[Churchminster #3] Wild Things (3 page)

‘You bloody lunatic!’ he shouted. In the back, the little girl started crying.

‘He’s right, Ambrose! Why do you have to drive like a maniac?’ Frances felt as though her heart was about to jump out of her chest.

Her husband muttered something about tourists clogging the place up, and Frances tried to regain her composure. The lane was so narrow, neither vehicle could get past. One of them was going to have to move.

‘Ambrose, there’s a lay-by back there. Just reverse and let them past.’

Her husband sat back and folded his arms. ‘Why should I? I live here, not him. It’s my right of way.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ Frances cried. In the other car, the man had also crossed his arms and was
trying
to out-stare Ambrose. Frances and the woman exchanged fleeting sympathetic glances: why were men so childish? But before Frances could tell him to reverse again, Ambrose had unbuckled his seat belt and was climbing out from the car.

‘Ambrose!’ Surely he wasn’t going to confront the other driver! But instead he disappeared round the back of their vehicle, and Frances heard the boot being opened. A few seconds later, Ambrose marched past her car window carrying a shooting stick and a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
. Frances’s mouth dropped open: what on earth was he doing?

She didn’t have to wait long to find out. To the astonishment of the onlookers Ambrose sat down on his shooting stick in the middle of the road, opened his paper and started to read. In the other car the man looked at his wife and made a ‘he’s crazy’ hand gesture to his head.

‘Ha!’ Ambrose called triumphantly. ‘I’m retired and I’ve got all the time in the world to sit here all day. I very much doubt
you
have, sir!’

Frances slid down her window. ‘Ambrose, get back in the car this instant!’ she hissed.

Her husband turned a page, making a point of sighing contentedly. The other couple were looking extremely cheesed off.

‘I’m frightfully sorry!’ Frances mouthed through the windscreen at them. The man shook his head in disgust and begrudgingly started to reverse back down the lane. It was a full minute later that Ambrose looked up from his newspaper, folded up his shooting
stick
and finally returned to the Range Rover.

Frances’s throat was tight with mortification. Her husband’s behaviour was becoming increasingly questionable, but this was taking it to a new level. She watched him turn on the ignition. ‘Are you happy now?’ she asked crossly.

Ambrose just shot her a smug look and pulled away with the air of a man who had won an important battle. As the green fields started to fly past again, Frances gazed out of the window in silent despair.

Dear Lord
, she thought.
Is this what my life has come to?

Chapter 4

THE DAY BEFORE
the meeting in the village hall Clementine received a letter from the Britain’s Best Village judging panel. As well as the different categories, the letter also included the names of the other three villages that had made the final. Clementine groaned aloud when she read the name of the last one. Maplethorpe was an outstandingly pretty village in the Yorkshire Dales, and had won the competition the previous year. Its village committee was run by a fearsome old battleaxe called Veronica Stockard-Manning.

Veronica and Clementine had history, which Clementine had never even told her family about. The two had done the debutante season in 1950, and fallen out later in an event society had chattered about wildly for months. It had rocked Clementine’s world to the core and, although she would never admit it to anyone, she hadn’t been the same person since. Afterwards, the two women had run into each other occasionally, but somehow Clementine had kept her
emotions
in check and swiftly removed herself from the situation. Clementine hadn’t seen her nemesis for over twenty years, not since Bertie had died, and had almost succeeded in forgetting about her. Until now. Clementine pursed her lips, this was one face from the past that definitely wasn’t welcome.

By the time the meeting came round in the village hall, Clementine had managed to put all thoughts of Veronica to the back of her mind. It was another gorgeous spring evening as she made her way down Bramble Lane to the village green. Errol Flynn’s nether regions had been particularly active recently, and fearing he might expel noxious vapours into the hall and disrupt proceedings, Clementine had shut him in the kitchen. Indignant at being left inside on such a nice evening, she could hear his mournful howls all the way down the lane.

The village hall was only six months old, but Clementine had been insistent it was built in the mellow Cotswold stone that was such a feature of Churchminster. The villagers had raised the extra money for the stone themselves – one of the reasons the village fund was so out of pocket now – but as Clementine looked across the green at the handsome, yellow-gold building that fitted in so perfectly with the other cottages and dwellings lining the green, she knew they had made the right decision.

It was more municipal inside, with the usual emergency exit signs and strip lighting. Clementine had arrived early to set up, but Churchminster’s vicar, Brian Bellows, was already there, putting chairs out.

‘Evening, Mrs S-s-s-standington-Fulthrope!’

Brian Bellows was a tall, lanky man with an unruly brown beard that made him look older than his forty-five years. He’d come from All Saints Church in Bedlington, a small market town a few miles down the road. The Reverend hadn’t had the best start, having been drafted in to replace Churchminster’s previous vicar, who had died in unfortunate circumstances. Despite having an unfortunate stammer and giving the impression of being in a perpetual flap, Brian was a kind, conscientious man who was devoted to his parishioners.

‘Evening, Reverend Bellows,’ replied Clementine crisply. ‘I see you’ve started without me.’

Reverend Bellows winced as he dropped a chair on his foot. ‘Er, yes! Joyce and I thought we’d come down and, well, you know, g-get the ball rolling.’

As if on cue, a small, mouse-like woman came out of the kitchen area at the back of the hall. She was wiping her hands on a red and white spotty dishtowel, but that was the only bit of colour about her. From her shapeless cardigan and thick tights to her sallow complexion, everything about Joyce Bellows was beige. Clementine took in the thick NHS glasses and make-up-free face and wondered what Joyce made of the vicar’s wife at All Hallows in Bedlington, a stunning six-foot Dane who wore tight skirts and jeans that showed off every inch of her figure.

Joyce beamed at them. ‘I’ve just been rinsing all the cups and saucers so we can all have a nice cup of tea afterwards.’

Clementine smiled gently. ‘My dear, you really didn’t have to do that. You only gave the kitchen a complete scrub-down last week.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind!’ said Joyce. ‘Cleaning is one of my favourite hobbies! The amount of dust mites that can build up over just one week is quite staggering. You know they can lay up to a hundred eggs in one …’

Clementine was saved from the subject of microscopic household creatures by the arrival of Calypso, Camilla and Jed.

‘Hi, Granny Clem!’ called Calypso. ‘We thought we’d come down now to see if you need any help.’

Clementine caught Joyce’s horrified stare at Calypso’s outfit, which consisted of the shortest imaginable denim skirt, and a T-shirt with a drawing of what looked like a man and woman copulating on the front of it.

‘Actually, we could do with a strong man.’ Clementine looked at Jed, dressed as usual in his overalls and work boots. ‘Would you mind bringing in another stack of chairs from the foyer?’ she asked.

Jed smiled. ‘No problem …’

He walked off, the Reverend Bellows trailing uncertainly in his wake.

Clementine went over to her granddaughters. She looked disapprovingly at Calypso’s T-shirt. ‘Darling, do you think that’s entirely appropriate?’

‘Chill, Winston!’ Calypso retorted, in a Jamaican accent. ‘It’s about making love, not war. I’m sending out a positive message.’

Clementine looked at Camilla, who was in a simple
sweater
and jeans, her long blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Why couldn’t Calypso dress more like her sister?

‘How many people are you expecting?’ Calypso asked. She wondered if she could sneak out beforehand for a quick fag.

‘I hope most of the village will attend, I’ve certainly put enough posters up.’

Camilla smiled reassuringly at her grandmother, ‘Everyone I’ve spoken to is coming.’ She looked over at the kitchen. ‘I’ll go and see if Joyce needs any help.’

People began to trickle in a short time later and by seven o’clock the hall was nearly full. It looked like almost the entire village had turned up: among them the Fox-Titts, Lucinda and Nico Reinard, Brenda Briggs – who worked in the village shop and also masqueraded as Clementine’s housekeeper – and her husband Ted. Even Beryl Turner had put down her bar apron and come along, dragging along a reluctant-looking Stacey.

‘Jack’s sorry he can’t come, he’s got to open up!’ she shouted across the room at Clementine. ‘He says to pop over after this and it’s drinks on the house!’

‘Wicked,’ said Calypso, who was standing by her grandmother.

‘Yes, well, let’s see how we get on, darling,’ said Clementine. ‘We don’t want people rolling home drunk. I need everyone to be on tip-top form these coming few months.’

She looked down at her carefully prepared speech.
She
had read it so many times she knew it off by heart. As she stepped in front of her audience, a silence fell. Clementine was the kind of woman who commanded attention. She observed the familiar faces. ‘May I take this opportunity to welcome you all here tonight, and to thank you for giving up your evening. I am sure all of you are aware of the exciting news by now, but just in case any of you aren’t, Churchminster has got through to the final of Britain’s Best Village competition!’

The room broke into spontaneous applause.

‘Bravo!’ cheered Angie Fox-Titt.

Clementine briefly glanced down at her notes. ‘I don’t need to tell you this is a huge achievement in itself. Thousands of villages entered, and to get this far is remarkable. Especially after the challenging year we have just experienced.’

Several heads in the audience nodded vigorously, including the Fox-Titts and Brenda Briggs, who’d all been badly affected by the floods.

‘Judging week is the third week in July. Which means we have roughly five months to get the village into the best shape it has ever been in! With this in mind, I would like to form a committee to make sure all the criteria of the competition are met.’ Clementine looked over her reading glasses expectantly. ‘Who would like to join?’

Hands shot up. Camilla and Calypso had already been told, before the meeting, by their grandmother, that it was obligatory to volunteer.

‘We’ll do it!’ called out Freddie Fox-Titt. On the row behind, Ted and Brenda Briggs followed suit, and so
did
the Bellowses. After what looked like a momentary struggle, Beryl gave up trying to get Stacey’s arm in the air, sighed and put her own up. Stacey slumped down in her seat and returned to looking out the window.

A toothy woman, with coarse blond hair pulled back in a headscarf, stood up. ‘You can count on me, Clementine!’ Lucinda Reinard was the District Commissioner of the Bedlington Valley Pony Club, and lived in a rambling house on the outskirts of the village with her husband Nico and three children. She might be a bit overbearing, but at least she could be relied on to get things done.

‘Excellent,’ said Clementine briskly. ‘I propose to hold a fortnightly committee meeting here in the hall, and I will let members know what their duties are.’ She surveyed the crowd sternly. ‘Of course, that doesn’t mean the rest of you can slack off! Every villager is responsible for keeping his or her own property shipshape. I shall be counting on each and every one of you. A huge amount is at stake.’

‘Three-quarters of a million quid!’ someone shouted.

Clementine nodded. ‘I don’t need to tell you how much this village needs that money.’ Folding up her speech, she looked round keenly. ‘So! Do you think you’ve got what it takes to make Churchminster the best village in Britain?’

‘Yes!’ they all shouted.

Clementine’s face broke into a smile for the first time. ‘Good. Now, are there any questions?’

Fifteen minutes later the meeting was over, and everyone started to file out. Over the other side of
the
green in the gathering dusk the Jolly Boot waited enticingly.

‘I’m going to give it a miss,’ Jed told Camilla.

Her face dropped. ‘Really? But I’ve hardly seen you all week.’

Since returning from travelling, Jed had been promoted from handyman to estate manager at Clanfield Hall. Camilla had been thrilled for him, and still was, but he was working longer and longer hours. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a night out together.

Jed kissed her softly on the lips. ‘One of the fences in a back field is down, I’ve got to go and sort it out before morning.’

‘Camilla, come on! Beryl’s said all committee members can have a glass of bubbly!’ Calypso waved at her impatiently.

Camilla glanced over, and looked back at Jed. ‘OK, sweet boy. I’ll see you later.’

Jed started to walk over to his truck. He turned back with a wink that chased away Camilla’s gloom. ‘Keep the bed warm for me.’

Chapter 5

AT CLANFIELD HALL
, Frances was going through her correspondence. She was in her study, a beautiful, tastefully decorated room with high ceilings and two floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on to the rolling grounds of the estate. Frances got up from her desk and went to stand at one of them; the view always made her feel good. It was another fine March day, and the muddy browns of winter were gradually being replaced by the first spring flowers and crisp shades of green.

Frances thought about the Britain’s Best Village meeting, which had been held a few days previously, and which she’d wanted to attend. Ambrose had pooh-poohed the idea so much – ‘Clanfield isn’t even in the competition, why on earth do you want to go along?’ – that Frances had thought it better not to. Besides, she would have felt a bit awkward: no one expected to see Lady Fraser turning up to a meeting in the village hall and mucking in.