A Tangled Web (4 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Robert Bates, son of the farmer at Bates's End, opened the shop door and looked in.

'Boots are muddy, Mrs P,' he said. 'Could you hand me out ajar of coffee for Mother? She's run out, and we're all gasping up there.'

Peggy smiled. Robert was one of her favourite customers, a nice, quiet lad in his twenties, who was consistently polite and considerate. It was Robert who had found Frank in his crumpled car after the accident.

'It's a lovely morning,' she said. 'The village looks as if nothing bad could ever happen here. I keep thinking of poor Reverend Collins, and how he loved Ringford. He'd have been wandering down here for his ham and tomatoes this morning, taking his time in the sun, sitting on the seat under the tree and talking to the old boys…' Peggy felt her eyes prickle, and a lump in her throat.

It's not just Reverend Collins she's thinking about, Robert thought, and smiled kindly at her.

'Best not to dwell on it, Mrs P.' He looked over his shoulder down the street. 'Oh Lord,' he said, 'could you take the money quickly? I can see Octavia Jones coming, and you know what that means!'

The whole village knew that Octavia had a long-standing crush on Robert Bates. He had given her absolutely no encouragement- ran like a frightened rabbit every time he set eyes on her - but this seemed to intensify her passion. She wandered up and down the village when not at school, hoping to catch a glimpse of Robert, and if all else failed she would borrow the Jenkins's terrier to take for a walk, then spend most of the time lurking outside the farm.

Nobody much minded this, except the Jenkins's terrier, who was used to patrolling the village on his own, and certainly not on the end of a piece of string.

Robert clumped down the steps from the shop, and made a dash for his tractor, which he'd left with the engine idling by the pavement.

'Robert! Robert!' shouted Octavia, running along with blonde hair flying, past Victoria Villa, where her speedy progress was duly monitored. 'Wait, Robert! I want to ask you something ...' But Robert jerked his tractor into gear, stood hard on the accelerator and was off with a racing start, swerving across the road and heading for home.

Ivy Beasley shook her head, and said to her silent sitting room, that girl will come to no good, mark my words, Mother. She sat down in her watching chair, and took up her knitting. She was making gloves, big, men's gloves in strong grey wool. They were for Robert Bates, who was the nearest Ivy had come to a child of her own.

After a difficult time with Robert's birth, Mrs Bates had accepted Ivy's help in looking after the baby. He had been a bit weak, but under the tender loving care of Bates and Beasley women he had flourished, and become he mainstay of his ageing father's farm. Ivy had loved him dearly, and could scarcely bear it when she was no longer needed to help with him. But tiny Robert did not forget her, and toddled towards her with his little arms open. Now he called to see her regularly each week for a cup of tea and a chat, and Ivy's heart beat a little faster on Monday afternoons.

She knitted on, skilfully managing to look out of the window at the same time, and saw Warren Jenkins and his troublesome friend, William Roberts, kicking a football idly round the Green. Something small and grey streaked across where they were playing, heading for the chestnut tree, and William turning like lightning, chasing it at full pelt, until it leapt at the trunk of the tree, fell back, and then leapt again, this time shooting up the tree and disappearing into the leafy branches and safety.

Squirrels still in that tree, Mother, said Ivy conversationally, remembering how the boys used to chase them right up into the top when she was a girl. Never caught them, mind. Not once, to my knowledge, she said.

Doreen Price's muddy blue estate car drew up outside, and Ivy watched her get out. Into the shop for something quick and easy for the men's dinner, no doubt, she thought. But Doreen opened Ivy's little iron front gate and walked up the path.

'Morning, Mrs Price,' said Ivy Beasley, 'are you comin' in?'

'Thank you,' said Doreen, ‘I’d just like a word, Ivy, about Mr Collins's funeral and one or two other matters.'

Doreen followed Ivy into the front room, though she would have been happier in the kitchen.

'Will you take a glass of elderflower wine?' said Ivy Beasley. 'There's a nice cool bottle down in the cellar.'

'Your own making, Ivy? Then I certainly won't say no,' said Doreen, sitting on a stern, upright chair by the bookcase. ‘I’ve come straight from cleaning out the hen house,' she said, looking round the immaculate room. 'It's thirsty work!'

'And smelly work, too, if I remember rightly,' said Ivy, wrinkling her nose. 'Nothing worse than the smell of chicken muck.'

Doreen Price agreed uncomfortably, thinking that only Ivy Beasley could make chicken muck sound like the work of the Devil.

Ivy fetched glasses and a bottle of elderflower wine, expertly poured out a large glass for Doreen, and a smaller one for herself. She looked expectantly at Doreen, who began to talk about the old vicar.

Cyril Collins had apparently had few relations, and some of those that were still alive were old and living in South Africa, and were reluctant to make the journey for the funeral. He had told Doreen many times that he wanted to be buried in Ringford, his home for so many years.

'We don't want him to go without honouring him with the proper rites,' said Ivy.

'His friend from Tresham is coming to take the service,' said Doreen, 'and there should be quite a few folk from the three parishes, enough to make a decent show, anyway.'

'You can leave it to Doris and myself to see that the church looks nice,' Ivy said confidently. 'He was a good man, Reverend Collins, always did his duty by this village.'

'Ah,' said Doreen, 'well, that brings me to the other thing. You keep your ear to the ground, Ivy, what sort of man do you think is wanted to take Cyril's place?'

Ivy was not too keen on the 'ear to the ground' bit, but she got up and refilled Doreen's glass from the tall green bottle.

She walked over to the window, from habit rather than wanting to see out, and was silent for a minute or two. Doreen sipped the delicious cool wine and felt her head beginning to buzz. Watch it, she said to herself, Ivy's wines are known for their strength.

'What we don't want,' said Ivy, turning round and looking at Doreen with a stern expression, 'is a smart young know-all who wants to change everything and bring in all kinds of unnecessaries.'

'Well,' said Doreen expansively, 'you're in full agreement with Tom there, Ivy, but what do you think about a family man?'

'Could be a good idea,' said Ivy, 'but it depends on the wife. If she's one that fits in and likes to work in the parish, it could work well. But again, you could get someone with no interest in the village. Pity we can't choose on our own, I say.'

'Mr Richard’s doin' his best,' said Doreen. 'Wants to get it right.'

No head for a real good drink, thought Ivy, filling up Doreen's glass with the sparkling elderflower. What's coming next, I wonder.

'Mr Richard did say he had a cousin who might be interested,' said Doreen with dutch courage, 'but he wasn't sure the parish would approve.'

'Why shouldn't we?' said Ivy, suspicion growing. 'Because, well...because the cousin is a woman,' said

Doreen, and took a deep, defensive gulp of wine.

'A WOMAN!' said Ivy, putting the cork firmly in the bottle. 'I trust you are not serious, Mrs Price, that wine is quite strong, you know.'

Doreen stood up, and felt the room swim. She hung on to the back of the chair, and, trying hard to collect her balance and her dignity, she made for the door. 'I'm perfectly serious, Ivy,' she said, 'it will have to be considered.'

On a bright, sunny day, with the wind fresh and lively, and the Ringle high and in a hurry, the Reverend Cyril Collins was laid to rest in the little cemetery across the road from the churchyard.

Gabriella played a cheerful piece by Handel, one of Cyril's favourites, as the congregation gathered, and Tom Price and Richard Standing stood by the door, welcoming a small, self consciously sombre group of distant relations. The many villagers who came to make their farewells smiled and chatted, as they knew their old vicar would have wanted.

From her seat at the organ, Gabriella saw the sunlight streaming in through the stained glass, making coloured patterns on the pale stone floor in the chancel. She thought how many times Cyril Collins must have seen this, and thanked his God for all the natural beauties of the world. None of us knew him very well, she reflected, but he always seemed happy and content. His private time was spent amongst books and papers, and once or twice he had mentioned writing articles for learned journals. But nobody she knew had ever read them, and they were put away modestly in his desk drawer, with old photographs and yellowing letters from Oxford and Cambridge colleagues.

With endless patience and understanding, he had gone about his parish, listening and ministering, always making time for families in trouble, never discriminating between those who came to his church and those who didn't.

The undertakers carried his simple coffin down the little path, slippery and dangerous in winter, but now dry and safe for the people following slowly, crossing the narrow lane and grouping around the freshly dug grave.

The wind blew strongly, billowing the surplice of Cyril's rector friend as he pronounced the final blessing. Ivy Beasley clutched her hat, and Doreen Price grabbed at her service sheet as it blew out of her hands and landed against the mossy tombstone marking the grave of Tom's long dead great grandmother Price.

'End of an era,' said Doreen, as she walked down the road with Tom, back to the farm and the routine of jobs which must be done, animals fed and made safe for the night.

'He was a good old boy,' said Tom, 'we shall not find it easy to replace him.'

'You'd best get those clothes off as soon as we get back,' said Doreen, quickening her step. 'Cyril wouldn't have wanted your best suit going to the cleaners after one afternoon's wearing.'

Tom looked at her in surprise, but, seeing that she was perfectly serious, he nodded, and they walked back in silence over the bridge, along the Green and up the quiet street to the farm, each thinking of Cyril Collins and the indelible place he had earned for himself in the history of Round Ringford.

CHAPTER EIGHT

'We can't have a woman parson, surely,' said Foxy to Jean Jenkins, who had just heard the news from Peggy in the shop. 'It wouldn't do for Ringford.'

'Well, Mr Richard seems to think so,' said Jean. She got up from the table, took an apple from the draining board, and began to peel it. 'You're right, of course, Fox, but you can't help wonderin' if it wouldn't be a bit of a lark.' She cut the apple into small pieces and put it on a saucer in front of Eddie. Gemma and Amy finished their dinner at the same moment, and said in unison, 'Please can we get down,' being half off their seats before they got to the end of the sentence. Mark, a solid lad, overweight like his mother, chewed on, always a slow eater, but in any case anxious to hear how this conversation of his parents developed. Eddie, in his high chair, dropped half-chewed lumps of apple to the terrier waiting beneath, who obligingly ate them. Then he dropped the saucer, and it shattered noisily. After calm was restored,

Foxy returned to the subject.

'I still think it should be a family man,' he said. 'They were having it over in the pub last night, and Tom Price were laying down the law about no new fancy ways and suchlike. Mind you, I agree . . .'

'When did you last go to church, Foxy my lad?' said Jean

Jenkins, thumping him affectionately on the shoulder. 'You wouldn't know one end of a hymn book from the other.'

'Nor would you, come to that,' said Fox defensively, 'but that ain't the point. The church belongs to the village, and that means the vicar has to do what's right for the village. Always was like that in Cyril's day, and should continue, if you ask me.'

'I don't know,' said Jean, 'Reverend Collins told me one morning when we were havin' our coffee- he used to love to talk, poor old Cyril- he said that when he first come here, he was full of new ideas and plans for what he would do in the village- wake 'em up and get lots of new young people in the church. But them old biddies on the PCC and doin' the brasses and that, they took the heart out of him, gradually, he said, and in the end he just did what they wanted.'

'But he did it his way,' said Fox, 'so he won in the end.'

A sharp clacking of heels shifted their minds to the present, and Fox's head jerked to one side, listening, just like his namesake.

'Fox, come here and look at those two,' said Jean, smiling and looking out of the window into the garden. Gemma and Amy, each pushing a doll's pram with doll neatly tucked up inside, stalked unsteadily down the concrete path between the neat rows of lettuces and peas, each wearing a pair of Jean's best high-heeled shoes.

'It'll be smack bums for those two,' said Fox, 'if they don't ask first before taking your shoes.'

'And lipstick,' said Jean happily. 'Look at their faces!'

The normally pale faces of the twins shone with cream liberally applied and scarlet lipstick inexpertly smudged with a speedy and furtive hand.

Jean opened the window and called out in a loud and angry voice, 'Gemma! Amy! Just you get in 'ere and see what I've got to say!'

The twins looked at each other and smiled. They turned their prams and tottered obediently back up towards the house, knowing in their telepathic way that their mother was not all that cross, not really.

*

Bill walked over the river bridge, and stopped to look into the water, his watchful eye noting that the water-weed was getting too thick again under the stone arches and would need sorting out. He looked back at the church, the weathercock shining in the morning sun, and thought for the hundredth time that anybody but his Joyce would be happy to live in such a village.

He had come across the fields from a spinney far over towards Fletching, where he and Mr Richard planned to make a hide for Susan Standing to pursue her new enthusiasm for bird-watching.

The hedgerows were full of flowers, the result of Mr Richard's ordering a stop to blanket spraying of fertiliser and insecticides. Bill had seen misty-blue scabious and scarlet poppies, shining yellow buttercups and great white heads of cow mumble, all blowing in the wind amongst feathery grasses in every shade of green and purple. There had been a time when he and Joyce had walked hand in hand down the lanes, and she had known the names of all the flowers and grasses, laughing at Bill for his ignorance. 'Call yourself a country boy,' she said, 'you might just as well have been born in Tresham . . .'

But he knew them now, because he had learned from Joyce, admiring her quick brain and her wiry strength. What a sodding shame, he thought, blaming himself for not knowing how to cope with her when she needed him most. He walked slowly across the sunlit Green to the shop, and climbed the steps.

'Morning Bill,' said Peggy, looking down at the order book from the Hall. Ellen Biggs was in the shop, examining closely every gooseberry she put into a brown paper bag. It was pension morning, and Mary York sat in the Post Office cubicle counting out notes for old Fred Mills.

Mary York lived up the Bagley Road in an ugly bungalow, happily and tidily married to Graham, who worked in the Inland Revenue office at Tresham. They had no children, never talked about having any, and kept themselves to themselves. Mary was a pleasant, helpful girl, plain and honest, and had worked in the shop since the days when Doris Ashbourne trained her straight from school. Peggy could not afford to employ her full-time, but on very busy days, Mary came in and efficiently and quietly got on with the job.

'Morning Peggy,' said Bill, and Peggy felt her colour rise. This is ridiculous, she thought, anybody would think I was a teenager, instead of a middle-aged widow woman. She had lately become self-conscious about looking directly at Bill when other people were around. She was sure her feelings must show in her face, and she was equally sure the echoing warmth in his eyes and smile were glaring evidence of deepening affection between them.

Bill hung back, looking at things on shelves that he was never likely to buy, and when Ellen and Fred Mills had gone he came forward to the counter.

'Must see you alone, Peggy,' he said very quietly, so that Mary York, apparently occupied counting stamps, did not hear.

Peggy looked at him, startled at the urgency in his voice.

She straightened the pile of postcards of Ringford Green, and looked across at Mary.

'Just going to get Bill to look at that drain in the yard,' she said. 'I've tried unblocking it, but the water is still not going down.'

Mary York nodded. It wasn't easy for Peggy, she thought innocently, being without a man in the house. Just as well Bill Turner was one who could turn his hand to anything.

Bill followed Peggy into the kitchen and then out into the back yard. Conscious of the Beasley look-out next door, Peggy said in a loud voice, 'There it is, Bill, still blocked, though I've tried my best to clear it.'

They bent their heads together over the drain, and Bill whispered, 'Somebody's telling Joyce tales about us, Peggy. We shall have to be very careful, girl. Not that I mind about the village - the old tabs will make a meal out of the smallest morsel- but if Joyce gets really upset she might do anything. She's always threatening to do away with herself, and she just might ...'

'Oh God,' said Peggy, 'Well, there can be only one person gossiping to Joyce and that's Poison Ivy next door. Joyce doesn't see anyone else, does she?'

Bill nodded, glancing over the fence at Victoria Villa. 'Ivy's a wicked woman, but not stupid, and doesn't often get caught out,' he said.

The yard was full of the scent of honeysuckle, climbing over the washhouse and intermingling with a crimson rose which had rambled over its trellis arch and ventured up the washhouse roof. It was warm in the full sun, and Peggy stood up straight, wishing she and Bill could sit on the old bench by the back door and have a cup of coffee and savour the scents and the warmth of the day. She sighed, and she too looked across at Ivy Beasley's woodpile.

'So it'll need drain rods, you think, Bill?' she said in a carrying voice. 'I'd be glad if you could fit the job in some time when you're not busy.'

'Be down Saturday afternoon,' said Bill, 'and don't worry if you need to go into Tresham, I can manage perfectly well on my own. Just leave the side gate unlocked ...'

They went back into the shop, Bill buying bacon and baked  beans, and Peggy taking the money and avoiding the bleak look in his eyes.

The bent figure of Ivy Beasley, pulling weeds behind the woodpile, slowly straightened up and pushed her springy grey hair back from her eyes. Well, Mother, she said, that was interesting.