Whispers in the Village (20 page)

‘Permanent?’

‘Yes. Permanent. Greta Jones has gone a vivid red and I thought we’d look good together in Culworth on Saturday with the collecting tins. We shall, shan’t we?’

‘You’ll be the sensation of the day.’

Grandmama Charter-Plackett went across to the mirror Jimbo had strategically placed for keeping an eye on thieves and viewed the magnified image of herself. Privately thinking she’d gone far too far, she said, ‘There you are you see, Jaffa-coloured, just what I wanted. I’ll go see Harriet. She’ll love it.’

Harriet, concentrating hard on some elaborate decoration on the top of a massive trifle she was doing for a birthday party, looked up and promptly went into shock, which made her hand jerk and the cream burst out from the piping bag she was holding, and straight down her mother-in-law’s jacket. ‘My God! What have you done?’

‘Harriet! Really! I thought you’d love it.’

Harriet pulled a couple of sheets of kitchen roll off the reel and began cleaning her up. ‘It was the shock.’

‘It’s for the New Hope Fund on Saturday in Culworth. Doing it to drag some money out of the pinchpenny residents of Culworth. Will you sponsor me? I should have asked first but I did it on the spur of the moment.’

Harriet stood back to assess her. ‘Well, I think you’ve been exceptionally,’ she was going to say ‘brave’ but changed her mind, ‘exceptionally dedicated to the cause. Of course I’ll sponsor you.’

‘Jimbo’s laughing, but I don’t care. I didn’t really intend being Jaffa-coloured but that hair stylist, well, I daren’t think where her brains are. Probably gone down the plughole along with the water. She knew I wanted it subtle. If this is subtle can you imagine what full strength would have been?’

‘Some of them are spraying their hair so they can wash it out.’

‘I know, but what’s the fun in that?’

‘None, I suppose. I’ve always fancied being a redhead. What do you think?’

‘Why not? Spray it though. You’re a business woman and it would be dreadful if you turned out like Greta Jones. It’s not only the colour of her hair that’s gone to her head, either. Taking on Paddy Cleary? She must be mad. Well! I’m just glad Ralph didn’t ask me.’

‘They say he’s turned over a new leaf since going to Mrs Jones’s house.’

Mrs Charter-Plackett expressed her derision at such a possibility by saying. ‘Hmmm. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. Mark my words. Must go.’

As she was leaving – after a word with Tom, and buying a chocolate eclair for her afternoon tea – she spotted Maggie Dobbs talking to Dottie. The two of them burst into raucous giggles when she approached them. Mrs Charter-Plackett responded by looking very annoyed indeed, and then suddenly saw the funny side of it and in moments the three of them were reeling with laughter. Jimbo came out to see what the matter was, saw his mother laughing like he hadn’t seen in years and joined in.

Between her gasps for breath Maggie Dobbs struggled to say, ‘Oh, dear! Oh, dear. I shall never be the same again. Jaffa, that’s what, Jaffa!’ Maggie had been deciding which hair colourant to buy but now she couldn’t because she kept doubling up with laughter. Dottie, being the kind of person she was, suggested Mrs Charter-Plackett had better not go into Deansgate in Culworth late at night or she might get invited for a ride by the kerb-crawlers!

‘Just like you, Dottie, coming out with something like that!’ Maggie fell into shrieking with laughter for a third time, leaning against the hair products shelving and holding her handkerchief to her mouth.

When eventually they got themselves under control, they joined Maggie in her decision-making and decided on autumn gold for her. It turned out very brassy indeed, but did Maggie care? Not she. The worst bit was being sponsored for the skinny-dipping. She’d already got £30 promised for that from the dinner ladies at the school, and two of her cousins had sponsored her but threatened to turn up to watch, so perhaps she wouldn’t do it if they did come. Though maybe they wouldn’t know it was her with this brassy hair. She looked like a tart. But she’d lost half a stone and she did look more sylph-like, so that was a blessing. Still, come Saturday they’d be in the market rattling their tins and what’s more, she didn’t care a button what people said.

There was a great deal of laughter about the colourful heads of hair gathered at the Women’s Institute committee meeting on the Friday night. The first item to be discussed was the success or otherwise of the pyjama party.

‘Well,’ said Greta, ‘I reckon it was a roaring success. Not something you could do every year because it’ud lose its sparkle but definitely, yes, a success. And the fire kind of finished it off with a bang! To say nothing of the firemen finding that young couple in the bedroom. I’m just hoping the skinny-dipping will be as good.’

They all laughed even louder at that.

‘It came very close to … unwholesomeness and so might the swim if we’re not careful.’ This from Muriel, who endeavoured to keep the Women’s Institute on the straight and narrow and was mindful of Ralph’s reaction when he first heard what they had planned. ‘Swimming? Naked? Muriel, have you lost your sense of decorum? Whatever next! Surely you protested?’

She’d answered, ‘Well, actually, no, I didn’t.’

‘You didn’t?’

‘No. They were all so keen and I knew Jimbo wouldn’t have anything untoward, you know anything rude … or anything … happening, so I thought why not? It’s all in a good cause.’

Ralph had become enraged at this. ‘How about running a brothel in the church hall? Or a gambling saloon in the memorial chapel? Justified, of course, by being all in a good cause. Muriel! I am appalled.’

But Muriel had stuck to her guns when Ralph suggested the naked swim should be cancelled.

‘Cancelled?’ She was horrified. ‘Absolutely not. When I think of Peter’s congregation not having Bibles to read, possibly not even being able to read some of them, no organ, no chairs, we have to do something, and some pathetic coffee-and-gateaux evening would bring in zilch in comparison with what they need. No, we certainly shall not cancel it.’ Muriel’s voice had risen to a crescendo by the end of her declaration so angry was she. She’d almost added, ‘And if you protest any more I shall volunteer for the naked swim.’ She stopped herself just in time.

Ralph had stood up to enable him to put his point more clearly. ‘Muriel! There are times when I really wonder who I’ve married.’

‘Oh! You’ve married me, a loyal loving wife, but it does not mean that I always have to do as you say. I never promised to “obey” in our marriage service.’

So now here she sat, having to choose her words with care or she’d be in danger of being two-faced. ‘You see, we do have to be careful, that incident of those two young people being found in one of the bedrooms at the pyjama party, well …’

Her disapproval caused gales of laughter.

Sheila answered. ‘Let’s face it, Muriel, your Ralph has his so-called cousin Arthur Prior at Wallop Down Farm. Some cousin indeed, when we all know Arthur’s grandfather was born the wrong side of the Templeton blanket. So they were all at it even then.’

‘Really!’ Muriel went bright red. The rest of the committee didn’t know where to look, but Sheila appeared quite unfazed by her outburst.

Harriet was the first to recover. ‘I don’t think there’s any need to bring up matters of that nature a hundred years and more after they occurred.’

Sheila rebelliously remarked, ‘But it’s a fact, isn’t it? It did go on then and always will.’

Rather acidly Greta Jones commented, ‘Same as your Louise and Gilbert. She wasn’t exactly pure as the driven snow when they marr—’

‘Ladies, ladies! This has got to stop. Now, please. It isn’t the business of a W.I. committee to trawl through the past like this.’ This was Grandmama Charter-Plackett speaking.

She brought them to their senses and the uncomfortable moment was passed over. The rest of the meeting was a little fraught but without the venom that had so unexpectedly surfaced.

The Saturday shopping bus was filled to capacity. The regular driver, dazzled by their dyed hair, gave up checking bus passes and let quite a few others on without paying as well. They rattled their collecting boxes at him, hoping for a contribution, but he ignored it, put the bus in gear and roared off in his usual fashion.

The most spectacular head of hair was Vince’s. He’d dyed his sparce tufts in various shades from Greta’s gaudy red (she’d saved a few drops of her dye for him) to vivid blue and a sharp acid yellow. My, what a sight he looked, but because Paddy had helped him with it he didn’t care about the hysterical laughter he caused. There was Grandmama Charter-Plackett – Jaffa-coloured – and Sheila Bisset – a bold shining platinum at odds with her complexion. Rhett had used sprays to colour his hair as near as he could to a Union Jack flag, Michelle had dyed her blonde hair jet-black. Harriet and her girls, Flick and Fran, had each sprayed their hair a quite splendid matching dayglo pink and they made a spectacular trio: Two of the weekenders had come dyed a riot of multi-colours. They were equipped with a digital camera and intended taking photographs of everyone to take home for their neighbours to see what fun they were having in their weekend cottage.

When they all alighted from the bus in the square, they made a sensational impact on the Culworth residents. Full of delight at their reception, they stood together for the weekenders to take photographs of them and to listen to Sheila’s final instructions. There was such a lot of laughing and leg-pulling going on it was difficult for Sheila to make herself heard. Dyeing their hair must have gone to their heads, she thought.

‘We’ll give it two hours. You don’t have to stick here in the market. Go down the precinct or anywhere you fancy. I’ll be catching the lunchtime bus home, so bring your tins to me and I’ll take them with me so you can stay on to do your shopping. Get plenty of money and don’t forget to carry your banners so people know what you’re collecting for.’

They all dispersed, shaking their collecting tins at every possible person from old grandads to babes-in-arms, from stallholders to traffic wardens, and scarcely anyone refused them. After an hour their tins were weighing them down. Greta Jones and Grandmama Charter-Plackett made an arresting twosome, and collected as much and more than everyone else. Eventually Greta suggested they went in the pub for a reviving drink.

‘They’ll have coffee, won’t they?’ asked Grandmama.

‘Coffee! It’s not coffee I’m going in for, I need something with a bit more kick in it. Like a whisky. No, I’ll have rum and Coke.’

‘I miss my morning coffee. But I might just be tempted. I’ll pay first time round.’

‘How many are you thinking of having, then?’

Grandmama nudged Greta and said, ‘I don’t know yet. But I shall be glad of a sit-down. This damn tin is weighing heavier by the minute.’

They found a cosy sofa tucked away in a corner and sat down with their drinks, glad for a respite. One rum and Coke led to another, then another, then neat rum. Whether it was dyeing their hair or the sheer euphoria of collecting so much money, they didn’t know, but they stayed there drinking until the landlord, tired of their bursts of raucous laughter disturbing his other clients, refused to serve them any more and insisted they left the premises. The two of them staggered out into the sharp air, striving to keep control of their legs and of their silly grins, and immediately collided into two police officers on market duty.

Propping each other up, they laughingly apologized and shook their tins enticingly under the officers’ noses. The smell of drink on their breath and the slurring of their voices as they explained what they were collecting for, amused them but not the two officers. Too late it dawned that the officers were not laughing. Drunk in charge of a collecting tin was the charge and they were marched off to the police station.

The others were already gathering in the bus station still shaking their tins. Sheila Bissett, when she felt their combined weight, didn’t know how on earth she was going to manage them all back to Turnham Malpas. ‘Oh my word, isn’t this wonderful! Haven’t we done well?’

Maggie Dobbs, in need of the bus station toilets, disappeared into the ticket hall to find them. On her way back she spotted Paddy Cleary. He was standing nonchalantly reading a newspaper; unexpectedly it was
The Times
, Maggie noticed. He was leaning against a carousel next to a woman who was holding copies of various bus timetables and literature about local sightseeing possibilities. She decided to rattle her tin under his nose just to test if there really had been a change in him since he’d moved to Mrs Jones’s. She’d also try the woman who was studying the leaflets.

But before she reached him, she saw, without a word of a lie, Paddy slip his hand into the woman’s shopping bag, gently extricate her purse, put it into his folded newspaper in a trice and walk slowly away with an unbelievable air of innocence about him. No rushing, just steady walking. Maggie glanced at the woman – who’d by now found the leaflet she needed – then looked back again for Paddy, but he’d disappeared as though he’d never been there. She couldn’t believe it. Where the hell had he gone? There one minute, gone the next. The woman rushed outside and leapt on a bus just as it was leaving. So they had both disappeared as though they’d never existed. Maggie stood there vacantly staring into space not noticing that three people had put money in her tin while she was in a trance. She had seen it happen. Definitely she had. No messing. He’d taken the purse from the woman’s bag and walked away scot-free. Maggie raced outside, rejoined the others and said breathlessly, ‘Seen Paddy Cleary, have yer?’