Talk of the Village

by Rebecca Shaw

'Certainly not, we can't ask her to come into this mess. It's enough to make me ill just looking at it. In any case she might get something and give it to them babies. No, that won't do. Have you gone yet Jimmy?'

  'I'mjust off.'

  Pat reached out and tentatively shook Gwen's hand as it lay over the edge of the bed.

  'Is this Gwen, Willie, I can't tell the difference? Gwen are you all right? Gwen? Gwen?'

  'She's breathing I can see. Go round the other side and try the other one.'

  Pat did. She could see that Beryl or Gwen, whichever one it was, was breathing, but she got no response.

  'I reckon we've caught 'em only just in time Willie.'

  'So do I.'

  It must have been all of twenty minutes after Jimmy got back before the ambulance came. Even they, who must have seen some dreadful sights in the past, were appalled at what they saw. They wrapped the sisters up, put them on stretchers and with Willie and Jimmy's help manouevred them down the narrow staircase.

  When they'd gone Willie locked up and went to tell Peter what had happened.

  'I reckon they're touch and go, sir. Don't know what's caused it, but by Jove they aren't half poorly.'

  Til ring the hospital and then go in to see them tomorrow. Though if my last encouter is anything to go by it will be far from pleasant.'

  'They's too ill to be nasty sir, far too ill.'

  'Right Willie. My word, they are two very peculiar women, aren't they?'

  'Peculiar is putting it mildly. They weren't that bad as

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  kids. They've gone funnier and funnier since they got into women. You should see the house.' Sylvia came down the stairs and Willie smiled and nodded to her.

  'Hello, Sylvia.'

  'Hello, Willie.'

  Peter tactfully retired to his study.

  'There's a good film on in Culworth this week. Funny title, Fried Green Tomatoes in a Whistle Stop Cafe, or something. I'm told it's good. Wondered if you'd like to go see it.'

  'I would indeed. And when we've been perhaps you'd like to come back here for a coffee.'

  'Right you're on. I'll look up the times.'

  'I'm buying myself a little car, if it's arrived by then, we could go in that.'

  'Didn't know you could drive.'

  'Well, I had a car for years for getting into work and then it packed up. But I've decided to get another one. Only an old banger mind.'

  'Never mind so long as it goes. I'll be in touch.'

  Peter couldn't get to the hospital for two days but he reassured himself by phone that they were recovering. When he did manage to visit them they were unrecognisable, not only because they had lost weight but because they were so scrupulously clean.

  'Sister Murphy, how are you?'

  'Why, hello, Mr Harris, long time no see. These two parishioners of yours are going to be all right, though heaven knows why. They were in a terrible state when they came in. Dreadfully dehydrated, absolutely filthy and in need of a lot of loving care. Could you come into the office and give me a few details.'

  Peter told all he knew and then went to speak to them. He hardly knew which was which.

  'Hello, Gwen? Is it Gwen? It's Peter here from the

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  Rectory. How are you today?'

  Her eyes opened slowly and focused on his face.

  'Go away.'

  'I've come to see you because you've been very ill.'

  'I don't need you.'

  'Very well, my dear. You're in good hands. All you have to do is get yourself better, then you can go home.'

  He went to the next bed took hold of Beryl's hand and spoke her name.

  'Beryl, are you awake?' She opened her eyes, looked him full in the face and whispered, 'I told her we shouldn't drink it. I told her.'

  'What did you drink Beryl?'

  'It was the well.'

  He could learn no more from her. She'd fallen asleep again.

  The sisters were due home at the end of the next week. Apart from Peter no one had visited them. He organised a plumber to attend to the burst pipe but other than that he did nothing to the house, outfaced by the enormity of the task and afraid of intruding.

  The social services were there when he called at the hospital a couple of days before they were to go home.

  'We really cannot understand how two people have been allowed to live like they do. Does no one in your village have a conscience about them at all?'

  'I know things look very bad and that the house is in a terrible state, but these two women will allow no one in. They shun all friendship, all overtures and totally refuse to accept that they need help. The reason why they drank the water from the well was because they didn't wish to have a plumber in their house. You tell me how to help them in those circumstances?'

  'It is difficult I know. But you must persist. In the

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  i99°s its wicked for old women to be living like they do. The whole village should take responsibility for them. No wonder we find old people have been lying dead in their houses for days before anyone realises. Someone should check them regularly.'

  'Well, how about if you talk to them. You've seen the house, you know how unhygienic it is, in fact downright filthy. You offer them help to clean up and decorate or whatever it is you have the ability to instigate and see what kind of a response you get. You can't force people to have help if they don't want it. And they don't. As far as they are concerned their home is all right. It's just how they .want it.'

  'I'll have a word, I'll persuade them to let us help.'

  'I've paid for a plumber myself and he's been in and mended the leak so the water is turned on again and they won't need to use the well. So at least they won't be back in here.'

  'Well, that's something. I have a fund which I can use to help them, so I'll see about it straight away.'

  Peter nearly said, 'And the best of luck' but didn't, being mindful that he might need their help at some future date for other parishioners.

  Despite Gwen and Beryl stoutly refusing all offers of help the social services came to the village, borrowed the key from Peter and cleaned the twin's bedroom and the downstairs rooms and took away all the out of date packets and tins which had accumulated over the years. So when the twins went home from the hospital at least the worst of what had taken place while they were ill had been cleared up.

  Gwen and Beryl were horrified when they found out and sent the social worker away with stern reminders that she was not to call to see them under any circumstances and that now they were well again she could cross them off her list.

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  The day before they were due home Sheila couldn't resist going round and taking a peep through their windows. A golden opportunity she called it. Ron, unwilling to allow her to go alone, found himself sneaking through the side gate. They had a peep through the windows.

  'Ron, just look at this kitchen. It's absolutely antiquated. They haven't even a washing machine. No wonder they always look dirty.' Sheila reached up on tip toe and by holding on to the rotting window sill could see into the pantry.

  'There's scarcely any food in the pantry, but the shelves have all been wiped. How can they live in there? Someone should do something about it.'

  'You offer to go round and clean then.'

  'Who'd want to clean up in there I ask you?' She turned round to hear his answer but he'd gone.

  'Where are you Ron?'

  'I'm down the garden looking at this well.'

  Sheila struggled through the undergrowth. She knew she shouldn't have put her high heeled sandals on, but she pressed on. Ron was on his knees throwing stones into the well.

  'It's mighty deep is this well. Fancy drinking water straight from this.'

  Sheila peered down and sniffed the damp mossy odour. 'It's like those caves we went to see, near Bath was it? Why do they have their house like it is. Anyway no one can help them. The social services have helped a bit but they've not done enough. What do we pay al
l these taxes for?'

  'Let's be off.'

  'Shouldn't we put the lid on the well, Ron?'

  'Yes, OK.' He pushed the heavy rotting old lid over the top as best he could. 'Surprises me they could move it in the first place. They must be stronger than they look,

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  those two.' He stood up, dusted the earth from his trouser knees, and they walked towards the side gate. As they approached, Gwen and Beryl appeared from the front path.

  Gwen became immediately enraged. 'How dare you, what do you think you're doing? Thought we weren't home until tomorrow did you? Well, we discharged ourselves early. Couldn't cope with their interfering ways. What do you think you're doing creeping about our garden like this? Get out, go on get out.' Gwen was angry, but Beryl was frightened. 'Go away, please go away,' she called.

  Ron tried some of the assertiveness training he'd learnt on a course for union leaders. Assuming his most authoritative voice he marched towards them saying, 'Now Miss Baxter we've been in to make sure the lid was on the well securely. Couldn't take the risk of one of you falling down it could we? All's well, now I've attended to it, you've no need to fear. Glad you're well enough to come home. Take care of. .

  Ron got no further. Gwen picked up an almost bristleless broom and raised it above her head, obviously intent on hitting him with it. The head of the broom caught Ron on the side of his head with an enormous thwack. The words he'd just used about her being stronger than he'd thought came back to him as she struck him again and again. Sheila intervened in an attempt to help Ron, but Beryl came behind her and gripped her arms. Suddenly Gwen stopped. She went quite pale and very short of breath.

  Beryl let go of Sheila and went to Gwen's aid. The two of them unlocked the back door and Gwen and then Beryl squeezed inside and shut the door.

  'Ron, Ron, let's get home before anyone finds out.'

  'Quick, through the gate. I feel such a fool.'

  Inside their own home, Ron turned on Sheila.

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  'Can you tell me why I listen to you? It's you who got me into this predicament. I've that interview to do tomorrow for the ITV programme. All kinds of a fool I'm going to look with a bruise and a swelling the size of an egg on the side of my head.' He tenderly examined his head with the tips of his thick fingers. 'You're nothing but a confounded nuisance Sheila and after all these years it's time I stopped listening to you. In future / say what we do.'

  'Well really, when I think of how I wait on you hand and foot, you don't do a hand's turn in the house and now you say I'm a confounded nuisance.'

  'Well, you are. Don't ever suggest that we have anything to do with those two damned women ever again.' He stamped off upstairs to Sheila's navy and lavender bathroom, angry about the impression he would give on the TV programme. Maybe if he sat on the left hand side of the discussion group the lump would not be too obvious to the audience. The media certainly made one conscious of one's image. Talking of images, he wished Sheila looked more like Harriet Charter-Plackett or Caroline Harris. No not them, more like Sadie Beauchamp. Now she always looked stylish. Sheila never quite got her clothes right. And that dyed hair, he'd have to have a word about that.

  His afternoon tea was ready when he got downstairs. Neat little brown bread sandwiches and a plate of scones with jam. No cream because of his cholesterol. The china teapot, the tea strainer and a neat little pink serviette for his knee. He'd much rather have had a big cup of strong tea, at the table in the kitchen and some well fried bacon between two slices of fresh white bread.

  'There's a possibility I might get a chance to sit on the Question Time panel Sheila.'

  'Honestly? Why didn't you tell me straight away? Oh

  .

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  Ron that really is something. Question Time, well I never. Could I sit in the audience?'

  'It's not quite the thing to do that. In any case I wouldn't want you there.'

  'Would I make you nervous?'

  'No, embarrassed.'

  'Embarrassed? That's nice.'

  'I mean it. You spend ridiculous money on clothes and somehow you never quite make it. That leopard skin coat will have to go for a start.'

  'My leopard skin?'

  'Don't keep repeating what I say.'

  'I don't keep repeating what you say.'

  'You do, you've just done it again. Anyway, that coat'll have to go. And when you go into Culworth to the hairdresser's you can get your hair made back to what it ought to be.'

  'It cost a lot to get it like this.'

  'It's not worth it, believe me. If I'm going to move in Question Time circles you've got to move with me. Hair done like when you were serving in The Case is Altered is not right now. We've moved up from then.'

  'I do try.'

  'No, you don't, you've stayed stuck like a gramophone needle. I bet Sadie Beauchamp spends no more money on clothes and hair than you do but she looks like a lady.'

  'If I don't look like her and she looks like a lady, what do I look like then?'

  'What you always looked like, a barmaid.'

  'A barmaid?" Sheila's feelings were hurt in a way she couldn't remember ever before. This then was the thanks she got for trying. She stood up, scattering her sandwiches over the coffee table, 'This will cost you and not half Ron, not half. You wait and see.'

  'Yes I will. You're Lady Bissett now, not Sheila with

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  her brassy hair, twinkling away to get the punters to buy more drink. When I get back tomorrow night from Birmingham we'll lay some plans.'

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  Chapter 9

  As Harriet dashed across to the Church to help water the arrangements the flower society had worked on the day before, she noticed Ralph's Mercedes parked in front of his and Muriel's house. Oh good they're back. And in time for the Festival too. How nice to see them again.

  She got there and found Sylvia had arrived first.

  'Good morning, Sylvia. You're early.'

  'Well, I decided to get absolutely in front of myself this morning, because Dr Harris and the rector and I want to spend time here today and of course the rector is giving the recital too, so we're sharing the work load so that we can all enjoy the festival in turns.'

  'It's a lovely day. Let's hope it brings the crowds and we make lots of money.'

  'Let's hope so.' They went from arrangement to arrangement feeling the oasis and deciding how much water, if any, the holders needed. The church looked quite the best it had ever done. Willie Biggs had worked marvels with spotlights and floodlights emphasising the flowers in all the right places.

  'There's more to Willie than meets the eye isn't there Sylvia? Who'd have thought he would have had the sensitivity to know how to show the flowers and the murals and tombs to such good effect?'

  'Yes, there is more to him than one thinks. He

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  certainly has an ear for music.'

  'Oh how's that?'

  'Well, to tell the truth we went to see The Mikado together in Culworth last week and he can sing some of the songs really well. If he wasn't the verger, he should be in the choir.'

  'I didn't know you and he were . . .'

  'Well, we are just good friends that's all.'

  'Just like they used to say in the papers! Have you any water left in that jug? This arrangement under the pulpit needs a drop more.'

  'Yes, here you are. I don't need to ask you not to say anything do I?'

  'I shall be as silent as the grave, Sylvia.'

  'Thank you, Mrs Charter-Plackett. He'd be so embarrassed if he thought everyone knew.'

  'You won't keep it a secret for long as he well knows. Nothing can go on in this village without everyone knowing. Although come to think of it there have been a few well kept secrets in the past.'

  Sheila chose the morning of the Flower Festival to launch her new image. Ron had been with her to Culworth to help choose her outfit. After a lot of wrangling on Sheila's part, he had persuaded her to buy a very expensive
suit which he declared would come in useful for all sorts of occasions. It was a soft olive green and Ron had chosen a delicate cream blouse to wear with it. The collar of the blouse flowed over the neck of the collarless jacket. The most astounding difference was her hair. It had been made a soft mousey colour with slight blonde highlights and cut quite short but flatteringly around her face. Instead of her usual strappy stilettos she had chosen a pair of medium heeled dark chestnut shoes with a small matching handbag. Ron had surreptiously been making mental notes of the way Sadie Beauchamp made up her

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  face and had supervised Sheila's make up, having slyly hidden her rouge and the bright blue eye shadow she normally affected.

  She purposely arrived in the church hall a little late pretending to be checking whether or not her flower arrangements needed more water. Several early visitors to the Festival didn't recognise her. 'Why Lady Bissett, we didn't see you there.' They would have bitten their tongues out before they could be friendly. They hadn't quite forgiven her yet for pointing out that young Alexander was so like the Rector. After all some things were best left unsaid. Out of the corner of her eye Sheila saw Sadie Beauchamp arrive for her morning coffee. This she knew was the great test. Sheila went to buy her third coffee that morning quite coincidentally at the same time as Sadie.

  'Why hello, it's Sheila. I hope you don't mind me making a comment but, I must say, you look absolutely charming. And your hair too!'

  'Thank you.'

  'Where did you buy your suit?'

  'Fisk's.'

  'They have some lovely things in there. You've made a good choice.'

  Ron watched the exchange from across the Hall and felt well satisfied with his campaign.

  The church hall had a continuous queue of customers for refreshments. Harriet had to go back to the Store three times for more milk and bread and cakes, and also for another ham to carve for the rolls and sandwiches. The flowers in the church hall were not all white as Sheila had insisted upon. They were mainly white but here and there she had placed pale yellow flowers to give warmth and they were pronounced a great success. To her delight several customers said they'd put an extra fifty pence in the cash box as a fee for viewing her flowers.