Regret to Inform You... (7 page)

Sebastian stood up and wandered towards the leaded window overlooking the paved courtyard. ‘Quite frankly, I can't,' he replied. ‘He really worries me. In spite of the allowance we give him, that never seems to be adequate for each term. We don't know much about how he's doing at Cambridge, but if things are like the school reports we used to receive, he'll be wasting much of his time. So it's a difficult age he's at, but he seems very arrogant and thoughtless. I don't even like the way he treats our staff, Peter in particular.'

‘Sadly, Seb, I worry about him, too. Maybe he will change when he's finished at Cambridge, but right now I don't hope for too much. However, let's give ourselves a little time to think about what we've been talking over. If we do, I'm sure the next year or so can bring worthwhile change.'

Her husband glanced at his fob watch on the dressing table. ‘It's nearly eight o'clock and we've already been up for two hours.'

Smiling, Isabella added, ‘We mustn't make a habit of being early risers, otherwise Peter and other staff will wonder what we are up to, and that won't do.' Sebastian, for all his reserve, stood up, walked over to his wife, laid his hands on her shoulders and gently kissed the top of her head.

E
IGHT

Afternoon, Wednesday, 3 April

Arthur was pleasantly surprised to find that by late afternoon he had finished preparations for the Good Friday and Easter services. He had also selected prayers and readings for communion and a meditative service the next evening, in preparation for Good Friday. That lunchtime he had visited the Jones family in Wood Lane and learnt that Susannah Jones had talked her way into seeing the brewery manager who had reluctantly promised to consider her appeal for some compensation. Arthur made a note to call again in a week's time to see if any reply had been received.

Eleanor was upstairs helping Eliza Carey prepare the two largest spare bedrooms for the visit by Arthur's parents. His father, fastidious at best, always spoke of being a poor sleeper and Eleanor had already given them the main bathroom, with its recently installed gas water-heater. Colonel Hector Richard Windle expected his warm bath every morning.

Eliza normally came in for two mornings and one afternoon each week and whilst this did not include a Wednesday, she had responded to a plea for this extra help. Eleanor always felt apprehensive of the visits by Arthur's parents; whilst a little more warmth had crept into their relationship, particularly
with
Charlotte Windle, she had no idea of any remaining problem with the colonel.

Arthur needed to be in St Mary's vestry for a seven o'clock meeting with the churchwardens and three other parishioners to discuss arrangements for Empire Day on 24 May, Queen Victoria's birthday. Arthur thought this a slightly strange date, for when the celebration had started ten years previously, the Queen had already been dead for over a year. The occasion was always a landmark in the village: the children received extra geography lessons to realise the extent of the Empire and there was a half-day holiday for a church service for adults and children. With Arthur's strong feelings of Empire he would again lead zealous prayers for the King and the royal family, but he felt the evening's committee meeting was premature for an occasion well over a month away, not least as the focus should be reserved for the Holy Week services. This meeting should all go smoothly, Arthur thought to himself, but with George Cooper being one of the churchwardens, some minor disagreements might well emerge. Arthur found it sad that whilst the village community generally showed harmony and support towards one another, discord was not uncommon in the council of St Mary's. George Cooper had been a churchwarden for thirty-one years and seemed set on looking back to former times and how the church and everything about it had gone downhill. Not infrequently, he would refer to Arthur's predecessor, Reverend Charles Gulland, and the services he took, even though he had died twenty years previously.

With the clock showing five o'clock he realised there was time to make one pastoral visit before returning for supper and decided that he should call on the Smith family to see how the overworked Liz Smith was coping with her elderly and ailing mother, Martha. It was certainly not worth getting out his old bicycle, a gift from Mrs Grout when she moved away from the village following her husband's death. He left by the
rear
door and after walking through the churchyard, crossed the green and turned towards Meadow Way. He waved to Miss Rushton who was at the door of her small haberdashery shop near the corner of the green, one of the four village shops that provided essential needs. Arthur had never been able to find out her first name; indeed, many in the village wondered if she owned one.

He worried about Liz and her elderly mother Martha. Clearly Liz worked desperately hard and had been much relieved when young Fred got work at the smithy. Arthur guessed that Liz was around forty, but she appeared much older. Little was known about the family background as she had moved into Rusfield from some distance away, London had been rumoured, with her mother and baby Fred; reference had never been made to Fred's father. Fred had found school work a struggle, but had earned the respect of all by his gentle nature, good manners and his prowess on the football field.

Her small cottage was one in the row of four owned by the de Maine family and backed on to the village green. The front door was ajar. He knocked and immediately Liz called out her usual greeting: ‘Come in, the door is open.' He had visited most cottages in the village, many of which were poorly furnished, but none as bleak as the Smith home. The floor was simply packed mud, uneven, even dangerous in places, on which stood three rickety upright chairs, a crudely-made table and two stools piled high with an assortment of rags, wools and a box of straw; the latter for Liz's well-intended but rare straw-plaiting endeavours. There was a large fireplace with cooking implements in the hearth, also hanging from hooks set into the blackened lintel, and a high pile of hefty logs. In one corner of the room, next to the stairs, there was a bed round which a curtain, made from an old blanket, was draped. Arthur knew this to be Fred's bed. A picture of the school team with Fred in the front row was the only adornment.

Liz appeared through the opening to the other downstairs
room,
smiled and generously welcomed Arthur. She certainly looked an elderly lady, stooped shoulders, missing teeth and lank, greying hair. As she wiped her flowered though well-worn apron across her sweating face, Arthur realised she had been laundering in the back room. ‘Please excuse the mess, Vicar.'

‘I partly came to enquire after your mother, maybe even to pop upstairs to speak with her for a few minutes.'

‘That's really kind of you, Vicar, but she has just dropped off to sleep. I know she would like to see you another time and I will, of course, tell her you kindly called.' He passed through to the back room which was full of washing, some hanging up to dry, more in the large sink. The bare, plastered walls were running with condensation and a further pile of washing rested by the large mangle in the corner.

‘Looks as if you have plenty to keep you busy,' Arthur said.

She laughed. ‘Yes, there is quite a lot to launder at the moment, but there aren't really many folks around here that can afford their washing to be done although I don't charge but a few pence. I'm lucky that I get a lot from Spinney Farm and Mrs de Maine kindly sends some down from the manor, but not so much recently.'

‘So how are you Mrs Smith and tell me about your mother? I heard she is rather poorly at the moment.'

‘Oh, I'm all right, as long as I'm kept busy with washing. I'm really very lucky and young Fred is a godsend. He's kept busy at the smithy working for old Joe, but when he gets home he'll start chopping up wood that he's collected, helping me hang up the washing, ironing and generally tidying up.' Looking around, Arthur could not imagine the latter activity took much of Fred's time, but he knew she received much other help from him.

‘I'm afraid mother is not well at all. We managed to get the doctor in last week. Thank goodness for the good health fund. I manage to pay sixpence a week and it really does soon mount
up.
Anyway Doctor Spencer said that her lungs are really struggling and she doesn't help herself by not eating properly. In the kindest way, he explained that she wouldn't be with us for much longer. Still, she's fifty-six and had a pretty good life. I just don't want her to be in pain and the doctor gave me something which can help.'

‘I'm sorry about that,' comforted Arthur. He reached across and lightly rested his hand on Liz's arm. ‘You know that if you ever want me or Eleanor, just send Fred round to let us know.'

‘Your Eleanor is the world's kindest. She popped in last week and helped me with folding some big things and then cooked some food for the three of us that she had brought along. She really is a saint.'

At that moment a slightly breathless Fred came in. He looked mildly flushed and gave Arthur a cheerful greeting. He went straight to his mother, put his arms gently round her, and kissed her. ‘How is Gran?' Not every lad of Fred's age would put his arms round his mother, greet her with a kiss and immediately show his concern for his grandmother, thought Arthur. He really is a thoughtful son.

After their visitor had left, Fred went into the back room and saw the large heap of wet washing. He immediately set down his lunch-box, picked up the sheet which was on the top of the washing pile, shook it out well and folded it.

‘I'll just go and see how mum is,' his mother called as she set off upstairs. ‘You get yourself ready for the do at the farm tonight.'

But the ever-helpful Fred continued with shaking and folding the washed items, knowing it to be a sensible prelude to ironing. It wasn't too long before he had arranged all in a neat pile, which certainly made it look less overwhelming. He then took one item at a time, putting it through the mangle. It had been extremely kind of Mrs de Maine to suggest to Liz Smith some years ago that as the washing house at the manor
had
been equipped with a new mangle she would be pleased for Liz to have the old one. Having finished the mangling, Fred popped back into the front room, collected a large kettle of water that was on the hob, poured some into a bowl, added some cold and took off his grey shirt. Freshened up by his rather spartan wash, he took a lightly-striped shirt from one of the several shelves in the cupboard he had constructed next to his bed. He had ironed it the evening before and it certainly felt better than the one he had been wearing all day at the forge; the smell of horses was never far away from Fred. He slipped into his slightly-worn waistcoat and finally a grey and green jacket which Mr Wallace, one of the most regular customers at the forge, had given him a month previously. He felt properly dressed for the evening, one to which he was looking forward to sharing with his mates.

N
INE

Afternoon, Wednesday, 3 April

Jack Atkins had cycled the four miles back from Steepleton six times a week for almost four years, but on this particular Wednesday he wanted to cover the distance with greater alacrity than usual. He counted himself fortunate to have got the job at Davis' bakery and was determined to make it work out well. Starting as a delivery boy he had collected yeast from Jarmins and then taken the fresh, rich smelling bread to restaurants in the lively market town. He now helped bake the bread, even managing it well on his own. Maybe, one day, he would own a bakery and with this dream growing stronger each year he worked hard to make it a reality. This cherubic-looking seventeen-year-old surprised his employers with his determination, just as he had surprised football opponents by being the school team's most prolific goal scorer.

Wednesday had been early closing day in Steepleton for as long as people could remember, but occasionally Mr Davis Junior, although he had long since enjoyed his sixtieth birthday, asked Jack to stay on a little later to give the bakery a ‘welcome extra clean'; this Jack willingly did, but now he was keen to get back to Rusfield. The prospect of an evening with his mates at the farm party was most inviting, but first he wanted to spend some time in one of his favourite places.

A
few minutes after the nearby clock at St Ethelbert's struck two o'clock, he took off his overall, washed his hands, donned his heavy coat, bade farewell to Mr Davis Junior and took out his originally blue bicycle. Jack had never lost his energy or fitness since his sporting days at school and enjoyed the slight challenge as he pedalled out of the town centre and up the slight hill past Pratchetts Machine Works. The four-mile route was so well known by Jack that his mind began to wander. It was along this road, though on the stretch through the wooded area near the junction to the manor, that his father, Edward, had met with his terrible end when less than thirty years old. Jack, unborn at the time of his father's death, had always wished he had known him. Having nearly finished ditching along the road, a sudden thunderstorm blew up and anxious to finish the work, unfinished labours brought in no pay, Edward Atkins had disregarded the danger posed by the nearby giant oak tree and his metal tools. Villagers had heard the thunder and remembered an exceptionally vivid flash of lightning. It was some two hours later that a passer-by, old Joe Groves, had come across the badly burned body of this young man. Whilst the detail of the tragedy was well known, Jack knew little about his father. Olivia, his beautiful widow, had always turned away from telling Jack much about him and this evasion was evident with other villagers. As a boy, Jack had been bewildered by this; later he had realised that it was out of respect for his mother's feelings.

When Jack was ten, his mother told him how she had come to the village. ‘I was an only child and my parents owned a bookshop in Butcher Row in Coventry, not far from the bishop's palace. But one night the next-door furniture dealers caught fire that quickly spread to my father's bookshop. We all lived above the shop and I was the only one to survive. It was horrible and sometimes I can still see that great fire. I was eighteen and maybe it was because I was younger than your grandparents that I was able to climb out and escape. I stayed
with
my grandmother for a while, but I realised I had to look after myself. In a magazine I saw a job for a nanny at Spinney Farm where an elderly gentleman, Mr Herbert, lived with his son and his wife and two young children. I applied for the job and two months later moved to Rusfield. Well, that's how I came to live here. I've been very lucky because a lot of people have been very kind to me, just as they have to you.'