by Jo Carnegie
‘Bloody disgrace,’ shouted Brenda Briggs. ‘If the police didn’t spend so much time giving out speeding tickets to anyone who goes above 15 mph through Bedlington town centre, they’d have this lot by now!’
‘Angie and I had a run-in with some yobbo from Bedlington the other day,’ boomed Lucinda. ‘I bet it was him!’
‘Unless we install CCTV cameras on the village green, I don’t know how we’re going to prove it,’ said Freddie gloomily.
‘CCTV cameras are not going to help us become Britain’s Best Village,’ said Clementine.
Joyce Bellows cleared her throat. ‘Has anyone seen the Maplethorpe website?’
Angie made a frantic chopping motion, but it was too late.
‘Website? What website?’ Clementine said.
‘Er, they’ve got their own website,’ said Angie.
Clementine was a bit behind the times. ‘And what’s on it? Why has no one told me?’
Several people exchanged looks. No one had wanted to tell Clementine because they knew it would only get her hot and bothered. But now it was too late.
‘It’s just like a parish newsletter, really,’ said Angie. ‘Only they seem to spend an awful lot of time criticizing Churchminster. It’s nothing to get upset about, I’m sure it’s sour grapes.’
Clementine looked shocked. ‘Criticizing us about what?’
‘Oh, just saying how we’re a failing village, that we’re not really pulling our weight,’ Angie said. ‘They’ve done it to the two other villages as well,’ she added hurriedly, seeing the anger building in Clementine’s face.
Clementine shot a look at Calypso, who normally helped her out with the Internet. ‘Why didn’t you inform me about this?’
‘I didn’t know!’ protested Calypso. ‘I’m up to my eyeballs with work, do you think I’ve got time to go searching for random websites?’
‘I want to see it for myself,’ Clementine said. ‘Come along!’
She marched off to her study, followed by everyone. They all crammed in as Angie turned on the computer and brought the website up. It was a well-designed thing, with a picture of Maplethorpe’s pristine village green on the home page. A banner saying, ‘Winners, Britain’s Best Village!’ had been designed to hang above it.
‘It’s here,’ said Angie, clicking on to an icon saying ‘Veronica’s BBV Blog’.
‘What on earth is a blog?’ asked Clementine.
‘It’s like an online diary, that anyone can read,’ explained Calypso.
Clementine shuddered at the thought of anything so self-indulgent and vulgar. But then again, Veronica had always been a terrific show-off. She started reading.
Churchminster is a rather woe-begotten little place and one does wonder if the judges only felt sorry for it to put it through to the final. It certainly isn’t up to the usual standard of the competition, as well as the hideous ivy choking the rectory, which should be one of the most important houses in a village, I hear the village shop repeatedly sells items past their sell-by dates! Rather a case for health and safety to investigate, don’t you think?
‘Bloody cheek, that tuna I had in was only six months out of date,’ said Brenda.
Joyce cast a worried look at her husband. ‘I told you we needed someone in to trim it back,’ she murmured.
Clementine’s brow darkened as she leant over Angie’s shoulder to scroll back through previous entries. Everyone stood in silence, until she stood up again, grim-faced.
‘They seem to know an awful lot about us and what we’re up to. For instance, how could Veronica Stockard-Manning know about us painting the recycling bins?’ Clementine fixed them with a beady eye. ‘In my mind it is perfectly clear that we have had an undercover journalist or spy amongst our midst.’
‘Well, it’s not me!’ Brenda Biggs exclaimed. Clementine rolled her eyes.
‘I don’t mean us. As you said before, one of those ghastly reporters that always seems to be hanging round the place, asking all sorts of questions. I had another run-in with one outside the village shop yesterday; she only put her tape recorder away when I threatened her with my walking stick.’
‘Steady on, Granny Clem!’ Calypso laughed. Her grandmother was lethal with that thing.
Lucinda wasn’t about to give the spy theory up. ‘Why couldn’t it be one of us?’ she boomed. ‘This Britain’s Best Village is serious stuff. Someone could be getting paid a handsome backhander. God knows, people need the money.’ She eyed Beryl Turner suspiciously. ‘You were wearing a very nice sequinned jacket the other day. It must have cost a fortune.’
‘I got it from TK Maxx!’ Beryl said indignantly. ‘What are you implying?’
Clementine interjected. ‘Now then, now then. I’m sure it’s not one of us.’ She couldn’t stop the thought. Could it be one of us? Lucinda’s right about people taking the competition seriously. She dismissed the idea quickly. It was far too silly. ‘I want you all to keep an eye out for any suspicious-looking characters and report back to me. Now then, let’s get on with the agenda …’
By the time they’d finished it was past nine o’clock. The shadows were lengthening on the terrace, bringing a much-needed coolness to the heat of the day. Smoke from the barbecue, which Jack had already started, was wafting over and Clementine could see several people glancing over at it. She was rather hungry herself, by now.
‘Right, everyone, I think that’s it,’ she called. ‘Thank you for being patient. If you’ve got any questions about your list, please do come and ask me.’
The meeting broke up, and for a moment Clementine stood observing her fellow villagers, chatting and laughing as they helped set up the barbecue. Everyone had bought along something, whether it was Lucinda’s new potato salad recipe or Ted Briggs’s home-made potent cider that he’d been brewing in his potting shed. Clementine felt a pang in her heart; Churchminster was such a close-knit community and they all looked out for each other. She couldn’t bear it if it disappeared. Brenda Briggs had already said she’d sell up and move away if they got flooded again, and so had her next-door neighbour, Pearl Potts. Could the Jolly Boot and Angie’s Antiques withstand more months of being shut if they got deluged again? These were people’s livelihoods. It seemed one thing after another was threatening their little idyll, so warm, so helpful, such a rich tapestry of British life. Clementine couldn’t even bring herself to think about what would happen if St Bartholomew’s was closed down. Churchminster would cease to exist, she thought, stricken. And I would, too, along with it.
Over by the buffet table, Lucinda was getting stuck into her fourth glass of Pimms. Unbeknown to the hostess, Lucinda had emptied another bottle of Pimms mixture into the jug. Mrs S-F was a dear, but she did stint on the booze sometimes.
‘Another top-up, darling?’ she asked Angie Fox-Titt.
‘Please,’ said Angie, holding her glass up.
Joyce Bellows bustled over, holding a tray of cucumber sandwiches. She put them down on the table.
‘Fancy a drinkie, Joyce?’ Lucinda boomed. Her voice got even louder when she’d had a few.
‘No, thank you, Lucinda. I never drink on the day of our Lord.’ Joyce poured herself a glass of Clementine’s home-made ginger beer instead. ‘Are you enjoying your Garden Party duties?’ she asked eagerly. ‘I’m simply thrilled with the progress of the hyacinths in the churchyard, they look wonderful!’
‘Wonderful!’ echoed Lucinda. A mischievous glint entered her eye.
‘Actually, Angie and I found a load of porn magazines when we were on fly-tipping duty.’
‘Oh!’ squeaked Joyce, going bright pink.
Angie shot Lucinda a half-warning look. Don’t wind her up!
Luckily, at that point Lucinda’s mobile went off. She scrabbled round in her huge handbag.
‘It’s from the house. What have the children done now? Hello! Yes, Hero, what is it?’ Her face dropped. ‘Oh bloody hell! One of the ponies has escaped!’ She looked round frantically for her husband, who was deep
in conversation with Calypso. ‘Nico! That little sod Pippin has got out again, apparently he’s galloping up the Bedlington Road! You’ll have to drive, I’m feeling squiffy.’
Lucinda dragged her reluctant husband away, tripping over a stone badger and almost going head over heels on her way out. A minute later they heard the screech of Volvo estate car tyres as the Reinards took off in hot pursuit of the four-legged escapee.
‘I wouldn’t want to be Pippin when Bedlington Pony Club’s District Commissioner gets her hands on him!’ laughed Angie.
Chapter 38
‘FEEL MY BALLS … that’s it … bloody hell!’
Calypso’s blow job was just reaching its finale. As she paused to take breath (deep throat always did take it out of her) Rafe blissfully ejaculated, white spurts shooting skywards like an atomic explosion.
‘Oww, shit!’ she yelped.
He looked up in alarm, chest still heaving. ‘What?’
Calypso winced. ‘You just shot in my eye!’
‘You’re kidding me.’ Rafe sat up to take a better look. Calypso was kneeling between his legs, her right eye half-shut and beginning to turn red. Rafe let out a snort of laughter. ‘Sorry. It’s just quite funny.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. It’s stinging like fuck!’ Calypso tried to open it without much success.
‘I’ve got some eye drops in the bathroom, hold on,’ Rafe said and leapt out of bed. Moments later he was back. Calypso turned her face up and waited for them to be administered. Rafe started putting the drops in with the utmost care. Calypso winced again.
‘Urgh …’
‘Hold still for a second more … there you go.’
Calypso flopped back on the bed. ‘Still bloody hurts.’
Rafe chuckled. ‘It’ll get better, although I’m not sure if the manufacturers intended them to be used for this. Just keep putting the drops in.’
‘Eye eye, Captain,’ she grumbled.
Rafe looked down at her, sprawled naked with one hand over her eye. He started laughing again. ‘You might be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met, but you’re also the most accident-prone. What are we going to do with you?’
‘Get me an eyepatch next time I give you oral sex?’
Rafe grinned. ‘I think I can do better than that.’
Leaning over to the bedside table, he opened a drawer and bought something out. Through her one good eye Calypso could see it was a small box. She sat up, the pain in her eye temporarily forgotten. Was it a ring? Her stomach did a somersault. He was going to propose!
Rafe came to sit by her and slowly opened the box. Instead of a silver band, however, a stunning pair of diamond studs glittered back. Calypso’s stomach did another funny whirly thing and finally settled.
Rafe looked at the plastic anchors dangling from her ears. ‘I know they’re probably a bit safer than anything you’d choose, but I still thought they’d look good on you.’
‘Oh my God!’ she gasped. The pang of disappointment she’d felt when she’d seen they weren’t an engagement ring had quickly been replaced by excitement. They must have cost a bomb!
Rafe watched as she took her own earrings out and put the diamond studs in.
‘What do you think?’ she asked, suddenly a bit self-conscious.
He looked at her, face full of meaning. ‘They look stunning, but you’re stunning anyway.’
‘I adore them! Thank you so much,’ she breathed. She leaned in and started kissing him in the way that drove him wild. It didn’t take long before his breathing became more laboured, coming in short, moaning breaths.
‘And now,’ Rafe murmured. ‘If the patient feels up to it, I’d really like to fuck you in them.’
‘Told you I was a diamond shag,’ Calypso sighed happily.
Despite his best efforts to remain incognito while he was back, someone had spotted Devon going into an organic deli in Stow-on-the-Wold and tipped off the local press. The next day Frances happened to see Cook’s copy of the Bedlington Bugle lying on the kitchen table, when she went in to make herself a pot of Earl Grey.
‘THE RETURN OF DISHY DEVON’ proclaimed the front page, together with a photograph of Devon on stage, and a picture of the deli he’d bought his vegetarian red bean pâté in. The shop-girl was breathlessly reported as saying he looked as good as ever and she was convinced he was staying somewhere near by, as he had left his bicycle propped up outside. The report went on to say how he was rumoured to be selling Byron Heights to a private owner.
Frances read it with a sinking feeling of dismay. If the press were on to Devon, it would make it very difficult to see him again. That’s if I wanted to, she quickly told herself.
Her mobile was ringing as she walked back into her study. Frances carefully deposited the tea tray on a nest of tables and picked it up.
‘Princess, it’s me.’
‘Oh, hello!’ Frances lowered her voice, just in case a member of staff was walking past outside. ‘Have you seen the papers?’
Devon groaned. ‘Tell me about it! It was on local radio this morning as well. I can’t believe people are making such a fuss!’
‘You are Gloucestershire’s most famous rock star,’ Frances pointed out. ‘People are terribly excited to know you’re back.’
‘As long as you’re excited I’m back,’ he told her. ‘I need to get out of here, all this genitalia is making my eyes hurt. Can I come over and see you?’
‘I don’t know if it’s entirely appropriate.’
‘Let’s go for a walk then, get some fresh air.’
Frances felt anxious. She was nearly as well-known in the Cotswolds as he was. ‘What if people see us together?’ She sighed. ‘If only one could take an invisible potion or something! It would be so nice to go out and not have to worry.’
Devon paused, thinking. ‘I’ve got an idea! I’ll be over in an hour to pick you up. The code word is …’ He searched round for a word. ‘Red apples.’
‘What on earth are you on about?’ she exclaimed, but he’d already hung up.
At first Frances thought she’d misheard Hawkins.
‘Could you repeat that?’
‘I said, there’s a large panda on the doorstep to see you, your Ladyship,’ the butler said sonorously, as if he were announcing the arrival of the Prince of Wales.
Frances stared at him from behind her desk. Had her normally sane butler gone completely mad? ‘Hawkins, please explain yourself. I haven’t got time for tomfoolery.’
He said with exemplary patience, ‘There is a woman on the doorstep in what seems to be some kind of panda costume. She declined from giving me her name, but insisted on seeing you. She said you’d know what it was about, your Ladyship.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Frances got up. If this was another one of those cold-calling marketing firms, she’d give them what for. She’d already encountered a full salsa group jiggling on the doorstep last summer, trying to sell her some sort of new alcopop.
But as she got to the front door, Frances was confronted by the astonishing sight of a six-foot panda. It stuck a huge paw up in greeting.
‘Hello, my dear!’ a falsetto voice said from somewhere within. ‘Are you ready?’
Frances looked uncertainly from the bear to Hawkins, who had followed her down the hallway, and back to the panda again. She recognized that voice. But it couldn’t be …
‘I’ve packed us a splendid picnic for afterwards,’ trilled the voice. ‘Some lovely red apples.’
Frances’s jaw slackened. Devon! She looked quickly at Hawkins to see if he’d caught on, but as usual, the butler’s face was calm and inscrutable.
‘Hawkins, this is er …’ she said, desperately hoping Devon would save her.
‘I’m Geraldine Moffat-Lowley, one of Frances’s old friends! We’re going on the animal rights protest today in Chipping Campden.’
At this announcement, Hawkins’s right eyebrow rose a millimetre.
The panda turned round. ‘I’ll wait f
or you in the car, my dear! Don’t be long.’
In silence, Frances and Hawkins watched the creature shuffle towards a clapped-out old three-wheeler van painted in lurid rainbow colours.
‘Geraldine’s rather eccentric,’ Frances said desperately.
Hawkins nodded solemnly. ‘She seemed like a very nice lady, your Ladyship.’
‘I’d better shoot off, then,’ Frances said. ‘Don’t worry about afternoon tea, Hawkins, I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’
Hawkins bowed. ‘As you wish. Enjoy the march.’ As he closed the huge door behind her, a smile twitched on the butler’s face. He’d wondered how long it would be before his mistress met up with Devon Cornwall again.
‘Devon! What on earth is going on?’ Frances exclaimed as they bumped back down the drive. She looked up at a pair of furry pink boobs hanging from the rear-view mirror.
‘Where on earth did you get this thing?’
‘It’s Snorkel’s, found it rusting in one of his garages along with a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow and a 1956 vintage Harley.’
‘Is it roadworthy?’ she asked anxiously, as the engine spluttered alarmingly.
‘Probably not, the tax disc ran out in October 1978!’
‘Oh dear,’ said Frances faintly. She still hadn’t asked the most obvious question, why had Devon turned up in a giant panda costume? She soon found out.
‘Snork used to put on these mental fancy-dress parties! Found a whole room full of stuff like this.’
‘You still haven’t explained why, though.’
The panda, or rather Devon, turned to look at her. It was rather disconcerting. ‘We wanna meet up without being hassled, don’t we? It was just by chance I heard about the animal protest on the news this morning.’
‘Oh, for heavens sake, I’m not going on any such thing! Especially with you dressed like that. What on earth would people think?’
Devon chuckled. ‘They’re not going to think anything, because they won’t know it’s you, princess. Your beaver costume’s in the back!’
Frances could feel a trickle of sweat rolling down her back. Even though she had taken her cashmere cardigan off, it was still stifling hot inside the costume. Through the tiny eyeholes she could hardly see where she was going. As they passed a shop window, she caught sight of herself. A brown furry rodent, complete with outsized front teeth, looked back. The beaver even had a little bow tie round its neck and was wearing a badge saying ‘Beaver Fan’ pinned to the front.
