A Village Dilemna (Turnham Malpas 09)

by Shaw, Rebecca

  While Peter had a word with Bryn, Miss Pascoe made up her mind to speak but Peter got to his feet while she was still thinking about it. His powerful voice carried right across the babble and he got the silence Bryn had tried for.

  In reasonable tones he argued his case. ‘Losing our tempers will achieve nothing. Mr Fitch is quite right. I would hate to lose our wonderful backwater; it would be criminal to allow anyone to destroy it. There are all kinds of reasons for preserving our heritage and I’m quite sure that with a bit of common sense we can overcome this problem. A little give and take on both sides, a modification of plans, a certain subtlety, a large amount of good will and we would arrive at an amicable solution. I propose we form a committee …’

  ‘Reverend! Please, not a committee. They cover a lot of ground but get nowhere, as you well know. We want action. Action! Action!’

  A steady drumming of feet on the wooden floorboards and the shouting of ‘Action! Action!’ began, and there was nothing to be done about it. It was like some kind of primeval chant: a hate thing compounded by a wish for instant capitulation. Peter was appalled. Bryn was beginning to panic. Mr Fitch was on the verge of washing his hands of the whole matter.

  Grandmama Charter-Plackett stood up at the back and stepped firmly to the front to take her stand beside Bryn. She banged on the table with the gavel Bryn had brought but never used. ‘Silence!’ If she’d been on board ship in a violent thunderstorm the very waves would have ceased their pounding. The noisy opposition, surprised by her reckless intervention, fell silent. You could have heard a pin drop. They expected that she would shout but she didn’t. She spoke so softly they had to strain to hear.

  ‘All this matter needs is some clear thinking. None of us is a fool, we all have brains, and I for one would like to have something done about the cars because I have a precious grandchild attending the school and believe me, your cause is mine.’ She pressed a hand to her heart to emphasise her feelings. ‘Precious to me here,’ she said, patting her chest again, ‘as I know all your children and grandchildren are precious to you. We all have their welfare at heart. The Rector is the man to chair the committee and have you ever known anyone more able? Level-headed, understanding, persuasive. What more can you ask? And he too has children at the school, don’t forget, so who could have your interests at heart more than he? I propose Mr Fitch as another member, for his business brain. I propose Bryn because he found out what the council were up to and apparently has friends in high places …’

  ‘Oh, yeh? Our Kev! High Places! Huh!’ This from that uncouth woman Bryn had met after school down Shepherds Hill.

  In her most superior tone Grandmama asked, ‘And you, madam, your name is …?’

  ‘Angie Turner. Shepherds Hill.’

  ‘You could be another member. Your forthrightness would be welcomed, I’m sure. We need people with plenty of get-up-and-go on a committee like this. After all, we’re taking on the whole council.’

  Miss Pascoe tried again to speak but Bryn overrode her. He objected to Angie Turner on the committee most violently. He stood up to put his point. ‘I honestly feel that Mrs Turner wouldn’t be quite …’

  A man leapt to his feet, a big brute of a man with forearms built like ships’ hawsers and a huge shaved head. ‘Not out of the top drawer eh? Is that what you meant?’

  ‘Well, no, of course not, far be it from me to …’

  ‘Well, I’m Colin Turner, Angie’s husband, and I’d like to know why she can’t be?’

  Unfortunately Bryn couldn’t think of one possible acceptable excuse for her not being on the committee. His hesitation was his undoing.

  ‘Well, I’m waiting for the answer. You toad, we know you’ve not called this meeting because of the children’s lives. It’s because you want to retain the status quo for your own objectives; namely American tourists.’

  Peter stood up again. ‘Mr Turner …’

  ‘With the very greatest respect, Reverend, this is not an argument for someone like you to be involved in. I’m well aware you’d have her on the committee without a second thought because you’re not biased; you have respect for each and every one of us. I simply want an answer as to why he, that toad’ – he stabbed a thick finger at Bryn – ‘doesn’t want my wife on his committee. It’s as simple as that. Well?’

  Bryn opened his mouth and nothing came out. Absolutely nothing. His mind went numb. He looked bleakly at Grandmama Charter-Plackett for inspiration. He opened his mouth again and still nothing came. He cleared his throat and uttered some fateful words. ‘We’ll be dealing with councillors and planning officers at the highest level and your wife … well … she has the children to think of … and it’s not easy to find the time … and …’

  Peter saw he was having difficulties, sensed he was totally flummoxed, but at the same time knew Bryn had to extricate himself or he’d lose face. But he didn’t. Bryn looked wildly round the hall, searching for answers, saw Colin Turner leave his seat and begin to march purposefully towards the front. Bryn’s eyes bulged, he ran a finger round his shirt neck, beads of sweat appeared all over his face. Grey-faced, he gripped the edge of the table, gasped audibly and crashed to the floor before Colin Turner reached him.

  There was an instant of total shocked silence, as though someone had pressed ‘pause’ on a video, before Peter leapt up and went to kneel beside Bryn. The moment he got close Peter sensed he was dead. There was such a pallid stillness about him: as though his soul had gone away.

  ‘Give him some air,’ someone shouted.

  ‘Ring nine-nine-nine.’

  ‘Glass of water. Quick.’

  Peter pressed both hands on Bryn’s chest and counted one, two, three, four, five presses. Paused, pinched Bryn’s nose and breathed into his mouth. He did it again, and again, and again. Even before he’d begun he’d known it was too late, but he had to try. He tried once more but to no avail. Bryn had been stone dead the moment he touched the floor. Peter looked up at Grandmama Charter-Plackett and slowly shook his head. She went white, looked at Colin Turner and signalled the message to him with her eyes that it was too late: Bryn had gone.

  Colin dropped to his knees and began the process all over again. ‘He’s got to live. He must. He must. He must.’ Five times, five grunts, nip his nose. Breathe! Breathe! Breathe! Colin covered his face with his hands and wept. Grandmama put her arm round him. That was one sound she couldn’t bear: a man weeping. Men’s tears were so excruciatingly painful to listen to.

  ‘I wasn’t going to hit him. I wasn’t, honest. I only wanted to address the meeting. I wouldn’t have hit him. Not me.’

  Peter took off his cassock and laid it over Bryn. ‘Could someone go and get Georgie, please.’

  Colin Turner said, ‘Dr Harris! She’ll help.’

  Gently Peter told him, ‘Bryn was dead when he hit the floor, Colin. It’s too late.’

  All Angie Turner could say was, ‘Oh, Colin! Oh, Colin! Oh, Colin.’

  Peter addressed the gathering. ‘In the circumstances we’d better bring the meeting to a close. There’s nothing anyone can do for now. Thank you for coming. Pray for Bryn before you sleep. It’s a sad day. Goodnight. Goodnight. God bless you all.’

  Bewildered and appalled, they all slowly departed, except for the key players in the drama. Angie was still saying ‘Oh! Colin!’ time and time again. She hadn’t an ounce of fight left in her. Colin was rigid with distress. Willie had gone immediately Bryn had collapsed to alert Caroline, who had to push her way through the crowd that was leaving so sorrowfully.

  ‘Give me some space.’ Caroline knelt down, pulled back Peter’s cassock, felt the pulse in Bryn’s neck, which had been throbbing only moments before, placed her ear close to his mouth but could neither feel nor hear any breath whatsoever. She shook her head and looked up at Peter.

  He whispered, ‘He was dead before he fell.’

  Colin groaned loudly, ‘Oh, God!’

  Caroline gently covered Bryn’s body and stood up. Thou
gh not knowing the circumstances, she realised from his distress that Colin Turner must be involved. ‘You weren’t to know. There’ll have to be a post-mortem; unexplained death, you know. Don’t blame yourself.’ She rubbed one of his powerful forearms in sympathy.

  His eyes again filled with tears, his head shaking from side to side in disbelief, Colin said, ‘We tried, the Reverend and me. We did try.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. Has anyone called an ambulance?’ Peter nodded.

  At this moment Georgie came in. They all made space for her. Caroline had straightened Bryn’s limbs, closed his eyes and rested his forearms across his chest, so even before she saw that the whole of him was covered Georgie didn’t need to ask. She drew back the cassock and stood gazing down at him. Without looking up she asked, ‘I know you’ve a quick temper, Colin, did you hit him?’

  ‘No.’

  Peter expanded Colin’s reply. ‘No, Georgie, he didn’t. Bryn couldn’t find the answer he was searching for and suddenly he pulled at his collar and then dropped … dead. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You’re sure he’s dead?

  Caroline answered, ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I shall want Beck and Beck from Culworth to bury him. They did my mother and were most considerate. Dicky, where’s Dicky?’

  Colin Turner said, ‘I’m so sorry. So sorry. I never touched him. I never meant to.’

  ‘Can’t be helped. These things happen. Where’s Dicky? I want Dicky.’

  They’d heard the hall door open just after Georgie came in but hadn’t noticed it was Dicky coming to look after her. He was standing alone at the back of the hall. ‘I’m here, if you need me.’

  ‘Dicky, ring Beck and Beck and tell them I want them. Straight away. I want him in their chapel of rest.’

  Caroline interrupted her train of thought with a gentle reminder. ‘We’ll have to wait for the ambulance. Sudden death, you know. There’ll have to be a post-mortem.’

  Georgie looked up at her, puzzled. ‘Oh, of course. I didn’t think. What do you reckon, Caroline? Heart attack?’

  ‘Seems likely. But of course I can’t say for sure.’

  ‘At least he didn’t know. Did he?’

  ‘It was too sudden.’

  ‘He’d have hated being ill. Not being all that brave. Dicky?’

  Dicky went to stand beside her. He longed to hold her but knew instinctively it wouldn’t be seemly. Georgie stood quite still, her arms held grimly to her sides.

  ‘Would you like a chair, Georgie? Take the weight off your feet.’

  The answer to Dicky’s question was ‘Go and close the bar. And the dining room. For tonight. Tell them why. Respect, you know.’

  Dicky left without a word. So they stood there not knowing what to do next. None of them was heartbroken, except perhaps of them all it was Georgie who felt the worst. She’d left his face uncovered but no one had the courage to cover him up again. It seemed intrusive to take the initiative.

  Peter asked, ‘Has he family, besides you?’

  ‘A couple of cousins. That’s all. Distant. Card at Christmas, you know. There’ll be no one to mourn. Except me.’

  For long minutes they all stood silently apart, gazing fixedly at the dead face; despising themselves for thinking there but for the Grace of God go I.

  Only the ambulance arriving spurred them into action. Caroline went into a huddle with the ambulance crew, speaking softly out of respect for the dead and the bereaved. Peter began quietly praying. Grandmama and Colin and Angie stood mute, their eyes drawn, despite their resistance, to the ambulance men and the stretcher, and the blanket and the return of his cassock to Peter, the removal of the body.

  Georgie, choked by the immediacy of Bryn’s extinction, looked to Grandmama for help. A stalwart in adversity, Grandmama murmured gently, ‘Come, my dear, I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Not to the …’

  ‘No, no. To my home if you wish … you can have the same bedroom that you had before.’

  ‘I thought of Dicky’s …’

  Firmly the reply came: ‘No, my dear, that wouldn’t be quite … right.’

  ‘No, perhaps not.’ Georgie allowed herself to be shepherded away.

  Peter spoke to Colin and Angie. ‘In no way at all were you to blame, Colin, remember. We were all witness to that.’

  ‘Thank you, Reverend, thank you.’

  ‘You’re a star, Rector. A star. We’re so sorry.’ Angie dabbed her eyes with her tear-soaked tissue. ‘We’ve got to go. Mum’s sitting for us. She’ll be cut up. She liked Bryn in the pub, you know.’

  ‘So did we all. He’ll be missed. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Peter! Darling! Can we go home?’

  Chapter 17

  Dicky had gone straight back to the Royal Oak as Georgie had asked, but they already knew because some of the people who’d left when Peter had closed the meeting had gone straight to the bar for a stiffener and to spread the news. So when he walked back in, consternation was the order of the day.

  Dicky was so stunned about Bryn dying that he hadn’t given it a thought that his death freed Georgie to marry him. So when someone said with a nudge and a wink, ‘Well, Dicky, he’s played right into your hands,’ he couldn’t understand what they meant.

  ‘Behave yourself,’ someone else said angrily.

  Dicky looked around, bewildered, his mind focused on closing up. ‘Georgie, she’s asked me to close early. In respect, you know. If you don’t mind.’

  There was a general mumble of agreement. A voice said, ‘I propose a toast to Bryn. Raise your glasses! To Bryn, God rest his soul.’

  ‘To Bryn!’

  ‘To Bryn! The old dog!’

  ‘To Bryn!’

  Dicky didn’t drink to him. Dicky wouldn’t drink to him. Not on your life. The damned fellow couldn’t possibly be dead. He’d be back, couldn’t have had his life snuffed out as quickly as he had. Oh, no, he couldn’t possibly have gone for ever. He’d be back if only to plague him. Dicky couldn’t think what to do, so he went to find Bel.

  She was taking an order for puddings in the dining room. Bel caught sight of him with his ashen face and stiff gait and her heart went out to him. She abandoned her customers and enveloped him in a bear hug. ‘Don’t worry! Don’t worry!’ She patted his back, smoothed his hair, held him close, whispered, ‘He’s gone now. Gone for good. He can’t haunt you any more, love.’ Out loud she said, ‘I’m serving the puddings to this table and then I’ll close up. You go and close the bar.’

  Dicky found Jimbo clearing used glasses, urging the customers to leave, organising Alan and Trish. ‘There you are, Dicky. It must have been a terrible shock. I came straight from the meeting; thought you might need a hand.’

  ‘Oh, thanks.’ Dicky had had one too many shocks of late, first Bryn coming back, then the incident of the cricket bat, then finding Bryn and Georgie in bed and now this. Dumbly he watched as Jimbo deftly rid the bar of its last customer, bolted the door, stacked the dishwasher with glasses, emptied the till, went to check the kitchen for Bel, carried the waste bin bag round emptying ashtrays, collecting empty nut packets, asking Trish to wipe out the ashtrays, did this, did that.

  It slowly began to register in Dicky’s overloaded mind that Bryn was out of the picture completely and absolutely. There’d be no more taunting from Bryn, no more heartache over him. He’d been blotted out. Georgie! How must she be feeling? He’d go and see. Fully expecting that she’d be back upstairs, he set off at a gallop to find her. But the rooms were empty. Abandoned almost. Deserted. Where was she? He ran all the way to the church hall to find Willie locking up. ‘Where’s Georgie?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dicky. Everyone’s gone.’

  ‘She can’t have disappeared.’

  Dicky, at a loss to know what to do, stood just inside the main door so Willie couldn’t lock up. ‘Is she at the Rectory do you think?’

  Dicky looked at Willie. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘W
ell, I don’t know. Just a guess.’

  ‘I see.’ He couldn’t face Peter, not tonight. No. Slowly Dicky wandered back to the Royal Oak, still badly in need of Georgie.

  Jimbo was just saying goodnight to Bel. ‘Mother’s been on the phone, Dicky, in case you’re wondering where Georgie is. She’s sleeping at her cottage for tonight.’

  Dicky turned tail and ran.

  Bel said, ‘He doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. It’s all been too much. And now this.’

  Dicky hammered Grandmama’s front door knocker. He pushed open the letter box and shouted through it, ‘I need to speak to Georgie.’

  The bolts on the door were pulled back and there was Grandmama beckoning him in.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’m just taking her a nightcap. You can take it up if you like, but don’t stay long, she’s exhausted. I want her to have a good night’s sleep. Well, as good as she can get in the circumstances.’

  Dicky started up the steep staircase.

  Grandmama called after him, ‘First door on the right.’

  The door to her room stood open and Dicky could see her sitting up in bed in a voluminous white nightgown that certainly wasn’t her own. The light from the bedside lamp drained all her colour; Georgie appeared to be white all over. He paused for a moment, thinking of what to say. Words didn’t seem much good at present. ‘I’ve brought you a nightcap. Don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Put it here.’ Georgie moved the lamp a little to make room for the small tray.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  Dicky laid a hand on the bed post and looked down at her, longing to give her a kiss. ‘I’m here for you.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘It’s not the time to be making promises.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I’ve been a fool.’

  ‘No. You’re the last of the great romantics, Dicky.’

  ‘Am I?’

  Georgie nodded. ‘I’ve got to clear the old wood, so to speak, and then we can talk. I can’t see beyond the next few days.’