a dozen cottages and an ancient Saxon church, beautiful in its plainness. He tried to give them all services most Sundays, and today Holy Communion was in Waltonby, followed by Matins in Farnden church, and then home to a cold lunch. Evensong was at Fletching, and the tiny village had no service until next Sunday.

  His wife had died unexpectedly, five years ago, when she was only thirty-nine. She had been a successful athlete, particularly good at short-distance sprinting. They had had no children, and she was the centre of his world. When she collapsed one hot afternoon at an athletics meeting, he had prayed as he had never prayed before for her recovery, but in vain. She had died four hours after being taken to hospital, where they discovered she had had an undiagnosed damaged heart.

  Now he soldiered on alone. He knew he was regarded as an eligible bachelor by presentable spinsters in his parishes, but he could not imagine sharing his life with anyone but his beloved Anthea.

  He put his legs over the side of the bed, thinking that by doing so the rest of his body had no alternative but to follow. This always worked, and once upright, he drew back the curtains and was glad. It was a beautiful morning, and he pulled on some casual clothes and set off up the Waltonby road at a brisk pace. Anthea would not have liked to see him go to seed.

  As he passed by the hall he quickened his pace. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted by Mrs. T-J and forced to listen to her version of the Gospel according to St. Mark. She must, as a child, have been made to absorb the entire Old and New Testaments by heart. He had learned very early on never to contradict her on a matter of dogma or Biblical reference. She would have made an excellent bishop!

  He had been astonished when he heard she was intending to drive the WI soap box. Was there nothing this woman could not do?

  “Father Rodney! Helloeee!”

  Dear God, could you not have held her back until I was well out of sight? Father Rodney turned and saw a perfectly turned-out Mrs. T-J striding towards him. He smiled his friendliest smile, just to show he could, and wished her good morning.

  “Just the person I wanted to see!” she said. “There’s always such a crowd waiting to speak to you after the service, and now here you are and I’ve got you all to myself!”

  Alarm bells rang. Surely she was not about to make him some discreet partnership proposal—or worse, suggest . . . But no, she was years older than him, and could not possibly . . .

  “How can I help?” he said coolly. “I am up and about early to make the most of this beautiful morning before the nine o’clock at Waltonby.”

  She looked at her watch. “You’ve got another hour yet. May I join you? I am quite a fast walker.” And a fast worker, Father Rodney said to himself
in dismay.

  “I was just thinking of turning back,” he explained. “Have to get showered and togged up in ecclesiasticals, you know. My Sunday best, as they say.”

  “In that case,” she said, “we’ll walk up the drive to the hall, you shall have a quick glass of water and I’ll run you back to the vicarage.”

  Father Rodney gave up. He fell in with her now much slower pace, and to his relief she announced that she had a problem with her gardener. “He is such a good worker, but I find it difficult to get much out of him about his private life.”

  “Perhaps he regards that as his private affair,” Father Rodney said gently.

  Mrs. T-J puffed up like a pigeon. “Oh, no. I think as his employer I have every right to know what kind of man I am allowing free run of my estate, don’t you? He gave me his name and address, and that is all. I have checked both, and find them fictitious. No such name at no such address.”

  “So what have you done about it? That surely is enough to justify asking for an explanation?”

  “Of course. But so far I have done nothing. There is something about the man that warns you off. As you know, I am a strong character. Used to be called fearless on the back of a horse! But I feel I must tread warily. For once, Father Rodney, I am not sure. That’s why I wanted your advice. What do you think?”

  He reflected that she probably would take no notice of anything he advised, so it didn’t much matter what he said. “I think your instincts are probably right,” he said. “Go slowly. Perhaps you could ask around and find out if anyone knows anything about him? You must have a friendly policeman you could consult, you being a magistrate and so on?”

  “Of course I know the commissioner, but it’s rather a small matter. . . .”

  “So far it may be,” said Father Rodney. “But he must have a reason for giving false details. Obviously he doesn’t want his real identity known. Why? That is the question you need answering. Have you thought of asking Mrs. Meade at New Brooms? Her girls go cleaning all round the county. They are sure to know something about him. Doesn’t one of them work for you?”

  Mrs. T-J nodded. “Mrs. Hickson, yes. But she doesn’t seem to want to have anything to do with him. I’ve watched her, and when he comes towards the house she retreats upstairs.”

  “There you are, then!” he said triumphantly. “She knows something about him, and maybe something bad, if she seems scared. Ask her, Mrs. T-J, that’s my advice.”

  They had now arrived in the stable yard, where her large limousine was parked. In no time at all, he was more or less ejected outside the vicarage with plenty of time to prepare for the service. So much for his solitary, contemplative morning stroll! Ah, well, no doubt He had a reason that would in due course emerge.

  THE VILLAGE CHURCH CHOIR WAS NOW REDUCED TO THREE sopranos, one alto, two tenors and a bass who could not read music and made it up as he went along. Their robes were assorted shades of red, resulting in uncomfortable clashes, and their singing was much along the same lines. The popular singing teacher who had been their director of music had left a year ago, and things had gone downhill ever since.

  Father Rodney was tone deaf, fortunately, and so continued to congratulate them on their rendering of four-part discord, and the few who remained were intensely loyal to him and to each other. Every so often, they tried a recruiting campaign, and occasionally a couple of new people would try it out. But they faded away quickly, and the small band of pilgrims remained.

  “I wonder if young Jack Hickson would be interested in joining us?” said Tony Dibson, the improvising bass choir member. He had been impressed by efforts made by several villagers to get the lad to join in, and now he thought how good it would be to have a treble voice amongst them.

  “No harm in trying, Tony,” said Father Rodney, as he prepared the bread and wine. He insisted on having small pieces of real bread and not the usual papery wafers that were impossible to swallow before the wine came along the row of communicants. “Why don’t you have a word with his mother?” How extraordinary, he thought, that this new family in the village should have come up twice in one morning! But perhaps not so extraordinary. Life in this small community was often nothing like the tranquil existence some incomers seemed to expect, but when presented with a problem, or somebody genuinely needing help, many of the real villagers rallied round, as it seemed they had done for the Hicksons. Derek Meade, he had heard, was offering young Jack some work in the school holidays, and the church should certainly not be the last to stretch out a welcoming hand.

  “So can I leave it to you?” he said, smiling at old Tony. “And how is Irene? I see she is with us as usual, and looking very pretty, if I may say so.”

  She’d be a lot happier if she could be ugly and on her feet, Tony said to himself, but nodded and said how much she had enjoyed last week’s sermon.

  THE CHANCE CAME TO SPEAK TO JACK JR. AS TONY PUSHED IRENE back home after the service. The boy was kicking a football up and down the lane that led to the village hall, and as Tony passed by, the ball came fast directly towards Irene in her chair.

  Jack had chased it desperately, but not fast enough, and Tony caught it with a nifty sidestep and grab. He held on to it and frowned sternly as Jack stood looking fixedly at the ground. “So what d’you say?” Tony growled at him.

  “Sorry,” muttered Jack.

  “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, boy!” said an exasperated Tony. “That was a very stupid and dangerous thing to do. The playing field is the place for football. So how’s about making amends?”

  Jack frowned and looked up at him. “Making what?” he said.

  “Amends,” repeated Tony. “Showing just how sorry you are. You could have injured my wife, and she’s got enough to put up with without that.”

  “What do you want me to do?” said Jack, now seeing a possible escape from yet another lecture from his mother.

  “You can put your back behind pushing this wheelchair to our house,” said Tony. “But only if Irene allows it.”

  Irene was looking distinctly alarmed, but took a deep breath and said that was fine, so long as Jack was really careful and made sure they were at the dropped curb before crossing the road. They set off, and when Tony said that they were safely home, Irene said, “Thanks, lad. D’you fancy a smoothie? Hard work pushing the chair, I know. Come on in, we don’t bite.”

  By the time Jack said it was time he went , he had reluctantly agreed to give the choir a go, but only to see if he liked it, and only if the Dibsons agreed not to tell anybody. “The kids on the bus would give me hell if they knew I was a choirboy,” Jack said, and one of his rare grins crossed his face.

  “See you next Tuesday, then, for practise in the church, seven o’clock sharp,” Tony said, and watched as Jack walked off home. “I doubt he’ll be there,” he said to Irene, as he set the potatoes on the stove, “but at least we’ve tried.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  WHAT ABOUT TRAFFIC IN AND OUT OF THE VILLAGE?” SAID Gavin. “Shouldn’t we be in trouble if we don’t tell the police.” The subcommittee had met for an extra session as the date was suddenly nearly upon them and there were a number of urgent matters to resolve.

  “No need,” said Derek. “John, you’ve thought of a solution. Would you like to explain?”

  “Simple really,” John Thornbull said. “We have a responsible person each end of the course, in communication by mobile phone, and when there’s two or three cars waiting to get through the village either way, we hold up the next race until they’re through. After all, there’s not a lot of cars using our road since they built the bypass.

  “How long on average will it take to run each race?” Gavin asked.

  “We need to do a trial run,” John said. “I thought you and me could do that,” he added, smiling at Gavin. “Relive our boyhood and all that.”

  “I’m game,” said Gavin. “But it’ll have to be last minute, maybe the night before, when the ramp’s up.”

  John nodd
ed. “Good thinking. It’ll be a chance to try out the soap boxes. But it’ll have to be just you and me, otherwise things’ll get out of hand.”

  “So that’s you in the Youth Club’s Rebellion, and which entry for you, Gav?” said Tony.

  “I’ll ask the pub lot. I’m giving them a hand building it, anyway. So that’s fixed then. Trial run on the Friday night. Who shall we ask for the two responsible men at each end on the day?”

  “How about Douglas Meade?” said Hazel. “He’s giving the WI a lot of help, and he’s a big lad. Authoritative, like. Get’s it from his mother,” she added, with a sly look at Derek.

  “Fine,” said Derek blandly. “I’ll ask Douglas. Who else?”

  “I would like to volunteer,” said Father Rodney. “I don’t mind not being the target for a wet sponge!”

  There was a small silence, as a picture formed in their minds of the vicar in his black shirt and dog collar stopping the traffic with one hand, and then waving it on again at the right time, mobile phone glued to his ear.

  Douglas cleared his throat. “Excellent,” he said. “Can’t get more authoratatiwhatsit than the vicar. Double authority, eh?”

  Father Rodney got the reference and smiled. “I’m sure He’ll be with us on the day,” he said quietly.

  “Any other points we’ve missed?” Derek said.

  “Yes, there is one question. Is there an age limit on the drivers? Minimum or maximum?” John Thornbull had nearly forgotten Jack Jr.’s ambition to drive Rebellion. It could be important, not just for Jack, but for any other minors or old idiots who thought they could do it.

  “If you’re thinking of me,” Tony Dibson said firmly, “I have no intention of driving. It’s taking me all my time to stop Irene entering herself and her wheelchair!”