A Tangled Web (7 page)

They hurriedly took the tea things out to Ellen's tiny kitchen, and then Ivy and Doris, glancing apprehensively at the lowering sky, began to walk quickly back towards the Green. The rain was heavier, and streaks of lightning flashed over the Hall, lighting up the village with eerie electricity. 'Need a lift, ladies?' said a voice. With the rumbling thunder in their ears, Doris and Ivy had not noticed Bill Turner's old van drawing up behind them. 'Hop in the back quick,' he said, 'you won't be there for more 'n a minute.'

It was no time to argue, and the women scrambled into the back of the van, pulling the doors shut behind them. The rain beat harder down on the roof of the van, and Doris said, 'You came along just in time, Bill, we'd have got soaked to the skin.'

Ivy Beasley sat on a paper sack of rabbit mix and stared at the floor of the van. As it drew up outside Victoria Villa, she leaned forward and carefully picked up something from the floor. 'What you got there, Ivy?' said Doris, but Ivy Beasley shook her head. 'It's nothing,' she said. 'Just thought I saw a coin down there, but it was only a stone.'

Why, then, wondered Doris Ashbourne, did you pick it up and put it in your pocket, Ivy Beasley, answer me that ...

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

'I saw Joyce Turner in the garden after dinner,' said Jean Jenkins to her husband as they sat having their tea. 'She were still in that scruffy dressing-gown- I don't know how she has the nerve . . . anybody could see her over the fences.'

'Shouldn't think anybody would want to look,' said Foxy, wiping little Eddie's face with a wet flannel. 'Come on, my duck, let the dog see the rabbit .
. . I'll get that chocolate off. . . watch out, here it comes!'

Eddie fought him off bravely, but in the end his face was wiped and he was lifted down to go and play. 'C'mon Eddie,' called Mark, 'there's a good programme on, lots of cars ... cars, Eddie!' The magic word did the trick and Eddie disappeared into the front room, where the assembled Jenkins children sat relaxing in front of the television screen.

'Suppose we shouldn't let them watch so much,' said Jean comfortably, pouring Fox another cup of tea, 'but they can't go outside in this rain.'

'What was Joyce Turner doing, anyway?' said Foxy. 'She don't usually come out of the house in daylight.'

'Dunno,' said Jean. 'She went into Bill's shed for a few minutes, and next thing I saw her goin' back into her kitchen and banging the door behind her. '

Sounds of dissension from the front room brought Jean to her feet. 'Mark! Warren! Stop it at once, whatever it is!' she said, and went through to give them a good sort out.

*

Bill drove home through the storm after dropping first Ivy at Victoria Villa, and then Doris a few doors away from his own house in Macmillan Gardens. Miniature rivers were flowing importantly down the Gardens, swelling the water in the main street when they emerged, only to disappear in a dramatic swirl down the big drain.

'It's chucking it down out there, black as night over Bagley Woods,' he said to Joyce, who greeted him with a blank stare as he came into the sitting room. The television was on as usual, and Joyce sat on the sofa, her feet up on a stool in front of her. But there was one good sign. She had changed out of the old dressing-gown and slippers, and had put on a loose dress and a pair of white, old-fashioned sandals. Then Bill realised with disquiet that the dress was a maternity one, bought all those years ago in anticipation of the longed-for baby.

Joyce rocked herself from side to side, and Bill saw that she had a cushion in her arms, and that she was humming. It was the same lullaby as always, the words varied to suit her mood. 'Wee baby bunting,' she sang, 'Daddy's gone a-hunting, Mummy's got a rabbit skin to wrap wee baby bunting in.'

The word 'rabbit' rang alarm bells, and Bill turned and dashed out into the back garden, down the path and into his shed. He went rapidly from one cage to another, checking on each to make sure they were all alive and untouched. All seemed as usual, and Bill sighed with relief.

'Might as well feed you now, my beauties,' he said, and filled up each trough from the sack of rabbit mixture in the corner of the shed. He checked their water, talking to each one as he worked. 'Better be seeing to Joyce now,' he said to them. 'I'll be back later to say goodnight.'

I don't know, he thought, as he went back up the path, Joyce cuddles a cushion, and I talk to rabbits as if they're my kids. Not much to choose between us, some would say.

He got the tea ready and took a tray into Joyce in the sitting room. She shook her head at him. 'Not hungry,' she said, pushing the tray away.

'Try a little bit, Joycey,' Bill said, 'you got to eat, keep up your strength.' He realised he was playing along with her fantasies and despised himself. But it was no good crossing her or trying to bring her back to reality. Her screams and tantrums over the years had weakened his resolve, and now he humoured her most of the time. His only defence was to leave the house, to get out of earshot . . . but then it all had to be faced when he returned.

'I'll just have a bite in the kitchen,' he said, gently putting the tray down on a table beside her, 'then I'd better get out there and tackle them weeds.'

Macmillan Gardens formed three sides of a square, the fourth being the main street. A rectangle of grass, designed as a play space for the children, was maintained by the Council, but old Fred Mills had taken to caring for the flower beds in the centre and mounted guard over them from his front gate, seeing off any charging children with threats and curses.

The Turners lived on one side of the square, and the Roberts family almost opposite. Michael and Renata Roberts had produced four children, two of whom had now left home, leaving William and Andrew to cope with the untidy relationship of their parents. Michael Roberts was a violent man. His wife Renata, named after her Italian grandmother, had been an attractive, dark-haired girl who fell for Michael's blustering ways. She was a weak woman, and gave in on all issues, never daring to disagree or venture an opinion of her own. This seemed to her the best course for her to take, since Michael Roberts's idea of an argument was to answer with a blow. All the children had grown up with a keen ability to dodge.

Michael Roberts was coming back from the pub late in the evening. The moon was full, and in his befuddled state he walked up the wrong side of the Gardens, passing first the Jenkins's house and then the Turners', where a light showed through a crack in the thick curtains.

'Turner's up late,' Michael Roberts said to himself. He and Bill had a wary relationship, Michael Roberts knowing that Bill disapproved of him, and he in turn despising Bill for not being able to handle a silly woman. He started on a short cut across the grass, swearing as he stepped into one of Fred's precious flower beds, and paused to regain his balance.

It was then that he heard the scream.

'Christ Almighty!' he said, looking back to the Turners' house. 'What's that woman done now!'

Sobered up by the awfulness of the scream, he reluctantly went back and pushed open the Turners' gate. He could see a light on in Bill's shed, and the back door of the house stood open. Sounds of crying and jumbled words came from the kitchen, but Michael was not up to facing Joyce. He went on down the path to the shed and opened the door.

He couldn't see anyone at first, then noticed a crouching shape in the far corner. He could see it was Bill, and then realised with horror that he too was crying. 'Bill?' he said. 'What the hell's goin' on?'

There was no reply, but Bill straightened up and wiped his face with a grubby handkerchief. He tried to say something, choked, and then indicated the rabbit cages with a hopeless wave of his hand. Michael Roberts saw that all the doors were open, and he peered inside.

'Oh God, no ...' he said. 'Oh, good God, no.'

Each cage contained a small, stiff corpse. Protruding eyes stared lifelessly out at Michael as he went round the shed, unable to believe what he saw. Bill sat down heavily on an old chair, and put his head in his hands.

'I never thought she'd do it,' he said in a muffled voice. 'She threatened often enough, but I never thought she'd do it.'

'What a bloody nightmare,' said Michael Roberts, quite sober now. 'They bin poisoned?'

Bill nodded. 'My fault,' he said. 'I got the stuff to deal with rats eating the feed.' He looked up at his neighbour, and said, 'What am I going to do?'

'Beat the livin' daylights out of her,' said Michael Roberts. 'I'll do it myself if you're squeamish.' He patted Bill awkwardly on the shoulder and said, 'Come on, Bill, let's go and see to 'er.'

Bill shook his head. 'Won't do any good,' he said. 'Even if I agreed with you, which I don't. Violence doesn't answer violence. Better go now, Michael, and leave me to deal with her. She's screaming the place down now out affright, scared of what I'll do.' 'You sure?' said Michael Roberts, beginning to wish he was back home where he knew how to act when retribution was needed.

'Yep,' said Bill. 'I'll just clear up in here, calm down a bit. Ifl go back in there now I shall kill her. You could just shut the back door, Michael, as you go by. Thanks for coming over.' He began to pull out the dead rabbits and put them in an empty sack, stroking each one for the last time before they fell with a dull thud into the growing pile. 'That's it, then, Joyce,' he said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ivy Beasley sat in her kitchen, her damp coat hanging over the back of a chair in front of the range, steaming gently. She looked speculatively at a small enamelled brooch, shaped like a violet flower, which she had taken from her pocket and placed on the table.

'Now, my little beauty,' she said, 'who do you belong to, and how did you get on the floor of Bill Turner's van?'

Who do you think it belongs to? said the voice in her head. You'll not have far to go to find the owner of that.

Ivy got up and fetched a little box from the table drawer. It had a few drawing pins rattling around inside, and she emptied these on to the table. She fitted the brooch carefully inside, and tucked in the flap, sealing it with a small rubber band.

Just the right size, she said. Now, I think that will be safest in your desk, Mother, and she took it through to her sitting room, tucking the little box neatly inside a shallow drawer her mother had used for pens and pencils.

She looked out of her window, across the Green where children had come out to play as soon as the rain had stopped. Mark and the twins were jumping in puddles, seeing how much muddy water they could splash into each other's boots. They were all laughing and shouting, and Ivy Beasley felt a stab of loneliness, catching her unawares.

Why was I an only one, Mother?' she said. But this time there was no answering voice in her head. In death as in life, her mother backed away when Ivy ventured a question bordering on intimacy.

Ivy sighed, and went to fetch her raincoat. She did not trust the sky, which still glowered and threatened more showers, in spite of weak sunlight striking wet roofs and leaves. Picking up a bunch of roses cut earlier in the day from her garden, she walked out into the glistening evening to pay homage to her mother's grave.

It was quiet in the graveyard, and Ivy fetched a bucket of water and pulled a scrubbing brush and bar of strong green soap from her basket. She knelt down, and began to scrub the white marble headstone. Not much dirt had collected since Ivy last scrubbed, and when she was satisfied that the stone was sparkling clean, she arranged the roses in a glass vase and stood back to admire the effect.

'Good evening,' said a pleasant, man's voice. She looked round, startled, and saw Richard Standing, dressed in his town clothes, leaning against the old pump and smiling at her.

'Mr Richard!' she said. 'You gave me a fright!'

'So sorry,' said Richard. 'I just saw you from the road and thought I'd catch you for a quick word. It's about the new vicar.'

'A word with me?' said Ivy Beasley, wondering why she should be consulted at this late stage, when her opinion had not been sought before. Richard Standing was aware of this, of course, and, knowing Ivy's influence in the village, decided on the spur of the moment to make her feel she was part of a decision which was, in fact, already made.

'I'd like very much to know what you thought of Nigel Brooks,' he said. 'Your family have been in Ringford very nearly as long as mine, and your comments would be most valuable.' Don't overdo it, Richard, he said to himself, old Ivy's not stupid.

She flushed with pleasure, however, and said, 'I'm not one for making hasty judgements, Mr Richard, but on first meeting he did seem a very nice man, and quite suitable for the village. That's not to say his wife will be the same, o' course.'

Her mouth closed tightly, as if surprised that such favourable sentiments could be expressed by Ivy Beasley.

'Oh good,' said Richard Standing. 'We all liked him very much, and I'm so glad you agree. And as to his wife, they are both coming next week to spend a couple of days looking round. They'll stay at the pub - good sign, I thought, when Nigel suggested it!'

So it's 'Nigel' already, is it, thought Ivy Beasley, well, that must mean he's the one. She felt a little frisson of excitement at the thought, and subdued it instantly. Many a slip, my girl, she told herself, better wait and see what his wife's like.

Peggy sat at her dressing-table in her nightdress brushing her hair and looking absently at herself in the looking glass. She had watched a film on television and gone up to bed later than usual. Just as she pulled the covers back on the lonely double bed the telephone rang.

She stood stock-still in alarm. Who on earth would be ringing her at this time of night? She considered not answering it, but then thought perhaps it might be an emergency and, pulling on her dressing-gown, ran downstairs to the sitting room.

The last voice she was expecting was Bill's. 'Peggy?' he said, and he sounded stiff and strange. She had seldom spoken to him on the telephone, and certainly not in the middle of the night.

'Bill!' she said. 'What's wrong, where are you?'

'In the box up by the village hall,' he said. 'I must see you.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Peggy said, beginning to feel frightened, sensing something awful. 'It's nearly midnight!'

'If I wait outside in the van, will you slip out and we can go somewhere Ivy won't see us?'

'Bill, this is really silly, why can't it wait until morning?'

'Please, Peggy,' he said, 'please come.'

'But I'm ready for bed,' she said, 'I can't see ...'

There was a click as Bill's money ran out, and then the dialling tone. Peggy put down the telephone and stood frowning. I wish I could ask Frank what to do, she thought, and then realised what a stupid thought it was.

She went back upstairs and looked out of the window. The road was empty in the moonlight, and the village asleep. She sighed with relief, thinking that Bill must have gone home. Then she saw a shadow moving along opposite the school, and knew that it was Bill's old white van. It stopped short of the Stores, out of sight of Victoria Villa, and she heard the engine cut out.

Peggy slowly took off her nightdress, and began to put on the day's clothes still in a heap on a chair. She combed her hair roughly, collected her anorak from a peg in the hall, and quietly let herself out of the back door, going down the path at the side of the Stores and through the little gate on to the pavement outside.

Bill leaned over and opened the passenger door for her, and she got in. He said nothing, but started the engine, and began to back slowly until he could turn up the Bagley Road, then they climbed up the hill and were out of the village.

Neither of them spoke until Bill turned the van off the road into a clearing in the woods and switched off the engine. He put his arms round Peggy and held her so tightly that she could not breathe. He did not kiss her, and she knew something really bad had happened.

'What is it, Bill?' she said, when he finally released her.

Hesitantly, and with his voice breaking from time to time, he told her about Joyce and the rabbits. Peggy listened in growing horror. Nobody would do such a dreadful thing unless they were very sick, or very full of hate.

'Where is she now?' she asked, stroking Bill's hand comfortingly.

'Gone to bed,' he said. 'Sleeping like a baby when I came out. She always does after one of her storms.' He turned and looked at Peggy in the shadowy moonlight under the trees.

'Can I come home with you, Peggy?' he said. 'I could leave before folks are up. I can't go back there tonight.'

Peggy did not answer for a long while, and Bill just sat and looked at her, drawing comfort from her presence, holding her hand. Finally she took a deep breath and said, 'No, Bill, not like this. Not when we're both shocked by your Joyce. And then you having to creep out like some criminal at first light. I couldn't bear it, Bill, not like that.' She did not say that Frank's photograph was by the bed, and she could never turn his face to the wall.

Bill silently shook his head, and his face was so beaten that

Peggy reached out and touched his mouth with her fingers, inviting a kiss.

'Bill,' she said, 'I think I love you ...'

He took her hand and kissed the palm, folding her fingers over and squeezing her fist very gently.

'Could've bin worth it, then,' he said, 'to hear you say that.'

They sat in silence, looking at the woods and the silhouetted tree-tops where the bright moon shone. through. An owl hooted, and they saw it swoop, a whitish floating shadow, absorbed in its nightly hunt, unaware of intruders. Bill reached out and turned the key, and the engine was loud and alien. He backed the van round, and coasted down the hill into Ringford. The village was still and sharply outlined in the moonlight, like an abandoned toy, all life gone out of it.

'I'd better get back and face it,' he said, his voice now firm and more his own. 'I'll do some cleanin' up while she's asleep. And don't forget,' he whispered, as he drew up just before the Stores, 'I know I love you, Peggy Palmer.'