Read A Village Dilemna (Turnham Malpas 09) Online
Authors: Rebecca Shaw
By closing time Georgie couldn’t take it any longer,
making up her mind that enough was enough and she was having it out with him. As she opened the safe to put in the cloth bag she used for storing the takings overnight she said, ‘Dicky Tutt! I want a word.’
Alan said a hasty ‘Goodnight!’ and disappeared.
Dicky stood silently, waiting while she locked it.
‘There was no need to come back tonight; you weren’t due on.’
‘I know, but I’ve got to make up for my absence somehow.’
‘No need.’
‘I feel there is. If you pay me a wage, then I’ve to work for it. It’s only right.’
‘We can’t avoid what’s happened between us. We can’t ignore it, disregard it. Someone has to say something.’
‘No, they don’t.’
‘Yes, they do.’
‘I’m off. See you lunchtime tomorrow.’
Georgie daren’t say she didn’t want him to come tomorrow because of Bryn, but she had to say something to stop him coming in. ‘Dicky!’
Before she could come up with a credible excuse he’d said ‘Goodnight’, turned on his heel and closed the door sharply behind him.
At eleven thirty precisely the following day, right on schedule, the tour coach pulled into the village to disgorge its load. It had begun as one of those eternal village mornings blessed by peace and serenity as it had been for more than a thousand years, the only sounds those of the geese on the green honking at a feral cat, the delightful singing of the children in the school floating out through
the open windows and the spasmodic chatter of the people in the queue outside the Store waiting for the lunchtime bus into Culworth. But the quiet was to be blown apart by the thrum-thrum of the coach engine and the noisy, excited babble of its occupants.
They disembarked from the coach with an eagerness amazing to behold. They scattered hither and thither like a host of vividly feathered parrots just released from captivity, exclaiming at the green, the houses, the pub, the geese. Best of all for the queue at the bus stop was the sight of Bryn marshalling his flock. Over white trousers and shirt he wore a navy blazer. They could just see a badge of some sort on the pocket and the regimental tie which completed his outfit. The white moccasins on his feet induced a burst of giggled comments from the queue. ‘What does he think he is?’ ‘Looks the part, though, don’t he?’
Then they spotted Jimmy emerging from his garden on to the green. He was carrying a basket they were sure they’d last seen displayed in Jimbo’s window full of Easter eggs, but what he wore was the most amusing of all. It was a very old Victorian farmer’s smock, a work of art to the eye of a collector but to the people in the bus queue he made a highly rib-tickling picture. On his feet he wore a pair of old boots from his poaching days and to top it off a soft black felt hat with a wide wavy brim.
They watched Jimmy walk steadily towards the seat beside the pond, observed him touch the brim of his hat and call out a greeting to the tourists. ‘Good morning to ye all. You be welcome to feed my geese, you be.’
All twenty-five of the tourists leapt at the opportunity, cameras flashing: ‘Hold the bread. Merle, turn this way.’
‘Hi, sir. Can I photograph you for my album?’
‘Sue-Ellen, smile!’
‘What a souvenir! So genuine!’
Jimmy turned this way and that, obliging the Americans. The geese took exception and began to hassle one of the men by noisily pecking at his trouser seat as he crouched to take a picture.
‘Hey, Marlon, watch out!’
Before Jimmy could distract his geese with another chunk of bread, Marlon was racing across the green with two of the geese in full pursuit, the man’s huge stomach shaking and shuddering like a firm jelly as he ran. By this time the queue was having hysterics, but the twenty-five Americans were wielding their camcorders and their digital cameras as fast as they could, loving every moment of the chase.
Bryn was boiling with temper. Between clenched teeth he bent over Jimmy’s shoulder and muttered, ‘Stop those damn birds, or else.’ Jimmy leapt up and, putting his fingers to his lips, he emitted a piercing whistle. To his surprise it worked, the two geese put on their brakes and came racing back half flying, half running, leaving Marlon to stagger back as best he could.
Finally Bryn got his tourists assembled and suggested they might like to hear from Jimmy, whose ancestors had lived in the village for something like six hundred years.
‘Gee! No!’
‘Can that be true?’
‘Really.’
‘Amazing.’
Unfortunately the queue couldn’t quite hear what he was saying and only occasionally a snatch of his well-practised
discourse drifted across the green: ‘My family name’s on the memorial plaque in the church … given their lives for old England … so we been ’ere my ancestors all them years, poachers mostly. I’ve poached these wood man and boy … this ’ere is my dog Sykes … my family’s bred Jack Russells for generations.’
‘The liar! His dog’s a stray!’ muttered someone in the queue. ‘What a load of rubbish.’
‘See that old oak tree yonder … a hundred years ago … terrible storm … it lost a third of its branches … but it survived … once the old oak dies so will the village.’ He used such sepulchral, doom-laden tones that the tourists were reduced almost to tears. Some took notes, others filmed Jimmy sitting lost in gloom.
Unfortunately the lunchtime bus rumbled into the village at that moment and the queue had no alternative but to climb aboard and miss the fun.
Bryn decided Jimmy would soon be over-egging the pudding if he didn’t move everyone on pronto, so he assembled his charges and suggested they wander across to the church, where they would be treated to a talk on its history, a history going back over a thousand years.
‘
You mean that very church
?’
‘There’s been a church on that site for well over a thousand years. The present church has parts going back to the eleventh century, the rest is fourteenth century. But let’s go and hear all about it. You can find Jimmy’s ancestors’ names if you like.’
Jimmy called out as they left, ‘Don’t forget to visit the plague pit,’ his voice once more laden with doom. Once they all had their sights set on the church, Jimmy threw all
the leftover bread in the pond and went as fast as he could to the pub for a restorative drink.
Georgie had to congratulate him on his costume. ‘You look so authentic, Jimmy. Absolutely right for the part.’
‘Thanks. Like the smock? Genuine, you know. Harriet’s lent me it, and the basket.’
‘Did it go well?’
‘They were delighted. Nice folk. Very nice. I shall be on all their pictures.’
‘Talk go well?’
‘Oh, yes. Very well. They’ve gone across to the church now, so half an hour and they’ll be ready to eat.’ Jimmy took his real ale over to the settle and Sykes crept under it as he had always done, ever since he’d adopted Jimmy.
He was still sitting there when the Americans came in for their lunch. Three of them offered to buy Jimmy another drink, two of them sat on the settle with him for photos and they enticed Sykes out for his share of glory. Another asked if he knew where they could get a smock like his. ‘How long has it been in the family?’ The moment had come when he either lied or told the truth and spoiled the fantasy. It was a question he hadn’t quite prepared himself for. ‘Being poachers, we didn’t own things like this to pass down the generations, but this belongs to someone in the village who comes from farming stock.’ Half-lie, half-truth and he got away with it.
Bryn took them through to the dining room, got them settled and came back into the bar for a word with Georgie. ‘Going like a dream. Like a dream. They’re paying for their own drinks, you know, apart from the half-bottle included with their lunch. Pour me a whisky quick, I need it.’
Bryn watched Dicky for a moment and went across to speak to him. There didn’t seem to be quite so much naked hate in Dicky’s eyes as there had been and Bryn took hope from that. ‘OK, Dicky? Glad to see you picking up the threads. One step at a time, eh?’
Dicky looked at him but didn’t respond to his question.
Bryn put out a hand and patted his arm, but Dicky dusted off his sleeve where Bryn had touched it. ‘Too soon yet for the friendly gesture. Just keep out of my way.’
Bryn stood back. Palms exposed and held up in reconciliation he said, ‘Fine. Fine.’
‘Bryn! Hi, baby!’ One of the American tourists approached them.
‘Hi, Lalla! How can I help?’
‘Marlon’s wanting souvenirs. Where do we go?’
‘The Village Store. We’ll all go across there in a moment.’
‘Right! I’ll be powdering my nose. Don’t go without me.’ Lalla pattered off, twinkling her fingers at him as she went.
They were all charmed by the Store and most especially by Jimbo. A real English gentleman, they declared, and were exceedingly impressed when Bryn let out that Jimbo had been to Cambridge. He did a roaring trade with his souvenirs and items of food they bought to keep them sustained while on the coach.
‘It must be wonderful living here.’
‘You’ve made us all so welcome, fancy living here all the time. Great!’
‘Everyone’s been so kind. Just another picture! That’s it!’
‘I don’t want to leave.’
‘I guess it’s like going back in time.’
‘Nothing’s changed, ever.’
‘Not a road sign in sight. Wonderful!’
‘And the church … well … I can’t wait to get back home and tell them all about it. So old. And the tombs! And the ghost! They’ll be so envious.’
‘That lovely man who guided us round. Such a wonderful tale to tell.’
‘You won’t let them change it, will you? Keep it as it is.’
Bryn wholeheartedly agreed with these sentiments and, catching Jimbo’s eye, said, ‘We’ll keep it like this, won’t we, Jimbo?’
‘Of course.’
‘Not even an advertisement of any kind. Marvellous.’
‘We’ll be telling our friends. They’ll all be coming.’
‘Come along, Bryn, baby.’ Lalla, clutching her two Turnham Malpas Store carrier bags to her chest, hooked her free arm through Bryn’s and led him out of the Store, the others following reluctantly.
Georgie had decided to wave them off and took Trish and some of the customers out with her into the car park.
‘’Bye! ’Bye-bye!’
She came in for some serious embracing before they all left, and compliments about the food and the ambience of the Royal Oak flowed back and forth.
Lalla squeezed Dicky’s arm and said, ‘That joke! You
naughty boy. I could come back just to hear some more. Only wish I could squeeze you into my case. Be seeing you!’ She climbed up the coach steps and turned to wave for the last time. ‘’Bye, everyone. You lucky people!’
Before he climbed into the coach Bryn put his hand on Georgie’s shoulder and whispered, ‘Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. Food wonderful, they’re all so impressed. It’s the start of something big for you and me, I’m sure.’ Georgie smiled up at him, pleased by his success as well as her own.
Dicky’s hand closed in a vicelike grip on Bryn’s elbow. ‘Unless you’re wanting to do the rest of the tour with a black eye, let her go and get on your way.’
Bryn prised Dicky’s fingers from his elbow and said quietly, ‘When I get back, you and me’s going to have a talk. Man to man. Clear the air. Right?’
Dicky shrugged his shoulders.
‘See you both. Thanks for everything you’ve done. We’ve made a great start.’
As the coach backed up and swung round to leave the car park Georgie waved brightly to them all. The Americans responded enthusiastically and Georgie had the feeling that some of them at least would be back. The moment they were out of sight she turned on Dicky. ‘Dicky Tutt, grow up! He’s trying to made amends. He wants the divorce and he’s going to get it. Whether or not you want to marry me afterwards is up to you, but I want to marry you, remember.’
Caroline felt that lift to her heart which only Peter’s presence could bring about. ‘Fine, thanks, and you?’
‘All right. Tell you later.’
Caroline brought the Bolognese part of their evening meal out of the oven and called the children to wash their hands. ‘It’s ready, don’t delay.’
Peter, Alex and Beth all arrived at the table at the same moment.
Beth said loudly, ‘You haven’t washed your hands, Alex.’
‘I have.’
‘He hasn’t, Mummy.’
‘Only Alex knows if he has or not, so if he hasn’t, he can wash them at the sink.’
As she drained the spaghetti Alex came to turn on the taps and run his hands underneath.
Triumphant Beth exclaimed, ‘You see, I knew he hadn’t. You’ve started telling fibs, Alex.’
‘That will do, Beth. Alex’s conscience is his own responsibility.’
‘No. I didn’t leave Little Derehams until well after lunch, but Willie told me almost every word of what he’d said on his guided tour. They were deeply impressed by the war memorial plaques and all the names on there, and seeing Willie’s uncles and grandfather and Jimmy’s four uncles, and our wonderful banners and the architecture and how old the church was. He seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed himself, to say nothing of the tips he got. He told them everything, even to the ghost he vows is there by the tomb.’
Beth shuddered. ‘I’ve never seen a ghost in there.’
‘Neither have I, but I’d like to.’ Alex made ghost noises and waved his arms at Beth, who hit him hard on his leg. ‘That hurt!’
‘Good, you know I don’t like scary things.’
‘Stop it the two of you! I want my meal in peace.’ Caroline soothed Alex’s leg with her hand and mouthed a kiss to him.
Peter said, ‘After we’ve eaten I’m going to catch up on the parish photo album. I’d be glad of some help.’
Both Alex and Beth volunteered.
With his mouth full of food Alex muttered, ‘It’s ages since we did it, Dad. Mr Prior came the other day with a load. He likes being our photographer. He said he’d been taking parish photos since he was twelve. That’s positively historical.’
Peter laughed. ‘Well, that means he’s been doing it for about sixty years.’
‘Sixty years! He’s seventy-two, then. That’s old.’
‘We did have a lady called Mrs Gotobed and she lived
to one hundred. She died about a year after you were born. Now that really is old.’
Peter noticed, but the children didn’t, that Caroline had gone quiet. Without her the three of them chattered on about age, and grandparents and what changes Mrs Gotobed had seen in her lifetime. Without speaking Caroline served the cheesecake Sylvia had made for them before she left that afternoon. When the time came to clear up she said, ‘We’ll clear the table and then you can start on the albums in here. I’ve some letters to write. I’ll leave you to it.’
Quite deliberately and with every intention of getting his own way Peter said, ‘I think it would be nice if you helped us, darling. The children and I haven’t seen you all day. How about it?’
‘I’d rather get the letters written.’
‘I know you would, but they can be done any time.’
‘No, really, I must get them written.’ Caroline folded the tablecloth and went to switch on the dishwasher. ‘You always do it, the three of you.’
‘Get the albums out, children, and find Mr Prior’s envelope. They’re on their special shelf in the study.’
As the children darted off on their errand Peter went behind Caroline to put his arms round her. He nuzzled her hair and held her close. ‘It’s got to be the two of us. It mustn’t look like something you can’t talk about. It needs to be in the open between us all.’
‘You’ve sprung it on me; it’s not fair.’
‘I just feel the moment is ripe.’ Peter turned her round to face him. ‘It has to be faced.’
Alex came back in, staggering under the weight of the
albums, with Beth coming up behind carrying Mr Prior’s envelope.
Peter released Caroline and went to pull out a chair for her. ‘Here you are, darling, you sit here.’
She couldn’t refuse, it would be too obvious. But when you’ve kept a secret for more than ten years … ‘OK, then.’
‘Is there a photo of old Mrs Gotobed, Daddy? Which one will it be in? This newest one?’
‘No, the last full one.’ He stood up and heaved the one he wanted out from the bottom. ‘Here we are. This one.’ Eventually he found Mrs Gotobed in a Harvest Festival photograph taken, he guessed, about two years before she died. ‘There she is with her daughters, Lavender and Primrose. Both very dear ladies.’
Alex burst out laughing. ‘Lavender and Primrose. Help!’
Beth peered at the photograph through Peter’s magnifying glass. ‘I think they’re very pretty names. Look how old she is. Just look. All wrinkly and thin. She looks like a little bird. Like a wren.’
They played a game of guessing who all the other people were in the photo and then Peter let them ramble along through the pages till they came to the page he wanted them to look at.
‘These are of the village show. Nineteen ninety-one, I think. Yes. Can’t quite read it.’ The two of them identified several people, including Lady Bissett wearing an astonishing hat, and Venetia from the Big House when she was going through her Quaker dress period. Then Peter said casually, ‘There’s someone there who belongs to you.’
‘Belongs to us?’
‘Just us?’
‘Yes. You and Alex.’
Alex looked hard at the picture. ‘Is it Grandma and Grandad? I can’t see them.’
‘No. It’s this lady here.’ He pointed to someone with long fair hair, wearing a smart red-and-white dress and obviously serving behind a stall.
Beth protested she didn’t know her. ‘Do I know those three girls sitting on the grass in front? They don’t go to school.’
‘That’s their mother standing behind the stall. They’d be too old now for your school, wouldn’t they, Caroline?’
Alex asked, ‘Who are they? What are they called?’
Caroline answered his question. ‘Daisy, Pansy and Rosie. That’s Daisy, that’s Pansy, I think, and the little one kneeling up is Rosie. They’ll be something like eighteen, sixteen and fourteen now.’
Beth found the tone of her mother’s voice oddly unlike her normal one, but still she had to ask, ‘But they don’t live here. I’ve never seen them, so how can they belong to us.’
Peter took the plunge. ‘They were three lovely girls, so sweet and pretty and shy. I expect they still are. They are actually related to you, they’re your half-sisters.’
‘Really? Honestly?’ Beth was intrigued.
Alex was more cautious. ‘What does that mean?’
Caroline was sitting with her hands resting on the table, gripped tightly together, her head down. Suffering. ‘They have the same mummy as you.’ Alex hid his shock while he worked out whether it meant what he thought it did.
Beth thought this over for a moment, took the
magnifying glass and carefully inspected the girls and the lady standing behind the stall. ‘So where’s their daddy? Is he here somewhere?’
‘He didn’t used to join in things. He was a scientist and always preoccupied.’
‘So there’s not just Alex and me. There’s Daisy, Pansy and Rosie. That’s five of us.’
‘I expect you could say that.’ Peter added, ‘They left the village, though.’
‘Where have they gone?’ It was Beth doing all the asking; Alex had withdrawn from the conversation.
Caroline, in fear she might ask to go to see them, said, ‘A long way away.’
Still peering through the magnifying glass Beth said, ‘The mummy looks pretty. I like her hair. It’s the same colour as mine and her cheeks are round like mine. Oh! Just like mine!’ She glanced at Caroline as though assessing whether or not there was anything of Caroline in her own face.
Alex, by now, was standing beside Caroline, his face inscrutable.
Peter said, ‘Yes.’
Then Beth asked the question Caroline had been dreading. ‘Daddy, could we see them some time?’
‘Perhaps when you’re eighteen.’
‘You always say that. You said the same when I wanted my ears pierced and when I wanted to wear make-up. Well, I shall wear it before I’m eighteen, Daddy. I’m sorry but I shall.’ Still scrutinising the photograph, Beth came to a splendid conclusion. ‘I wish we could see a photo of those flower girls’ daddy, then Alex could see if he’s like him.’
‘He wouldn’t be like him, though, would he?’
Beth stared hard at him. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m your daddy.’
‘Oh, of course you are. I’m getting awfully muddled.’
Peter was trying to lead them to their own understanding of the situation but felt he was floundering. He turned to Alex and said, ‘You’re very quiet, young man.’
‘Just thinking.’
‘I see. Come and have a look at the flower girls. Come on.’
Alex shook his head and pointed to Beth. ‘No, thanks. They’re not really my sisters. She’s my sister.’
Beth, still greatly intrigued by her discoveries, ignored him and asked, ‘So what’s her name?’
‘Whose?’
‘The flower girls’ mummy.’
‘Suzy Meadows.’ There, it was out, thought Caroline. She’d said the name she’d dreaded to hear on the children’s lips.
‘Suzy. Suzy. Suzy Meadows.’ Beth repeated it time and time again until Caroline’s head swirled with it and she blurted out, ‘She was a lovely, kind, generous person.’
‘You knew her, Mummy?’
‘Of course. I asked her if I could have you both. She knew there was no way she could feed and clothe three children and look after two new babies and earn money for them all.’
Beth, who’d been kneeling on her chair to get a better view, shuffled down on to her bottom and looked set for hearing a story. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Well, I knew she was expecting twins and I knew her
husband had died and she already had three girls to bring up, so I asked her if she could possibly let us have you.’
Alex, ever sensitive to his mother’s mood, put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her and leant his weight against her.
‘She said that was what she had planned and she wanted us to take you.’
‘So she gave us to you.’ Beth’s eyes grew wider. ‘Did she love us?’
‘I know she did.’ Caroline put an arm round Alex’s waist and hugged him, as much for his comfort as for her own. ‘You were born first, darling.’
‘Then me?’
‘Alex was screaming his head off, really screaming.’
‘Did I?’
‘No, you were all quiet and composed, and you were sucking your thumb even then.’
Rather smugly Beth reminded her she’d stopped now.
‘I know, but you were then. You were small and neat and beautiful.’
‘What about me?’
‘Alex, I remember thinking what big feet you had and that you were long and gangling. I thought to myself, he’s definitely Peter’s boy and he’s going to be just as big.’
Alex posed as he’d seen strong men pose and Beth laughed. ‘I was beautiful! You weren’t.’
‘He was, just as beautiful. You were both beautiful.’
‘Did the Suzy person think we were beautiful?’
Caroline was instantly back in that delivery room witnessing Suzy’s bravery. Felt again her own extreme joy mixed with the terrible fear that Suzy wouldn’t be able to part with them. How had Suzy lived through it? Should
she tell them Suzy couldn’t bear to look at them, fearful that she wouldn’t be able to give them up if she did? Caroline hesitated while she weighed up the merits of telling or not. ‘She was so full of pain at giving you up to your daddy. So full of pain.’ Without warning Caroline was crying. Unspoken and unrecognised anxieties tore to the surface and ten years of persuading herself that now she had the children it didn’t matter about not being able to bear children of her own, that it didn’t matter about Peter’s unfaithfulness, all came pouring into the open along with her tears. She was inconsolable. Her heartrending, gut-wrenching sobs shocked them all.
‘My darling girl! Hush! Hush!’ Even Peter’s arms round her gripping her firmly didn’t assuage her distress.
The children clung to her and Beth wept. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy, I didn’t mean …’
‘Come on, Mum. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.’
But she did cry. She’d been too brave all along. In her gratitude for the chance to take the children for herself she’d been too accepting of what had happened. She should have raged and stormed, and made Peter’s life hell. She’d no idea that all of it, the whole terrible mess, had been secretly boiling and bubbling in her and the tears pouring down her cheeks, for herself and for Suzy and for the children, wouldn’t stop coming.
‘Darling, you’re frightening the children. Please. Please.’