A Tangled Web (21 page)

CHAPTER FORTY

Bill let himself into his back door, pushing aside the heavy curtain shrouding the panes of dusty glass. There was something different about the kitchen, and it did not take him long to see that Joyce had cleared up.

This was a very rare occurrence. It usually meant that she had done something bad, smashed something precious to Bill, and wanted to get one up on him before the inevitable scene. She was upstairs. He could hear her moving about the bedroom, and he called up the stairs, 'Joycey! I'm home.' He got no reply, but this did not surprise him. Better go and see what's missing, lying in pieces in the dustbin, he thought. But everything seemed to be in order, the sitting room tidy and the dusting done.

Bill went outside and poked about in the bags of food waste and old newspapers. Underneath a pile of magazines, brought to Joyce weekly by Ivy Beasley, he saw some torn-up scraps of paper. He pulled them out and saw pieces of an envelope with handwriting on it. There were more bits of card, and he saw printed words. He could read some of it: '...pleasure of ... at the marriage of their daughter ...'.He knew then what Joyce had done.

She came downstairs with her head down. She had dressed carelessly, and was carrying her old teddy bear, moth-eaten and no longer growling. She held him carefully, her hand supporting his back, in case he should fall.

'Joyce,' said Bill. 'Did we get any letters this morning?' She shook her head, and went into the sitting room. shutting the door behind her.

Bill shrugged, and went back into the kitchen. What's the use, he thought. She won't own up, and anyway, what if she does? Just one more row, getting nowhere. Best ignore it. But Joyce had other ideas. She appeared at the kitchen door, still holding her teddy bear, now with his face into her shoulder, while she patted his back gently.

'Not been asked to the wedding, then?' she said mockingly. Bill did not answer, but filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring.

'Still,' continued Joyce, 'it's not surprising, is it? Snubbed by the whole village, I shouldn't wonder. You and your fancy woman, canoodling in front of anybody who happens to look out of the window. Not that I care, but it's disgusting!' Her voice had risen to a shout, and Bill turned round to face her.

'Ivy been round, has she?' he said coldly. Joyce flushed, and avoided his eyes. 'Not content with stirring up real trouble with the vicar and the Joneses, she's on to us again, is she?'

He picked up a women's magazine from the kitchen table and waved it under Joyce's nose. She backed away.

'Been charity visiting, has she?' he said, louder now in mounting anger. 'I should have thought you could think for yourself for once. First your mother, and now old Ivy - always ready for a bit of juicy gossip, aren't you, Joyce?' He raised his arm, as if to strike her, but quickly turned away, letting it fall.

What can I say? he thought. Ivy's right. I'd be in there with Peggy every moment of the day and night if I could. Guilty as charged.

He took the boiling kettle off the stove, and poured the scalding water into the teapot.

'Go back in the room, Joyce,' he said flatly. 'I'll bring you a nice cup of tea.'

Looking disappointed, her colour retreating and leaving her face its customary greyish white, Joyce hugged her bear tightly and went to sit down.

Doris Ashbourne's sitting room was warm, the gas fire popping reassuringly and her bits of brass twinkling in the light.

'Nearly dark already, Doris,' said Ellen, 'and only half past three.'

She sat in Doris's most comfortable chair, close to the fire. Her usual bulk was increased by three layers of woollies, purple upon black upon scarlet. The effect was ecclesiastical, but watered down by the baggy brown tweed skirt and scuffed fur-lined boots, too big for their former owner and not much worn.

'Don't know if Ivy will make it today,' said Doris from the kitchen. 'I saw her yesterday, and she wouldn't say for definite. At least it's not raining now.'

"Ere she comes,' said Ellen, looking out of the big window with its commanding view of Macmillan Gardens. 'Goin' at her usual crackin' pace- she must be feelin' better.'

Doris brought in the tray of tea, and went back for a plate of yellow lemon-cake slices, crunchy on top where she had sprinkled granulated sugar and lemon juice on the hot sponge.

'Come on in, Ivy,' she said, 'I've just brewed up.'

Ivy Beasley took off her coat and hat and sat down. She leaned over and looked at the lemon cake.

'You didn't cut that when it was still hot, I hope, Doris,' she said, picking up a small knife and pressing with the flat blade on top of a piece of cake.

'Course not, Ivy,' said Doris, nettled. 'You're not the only one who knows how to bake.'

Tea was handed round, and the lemon cake began to disappear rapidly.

'Very nice indeed, Doris,' said Ellen. 'I'll 'ave the recipe off you later.'

Ivy laughed scornfully. 'You haven't baked a cake since you stopped cooking at the Hall,' she said. 'Probably forgotten how. Mind you, you should have more idea than that Mandy Butler. I had a slice of fruit cake she'd made at the Bates’s, and didn't know how to get it down.'

Doris and Ellen exchanged glances. 'All the fruit sunk to the bottom, Ivy?' said Doris.

'And dry as sawdust,' said Ivy, nodding. 'She hasn't the first idea.'

Doris tried to turn the conversation to the next WI meeting, but Ivy was not to be deflected.

'Beats me,' she said, 'why Robert couldn't marry a girl from his own village, or at least a farmer's daughter. What good is a slip of a hairdresser going to be to him on that farm?'

'She's very nice,' said Doris weakly.

‘"Nice" is not what's wanted,' said Ivy firmly. 'Olive Bates has been a good half of that farm for years. Won't be long before she and Ted want to step down and let Robert take it on. Can't see that Mandy up at the crack of dawn doing the chickens, can you?'

'I 'eard as Robert don't necessarily want to take on the farm when 'is father goes,' said Ellen, hoping to be one up on Ivy Beasley.

'Never said anything about it to me,' said Ivy, glaring at her, 'and Robert tells me most things.'

'Won't for much longer,' said Ellen slyly. 'That Mandy'll soon put a stop to them Monday afternoon visits of 'is. Your little boy's grown up, Ivy, and you'll 'ave to let go.'

'Don't talk nonsense, Ellen Biggs,' said Ivy. 'You don't get any better as you get older.'

They settled down with a last slice of lemon cake, and Doris used all her skill to get the talk round to the next speaker at the WI, a cheery lady from Fletching who demonstrated Indian cooking for English palates.

'You won't catch me making any of that curry muck,' said Ivy, and then leaned forward in her chair, staring out of the window.

'There he goes,' she said with satisfaction. 'Back to his tea, and the arms of his loving wife.'

The others watched Bill Turner get off his bike and push it through the garden gate.

'You can be very cruel, Ivy,' said Doris. 'It's not all black and white there, not by any means.'

'What does it take to learn you a lesson, Ivy?' said Ellen, with force, and she struggled to her feet. 'I'm glad to see you better,' she continued, 'but you should beware the good Lord don't strike you dumb one o' these days.'

Doris Ashbourne took a white invitation card from her mantelshelf, and looked at it with a smile.

'What shall we get Mandy and Robert for a wedding present, then?' she said, fed up with Ellen and Ivy and their constant bickering.

'I got mine already,' said Ivy, standing up and straightening her skirt. 'A nice new book from Smith's in Tresham, reduced in the sale I'm glad to say: Cookery for Beginners. What do you think of that, Doris?'

CHAPTER FORTY -ONE

Tom Price stood at the top of his farmyard, his brown overall stained with pig muck, his big hands stuffed into ragged pockets. He watched as Greg Jones approached, leather shoes sliding on the wet concrete of the yard.

At first light, when Tom had gone out to check on early lambs, the village had been a uniform grey, hills misty and blurred, a landscape without dimensions. Clinging fog had imperceptibly turned to rain, and this had become torrential, filling rutted tracks and bursting through a hole in the guttering above the back door of the farmhouse, spouting a clear stream of water on to the yard and Doreen's tubs of straggly wallflower plants.

The wind, a wilful litter-lout, had blown waste paper out of bins and round the village, and a mangy old farm cat, its tail erect and fur staring, like a bottle brush, chased a torn paper bag across the yard, pouncing and then losing interest, embarrassed at its own foolishness.

The pavement outside the farm had been fouled by a wandering dog, and Tom watched Greg Jones wiping his shoe on a tuft of grass by the stable door.

'Morning,' said Tom. 'What can I do for you, Greg?'

'I wondered if I might have word,' said Greg, 'if you're not too busy, that is.'

Greg had chosen this Saturday morning to make his first approach, whilst Gabbie was out shopping in Tresham. No point in worrying her. He might find nobody willing to support him in his complaint against Nigel Brooks.

Tom stumped off down the yard, Greg in tow, and, taking his boots off at the door, he beckoned Greg into the kitchen.

'Got some coffee on the go?' he said to Doreen, who was deep in a flower arrangement, bits of wire and languishing flowers strewn all over the table.

Doreen frowned at him, saw Greg, and went to fill the kettle. Tom led Greg into the sitting room and indicated a seat. After a few pleasantries about the weather and the farm, Greg seemed unable to come to the point of his visit, and Tom began to wonder what the little bugger wanted. Doreen brought in a tray of coffee and biscuits, and tactfully disappeared.

'Right, then,' said Tom, 'what was it you come about?' He looked at Greg trying to balance a cup and saucer on his bony knee, and wondered what that lovely girl Gabriella saw in him.

Greg put his cup down on the low table in front of him and cleared his throat.

'I expect you heard about the fracas at Christmas over the concert, Tom?'

'The what?' said Tom, speaking louder than usual, remembering Greg's deafness.

'Gabriella's difficulty with Sophie Brooks?'

Tom shook his head. 'Better begin at the beginning,' he said, 'but don't take too long. Time and tide and pigs wait for no man.' He smiled kindly at Greg.

Stumbling over his words at first, Greg gave Tom a well organised account of what had happened, and outlined his plan for a complaint.

Tom looked dumbfounded. He shifted his bulky figure uneasily in the big armchair. 'We never done that before,' he said, 'though I've heard of it in other parishes. You sure it were that Serious, Greg?'

Grey sat up straight. 'It was sufficiently serious to bring Gabriella and myself near to the first major dispute in our marriage,' he said stiffly. 'Anyway, I can't take it further unless I get five other people in the parish to join me in making the complaint.'

Tom knew from long experience on the Parish Council that it didn't do to make a decision on anything straight away. Bide your time, boy- that had been his father's most useful piece of advice.

'Well now, Greg,' he said, 'this'll take a lot of thinking about. You'd best give me a few days to consider what's the right thing to do. Villages are difficult, you know,' he added. 'It isn't just what you do today that matters. You have to look to how things'll be next week, next year. We've all got to get along together somehow, you know.'

Greg stood up. He thought he knew what Tom's considered answer would be, and wanted to be gone. He was not at all sure now that the plan was viable, seen in the light of Tom's reaction. Still, he would canvas one or two others. He needed to do some more thinking.

On his way back to Barnstones, he met Colin Osman, walking along with a new puppy. It was a very small brindled Cairn pup, and bounced all over the pavement, not yet sure what was required of it. It looked so incongruous at the end of its narrow lead, in turn attached to the tall figure of Colin Osman, that Greg laughed.

'What have you got there, Colin?' he said.

Colin Osman looked embarrassed, and laughed loudly. 'It's not mine, of course,' he said. 'It's Pat's new toy.' He pulled at the lead and said, 'Sit, Tiggy! Sit!' The little dog looked at him in surprise.

'Tiggy?' said Greg.

'Short for Mrs Tiggywinkle,' said Colin, looking even more embarrassed. 'It's a she.'

They stood for a few minutes, discussing the junior football team, and then Colin asked Greg if he had anything he'd like to contribute to the Newsletter, now coming along nicely, but in need of a few more general items.

'I'll give it some thought,' Greg said. 'What's the deadline?'

'Next Friday,' said Colin, and tried to ignore the little dog, now crouching in the gutter with a pained expression on its whiskery face.

'You should praise it,' said Greg. 'It's like training a child, so they tell me.'

'Yes, well, I think it's time we were getting on,' Colin said, tugging at the lead. 'Come on, Tiggy...Cheers, Greg, speak to you soon.'

Greg went on his way, aware that he had not sounded out Colin Osman, but with the germ of a new idea stirring in his mind.

By Monday, Greg had talked to Don Cutt, the Rosses, and the new chap, Bright, who lived opposite the school. He'd had varying responses, but in general there was an unwillingness to take a step as serious as a formal complaint to the Bishop. Don Cutt had advocated a good going over on Ladies' Path on a suitably dark night. 'Get him where it hurts,' he guffawed, 'that'll cool him down!'

Greg was horrified, and retreated from the pub without buying a drink, thereby forfeiting any support he might have got from the landlord.

Roger Bright, a straightforward man with a pleasant wife and easy-going children, was sympathetic but detached. 'Not a churchgoing man myself,' he said, 'but it would have to be pretty serious to do what you suggest, I would say.'

Mr and Mrs Ross both looked terrified at the suggestion that they should join him in a course of action which would mean drawing attention to themselves in the village. 'We agree that Reverend Brooks is not half the man Cyril Collins was, but he must be given time to settle.' Mr Ross spoke for them both, and his wife nodded meekly from behind the teapot.

Greg was forced to admit that his idea for a complaint had foundered, but on Monday evening he came home from school in a cheerful mood. The day had gone well, and he'd been congratulated by the headmaster on his new plan for fieldwork in the spring.

'There's a nice concert on the radio this evening,' said Gabriella after they'd had tea and stacked the dishes in the machine.

'Great,' said Greg. 'You switch on, and I'll join you later. I must just jot down a few words for Colin Osman- promised him something for the Newsletter.' The new idea had begun to take shape.

He took a pad of paper from his document case, settled down at the dining-room table, and began to write.