Authors: Rebecca Shaw

Tags: #Fiction, #General

The Village Newcomers (9 page)

BOOK: The Village Newcomers

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But Mercedes had had enough and began gathering up her smart Chanel handbag from the luxurious carpet and making ready for a rapid retreat.

However, Ford had other ideas. ‘Thank you. I’ll have another gin and tonic, please.’

Whether it was the second gin - though two gins were only starters as far as Ford was concerned - who knew? But Ford came out with the remark to end all remarks, and Mercedes almost fainted when he said it.

‘I think it’s wonderful for your daughter to give time to the village young people. She deserves support. And you, too, Venice.’

Ford blithely carried on sipping his drink, totally unaware that Mr Fitch was on the verge of an apoplectic fit.

Visibly taking a grip on himself, Craddock said graciously, though tight-lipped, ‘Kate is my wife.’

After this the conversation was sustained only just long enough for Ford to finish his second G and T. Then Mercedes actually stood up ready for the off and he had to leave.

Kate saw them to the front door, and then raced up the stairs back to the flat, to find Craddock storming about the sitting room like a maniac.

‘I’ll sort something out for
him
. Settle him once and for all. My daughter indeed! I’ll give him what for. The bloody little upstart!’

‘Craddock! Really!’ Kate laughed. ‘I don’t care.
We’re
the ones having a wonderful life married to each other and loving it, and no one can take that from you or from me, whatever they say or think.’

Craddock put his arms round her and kissed her. ‘How right you are. We’re the winners in this, aren’t we?’

‘Exactly.’ She kissed him back, glad the hurt was resolved.

‘But . . . coming here and throwing his money in my face. Who the hell does he think he is?’

‘Someone doing the youth club a very good turn. He’s being generous in the only way he knows. You were unfair.’

‘Do I go round telling everyone, quoting figures, how much money I’ve given to this village? No, I do not. It stuck in my craw listening to his list.’

Kate began laughing. In fact, she rolled about in her chair uncontrollably. Finally she managed to speak. ‘You did used to, before I appeared on the scene. You’ve learned since that giving quietly but with purpose earns you far more Brownie points than making a song and dance about it. You know that, don’t you? Look how much more acceptable you are to the village nowadays. Far more than ever you were. They’re even growing quite fond of you.’

‘Well, he’d better learn fast, or else . . .’

‘Or else, what? She’s nice. A gentle person really.’

‘She rivals Venetia in the taste department.’

‘Now that is cruel. She’s very nervous of you. She has lovely eyes and just needs a little—’

‘OK, OK. But don’t make them part of our social circle or we could come to blows.’

Mercedes didn’t speak all the way home in the car. The whole evening had been torture for her. From a poor working-class background she’d been thrust by Ford’s success into being wealthy and hadn’t yet managed to feel comfortable with it. Glebe House alarmed her for a start. They ought never to have bought it. A nice cosy cottage with a thatched roof and small rooms would have suited her better. She imagined a cat sleeping on the hearth-rug and a bathroom small enough to feel warm instead of that glistening, barn-like bathroom she had to use that was part of the ‘step up’ Ford had dreamed about. She knew he deserved a better home than they’d had, but it had been close to friends, within walking distance to the shops, and was familiar and comfortable. But here!

In their old house, she’d opened the front door and there was the narrow passage with the old Victorian tiled floor in soft browns, ochre and dark red, and the picture rail with the prints and the narrow hall table with the bowl of dried flowers on it. What had she got here? A huge hall twice as big as the front room in the old house, a shining, glossy parquet floor, definitely not laminate . . . She’d never feel at home in it, not in a thousand years, and couldn’t understand why Ford liked it so much.

At the house, as she switched the kettle on, Mercedes said, ‘He very nearly thumped you.’

‘
Me
? Thumped
me
? I thought we’d hit the right note.’

‘When you said about his daughter, I could have crawled away.’

‘Well, I thought she was - she’s too young for that old man. I mean!’

‘You didn’t see the huge diamond engagement ring and the thick gold wedding ring, nor the wedding photo on the table?’

‘No.’

‘Well,
I
did. I’m having my hot chocolate in bed, in that huge master bedroom you’re so proud of. You know, I much preferred our little bedroom with the furniture you put together for us.’

‘But look at the wardrobes you’ve got here! Massive, they are, plenty of room. Those wardrobes I built were as cheap as chips, and almost too narrow to take hangers, which was a big mistake on my part, I admit.’

‘So? I liked them.’

‘You’ve got to grow into this new lifestyle, Merc. Move on. Move up.’

‘That Mr Fitch. Don’t ever use his first name again, and don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s a small-time man. I’ve an idea that our bank balance will be a drop in the ocean compared to his. He’s got power, has that man, and he’s ruthless if he puts his mind to it. He could ruin you in a second, and don’t think he won’t if the thought occurs to him.’

Ford put on his sceptical look when he heard this. ‘Now, honestly, how could he?’

Mercedes nodded bleakly at him. ‘You know full well how.’ She marched up the sweeping staircase, carefully gripping her mug of hot chocolate in fear of spilling it on the thick ivory carpet, sat on the edge of the bed and put the mug down on the mat she had there for that very purpose. Her alarm clock was round and comfortable, big and made of brass, old and traditional, and, after she’d put the alarm on, she held it to her chest, loving the comfort of it and wishing . . . how she wished . . .

Downstairs in his posh study Ford sipped his hot chocolate, his feet propped on the desk. He looked round and admired his pictures of famous racehorses which now lined the walls instead of the cold, bare, unimaginative pictures that had belonged to Neville Neal. Red Marauder 2001. My, what a horse! Bobbyjo, Papillon in 2000, and last but not least Red Rum in the seventies. Three times he won the Grand National, three times! Lovely horse. He could name every horse in every picture, and was proud to do so. When he thought about his miserable start in life, and where he stood now, he brimmed with self-satisfaction.

Niggling at the back of his mind, though, was Mercedes’ comment as she was setting off up that beautifully impressive staircase, which was what had sold the house to him. He was always of the opinion that Merc was not as bright as himself, then she came out with a remark like that and it floored him. He could only describe it as hitting the nail on the head, because she’d guessed correctly what kind of a man Craddock Fitch was. He, Ford Barclay, thought he had the measure of him, but he hadn’t. Fitch had sneered at him. He’d despised him for earning a living in scrap metal, which was indeed the correct name for his business. He, Ford Barclay, would show that Fitch the way to go home with his Elizabethan banquet. It was going to be the highlight of the social year.

Ford tipped the rest of his drink down the sink, and left the mug on the draining board. Upstairs he found Merc had already fallen asleep. All the same he nestled against her, hoping she’d wake and they could talk for a while, but she didn’t, so he rolled away to the other edge of their vast bed and it took him all of two hours to get to sleep. She’d upset the applecart with that remark, just when he was beginning to feel safe.

Chapter 5

‘Pass the teapot, please, Alex,’ Peter said at breakfast.

‘Dad! You’ve drunk coffee for breakfast for years.’

‘I know I have.’

Alex passed him the teapot. ‘Here you are.’

‘I decided I’d got into a rut, so drinking tea is my attempt to brighten up my image.’

Alex laughed. ‘Honestly! Do you feel you’re in a rut?’

‘Yes. Time I moved on.’

‘Literally? Move away?’

‘Been thinking of it. New challenges, you know.’

‘So long as it’s not Africa, Dad. I don’t think any of us could cope with that.’

‘No, I wasn’t thinking of Africa, more Culworth, but not yet. Can’t do anything drastic until you and Beth have finished school. Anyway, for the moment I need to stay in my comfort zone.’

Alex laughed again. ‘Just think: when, or if, Beth and I go to university you’ll be able to move anywhere. Anywhere at all.’

‘You’re right there. I shall. Now where do you recommend? ’

‘Canterbury?’ Alex’s wicked grin made Peter smile.

‘Definitely not. I’m not into corridors of power.’

‘York?’

‘Mmm. No, not York.’

‘I know! The East End!’

‘That would be a real shake-up. New challenges writ large.’

They both heard Beth clattering down the stairs.

‘Morning, everyone! What are we doing today?’

‘Prep?’ Alex suggested.

‘Certainly not. I’ve loads to do but it can wait. I’m dressed for Culworth.’

‘If we rush we can catch the bus. Twenty minutes?’

‘I’m game.’

‘So am I. Here’s your tea.’

Beth slurped a mouthful of tea. ‘Mum gone already, Dad?’

‘Eight-thirty clinic.’

Beth moaned. ‘I wish she didn’t work on Saturdays. I used to love Saturdays. It’s the only day in the week when we’re all free.’

Peter protested. ‘It only happens occasionally. Be fair!’

Alex pointed at her cereal bowl with his knife handle. ‘Eat,’ he commanded.

‘You’re a bully, you are.’

‘Hurry up. I’m going to clean my teeth.’ He raced up the stairs, eager for the off. He had two CD tokens and £10 in his pocket, and he intended spending it all, though it wasn’t very much cash, not nowadays.

Twenty minutes later they ran out of the Rectory, across the Green and arrived at the bus stop outside the Village Store to find a queue of six waiting. They were teased for being out of breath after running such a short distance. But they hadn’t time for much more because the bus came groaning up Shepherd’s Hill and they all piled on as fast as they could because the driver was so impatient.

‘He’s almost always late. Today he’s early and he still wants to be off sharpish. We can’t win,’ someone said.

Alone in the house, Peter decided that this was his chance to catch up on some reading. So once he’d tidied the kitchen, cleaned his teeth and read his post, he settled down to read a revolutionary book he’d been longing to begin for over a week,
Is God For Me?

An hour later and he was deeply involved. He was oblivious to the people going by his study window, the sound of a group of horses trotting by on the regular Saturday morning hack, and the cars pulling up for the Saturday morning coffee hour in the village hall. His book was totally absorbing and well up to what he had hoped it to be.

When the doorbell rang, he went to answer it with his mind very much elsewhere.

Standing on the doorstep was someone he knew but couldn’t quite place. She was possibly now in her early fifties, like himself, more plump than he remembered, very fair-haired, with round pink cheeks and looking remarkably like . . .

‘Peter! Good morning. You don’t change. Still that lovely youthful look.’

‘I’m sorry I don’t . . .’ Oh God! Oh! God! It was her! It couldn’t be.
It was.
Hell! ‘Why, it’s Suzy . . . Meadows. No, Palmer. Of course it is.’

BOOK: The Village Newcomers

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