A Tangled Web (10 page)

' 'Tavie, darling, wake up, it's Mummy!'

But there was no movement, no flickering of eyelids, no yawning awakening, no smile of recognition for her mother. Bill came forward and put his fingers to the girl's narrow neck. 'There's a pulse,' he said. 'Go and phone the doctor and the ambulance, Mr ]ones, and be quick about it. She's taken something.'

Gabriella sat by the hospital bed watching over her only daughter. Octavia's eyes were big dark shadows in her pale face, but she slept apparently peacefully. Gabriella wished they would take away the angular drip apparatus, with its snaking tube. It was alien, forbidding, separating her from her child.

A close vigil was maintained by the nursing staff, and Gabriella was reassured, but she had been upset by the Sister's callous remark as she looked at Octavia's notes. 'Don't worry, Mrs Jones,' she had said cheerfully, 'she took just enough to give you a good scare.'

It had been a nightmare of empty aspirin bottles and the stomach pump, and Octavia being sick until Gabriella thought the girl would die of exhaustion. Bill Turner had been steady as a
rock, seemed to know exactly what to do. Poor Greg looked just about as ill as Octavia, until Gabbie had packed him off to buy some tissues and squash from the hospital shop.

'But why?' said Greg, over and over again. He seemed reluctant to believe that Octavia might be in real trouble, stressing to Gabriella that their daughter had a core of good common sense. He clung on to the Sister's words. 'Just meant to give us a scare, Gabbie,' he said.

Several times Gabriella had started to tell him about her conversation with Ivy Beasley, but each time she hesitated, hearing again the derisive 'needs a good smack bottom'. I expect it's my fault, thought Gabriella. She is a bit spoilt, I suppose.’

'We shall just have to wait until she's well enough to tell us,' Greg had said.

'There may be just one clue,' said Gabriella tentatively. 'When she was conscious and between bouts of vomiting, she said something, and I thought it sounded like "Robert, how could you." I know, I know,' she added quickly, before Greg could scoff, 'it does sound stupid, but teenage crushes are very strong. I remember . . .'

'Gabbie dear,' said Greg, 'I doubt it, I really do.'

But in her feverish dreams, Octavia was walking down the aisle of Ringford church, a floating vision in white, on the arm of Robert Bates, her newly wedded husband.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Nigel Brooks walked smartly down Bates's End, his black cloak protecting him from the rain, his four-cornered hat set flatteringly over his wavy grey hair.

He obeyed the unwritten Ringford rule, and stopped on the bridge to look into the water. Through the clear swirls he could see shoals of small fish darting through the weed. Raindrops fell in concentric circles on the surface, and Nigel thought once more what a good job the Lord had made of his creation. I will make you fishers of men, he reminded himself, and set off again with renewed vigour to widen his acquaintance with his parishioners. His official induction service had yet to take place, but Nigel was not one for wasting time, and he was confident that the parish was as anxious to get to know him as he was to become one of them.

The shop was first on his list of visits. 'Morning, Mrs Palmer,' he said; and Peggy answered him politely, but without her usual smile.

'You're looking worried, my dear,' said Nigel, chancing a personal remark, pretty sure that Peggy would not retreat.

'Yes, well,' said Peggy, sighing, 'it's been a nasty twenty-four hours in Ringford. I expect you've heard about Octavia Jones?'

'Gabriella's daughter?' said Nigel, feeling stupidly uninformed.

Peggy told him briefly the details of Octavia's overdose.

‘But she's more or less all right?' he said.

'Physically, yes,' said Peggy, 'but it's not something a normal, happy girl would do without good reason, is it?'

'Love,' said Nigel confidently. 'It's usually love at that age. I've seen it once or twice before. Hope that's it, anyway,' he added with a reassuring smile. 'Love at that age is infinitely transferable. . .'

Peggy looked at his handsome face and kindly smile, and thought what a nice man he seemed to be. It was a funny hat, though; she'd never seen one of those before.

'Can I get you anything, Mr Brooks,' she said, 'or is this just a pastoral call?'

Nigel had not intended to buy anything, just pop in for a few words, but there was something in the way Peggy had asked him that made him fumble in his pocket for loose coins. 'Have you any butter mints?' he asked. 'Sophie's still slaving away at the vicarage ... needs some sweeties to keep her going.'

'Would she like a hand?' said Peggy, remembering her own total exhaustion when she and Frank moved into the shop. 'I could look in this evening after closing time, maybe help with curtains and things?' She handed him the packet of mints and took his money, counting out his change.

Nigel shook his head. 'You have far too much to do here on your own,' he said, 'but I am most grateful for the offer. Why don't you come round anyway, and have a cup of coffee with us? I know Sophie would be delighted.'

The shop door opened quietly, and Ivy Beasley stepped inside without her usual flourish. Peggy looked across the counter at her and knew there was something different about her neighbour. She's changed her hair-do, she thought, well I never. Looks quite nice, curled under like that.

'Good morning, Miss Beasley,' said Nigel, turning round to greet her with his usual welcome. 'What a wet morning! Still, good for the gardens, I'm sure.'

'Morning, Vicar,' said Ivy. 'Yes, indeed, we needed the rain.' She said nothing more, and turned away to hide a faint blush which scarcely deepened her high colour.

'We'll see you this evening, then Mrs Palmer,' said Nigel.

‘Good morning again, Miss Beasley.' And he gathered his cloak around him and left the shop in a swirl of bonhomie.

So, thought Ivy Beasley, trust pushy Peg to get in with them already. She resumed her usual scowl, and pushed a half-eaten loaf of bread across the counter. 'Look at this,' she said, pulling a small stone out of the dough. 'That's where it was, right in the middle there, nearly broke my tooth on it. Please make a complaint to the bakers. I shall expect my money back.'

Peggy took the loaf and looked at it, and at the small white stone. How could she possibly argue? She hadn't the courage to suggest that Ivy might have put the stone there herself to make trouble.

'I am so sorry, Miss Beasley,' she said. 'Of course I shall complain. It could have been really dangerous. Would you like the money back, or a fresh loaf?'

'Money,' said Ivy tersely. 'In future I shall obtain my bread elsewhere. Or make it myself,' she added, glaring at Peggy.

'I hear you are an extremely good baker,' said Peggy, despising herself for creeping.

'You hear a lot of things, I don't doubt,' said Ivy, 'but then, so do I, living so close to the shop. I heard that stupid Jones child has been worrying her parents again. No telling some people, is there.'

She took the money for the loaf, and marched out, banging the door behind her.

Peggy walked out of her side gate and crossed the road. She took the short cut across the Green, making for the bridge and the vicarage. The heavy rain had slackened off to a hanging mist, edging the leaves with shiny beads of water, and covering Peggy's hair with a moist veil, tightening her curls and dampening her fresh, pink face.

The door opened as she walked up the sandy path of the vicarage. Peggy noticed two big tubs of geraniums had been placed on either side of the porch, colourful and welcoming. Sophie stood in the open doorway, a small figure in blue skirt and white fine lawn shirt, holding back a big old black dog by his collar. She held out her free hand in welcome.

'Mrs Palmer,' she said, 'how nice of you to come round.'

Peggy warmed to her at once. 'Please call me Peggy,' she said, 'most people do.' Except my charming neighbour, she thought, and reflected on the impossibility of ever saying, 'Good morning, Ivy.'

'And we're Nigel and Sophie,' said the vicar, rising from his chair and shaking her warmly by the hand. 'Come and sit down ... I've forbidden any more work today.'

'Not that that would stop me,' said Sophie, grinning at him, 'but I am tired now, so delighted to see you and glad of the excuse to take a break.'

From this good beginning, the three sat in the big drawing room amiably chatting about the village and Nigel's idea for a Christmas concert in the church, until the grandfather clock in the hall struck seven, and Peggy jumped up. 'Gracious!' she said. 'I must be off; you will be wanting your supper. It has been nice, and you must come round and have coffee with me soon. She reached the door, and then turned back. 'Oh, and by the way,' she said, 'you were right, Nigel, about Octavia Jones. Seems she had just heard about Robert Bates's engagement, and her heart was broken. She's always been a bit of a drama queen, but this time she really scared her parents, poor things.'

'Poor lass,' said Nigel. 'She'll need comfort and understanding from us all. I must call on Gabriella tomorrow.'

What a very nice man, thought Peggy, walking back along the twilit street, I do hope they'll be happy here. I must get Doreen to invite Sophie along to Wl. Still, she's probably done that already.

Feeling completely at one with her village, not even bothering to glance at Victoria Villa, Peggy crossed the road and let herself into the back door of the shop. 'Hello, Gilbertiney,' she said to the little tabby rubbing herself round her legs. 'Mummy's home.'

CHAPTER TWENTY

The induction ceremony for the new vicar had been a splendid and moving occasion, with a full church and much ritual and dignity as befitted the occasion. Richard Standing had felt a glow of satisfaction, as Nigel Brooks went elegantly through the service, with just the right mixture of humility and confidence.

'Seems to be doing well,' Richard said to Susan over breakfast.

'Who is, darling?' she said. 'You do have a habit of starting sentences midway through a thought.'

'Nigel - who else?' said Richard.

'Well, yes, but it's early days yet. One or two of the old tabs have complained about new tunes and tiny changes in the services. Still, in a couple of months he seems to have won quite a few hearts ... including Ivy Beasley's, so I hear.'

'Good gracious!' said Richard. 'Is there a heart there to be won?'

'And now he's got this concert idea, and quite a few people are keen.'

'Thank God I can't sing a note. And neither can you, Susan, so don't get any ideas ...'

'Since you are completely tone deaf,' said Susan, 'I don't see how you can judge.'

She walked through to the drawing room, followed by Richard, and sat down at the grand piano, which, though not often played, was kept regularly tuned.

'Ear-ly one mor- hor- ning, just as the sun was ri- hi sing,' she sang, and stopped.

'Ah well,' she said, getting up from the piano stool, 'maybe you're right, Richard darling,' and went off to the kitchen to set Jean Jenkins to work. I must be nice to Jean Jenkins, she chanted like a schoolchild, I must be nice to Jean Jenkins. After Jean had handed in her duster in a huff, and Susan was without help for some time, Richard had tempted her back with a rise in wages, and Susan promised him she would be nice and not step on Jean's touchy pride.

Nigel Brooks had persuaded a number of men and women to form the nucleus of a choir, having gently suggested to Gabriella that getting together the Christmas concert might help to prevent her dwelling too much on past horrors. Octavia had returned to school, apparently healed, and the family had been given more advice and analysis than was perhaps helpful.
Robert Bates had been very upset when he heard the full circumstances, and kept out of Octavia's way even more than before.

Gabriella continued to have dreadful dreams about Octavia, still and lifeless on a mortuary slab, and when she awoke, sweating and crying, Greg put his arms round her and confided that he too was unfairly tormented in his sleep.

'If you feel you can take charge, Gabriella,' Nigel Brooks had said, 'Sophie and I will give you all possible help and support. With your musical training and lovely singing voice, you will be able to do the job standing on your head . . . but only if you feel up to it.' His charming smile warmed Gabriella, and she agreed to take it on.

'Morning, Peggy,' said Doreen Price, coming into the shop with a tower of egg trays, which she carefully set down on the counter. 'Now, then,' she said in a business-like fashion, 'are we going to sing? You sound all right in Jerusalem, so I don't see why you shouldn't. Not so sure about me, though Nigel won't hear a word of doubt.'

'First rehearsal tonight, isn't it?' said Peggy.

'I mean t' be there,' said a voice from behind the display units.

Ellen Biggs emerged with a small packet of All-Bran. 'This should keep me goin',' she said with a wicked smile. 'I reckon I can sing as good as ol' Ivy, and Reverend Brooks said all corners would be welcome.'

Peggy widened her eyes at Doreen, who said, 'Well, you won't have far to go, Ellen, though don't forget you'll have to turn out on winter evenings in wind and rain, no slacking.' Ellen shrugged. 'If I'm singin' for the Almighty, surely he'll keep the rain off?' She muttered to herself something about being old and unwanted, and struggled down the shop steps and along to Victoria Villa.

There was an unmistakable scent of autumn in the air, a smell of bonfire smoke floating over the allotments. Fields of oil-seed rape had been harvested, and tough, fibrous stalks were left standing, leafless and harmful to foraging animals. The Jenkinses' terrier came home with his face skinned and bleeding from chasing rabbits through the unyielding jungle.

Ellen stood and stared over the Green, feeling the changing season in her bones with a sinking dread of cold, damp weather to come. Yesterday, lured by a sunny afternoon, she had plodded off along the old railway line to collect sticks for the fire, swearing at the low, fiercely stinging nettles and taking handfuls of dock leaves to rub on her smarting ankles. The small white flowers of mayweed, still sturdy and cheerful, caught her eye, and she hurt her hands and her back trying to pick a small bunch. There'll soon come a time, she thought, when I shall 'ave to give up collectin' sticks and everythin' else. Old age is a devil, nothin' surer. She knocked on Ivy's door and stood dejectedly on the scrubbed white step.

'What's eating you, Ellen Biggs?' said Ivy, setting a cup of steaming coffee in front of the old woman. Ellen had slumped down on to a kitchen chair and lapsed into silence.

'Nuthin',' she grunted.

‘”There's always something in nothing.’ my mother used to say.'” Ivy folded her arms and waited.

Ellen shifted in her chair and drank her coffee noisily. She looked up speculatively and said, 'I suppose you won't be singin' in this concert thing, Ivy?' She knew perfectly well that Ivy fully intended to sing.

'I might go along to see what it's all about,' said Ivy defensively.

'Better get yer curlers out, then,' said Ellen, with pinpoint cruelty.

'Do you want to come, is that it, Ellen Biggs?'

'Wouldn't be seen dead,' said Ellen, with a shrug.

'I'll call for you at a quarter past seven,' said Ivy, 'and you'd better be ready. And for goodness sake, dress in something suitable for churchgoing. None of your gypsy costumes, else you can go by yourself.'

'It won't be easy to get away,' said Bill, sitting in Peggy's kitchen after the shop closed. 'I can't see Joyce believing that I want to sing in a choir.'

Bill had brought in a load of logs from the estate farm, and chanced a quick cup of tea before going home. He laughed ruefully, and put his arm round Peggy's waist as she stood washing up teacups in the sink. 'It'd just be a chance to be in the same place as my true love for a couple of hours, maybe hold hands in the vestry? He kissed the soft hair on the back of her neck, and she wriggled.

'Well, I've promised Doreen I'll give it a go,' she said, 'though I haven't done any singing since Frank and I were in the chorus of Pirates of Penzance in Coventry.'

'There you are, then!' said Bill, still uncomfortable at the mention of Frank's name when he had his arms round his friend's widow.

'Bill,' said Peggy.

'Mmm,' said Bill.

'You know you said Mr Richard was making a hide for Susan to watch birds?'

‘Yep,' said Bill.

'Does she go there much?'

'Not at all yet, it's not finished. I've got a fair bit to do to it yet.' '

'Well,' said Peggy, moving away from him and looking out of the window at her cherry tree ablaze in the sun, 'I was thinking, maybe when it's finished ...'

Bill was not slow to see where this was leading. He turned her round to face him, and held both her hands. '...when it's finished,' he said, 'it might be a good hiding place for more than just bird-watching? Is that what you were thinking, Peg?' She looked at him and nodded.

'Is it a silly idea?' she said. 'No central heating,' said Bill, 'but there's other ways of keeping warm.'

'Why can't I go?' said Jean Jenkins.

'Because you'll make a fool of yourself,' said Foxy, switching channels on television to get the local weather forecast.

'I can sing,' said Jean huffily. 'I remember singing a solo at school, "All Things Bright and Beautiful" it were, and Miss Layton put me on a chair so's I could be seen.'

'They won't need to do that now,' said Foxy, laughing and dodging the deserved blow.

'All right, then, I won't go,' she said, and started clattering dishes and throwing knives and forks into the kitchen sink. 'For God's sake, woman,' shouted Foxy, 'go, if you want to, otherwise we shan't have nothing left to eat off!’

Jean smiled quietly into the sudsy water, and planned what she would wear.

'I wonder who else will be there,' she said. 'Reverend Brooks has been very busy drummin' up support. Old Poison Ivy is bound to turn up, just to see her precious Nigel, and Mrs Price and Peggy Palmer are great mates with Sophie Brooks now, so they'll be there. Can't see Mr Richard and Madam lowerin' themselves, can you, Fox?'

‘Mm,' said Foxy, deep in the racing results.

'That Colin and Pat Osman are bound to join, him bein' so keen on "village activities".' Jean's imitation of Colin Osman was deadly.

'You'd best get on with that and stop chatterin',' said Foxy.

'It'll soon be time to go. You can leave Eddie and the kids to me. I'll see them into bed.'

'You mustn't be too hard on them, Fox,' said Jean, wiping her hands on the towel behind the kitchen door. 'They always moan if I don't see to them.'

'Don't worry,' said Foxy. 'Now, where did I put that strap?'

A steady trickle of people climbed up the narrow path through the black yews to the church door, where Nigel stood waiting to welcome his potential choir, some hesitant, some bouncy and full of enthusiasm. The heaters had been on in the church for half an hour, but there was still a chill from the stone floor, and draughts whistled round Gabriella's neck as she stood shuffling her music. The old piano had been pushed out from the wall so that she could play and look at the singers at the same time.

It was odd, she thought, the church at night, with no service going on, no ethereal organ music, the chancel dark and shadowy. It was as if the laughing voices of people coming in and standing about, backs to the altar, had frightened God away.

She looked at the octagonal stone font, its Victorian cover like a miniature steeple, shutting it off. The blue light burning steadily in the Lady Chapel, symbolic of the continual presence of the Holy Spirit, was just a flickering light. It was an empty stone building, draughty and in need of restoration, with damp, peeling patches on its whitewashed walls. Was it all really a confidence trick, as Greg sometimes maintained, in the hands of a decreasing number of inept magicians?

Well, thought Gabriella, seeing Nigel approaching, let's see what kind of tricks you can perform with this bunch.

'Good!' said Nigel, looking round at twenty or so people standing in attentive groups. 'Wonderful! Welcome every body to Ringford Concert Choir! Allow me to introduce,' he said, with an appropriate flourish, 'our charming choir mistress, Gabriella Jones, who will guide us through the mysteries of major and minor keys in praise of the Lord! Over to you, my dear.' He bowed slightly to Gabriella, who smiled obediently.

'Silly bugger,' said Bill, standing behind his own true love. 'Why don't he just get on with it?'