Talk of the Village

by Rebecca Shaw

  'Why did she keep the newspapers?'

  'To hide it. Make a wall.'

  'Ah I see, she stacked the newspapers up to hide it.'

  'Don't tell that bobby. Don't want him to know.'

  'I realise that Beryl. But I need to know don't I?'

  Caroline quietly took the sleeping Alex from Sergeant Cooper and left the kitchen. Muriel and the Inspector sat completely still, their minds racing to guess what Beryl was trying to tell them.

  Beryl was shuffling and twisting about under her cardigan and then the rush of words began to come, stumbling over each other in Beryl's urgent need to tell.

  'Gwen smothered it you know. It was her. When it came I wanted to keep it but Gwen said no. The shame she kept saying, the shame. It won't take a minute to smother, not a minute. I cried. I cried, but she wouldn't listen. It's a bastard twice over she kept saying, twice over. Its an abomination, that's what it is. An abomination. But it wasn't, it was lovely and I wanted to keep it.' Under her cardigan Beryl shaped her arms as though cradling a baby. 'She said, this way it will never grow up, it will never need to leave this house. So that was when she did it. Then she put ... it ... it ... in the tin trunk and we hid it with the newspapers.'

  Muriel wished she was anywhere but here. All these terrible happenings and no one knew. What a frightful secret. When Caroline came back Peter asked her to get a brandy for Beryl.

  'No one found out though did they Beryl?'

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  'No. We were clever. I never left the house once I got fat. She made me stay upstairs. Gone to a sanatorium for TB she told the people at the factory where we worked. But that wasn't it really. She called me a slut and a harlot. But he'd done the same to her, hadn't he?'

  'Oh. I didn't realise that.' Peter gave her a glass of brandy. 'Drink this Beryl, I think you need it. It's not easy telling me all this is it?'

  Muriel was beginning to feel very faint but held on for everyone's sake. This story had to come out now or it might never be told. Her collapsing would break Beryl's thread. The inspector, keeping well back, was taking notes as Beryl spoke. Caroline sat perched on the edge of the table, both absorbed and horrified by what she was hearing.

  Still under her cardigan Beryl blurted out, 'I haven't told a soul. She said I mustn't. All those years it went on. That was why Mother was always scrubbing and cleaning and washing our clothes. She thought she'd wash away the sin, but you can't do it as easily as that. She could have helped us. As soon as Mother died in nineteen forty seven Gwen decided it -would be Father next. She said he deserved to die slowly, but in the end we smothered him the next time he came to our room. "This'll be the last time," she said. "The very last time. You'll do it no more to us." And we both pressed hard on the pillow and he struggled for a while but we won in the end. Then we carried him back to his own bed and covered him up and told the doctor next day that we'd found him dead. We got away with it because he'd been ill on and off for a while, and they thought he'd died in his sleep.'

  Muriel was feeling distinctly ill, and wished Ralph would come to rescue her. Beryl had come out from under her cardigan and was staring Peter full in the face.

  'We couldn't help it, you see. Father started coming in

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  our bedroom when we were in our early teens. We tried to stop him but we couldn't. I knew Mother knew because she wouldn't look at us the next day. That was why Gwen said the baby was an abomination, because it was his. So I've had nothing and no one to love all these years. We couldn't let anyone in the house in case they found . . . you know . . . that . . . thing in the trunk. Then when we got the letter about the court case Gwen took ill and I found her dead in the chair. I didn't know what to do.'

  Peter looked in on the twins before he went to bed. He touched their smooth cheeks and smelt their lovely sweet cleanliness. How true what someone said about the sweet innocence of a child's sleep. They neither of them knew anything about what had happened, nothing of the pain and horror in that cottage over the way. Please God they would never need to know of such things in all their lives. No, that was unrealistic, please God they would have the strength to cope with such evil, and come through it.

  He lay in bed unable to sleep. It had taken all his skills to get Beryl to go quietly to the hospital. Caroline had volunteered her help and Muriel, feeling that moral support would be needed, had gone with them. The Inspector had wanted her to go directly to the police station and give a formal statement, but eventually even he realised that he was never going to get that from Beryl. A permanent bed in a secure mental hospital was the likely option. It was when Beryl had decided she would be safe with Peter that his worst fears were realised. Hell, what a situation to be in. As a Christian he ought to have said, 'Yes, of course.' But how the hell could one invite a known murderer to share one's home when it contained two precious children besides his darling girl? She would more than likely have become

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  obsessed with the twins and none of them would ever have known a moment's peace. No, it had to be somewhere secure where she could get help. At least she would be kept clean and well fed which was more than had been the case for a very long time.

  He heard Caroline at the door.

  He ran down the stairs and she almost fell into his arms.

  'Peter, I am so tired I can hardly stand up.'

  'My darling, it's so late. Whatever happened?'

  Til tell you everything when I'm in bed.'

  'I'll help you.'

  Once he had got her settled in bed and his arms were round her she said, 'She'll never be free again, you know. They've put her in the psychiatric ward but she'll have to be moved somewhere more permanent. She has absolutely cracked now. When we got her out of the ambulance she was so meek and mild, but as soon as we stepped into the hospital she ran amok trying to escape. Fortunately Terry was on duty, he's the nurse I told you about who's built like an ox and is very fleet of foot. They always call him when there's trouble. Anyway he managed to catch her and restrain her. Muriel was terribly upset and I didn't know which one of them to comfort first. However, we calmed her down and I had the inspiration to give her a bag of dolly mixtures I had in my bag. She's like a child; it took her interest and she sat calmly munching them, while I filled the registrar in on what had happened. Then when Muriel and I tried to leave she decided she was coming with us. So we had another set to. She clung to Muriel and they had to pull her off. There's no Gwen, you see, to tell her what to do. What an awful mess. How did we not realise what was going on?'

  'We knew things weren't right, but how could we possibly have guessed how terribly wrong they really

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  were? This has taught me a profound lesson, I shall not give up so easily next time I sense something is not as it should be. Thank you for all your help, darling. What did it feel like being back at the hospital?'

  'It's nice being able to pull strings because of who you are, but I'll tell you something and then I'm going to sleep. I much prefer my life as it is now, thank you very much, and you were wonderful today.'

  Peter kissed her and gave her a hug then found she was already fast asleep.

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  Chapter 16

  Peter laid his morning post on his desk without even a glance. Dressed in his oldest clothes he had plans for clearing out the old trunk in the boiler house store room, the one which Willie had so adamantly refused to attend to. Today was Willie's day off and Peter was taking his chance whilst he could.

  'You never know, Caroline, I might find documents in there which are of no use to the church but could be sold and the money used towards the new heating system.'

  'Well, you're certainly dressed for it. I threw out that pullover about six months ago. How come you're wearing it?'

  'I found it in the bin and rescued it. Sylvia washed it for me and now it's being put to some use.'

  'Sometimes you do cling to your old things. Is it your security blanket?'

  Peter kissed
her and declared she was his security blanket thank you very much. He played for a few minutes with the twins who were rolling about on a rug on the kitchen floor. 'Before we know where we are these two will be walking . . . '

  'And then your troubles will begin.'

  Peter laughed. 'Right, I'm away. I'll open the post when I get back.'

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  The trunk was far heavier than he had expected and it took all his strength to lift it down from the shelf. Thick, grimy dust lay all over it. Peter rooted about in the cupboard where Willie kept his cleaning materials and found a brush and a cloth which he used to clean the outside. The padlock on it was stoutly made and as he had no key available, Peter had to saw through it to get it off. He had difficulty in forcing up the lid, and it creaked stiffly as he pushed it fully open. Inside were dozens of papers and files filling the trunk right to the top. Some of the papers were minutes of parish meetings from years long gone. Some were old letters belonging to Victorian rectors, even one from a bishop telling the Reverend Samuel Witherspoon that he would be visiting the parish on the i sth May 1867 at precisely two thirty. All very commendable but scarcely of much use as saleable objects. At the very bottom of the box was a thick, leather-bound book. In copper plate handwriting on the inside page were the words Turnham Malpas Parish Charity Fund. The first entry was dated December ist 1761. After the date it was recorded that James Paradise had received the sum often shillings for food for his family.

  Each subsequent December the names of villagers who had received money from the Fund were recorded. Names of families Peter recognised as still living in and around Turnham Malpas. The last recorded distribution was ist December 1916. The sum of £i had been given to each of four Glover brothers; Cecil, Arnold, Herbert and Sidney. Since then there had been no further distributions. Why had the distributions stopped and why had the book been so carefully hidden beneath all the other much older papers?

  Peter put all the papers back in the trunk. He brushed the dust and dirt from his trousers and sweater, rubbed as much as he could from his hands, took the Charity Fund book with him and placed it on his study desk.

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  Caroline took his coffee into him and he drank it while he opened his post. There were several letters, three items of junk mail, his credit card statement and a letter from the County and Provincial Bank. Puzzled as to why he should be receiving a letter from a bank he didn't use Peter opened it first. Inside was a statement saying that the Turnham Malpas Parish Charity Fund had twenty three thousand four hundred and thirty three pounds thirty four pence to its credit. The bank manager had enclosed a letter suggesting Peter visit the bank to discuss more advantageous investment of the money.

  Peter opened the study door and called out, 'Caroline, come here a minute.' She came into the study with a baby wriggling under each arm.

  'Yes?'

  'I've opened this letter and it says we have all this money in the bank, in a Charity Fund. Curiously enough I've found an old book in that trunk, here look, with the words Turnham Malpas Parish Charity Fund on it. Distributions went on right up until December 1916 but there's no further record in it after that. Isn't it odd that we've never heard of this fund before and yet on the same day the book turns up and the bank make contact? And why has there been no further money given out? I can't believe there has been no one in need of help for the last eighty years, can you?'

  'How very odd. Look, I'm putting these two to bed for a sleep before lunch. I'll be back in a while and have a proper look. Twenty three thousand pounds! Just think what the church could do with that!'

  'Exactly. This could be the answer to a prayer.'

  The bank manager gave Peter an appointment for that afternoon and he set off straight after lunch. Caroline used to comment derisively on the speed he drove at, but since becoming a father he'd reduced it by at least fifteen miles an hour and drove far more cautiously. He was

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  familiar with the little cross roads three miles from the village, heaven knows he'd crossed it often enough, though there was always that bend in the road which blocked a driver's vision. It did make one hesitate and check carefully before driving on. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a tractor crossed in front of him. He braked, and swerved viciously to the right to avoid an impact. The car lurched and juddered as it shot across the road, straight towards the ditch. Peter braked even harder but couldn't prevent the car from going down into it where it lay tipped at a crazy angle, front end right down in the nettles, the back wheels spinning in the air. The tractor driver, apparently oblivious to other road users, appeared to melt into thin air. Peter waited a moment to collect his thoughts before attempting to climb out. His knees had come sharply into contact with the edge of the dashboard and both felt amazingly painful. He managed to force open his door and climb out onto the road.

  The first Caroline knew about it was Peter arriving home in a breakdown truck.

  'What's happened? Are you all right'? Where's the car?'

  'Thanks for the lift Brian, I'll ring you tomorrow about the car.'

  'That's fine, sir, we'll do our best.'

  Peter came limping into the rectory. 'Don't panic, I'm only bruised.'

  'Show me, show me.'

  'The car went into a ditch, I managed to struggle out, hailed a passing lorry and got a lift into Culworth.'

  'You didn't go straight to the bank?'

  'Yes.'

  'You should have gone to casualty.'

  'I thought perhaps I'd come home instead.'

  Peter undid his trousers and pulled them down so Caroline could examine his knees. 'Not much problem there I think. I guess you'll have massive bruises by

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  tomorrow. They are already swelling. I'll make you a cup of tea with plenty of sugar in it. Explain how it all happened.' Peter dressed himself and told her the story of the phantom tractor.

  That tractor driver is an absolute pig for not stopping.'

  'Well, never mind, I'm not badly hurt.'

  'And the car?'

  'Well, that's another story. The front end is badly damaged, headlights gone, radiator stoved in, bumper badly damaged, bonnet buckled and that's what you can see before it's been examined inside. I think I'll get it repaired and then sell it. Cars never feel right once they've been involved in an accident.'

  'What did the bank have to say?'

  Peter sipped his tea. 'That tastes good. They are as surprised as I am about the bank account. They've got a new manager and in the way of new managers he's something of a new broom. They're having a massive face lift and really bringing the bank into the twentieth century, so every nook and cranny is being cleared out. He found a file pushed down the back of a cupboard which hadn't been moved since the year dot. In it were details of the Charity Fund. None of the money was on their computerised system and no one can understand why not. They've done all the necessary with calculating the interest over the years, which must have been very complicated, and that's what it amounts to. He recommends that I write to the Charity Commissioners and get things sorted out.'

  'It's all very odd. How could a bank have money hidden like that and no current record of it?'

  'He doesn't know either. What amazes him is the fact that we both unearthed evidence of its existence in the same week. It's all very strange.'

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  When Willie realised that the rector had got the trunk down and broken in to it, he was very upset and indignant.

  'I did say, sir, I'd look for the key.'

  'Yes, Willie, I know you did, but you didn't actually bother did you?'

  'No, sir. But there was no call to go investigating it though. That trunk's been on that shelf for years, there's nothing in it of any use. It was best left where it was, untouched. You 'aven't taken anything out of it 'ave you, Rector?'

  'Yes, I have as a matter of fact. A book with entries in it to do with a Parish Charity Fund.' Peter could have sworn that Willie blanched, but he dismissed the idea as ridicu
lous.

  'Right, well, I'll be off.'

  'Don't you want to hear the rest of the story, Willie?'

  'No.' He walked off without so much as a good morning, leaving Peter feeling affronted by his attitude. It was so unlike Willie to be bad mannered.

  In The Royal Oak that night Willie was very quiet.

  Jimmy asked him if he wasn't well.

  'I'm OK, but the Rector soon won't be.'

  'Clairvoyant are yer then? Or 'ave yer been poisoning 'is soup?'

  'No. 'Nother drink Sylvia?'

  'Yes, please love.' While Willie waited at the bar for the drinks Sylvia told Jimmy she was quite worried. 'He keeps going on about a trunk the Rector's opened up, says he's no business bringing up the Charity Fund again. Says no good will come of it.'

  Jimmy looked pensive and then offered his opinion. 'Ah, well, he could be right at that. How's the Rector going on about 'is car?'

  'They've lent him one from the garage while his gets repaired. Though I don't know if he'll be well enough to

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  drive. He's looking real poorly tonight. Dr Harris is quite worried about him. She's sent him to bed. Flushed and coughing a lot he is. When I told Willie he said, "and no wonder" whatever that might mean.'

  Willie came back with the drinks and they began talking about other matters, in particular what Jimmy would do when he got this massive win he expected from the pools.

  'You've been filling in the pools for twenty years that I know of. Whatever you get you'll deserve it, you've spent a fortune on them pools.' Willie laughed and Jimmy snorted his annoyance. 'You wait and see.'

  'I will.'

  Peter was diagnosed as having a virus. For a week he lay in bed with a high temperature unable to eat and scarcely able to get to the bathroom unaided. He lost a great deal of weight and caused Caroline and their GP serious anxiety. Then he developed a secondary bacterial infection and a patch of fluid on his lung. The curate from Culworth came to conduct his services and he prayed with the congregation for Peter's recovery. There was a continuous stream of parishioners at the Rectory door, some inquiring after the latest news, others bringing gifts for the invalid. Calves foot jelly and beef tea had to go down the waste disposal. Caroline said to the jelly and the tea, 'Sorry about doing this to you. I know you have the best of intentions, but he can't eat you.'