Intrigue in the Village (Turnham Malpas 10) (14 page)

‘Career, my foot. You’re being paid to do
this
, don’t forget. In any case, you might be grateful for this job, you never know.’

‘Don’t think I’m going to spend the rest of my life as a dinner lady! Here, you carry on.’ Linda stripped off her
rubber gloves and bounced out of the school kitchen with the light of battle in her eyes.

Like Maggie had said, Tom was in the ‘cage’ serving a customer, and Jimbo was nowhere to be seen. ‘He’ll be back about three,’ Tom said to Linda. ‘He’s seeing a client about a wedding reception. Harriet’s just gone home. Mrs Jones might be able to help.’

Linda lit up inside. Of course, she’d be the best one to tell her what was going on. But the mail order office was as busy as ever, and Greta Jones didn’t appear all that glad to see her. ‘Trying to get this lot done to catch the three o’clock post. You did yourself a good turn losing your temper like that, I don’t think. He won’t have you back if that’s what you’re hoping. The waters have closed over your head and no mistake. Get up, I want those labels you’re sitting on.’

Tears welled in Linda’s eyes. ‘I’d rather thought—’

‘Well, don’t, because he taught Tom about the Post Office on Sunday and he’s taken to it like a duck to water. If you want my advice you’ll find another job quick.’

‘Honest?’

Mrs Jones nodded.

‘I wish I could get some direction about what to do. Alan is just ranting and raving, and that won’t get me a job.’

‘How about getting into catering? Pat Jones might need a waitress or too. She has a list of temps, just in case.’

‘Waitressing?’

‘The tips can be good.’

‘I feel really miserable about this.’

‘There’s only one answer; curb your tongue. You let it run away with you from what I heard. Want cheering up?’

Linda nodded.

‘Come with me to Maggie Dobbs’s house tonight. I’ll give you a knock on my way.’

‘What can she do?’

Mrs Jones winked. ‘She does a regular seance and tonight’s the night. It’s a good bit of fun.’

‘Really? She’s never said.’

‘Well, she wouldn’t, would she?’

‘Will she mind?’

‘Not so long as you’ve got five pounds.’

‘I’ll go straight back to the school and ask her. It’s Alan’s night off and he’s that bad-tempered I’ll be glad to be out.’

That night Maggie was well prepared. With the table polished to within an inch of its life – extreme cleanliness was a critical factor in getting the spirits to come – the fire crackling in the grate and the red scarf over the lamp, Maggie awaited her visitors. Tabitha had been put out and the cat flap locked, so there was nothing to interrupt the flow.

Maggie looked at the five pairs of hands resting on the table, little fingers touching to complete the link. Linda’s were trembling in anticipation, Venetia’s, with their vivid, purple nails, were steady as a rock, and Greta Jones’s were relaxed. Her own, workaday hands, square and accustomed to toil, were slightly tense. The weekender’s fingers were lifeless and they might as well be carrots for what good they were in helping the spirits. The fact that they were all dressed in black added a certain frisson to the atmosphere; had it been any darker they would have looked like five heads suspended around the table, like guests at some macabre feast.

When Maggie’s head began rolling, Linda said, ‘Ooh! Is she all right?’

‘Shh!’ said Greta Jones.

When Maggie started moaning Linda muttered, ‘Ooh!’ again and the shudder she gave was transmitted to them all through their hands. Greta thought the table shook slightly. But it couldn’t have, it was a solid oak table; then again, it did have a lot of memories in it, not like something from Ikea. It was when the groaning and thrashing started that Linda really began to take fright. ‘Ooh! Er.’

‘Who’s there? Who’s there?’

Linda glanced round the room, could see no one and was grateful. But not for long. A strange, ethereal voice called out through the gloom, ‘I’m here! I’m here!’

Maggie said, ‘Evadne? Is that you?’

Greta Jones muttered, ‘Oh God. Not Evadne.’

‘It’s me.’

‘Welcome, Evadne. Do you have a message for one of us?’

‘Yes. I need to contact Lynn.’

‘We’ve got a Linda here.’

‘Linda! Yes, Linda!’

Greta Jones said through gritted teeth, ‘Answer her.’

Linda cleared her throat. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘You’re going through a difficult time. You need advice.’

‘I do. I do,’ whispered Linda.

‘Alan is your strength and stay. Lean on him. Lean on him.’

‘Oh! She’s so right. He is. I will. I will.’

There was a long silence after this, during which
Maggie appeared to be tussling with some unseen figure. The flames, now casting huge shadows around the walls, looked more than ever before like weird figures dancing around them. The circle of five women drew closer, as if for comfort.

As though emanating from the fire, the voice said, ‘I have a message for V-v-v— I can’t get the name. Vera, no, not Vera.’

‘Is it Venetia?’ asked Maggie in a curiously guttural voice.

‘No. Yes! Venetia! That’s it. Yes, Venetia. Take care. Someone close to you is going to be in need of loving care. Someone very close. On the brink. Yes, on the brink. He’s coming very, very close to me.’ There came a ghastly scream, hands flew to mouths, and the circle was broken. Maggie went rigid. Venetia broke down in tears. ‘It’s Jeremy. It must be. Another heart attack.’

Maggie snapped her fingers twice and became normal again. ‘I need a drink.’ She went to the sideboard cupboard and got out the brandy. She’d only intended getting out a glass for herself, but looking slyly over her shoulder at the others, she decided they all needed one.

In varying degrees of shock, they sat round the table sipping their brandy.

The weekender was the least affected by the spirit of Evadne. ‘Well, I come week after week and no one, but no one ever has a message for me. I shan’t come any more. That’s it. I was hoping for a message from my sister, who has been dead five years, as we were very close. No, that’s it for me.’ But the brandy warmed her inside and gradually she began to feel that it might be worthwhile for her to turn up next week.

Venetia stood up. ‘I’ve got to go, see to Jeremy.’ She switched on the main light. ‘If it’s true, then this Evadne person . . . spirit . . . thingy, must be real. When she said he was coming very close to her, did that mean . . . he’s almost a spirit himself? I’d better go quickly . . .’ And she left in a great flurry, muttering to herself.

‘All right, Linda?’ Maggie asked.

‘Oh! Yes. Can I thank Evadne for her advice?’

‘Next week, eh?’

Linda nodded and got to her feet, ready to leave.

Greta Jones said, ‘I’ll go with you.’

As they passed the Store, they saw the lights were on and Jimbo was dressing the window yet again. Linda wished deep in her heart that things were still OK between them. Still, she’d been told to lean on Alan and ask for his advice and she would.

Having arranged for Linda and Maggie Dobbs to be temporary standins for a second time, Kate was delighted to find that all three of the dinner ladies were back in harness again. However, they weren’t speaking to each other, and worst of all, Ginger Nob and the one Maggie called Mealy Mouth had only too obviously been
punched
, one in the eye and the other on the mouth. Kate was too polite to comment on the matter but she did say, ‘If you’re not speaking to each other I hope it doesn’t mean you’re not speaking to the children either. Whatever your problem,’ she purposely eyed the two with the black and blue faces, ‘they don’t deserve ostracizing. I shall take particular note of your behaviour at lunchtime. Any problems and it’s out.’

Kate turned on her heel and returned to her class. She’d
changed these last few weeks. At one time she would have had them in her office counselling and reassuring them, but her recent altercation with Craddock had hardened her and, like him, she wasn’t prepared to stand any nonsense.

While her class did their quiet reading before school dinner, a time when she would have been marking their maths, she thought about the look on his face when she’d told him what Caroline had done.

He’d had his back to her when she’d told him and had spun round on his heel to face her. ‘Done what?’

‘Reported the condition of the house to Social Services. But they are understaffed at the moment and—’

‘After all I’ve done for the church, all that money?’ He began counting off on his fingers how many times he’d helped them out. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘I might remind you that Peter has never asked you for money for the church, it’s always been you who’s offered it.’

‘That may be, but he’s accepted it without a murmur, hasn’t he?’

‘Did you expect a repayment of some kind?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Good. For one minute I thought you were trying to buy your place in heaven.’

Craddock clenched his fists. ‘That was unworthy of you.’

‘Sorry, but you can’t buy people’s loyalty. Money isn’t everything.’

Craddock paused before he answered, then said, ‘Isn’t it?’

‘You pay for the cricket pavilion but can you let it go at
that? Oh no. It has to have “The Craddock Fitch Pavilion” emblazoned across the front. I wonder you didn’t have your name engraved on each of the church bells you provided, then you really would have gone down in history, or even on the new church boiler on a special plate screwed to the front of it.’

‘Kate!’

‘It’s no good looking so indignant. What is it in the Bible? “Let not your left hand know what your right hand doeth.” Something like that. Well, just think about it. However, this doesn’t settle the question of Caroline and the Social Services.’

‘I shall do nothing. They can shout and carry on as much as they like. After what you’ve said, I shall do nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll leave it all to someone else. All those overpaid, underworked do-gooders can have a birthday, at least I shall have found them something to do. But I bet I know who they’ll send the bills to;
Me
.’ Piqued beyond anything he’d ever known, Craddock sat down in his favourite chair, a glass of whisky in his hand and seethed inside as he picked up what Kate called his weekly Bible, namely
The Economist
, and thought to himself, at least I shall get some sense out of this.

Kate, fuming at his lack of understanding, and frustrated by not knowing how to bring him round to her way of thinking, stormed off to soak in one of her lavender oil baths to relax and think of a solution.

But Craddock kept seeing Kate’s face on the page as he read, and finally he put
The Economist
down and thought about her. He’d heard the taps running and guessed she would be taking one of her scented baths.

He knew he was lucky to have found love at his age.
Especially love with a young woman who teased every one of his senses, and whom he loved passionately. And here he was, upsetting her when all she wanted was for a family of her children to be housed comfortably, for some paltry sum, a matter of a few thousand pounds he wouldn’t notice had been spent and wasn’t essential to his or his company’s existence. He would do exactly as the Bible said, and sort it out quietly, without a word to anyone, least of all Kate. He’d call on Mrs Bliss while the children were at school and make her promise not to say a word.

He sensed she was coming, for the smell of the lavender oil was in his nostrils and he glanced up and saw her standing in the doorway looking at him, solemn and obviously uneasy, and his heart lurched. He mustn’t do anything to harm their relationship, he couldn’t lose her. Not his Kate. He held out a hand to her, inviting her to come to him and she did, kneeling in front of him, putting her arms around his waist and laying her head on his chest. He stroked her hair in greeting. They stayed there while the fire began to burn low, making amends to each other in silence.

When Craddock went to visit Mrs Bliss the following morning, his nostrils were assailed by the smell of a faulty sewage tank. His heart sank and memories of his childhood flooded suddenly into his mind.

He knocked at the door and eventually it was opened by Mrs Bliss. Over her shoulder he caught sight of the grimy, undecorated walls and the barely furnished room, and it affected him more than he could have believed. It was all there; his childhood home brought back in a flash. A home he thought he’d banished from his consciousness
the day he’d walked out at the age of sixteen because he couldn’t take life as it was any longer. Anything, anywhere, was bound to be better. Craddock Fitch managed a smile. Her depression registered with him immediately; it was his mother all over again. Defeated. Resigned. Filled to the brim with despair. The will to fight beaten down by lack of funds.

‘Mrs Bliss?’

She nodded.

‘I’ve come to see about repairing the roof.’

‘You have?’

‘Yes. Can I take a look, see what needs doing?’

‘Feel free.’ She closed the door and left him standing outside, feeling foolish. He went round the back and looked up at the roof. He saw where the tiles had slipped and were letting in the wet; some were lying in the overgrown garden. Craddock bent down and began collecting them together. He stacked them against the wall. The smell from the septic tank was even more noticeable round the back. God! How it brought back the memories. Well, he wasn’t prepared to allow children to suffer as he had done. He turned round and saw the state of the garden, now wildly overgrown after all these years. No one could be expected to tackle this without motorized equipment. He might even find the septic tank if it all got cleared.