A Village Dilemna (Turnham Malpas 09)

by Shaw, Rebecca

  Willie nodded his agreement without looking at the pair of them.

  ‘Are you coming with us, Sylvia?’

  ‘You go on. I’ll follow in a moment. I need a word with Willie.’

  Alex left without closing the door. Sylvia pushed it shut and went back to stand in front of Willie. ‘This has gone on far too long. Get up and come with me.’

  ‘I shan’t.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘After all you’ve said in the past about how Peter is so close to God he knows the rightness of things without even having to debate about it, and you’re still flying in the face of his decisions. How can you? How can you?’

  ‘Because I can.’

  ‘Willie Biggs, you’ve been fooling me all these nine years we’ve been married. I thought you were a good, upstanding man, a man young in mind and body with modern ideas. I can see how wrong I’ve been.’

  ‘Just a minute!’

  ‘You’re a silly, stubborn old man, that’s what. I’m disgusted with you. What Peter will think I can’t imagine.’ Sylvia marched towards the cottage door with tears brimming in her eyes.

  ‘Hold on a minute, then, and I’ll come.’

  She had her hand on the catch and didn’t look back to see if he followed because she knew he would; he was as tired as she was of their conflict. Arm in arm they hastened up the path into the church and arrived just as Peter announced the first hymn.

  Peter’s beautifully chosen words, the tremendous feeling he imparted with every sentence he spoke, lifted the heart. ‘God of peace and compassion, make bright with Your presence the path of those who have walked in the valley of shadows.’ Mrs Peel played ‘Abide with me’, with such soulful passion no one could fail to be moved. Peter’s closing words brought tears to their eyes, so powerful and heartfelt had been the service. ‘Father God, they have journeyed beyond our sight many years ago, but we, Your children of today, entrust them to Your keeping, with complete and utter faith that in Your infinite mercy, You will transform the fearful terror of their deaths into a bright new healing dawn in Your everlasting Kingdom. Amen.’

  The service had been difficult enough, but the sight of the coffins being lowered into the grave was almost his undoing. He said the final blessing with tremendous relief and was able at last to see who besides his own family had come, for he’d been aware the moment he’d walked into the church that there were far more people present than he had ever hoped for. He realised as he blessed them that there was a representative from almost every family in the village and felt a huge sense of triumph. So, despite half the village setting themselves against him so vehemently, they’d finally come round to his way of thinking. He smiled at them all and they all smiled back.

  Duty done they went from the churchyard into the church hall for their coffee. Mrs Jones laid a firm hand on his arm. ‘One thing’s for certain, Rector, they’ll be resting in peace now. We shall have no more troubles, not after that beautiful service. How you think up all those lovely words I shall never know. Like poetry it is, sheer poetry. Gets you right there.’ She thumped her chest as she spoke. ‘As I say, we can look forward to peace now. Ever since Gilbert dug up them bones there’s been nothing but trouble but I can feel right here’ – she thumped her chest again – ‘that things are going to be right now.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Jones. Thank you. I’m glad you approve.’

  ‘Of course I do. It could well have been Flatman bones you’ve just laid to rest. You know, my family go back a very long way.’ Her large brown eyes scanned the crowd. ‘I notice even Willie turned up and he was dead against it. Mind you, I understand Sylvia’s had a lot to say about his attitude. She must have won!’

  ‘I was a bit surprised, I must say. Here’s a coffee for you … Greta.’

  It was the first time he’d called her Greta and whereas at one time she would have been indignant at his familiarity, today it seemed a lovely friendly gesture, a kind of acceptance that she belonged to the inner fold. ‘Thank you … Peter. No sugar. I’m quite sweet enough! About the council and the road safety, how do you stand on that?’

  ‘I certainly don’t think things should stay as they are. We need something, unobtrusive certainly, but something, because one day there’s bound to be an accident; it’s unavoidable.’

  Smugly Mrs Jones declared, ‘Then we’re on the same side, Peter.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad.’

  Bryn came to talk to him, so Mrs Jones moved away. ‘Thank you, Rector, for the service. Excellent. Lovely hymns, too. I’d like to go halves with the headstone if you’d agree.’

  Gravely Peter studied Bryn’s face and pondered his motives. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? … because, well, because I feel I should.’

  ‘Why should you?’

  ‘Because I think everyone in the village should donate money to it. It belongs to all of us. You can see that, all those people turning out for it.’

  ‘I have to confess to being surprised at how many attended the service. I just wish I could believe your motives, Bryn.’

  ‘I know it looks as if I’ve only come because my tourists love the idea of it, and that it enhances their tour, but I really want at least to give some money towards the headstone.’

  ‘Greta Jones, for instance, Greta Flatman that was. Descendant of an old village family, it could be one of her ancestors we’ve buried today. She has genuine reasons for being interested. But you …?’

  Bryn didn’t like the sceptical expression on Peter’s face. He’d as much right to be here as anyone else. ‘I’m still very fond of the village. I’ve lived here – what? – ten years.’

  Peter sighed. ‘Oh, Bryn!’

  ‘Will you let me go halves? Please.’

  ‘Very well, then. I’ve ordered it. I’ll let you have the bill, then you can do as you wish. Who am I to deny you your heart’s desire? Talking of heart’s desire, have you done anything about your divorce?’

  ‘It’s going through; takes time.’

  ‘Good chap.’

  ‘Though there’s not much point in it. Dicky won’t even talk about marrying her. So it might be that Georgie finishes up with neither of us. And a lonely life that will be.’

  ‘He’ll come round, given time. I’ve read your leaflet. I’ll be at the meeting, not on your side, though.’

  ‘We need open debate. I’ll be glad for you to put your side.’

  ‘Good, because I shall.’

  Chapter 16

  On the day of the meeting Mr Fitch went to school. He was there by eight forty-five. Propped against the school wall, he watched the children arriving. He saw the chaos of drivers trying to pull up to let the children out, the haphazard parking, the difficulty of pulling away without bumping into another vehicle and the risk the children ran if their parents couldn’t find space close to the entrance. He was given the occasional ‘Good morning’ by parents taking their children on foot through the school gate and certainly got some odd looks when all he did was acknowledge their greeting with the briefest of nods. All in all, though, there was no hurried screech of brakes or even the slightest chance of one of the children being mown down.

  He stood there, still propped against the school wall looking at the village, listening to the joyous sound of the children’s hymn singing coming through the open windows. Back to school. Those were the days, he thought, those were the days. He thought about his own two boys and realised he’d been so remote from them that he’d never even once taken them to school or gone to a school occasion to support them. Sad, that. He’d been a fool. Too busy concentrating on his career. He’d missed out there. Missed out on everything of any real value. Precious lives passing by him till they’d gone for ever. The singing stopped and he could hear the tramp of feet, the closing of classroom doors, the rustle of paper, the squeak of chalk. Those were the days.

  No good facing her until break. Or was it still called playtime? Such a happy word, ‘playtime’. Ta
g, and chain tig, and hopscotch. Marbles! Remember marbles? Then on dry days in the summer the headmaster teaching cricket. He must be turning in his grave now at the thought of rigged cricket matches. Pity that. Pity. We had such fun. He fancied coffee so he went into the Store to see if they’d got their coffee pot on the go. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in there, either. As he opened the door Jimbo’s bell dinged a cheerful ping and the aroma of baking assailed his nostrils. Jimbo must have studied psychology: he’d created such an ambience it became compulsive to shop, one must, one couldn’t help it, one needed to have a share of … what? Happiness? Comfort? A slice of childhood?

  Mr Fitch felt out of place. He was at least twenty-five, maybe thirty, years older than the other customers. Well, he needn’t let that worry him, he still had a contribution to make. He still made things tick, if not tock!

  ‘Coffee, Jimbo!’

  Heads turned. Turned back when they saw who it was. What the hell did he want?

  ‘Good morning.’ Jimbo raised his boater. ‘Coffee in the jug freshly made. Help yourself!’

  So he did. Added half a teaspoonful of multicoloured coffee sugar – such a nice touch, he thought – and seated himself on the chair by the side window to watch the world go by.

  The rush subsided and Jimbo took a moment to speak to him. ‘Are you needing a word?’

  ‘Not really. You’ve a little gold mine here, Jimbo. Such style.’

  Jimbo raised his boater for a second time. ‘We have.’

  ‘Ambience, that’s what you’ve created. I do believe your customers feel better for having been in here. You’ve made them feel up-to-the-minute, in-the-swim, with it, as they say.’

  ‘That’s our aim.’

  ‘This meeting. About the council and their crackpot ideas for modernising us. What do you think?’

  ‘Something needs doing, but quite what I don’t know. It is chaotic.’

  ‘Yes, but only for about ten minutes, then we’re back to the peace and quiet. Is it worth spoiling the village for the sake of ten minutes twice a day, for three-quarters of the year?’

  Jimbo took off his boater and smoothed his bald head. ‘You have a point. But you haven’t a small child going to school. We have and we worry.’

  ‘Easy to take her across Shepherds Hill and pop her into school. Better than traffic signs everywhere. How about a voluntary code?’

  ‘That would work for about a week and then …’

  ‘You’re right. This coffee’s good. Could we get by with the bare minimum?’

  ‘Who defines the bare minimum? Wasn’t too bad when we had two minibuses picking up the children from outside the village. The council claim they can’t afford it any longer, so now we’ve more cars than ever.’

  ‘Even Nightingale Farm’s tractor and trailer.’

  ‘Exactly. Well, there you go, the Nightingale children were picked up, you see, by one of the minibuses, so that made life a lot easier all round. Two vehicles but twenty or more children, now it’s perhaps the same number of children but it takes at least ten or twelve cars to get them here. However, I’ll be at the meeting tonight.’

  ‘So will I, Jimbo. I’m not having this village ruined by any damn council. They claim they can’t afford the minibuses, yet they’ve money for all this traffic control nonsense. It doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Must press on. See you tonight.’

  Mr Fitch placed his empty cup in the waste bin by the coffee machine, wandered around the Store looking in the freezers, assessing the quality of the goods on display, fingering the ripe plums, the glowing peaches, the bright, super-fresh vegetables and eventually left when he heard the children out playing in the schoolyard.

  Miss Pascoe’s class were out in the yard and Miss Pascoe herself was in her room opening her post. She heard the light knock at her door and called out, ‘Come!’

  So he did.

  ‘Why, Mr Fitch! How nice of you to call. Please take a chair.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Pascoe.’

  ‘And a very good morning to you. How can I help?’

  ‘About this traffic business.’

  Miss Pascoe’s hackles rose. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve been watching.’

  ‘I saw.’

  ‘It’s the number of vehicles that is the problem.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But it’s only for three-quarters of the year and only for about ten minutes twice a day.’

  She sat in her chair, braced herself against the back, put her fingertips together and said, ‘It only takes a split second for a child to be killed. A split second. A nano-second.’

  There’d been an alteration in the tone of her voice. A stiffening of her attitude. A summoning of her resources. Mr Fitch realised she was one of these new women who were the bane of his life in business. They got things done but did they need to be so aggressive? Why couldn’t they acquiesce as women used to do? ‘I agree, but …’

  ‘No, Mr Fitch, I’m having the one-way signs and the yellow lines and the lights.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What if we oppose you?’

  ‘Then the death of a child might well be laid at your door and if you want that kind of burden on your conscience then …’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Then I certainly don’t. Something has to be done and quickly. The council have done the preliminary work and are all set for agreement.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘The county chairman of traffic planning.’

  ‘It’s county level, is it, already?’

  Miss Pascoe nodded.

  ‘I see. Well, I too have friends in high places. I shall see what can be done.’ He stood up to leave. ‘Don’t think you’ve got the better of me. There’s dozens in this village who don’t want it ruined.’

  ‘At what cost? A child’s life? I have only the interests of my children at heart, Mr Fitch, and I can hardly be blamed for that when I’m the head teacher of the school. Can I?’

  She fixed him with a stare which almost, but not quite, intimidated him. Standing up, she said, ‘Excuse me, that’s the bell and I have a class to teach. The children, you see, always come first with me.’

  And she left him standing there! Alone, in her poky little office. She’d humiliated him. Yes, she had. Humiliated him. As he’d said to Bryn, women in authority. They didn’t know how to use it. Well, she’d met her match.

  He had to make an uncomfortable passage through the hall with the children springing about doing their Physical Education, climbing wall bars, balancing along an upturned bench, jumping over a horse. In his day they’d had half a dozen beanbags and some hoops, and been thankful. Indulged, that’s what, indulged. He stormed across the playground, narrowly averting a disastrous stumble over a nursery child pedalling like fury on a little trike. They damn well weren’t going to have their own way about this, not if he had anything to do with it.

  He was one of the first to take a seat at the meeting that night, on the front row, determined to have his say. Unfortunately, unless he turned round frequently, he couldn’t see who’d showed up, but judging from the babble of conversation there were plenty there, and most of the voices he didn’t recognise so they must be parents from the school.

  Bryn took his place, feeling exceptionally confident that his arguments would sway general opinion. However, ten minutes before kick-off, when he saw the size of the crowd already gathered, he did wonder if it would be as easy as he’d first thought. It felt close tonight, the windows needed opening. But he had to succeed. His tourists wouldn’t be half so enamoured of Turnham Malpas if all they could see were one-way signs and huge street lights. Three-quarters of the romance of the place would be gone. And Miss Pascoe confidently picking up a chair and placing it beside his own didn’t help matters either. Honestly, you brought money to the village and what thanks did you get? None. Bryn loosened his tie a little, mopped his top lip and sipped some water, hoping to al
lay a touch of indigestion. That was better. He’d put a bright, confident face on the matter and he’d win through. Peter was there too, so he’d see nothing went wrong.

  But the entire evening went disastrously awry. The parents were vociferous in their declaration that something must be done. Some even went the whole hog and demanded signs shoulder to shoulder along the roads, the green fenced off, yellow lines outside all the houses and around the green. By the time they’d finished the whole centre of the village was to be a no-go area for cars. No longer would you be able to pull up outside the Store while you shopped and any question of parking outside the school was completely ruled out, and you certainly couldn’t park outside your own house, not even while you unloaded your shopping. As for lighting, Mr Fitch was convinced that Stocks Row would be akin to Piccadilly Circus if they had their way. He waited until they’d run out of further restrictions to impose, then he stood up, beating Miss Pascoe by a whisker.

  ‘Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen. I wish Sir Ralph and Lady Templeton were here, but they’re not. If they were, Sir Ralph would be appalled by your road safety ideas. But in that wonderfully gentlemanly way of his he would explain to you why they couldn’t be allowed. He would talk about his village, a village with a Templeton at the head of it for more years than I know of. Certainly five or even six hundred years. Oh, yes, he has history and tradition at his very fingertips. Would that I had it too. We cannot, we must not, defile the village with such twenty-first-century trumpery as traffic lights and yellow lines. It would be sacrilege. We are here on this earth for only our allotted span, no more, and we must hand on to our children and our children’s children a village fit for human beings to live in. Leave the trappings of modern society to the big cities. Here we have a haven …’

  Someone at the back stood up and shouted, ‘Haven! It won’t be a haven if a kid gets killed. Never mind your poetic humbug, we’re living in today’s society, not blinking hundred years ago. Shut up and sit down, you old faggot.’

  Bryn recognised the woman who’d tried to stuff his leaflets down his shirt neck. ‘I think it would be better if …’ But his voice didn’t carry over the hubbub Mr Fitch’s speech had caused.