[Churchminster #3] Wild Things

by Jo Carnegie

  Calypso shot her grandmother a perceptive look.

  ‘This competition’s a turn up for the books, hey?’

  The previous autumn, the nation had been ravaged by flash floods that had charged through homes, upturned cars and devastated hundreds of thousands of lives. Churchminster had been no different and Clementine could only watch in despair from the safety of Fairoaks, which was built on a slight hill, as the merciless brown waters had swept through her beloved village. To their anguish, it was the first time Calypso and Camilla had seen their grandmother cry. But when villagers had gone to the council to ask for money to floodproof the village, they were regretfully informed there was no money left in the pot to help them. The wealthier ones had put their hands in their pockets, coming up with an impressive three hundred thousand pounds between them, but it still wasn’t enough. They were sitting on a ticking time bomb – and winning Britain’s Best Village would safeguard their futures for ever. Clementine wouldn’t even entertain the idea that they wouldn’t.

  ‘Anyway, what are you up to grandmother dearest?’

  Clementine held up a piece of A4 paper.

  ‘I’ve drawn up a poster for the Britain’s Best Village meeting in the village hall on Sunday. If we’re going to win this thing then we need to start a proper committee, so I need people to volunteer.’

  Calypso pulled a face. ‘Why is there a lollipop in the corner?’

  Clementine looked put out. ‘It’s meant to be a tree.’

  ‘Riiight.’ Calypso leant back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘Not meaning to diss your art skills or anything, Granny Clem, but it’s a bit, well, rubbish, isn’t it? It’s not going to get them flocking in their droves.’

  Clementine frowned. ‘What do you mean? It’s got all the information, time, date and location. I thought my tree drawing rather jazzed things up.’

  Calypso rolled her eyes again. ‘Yeah, but people need more than that these days, don’t they? Something eye-catching and inspirational, that’ll get them off their bums and down to the village hall.’

  Clementine looked uncertain. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Like, deffo! Look, let me go and post these, and I’ll come back and do something on the computer for you.’ Calypso sprang up, revitalized, and bursting with one of her frequent bouts of energy.

  ‘Well, if you insist …’ Clementine wasn’t sure. She knew her granddaughter’s outlandish taste. ‘Just don’t do anything too avant-garde, will you, darling?’

  Calypso’s hazelnut eyes, the exact same colour as her grandmother’s, twinkled mischievously over the desk. ‘Granny Clem, as if I would!’

  Jack Turner, landlord of the Jolly Boot, polished a beer glass reflectively.

  ‘Interesting poster.’

  Behind the bar his wife Beryl was sticking it up with Blu-Tack. As usual, every window in the bar was wide open, trying to get out the last lingering vestiges of the damp smell from the flooding.

  ‘There! Pride of place.’ Beryl smoothed down her tight pencil skirt. ‘I think it’s lovely, Clementine. Your Calypso is really talented.’

  Clementine steeled herself to look at it again. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ said Beryl. ‘It’s very er …’ She trailed off, searching for the right word. ‘Colourful.’

  It certainly was. Printed on bright green shiny paper, the words ‘Come join our garden party!’ stood out in large, neon-pink letters. Taking up the whole of one side was a voluptuous woman, wearing some sort of sunflower headdress. Whichever way you looked at it, it was hard to ignore the fact she was completely naked, her comely charms barely covered by three strategically placed leaves.

  ‘It’s a photograph of a reveller from the Mardi Gras carnival, apparently,’ said Clementine weakly. ‘At least that’s what Calypso told me.’

  ‘Mardi Gras,’ echoed Beryl. ‘How nice!’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘You don’t think it matters that the words “Britain’s Best Village” are rather small?’ Clementine asked anxiously.

  Jack seemed transfixed. ‘No, no,’ he replied, eyes glazed over. ‘They’re not small at all.’

  The door at the back of the pub burst open and a buxom young lady with a combative look in her eye bounced in. Despite it being mid-March she was dressed like a podium dancer from Ibiza, in a crotch-skimming minidress, shiny black bomber jacket and towering high heels. Several lurid-coloured hoops dangled from both ears.

  Jack was overly protective of his only child, and he did not like what he saw. ‘What the bleedin ’ell do you look like?’

  Stacey Turner tossed her head, her shiny dark ponytail swinging like a show pony’s. She ignored her father. ‘Ma, I’m off shopping with the girls. Can I use your car?’

  Jack interrupted. ‘Oi, young lady! Don’t forget you’re working tonight. We need you back at 6.30 p.m. sharp.’

  Stacey rolled her eyes, no mean feat under four tonnes of black eyeliner. ‘As if I could forget! I’ll be stuck behind this stupid bar while everyone’s out having fun. And Kyle’s going’s to be at the Royal Oak later!’

  ‘You’re lucky you’ve got a job in this climate,’ Jack pointed out reasonably. His expression darkened. ‘Hold on, who’s this Kyle?’

  Stacey sighed dramatically. ‘Dad, don’t start!’ She caught sight of the poster behind the bar and her face lit up. ‘Are we putting on a rave?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ interjected Clementine hurriedly. She knew the poster would send out the wrong message!

  Stacey’s shoulders slumped. ‘Nothing ever happens round here,’ she muttered. ‘It’s well boring!’

  Beryl smiled at her daughter. ‘Come on, Stace! Most people would give their eye teeth to live in Churchminster.’ She winked at Clementine humorously. ‘You never know, Orlando Bloom might pop in for a pint tonight!’

  Stacey shot her mother a contemptuous look. ‘Like that’s ever gonna happen. Celebrities would never come to a dump like this.’ Snatching her mum’s car keys off the bar, she flounced out.

  Chapter 3

  ON THE OUTSKIRTS of Churchminster stood Clanfield Hall, a magnificent stately home, with breathtaking gardens and a fountain that Queen Victoria herself was rumoured to have dipped her feet in during a summer party.

  This particular afternoon the owners, Lord Ambrose and Lady Frances Fraser, were heading back towards the hall having just attended a charity lunch. As he floored the Range Rover round the winding country lanes, Ambrose was full of his usual bile about the ‘bloody silly sods’ who populated such functions.

  ‘I don’t know who the hell I was sitting next to, but she didn’t even know her Belgian sheepdog from her bearded collie.’

  Ambrose had been born and raised at Clanfield Hall, which had been in his family for generations, and he had a morbid dislike of what he called the ‘town set’.

  ‘That was the Marchioness of Glenvale, she was hosting the lunch,’ his wife pointed out. ‘Ambrose, I really hope you weren’t rude to her.’

  At fifty-four, Frances Fraser was nearly twenty years younger than her husband. An elegant Joanna Lumley lookalike, her cool manner and unruffled appearance couldn’t have been more at odds with her volatile husband. When Ambrose went off on one of his legendary rants Frances was the only one who could calm him down.

  ‘Harrumph!’ retorted Ambrose. ‘A bloody waste of time if you ask me, sitting around drinking champagne and talking about flower shows.’

  Frances didn’t rise to this. She was actually rather surprised she’d got her husband along to the lunch in the first place. These days, Ambrose barely left the confines of Clanfield Hall, preferring to be out in the grounds walking his dogs, or shutting himself in his study with a tot of his beloved single-malt whisky.

  By contrast, Frances missed their once-lively social life and, in spite of its size, she was beginning to find the whole house rather claustrophobic. Of course, she knew how privileged she was, and that many women would love to be in her position, but
still. Frances couldn’t help feeling that something was missing.

  ‘It’s wonderful news about Britain’s Best Village,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘I saw Clementine when I was out riding yesterday. She’s holding a meeting on Sunday, to form a committee to get the village in tip-top shape. In fact, I was thinking of attending.’ She held her breath.

  Her husband gave a derisive snort. ‘That Standington-Fulthrope woman! She’ll have you litter-picking on the green before you know it Frances. How old Bertie S-F put up with her, bossing everyone around … Must have been like sharing a bed with Mussolini.’

  As they rounded a sharp bend his inflammatory comments were quickly forgotten. A large silver estate car was heading straight for them. Ambrose slammed on the brakes and the Range Rover came screeching to a halt just feet from the other vehicle.

  Frances lurched forward, only just stopping herself from going into the dashboard. She could see a middle-aged man and woman and two young children in the car, with a boot full of suitcases. The man was shaking his fist out the window at them.

  ‘You bloody lunatic!’ he shouted. In the back, the little girl started crying.

  ‘He’s right, Ambrose! Why do you have to drive like a maniac?’ Frances felt as though her heart was about to jump out of her chest.

  Her husband muttered something about tourists clogging the place up, and Frances tried to regain her composure. The lane was so narrow, neither vehicle could get past. One of them was going to have to move.

  ‘Ambrose, there’s a lay-by back there. Just reverse and let them past.’

  Her husband sat back and folded his arms. ‘Why should I? I live here, not him. It’s my right of way.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ Frances cried. In the other car, the man had also crossed his arms and was trying to out-stare Ambrose. Frances and the woman exchanged fleeting sympathetic glances: why were men so childish? But before Frances could tell him to reverse again, Ambrose had unbuckled his seat belt and was climbing out from the car.

  ‘Ambrose!’ Surely he wasn’t going to confront the other driver! But instead he disappeared round the back of their vehicle, and Frances heard the boot being opened. A few seconds later, Ambrose marched past her car window carrying a shooting stick and a copy of the Daily Telegraph. Frances’s mouth dropped open: what on earth was he doing?

  She didn’t have to wait long to find out. To the astonishment of the onlookers Ambrose sat down on his shooting stick in the middle of the road, opened his paper and started to read. In the other car the man looked at his wife and made a ‘he’s crazy’ hand gesture to his head.

  ‘Ha!’ Ambrose called triumphantly. ‘I’m retired and I’ve got all the time in the world to sit here all day. I very much doubt you have, sir!’

  Frances slid down her window. ‘Ambrose, get back in the car this instant!’ she hissed.

  Her husband turned a page, making a point of sighing contentedly. The other couple were looking extremely cheesed off.

  ‘I’m frightfully sorry!’ Frances mouthed through the windscreen at them. The man shook his head in disgust and begrudgingly started to reverse back down the lane. It was a full minute later that Ambrose looked up from his newspaper, folded up his shooting stick and finally returned to the Range Rover.

  Frances’s throat was tight with mortification. Her husband’s behaviour was becoming increasingly questionable, but this was taking it to a new level. She watched him turn on the ignition. ‘Are you happy now?’ she asked crossly.

  Ambrose just shot her a smug look and pulled away with the air of a man who had won an important battle. As the green fields started to fly past again, Frances gazed out of the window in silent despair.

  Dear Lord, she thought. Is this what my life has come to?

  Chapter 4

  THE DAY BEFORE the meeting in the village hall Clementine received a letter from the Britain’s Best Village judging panel. As well as the different categories, the letter also included the names of the other three villages that had made the final. Clementine groaned aloud when she read the name of the last one. Maplethorpe was an outstandingly pretty village in the Yorkshire Dales, and had won the competition the previous year. Its village committee was run by a fearsome old battleaxe called Veronica Stockard-Manning.

  Veronica and Clementine had history, which Clementine had never even told her family about. The two had done the debutante season in 1950, and fallen out later in an event society had chattered about wildly for months. It had rocked Clementine’s world to the core and, although she would never admit it to anyone, she hadn’t been the same person since. Afterwards, the two women had run into each other occasionally, but somehow Clementine had kept her emotions in check and swiftly removed herself from the situation. Clementine hadn’t seen her nemesis for over twenty years, not since Bertie had died, and had almost succeeded in forgetting about her. Until now. Clementine pursed her lips, this was one face from the past that definitely wasn’t welcome.

  By the time the meeting came round in the village hall, Clementine had managed to put all thoughts of Veronica to the back of her mind. It was another gorgeous spring evening as she made her way down Bramble Lane to the village green. Errol Flynn’s nether regions had been particularly active recently, and fearing he might expel noxious vapours into the hall and disrupt proceedings, Clementine had shut him in the kitchen. Indignant at being left inside on such a nice evening, she could hear his mournful howls all the way down the lane.

  The village hall was only six months old, but Clementine had been insistent it was built in the mellow Cotswold stone that was such a feature of Churchminster. The villagers had raised the extra money for the stone themselves – one of the reasons the village fund was so out of pocket now – but as Clementine looked across the green at the handsome, yellow-gold building that fitted in so perfectly with the other cottages and dwellings lining the green, she knew they had made the right decision.

  It was more municipal inside, with the usual emergency exit signs and strip lighting. Clementine had arrived early to set up, but Churchminster’s vicar, Brian Bellows, was already there, putting chairs out.

  ‘Evening, Mrs S-s-s-standington-Fulthrope!’

  Brian Bellows was a tall, lanky man with an unruly brown beard that made him look older than his forty-five years. He’d come from All Saints Church in Bedlington, a small market town a few miles down the road. The Reverend hadn’t had the best start, having been drafted in to replace Churchminster’s previous vicar, who had died in unfortunate circumstances. Despite having an unfortunate stammer and giving the impression of being in a perpetual flap, Brian was a kind, conscientious man who was devoted to his parishioners.

  ‘Evening, Reverend Bellows,’ replied Clementine crisply. ‘I see you’ve started without me.’

  Reverend Bellows winced as he dropped a chair on his foot. ‘Er, yes! Joyce and I thought we’d come down and, well, you know, g-get the ball rolling.’

  As if on cue, a small, mouse-like woman came out of the kitchen area at the back of the hall. She was wiping her hands on a red and white spotty dishtowel, but that was the only bit of colour about her. From her shapeless cardigan and thick tights to her sallow complexion, everything about Joyce Bellows was beige. Clementine took in the thick NHS glasses and make-up-free face and wondered what Joyce made of the vicar’s wife at All Hallows in Bedlington, a stunning six-foot Dane who wore tight skirts and jeans that showed off every inch of her figure.

  Joyce beamed at them. ‘I’ve just been rinsing all the cups and saucers so we can all have a nice cup of tea afterwards.’

  Clementine smiled gently. ‘My dear, you really didn’t have to do that. You only gave the kitchen a complete scrub-down last week.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind!’ said Joyce. ‘Cleaning is one of my favourite hobbies! The amount of dust mites that can build up over just one week is quite staggering. You know they can lay up to a hundred eggs in one …’

  Clementine was saved from the
subject of microscopic household creatures by the arrival of Calypso, Camilla and Jed.

  ‘Hi, Granny Clem!’ called Calypso. ‘We thought we’d come down now to see if you need any help.’

  Clementine caught Joyce’s horrified stare at Calypso’s outfit, which consisted of the shortest imaginable denim skirt, and a T-shirt with a drawing of what looked like a man and woman copulating on the front of it.

  ‘Actually, we could do with a strong man.’ Clementine looked at Jed, dressed as usual in his overalls and work boots. ‘Would you mind bringing in another stack of chairs from the foyer?’ she asked.

  Jed smiled. ‘No problem …’

  He walked off, the Reverend Bellows trailing uncertainly in his wake.

  Clementine went over to her granddaughters. She looked disapprovingly at Calypso’s T-shirt. ‘Darling, do you think that’s entirely appropriate?’

  ‘Chill, Winston!’ Calypso retorted, in a Jamaican accent. ‘It’s about making love, not war. I’m sending out a positive message.’

  Clementine looked at Camilla, who was in a simple sweater and jeans, her long blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Why couldn’t Calypso dress more like her sister?

  ‘How many people are you expecting?’ Calypso asked. She wondered if she could sneak out beforehand for a quick fag.

  ‘I hope most of the village will attend, I’ve certainly put enough posters up.’

  Camilla smiled reassuringly at her grandmother, ‘Everyone I’ve spoken to is coming.’ She looked over at the kitchen. ‘I’ll go and see if Joyce needs any help.’

  People began to trickle in a short time later and by seven o’clock the hall was nearly full. It looked like almost the entire village had turned up: among them the Fox-Titts, Lucinda and Nico Reinard, Brenda Briggs – who worked in the village shop and also masqueraded as Clementine’s housekeeper – and her husband Ted. Even Beryl Turner had put down her bar apron and come along, dragging along a reluctant-looking Stacey.