A Tangled Web (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The date of the concert was fixed for the second week in December, and Gabriella Jones doubled up the number of rehearsals each week as the performance came closer.

Sophie Brooks, walking along the path from the vicarage to the church for the second choir session this week, looked up at the dark yews outlined against the sky, and shivered. Winter had come to Round Ringford slowly, autumn reluctantly relinquishing its hold on the bright trees and the sparkling mornings. But now the branches were bare, except for the yews which bore their nasty little spiky leaves all the year round, dense and funereal, thought Sophie, as she pushed her way past laurels and brambles lining the path.

The black, moonless night matched her mood. Ever since the fiasco on Harvest Supper night, she and Nigel had been edgy with one another. She knew she was being ridiculous, but every time she went in the shop she was convinced the conversation stopped abruptly, that they had been talking about Nigel and Gabriella, and she collected her groceries and left as quickly as possible. Every friendly word that Nigel exchanged with Gabriella at concert rehearsals was marked down by Sophie, and, she was sure, by every other member of the choir.

It was a ridiculous situation, and she dare not mention any of it to Nigel. He had had a rare explosion of anger and contempt when she had countered him with a jealous accusation after the Supper. He had made her feel so small, so petty and immature, that she didn't mention it again, although her sleep was disturbed by lurid dreams of an avenging Ivy Beasley swooping with an axe on an entwined Nigel and Gabriella.

Ivy Beasley had been extremely charming to Sophie ever since Robert's terrible gaffe. Sophie could not understand this change of heart, and, not liking the sharp-tongued woman, did not reciprocate, and refused offers of tea and elderflower wine, preferring to maintain her friendship with Peggy, although with her too she felt some holding back, an embarrassment never explained.

An owl hooted from the churchyard, and the lamp by the gate snapped on with a welcome yellow light. Nigel must have put it on, thought Sophie, and, making up her mind to put all pettiness behind her and start afresh, she greeted Gabriella with enthusiasm as they met at the church door. Gabriella's cheeks were pink from her bike ride, and her blonde hair, twisted
into a knot over a soft black woolly scarf wound warmly round her neck, shone in the lamplight.

'Let me open the door,' said Sophie, 'you've got such a lot to carry.'

To everyone's surprise, and to Nigel's delight, the music was coming along very nicely. Once the choir had mastered four-part singing, and learned that there are pleasant alternatives to belting it out at full pitch, the seasonal pieces chosen by Gabriella and Nigel were sounding tuneful and, on occasion, quite professional.

'Right, everyone,' said Gabriella, clapping her hands for silence. 'Let's begin with "Adam Lay Y-Bounden", and then we'll go through as we shall sing it on the night. Colin has kindly agreed to time us with his stopwatch, and we'll include the readings just as they will slot into the programme.' They were halfway through 'Adam' when Susan Standing slid into the front pew and sat quietly, waiting for her turn to read. She had settled on the Christmas pudding passage from Dickens's A Christmas Carol, and had rehearsed it many times in front of a patient Richard. He could almost recite the whole thing by heart. She found the account so moving that by the time she came to Tiny Tim's 'God bless us every one!' she had difficulty keeping back her own tears.

She looked up at the choir, singing earnestly, and watching Gabriella intently with the fearful concentration of amateurs. The medieval carol was a difficult one, and when the tenors wandered off key Gabriella frowned at them and they looked at each other, each one sure that it was his neighbour and not himself who had transgressed.

It's all a great credit to Nigel Brooks, Susan Standing thought, knowing that he had with diff
iculty smoothed down Ivy's ruffled feathers when she was relegated to an end-of-the row position in the altos. He had also comforted old Fred Mills after Gabriella had turned down his offer of 'The Fireman's Wedding' monologue, done many times to great acclaim in the past. Perhaps for Harvest Supper next year, Nigel had said.

We are very lucky that he has turned out so well, thought Susan, getting up and stepping to the front of the choir to say her piece.

Ivy Beasley would have agreed wholeheartedly, but she was deeply worried. Something seemed to have gone very wrong that night in the Village Hall. After the drama over the fire and they wouldn't listen to me about those candles, she thought there hadn't been a suitable moment for her to make her thank-you speech to the vicar. And everyone had turned away from her as they left the hall, a more subdued crowd than usual after the annual feast.

Robert had not visited her for two weeks now, sending a message via his mother that he was too busy on the farm at the moment. Too busy with that Mandy of his, more likely, she thought.

She had tried to be nice to poor Sophie Brooks, who could not have failed to get the drift of Robert's timely warning. But Sophie had shrugged off Ivy's advances, which consequently reverted from spurious sympathy to the usual acid reproach.

'We will rock you, rock you, rock you,' she grated in as quiet a voice as she could manage. Gabriella had her finger to her lips, shushing the exuberant and unrepentant Colin Osman, who as usual was singing at double forte.

The programme was fifteen minutes over its intended time, and Nigel and Gabriella went into a huddle, discussing which of the pieces could be tightened up, whether they could persuade Susan Standing to cut down on the dramatic pauses. Sophie turned her head away, desperately trying to think of something to say to Peggy, anything to take her mind off the awful gnawing suspicion that seemed to be with her night and day, and to grow with every small remark, however, inoffensive.

'Thought of everything, haven't they,' Ivy Beasley had said to her the previous day, when several women had been in the shop discussing the coming concert, 'your husband and Gabriella Jones. They should be very proud of what they have got together, the pair of them.'. …the pair of them, thought Sophie. Now what did she mean by that?

'That will do for tonight, thank you everyone,' said

Gabriella, smiling at the anxious faces in front of her. 'You did very well, and if we can cut just five or ten minutes- speed up our introductions and so on - we shall be spot on.'

'Dress rehearsal, don't forget,' said Nigel, 'everyone in church by seven o'clock sharp. That includes the readers,' he added. 'We want everything exactly as it will be on performance.'

Groups of people stood about, gossiping and laughing, and Peggy came up to Sophie as she tidied up the chairs.

'Everything all right?' Peggy said, looking closely at Sophie Brooks's downcast face.

'Of course,' said Sophie, forcing a smile, 'I'm just a bit tired, that's all. It's a busy time for us, you know, with the three parishes and all the various Christmas activities.'

Peggy nodded. 'Come back and have coffee with me,' she said. 'It's not too late, and I'd be glad of the company.'

Sophie looked round the church, empty now, except for Nigel and Gabriella, still deep in conversation by the old piano.

'Do you mind if I go in for a coffee with Peggy?' she called across the pews, and Nigel looked round absently, almost as if he'd forgotten who she was.

'Fine,' he said, 'fine ... see you later ...' And he turned back to where Gabriella had got out notebook and pen, and was jotting down notes for the dress rehearsal.

'No, Peggy, there's nothing wrong, really,' protested Sophie, sitting in Peggy's kitchen sipping coffee, with her cold hands round the mug for warmth.

'It's not this ridiculous Gabriella Jones business, is it?' said Peggy bluntly. She had heard so much gossip and innuendo in the shop that she had become worried and stamped hard on any conversation which looked to be going that way.

Sophie shook her head, but her eyes filled with tears. 'No, of course not,' she said, 'that was just a bit of Robert's nonsense. He rang Nigel the next day and apologised, said he meant to say "Miss Jones", because of Octavia's reputation, but it came out "Mrs" by mistake.'

'Do you believe him?' said Peggy.

'No, I think he meant what he said, and I think it was partly revenge on Greg Jones for that wicked accusation Octavia made about being molested.'

'I wouldn't have thought Robert was that petty,' said Peggy, opening a tin of shortbread biscuits and offering them to Sophie.

'No thanks, Peggy, I'm not very hungry these days,' she said. 'But if it wasn't revenge, then Robert really meant to make trouble. And he seems to have succeeded,' added Sophie quietly.

'Cheer up, Sophie!' said Peggy. 'I thought you were so happy in Ringford? It will soon be Christmas, and all the lovely things to come ...' Peggy's voice tailed away, as memories of last year's Christmas overcame her. They sat  without speaking for a few minutes, and then Sophie saw Peggy take out a handkerchief and wipe her cheeks, sniffing and getting up to refill the Rayburn.

'Peggy?' said Sophie.

'Yes?' said Peggy, shovelling fuel noisily.

'You're crying,' said Sophie.

'Not really,' said Peggy, sitting down again at the table and taking a deep breath.

'Oh, Peggy,' said Sophie, mortified, 'here am I going on about something totally unimportant, and forgetting completely that it will soon be the anniversary of Frank's death. Please forgive me, my dear.'

Sophie looked anxiously at Peggy, and she put out a hand across the table.

Peggy began to sniff again, and then the tears rolled faster down her cheeks.

'Oh sod it,' she said, her voice muffled by her handkerchief. Sophie frowned, and then she too began to cry. Gilbert looked in alarm from her basket by the Rayburn, her ears pricked and her eyes wild. She stood up and meowed loudly, jumping on to Peggy's lap and pummelling her skirt frantically.

'Oh Gilbert,' said Peggy, beginning to laugh, 'this won't do, will it?'

Sophie pulled herself together, and although she agreed and began to smile at the ridiculousness of it all, she returned home through the darkness slowly, her mind still revolving all the small scenes and conversations of the concert rehearsal. And she could not rid herself of that final dismissive phrase of Nigel's: 'Fine, see you later ...'

How much later? Would he be home now, or would the house be dark and empty? And what would she do if it was?

Dear God, she prayed to the distant sky, please make it go away, please ...

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

'Thank God it's not snowing,' said Peggy, as she got reluctantly out of bed and gave Frank's photograph the ritual good-morning kiss.

Exactly a year ago, it had been snowing heavily, the village transformed and coldly beautiful. But it had been the ice and snow that caused Frank's accident, and Peggy dreaded the reminder, watching the sky for the tell-tale yellow luminosity that heralds a snowstorm.

She had a quick bath and dressed warmly for a routine day in the shop. Her Christmas corner was going well, and she would have to ask Bill if he would fetch more supplies from the wholesaler. By the time she had served in the shop all day, her feet were either frozen solid or achingly hot, and she accepted with relief his offers of help. She made a list of things she needed, but there were always one or two extras tentatively included by Bill.

'Should go well, gel,' he would say, and then watch the shelves anxiously to make sure he hadn't lumbered her with slow movers.

She pulled back the curtains in the kitchen, and unlocked the back door, opening it and calling, 'Gilbert! Gilbertiney!' She looked down at something bright and colourful.

On the back doorstep was a large bunch of chrysanthemums, bronze shaggy heads and dark green leaves, vibrating with life in the cold air.

Peggy looked at them for several seconds before picking them up. Then she buried her nose in the chilly, special scent, and took them back into the kitchen. She knew who had left them there, and why, but she looked nevertheless for a card.

She found it tucked into the leaves. 'Thinking of Frank, and of my love for you, Peggy. Bill.'

A good ten minutes passed before Peggy was able to get up from the kitchen chair and look for a vase. She arranged the flowers and took them through to the sitting room, putting them in the window where Bill would see them if he passed. The hours went slowly. It was one of those winter days which never get much beyond the cold grey light of dawn. The incessant humming of the cool cabinet in the shop, and a flickering neon tube which needed replacing, combined to get on Peggy's nerves, and she snapped, 'Please shut the door!' when William Roberts drifted in, leaving it open behind him. Peggy watched him making for the Christmas corner, where he stood in silent contemplation. How he's grown, she thought, looking at his long, thin legs in their rubbed jeans, and the back of his neck, spindly and somehow vulnerable, with the shock of short hair sticking up in angry spikes above. His anorak was a couple of sizes too small, and she wondered whether the Roberts children had to wait for outgrown clothes from the one above.

'How's Sandra and the baby?' she asked. 'All right,' said William.

'Are they coming for Christmas?' said Peggy, wondering why she was bothering with William, who clearly did not want to talk.

'Dunno.'

Peggy began to stack new packs of butter in the refrigerated display, and left William to it. After a minute or two, he came to the counter, carrying a pen and pencil set in a plastic bubble pack.

'D'you think our Andrew would like this?' he said. Andrew was the next one down, and Peggy confirmed that he would love it.

William handed over the money, and then fumbled in his anorak pocket, bringing out a tiny metal screwdriver, with an elaborate criss-cross machine-tooled pattern on the brass handle.

Peggy picked it up, and said, 'It's lovely, William, where did you get it?' She had an uncharitable thought about the Robertses' light-fingered reputation.

'Made it,' said William, 'at school, in metalwork. It's for you.'

Peggy stared at him. 'For me, William? But it's not my birthday, or anything ...'

'No, but ... you know,' said William, shifting from one foot to the other in embarrassment.

'Oh, William,' said Peggy, rescuing him, 'yes, of course, I do know. And it's very, very kind of you. Thank you.'

'Should be useful for doin' electric plugs, and that,' said William, sighing with relief, and making for the door. 'Bye, then, Mrs P.'

Peggy sat over a ham sandwich at lunchtime and wondered how to get through to the end of the day. Jean Jenkins had come in and given her a hug, and little Eddie had been bidden to give one of his warm, chocolatey kisses. Doreen Price had rung up, ostensibly about eggs for the shop, but really to make sure Peggy was all right.

The shop bell jangled, and Peggy got up wearily. It was Ivy Beasley, and her face was grim.

'Half of lard,' she said, banging the money down on to the counter.

Peggy fetched a packet from the fridge and put it in a white paper bag.

'Anything else?' she said.

'Yes,' said Ivy, 'yes, I've something to say, and you'll do well to listen, especially on this particular day.'

Peggy felt her heart begin to thud. She wouldn't, surely, not even Poison Ivy, not today.

'Just as well there's nobody else in the shop,' continued Ivy, 'because what I have to say is for your ears only. No doubt you will convey the meaning to Bill Turner yourself.'

Peggy gripped the edge of the counter, and waited.

'The pair of you,' said Ivy Beasley, her eyes glinting, 'should be ashamed of yourselves. The whole village knows what you're up to, but even worse, poor Joyce Turner knows and it's driving her mad.'

What shall I do? thought Peggy. I'm trapped here in the shop. Why doesn't somebody come in?

The hard voice droned on, piling recrimination on exhortations to examine her conscience, until Peggy thought she would never stop. And then the door opened, and Ellen Biggs came in.

'Mornin', my dear,' she said to Peggy, and then, seeing her white, horrified face, she turned to Ivy Beasley.

"Ere, Ivy, what you bin sayin'?' she said, "Ave you bin 'avin' a go at Mrs Palmer?'

Ivy Beasley was breathing hard, and began to push her way past Ellen to leave the shop.

'Oh no,' said Ellen, immovable as a rock, 'just you stay 'ere a minute, Ivy.'

The cold silence in the shop told Ellen all she needed to know, and she leaned her face close to Ivy's.

'I wouldn't be you, Ivy Dorothy Beasley,' she hissed, 'for all the tea in China. You will reap what you 'ave sowed, mark my words. You'd better go 'omeand pray as 'ard as you know how, because you're surely goin' to need some 'elp from the Almighty.'

Ivy backed away from her, pushing at her with grey-gloved hands, and then turned and ran out of the shop.

Ellen hobbled up to the counter, where Peggy stood without moving, her face bleak and withdrawn.

'It's no good my sayin' to take no notice, dear,' said Ellen, 'I can see that. But don't forget that 'er wickedness will be punished, nothin' surer than that.'

Peggy shook herself, and stared across at Ellen.

'And what about my wickedness, Ellen?' she said. She looked away, all colour and life drained from her face, looked out of the window and over the Green towards the church yard. 'It's a year ago today, Ellen,' she said. 'Frank died a year ago today.'