Village Matters
Page 1
Peter turned her around and, with the same fingers she had kissed, began slowly tracing her profile from where her forehead began at her hairline, down her nose, her top lip, across her mouth and down her chin to her jaw. Then cradling her face in his hands, he caressed her mouth with long awakening kisses. He stopped, and looking deeply into her eyes said, ‘You don’t regret marrying me, do you, darling? I do realise it does put limitations sometimes on your reaction to things, doesn’t it?’
‘I don’t regret one single minute of the time I’ve spent with you. It’s not the easiest of occupations being a clergy wife, but the one particular member of that august body I’ve married makes all the limitations worthwhile. Mind you, I can’t guarantee there will never come a time when I shan’t put my foot down on some principle or another.’ She grinned at him and said, ‘I might even sign Arthur Prior’s petition!’
He stopped kissing her and scrutinised her face. She laughed and so did he.
‘Get thee to bed, woman of my heart.’
Rebecca Shaw is a former school teacher and the bestselling author of many novels. She lives with her husband in a beautiful Dorset village where she finds plenty of inspiration for her stories about rural life. She has four children and eight grandchildren.
By Rebecca Shaw
THE BARLEYBRIDGE SERIES
A Country Affair
Country Wives
Country Lovers
Country Passions
One Hot Country Summer
TALES FROM TURNHAM MALPAS
The New Rector
Talk of the Village
Village Matters
The Village Show
Village Secrets
Scandal in the Village
Village Gossip
Trouble in the Village
A Village Dilemma
Intrigue in the Village
Whispers in the Village
A Village Feud
The Village Green Affair
Village Matters
Tales from Turnham Malpas
REBECCA SHAW
Contents
Cover
Title
About the Author
By Rebecca Shaw
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Copyright
INHABITANTS OF TURNHAM MALPAS
Barry’s mother
A village gossip.
Sadie Beauchamp
Retired widow and mother of Harriet Charter-Plackett.
Sylvia Bennett
Housekeeper at the rectory.
Willie Biggs
Verger at St Thomas à Becket.
Sir Ronald Bissett
Retired trades union leader.
Lady Sheila Bissett
His wife.
James Charter-Plackett
Owner of the village store.
Harriet Charter-Plackett
His wife.
Fergus, Finlay and Flick
Their children.
Alan Crimble
Barman at The Royal Oak.
Pat Duckett
School caretaker.
Dean and Michelle
Her children.
Bryn Fields
Licensee of The Royal Oak.
Georgie Fields
His wife.
H. Craddock Fitch
New owner of Turnham House.
Jimmy Glover
One time poacher and ne’er do well.
Revd. Peter Harris
(MA Oxon)
Rector of the parish.
Dr Caroline Harris
His wife.
Alex and Beth
Their children.
Jeremy Mayer
Manager at Turnham House
Training Centre.
Venetia Mayer
His wife.
Michael Palmer
Village school headmaster.
Sir Ralph Templeton
Retired from the Diplomatic Service.
Lady Muriel Templeton
His wife.
Vera Wright
Cleaner at nursing home in Penny Fawcett.
Rhett Wright
Her grandson.
Chapter 1
Peter shivered in the cold morning air. His prayers finished he got stiffly to his feet, stood back from the little altar in the war memorial chapel and crossed himself. At seven o’clock on a spring morning the church was certainly chilly. The old mediaeval stone walls kept the church cold right through the year, even in the hottest summer.
He went to stand in front of the main altar and looked around his church. Soon he’d have been in Turnham Malpas two whole years. When he’d first come here he hadn’t realised how attached to the place he would become. He loved the deep colours of the stained glass windows, the ancient tombs slumbering there through the centuries, the banners, withering away at their posts for almost as many years, and the lovely country graveyard which was as much a part of St Thomas à Becket as the church itself. Still treading the village paths were people whose ancestors had for generations rested so peacefully within the precincts of this consecrated place. There was an ongoing feel about a village church, stretching back through the years and on into the future with an amazing sense of permanence. A city church didn’t have quite the same feel about it.
He began to add up all the things he had achieved since his arrival. The Rectory cleaned and decorated and modernised and refurnished, the Scout troup, the Brownies and Girl Guides, the Luncheon Club for the pensioners, the women’s meeting, the play group . . . for a moment his face clouded. The play group. That brought Suzy Meadows to mind. She’d still perhaps have been here running it if they . . . But they had and they shouldn’t have. He still couldn’t avoid the pain somewhere around his diaphragm. It knifed deep into his gut when he thought of her. No, it wasn’t the thought of her as such, it was the thought of the crushing pain he’d inflicted on his darling Caroline which caused his agony. When she’d begged him to adopt the twins Suzy had given birth to because of him, he had thought he would die of it. But now he’d only to see their beaming smiles, feel their tiny hands grasping his, feel their soft sweet flesh against his own, and he knew Caroline had been right. It was the only course open. They were his, after all.
He glanced at his watch. Time he was off.
Peter’s running shoes made no sound as he marched purposefully down the aisle to the main door. He carefully locked it behind him, checked it was secure, and then stripped off his tracksuit and placed it in a plastic carrier bag he kept for the purpose, under the bench in the porch. Underneath he wore his old college running vest and a pair of navy rugger shorts. He hid the huge key beside the grave he and the verger, Willie Biggs, had decided upon, and set off down the path. Jimbo Charter-Plackett was limbering up by the lych gate. Jimbo had been running with him for some time now and the flab he’d been anxious to lose was beginning to go. He was still a less fit looking man than Peter, for Jimbo was older, shorter, rounder and going bald: in contrast Peter was a good six inches taller, with an excellent head of blond hair, and an athlete’s physique.
‘Morning Pet
er. Lovely fresh day, isn’t it?’
‘Morning Jimbo. It surely is.’ The two of them did their stretching exercises together and then at a nod from Jimbo they set off down Church Lane, then right into Jacks Lane and onto the spare land. Half way round their three-mile circuit was a five-barred gate where they always stopped for a chat. It led into a huge field and from it they had a view of Sykes Wood. It was a vast ancient wood, once part of a king’s hunting forest, but belonging to Turnham House for the last three hundred years and possibly more. To one side where the trees were not quite so tall, the chimneys of the Big House could just be seen. After he’d wiped the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his running vest, Peter nodded towards them.
‘Catering contract working out OK then, Jimbo?’
‘It is. At least the money’s more reliable than it was when it was the Health Club. Fitch plc certainly pays up on the dot, thank goodness.’
‘Nice chap, is he?’
‘Like all chairmen of big companies he thinks the world revolves round him, and his word is law, but as he knows I was a City man myself I do get a bit of respect for my opinions. They certainly do a good job with their staff training up there. Cracking computer equipment, video, cinema stuff and the rest. Technology gone berserk. That Jeremy Mayer’s strutting around throwing his weight about, completely forgetting how grateful he should be that he’s managed to sell on to Fitch and still keep a roof over his head.’
‘What does Venetia do?’
‘Mrs Venetia Mayer organises the leisure time for the staff, and Mrs Venetia Mayer organises diversions in the leisure department for the chairman of the company I think, but don’t quote me. I’ve a soft spot for Venetia despite her permanent come-hither look.’
Peter laughed. ‘Come on then, I’ve got school prayers at nine, must get back.’ They turned to go, Peter leading the way.
Jimbo followed on, thinking about his jobs for the day. First, on his way home, he’d stand outside his Store and appraise the window displays. Each window had to be changed alternate weeks. Thinking up new ideas for them was a pain, but it was one of his rules. It had to be done. No fly-blown displays with bleached crepe paper hanging loose for Jimbo. Oh no! That kind of thing belonged to the 1950s, not the 1990s. Just recently with the opening of the training centre at Turnham House there’d been quite a few young trainees in, spending their money, another boost to the profits, and summertime was always good, his sales curve went ever upward with the money spent by the visitors to the church and the old stocks on the green. In fact all told, this year looked good. The mail-order business was booming, due to some clever advertising thought up by Harriet, his outside catering was also booming and the Store itself, the hub of it all, was also doing better than he and Harriet could ever have imagined.
What next could he turn his hand to, to make money? By Jove he was going to need it, with this new baby on the way. He gave a skip and a jump when he thought about the baby. Not bad for a forty-one-year-old chap. Number four. And Harriet so well, and he’d keep her that way. More help. Yes, he’d need more help. Peter turned round to wave and continued on to the rectory, Jimbo nodded and turned down Stocks Row and round the green to his house. The windows! He’d forgotten the windows. He turned back and went to stand outside his Store. Easter. Easter. Fluffy chicks. Yellow ribbons. Chocolate eggs. A raffle? Huge great egg as the prize. That’d bring ’em in. Just get them in and they’d be buying other things beside the raffle tickets. Twenty-five pence each and five for a pound. Maybe twenty pence each, six for a pound, some of the villagers weren’t that well off. He’d work out on his calculator how many he’d have to sell to break even, and then decide. Full of ideas he was this morning. Full of ’em.
‘It’s only me! Harriet!’ The front door slammed shut. He stood, leaning on the hall table trying to get his breath. Sweat was pouring off his face and he wiped it with the sweat bands he wore on his wrists. Flick had bought them for him for Christmas. His dear little Flick. She came dancing down the stairs at that moment.
‘Hello, Daddy, I’m not going to kiss you, you’re all smelly and disgusting.’ She wrinkled her nose and headed for the kitchen. ‘Mummy! Daddy’s back. You boys hurry up, your porridge is ready.’ Flick seated herself at the table and watched her two brothers pretending to box. ‘Men do find some funny things to entertain themselves with, don’t they, Mummy?’
Harriet laughed. ‘They certainly do!’ She glanced up and saw Jimbo grinning at her from the doorway. ‘Quick Jimbo, get under the shower – I can smell the sweat from here.’
‘Thanks a million! A chap’s doing his best to keep fit and his womenfolk do nothing but complain.’
‘I’ve been thinking about an Easter raffle.’
‘So have I. Great minds!’
‘Boys come along now, that’s enough. On your chairs. Look, Flick’s already seated.’
‘Trust her.’ Finlay shouted as he dodged another blow from Fergus.
‘Miss Goody Two Shoes! Miss Goody Two Shoes!’!’ Fergus danced around the back of Flick’s chair tormenting her. Tears began to well in her eyes and Harriet put a stop to the teasing.
She indicated his chair with a sharp finger. ‘Enough. Thanks. That’s enough! Sit down and eat.’
By the time Jimbo came downstairs the children had disappeared to clean their teeth – or so Harriet hoped – and he sat down to his bowl of muesli, his orange juice and wholemeal toast.
‘Coffee or tea this morning?’
‘Tea, please. I thought about a huge Easter egg for the first prize.’
‘So did I. We get on remarkably well together in business, don’t we Jimbo?’
‘Yes, we do. And we don’t get bored with each other. It would be so easy to be bored to death seeing each other at work and at home. Feeling OK?’
‘Of course. I’ve never felt better than this time. Linda has another appointment at the dentist’s tomorrow. Will you manage?’
‘Yes, I expect so. Hope this is the last one for a while.’
‘It is, the poor girl can’t help an abscess, can she?’
‘No, I suppose not. More tea, darling, please. I’m going up to the Big House this morning, just to keep an eye on things. Will you be around?’
‘As ever.’
Jimbo stood up from the table. ‘I’m off then. Don’t overdo it will you, Harriet? I couldn’t bear it if things went wrong.’ Harriet stopped clearing the table and took time to look at him intently. ‘You’re all I’ve got, you know,’ he said.
She reached across to kiss him. ‘I know. I know. Believe me I will take care, but I mustn’t be mollycoddled. That’s not my scene.’
‘See you then.’ He went to the foot of the stairs and called up. ‘Daddy’s going now. Bye you lot.’
Flick shouted downstairs, her voice impeded by her toothbrush. ‘Bye Daddy, have a nice day.’ Jimbo winced at the Americanism. ‘Bye now. See you later, Harriet.’
‘OK.’
The weather was good for the time of year. Jimmy Glover’s geese were out and about as usual. They were grazing close to the edge of the green. He wondered if it was true that they were as good as a dog for protecting their owners. They looked remarkably relaxed this morning. But as he came closer and paused to watch them, the geese began to stretch their necks and honk menacingly. Two of them left the grass and came onto the road, their beaks, on a level with Jimbo’s knees, opened threateningly. He shouted and skipped a few steps to avoid them, waving his arms; they lost interest and left him to press on. Blessed geese, if he had his way . . . Then he caught sight of his Store and his heart swelled with pride. He’d turned it round and no mistake. He remembered the depressing aspect of it when he and Harriet had first come to Turnham Malpas to view it. They’d looked at each other and mouthed ‘No’, but old Mrs Thornton had noticed, and they’d felt obliged to show some interest.
At the time the shop had been Mrs Thornton’s front room. The stock was almost non-existent, the trade negligible. But once they’
d realised that the cottage next door was for sale too, Harriet had grown enthusiastic. Now look at it. Jimbo took the keys from his pocket and opened up. He picked up the bundle of newspapers from the shop doorway, moved the two advertising boards out onto the tarmac, checked to see that the litter bin by the seat he’d provided wasn’t overflowing, noticed the telephone box needed a clear out, and then entered his domain.
Quarter past eight. He was late. It was half an hour before Linda would come to open up the post office section, so after he’d laid the newspapers out on their shelf ready for sale, he decided to begin collecting Easter eggs and all the paraphernalia he needed for dressing the window. Scissors, measuring tape, sellotape, drawing pins, stapler, ribbons, yellow and white crepe paper, silver paper. First, though, he’d dismantle the current display. But his plan was thwarted, his first customer entered. The little brass bell jingled furiously.
‘Morning Willie. Come to collect your paper?’