Authors: Ann Purser
CHAPTER NINE
One hundred and fifty miles away from Round Ringford, in a newly built vicarage in a medium-sized Welsh town, the Reverend Nigel Brooks, tall, greying at the temples, handsome in a crinkly, old-fashioned, Hollywood way, was talking to his wife Sophie over a sizeable breakfast of bacon, sausage, tomatoes and fried bread.
'There's one here, Sophie,' said Nigel, 'shall I read it to you?'
He looked across the table at his wife, who had a magazine propped up against her coffee mug. 'Mmm...what, dear?' she said, not looking up.
'This sounds a possible,' said Nigel, pushing away his empty plate and opening out the Church Times on the table. '"Diocese of Tresham," ' he read, 'that's in the Midlands somewhere, isn't it? "Round Ringford, Fletching and Waltonby, three churches, twelve hundred population. Full details and application forms from The Patron, The Hon. Richard Standing, Ringford Hall, Tresham." What do you think, Soph?'
'The Midlands?' said Sophie, opening her dark brown eyes wide. 'That's a bit off our patch isn't it, Nigel?'
'Well, at least we'd have only one language to cope with. You'd be happy about that, wouldn't you, Soph?'
Nigel Brooks was the son of an English vicar and a Welsh girl from Carmarthen. His mother had insisted that he spoke Welsh alongside English from the minute he could talk, and as a result he was usefully bilingual.
His father had hidden his disappointment when Nigel had opted for a career in the law, not reacting against his father's faith, but wanting complete independence from parental influence. He had practised successfully as a solicitor, and married his secretary, Sophie Fothergill, a small, red-haired Yorkshire girl. She came from a well-heeled rural family and had the fine features of an aristocratic greyhound, warmed by a burst of freckles over her nose and cheeks. Nigel and Sophie had raised two daughters and a son and lived in quiet affluence.
At forty-five Nigel had had an unexpected challenge. Not particularly disillusioned with the legal world, not wanting to retreat into the comfort of organised religion, he nevertheless knew without doubt that God required him to work for Him.
This was quite embarrassing to explain to partners and clients. The strict logic of the law was a million miles from Nigel's emotional decision. He felt quite sure that he should become a parson with a flock to tend, and he was pretty sure he would be good at it.
This lack of humility was tackled during his training, which he completed with honour, and after serving his curacy he had gone to a vacancy in the Church in Wales, to a town where his Welsh blood and his charming manner had made him the success he had hoped for.
Sophie was a different matter. She could not settle into the narrow, confined life of many of the housewives in her husband's parish. She hated housework, did not consider herself her husband's chattel, and loved to roam around an open landscape, not caring what she looked like and happy not to be speaking to anyone.
She did what she considered was required of her as the minister's wife, and expected his parishioners to respect her right to be herself. This they did not always do, and after three years a kind of uneasy compromise had settled on the parish. She agreed to take part where she could be useful and interested, and Nigel agreed to defend her against any criticism of being stand-offish and English.
'Worth finding out more, anyway,' said Sophie, beginning to think that the Midlands were not so very far from Yorkshire, and when she and Nigel found Tresham on the map, she saw the MI was quite handy for a quick dash up to see her elderly parents.
'Round Ringford's not marked,' said Nigel, looking up the gazetteer, 'so it must be pretty small.'
'Population's only twelve hundred for the three parishes,' said Sophie. 'Which one has the vicarage?'
'Doesn't say,' said Richard, reading the advertisement again, 'but my guess is that if the patron lives at Ringford Hall the vicarage will be in Round Ringford. It all sounds very feudal, Soph, do you think I could cope?'
'Very well, Nigel,' said Sophie wryly, 'you'd be in your element- sherry at the Hall, striding about the village in your canonicals, wowing the old ladies, absolutely in your element.'
'You're right,' said Nigel, accepting this with enthusiasm. 'I shall write off straight away.'
CHAPTER TEN
Ellen Biggs and Ivy Beasley were walking slowly down the avenue from the Hall, shaded from the hot sun by the cool, dark green canopy of branches above them. As they emerged into the heat of the full sun, they stopped as always on the stone bridge to look at the clear, rippling water, and the village shimmered around them. A group of children, specks of bright colour, livened up the yellowing grass as they played in vivid summer clothes on freshly painted climbing frames and swings, their play area fenced off from the likes of the Jenkins terrier.
'Things have come to a pretty pass, Ellen,' said Ivy Beasley, 'if Mr Richard is about to foist a woman vicar on us. Poor Reverend Collins would turn in his grave.'
'Don't believe a word of it,' said Ellen, shaking her head. 'Where'd you get that from, anyway?'
Ivy Beasley tightened her lips, signifying a vow of silence on sources, and reluctantly began to take off her grey cardigan. 'It's enough to fry you alive today, Eilen Biggs,' she said. 'Do you want to come in for a cool glass?'
Eilen looked at Ivy, stem-faced and devoid of any colour in her grey skirt and strict white blouse. Eilen herself was carefully dressed in a striped skirt of many colours and a blue and white flowery open-necked blouse, with cool, wide flapping sleeves and an odd assortment of brass buttons. 'To cheer it up a bit,' Ellen had said to an astonished Ivy. 'With your scraggy old neck,' Ivy had said, 'you'd do better with a decent high collar, Ellen Biggs.'
The two women crossed over to the Green and continued their stroll, following the footpath, which led almost directly to Victoria Villa. A single car moved slowly through the village, otherwise there was nothing much happening. All the silage had been gathered in, shiny black plastic bags of concentrated goodness for the winter cattle, and it was too early for harvest machinery to grind into action with its attendant dust and noise.
'That's a skylark, ain't it?' said Ellen, as they trod their measured way through the short dry grass. She leaned back, shading her old eyes from the glaring sun. 'You can hear it, but you can't see it,' she said. 'Must be a lesson to be learned there, Ivy.'
'Don't know what you ... ouch!' yelled Ivy, jumping to one side with a sudden hop and skip.
'What's the matter with you, Ivy?' said Ellen, unmoved.
'Got a flea in yer knickers?'
'I been stung, that's what's the matter,' said Ivy, leaning down and rubbing her leg through her stocking.
'Prob'ly a horse fly,' said Ellen. 'Them things'll bite anything, they ain't fussy.'
Crossing the road, they came to the gate outside Victoria Villa. 'You offerin' me a glass, then, Ivy?' said Ellen.
'Certainly not,' said Ivy. 'I'm going to get something on this bite, it's driving me crazy. Go next door and get yourself a drink of orange. Pushy Peg'll take pity on you.' And she marched smartly up her path and into the house, shutting the door firmly behind her. Ellen Biggs shrugged. There wasn't nothin' nice to be said about old Ivy, she thought, try as you would, nothin' nice at all.
She struggled up the steps and into the shop. Peggy had drawn the blinds, and it was cool and airy, a flow of air coming in through the open kitchen door.
'You couldn't oblige me with a drink of water - perhaps a splash of squash in it, could you, dear?' Ellen said to Peggy.
My goodness, she thought, she's looking better, lost all that peaky look what came on after her Frank died.
Peggy smiled, and went off to make a drink for Ellen. She put two tinkling cubes of ice in the glass, and returned to the shop. 'Why don't you sit down on that stool and have a bit of a rest before you go back home?' she said kindly. Frank had put a stool by the Post Office window for the pensioners who had to wait for a few minutes for their money.
' 'Ave you 'eard about the woman vicar, then, Peggy?' Ellen said, comfortably settled. 'Our Ivy was full of it, but you can't always go by what she says. A grain of truth turns into a large loaf of gospel with our Ivy.'
'I did hear that some distant female relation of Mr Richard's had gone into the church,' said Peggy. 'But even if she does apply, there'll be probably be others, and the decision is not just Mr Richard's. There'll be a meeting in the village, I'm sure, so everybody can sum up the hopefuls.'
'What if the Standing woman is the only one?' said Ellen gloomily, but then she brightened. 'Still, it wouldn't 'alf make our Ivy mad,' she continued, 'that'd be something to witness!'
'Ellen Biggs,' said Peggy, 'you're a wicked woman.' She nodded to Colin Osman, who had just sprung athletically up the steps and into the shop. With one bound, she thought, Colin leapt clear. 'Morning, Mr Osman,' she said, 'lovely morning.'
Colin Osman was a tall, sporty young man. His fair, springy hair was cut short and his greenish eyes were lively against tanned skin. He and his young wife had recently moved into the village, and he was very anxious to enter into local activities in a big way. He had wanted to buy the shop when Peggy thought of selling after Frank's accident, but now he had transferred his enthusiasm for village life to schemes for resurrecting the cricket team and for forming a youth club to, as he put it, 'keep the young people off the streets'.
'Having a well-earned rest, Mrs Biggs?' he said, with an all embracing smile. Ellen stared at him over the top of her glass. 'When you get to my age, young man ...' she muttered.
'What can I get you, Mr Osman,' said Peggy. 'I expect you're in a rush as usual!'
Colin Osman was not a sensitive young man, and he nodded brightly. 'Just a couple of bars of soap, please, Peggy,' he said.
'She's Mrs Palmer to you, young sprig,' said Ellen under her breath. She'd nearly finished the squash, and swirled a sliver of ice round the bottom of the glass, making it last.
'Wonder if you'd put up this notice of the cricket meeting for me' Colin Osman said, unrolling a piece of paper and spreading it out in front of Peggy. 'There's quite a lot of interest already, and I do want to get things moving with a few practice games this season, if possible.'
'I remember times when it weren't a summer Saturday if there weren't a game o' cricket on the Green,' said Ellen. 'Then it got took over by that man at the pub ...'im that was there before Cutt ... and 'e wouldn't let nobody play if they weren't regulars in the pub. Ran it into the ground, 'e did.'
'Perhaps,' said Peggy, fixing the notice to the board Frank had put up for the purpose, 'perhaps we should make it a condition of the vicar job that any applicant must be a good cricketer?'
'Good idea, Peggy!' said Colin Osman, impervious to irony, and, putting a bar of soap into each trouser pocket, he bounded down the steps and disappeared.
'Well, Susan darling,' said Richard Standing, 'that makes two applicants so far.' He had just opened a letter delivered by post lady Maureen, whose brown legs and chubby knees had distracted him for a moment or two.
'Beginning to think we wouldn't get any,' he said, unfolding several sheets of paper, 'and then we could encourage Sylvia to apply.'
'Darling, not frumpy cousin Sylvia!' said Susan. 'Though I suppose not even she would be frumpy enough to please the Beasleys and Biggses of Ringford.'
'Well, look at this!' said Richard, reading the letter. 'He's actually put a love of cricket as his hobby- young Osman will be all for him, for a start.'
'Young Osman never goes to church,' said Susan, 'nor his chirpy little wife, so I don't see that he has much to say in the matter.'
'Oh, he'll be there if we have a general parish meeting to meet the applicants, sure to be,' said Richard, reading on.
'In a parish in Wales at the moment, wife comes from Yorkshire. Grown-up kids, and ... oh, a latecomer to the cloth. Not so sure about that, probably full of bright modern ideas. Might not go down too well with Tom and his lot.
'Oh, but this is rather jolly,' he added. 'His family is now reduced to three living at home, he and his wife Sophie, and Ricky, an aged black Labrador spaniel cross. That says a lot for him, don't you think?'
Susan did not answer, but picked up her small Yorkshire terrier, busily snuffling around her feet. 'We don't want any nasty old cross-breeds in Ringford, do we, Georgie darling,' she said in a silly voice, and kissed the top of his silky head. The dog turned and snapped at her ungratefully, and she put him down sharply. He wandered to the other side of the room and began to make advances to an upholstered footstool by the fireplace.
'Don't do that, George,' said Susan automatically, and reached out a hand towards Richard. 'May I have a look?' she said. 'He does sound just possible.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
'I should be glad if you could spread the word, Mrs Palmer,' said Richard Standing, poking his head round the shop door. 'We shall be meeting at seven thirty in the church on Tuesday and Wednesday, one applicant each evening. I've put a notice on the church door with all the details.'
Sometimes he looks quite presentable, thought Peggy. Richard Standing was on his way to a meeting with his accountant, and his crisp white shirt, well-cut grey suit, and worn but well-polished shoes flattered his florid colouring and gave a kind of comfortable distinction to his incipient paunch. Ivy Beasley turned round from inspecting a new line in chocolate biscuits, and stared at Mr Richard's Range Rover disappearing down to Bates's End.
'Two applicants, eh?' she said. 'And is one of them a woman?'
Peggy perched on the edge of a tall stool she kept behind the counter for times when her legs ached. It was another warm day, and she had been working hard in the garden all the previous evening, anchoring tall hollyhocks, heavy with dark red and pink frilly flowers, to the garden wall.
'Not necessarily, Miss Beasley,' she said patiently. 'Mr Richard has never mentioned a woman applicant. I know it's all round the village, but Mrs Price hasn't said anything either, and she's a churchwarden.'
'She's welcome to that job,' said Ivy, who had been very annoyed that she had not been asked to fill the vacancy when old grandad Bates had died. 'Those two churchwardens have had to run the parish since Reverend Collins went . . . oh yes, and I can see from your face, Mrs Palmer, that you think it must be a cushy enough job in such a small village. But let me tell you, it is not. There is a great deal to do, fixing services and dealing with the paperwork and all that.'
'Of course,' said Peggy placatingly, wishing her neighbour would make up her mind about biscuits and get going. Then she could leave the shop for a minute or two and make a cup of tea.
'Well, I hope these haven't melted in this heat,' said Ivy, picking up a packet of chocolate creams. 'I shall be there, and not afraid to speak up either,' she added.
'I'm sure that's what the meeting is for, Miss Beasley,' said Peggy. 'I hope to be there myself.'
'By yourself?' said Ivy Beasley with a horrid smile, handing Peggy the exact money.
'What do you mean?' said Peggy, frowning, but Miss Beasley had pushed the biscuits into her basket and with quick steps disappeared into the street.
It was a big day for Nigel Brooks, and he had left Wales with the sudden feeling of panic that strikes when there's no going back. Of course, the job was not yet his, but he knew that even if Round Ringford did not appoint him, he would continue to look for another living. Sophie had been increasingly excited at the prospect of moving, and had given him a big hug and waved him off as he accelerated down the busy street and out into the Welsh countryside at the start of his important journey.
He reached Ringford at lunchtime and drove slowly down the street, past the shop and up Bates's End, unaware of the turning eyes that followed him all the way. Richard and Susan Standing had invited him for lunch, and they all sat, rather too far apart for a convivial atmosphere, around the big, polished mahogany dining table. Conversation centred on Nigel's ideas for the parish, with Richard and Susan feeding in loaded questions and bits of local knowledge which would help Nigel when he faced the parish later that afternoon. The Standing woman cousin had not after all applied for the job, and the other candidate had been the previous evening. Nigel had gathered that Richard and Susan had not been all that impressed with this first interviewee.
With some relief, after what seemed like a very long afternoon, Nigel left the Hall, saying he would like to walk down to the church on his own, to meet the waiting people. Richard Standing hesitated, feeling that protocol required him to introduce Nigel Brooks to the village, but something determined in Nigel's eye made him agree, saying he would pick him up later and bring him back to collect his car.
Round Ringford was looking its magical best. After the heat of the day, a cool breeze had sprung up and set the willow branches swinging over the rippling water of the Ringle, and the old stone houses glowed in the evening sun. The river path had tempted out Mr and Mrs Ross, a retired, shy couple from up the Bagley Road, with their little black and white dog; and Colin and Pat Osman, both back from a day spent in hot cars, strolled along behind the Rosses, gratefully drinking in the cool, grass-scented air. They nodded to Nigel as he passed, knowing exactly who he was.
He looked across the Green and could see a small group of young people. He felt glad that it wouldn't be all old ducks and charming aristocrats, and quickened his step, raising a hand to the slim, blonde girl who had left the others and was slowly cycling towards him.
It was Octavia Jones, who had been talking to her friends, Tanya and Tim Bright, at their modern house next to the Village Hall. The girls had offered desultorily to help polish Tim Bright's already gleaming red sports car, but he had refused.
That's a pretty girl, thought Nigel, as she came closer. He couldn't know that she had barely noticed him, but was keeping a weather eye open for Robert Bates, as usual.
'Hello,' she said absently to Nigel, her eyes on the gate leading from Bates's Farm. Nigel smiled, and walked on.
Tom and Doreen Price stood inside the church door, welcoming a trickle of parishioners who had come to meet the next applicant for the benefice of Round Ringford. The interior of the ancient church was wonderfully cool, and scented with sweetpeas arranged by Doris Ashbourne in brass vases on the altar that morning.
Doris was once again manning the tea urn over by the font, pouring strong, tan-coloured tea, and filling plastic beakers with orange squash for those who wanted a cold drink.
Nigel Brooks's footsteps sounded sharply on the stone paving, and everyone looked at the door as he arrived at the church porch and shook Tom's hand. The Prices were a bit taken aback, expecting Richard Standing to usher in the second candidate for their approval.
'I walked down from the Hall,' said Nigel, in explanation.
'Such a lovely evening, and the village looking so marvellous.' His warm smile took in the ladies at the urn, the group chatting by the pulpit and the little knot of children giggling in the Lady Chapel.
Doris Ashbourne, thinking already that here was a very nice man, broke the ice .by filling the cup with steaming tea, and walked with it over to Nigel and the Prices.
'You must be thirsty after your walk, Reverend Brooks,' she said. 'Welcome to Ringford church.'
'A biscuit, Reverend Brooks?' said old Ellen, coming up behind Doris, not to be outdone.
'Thank you so much, Mrs er . . .' Nigel helped himself to a ginger nut, and took a small bite, knowing from long practice that it is difficult to answer questions with a mouth full of biscuit. 'Ashbourne,' said Doris, elbowing Ellen Biggs to one side, 'Doris Ashbourne, formerly of Round Ringford Post Office and General Stores.'
'Ah!' said Nigel. 'Then who has now taken over the most important position in the village?' He glanced round, still smiling, acknowledging his own secondary standing.
Peggy, standing pressed up against a pew-end by the group which had gathered round, said, 'I have, but I haven't been here very long. Peggy Palmer, pleased to meet you. Doris still gives me a hand, you know, and very useful she is too.'
Ah ha, Mrs Palmer is a diplomat, thought Nigel. An ally there, I hope.
'Takes a long time to settle in to Ringford properly,' said Ivy Beasley, pushing her way through to introduce herself. 'As, no doubt, you will find out for yourself, Vicar, should you come amongst us.'
'Don't take no notice of 'er,' said old Ellen, who, though not a regular worshipper, was not going to pass up the chance of a squint at the new parson- well, possible new parson. 'Ivy don't mean no 'arm,' she said. ' 'Er bark's worse'n 'er bite.'
'That's a whopper,' muttered Peggy to Doreen, who had come to stand next to her, handing her a cup of tea, 'I should have thought they were equally lethal. No thanks, Doreen, I must be getting home, Gilbert hasn't been fed.'
Nigel Brooks saw her go out of the corner of his eye, and made a mental note to call on her. She looked very pleasant, and a possible chum for Sophie, who did not make friends easily. He turned to Ivy Beasley with practised charm.
'My dear lady,' he said, smiling his crinkly smile, 'it is right and proper that any newcomer to such an ancient and lovely parish as yours should take a humble part for many a long month before presuming to lead his flock.'
'Feed his flock, I think you'll find the Good Book says,' said Ivy, and stretched out her hand. 'Another cup, Vicar?'
'I have had a most enjoyable day, Mr Standing,' said Nigel, getting into Richard's car outside the church. 'Everyone has been most kind. I cannot think of a lovelier setting for a village, and shall count myself most fortunate if I should be selected. My wife will, of course, want to come and have a look around, but I am sure I can include her in my enthusiasm.'
Doreen Price locked up the church and walked down to the shop, now closed and shuttered, to chew over the day's events with Peggy. The back door stood open, and she could hear voices inside. One of the voices was Bill Turner's, and she hesitated, then turned on her heel and made her way back to the farm with a worried frown.
'You couldn't blame the poor bugger,' said Tom, as they sat in their cool sitting room, watching the news. 'That Joyce has asked for everything she gets. Just hope Peggy has the sense to know that nothing's secret in Ringford ... especially if Ivy Beasley lives next door.'
'And speaking of old Ivy,' said Doreen, 'I just hope she didn't put off that nice Reverend Brooks. He made a good impression on me, turning up like that without Mr Richard, showing he was his own man, and that.'
'Ah,' said Tom, switching channels to watch the cricket, 'he certainly took charge of things straight away. Well, we shall see.'