‘If anything leaks out,’ Mr Mackenzie had said, ‘Funnel will likely as not be on the spot first thing in the morning offering him God knows what. So mind, you open your mouth if you dare. You know nothing, you’ve heard nothing, understand?’
Mavis knew she had been a fool and said too much already, but she hadn’t thought Miss Collins would go on like this. She was definitely puzzled at Miss Collins’s attitude, for had she herself wanted Peter she couldn’t have gone on worse. Her attention was brought from Miss Collins to Mrs Booth as that lady declared, in vibrant tones, ‘Well, that settles it, something’s got to be done.’
After delivering this statement, Mrs Booth’s mouth snapped shut and her eyes rolled upwards; indeed they were turning inwards looking at the situation, for, in her own mind, she was certain that something would have to be done. If that piece stayed in the village the Hart wouldn’t see her again, nor many of the men; they would go farther afield. After all, the Crown was just a mile as the crow flew, and you could, from Battenbun, follow the crow’s flight through the woods and over the fells. And Mrs Booth had a mental picture of Leo, in the guise of the Pied Piper, leading the entire village of men over the fells to the Crown, for, as her husband had put it, that one attracted custom like a striptease artist. Something would have to be done.
Away over the gravestones and the sloping grassy bank Mrs Booth caught sight of the heads of Granny Andrews and her daughter slowly bobbing above the hedge as they made their way back to the village, and she murmured something to herself, which Mrs Carrington-Barrett failed to catch. And so that lady prodded, as was her custom, ‘You were saying, Mrs Booth?’
‘Aye. Yes.’ Mrs Booth seemed to come back from a long way. ‘Yes, I was just thinking, it’s a pity we don’t live a little earlier back. Granny Andrews was right, rough medicine often proves the best purge.’
Mrs Carrington-Barrett’s thin laugh trailed away among the cypress trees. ‘Now, now, Mrs Booth. We mustn’t resort to that. Dear, dear. Must we, Miss Collins? Not in this day and age.’
Miss Collins did not reply for a moment but remained still, staring away into the distance as Mrs Booth had been doing. Then as if answering her own thoughts she said, ‘It’s right. Things can’t go on as they are. She’s affected this village like a plague. I don’t have much time for the devil’—her eyes now flicked around the group, giving the evidence of her modern outlook—‘but it seems to me past the bounds of iniquity to concoct a story of an enormous eel in the little lake miles from the river. And it is funny, isn’t it, that no woman has seen this eel, except her. She’s clever. An eel would attract the men, not the women or children! Why didn’t she make up a story of elves and pixies to fetch the children, or a male film star retreating to a cave on the fells to fetch the women? One is as likely as the other. But no, it had to be a simple and subtle attraction for the men, so we have an eel.’
With the exception of Florrie’s, there was a ripple on the faces around her as if her audience had a desire to laugh, but Miss Collins’s expression forbade laughter. This was a very serious matter to all of them, but to her it was of the most vital importance. She was about to resume, perhaps to answer the sugar-coated urgings of Mrs Carrington-Barrett and the insane ravings of Mrs Booth, when Mr Fraser, the verger, came hurrying round the path, and before reaching the group he called to her, ‘Miss—miss. I think you’d better come, vicar’s in a bad way.’
‘What!’ Miss Collins had already sprung away towards Mr Fraser, and Mr Fraser, turning on his heel without stopping, went back the way he had come talking over his shoulder to the vicar’s sister, ‘Sick he’s been, throwing up. My! Never seen vicar in this state. Upset he is about something. Talking twenty to the dozen, and how!’
As the voice of the verger faded away the women looked from one to the other. Then Mrs Carrington-Barrett said, ‘Poor man. Nerves, I suppose. He did seem a little unusual during the sermon, don’t you think? Overwork.’
They all looked back at her and in their eyes was the same knowledge. Nerves…nothing. Overwork? That was funny in this village. It was her; she had even got the vicar now, it was history repeating itself.
Florrie was the first to break away from the circle, and she summed up all their thoughts as she said, ‘Well, that would indeed seem to be that!’
Chapter Ten
Rosie’s outside world was, through necessity, centred around her family. That it had been rent and thrown into a state of chaos by the events of the last few days was not altogether surprising, but that her inner world, the tower wherein she housed her unbending self, should be brought to the same pass was both surprising and distressing.
She was given to firm opinions: a thing was right or it wasn’t; people were right or they weren’t. There were no half measures with Rosie, no interwoven patterns of grey. With people, she had thought she could judge them right away. But now, this belief had undergone a severe shaking.
Last night when she had gone into the front room she had known exactly what she was going to say; it was to be brief and to the point. The girl might be ill; she might or she might not be dying—on this last point Rosie’s mind had swung in a very short space of time towards doubt. And then, when she had been confronted by the girl, she had said nothing. It was the girl who had done the talking. And when someone blamed herself for all the worry that had come upon you, what could you say?
Rosie had found herself thinking, ‘She doesn’t talk like she looks’; and she also found herself thinking, ‘I can see what got him.’ Yet what it was she couldn’t exactly explain, but it was something, and it was there confronting her. She could feel it, that something that the blonde bedraggled hair and Peter’s old topcoat did nothing to diminish. If Rosie had been capable of clear thinking she would have associated the elusive quality with one still more elusive, which was honesty. Anyway, the result of the meeting had been that she had, somewhat tersely, ordered the girl back to bed and with the promise to bring her something up. And finally she had heard herself suggesting that she stay in bed the following day. This last charitable act had not been without motive though, for no matter how much her feelings had been toned down she still couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her lad and this girl together. No matter how much she now appeared to have in her favour, dying and all that, the fact still remained that this time last week he hadn’t known her, hadn’t even known she existed…and now he couldn’t exist without her. Everything had been thrust aside on her account, everything, even herself—mostly herself. No, Rosie decided, she couldn’t stand to see any carry-on. Bed was the best place for her while she was in this house, for what the eye didn’t see the heart didn’t grieve over. Yet, when Peter had come back from the Mackenzies’ and had gone upstairs, she had felt worked up. And when she did not hear the drone of his voice her imagination ran wild and presented her with shuddering scenes, so that she wondered if her suggestion had been right after all.
But on Sunday her feelings were again mollified, for Peter scarcely stayed in the house at all. From early morning he had been in the garage, and two short visits upstairs was all the time he had spent with the girl. It was as if he had sensed how she felt about this facet of the matter and was going out of his way not to upset her unduly.
It was late evening now and Peter was still at the garage. This, in a way, was to be expected as he wished to leave everything as straight as possible, from his books to the storeroom, mostly the storeroom. But what was now puzzling and testing Rosie’s mental powers to the utmost, and had done since lunchtime, was not the girl, or Peter, but her husband’s changed attitude towards the selling of the garage, and not his alone, but that of the other two as well.
Harry’s temper had not improved when he returned home last evening, and most of the night he had tossed and turned and muttered. She knew this to be a fact, for she herself had hardly slept. It being his Sunday on at the Manor, a self-imposed task that she had always quibbled at, he had gone out first thing with a face like thunder.
She had prophesied to herself that it was going to be a nice day, with one thing and another. Then, knowing her menfolk as she did, she had been immediately openly suspicious when, on Harry’s return, his whole attitude towards the affair was changed and he had not only offered to give Peter a hand but had, for all to hear, openly declared to him that perhaps after all he was doing the most sensible thing in selling.
To an outsider it might have looked as if Harry had, after thinking things over, changed his mind about something that was inevitable anyway; it might appear to the same outsider, that he was a sensible man; but Rosie had for a great number of years been on the inside of Harry, and his mellowed attitude put her straight away on her guard and she felt, and naturally, that there was something behind all this. Oh, yes…and more so when the other two had by teatime come to follow his suit. Instinctively she was reminded of the time she had made her bid for liberty.
Eight years ago, when she was forty-four, she had made a stand against the band of Puddletons. She had decided that in future they would look after themselves—all, that was, except Peter. She would supply them with what she called a skeleton service, for she had decided she was going to get out and about and see the world, as far as Hexham each week, like every other woman. And even Durham or Newcastle on a cheap day trip. But she made one mistake. In a glorious row one night she made her plans known to the Puddletons, all three of them, and she could swear to this day that they got together and planned what later developed to crush her revolt; for from the day following her rising her husband began unashamedly to court her all over again. He ceased to dive into the house, swallow his meal and dive out again to the Hart, or fishing, or…to them others, as she thought of the women she imagined he was forever consorting with. Instead, he plied her with his attentions. And she wasn’t saying it wasn’t nice and refreshing for a time—she blossomed again…people noticed it. And then, bang! She woke up one morning to find she was pregnant. She was forty-four and past it, things were safe. But she was to find nothing was safe. She had counted without the exception, and in due course she was presented with twins, and, insult to injury, boys again, each with the hooked nose, Puddleton mouth, and the cast. Aye they had buttered her up then, and now they were buttering Peter, and she was onto them and as suspicious as a newly made detective.
Although she would have given anything in her world to undo the present state of affairs she was only too well aware that, for good or ill, her lad’s life was tied up with that of the girl’s upstairs, and that the girl, for a number of reasons, could not stay in this village, so Peter must go, too, and the garage must be sold. That it was sold, and to the long-standing enemy of the house, was what had embittered them all so, particularly Harry. Yet here he was, with his father and grandfather, abetting Peter now, and saying it was likely all for the best. No, no, such an attitude was against all reason. She knew the Puddletons, oh, she knew the Puddletons, only too well did she know the Puddletons. They were up to something again, something to keep him here.
As bad as things were now Rosie saw they could be even worse. For instance, if the selling of the garage fell through Peter would have to stay; if he hadn’t any money he would hesitate to take her away, at least until things could be reshuffled. That would mean the girl and herself in this house all day, with the old ’un openly on her side. No, no. God in Heaven! No, she couldn’t stand that.
When at last at the end of the longest Sunday she had ever known Peter and his father and Old Pop came in, tired, and, she noticed, somewhat more saddened than they had appeared earlier on in the day, she hurried them over their washing so that, as she said, they could get their supper and she could get cleared away before midnight. And when, with surprising docility, they obeyed her and marched into the room, she tapped Peter on the arm, giving him a nod to indicate he should wait behind. Then closing the door and drawing him away from it towards the sink, she whispered, ‘Do you smell a rat?’
He looked at her, his eyes screwed up. ‘Smell a rat? What about?’
‘Them.’ She nodded back to the kitchen. ‘What’s made your Da change his tune? He could have killed you last night for selling. And when it was the Mackenzies I thought he’d go off his head. You should have heard him in bed, he kept on and on. And now look at him and the other two. I tell you there’s something afoot.’
Peter looked away from her and out of the window, his mind moving rapidly now. She was right, they had all changed their tune and he had thought it was because they didn’t want to part bad friends. And after the scene of last night he had been only too glad to accept this attitude. But now he could see, as she said, they were up to something. But what?
He looked at his mother again: ‘There’s no trick in the deeds, they’re straightforward?’
‘As far as I know.’ She was whispering now. ‘But there’s something. Ask yourself. You’re taking away the thing they were all building on and they act like angels. ’Tisn’t natural, not with them. Last night was, but not the day. Could he have got at the Mackenzies this morning?’
‘What good would that have done him?’ said Peter soberly. ‘They want the garage as they never wanted anything. Anyway, I saw them both going off around ten o’clock, Hexham way, and if I know them they’ll hurry this thing up as fast as a deed can be written out. They know they’re on a good thing. Trust the Mackenzies. They wouldn’t have agreed to the fifteen hundred else.’
They looked at each other; then Rosie, turning away, sighed and said, ‘Well, there’s something.’ Then, on the sound of a low chortle of laughter from the other room, she looked sharply back at Peter and said, ‘See what I mean. And the old ’un’s never barked at me nor nobody else since dinner time. I’m telling you, you’d better keep your wits about you.’
As his mother bustled out of the scullery Peter remained where he was, considering her words. She was right, but what could they be up to? He racked his brain, but could find nothing that they could do to stop the deal going through.
Whereas last night, for financial reasons alone, it had been necessary that he should sell the garage, the happenings of today had now made it doubly so, for it seemed that the entire population of the village was against him. Previously he had only to walk down the street any number of times in a day to be hailed with a smile, a wave, or a call of ‘Hallo, there, lad’, from his elders, or, ‘Ho! Peter’, from his contemporaries. But today he had seen people turn indoors or cut over the green to avoid him. The entire blame of last night’s brawl had been put down to him, and if not to him, then to Leo, and that amounted to one and the same thing. Then the scene in the Hart this morning when he had gone to collect her things would take some forgetting.
His mission had at first been delayed by Mr Booth, who had endeavoured to bully him into paying the damage done the previous evening to two chairs, the leg of a table and ten broken glasses. And he was standing in the passage with Leo’s cases at his feet, his way obstructed by Mr Booth, who was threatening him with a summons, when Mrs Booth came in. It wasn’t clear then, or now, what she had said, but what had impressed itself on him was the almost terrifying force of her vindictiveness, for she had acted like someone possessed. She had gabbled about the vicar being ill and the major forgetting his position and making a fool of himself, of Amelia Fountain going to leave Bill, and others. She kept referring to ‘others’ with her popping eyes on her husband, until he, with some force, pushed her into the living room, and in doing so allowed Peter to make his escape.
The slighting by his friends and the scene in the Hart had somehow upset him even more than last night’s business. For him the village was finished, as, indeed, apparently was the village finished with him, and although he would not admit it he was hurt by this rejection.
He passed through the kitchen, answering Rosie’s look from the table with a murmured, ‘I won’t be a minute,’ and went upstairs.
When he opened his bedroom door Leo’s eyes were waiting for him, as if they had not changed their directio
n since he had left her at teatime. Without a word he went to the bed and took her into his arms. And she clung to him with a strength that was in contrast to her thinness. Then with his lips against hers he gently pressed her back onto the pillows, and after gazing at her for some moments he asked tenderly, ‘Been a long day?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘The boys have been so good, keeping me company.’ Her fingers outlined his cheekbones. ‘I’ve been learning all about you and this room. All your life seems to be bound up in this room. Peter’—her voice became urgent and she clutched at his hand now—‘I feel so guilty. If it wasn’t for me you’d still be happy here. This is your place—this house, this village…’
‘Be quiet.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘You just will. Look’—he held her face between his hands—‘let me tell you something. I’ve just realised these past few days that I’ve never felt alive before; I was easygoing, even lazy, I was neither happy nor sad. I just wasn’t alive, not aware of living, not really.’
As his eyes moved lovingly over her face she said, ‘You can talk but I know.’ Then she asked, with an eagerness she tried to hide but which did not escape him, ‘When do we go, Peter?’
‘As soon as I sign that paper.’ He rubbed his knuckles gently up and down her cheek.
‘Your mother cannot forgive me, she never will.’
‘Yes, she will. I know her. She’ll come round. She’s working that way now.’
Slinky Jane Page 21
