Claudilia asked how she was enjoying life in Wimplebridge, Alison spent far too long explaining how Winchester was so much better; how the people of Hampshire were more intelligent, more cultured and better looking. Alison coughed and coughed between cigarettes, often lighting a fresh one off the butt of her last. No wonder she’d become known as Flemmy Alison thought Claudilia.
As soon as she’d moved into the village the hairdresser had joined the local W.I. But all the time she was combing and cutting she did nothing but criticize the organisation. When she’d been a member in Winchester everything they did was bigger and better, it had all been much more fun. She was expecting to be appointed as “chair” later in the year. She was the natural choice, in her opinion no one local could match her skills and experience. Once she had the reigns she’d shake it up a bit …over my dead body.
“Jam and Jerusalem be buggered,” said Alison. “I’m going to arrange Ann Summers parties. There’ll be lots of games with naughty prizes, booze and bedroom banter.” Claudilia grimaced at the thought. “I reckon the ladies of this village need something to pep up their sex lives. I’ve tried a few of the local men, even a couple of the married ones, and none of them know how to find a clitoris, not without the help of two Sherpas and a satnav.”
Horrified by Alison’s frankness, and wondering which of the men she was talking about, Claudilia steered the conversation back to hairdressing and what she’d like done.
For the next hour Alison washed, dried, combed and cut. There was quite a lot coming off thought Claudilia, but with no mirror in front of her she couldn’t be sure. Then with a flourish, Alison announced she was finished. She invited Claudilia to pop into the loo, where the lighting was good and a big mirror hung on the wall. Alison said she’d be dazzled by her “new look.”
Claudilia had trouble holding back a scream when she saw her reflection. The shoulder length hair, which she could put into a ponytail under her hat or twist into a tight bun, was gone. In its place was a spikey crown, with shaved sides. “My God, it’s like I’ve come from a prison camp!” she said to the mirror.
“So what do you think?” Asked Alison. “It’s my own variation on the pixie, but with shaved sides for easy care. Of course, it looks better on a less full face. Just shed a few pounds and it’ll be great.”
Speechless with anger Claudilia paid Alison … I should’ve just kicked the woman’s arse a few times, and said she had to leave. Claudilia told the hairdresser that her brother was coming to talk about money and farm things.
The following day Claudilia had worn a hat to the office. When she took it off Sally let out a small yelp and a muffled laugh. Hubert, who never noticed things like hair, nails or shoes, asked if she’d had a date with the sheep shearer’s apprentice.
So now Claudilia was baking cakes. Individual cakes with one cake very individual indeed. She’d thought for a long time about how she’d get even with Flemmy Alison. She’d considered reporting her to the HMRC, most likely the hairdressing wasn’t declared as income and Alison had always insisted on being paid in cash. But she’d decided against it, this was Alison’s first offence and Claudilia’s hair would grow back.
Claudilia began mixing and beating, flower flew and butter was folded in. If anything dropped on the floor it was tidied by a tongue at lightning speed. “There’s no point having a five second rule in a house with a two second dog,” said Claudilia as she poured the second batch of mixture into eleven miniature cake trays. She’d made a couple of dozen and thought that twenty four would be plenty for the congregation, there was always someone on a diet or who preferred a biscuit with their drink. She held back the final cake until she’d finished all the rest.
To the remaining mixture Claudilia added some additional ingredients. A spoonful of crushed Senokot Max strength tablets went in with the flour and eggs, she mixed a little of the white powder in with the icing sugar, and to be on the safe side she added a pinch to the jam filling. Claudilia had researched the extra ingredient with great care. Finally she’d settled on a laxative based on Senna leaves. The effect was to speed up the movement of the bowel by stimulating the nerves controlling the muscles lining Alison’s digestive tract. Or put another way, she’d feel a sudden urge to go to the toilet. She’d be in there a very long time.
Before storing the cakes in an airtight box she put them onto small paper coasters. Some were printed with a blue pattern and some were printed with a red pattern. There was just one with a yellow pattern and that was the cake for Flemmy Alison. Satisfied with her work she tidied the kitchen, had a quick sandwich and changed into her riding clothes. As the clock in the hallway struck two Max climbed onto the settee and settled down in front of High Noon with John Wayne. Claudilia walked up to the stable for her regular weekly ride with Helen and Merry.
Chapter Thirteen
Helen always looked forward to these rides and she loved her aunt Claudilia. She could tell Claudilia anything, and often did, in the certain knowledge that it wouldn’t get back to her parents, nor would it be dismissed out of hand. In her opinion every girl needed an aunt Claudilia. When Claudilia gave advice it was done in a way that made Helen think she’d come up with the idea herself. It was more like being steered towards an answer, or a series of possible answers, and then narrowing down the options until the best one was obvious.
Helen could see Pumpkin’s stable from the one she used for Merry, she had been ready for some time and when she caught sight of her aunt bringing Pumpkin in to be groomed and tacked up … that’s what we call putting on the saddle and bridle, you know? - the bits we sit on and steer with, she hopped onto her pony and headed across the field to join them.
Helen had been riding since she was a young child. Her first horse was Tilly, a Shetland pony, who was now retired but still took Alan for trips around the paddock. On the morning of Helen’s thirteenth birthday she’d been amazed and delighted to find a chestnut filly at the back door of the farmhouse. Merry had a big red bow around her neck and Helen was immediately in love. At the time the pony wasn’t ready to be ridden, but she was good at walking on a reign. Together Helen and Claudilia, who turned out to be the giver of the wonderful gift, got her used to being handled. After fourteen months of caring for her new pony, cleaning out her stable, feeding her twice a day and watching her grow, Helen really knew Merry and Claudilia decided the pony was ready. They fitted her first bridle and saddle.
For a couple of days Helen had walked Merry past the mounting block fully tacked but without a rider, then a few more times but stopping beside the steps. More walking and stopping followed, but Helen would climb up and put her weight across the horse’s back. At last the time came to get up in the saddle. Helen and Merry walked up to the block, nothing new there. They stopped and Helen went up the steps. She leaned across Merry’s back in the way they had both become accustomed to. But instead of coming back down again and walking on, she slipped a foot into the stirrups and swung herself onto the saddle. Merry just stood there, nothing could be more natural. When Helen squeezed her knees and said “walk on,” the filly started moving forward, quite happy with Helen on her back. That had been three years ago and, although there had been a few mishaps along the way, they had grown together and were ideally matched.
Helen thought her pony was probably the one thing she loved in the world as much as she loved her aunt, and her parents, and her sister, and her brother if it came to a push. Okay rewind, she was very fond of Alan but she loved her pony a little bit more. After all, Merry had never put a plastic crocodile in her bed!
Claudilia heard Merry and Helen coming as she tightened the girth on her saddle …that’s the strap that keeps the bit we sit on tight. It stops it from sliding round and under the horse. “Hello Helen, how are you doing,” she called.
“Fine Aunt Claudilia, are you pair ready to go?”
“Yes, and I’ve told you before, when we are together you can drop the Aunt bit. It makes me sound like a stuffy old mare. Which
I am.”
Helen laughed, “I have some news. I think I know who knocked down your wall and if you’re not nice to me I won’t tell you,” she said from atop her pony. “So, get on your horse and let’s go see what’s happening at those new houses. I heard there’s police everywhere and they found a body. One of my friends on Facebook said it was Gus the builder. I want to go up and have a look. They can’t stop us, can they? We’ll ride along the field on our side of the fence and we can see what’s going on.”
“Just slow down will you,” said Claudilia. “Yes, we can ride up and have a look but I doubt there will be much to see, they’ve been there all night and the body, which is Gus by the way, has probably been taken away by now. If there is anyone still around, it’ll only be people working out what happened to the unfortunate bugger.”
“How long’s it been on Facebook?’ Claudilia asked. It had never occurred to her that the news would be spread by social media. What if someone saw her out riding? Or just imagined they’d seen a rider near the houses. She could have been recognised or they might guess it was her, she went up there a lot and almost no one else was allowed to ride on the Belcher fields. Maybe she’d be questioned, bright lights and good cop, bad cop, maybe even bad cop and total bastard cop. She didn’t know how she’d react to sleep deprivation and prison food. Can you get a latté in Holloway?. No, hang on haven’t they closed that place now, she’d end up somewhere on the Yorkshire moors in a drab grey uniform, in a drab grey building, under a drab grey sky and eating drab grey food. What about Earl Grey tea? Would she end up as some hairy lifer’s play thing? … Okay, time to stop, I don’t like this, shut up and move on.
Claudilia swung up into her saddle with a grunt and they left the yard in the warm sunshine of the early summer. They walked their mounts through the village, past Bindweed Cottage, and then turned into Monkhill lane. As they rounded the corner Max trotted up behind them. …He must have come out through a window, I’m sure I closed the kitchen door, little sod probably knocked the flowers over as he scrambled across the table.
“Why did you change the name to Bindweed Cottage?” asked Helen, breaking into her aunt’s chain of thoughts. “Honeysuckle was so much nicer.”
“I’ve lived there for thirty years, I moved in when great granny Belcher, my great granny not yours, died. She’d have been great, great, granny Belcher to you, and come to think of it she wasn’t a great granny at all. She was a nasty old witch granny. She made me drink the water from the boiled greens and chased me out of the orchard one day for scrumping apples.” Claudilia winced at the thought of her ancestor. “When she caught you round the ear with the back of her warty hand, my God it was like being hit with a cricket bat.” Claudilia tugged Pumpkin’s head away from the grass verge, he’d tried to grab a sneaky mouthful of grass when she wasn’t looking. “Anyway, I’ve lived there thirty years and never managed to grow even a twist of honeysuckle, tonnes of bindweed but never honeysuckle. So one day I said “sod it,” and changed the name on the gate to something more in keeping with the place.”
They rode on in silence for a while, Max trotting behind. “Now young lady, are you going to tell me who knocked down my wall, or do I have to beat it out of you like old granny Belcher would’ve done.”
Helen laughed at the thought of a young Claudilia and started to talk. “Well, there’s this boy at school called Mark, and he wants me to go out with him. We’ve been talking a lot; his dad works at the Massy Ferguson tractor dealership in Warwick. Well, he said his dad was sent out to Cowgates Farm, on the other side of Monkhill, ‘cos he had to fix the wheel on a tractor that’d had an accident. He said it was near us and asked if I know the farm. Which I do because you own it, but I didn’t tell him that, and rent it to someone don’t you?”
“Yes, it’s one of ours, but get on with it, I want to know who knocked down my wall.”
“I’m getting there, don’t rush me,” continued Helen. “Mark said that the wheels weren’t pointing the same way as the steering. His dad had to adjust the alignment or something and change the nuts because two had broken off. There were lots of scratches all over the front of the tractor, like it hit a load of rocks. And the tractor was red, like the paint on the stones from your wall.”
Claudilia sighed, “That’s fine Helen, but you’re a dunderhead. You didn’t find out who was driving it and that’s what I need to know.”
“Yes I did,” said Helen. “They’d been very busy harvesting feedstock for Mr Mackintosh’s digester, they needed an extra driver. Tony, you know who I mean, the bee man, was one of their workers until he retired last year. They asked him to help them out for a few days,” she continued. “Anyway, Mark said Tony was driving for them the day your wall came down. You told me that one of the tractors you saw in the yard was red, and that Tony was there. So do you see now? It must have been him who knocked your wall down?”
Helen sat on her pony looking pleased with herself. She obviously thought she had made a watertight case. Try as she might, Claudilia couldn’t find any holes. Tony had been there. He was quite old and was not used to driving such a big tractor with a heavy trailer. Claudilia had been told the trailers weighed up to eighteen tonnes and the tractors could travel at thirty miles an hour. That certainly would be enough to knock down a wall, and it would probably have damaged the tractor in the process. Yes thought Claudilia, the case against Tony was strong.
Claudilia and Helen went past the grass field and entered through the next gate up the lane, Max trotted along behind. There was barley growing and they walked carefully along the field edge until they joined the track at the far end which led up the hill.
The two riders dug their heels in and let the reigns go slack. As one, Pumpkin and Merry surged forward and began to gallop toward the summit of Monk Hill. Not far behind was Max, he couldn’t keep up with the horses but he was having a great time trying. The two riders reached the crest of the hill at the same time and pulled their horses to a canter and then a walk. Helen loved it when they raced up the hill, she felt at one with Merry, their movements in perfect time. It was as if she was part of the pony, and the pony was a part of her.
It was deja-vu all over again, Claudilia thought as they rode across the field to another gate and into the sheep paddock. They skirted the ewes and lambs, taking great care to keep Max away from the animals. They went into the wheat field and along the edge, until they reached the gate into the building site. Unlike yesterday it was busy. There were people in white forensic suits all around the site and in the distance Claudilia could make out a white plastic tent. It covered the place she had last seen Gus.
Claudilia and Helen stopped their horses and let Pumpkin and Merry dip their heads for a bite of grass. They’d been watching the activity for a short while when they were noticed by a young constable. He came to the gate and introduced himself as PC Andrew Staples. He asked if they had known the deceased. He checked his notebook and said it was a Mr Gus Barker? Claudilia said she’d known Gus for most of her life, and that she often rode in the area. PC Staples asked them to wait where they were, and he went to get his boss.
“Why did you say you knew him?” hissed Helen.
“Because I do, or did. I may not have liked him much but I did know him, and I often ride past here when I go out checking on the crops and the animals,” she replied. “Never lie to the police Helen,” Claudilia continued. “It will always catch you out. Tell them what they need to know, nothing more and nothing less.”
PC Staples returned with Detective Sergeant Josie Robinson. DS Robinson had moved to Warwickshire when she got married thirteen years earlier. Born in London, she’d joined the Met aged twenty and spent four years as a constable. By the time she met Peter, an architect from Stratford on Avon, PC Hobbs as she was then was tired of dealing with the junkies and prostitutes around Kings Cross. She requested a transfer to Warwickshire constabulary, got married and joined CID. Now, at the age of thirty seven, she was one of their growing number of f
emale detectives.
“Constable Staples tells me you knew the deceased and that you ride here often,” said Josie Robinson, looking up at the older lady on top of a mountain of a horse.
Not wanting to seem aloof or stand offish, …that means a bit snobby, Claudilia took her feet from the stirrups, swung her right foot over Pumpkin’s back and landed softly at his side. She had to look slightly upwards at the Detective Sergeant in front of her.
“Yes I know, sorry knew, Gus. We were at the same primary school about a thousand years ago and he’s always worked in the area. He’s one of the better builders around here, but sadly that’s not saying a lot. I often see him when I’m in this field. I don’t think he’s married. I’ve seen him in the village pubs a few times and I think he likes to play darts. But as I said, I don’t know him very well.”
“For someone you don’t know well your remarkably well informed,” said the police officer. “Do you know if he was here yesterday, did you ride here in the afternoon?”
“It’s a small village Sergeant, and I’ve lived here all my life,” said Claudilia, as she stroked Pumpkin’s nose. “I did ride here yesterday. It would have been around four o’clock, I was out looking at the ewes and lambs, and if that pickup belongs to Gus,” Claudilia pointed at the mud-spattered Toyota Hilux, “then yes I guess he was here. I didn’t see anyone as I came by the gate, but I heard an engine running. The noise was coming from the rear of the site and I assumed they were working back there. Is that where he was found?”
The Village Fate Page 6
