The Village Fate

by William Hadley

  Chapter Ten

  By a quarter to six Pumpkin was back in his field. He’d been brushed, fed and munched down an apple from the treats bucket. Claudilia cleaned her tack and her boots, taking special care to ensure there were no traces of cement on anything. Then she went back to Bindweed Cottage. Max was pleased to see her. By the amount of hair on the chairs it was obvious that he and Mr Crumble had spent the afternoon lazing around and watching TV. She opened the door to let them both into the garden, then picked up the phone, dialled Marie’s number and invited herself to dinner.

  “It’s nothing special tonight,” Said Marie. “Spag-bol, garlic bread and banana splits if the kids are good. Will that do for you? There’s plenty of wine of course, or I could get Hubert to pick up some beer if you’d prefer.”

  “Spag-bol sounds perfect,” said Claudilia. “And I’ll bring some chilled white wine from my fridge, I’ve got the one you like, not that muck Hubert drinks. It’s so sweet it’s like treacle, I don’t know how it comes out of the bottle, one day it’ll give him diabetes, his arteries will go hard and his foot’ll drop off.”

  She walked back into the kitchen with the phone wedged between chin and shoulder. Claudilia checked there was a bottle of her favourite wine in the fridge, she found two and decided to take them both. “Are the rug rats playing up? ‘Cos if they are you can tell them Aunt C’s going to sit on them when she arrives. They’ll be squished flat, and have no room for banana spifs.”

  “Splits! Darling, banana splits, Splifs are something completely different.”

  “If you say so, suit yourself. I’ll see you at half-seven.”

  Both ladies were laughing as they hung up and Claudilia headed for the shower. All in all, it had been a good day and she was looking forward to a very pleasant evening with the family.

  Claudilia arrived at the appointed hour, she’d cycled from the cottage with Max trotting along beside her. As she rode up the lane to the farm she could see her niece Helen. She was walking back across the field from the paddock where she kept her chestnut pony, Merry. Like Claudilia, Helen loved to ride and spent hours with Merry, grooming, washing and mucking her out. Claudilia thought her niece was a bit moody at the moment but then remembered what she’d been like at that age and how she’d preferred the company of her horse to that of her family. … Where some of them are concerned I still do – now get on with the story, I’m ready for dinner. Claudilia almost blushed as she remembered some of the secrets she had told her pony, Sox, when she was Helen’s age, no longer a girl but not quite a woman.

  Sox had died when Claudilia was twenty one, she’d been heartbroken and thought she’d never get over it. She had of course, and in the intervening decades she’d had a succession of horses, some for a few years and some for a few months. For a while she’d bought foals and trained them for their first rider. She trained a few older horses for hunting and even bred a handful with a stallion she’d owned. Eight years ago, a mare she’d decided to breed from popped out a beautiful little boy foal on a glorious autumn evening. The amniotic fluid and setting sun had given him a light orange tinge to his fur. It was love at first sight and Claudilia called him Pumpkin. Horses had come and horses had gone, but she never sold Pumpkin. He’d grown into a fine strong Cob and his devotion to Claudilia was nothing short of love.

  Helen waited at the gate for her aunt, they went up to the house together. There was no question who Helen got her looks from. She stood five foot six inches, was slender and graceful and looked as if she was made for the outdoor life. She loved living on the farm, rode whenever she could and might have been born in jodhpurs. They walked to the back door and Claudilia leaned her bike against the wall. They went through the boot room and into the kitchen. Max went first, he was looking for JR as well as checking for scraps of food under the table, but there were none.

  “Muuuuumy” called Helen, “Aunt Claudilia’s here, and she has wine.”

  “Tell her to open it will you, and get some glasses from the cupboard,” came a voice from upstairs, “I’ll be down in a moment, just as soon as I find Alan. I think he’s hiding inside this dung ball.”

  “Mummy’s annoyed with Alan. He came down to the yard and he was wearing his “good” clothes.” She said emphasising “good” with bunny ears “Anyway, he fell over and now he’s covered in something smelly so she’s got him in the bath and he’s not happy.”

  Alan was the youngest of Hubert and Marie’s children, at four years old he was a bit of a surprise to his parents who thought that Helen and her sister, Maggie, were all the children they’d have. For weeks after a trip to Australia, Marie had complained of a cold or flu, she had been feeling sick and her clothes seemed to have shrunk. Half the village knew she was pregnant before it dawned on her and Hubert to check. Helen and Maggie had been horrified; their parents were still doing IT, but as their mother grew bigger they accepted the idea of a younger sibling. When they saw his face for the first time, just a few minutes old, all pink and wrinkled, they were smitten. Doubly so when they discovered they had a brother, Hubert and Marie had kept the sex hidden from the girls.

  “Mum, can I have a glass of wine please?” called Helen in the general direction of the bathroom. “No,” came the response through the door. “You can have a shower then sneak sips from everyone’s glass, like you usually do.” Helen puffed out a big sigh but Claudilia, knowing the true purpose of an aunt, passed her a glass pre-filled from one of the bottles she’d brought. “Take this and get in the shower.” Helen smiled, took the glass and made for the stairs, tearing at her clothes as she went.

  “I saw that,” said Hubert as he walked in through the door. “Are you plying my daughter with drink? Not what I’d expect from a respectable aunt. You should be setting a better example.”

  “Oh shut up you pompous fool, don’t you remember Auntie Minnie, Dad’s sister. She’d sneak us a schooner of sherry every time we went to her house,” said Claudilia to her brother as he sat down. “Anyway it’s in the job description: Vet boyfriends and scare off the unsuitable ones. … they’re all unsuitable by the way, be a shoulder to cry on, give them money for fags and booze but scold them if they’re caught smoking. But the most important job, the one I’m taking very seriously, is to teach them about decent wine. I have to do this because their father, who’s job it would normally be, insists on buying sickly muck that’s only fit for cleaning the drains. Now do you want a glass or not?” she asked holding up the half empty bottle.

  “Okay pour me one, as it’s open.” He laughed. “Have you seen Marie yet?”

  “Not seen but I did hear her, she’s going twelve rounds with Alan in the bathroom.”

  “Is she winning?”

  “It’s too early to tell but from the sounds I’d say they’re a pretty even match. Lots of splashing and quite a bit of antipodean swearing. I think she’ll get the upper hand,. I’d leave them too it if I were you. ‘Haven’t seen Maggie yet either.”

  “She’ll be up in her room with her head in her phone, keeping out the way and avoiding the carnage.” said Hubert. “Let me change out of my work clothes and I’ll be right back.”

  Hubert took his glass and began to climb the stairs. The walls were lined with paintings of horses, cattle and long forgotten Belchers. Many characteristics had passed from generation to generation. They were all powerfully built with no neck, broad shoulders and thick arms - and that was just the women! Hubert was the same, his head just sat on top of his wide body. Perhaps he was not quite as big as some of his forefathers but they’d had years of manual labour and handling heavy horses throughout their lives. He’d had years of lunching at the Belcher’s Arms and snoozing through the afternoon.

  Claudilia was sitting alone in the kitchen of her youth, enjoying her wine and the comfort that came from the smell of cooking and the feel of the furniture she’d played on, around and under since she was a little girl. In the distance she could hear the soft wail of an emergency siren, a police car or ambula
nce on the main road.

  Chapter Eleven

  Day Four. Saturday

  Saturday morning didn’t break, it bent, creaked and quietly fractured. Claudilia woke slowly and took stock of her surroundings. She had a fuzzy head but nothing a glass of water and some fresh air wouldn’t fix after she’d got things started with a couple of paracetamols. One open eye confirmed she was in the spare room of her brother’s house. That was pretty normal if she came for dinner and had a few glasses of wine, it was just taken for granted that she’d toddle off to bed and go home the following day. Moving her legs a bit brought the second piece of information. As usual, Max was on the end of the bed. Every time they stayed he was told to sleep on the floor. She’d even put a basket in the corner of the room so he had his own space. Every time she woke in this bed Max was stretched across the bottom of the duvet. He’d be snoring and dribbling like a grumpy old man.

  “It’s a good thing it’s old granny Belcher’s bed,” Claudilia told him, for about the hundredth time. “Modern beds are too small for the likes of us.” Granny Belcher had commissioned this bed when Claudilia was a little girl. Granny had a few dogs and they liked to sleep with her just like Max liked to keep Claudilia company. In the end she got a local carpenter to build her a bed seven feet long and seven feet wide. Grandad Belcher was “vigorous in bed”… Your smutty mind’s at it again, and he would thrash around, throwing his arms out and fighting imaginary pirates. After one particular battle at sea Granny had woken with a cracked rib. She’d sustained it when her husband knifed a scurvy sea dog who’d almost got him first. That was enough for Granny Belcher and the new bed was ordered.

  Claudilia was lying on her side, and when she moved her hand she found the small sleeping form of her nephew, Alan. In the same way as Max would creep onto the end of the bed, sometime during the night she could be sure she’d feel the duvet move, and a warm little body with a mop of sandy hair would snuggle in next to her. He’d always bring his cuddly duck, called Flump.

  There was no hurry to get up. It was Saturday morning; Pumpkin was out in his field and the office was closed. Claudilia had a little baking to do for the Church, but apart from that the day was hers to fill. Alan, aware of his aunt moving, wriggled in closer and pulled her arm over the top of him. That settled it, Claudilia thought I’ll stay her until my bladder or a cooked breakfast drags me out of bed.

  In the end, it was a wonderful mixture of cooking smells; bacon, sausages, beans, and fresh coffee which coaxed Claudilia from beneath the duvet leaving Alan asleep and Max on guard.

  Downstairs the rest of the family were preparing breakfast. The girls had collected eggs from the hens they kept in the garden. It was their job each morning to open the coop door and let the hens out. The sisters would go to the back of the coop, open the nest boxes and take the offerings left during the night. Sometimes a bird would still be sitting in the box. Maggie had to be really, really brave. She’d squeeze her eyes tight shut and slide her hand under the hen, so she could grab the still warm egg.

  Sausages and bacon were under the grill, toast in the toaster and tomatoes fried next to the eggs. A saucepan of baked beans was simmering on the range and mushrooms were keeping warm in the Aga, it looked like the perfect start to the day. Claudilia, Helen and Maggie sat down and began to butter toast while Marie served.

  “Where’s your father Helen?” asked Marie.

  “He’s out feeding the donkeys I think,” replied the older of the two girls with a giggle. “Out feeding the donkeys” was family shorthand. It meant that someone had wandered off just as dinner or any other meal was being served. Often they were going to do something trivial and of no importance. He, and it usually was a he, can be counted on to return, triumphant and oblivious to the hurt feelings of the cook, just as the puddings were finished and being cleared away. He will however have oiled the shed door, ordered a tonne of dung for the rose garden or repaired a hole in a fence.

  “In that case he can have his later,” said Marie. “Dig in everyone, there’s work to be done and we can’t wait for him to finish with the donkeys, or we’ll be here all day.”

  When breakfast was finished and the washing up was done, Hubert ambled in ignorant that Max and JR had just eaten his. Marie prodded his ample stomach and said he’d find Weetabix in the cupboard and milk in the fridge.

  Claudilia thanked them for their hospitality. She kissed Marie, the girls and Alan, who’d just come in half asleep, before getting on her bike and cycling down the lane. Max trotted along behind. Claudilia stopped at the village shop. It was only small, but it stocked almost everything you’d need in the form of day to day supplies. She just wanted a few bits for the baking she had planned, as well as her daily paper. She leaned her bike against the wall and instructed Max to guard it with his life.

  The little shop was full of people. A few even made the effort to look like customers. But in truth they just wanted to gossip, and there was only one topic of conversation. At some point the previous evening Gus Barker had been missed at the Belcher Arms. He was part of the pub’s darts team and wasn’t there for a regular Friday night game. Gus never missed a darts match; he never missed a Friday night in the pub. His mobile wasn’t being answered and his home phone went straight to his answering machine. A team member was despatched to see if his car was outside his house and, not finding it there, he’d gone out to the building site.

  Gus’s truck was parked at the site. So Tony White, the player who’d gone looking for him, followed the noise of a still running motor back to its source. He found a pair of legs, a lower abdomen and a

  n arm, sticking out of a hard concrete mound. Details were still sketchy but the police had been at the site all night. They’d ordered a crane and a lorry to pick up poor Gus and his concrete tomb. Everything would be wrapped in thick plastic and taken back to their lab in Warwick. The Health and Safety executive would visit the site later in the day. They’d want to undertake their own enquiry.

  Sandy Lewis, owner of Sandy’s outdoor catering, had arrived soon after dark. He’d parked his van as close as the police would allow and he’d spent the night dispensing hot drinks and bacon rolls to constables and detectives alike. It was widely suspected Sandy had a contact within the force, as he often arrived at major incidents within minutes of the investigating officers. Sandy was a good source of information whenever the local police were involved. Claudilia knew him well, she’d go home and give him a call.

  As soon as she opened the kitchen door Mr Crumble came to greet her, curling around her legs and meowing for his breakfast. …must have heard me come through the gate, probably been sleeping on my pillow and farting all night, better hang it out on the line or I’ll suffocate in my sleep tonight. Claudilia unloaded her bags and put some milk down for the cat who sniffed at it for a moment, before dipping his long rasping tongue into the cold white liquid. With Mr Crumble temporarily distracted Claudilia was able to shake some cat food into a bowl next to the milk, where it was ignored …ungrateful little fleabag.

  “Now Max, push off and snooze in the lounge will you, I’ve got baking to do,” said Claudilia. Max took no notice of course, he just circled a few times, and having decided on the most inconvenient spot, he lay down and stretched out to his full length. Claudilia sighed. She would have to work around him. Eggs, flower, baking powder, milk, butter and caster sugar. Yes she had it all. Using mini cake tins she began to prepare individual cakes, she’d give them out after church the following day.

  Each Sunday, after the service at the village church, people were encouraged to stay for tea or coffee and a cake. It was Claudilia’s turn to make the cakes, she was going to try out some of the baking she’d do for the fete. In addition she had one particular cake in mind. A special cake for a special person. Someone who needed a little encouragement to sit a while, and contemplate the meaning of life.

  Chapter Twelve

  After the breakdown of her marriage, Alison Flemming had moved from a villa
ge in Hampshire to Wimplebridge. Aged forty two she was still young(ish). Village gossip had linked her with several local bachelors. For once the gossip was right, if anything it was a bit understated. Alison didn’t feel the need to restrict herself to unmarried men; behind her back she was referred to as a “cougar” … If you’re not sure what that means, ask a young person, but you’d better make sure their over sixteen first though. Do not Google it. In flat shoes she stood five feet four inches, she had auburn hair and green eyes. For an income Alison had revived her mobile hairdressing business, she’d run it for several years before she had children.

  Always wanting to buy local, Claudilia had arranged for Alison to come to the house and cut her hair. She wasn’t normally fussy about such things, and she often looked as if a ferret had been dipped in glue and then microwaved, before being stapled to her head …I am here you know. I can see what you’re writing about me. It’s not easy looking glamorous when you spend half your life in a riding hat. She just wanted it trimmed and tidied up, if a little of the grey could be taken out, that’d be nice too.

  The appointment had started badly, Alison had arrived in a fug of cigarette smoke behind the wheel of her blue Mazda MX5. She was late and almost squashed Mr Crumble as she pulled up outside the house.