A Village Dilemna (Turnham Malpas 09)

by Shaw, Rebecca

  ‘Coming.’

  ‘Is he indeed. Well, I suppose we have to be thankful it didn’t spread to the church hall. There’s one thing about it, you won’t have to clear the Dell any more, the fire’s done it for you.’

  Deadman’s Dell was now a charred mess. The trees were only blackened and scarred on their trunks, leaving the twigs and leaves more or less untouched and would soon recover, but the undergrowth was totally burned away exposing rich-looking soil undisturbed for centuries and, once the sun had done its job and dried the blackened grass and weeds, digging would be easy.

  Peter stood gazing down at the soil wondering what secrets it might or might not reveal. He turned his attention to Alex. ‘You’ve learned a lesson this morning. Tell me what it is.’

  ‘Fire’s dangerous?’

  ‘And unpredictable.’

  ‘And strong. Whooosh!’ Alex imitated the flames with his hands, swooping them here and there in wild, excitable gestures.

  ‘Powerful’s the word. Never to be tampered with. Never to be regarded lightly.’

  ‘I see that.’

  ‘Good. So long as you’ve learned to treat it with respect. Like the sea, when it’s out of your control it’s your master not your friend.’

  ‘Fire’s a friend when it keeps you warm. Fire’s a friend when it cooks your dinner. It’s a friend for a blacksmith … and a glass blower.’

  ‘Because they don’t let it get out of hand, do they? Life’s precious and you’re precious. I wouldn’t want to make you afraid of life, but if you take risks, Alex, then make sure they’re calculated risks.’ Peter put a protective arm round Alex’s shoulders.

  Taken off his guard by finding himself unexpectedly in the midst of a confidential talk, Alex took a step he never intended to. ‘Man to man, Dad, are you my dad?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then who’s my mother? It’s not Mum, is it? I remember she said so years ago.’

  ‘No. As she told you, she can’t have children, so someone else had you for us. You’ll have to be content with that for now.’

  ‘All right. But …’

  Seeing Beth skipping towards them, Peter answered sharply, ‘Enough, Alex.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Enough.’ He despised himself for not being truthful, he who valued truth so highly in all his relationships. ‘If you want to see the start of that film, we’d better go home for lunch right now. Has Mummy gone home, Beth?’

  Beth nodded. ‘Will they really find bones, Daddy?’

  ‘Gilbert hopes so.’

  ‘I shan’t be a bone person.’

  ‘Neither shall I. I’m going to be a fighter pilot.’ Alex zoomed off, arms outstretched whirring about Rector’s Meadow lost in thought.

  Beth shouted, ‘Come back, you stupid boy.’ Staring scornfully at him as he wheeled about she said, ‘You wouldn’t think he was ten, would you, Daddy?’

  Peter looked down at her and thought, she’s older than we realise. She’ll have to be told. They’ll both have to be told and the innocence of childhood, which he and Caroline had striven so hard to preserve for them, will be gone for ever. And worse, what would their opinion be of him? As he’d said to Caroline that night when they’d discussed what Harriet had told him, their opinion of him was a burden he had to bear.

  Alex came back to join them and they made their way home, along with the people who’d rushed out of the coffee morning to see the fun.

  One said, ‘That was a fire and a half, wasn’t it, Rector? You didn’t see the worst of it.’

  Another said, ‘Wouldn’t mind, but they haven’t even lifted a trowel yet and it’s caused trouble. They shouldn’t be doing it.’

  And yet another, ‘Don’t be daft. It wasn’t them bones that caused the fire.’

  ‘I’m surprised at you, Rector, encouraging ’em with promises of a service and burial and that.’

  ‘So am I. Downright asking for trouble.’

  ‘Downright irresponsible of you, Rector, if you ask me.’

  Peter stopped to confront his accusers. ‘When they died they were deprived of the services of a priest and of burial in consecrated ground, so I shall see they get it, just as I shall make sure, if I am still here, that when you enter eternal life you too will have a service in this church and be buried here as is your right.’

  Gasps of astonishment at his forthrightness could be heard, but Peter ignored them and continued home through the lych-gate.

  Alex muttered, ‘Good for you, Dad.’

  But they weren’t to escape because just as Peter put his key in the door of the Rectory Bryn hailed him.

  Peter said, ‘Go in, children, I won’t be a moment. Yes, Bryn, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Just want to say thanks for standing up to them, and for promising to support the dig. I’m all for it. Important for the village and all that.’

  ‘No, Bryn, be honest, important for you and your tourist scam. My motives have nothing whatsoever to do with that. It would be a whole lot better if you paid attention to the matter I discussed with you the last time we spoke. If you’ll forgive me, my lunch is ready.’ Peter went inside leaving Bryn angry and upset.

  Jimmy called across from his front door, ‘Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Bryn Fields. Serves yer right.’ He went into his cottage, hooting with laughter.

  Bryn made a rude gesture at him and went back to Glebe House to lick his wounds.

  Chapter 6

  One of the best places for catching up on the latest gossip was by the tinned soups in the Store. There was something comfortable and private about that small area and many were the tales told in the confines of that secluded spot which proved totally untrue, but also there were many which proved startlingly and unbelievably accurate.

  Mrs Jones, getting her shopping after finishing her stint in the mail order office, had decided to treat Vince, now he was working, to a nice tin of cream of chicken soup. She browsed along the shelves debating whether or not to pay over the odds and get a really tasty one with white wine in it, or whether his doorstops and picture frames really did merit such madness. Behind her she heard footsteps and turned to see who it was.

  Linda Crimble was doing her shopping.

  ‘Who’s looking after the post office, then?’

  Linda sprang indignantly to her own defence. ‘Mr Charter-Plackett. It is my lunch hour you know.’

  ‘Who’s rattled your cage?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Somebody must have, snapping at me like that. I only asked a civil question.’

  Linda put her wire basket down on the floor. ‘Sorry, it’s Alan, he’s all at sixes and sevens.’

  Mrs Jones raised an eyebrow and waited.

  Linda drew closer. ‘Heaven alone knows what’s going on at the pub; Alan can’t make it out. Every night when he comes home he goes on and on about it.’

  Mrs Jones’s eyebrow rose a little further.

  ‘Bryn’s …’

  Someone brushed past in a hurry, snatching a Scotch Broth as they went.

  ‘Bryn’s causing such ructions, you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘With Dicky you mean.’

  Linda nodded. ‘Well, Bryn’s like … courting Georgie.’

  ‘Courting?’ Both Mrs Jones’s eyebrows went the highest they ever could.

  ‘Sh! He’s making up to her like nobody’s business; there every night, flirting and that. Dicky’s fit to boil.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘He is. Bryn never gives him a chance to talk with Georgie, private like.’

  ‘But I thought Georgie was wanting a divorce.’

  ‘She is. But he’s so charming to her, is Bryn, you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘Well I never.’

  ‘Alan says you could cut the atmosphere with a knife some nights and Georgie’s been quite sharp with Dicky a time or two.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Alan says one night there’s going to be a bust-up, and you can’t quite forget, yo
u know, that Bryn did try to …’ Linda drew a finger across her throat.

  ‘Exactly. Well, you never know, do you?’

  ‘You don’t. Dicky’s always so pleasant, it’s not fair to ’im. He’s not been so good with his comic turns as he usually is, bit quiet like, but there’s no wonder, is there? Bryn was so against him doing it when his name was over the door. My Alan says sometimes Georgie really falls for Bryn flattering her.’

  Mrs Jones folded her arms across her chest, her big brown eyes agog with interest. ‘Really! Yes, well, I dare say he can be a charmer when he wants, though I’ve never noticed it. It must be difficult for your Alan, being in the middle of it all so to speak.’

  ‘It is. Alan reckons there’ll be murder done there before long.’

  ‘Does he really?’ Hoping to learn more, Mrs Jones bent her head a little closer to Linda and prompted her with a question. ‘Bryn doesn’t stay the night, does he, by any chance?’

  They both heard Jimbo clearing his throat and Linda looked at her watch. ‘Whoops, that’s me. Time’s up.’

  ‘Keep me posted.’

  Linda winked. ‘I will.’

  That same night Dicky was at Scouts so Bryn saw his chance. He’d been working up to it for days and now was his moment to take steps. He didn’t know where they would lead him but he knew where he wanted them to lead: straight into Georgie’s bedroom. He debated the choice of cravat or bow tie and decided that the cravat in Turnham Malpas would look out of place, but would give a more relaxed impression. He smoothed the grey hairs above his ears, wondered if he should dye them, but decided the grey added a touch of dignity and authority, checked his trousers were pin neat, notched his belt a little tighter, thrust back his shoulders and decided that, yes, how could she possibly resist him. He’d noticed a definite softening in her attitude over the last few days and …

  When he’d tossed back his second whisky he leaned confidentially across the bar counter and said to Alan, ‘Georgie?’

  ‘Broken a nail. Won’t be a minute.’

  ‘New girl working out OK?’

  Alan’s habitual deadpan face broke into a slight grin. ‘Trish is great. Thumbs up, as you might say.’

  ‘Like that, is it?’ Bryn looked across and watched her weaving between the tables, wiping spills and collecting glasses. Trim bottom she had, no sagging there. Mm … he could see what Alan meant. Bright as a button she looked, so they weren’t all dunderheads in Penny Fawcett, then. He ordered a third whisky while he waited for his prey to return to the bar.

  When she did, Bryn was overcome with genuine admiration for her. Tonight Georgie wore a black suit, with a white shirt in a fine material which had a soft, frilly, waterfall sort of collar. Her blonde hair, mercifully still not needing assistance from a bottle, was kind of bubbly and frothy around her still pretty face and he felt a gut-wenching he hadn’t felt in years. The cold, scheming plan he’d had back at Glebe House fell apart; just as he had when he’d very first met her, he fancied her like hell. A lump came into his throat at the memory.

  He held up his half-empty glass and toasted her, calling out, ‘Pretty as ever, Georgie, I don’t know how you do it.’

  Georgie, who’d thought she had the problem of Bryn well sorted in her mind, noticed the jaunty cravat below the well-tanned face and thought how handsome he looked. Such presence he has tonight. I’ll have to watch my step. She answered, ‘Less of your cheek, Bryn Fields. How many of those have you had?’ She nodded towards the whisky he held in his hand.

  ‘My third.’

  ‘Didn’t know you drank at this pace. Nothing to do?’

  ‘Plenty, but I try not to work in the evenings. Too much work makes Jack a dull boy.’

  ‘We can’t have that, can we?’

  Bryn smiled at her, sensing again the softening of her attitude. ‘Quiet in here tonight.’

  ‘Often is, Mondays.’

  ‘I see Georgie’s little helper isn’t about.’

  ‘No. Scouts.’

  ‘You’re looking very attractive tonight. Haven’t seen that outfit before.’

  Surprised to find that the mild flirting they were doing was exceedingly welcome, Georgie said, flicking a finger at the waterfall collar of her shirt, ‘It’s new, glad you like it.’

  ‘Oh, I do. That collar softens the severity of the suit.’

  ‘Just what I thought.’

  ‘A feminine touch, so to speak.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Georgie realised that the few customers at the tables had gone very quiet and were avidly listening to them. She flushed at the thought that they were giving their audience such entertainment.

  Bryn noticed her blush and felt elated. ‘I’ll give you a hand at closing, I know how much there is to do.’

  A week ago she would have refused him point blank but not tonight. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure, I assure you.’

  Georgie served a lone customer who’d strayed in and as she slotted the money into the drawers of the till said, ‘Alan! You and Trish can manage for half an hour, can you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Just need to talk business with Bryn about the tourists.’

  Alan gave her a wink, which Georgie didn’t find amusing. She unlocked the door marked ‘Private’ and nodded to Bryn to follow her.

  Bryn carried his whisky through into the sitting room but didn’t sit down. He waited for Georgie to invite him to, feeling it looked more gentlemanly, which was the approach he’d planned before he came but which now came naturally because of the sudden eruption of his feelings for her. More than he ever had, he regretted neglecting Georgie to the point where she fell out of love with him. ‘Georgie, I …’

  She gave him the full treatment of those large blue eyes of hers and his insides melted. ‘Yes … you were saying …?’

  Bryn cleared his throat. ‘I was going to say that I hope for your sake as well as mine I pull off this tourist business.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Did you know they’ve found what they were looking for in Deadman’s Dell? Bones and bits and pieces. I’ve been to have a look. A bit gruesome, but I’m thrilled. Really thrilled. It’ll make all the difference for my groups. These idiots who say we shouldn’t do it, the worst will happen et cetera, they’re mad. Completely mad.’

  Georgie had to smile at his enthusiasm. ‘We could do with some nice steady lunch trade on Thursdays. If it comes off it will be brilliant. Clever of you to have thought of it.’

  Bryn somehow, but he didn’t know how, began to tell her about life on board a cruise liner and before he knew it they were both laughing their heads off, pouring another drink, wiping tears of laughter from their eyes and enjoying themselves so much they didn’t notice the time. Georgie crossed those elegant, slender legs of hers and Bryn caught a glimpse of a lacy petticoat.

  ‘My God, Georgie, you still have that something that makes a man’s insides turn to liquid gold.’

  ‘Bryn!’ She sat up straight and uncrossed her legs.

  ‘I mean it. How about it? We’re still man and wife you know.’ He bent forward and gently caressed her right knee with his thumb.

  She pushed his hand off her leg but understood what he meant by liquid gold. At the same time her brain said no. No! No! ‘This won’t do, Bryn.’

  ‘Why not? Both you and I still have rights. There’s no one to say we shouldn’t, now is there?’ The persuasive tone of his voice was almost her undoing.

  Georgie hesitated and then remembered Dicky. ‘There’s Dicky.’

  Bryn sat up. ‘Dicky!’ He only just managed to keep the scorn out of his voice. ‘Come on, Georgie. He’ll never know if you don’t tell him and I certainly shan’t.’

  Georgie smiled. ‘You wouldn’t be able to resist! A feather in your cap you’d see it as.’

  Bryn saw he might be in with a chance. ‘No, not a feather in my cap, not a conquest, just the need of a man for his lovely wife. It’s been a very long time, Georgie, l
ove.’ He placed his hand on her leg just under her skirt hem and found she didn’t resist. While he talked he rubbed her leg with his thumb. ‘You have to admit to a certain feeling for me tonight. I’m no longer the thieving blackguard you saw me as at first, am I?’

  ‘There’s Dicky,’ Georgie protested and found herself weighing up how she’d feel about Dicky if she did fall for Bryn’s charms just this once. As he rubbed her leg she knew he was a very different man from the one who’d left her four years ago. Very different, and she seriously fancied a taste of this very different man. She leaned towards him meaning to kiss him but somewhere a door banged and a voice called out, and she drew back.

  Bryn’s hand stayed on her knee, though, caressing and enticing, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘Come on. Upstairs. Eh?’ Georgie half rose as though intending to lead the way, Bryn leaned over and kissed her lips and she returned the kiss in full measure.

  Georgie murmured, ‘This is not on.’ And kissed him again. ‘We mustn’t.’ He stopped her protests with another kiss, gentle and yet urgent. He took her elbow, helped her up and held her close, enjoying the smell of her hair and the feel of her body pressed so willingly against his. ‘Oh, Georgie, I’ve been such a fool. Such a fool.’

  Like the crack of gunfire the door burst open and there stood Dicky, his face flushed with anger. In his hand was the cricket bat Georgie kept for emergencies. He held it with both hands as though about to hit a six, and silently lunged towards Bryn. Georgie screamed, ‘No!’ She sought to release herself from Bryn’s arms, he began to lose his balance and, as he tried desperately to regain it, Dicky swung the cricket bat at Bryn’s head and felled him like an ox.

  Georgie didn’t know she was still screaming ‘No! No! No!’

  Dicky let go of the bat and it thudded to the floor.

  Bryn lay in a tangled heap between the cupboard and an easy chair, the whisky decanter and two glasses splattered across the carpet around him.

  The only sound was that of Georgie’s breath racing in and out of her lungs in great noisy, hysterical gulps. Dicky was carved from stone. Alan and Jimmy stood in the doorway also carved from stone.

  It was Jimmy who broke the spell. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’