[Churchminster #3] Wild Things

by Jo Carnegie

  ‘You’ve left your planting a little late. Those violas should be flourishing by now.’

  ‘Bloody vandals pulled up the lot before,’ said Freddie. The three judges exchanged glances with each other.

  ‘Yes, well, thank you, Mr Fox-Titt, I think you’ve told us all we need to know,’ said Marjorie Majors. ‘I think the only thing left now is for us to get started.’

  For three excruciating hours, the judges walked every inch of the village, taking notes and leaving no flowerpot unturned. Brenda Briggs, watching through the net curtains at Hollyoaks Cottage, was convinced she lip-read Marjorie Majors saying something about ‘being a total disaster’.

  Knowing Brenda’s dramatic imagination, most people tried to take that particular claim with a pinch of salt, but it didn’t stop the sense of impending doom as the judges silently jotted down their thoughts, occasionally pointing something out to each other.

  At one o’clock, after displaying disappointment they wouldn’t be able to eat at the Jolly Boot and sample some of the wares – ‘A good local pub is essential for a thriving village,’ Marjorie Majors declared – the three judges climbed back in their people carrier and exited the village as silently as they had come in. It was exactly a week until the grand ceremony in London, when the eventual winners would be announced.

  No one thought they had a hope in hell. They would have felt even worse if they’d heard the conversation as the judges’ car left the outskirts of Churchminster.

  ‘What a hellhole. I was glad to get out of there,’ said one of them.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said the other.

  Chapter 48

  THE NEXT DAY the Bedlington Bugle and the Daily Mercy ran stories about the fire, both suggesting it was foul play. The Mercy had a quote from the senior investigating officer at Bedlington police station, saying that if it were arson, ‘they would do all they could to find the culprits’. It didn’t make the residents of Churchminster feel any better. Clementine even talked of cancelling the coach they’d hired to take the Garden Party to London, but Angie managed to talk her out of it.

  ‘Don’t give up hope now, Clementine, there’s still a chance we could win it.’ Her words sounded hollow, even to Angie. The only good news was that Jack Turner continued to gain strength in hospital. His consultant had warned him he’d have to take things easy for a while, and Jack joked that his recovery was being hindered, rather than helped, by the rather unpalatable home-cooked meals Stacey kept bringing in for him. He reflected ruefully – as he nearly broke a tooth on yet another rock-hard dumpling – that his daughter might take after her mother in feistiness, but definitely hadn’t inherited her kitchen skills.

  Twenty-four hours later, the villagers got the news they’d been dreading. The fire had been started deliberately in a potting shed beside the church. A full investigation was now underway, even though the police admitted they had little to go on. Meanwhile the skeleton of St Bartholomew’s stood, barely able to support itself, as the insurance company started their own inquiry. Early conservative estimates put the cost of repair at two million pounds.

  People dealt with the blow in different ways. At the Maltings, Angie and Freddie had pulled out of the wine cellar a hugely expensive burgundy they’d been saving for a special occasion, and commiserated with each other at dinner. Brenda Briggs started a ‘Save Barts’ collection, and came back from Bedlington market square one day with the grand total of fifteen pounds and twenty-seven pence, plus a randy war veteran’s phone number. It wouldn’t even buy a new pew cushion, but she felt so desperate she had to do something. It was a desperation echoed round the village. There was no way they’d win the competition now.

  Camilla sidled up to Jed and put her arms round him. He tried to hide the flinch too late. Hurt, Camilla stepped back from the living-room window, where Jed had been staring out in the direction of St Bartholomew’s. Instead, he tried for a smile.

  ‘Hey, you startled me.’

  Camilla remembered the times he used to pounce on her round the cottage, pulling her into the downstairs loo for a quickie. How long ago those carefree days seemed now.

  He nodded out of the window.

  ‘I was just looking at the church. What a bloody mess.’

  She gave a small smile.

  ‘Would a neck rub make things any better? You seem awfully tense.’

  By the look on his face, one would have thought Camilla had produced an air rifle from her pocket and announced she was going to shoot him in the kneecap.

  ‘I should get back to work,’ he said hurriedly and left.

  Afterwards Camilla wandered dejectedly from room to room. She’d worked so hard to make their own little nest here, from the photos adorning every wall to the hand-stitched patchwork cushion on the old rocking chair in the kitchen. Most recently, her thoughts had turned towards creating a home for their family. Camilla sighed, their conversations about trying for kids seemed almost unreal now. What if Jed had taken the lump in his testicle as some sort of sign he wasn’t cut out to be a dad after all? Perhaps, rather than revelling in domestic bliss as she did, Jed was finding the whole thing suffocating. It was a horrible moment of realization.

  He doesn’t even want to be in the same room as me, she thought miserably. Where on earth could they go from here?

  ‘Frannie? It’s me. Can you come over? I need to talk to you.’

  Frances paused. ‘You must have a sixth sense, I was about to call. There’s something I need to discuss with you as well, actually.’

  Devon sounded pleased. ‘Really? That’s great! See you soon.’

  ‘I’ll be over in thirty minutes.’

  Heart thumping, Frances put the receiver down. She had replayed the approaching moment so many times in her head, and what she would say to Ambrose, that her brain was starting to physically hurt. She had agonized over it at length, Frances knew what she was contemplating would cause huge ructions and leave people reeling. Her life would be changed irreversibly. Terrifying and exciting as the prospect was, the only way Frances would ever know if it was the right thing to do was to make the jump. She’d have to deal with the rest as it came at her.

  Devon was already waiting on the doorstep as Frances pulled up. Even from twenty feet away she could see the anxiety etched on his face. He obviously had something big to say. Her stomach did a somersault.

  ‘Princess!’ He came over and opened her door. Frances unfolded her long legs and got out. Devon’s heart did a thump, God she was sexy!

  ‘Hello, Devon.’ They kissed on both cheeks, before Devon moved in for a kiss on the lips. Closing her eyes, Frances savoured his soft dry lips against hers, the taste of his woody aftershave.

  Devon drew back and smiled. ‘Come on in.’ Taking her by the hand, he led her in and through to one of the two garish living rooms. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Water, thank you.’

  ‘Still, sparkling?’

  ‘Tap water is fine.’ Frances tried to settle herself back on the uncomfortable settee, which was covered in glittery Union Jacks and guitars. Above the fireplace hung a huge painting of a topless cartoon woman, snakes writhing around her provocatively. Frances chose not to look where one snake’s tail was going.

  Devon returned after a few moments with two glasses of water. He slopped Frances’s one as he put it down. ‘Shit, sorry!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Frances said. Devon seemed almost as nervous as she was. He sat down in a chair opposite her, took a sip of his water, put it down and picked it up again.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  Devon looked at her. ‘Mouth’s dry.’ He took a big gulp of his water and put the glass down decisively. ‘I’m leaving. I’ve got a buyer for Byron Heights and all me business in London’s been taken care of.’

  Frances felt like a leaden weight had suddenly appeared in her stomach. She had known Devon would have to leave soon, but it still was a shock to hear him say it. ‘When?’

  ‘Ne
xt week. Honolulu flight out of Heathrow.’

  There was silence. Frances looked down at her hands, not sure what to say.

  ‘Frannie, don’t be sad.’

  Something in Devon’s voice made her look up.

  He was smiling at her tentatively. ‘I’ve booked two tickets.’

  ‘Two tickets?’ she asked, not understanding.

  Devon broke into a big grin. ‘Yeah, two tickets! I want you to come with me, you doughnut!’ Bounding across the room, he took her hands in his. ‘I know it’s presumptuous, and I know what I’m asking you to give up. But I can give you a better life, princess! You want excitement and fun; we can tour the world with my music, go wherever we want, do whatever we want to do. The roadies will take a bit of getting used to, but they’re good lads really.’

  ‘Oh, Devon,’ she said softly. He saw the hesitation in her eyes.

  ‘It won’t be rough and ready; I’ll make sure we stay in the best places. You’ll be Devon Cornwall’s girlfriend, people will roll the red carpet out for us!’

  She exhaled and looked down again.

  Devon looked anxious. ‘What’s wrong? I know it’s not a decision you’re gonna take lightly, but I thought you’d be pleased. It’s your ticket out of Churchminster!’

  It was her who gripped his hands this time. ‘Devon, I want to start by saying you are one of the most wonderful, special people I have ever met, and you will always hold a very dear place in my heart. Most of all, you’ve taught me how to have fun again.’

  ‘Ay up, don’t like the sound of this,’ he joked, but the alarm was evident in his face.

  ‘You’re probably not going to believe this.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m going travelling.’

  His mouth gaped open. ‘You’re having a giraffe?’

  Frances gave a ghost of a smile. ‘Sounds like complete madness, doesn’t it? Lady Fraser donning her backpack and taking off. I’ve already asked Camilla Standington-Fulthrope to organize a tour for me. I’m going to Africa, to travel around and also do some charity work. Something that really fulfils me.’

  Devon still couldn’t quite take it in. ‘Frances, you’ll be lugging a big rucksack about, not being able to wash for days.’ Devon’s eyes widened in horror. ‘I’ve heard they’ve got rats the size of cats over there! And what about the snakes?’

  ‘And scorpions and Black Widows and angry lions,’ she laughed. ‘Yes, I know I’ve got all that to come.’

  He stared at her, not comprehending. ‘But with me you’d have five-star hotels and private jets! I could give you an amazing life, princess.’

  ‘But Devon, don’t you see? It will be your life.’ Frances gripped his hands harder. ‘All my life I’ve been dictated to by men and rules and conventions. I’ve spent thirty-five years being the wife of Sir Ambrose Fraser, and it’s time for a change.’ She laughed. ‘I can’t quite believe it’s taken me to the age of fifty-four, but I’m ready. I want to travel the world, meet new people and have amazing experiences, not worry about where to place so-and-so at the table, and my bloody duty.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have any of the la-di-da stuff with me,’ he offered. ‘I still hold my knife like a pen and burp at the dinner table.’

  She gave him a sad smile. ‘You know what I mean.’

  And, despite it all, he did. They’d been through this before, when Frances had ended their affair in a fit of guilt about her family and her elevated position in society. Now she was doing something for herself – she needed to get out and taste life on her own terms, just as he had done. Devon only wished he’d met more members of the aristocracy that were as honourable and noble-hearted as his Frances.

  His Frances. With a dreadful wrench, he realized she would never be that. ‘Oh, Frannie, I’m gonna miss you,’ he said, his voice hoarse with grief.

  She put her arms round him, tears running down her cheeks. ‘You’ll always be my Devon.’

  By the time Frances got back to Clanfield Hall, she had composed herself. She and Devon had had a heartfelt farewell, which, if she’d been weaker-willed, would have culminated in him carrying her upstairs into the bedroom. She still fancied and loved him in her own way, and that was the hardest part. But Frances knew she had to start putting her own needs first, and, romantic as it sounded, letting a rock star sweep her off into the sunset was not among them. They’d promised to keep in contact and Frances had no doubt that they would, but she knew the bond had been broken. For the first time in her life, she was about to embark on something entirely alone.

  ‘Ambrose!’ Frances didn’t wait for an answer and went straight in. Her husband looked up from behind his desk. The Racing Post was spread open in front of him. He didn’t look happy at being interrupted.

  ‘Yes, Frances?’

  ‘We need to talk,’ she said firmly, sitting down opposite him.

  ‘About what? Can’t it wait until dinner?’

  ‘This is important, Ambrose.’

  He sighed heavily, leaning back in the chair. ‘Well? I’ve said we’ll donate to the church fund, haven’t I?’

  This time she came straight out with it. ‘I’m going travelling. To Africa. For six months.’

  Ambrose’s mouth fell slack, before he let out a roar of laughter. ‘Very good, Frances! I’d forgotten you could be quite so funny.’

  She shot him a look. ‘I mean it! I am sick to death of life on this bloody estate and I need a new challenge. I want to be me, Frances, not just a wife or daughter, or some silly Debrett’s entry. Do you understand?’

  Ambrose saw the determined glint in his wife’s eye. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Frances folded her arms. ‘While I’m away I want you to go for anger management lessons, and when I get back, we are going for marriage counselling. That’s if you want to save this marriage, Ambrose. I expect you’ll have a lot to think about while I’m away.’

  ‘Anger management!’ he said, incredulously. ‘Anger management? I don’t need some new fangled claptrap, of all the bloody stupid things …’

  ‘Just listen to yourself!’ she cried. ‘You’re off again, and you don’t even realize it. Do you even think about what it’s like for me, treading on eggshells day in and day out?’

  He looked genuinely shocked. ‘I’m not that bad, am I?’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ she replied quietly. ‘And if you don’t do something about your temper, Ambrose, there is a good chance I will leave you. It has become intolerable.’

  Shamefaced, he stared down at the desk.

  ‘Oh Frances.’

  There was something in his voice that made her look at him. He sank back into the chair. ‘I know I’m a bugger to live with.’

  ‘At least that’s something we agree on,’ she said, but her voice had lost some of its anger.

  Ambrose rubbed the bridge of his nose, something he only did when he was tired or upset. ‘Life seems so much harder these days. I’m getting old, Frances. Clanfield is going on as always, stronger than ever. While I … I hate being old, Frances.’

  ‘We all get old, Ambrose,’ she said gently. He shook his head.

  ‘You’ve still got your life ahead of you, you don’t need an old man like me holding you back.’ He grinned boyishly, a flash of the old Ambrose. ‘Don’t know how I bloody got you in the first place.’

  Frances leaned forward and took his hand in hers across the desk. ‘I had no idea you felt like that. You should have said something.’

  ‘Ditto,’ he said wrily.

  She sighed. ‘Oh heavens, what a pair we are!’

  They looked at each other and burst into laughter. It was the first time in a long time and it felt wonderful.

  ‘Are you going to go to the classes?’ she asked eventually.

  He rolled his eyes humorously. ‘If it makes you happy.’

  ‘No. I want you to be happy.’ She gave him a look. ‘Life is what you make of it, Ambrose, no matter what age you are.’

  They fell silent for a
moment.

  ‘Africa, you say?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Malawi, Botswana and Namibia to be precise,’ she said. ‘Then on to Kenya to help build a new sanitation block for one of the poorest villages.’

  He blew out heavily, considering. ‘What will the likes of Lady Adelaide Horsworth say about you gallivanting around in some African country, elbow-deep in crap?’

  ‘Quite frankly, I don’t care,’ said Frances.

  Ambrose grinned, a cheeky glint in his eye that took thirty years off him. ‘You know what, Frances, I don’t give a damn, either. You go and show those bourgeois types what you’re made of.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I intend to do,’ said Frances. Walking round, she leant down and planted a soft kiss on her husband’s lips, before sweeping gracefully to the door.

  Ambrose watched her. ‘You go get ’em Frances!’

  She paused and winked. Ambrose guffawed.

  When the door closed he settled back in his chair and a more serious look fell over his face. It had terrified him realizing just how close he’d come to losing her. From now on, Ambrose was going to try his damnedest not to.

  Chapter 49

  THE BRITAIN’S BEST Village ceremony was just three days away. Everyone was putting a brave face on and saying how much they were looking forward to it, but inside was a different matter. For Calypso, it was even worse. Her grandmother was still devastated by the desecration of the church; while Calypso was still struggling with Rafe’s betrayal and the mess he’d left behind. To add to it all, the atmosphere in the cottage was getting worse by the minute. It hadn’t escaped Calypso’s notice that Jed was acting weirdly again. She didn’t know what to say to her sister. While Camilla was as lovely and sweet as always and making sure Calypso was all right, she could see her older sister had her own problems. What a bloody mess!

  The office was suffocating her today and Calypso decided she needed some fresh air to try and clear her head. She slipped out the garden gate at Fairoaks and started to make her way down the narrow lane to The Meadows. She hadn’t gone fifty yards before a car pulled up beside her.