But Jimbo didn’t go. ‘For God’s sake don’t do it, man, he’s a wrong ’un. A dreadful man, not fit to own a dog, let alone a house like this. Think of the village. Please.’
Craddock sat back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly as though trying to shut out the inevitable. ‘I’ve got to do it; he’s the only one who’s offered the money with any certainty. The only one. I can’t wait any longer. My situation is dire.’ He dismissed Jimbo with a tired wave of his hand.
‘Is there nothing else you could sell, like Glebe House, perhaps?’
‘A drop in the ocean that is, a drop in the ocean.’
Jimbo said, ‘I’m so sorry. I wish I could help, wish I could buy the whole estate outright but I can’t. Think twice about this Freedom Blade because within a year this beloved house of yours will be a wreck, believe me. None of us could bear that. I know it doesn’t belong to the village but it feels as though it does. Just a pity it had to be sold after the Second World War, then there’d have been a Templeton here and we’d all feel safe. Tradition and all that jazz, you know. Anytime you need someone to talk to, a sounding board, please feel free to ring me.’
Jimbo left Craddock sitting with his eyes closed again, head resting back as though the last ounce of his strength had been taken from him.
The news got round the village faster than the speed of light. Jimbo wasn’t to blame – the only person he told was Harriet when he took over the reins again on his return.
‘Not a word, darling. It may all fall through, you never know, so there’s no point in alarming the village unnecessarily. If a customer comes in, mum’s the word.’
‘But Freedom Blade! My God! That’s terrible. We’ll be invaded.’
‘Exactly, once the fans find out. Could be good for business though. Could we rig up a pizza oven and serve . . . or, I know, we could always . . .’ Jimbo’s business mind began exploring the different possibilities of making money.
‘Don’t you dare. The man is a beast, but we can’t stop Craddock selling it to him.’
‘He’s desperate and I mean desperate . . . I don’t want to profit by Old Fitch’s misfortune, but when it’s someone like Freedom Blade, there’s a limit. He’s foul, if you believe everything they say about him in the papers.’
But the subject was the very first to be discussed that night at the table in the bar with the old bench down the side. Willie got the drinks in for Sylvia, Dottie, Maggie, Vera, Don, Barry and Pat and when they’d all taken their first reviving sip conversation broke out.
‘So, Barry, reveal all. We’re all waiting,’ said Sylvia, who’d seen Freedom Blade on TV and thought that despite all the stories about him he really was a very appealing if misguided young man. Her mother would have described him as in need of mothering. ‘What does he look like in real life?’
Barry dashed her hopes immediately. ‘He’s not been to see the house; it was his agent or manager or someone. Quite by chance,’ he grinned, and they all acknowledged what he meant, ‘when he was looking round, I happened to be attending to a window at the front of the house that had jammed shut. Been meaning to do it for weeks and thought this morning was my moment.’
‘So what did you hear?’
‘Apparently . . .’ the saloon bar wasn’t all that big and Barry was well aware that half the patrons were paying him close attention, ‘it’s this Freedom Blade; he’s sent his manager to take a look and take lots of photos, which he did, and this Freedom fellow is wanting to make the house his permanent home and use the Old Barn for parties and regular events, three nights a week.’
Dottie drew in her breath sharply. ‘Surely not, not the Old Barn. Well, I’m not working for someone like him. Not likely.’
They were horrified by the prospect.
‘All those crazy fans turning up!’
‘The noise. The traffic. All-night parties.’
‘Surely we can stop him.’
Willie gathered all their comments into one succinct sentence. ‘This spells disaster. Village life as we know it will be gone. For ever.’
Willie said, ‘We’ve stopped Fitch’s antics before; maybe we could do it again.’
There was a short silence while they contemplated this statement and then Maggie said, ‘Remember the effigy of him we hung up.’
Sylvia added her penny’s worth. ‘The central heating needing a spare part from Germany that took weeks to get here. Thumping big lie that was, Barry.’
‘Don’t blame me, I only did what I was told. It all worked though, didn’t it? He didn’t sell the church silver he’d found, did he?’
‘We’ll have to protest again,’ Don suggested.
But Barry didn’t appear to be keen. ‘I see more of him than you do, being his maintenance man, and to be honest I feel sorry for ’im.’
Vera couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. ‘What’s there to feel sorry about then?’
‘He’s taking it very badly.’
‘Who wouldn’t, when his business has collapsed like it has? I don’t feel sorry for ’im, not one jot.’ Willie picked up his glass and relished the taste of Dicky’s home brew with delight.
‘I mean really badly. He loves that house and it’s killing him having to sell. He’s grabbed at the first buyer with the money to pay cash and who can blame him?’
‘Are you being sarcastic?’ Don asked.
‘No, I mean it; I feel sorry for him. He’s always been a fit-looking man, you know, no extra weight, but he’s lost weight and he looks something terrible. Kate’s out of her mind about him.’
‘But Freedom Blade! We all know from the telly what he’s like. Does Jimbo know all this?’
Barry nodded.
Maggie asked Dottie if the rector could do something about it. ‘Has he said anything?’
‘Not to me,’ Dottie replied, privately thinking she wouldn’t tell them if he had.
Discussion of the matter lasted most of the evening till they had to cheer themselves up with speculation about Johnny and Alice, but there were no conclusions drawn about either of them. She was pregnant. They lived in Alice and Marcus’s house mostly. Johnny was so well off he didn’t need to earn a living. The entire village was about to be taken over by Freedom Blade’s teenage fans and should they sell their houses before all hell was let loose on Turnham Malpas?
But the next day there was something else much more significant to think about.
Chapter 15
Poor old Sykes hadn’t come home all night. He was usually back home in the Rectory just before Dottie left at lunchtime, but she had to lock the door with him still wandering about.
She anxiously tut tutted for a while, stood outside and called his name, checked the church, and generally wandered about outside hoping to catch sight of him, but he was nowhere to be found. So Dottie left a note on Peter’s desk and had to leave.
He still hadn’t returned by bedtime and Beth began to worry.
‘But, Mum, where can he be? Do you think he’s been run over?’
‘He’ll probably come home during the night and one of us will have to go down to let him in. I expect he’s got locked in someone’s house by mistake. You know what he’s like.’
‘But if he was he’d bark like he does and they’d let him out. I mean, he’s missed his dinner and he loves his food.’
‘Considering what an independent dog he is he’s not going to go missing by mistake, now is he? Go to bed, darling, and don’t worry, he’ll turn up. You wait and see.’
‘I’ll go out with a torch right round the green and call him, see if I can hear him barking.’ Seeing Caroline was about to object she hurriedly grabbed the torch they always kept in the hall table drawer and left.
While Beth went round the green, in vain as it turned out, Caroline went out of the back door to call him and Peter went into church to check if he’d got locked in there, but all three drew a blank and had to go to bed hoping for the best.
There was no sign of him the whole of the
next day. Peter did some posters about him being missing and put them up outside the church, in the village store and one nailed to a tree in the churchyard. Then he made smaller ones and took those to Little Derehams and to Penny Fawcett and nailed those to prominent trees by the bus stops.
Though Peter wasn’t all that fond of dogs he’d grown to value Sykes’s companionship since they’d taken him in. They’d enjoyed some happy afternoons when Peter was working in his study and Sykes curled up on the sofa asleep, tired by his morning perambulations, or when he reminded Peter it was time for their joint tea and biscuit break about half past three. In fact Peter had come to the conclusion that Sykes must have a private alarm clock, he was so accurate with his timings. Whether a saucer of hot tea with milk and sugar was good for a dog Peter didn’t know, but that was their secret, and he felt extraordinarily lonely when he took only one biscuit from the tin in the kitchen that afternoon.
Consternation consumed the whole of Turnham Malpas. They all remembered how Sykes had mysteriously appeared the afternoon of that massive pile-up on the bypass all those years ago and everyone had been convinced he was Jimmy’s dog reincarnated after his agonising death in the rabbit trap. So in their own way they all felt an attachment to Sykes and searched every nook and cranny in case he’d got shut in their shed or in the old stable where they kept their gardening tools in the winter.
When after two weeks he was still missing it was suggested that a memorial service for him might be held in the church. Or at the very least a word of prayer. After all, he’d belonged to the whole village, hadn’t he? Briefly Peter was tempted – it seemed such a good idea until common sense reasserted itself and he gently refused, still holding out hope that Sykes might show up.
There were quite a few people who were grievously hurt by his refusal, others who knew it wasn’t quite right to ask God’s blessing on a dog, and the upshot of it all was that those who wished could come to the Royal Oak next Saturday night and at nine p.m. precisely they’d all raise their glasses to Sykes.
Dicky and Georgie thought they might be a bit extra busy but never imagined for one moment that so many people would turn up. By eight forty-five it appeared the entire village was crammed shoulder to shoulder in the saloon bar and in the dining room serving food became next to impossible.
Grandmama Charter-Plackett asked to be the one to speak about Sykes – after all she had been one of his owners, so, as no one else volunteered, she was the one standing at the bar facing the crowd, glass in hand. Dicky announced her in his big megaphone voice and silence fell.
‘Thank you, Dicky. We all loved Sykes; he was a dog of dogs. He knew every house and everybody in Turnham Malpas, right the way down Shepherd’s Hill and the new houses along the Culworth Road, and right the way down Royal Oak Road. But best of all he loved the old centre of the village and as we all know he had his own spot on the old Templeton tomb in the church where he loved to take a nap mid-morning. In our hearts, that spot will always belong to him.
‘He was never bad tempered, never once did he nip anyone, though I’m sure if I’d had a burglar in my cottage he’d have made a good try at defending me. Yes, we all know he was naughty for wandering about on his own – he liked nothing better – and I’m sure we all have our own tales to tell about him, but tonight we are saying “Goodbye” to Sykes.’ Grandmama had to pause here to regain control of her trembling lips. ‘Let’s hope he’s happy, and being well cared for, because he deserves nothing less. For some reason, deep inside of me, I’m certain he won’t come back to us, somehow I know . . . his time has run out, therefore I say, raise your glasses in memory of Sykes. To Sykes, everyone, to our well-beloved Sykes, wherever he may be.’
By this time there was scarcely a dry eye in the pub, but the toast was drunk and gradually the silence there’d been while they listened to Grandmama’s eulogy was broken by them recalling their own memories of him and then other subjects cropped up and everyone began to relax.
Jimbo kissed his mother’s cheek. ‘Thanks for that, Mother. He deserved every word you said.’
Someone, trying to lighten the atmosphere, said loudly, ‘Knowing Sykes, he’ll probably turn up tomorrow bright as a button just to prove us all wrong, wondering what all the fuss is about.’ But the man who spoke didn’t believe a word he’d said. Like Grandmama had reminded them all, Sykes’s time had run out.
Chapter 16
Days went by, but the answers they were all breathlessly waiting for about the future of the big house never came. Speculation, yes, hours of it, but no answers, and slowly the main subject of conversation turned to other more important matters. Such as who had been invited to which Christmas party and would Alice, in view of her rapidly increasing size, be conducting the ladies’ choir for much longer? They’d done well in the BBC Women Singing competition, reaching the last five in the village section – a triumph when you thought about it, their village beating choirs with populations twice and three times the size of Turnham Malpas. But then they had not only Alice but Gilbert helping out too. They made a dynamic duo, did Alice and Gilbert.
Beth was still working for Gilbert in his office and thoroughly enjoying her life, though it had taken a while for her to get over Sykes’s disappearance. She found herself listening for his bark, missed secretly feeding him cake, which he loved. But being home and helping Gilbert was far better than Cambridge and living in halls, especially as she was now getting paid to work for him, and secretly she intended never going back. Peter and Caroline, blithely unaware of her intentions, were glad she was in such good spirits. Which she was – she’d made friends with people from the county archaeology office and often socialised with them, and everything was going well for her until she went to the twenty-first birthday party of a girl called Rosie she’d been mildly friendly with at school.
Beth had pulled out all the stops with the dress she bought for it, with money she had earned herself and therefore felt justified in spending absolutely every spare penny she could. It was scarlet, and clinging and shining and didn’t have her mother’s approval. ‘It is rather daring for you, Beth, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. But it’s a posh hotel and I need to look good. Rosie says it’ll be her last big event before she gets a job in one of the big fashion houses, when it will be hard grind all the way with no time for fun as she calls it. She won’t go far, because she’s no good at it, but she’s convinced she is. So that’s why her parents are pulling out all the stops for her twenty-first. So we’ll wait and see.’
Caroline was still surveying the dress with disapproval. ‘I can’t say I approve.’
‘Well, that must be a first. I love it and I did buy it with my own money, so . . . you should see what some of the others are wearing. I understand this is discreet by comparison.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying the social life again.’
Beth gave her mother a kiss in gratitude and Caroline was enveloped in a powerful perfume. ‘What’s that perfume? It’s awfully strong.’
‘Oh! Mum! You are old-fashioned. I’m off.’
‘Have you the money for the taxi to come home?’
Beth patted her red beaded handbag. ‘I have. Is Dad taking me or you?’
‘He is. Have a good time.’
‘I will.’
When Beth got inside the hotel the thought did cross her mind that Rosie was overindulged. The whole of the reception area was filled with flowers, music poured from every speaker and the guests were dressed in the absolute pinnacle of fashion. Rosie’s parents were there to greet their guests, smiling and dramatically kissing everyone as though each was a long-lost friend. The whole event felt seriously overdone.
Rosie whispered in her ear, ‘Wait till they see the surprise entertainer I’ve booked! Little do they know!’ She nodded her head in the direction of her parents and when they noticed her she twinkled her fingers at them and blew them a kiss.
Beth couldn’t believe what she saw. There he was! Shaking ha
nds with Rosie’s parents. Larger than life and twice as wonderful. Oh, God! Jake! Beth’s heart exploded. Since he’d gone to live with his father in Culworth she’d seen him once in Cambridge from a distance but never spoken to him, and here he was looking absolutely splendid in a dinner jacket and bow tie, greeting Mr and Mrs Baker-Smythe. He smiled at Rosie and Beth realised he’d caught sight of her standing beside Rosie. For one long moment Beth’s heart pounded against her rib cage till she thought her ribs would crack. How on earth could anyone have such a powerful effect on her? Surely the pounding must be audible to Rosie, who stood so close? But Rosie was too busy making a good impression on Jake. Still admiring him she breathed to Beth, ‘I never thought he’d come! Gorgeous Jake Harding’s come. What a man! Isn’t he sexy! In every way!’ She nudged Beth. ‘He’s looking at you. Do you two know each other?’
Beth stirred herself. ‘Vaguely, from school. He knows my brother.’ Mercifully she could still speak with a modicum of intelligence.
Jake turned to Rosie, who flung herself into greeting him so enthusiastically she might have been welcoming an Arctic explorer who’d been missing for months in its icy wastes.
‘How lovely you could come! You know Beth Harris, do you? Her father’s the rector in Turnham Malpas.’ Rosie’s statement put Beth into a kind of untouchable category at a time when Beth felt completely the opposite.
‘Yes. I know. Lovely to see you again, Beth.’ Jake shook her hand and, just as she’d read about in Mills and Boon novels, her world stood still. The smell of him. The look of him. The style and confidence his time at Cambridge had given him. The sheer animal magnetism of him. So this was Jake Harding, now a man, and she couldn’t get enough of him.
‘It’s been a long time. What are you getting up to these days?’ Jake asked.
They moved away from Rosie, leaving her standing open-mouthed by their abrupt abandonment of her. Even totally self-absorbed Rosie could recognise their togetherness. That stuck-up Beth Harris! She should never have invited her. She’d purposely mentioned her father’s job to warn Jake that Beth was not available, so to speak, but much good that had done. Rosie covertly watched them standing close, completely absorbed by each other and wondered what they were talking about. Beth looked mesmerised. Jake looked as though it was his birthday and Christmas all rolled into one, while Rosie was consumed by jealousy.
A Village in Jeopardy (Turnham Malpas 16) Page 15
