[Churchminster #3] Wild Things (9 page)

Camilla laughed. ‘No offence taken.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘Granny Clem can be a bit much, but her bark’s worse than her bite. She’s just super-protective about the village. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about anything tonight; she’s at her bridge evening.’

Dan gave a relieved smile. Just then there was a shout and the door behind the bar flew open. ‘Out you!’ One of the trilby-wearing men from earlier shuffled out shamefaced, while Jack followed, Stacey firmly gripped in one arm. Everyone turned to stare. ‘I just caught this pair in the cellar!’ he shouted furiously at Beryl.

Stacey wriggled under her dad’s arm. ‘We were only kissing, you saddo. For God’s sake, I’m not a teenager any more. I can do what I like!’

But Jack’s grip held fast. ‘Not on my watch you can’t.’

Depositing Stacey in the arms of her mother, he marched Trilby-Man through the pub. Everyone scattered out the way, as Jack ripped open the front door and threw the unfortunate man out. ‘Don’t come back until you can keep your grubby little paws off my daughter!’ He shut the door and turned round, a charming landlord once more. ‘Sorry about that, folks! You just all carry on having a good time.’

The room started to fill up with chatter again. In the melee, Rafe Wolfe had disappeared, much to the evident disappointment of his hangers-on. All eyes
were
now on a drunken Lucinda Reinard, who was chasing the jester round with his own lute, and trying to spank his bottom with it.

‘Are you OK?’ Camilla asked Dan kindly. The locations manager had gone rather white, as if he wasn’t quite sure what the film company had taken on. Muttering his excuses, he fled outside for a cigarette.

Two hours later, and the local ale and free-flowing champagne were beginning to have an effect. Jack had gone ballistic when he’d found yet another crew member chatting up Stacey in the corridor with one hand on her bottom, promising to make her a star. ‘He’s got bleedin’ “security” written on the back of his jacket, what’s he going to do, make you head doorwoman?’ he hissed, bundling Stacey into the kitchen and relegating her to washing-up duty for the rest of the night. The door slammed and Stacey defiantly stuck two fingers up after her dad. As she wobbled round, she suddenly noticed Marco, the new junior chef, standing at the oven.

‘
Bon soir, mademoiselle
,’ he murmured.

Stacey swayed and looked at the young Frenchman. She hadn’t realized before quite how
fit
he was. ‘You and me are gonna get pished, hot stuff,’ she told him, and went to dig out the cooking sherry.

In the bar, things had degenerated into chaos. The whole room was filled with inebriated people talking too loudly and repeating themselves. Outside the ladies’ loo one of the make-up artists was snogging Brenda Briggs’s uncouth nephew from Bedlington,
who’d
announced to anyone who’d listen he’d come to get ‘some film fanny’. Jack had tried to pull them apart, but they were stuck together like a pair of encrusted limpets, so he’d given up and gone back behind the bar. In another corner, Lucinda Reinard was now sitting behind the drums trying to play ‘Paradise City’ by Guns N’ Roses, while the entire band had retired to the bar to do shots of flaming sambucas.

At 1 a.m., Calypso decided she’d had enough. She had to get up early to see a client. Leaving a drunken Camilla telling tales of her travels to the enraptured Fox-Titts, she wove her way out through the swinging melee.

Chapter 12

‘
ERROL FLYNN! GET
back here now!’ Camilla vainly tugged on the lead, but the black Labrador was on the trail of something irresistible. Nose pressed to the grass, he dragged Camilla behind him over the green, before coming to an abrupt stop at the gate to St Bartholomew’s. Camilla almost went flying over it after him; when she’d mentioned to her grandmother that she planned a nice relaxing day off, this wasn’t what she’d envisaged doing. Clementine was at the opening of a nearby garden centre and had asked Camilla to take Errol Flynn out for his morning walk. He’d been banned from attending public events because of ‘unruly behaviour’ and after ten minutes in his company, Camilla could see why.

As the dog snuffled around, Camilla stared up at the church. So much of her family’s history and life were to be found between its four walls. Her great-grandparents, grandparents, and her own parents, Johnnie and Tink, had been married here. Clementine had buried Bertie
here
, his gravestone standing stoically under the yew tree in the corner. Camilla and both of her sisters had been christened here, and, ever since they were little, had attended Sunday service with their grandmother. The church was the heart of the village, and as well as honouring past generations, the future of new ones started here.

I wonder if we’ll have our children christened here?
This brief, hopeful thought gave way to a more melancholy feeling, as Camilla took in the crumbling brickwork and sagging roof, the moss-covered walls. The church was one of the most historic in the parish, and was the pride of Churchminster, but in recent years it had fallen into serious disrepair. It had been made even worse by the floods: the churchyard wall had suffered heavy subsidence and was leaning alarmingly to the left. With some effort Camilla pulled Errol Flynn away from it. Granny Clem would never forgive her if she let her beloved dog get buried under several tonnes of Cotswold stone.

‘Hello, darling, is that naughty dog giving you trouble again?’ Camilla turned round to see Angie Fox-Titt walking across the green towards her.

‘I’m on dog-walking duty! Granny Clem’s gone to that new garden centre outside Stow-on-the-Wold. She wants to pick up some new ideas for the competition.’

‘Oh gosh, I’d forgotten about that. I’ve been run off my feet at the shop.’ Angie owned Angie’s Antiques, a quaint little shop on the other side of the village green.

‘Business good?’ asked Camilla. The shop was
another
property that had been flooded, along with the Fox-Titts’ house. It had been a big blow for them.

‘I thought it would take for ever to get back to normal again, but it’s picking up. Only a small amount of stock was destroyed, and nothing too valuable, thank God, but it does knock the wind out of one’s sails.’

Camilla smiled sympathetically. ‘I was just looking at the church. Poor old thing looks a shadow of its former self.’

Angie followed Camilla’s gaze. ‘It breaks one’s heart, it really does. You know, your grandmother is convinced we’re going to win this competition and restore St Bartholomew’s to its former glory.’

They exchanged looks.

‘Granny Clem is normally right on most things,’ said Camilla, a bit too cheerily.

Angie nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’m sure you’re right, darling.’ Her eyes travelled up again to the church. ‘I just wish we could do something
now
. I can’t bear to watch beloved old St Barts fall down by the day.’

Camilla looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve got it! Why don’t we put on some sort of event in the village hall? We can sell tickets and have a raffle, get people donating.’

‘Camilla, what a fantastic idea!’ cried Angie. ‘The next Garden Party is only two days away, let’s put it to everyone.’

For once, Clementine was in agreement with her fellow committee members. As well as kick-starting their fundraising again, it would give them a very big
tick
in the ‘best community spirit’ box for Britain’s Best Village.

‘The thing now is to decide what we actually want to do,’ she told everyone.

Joyce Bellows’s hand shot up. ‘How about a sponsored knit-athon?’

Calypso pulled a face. ‘I can’t knit!’

‘You won’t catch me with a pair of needles,’ grumbled Freddie.

Joyce sank back in her seat, looking disappointed.

‘Thank you, Joyce,’ said Clementine. ‘I just think it’s a little too
specialized
. We need something the whole village can take part in.’

‘What about a poker night?’ someone suggested. Clementine quickly shot them down with a look.

‘Hang on, I’ve got an idea!’ bellowed Lucinda Reinard. ‘Why don’t we put on some kind of talent evening? They just did one at Hero’s school and it was jolly good.’

‘Ooh, like
Britain’s Got Talent
!’ Angie piped up. ‘That’s my favourite show.’

Calypso was quick to agree. ‘We can call it
Churchminster’s Got Talent
! Granny Clem can be Simon Cowell.’

Everyone hooted with laughter, except Clementine, who looked rather perplexed. ‘Simon Callow? Wasn’t he that chap from
Four Weddings and a Funeral
?’

‘Simon
Cowell
,’ Calypso explained patiently. ‘He’s the head judge and he is like, totally nasty and everyone loves it! You’ll make a great Simon, Granny Clem, don’t worry.’

‘I’d rather be me, darling, if that’s all right,’ Clementine told her. ‘But I do like the sound of a talent show.’

‘So that’s that, then,’ grinned Angie. ‘We’re going to put on our very own
Churchminster’s Got Talent
!’

It was decided that Calypso and Freddie would be judges alongside Clementine, and the event would take place in four weeks’ time at the village hall. Tickets went on sale for £10, and, to the Garden Party’s delight, they’d all sold out within three days.

‘This is going to be a night to remember!’ Angie declared. She had no idea just how true her words would become.

Chapter 13

FOR THE NEXT
week, it seemed that every villager was busy planning their turn for
Churchminster’s Got Talent
. Even Stacey Turner decided to take part, and went off on mysterious trips in Beryl’s car. For most residents, their act was a closely guarded secret, although everyone developed a pretty good idea what Jack Turner might be doing when an escapee white rabbit ran through the bar one lunchtime.

The excitement about the talent show was quickly brought to a premature halt. The skies over Churchminster turned heavy and thunderous, and, when the heavens finally opened, the rain wouldn’t stop. Fat globules splattered windows, the green disappeared under sheets of water, and huge pools collected in the potholed roads. First one day passed and then a second, as the village lay drenched and despondent under the onslaught.

Everyone started to worry. At the Maltings, Freddie got the sandbags out. His wife stayed up all the second
night
drinking copious cups of coffee and watching the water inch up the driveway. At the Jolly Boot, which had shut during the previous floods, resulting in a huge loss of takings, Jack moved what furniture he could upstairs and sat down at the bar to wait and see if the place would come under siege again. As the rain dripped through the roof at St Bartholomew’s, the Reverend darted around haplessly moving different buckets. It was like everyone’s worst nightmare happening again, and they were powerless to stop it.

On the third day the village woke to yet another deluge. It was Brenda’s day to clean Fairoaks, but when she didn’t turn up Clementine was concerned: Brenda might be the worst housekeeper in the history of the Cotswolds, but she was always reliable. Getting in her old Range Rover, Clementine set off for the newly renamed Hollyoaks Cottage to see if things were all right. As she travelled along the Bedlington Road, she saw the fields in the distance had turned into mini lakes. Beyond them was the reservoir which had burst last time, and caused most of the problems. Clementine’s lips tightened as she slowed down to avoid another flooded pothole. Things weren’t looking good.

At Hollyoaks Cottage she was alarmed to see water was only inches from the front door. The gaudy new house name looked out of place in such a dismal setting. Clementine stepped over the sandbags blocking the driveway and went round the back. Seeing Brenda through the kitchen window, she knocked on the door.

A few moments later it opened. Brenda’s red-rimmed eyes stared uncomprehendingly at Clementine, then her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh Mrs S-F! What must you think of me? With all this going on, I totally forgot!’

‘My dear, it doesn’t matter,’ Clementine said, gently guiding her over to the kitchen table. ‘I really came to see how you were, and if I could do anything.’

Brenda sank down and put her face in her hands. ‘We’ve been up all night moving sandbags,’ she said in-between sobs. ‘Ted’s had to go to work now, and I’m sat here just watching it get closer and closer … I’ve only just had the new carpets put down. We’ve called the fire brigade, and they’re up to their eyeballs already. I can’t go through it again, I can’t!’

Clementine patted Brenda’s back. ‘There, there.’ Clementine couldn’t say it was going to be all right because she just didn’t know if it would be. It was a horrible feeling.

Clementine sat with Brenda until Ted came home. She tried to make conversation with the normally chatty Brenda, but the frequent silences were dominated by the
patter patter
of rain against the kitchen window. It was relentless and unforgiving.

That night few people slept easily in Churchminster, fearful of what the coming hours and day would bring. From Fairoaks to the Maltings, from the rectory to Hollyoaks Cottage, the silent prayers were all the same.

Please, if there is a God, don’t let it happen again
.