The Village Show (Tales from Turnham Malpas) (10 page)

‘She’s burst into tears and run out.’

‘Run where?’

‘I don’t know. Somewhere. You go and find her – please. I mustn’t.’

‘Right. What have you been doing to her, I ask myself.’

‘Absolutely nothing. As you well know.’

Caroline grinned, put down the laundry on the hall table and went in search of her. She noticed the front door slightly ajar. Panicking, she shouted, ‘Sylvia! Have you got the children?’

‘They’re both here with me, cleaning your bathroom.’

‘OK, thanks. Peter, she must have gone home. She’s left the front door open. Has she taken her bag and things?’

‘Her bag’s here.’

‘Give it to me.’ Her coat had gone from the hall cupboard, so Caroline put her own coat on and taking Louise’s bag set off for the Bissetts’ cottage.

The snow had gone completely now and the sun had broken through the clouds. The sight of the cottages ranged round the village green, the pond and Jimmy’s geese, brought joy to Caroline’s heart. How she loved living here. Timeless, beautiful, welcoming, enriching … she couldn’t find enough words to describe how much it all meant to her. You could keep all your big impersonal cities, with their high-rise flats and their smoke and their traffic. There might not be much happening hereabouts, but it nourished her soul.

She tapped briskly on the door of the Bissetts’ cottage. No one came. She tapped again and then after a moment the door opened. It was Sheila, looking upset.

‘Good morning, Sheila.’

‘Good morning, Caroline. Come in.’ She opened the door wider and Caroline stepped in. It was the first time she’d been in Sheila’s cottage, and somehow the décor didn’t take her by surprise. It was just how she had imagined Sheila would have decorated it. Sweetly pretty, overdone with frills and furbelows, pretty, non-controversial water-colour prints lined up on the walls and artificial flower arrangements placed in every conceivable spot.

‘Terribly sorry, Sheila, but Louise seems to be upset. Has she come home?’

Sheila nodded.

‘She’s left her bag and things. Here they are. We don’t know …’

‘She won’t tell me.’

‘Should I see her?’

‘If you like.’ They’d conducted their conversation in stage whispers, but now Sheila said in a voice slightly louder than normal, ‘Do come in, Dr Harris. I’m sure Louise will be pleased to see you.’

She was sitting scrunched up in a corner of Sheila’s sofa, desperately trying to look as though nothing was the matter. But her eyes were red, her cheeks blotchy. When she saw Caroline she straightened herself up and attempted to give herself more presence.

‘Louise! I’m so sorry. Can you possibly tell me what has upset you? Peter’s distraught that it might be something he’s said.’

Louise swallowed hard. ‘Oh no, it’s nothing he’s said – no, not at all. He’s too kind to say anything to upset
me
. Well, not intentionally anyway.’

‘So what’s caused all this? It’s not like you. Is it the time of the month? If so, Peter will understand.’

Sheila froze with embarrassment; she was scandalised. Rectors shouldn’t know about private things like that.

Louise flushed and said, ‘Oh no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that Peter said after the magazine was finished he wouldn’t be needing me any more. He only said it out of kindness, I know, because he’s anxious I have time to get a job. But I do so love coming across to the rectory and helping. It feels really worthwhile. Such a lovely atmosphere to work in. A real home. A truly welcoming place to be, and I would miss it.’

She looked up and gave Caroline a trembling smile. The compliment about her home won Caroline over despite all her wariness of Louise, and before she realised it she was saying, ‘Look, if you like working for Peter, well, that’s fine by me. After all, you only come three mornings. That gives you plenty of time for interviews and things, doesn’t it? Peter does appreciate your help. He’s so slow at typing and I’m worse than him, so it’s no good me trying to help. I’m just sorry the church can’t afford to pay you, but it can’t. Don’t let what’s happened upset you too much,
Louise. Stay at home this morning and we’ll start with a clean slate on Wednesday. How about that?’

‘Thank you very much. I do appreciate you asking me. You’re really kind. I’ll be in on Wednesday then. A clean slate, like you said.’

‘Good. I’ll be off then.’

Sheila asked if she’d like to stay for coffee. ‘No, thanks, I’ve a lot to do this morning – just got back, you see. Another time, perhaps. I’ll let myself out.’

Caroline went home to the rectory unable to believe that she’d agreed to, no actually
invited
Louise to continue working there. She considered herself to be either the biggest fool this side of the Cul, or the very best kind of Christian ever.

In the Bissetts’ cottage Louise couldn’t believe her good luck. She kept dabbing her eyes so her mother wouldn’t realise how pleased she was at the turn of events. Underneath, her triumph made her want to burst out laughing. Out of the ashes of her disastrous, ridiculous exit she had got exactly what she wanted. Caroline, not Peter, but
Caroline
asking her to go back to the rectory. What she’d said to make it happen she didn’t know, but it had.

‘Well, there you are, dear. You see? I told you how lovely Dr Harris is. She
must
like you going there. I heard the rector saying what a great help you are to him. I did tell you how nice they both are.’

‘Indeed you did, Mother, indeed you did.’

Pat went to get her bike out from under the shed where her father kept the mowers. If she didn’t watch out she’d be late for opening up the school. Thank Gawd the last of the snow was gone. A bright winter sun was striking through the trees, and Pat felt a certain lift to her spirits. Truth to tell, she’d felt full of good spirits ever since Saturday. What a brilliant day they’d had. Barry certainly knew how to have a good time. Him going with them had persuaded Dean to go too and they’d had a lovely family day out. Michelle went on everything Barry and Dean went on, and Pat had to admit it was all wonderful: Michelle hand in hand with Barry, Dean opening up and talking more than he’d done for years. He needed a man, did Dean.

Where the blazes was her bike? It was no great prize, but it was all she had. Blast it! Someone had pinched it. She’d have to walk. She turned away cursing the light fingers of someone who could find her old bike worth stealing. Then she noticed propped against one of the mowers a bike which didn’t belong to her. There was a luggage label tied to the handlebars. It said:

Dear Pat
,

Have mended your bell. Here it is attached to your new bike
.

With love, Barry
.

P.S. Hope you like it
.

It wasn’t absolutely brand new, but near enough. And there, neatly fastened to the handlebars, was her old bell, well-oiled and cleaned up. Shining as all bicycle bells should. Pat couldn’t believe it. It was no good, she’d have to give it back. She’d use it today and then … yes, and then give him it back. Let’s hope he hadn’t thrown her old bike away.

The saddle needed a bit of adjustment; her feet wouldn’t reach the ground.

‘Dad! Come here a minute.’

‘I’m having my breakfast.’

‘Never mind yer breakfast, come here and sharp.’

Grandad came grumbling out of the back door. ‘What’s so urgent I can’t fini— Aye Aye! What’s all this then? I didn’t know you’d got a new bike.’

‘Neither did I. I’m using it today and then it’s going back.’

‘Who’s it from?’

‘Guess who?’

‘Not Barry?’ Pat nodded. ‘I warned you about ’im, didn’t I?’

‘Look, I need it right now to go to school on, then he’s getting it back, believe me. Lower the saddle, will yer, Dad? It’s getting late. I don’t want to let Mr Palmer down. Be sharp.’

‘All right. Hold yer horses.’

Michelle came out. ‘Oh Mum, a new bike! Where did yer get it from?’

‘Barry, and it’s going back.’

Michelle was horrified. ‘Mum, yer can’t give presents back. He’ll be ever so upset.’

‘I don’t care, he’s got a cheek.’

‘No, he hasn’t, Mum, it’s your present. He’s only being kind. Please don’t hurt his feelings.’

‘Well, I shall.’ Michelle burst into tears and ran inside.

‘That it then, Dad? That’s better. Thanks. Be nice to her, tell her I can’t accept presents from him, no matter what.’

‘OK. Off yer go, then.’

She’d be going to the Show committee tonight; she’d tell him then. They weren’t at the stage for giving big presents. He’d ruined it all. She whirled along down the drive amazed at how far the bike went with such a small amount of effort. It definitely put her old bike in the shade and not half.

As she swung round into the schoolyard, Mr Palmer was coming back from the Store with his newspaper.

‘Morning, Mrs Duckett. New bike, I see.’

‘Not for long. It’s going back.’

‘Why? It looks great.’

‘It is. It’s the giver who isn’t great. However, nice morning, isn’t it? See yer later.’

When she’d finished her morning efforts at the school she went to the Store to pick up a few things she needed. A card for Dad for his birthday, some meat for tonight, four pints of milk and a couple of nice bread rolls for Dad at lunch-time. She propped her bike in the stand Jimbo had provided and wandered in.

Linda was concentrating on her accounts behind the post-office grille and Harriet was by the till.

‘Hello, Pat. All right?’

‘Yes thanks, Harriet. Jimbo’s away at the conference today?’

‘That’s right. Back tomorrow night. Don’t let on but Fran’s in the back with Mother. Our part-timer’s got the flu so I’m having to fill in. Jimbo would explode if he knew.’ Pat tapped the side of her nose with her forefinger and promised not to tell.

She went between the shelves looking for the things she needed. She was just choosing her Dad’s card when the little brass bell jangled angrily and the door slammed shut with a loud bang. Pat heard Barry’s mother’s voice. ‘Would you mind telling me whose bike that is outside?’

Harriet said, ‘Well I don’t know really. Lots of people put their bikes there, sometimes even when they’re not coming in here.’

Pat popped her head round the end of the card display. ‘Someone wanting me?’

‘Me.’ Barry’s mother tapped the lapel of her old brown anorak with a sharp finger as she marched towards Pat. ‘Me, that’s who. It’s yours, is it?’

‘Well, in a manner of speaking, yes.’

‘I’ll have you know that was
my
bike. What are you doing with it?’

Pat fumbled in the bottom of her bag and brought out the luggage label Barry had tied to it. Barry’s mother snatched it from her but didn’t have her reading glasses.

‘I’ll read it for you.’ Pat took it back and read the words out loud. Harriet turned her back, to hide her laughter. Barry’s mother all but exploded.

‘He bought that bike from me for a song. I’d no idea he was giving it to
you
.’ She became red in the face and for once was speechless.

‘Don’t you worry, you’ll be able to give him his money back, if you haven’t already spent it, ’cos he’s getting it back tonight. I’m not having him giving me presents.’

‘Well, at least you’re showing more common sense than I gave you credit for; even so, our Barry’s too good for the likes of you.’ Harriet gasped. Linda pressed her handkerchief to her mouth in horror. But Barry’s mother didn’t realise she’d met her match.

Pat went white as a sheet. ‘Considering your Barry’s past history, I think it’s me who’s too good for him.’

‘Past history?’

‘Yes. If all I’ve heard is true, I’m the one who’s in the position to be picking and choosing, not Barry.’

‘Well, I never. Not one of my sons …’

It was Pat’s turn to tap the brown anorak. ‘Just a minute, what about your Kenny and that dodgy car? The police couldn’t prove it but we all knew. And what about your Barry and his trips up to Nightingale Farm, eh? Or your Terry and that barmaid from The Jug and Bottle – it was her husband who blacked his eyes and broke his nose that time, wasn’t it? Don’t start denying it or I might remember some more juicy bits about the three of ’em.’

Unable to deny what Pat had said, Mrs Jones tried another method of attack. ‘And what have you had to do to get that bike?’ she sneered.

At this Pat drew herself up, turned her back on her and stalked out of the store.

Harriet was appalled. So rude. So hurtful. She felt proud of Pat, though; she was the first person she’d ever heard stand up to Mrs Jones. Jimbo would have given his right arm to have been here and heard all that.

‘Anything I can get for you, Mrs Jones?’ Harriet asked in her sweetest tones.

‘No.’ And she marched from the store, earrings swinging, breathing fire and intending to give Pat further lashings with her tongue. But she was too late to catch Pat, she was
already disappearing up Stocks Row, pedalling furiously. If Mrs Jones could have seen her face she would have seen tears – and Pat hadn’t cried in a long time.