Trouble in the Village (Tales from Turnham Malpas) (6 page)
Read Trouble in the Village (Tales from Turnham Malpas) Online
Authors: Rebecca Shaw
‘Night before last the lights were left on in the church. I
got up to make a cup of camomile tea because I couldn’t sleep and while I waited for the kettle to boil I looked out of the window and the lights were on. Some of them, not all. And if we’ve got mice in then …’ She shook her head as though despairing of Tom. ‘I can see straight across the green down Jacks Lane between the school and the old oak and there was no doubt about it. Lights had been left on. And obviously, if there’s mice, he’s not cleaning properly, is he?’
Muriel, hating to agree with her for really she liked Tom, replied, ‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say that …’
‘Willie was much more conscientious. However, if you are able I would be grateful.’
‘You can rely on me.’
Muriel realised that Bel was patiently waiting for her, ‘Oh, thank you. I paid when I ordered it.’
‘That’s right, that’s what it says. Is it good then?’
‘Oh, yes. We missed it when it went the rounds of the cinemas and I did want to see it.’
Sheila joined in with ‘You’ve missed the last two Flower Club meetings too. We need all the people we can get now the hire charge for the room is going up.’
‘I know, we just seem to have been so very busy lately, but I will make an effort.’
‘It’s that Tom. It’s all his fault the charges going up. Bring back Willie, I say.’
‘I understand it was the Rector who broached the idea first.’
‘Spurred on by Tom, I’ve no doubt, and he’s got more salary than Willie got.’
Somewhat primly Muriel said, ‘We don’t know that.’
‘Well, then, Sheila, I’ll do next week and you can do the next two weeks and then we shall be straight again. That right?’
‘Fine. Everywhere I look there’s posters about the protest meeting. Very stylishly done and very eyecatching. Who’s made them for you?’
‘A friend of Ralph’s. Will you be there? We’re very keen to get everyone on our side. Almost everyone I speak to is sympathetic to our campaign, except for …’
‘I know, except for Grandmama Charter-Plackett. I think she’s the only one on his side. But I’ll do my best to drum up support wherever I go. I’m so glad Caroline is at the forefront of it all. She carries such weight with her opinions. Do her good too. She’s never looked the same since …’
Muriel hastily diverted Sheila from saying any more. The Village Store was not the place to air one’s views about anything, least of all about the upset at the Rectory.
‘Thank you, Sheila, I shall be glad of your support, and Sir Ronald’s if he can see his way.’
‘He won’t dare to do any other than support you once I’ve had a word with him,’ she patted Muriel’s arm, ‘and don’t worry about the mice, I’m sure they’ll have been caught by next week.’
Muriel debated about taking Ralph with her the following week when she went to clean the brass. In fact she even thought about not going at all. Was it perhaps a little excessive to clean it every week? Perhaps every other week would be sufficient? But Muriel recognised the coward in herself and brushed her weakness aside. The Christian
martyrs had had far worse things to face than a few mice and she, Muriel Euphemia Templeton, was not one for weakness. No, she’d go all by herself and face the music.
There was a chance Tom had already caught the little horrors. She’d find him and casually introduce the subject. What she didn’t want to happen was to come across a decapitated mouse still in a trap awaiting Tom’s ministrations. Maybe even with the cheese still in its mouth. Or did the trap smack shut before it had actually – No, she wouldn’t think about that.
Tom was getting rid of the cobwebs on the underside of the lych-gate. ‘Good morning, Lady Templeton, overcast today, isn’t it? I’ve never seen so many cobwebs as this in my life. It must be a real good summer for spiders.’ He stood in her way energetically brushing with a soft, long-handled brush. ‘They’re sticky, you know.’
Muriel kept well out of the way of any spiders running from Tom’s murderous intentions. ‘Tom. Talking of spiders, have you caught any mice?’
Tom, hands behind his back, crossed his fingers. ‘Two the first night. None since, so I reckon we’ve got the all-clear.’
Muriel put a hand to her heart and said, ‘Oh, I’m so relieved. I was dreading … I know you’ll think I’m silly but …’
‘Not at all. I see you’ve got your brass box with you. I wouldn’t go in just yet, I’ve been spraying in the church for spiders too. Best let the air get clear a bit first. Not good for the lungs.’ He held up a spray can with evil pictures of spiders and ants on it. ‘Brilliant stuff this, if you have any
problems, but very potent for the breathing. Stand clear, I’m using it on here now.’
Muriel stood away and watched him squirting the spray on the old beams. He stood on the seat at one side and sprayed right into the corners, and then stood on the opposite seat and did the same. Tom appeared to Muriel to over-egg the pudding a little but she supposed there was no point in doing it at all if one didn’t do it well. A waft of the spray reached her and she waved it away. It was certainly potent. She’d better not go in the church for a while.
‘I’ll sit on the seat by the old oak and wait ten minutes.’ Muriel planted her box beside her and set herself to wait. She checked her watch because she was never any good at guessing the passing of time. Twenty minutes to eleven. Right! Seated there Muriel looked like an elderly lady taking a nap, but she didn’t feel elderly and she most certainly wasn’t taking a nap. She was admiring the old church and thinking how lucky they all were to have one kept so beautifully. Tom had gone round to the side door, and out of it, through half-closed eyes, she saw Kenny Jones emerge.
The sight was so startling! She couldn’t believe what she saw. Kenny Jones coming out of church! It was such a shock to her, but it didn’t appear to be a shock to Tom for they were talking quite amicably. Tom took his cap off and scratched his red hair, Kenny wagged a finger at him and then waved goodbye and came down the side of the church, wearing his old navy anorak, which Muriel knew would tell a rare old tale if it could speak. Wearing an anorak on such a humid day.
If Muriel wasn’t mistaken he glanced round as he came
out into the open as though looking for someone, or was he checking no one was watching? Well, that was understandable: considering how many years it was since he’d been in there he’d surely be embarrassed for anyone to see him. Muriel guessed that the last time Kenny had visited the church was when he was at the village school, and that must be at least twenty years ago.
Kenny marched briskly down the church path. Muriel pretended to be asleep. As she heard the lych-gate creak shut she opened her eyes just a slit and through the veil of her eyelashes glimpsed him marching towards Jacks Lane to go past the school, down Shepherds Hill and home.
When her ten minutes were up Muriel wended her way up the path and into church. It was only when she was applying the brass polish to the wings of the lectern eagle that it occurred to her that Kenny Jones hadn’t given a thought to his lungs being affected by Tom’s spider spray. She hoped he’d be all right.
She was sitting in her chair, head down, crying.
‘What’s up?’
Mrs Jones endeavoured to make herself look as though crying was the last thing on her agenda but she wasn’t successful.
‘What yer crying for?’
‘Yer dad’s just rung. He’s lost his job. Finishes end of the week.’ She sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes again.
‘Aw! Mum! How’s that come about?’
‘Council put the road-maintenance work out to tender, company from the other side of Culworth has won it and they don’t want him. Too old, they say. He can shovel with the rest of ’em, it isn’t fair. I don’t know whatever we’re going to do. He’ll never get another job at his age. Oh, Kenny.’
Kenny lay down on the sofa, not knowing how to cope
with a mother he’d never ever in all his life seen crying. ‘Something ’ull turn up.’
Mrs Jones snapped out in her distress, ‘Don’t be bloody daft, nothing will. All we’ll have coming in will be my money from the Store. We can’t manage.’
‘There’s our Terry’s wages.’
‘And how much do I see of that? Tell me. Go on. Tell me.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Exactly. Well, things will have to change.’
‘They will?’
Mrs Jones’ head came up and she looked him straight in the eye. ‘For a start …’
‘Any tea going? And I wouldn’t mind a sandwich.’
‘No, Kenny. You’re collecting the social every week and what does your mother see of that? Zilch! It’s supposed to be for you to live on. So by my reckoning that means paying for your food and laundry and the roof over your head. I’m keeping you no longer. In fact, I can’t no more, neither you nor our Terry.’
‘Just as you like, but when I come into money –’
‘You come into money! And pigs might fly! You’ll have to move out. Get your own pad.’
Kenny pretended to be shocked. ‘Mum! How can you say that to your little boy? Your little boy who’s –’
‘Who’s been a pain in the whatsit since the day he was born.’
‘Mum!’
‘I mean it, Kenny. Why should your dad and me keep you, a grown man? Just get a real job, please! Either that or you’re out. Full stop! The estate’s always wanting help of
one sort and another. Our Barry ’ud put in a good word. Ask him.’
Kenny lifted his feet from the sofa arm and sat himself up. His keen brown eyes looked at his mother’s back. ‘Don’t, and I mean don’t ever suggest again that I should work for that old faggot Fitch. Our Barry can kow-tow to ’im if he wants, but not me. I’m made of different stuff.’
‘You’re right, very different. He’s got a nice wife and family, a nice house, a steady job, money coming in regular, you name it.’
Kenny sneered at the prospect. ‘Who wants a life like his? Boring. Boring. Boring. Coming home covered in sawdust and smelling of glue with thick fingers and swollen hands from working outside. Not even the kids are his own.’
‘Only because they both felt they were too old to start another family, that’s all. Families cost money and with Pat having two already …’
‘There’s one thing, though. I know for a fact I’m firing on all cylinders don’t I? He doesn’t.’
‘Don’t bring that up. Two children you don’t own up to, and I can’t acknowledge. Not a single real Jones grandchild. It’s not right.’
‘There’s always our Terry.’
‘Fat chance.’
‘You’re hard, you are. Not long since you’d have given me your last ha’penny.’
‘I’ve seen the light.’
Mrs Jones turned to switch on the iron and while it heated up she looked at him. Her three boys had been the joy of her life for years, she’d defended them against all the odds, no matter what they did, and sometimes done it
against her better judgement for their sakes, but she’d finally run out of steam. She didn’t know who was worst, their Terry or him laid on the sofa, idle as they come. If it wasn’t for her job doing the mail order at the Store they’d all have been in the cart. Vince had always done his best, but labouring on the roads wasn’t exactly the sort of job that brought the money rolling in.
‘If you had some money you and Terry could rent from Sir Ralph. One of his houses is coming up empty. That would be nice.’
Kenny ignored her remark. He knew better than to latch on to an idea like that: before he knew it she’d have him and their Terry installed and then where would they be? No meals cooked, no shopping done, no shirts ironed, no clean sheets, and if there was one thing he approved of it was clean sheets on a regular basis. There was nothing quite like sliding into bed with the sheets all fresh and smelling nice and feeling smooth and sexy. In fact it could be said it was one of Kenny Jones’ passions. The word passions brought on a daydream about the barmaid at the Jug and Bottle in Penny Fawcett, and his mother’s next words simply fell on deaf ears.
‘However, from now on, no money, no food. Two weeks of that and if there’s still no sign of money you’re out. Lock, stock and barrel. Including your air-guns and all that exercise paraphernalia you bought last time you were in the money. I’ve dusted round it for two whole years and now that’s it, it’s going, and you with it, and our Terry. I’ve finally reached the end of my tether after all these years. You’ve been conspicuous by your absence this morning, where’ve you been?’
His mother pursued her theme. ‘I’ll ask about it tomorrow.’
‘Ask what?’
‘Ask Lady Templeton about the house coming up. See what the rent is.’
Kenny’s daydream was replaced by the picture of Muriel sitting nodding on the new seat the parish council had had constructed round the foot of the oak on the Green. Daft old thing she was. None dafter.
A big stumbling block to the scheme sprang into his mind. ‘We’ve no furniture for it.’
‘Oh, God! Yes. Ah! but I’ve just had a thought. They’re having a right turn-out at the nursing home where Vera works. I could have a word. Good stuff being thrown out, I understand. I’ll ask.’
Kenny cackled. ‘Your friend Vera! After what you did to her she’d be more likely to choke yer than give yer furniture. No, sorry, Mum, that little scheme isn’t going to come off.’ He lay back on the sofa smiling a self-satisfied smile as only Kenny could.
His mother, enraged at the memory of how close Vera had come to going to prison over the stolen paving stones because of her and more so at his disregard of her terrible dilemma, suddenly retaliated. She clenched her fists and began beating him about the head and shoulders. He put up
his arms to protect his head as the blows rained down on him. His mother’s face so close and so venomous turned him into a child again and he feared her. ‘Hey! Mum! Don’t! Don’t! Please don’t!’
‘I’ll give you don’t! Get a job! Go on! Get a job! I’m sick to death of yer. Sick to death!’ Her energy drained, she flopped on to the sofa Kenny had vacated and wept again.
Restored to adulthood now she’d stopped beating him, Kenny turned away from her so she couldn’t see what he was doing and extricated a thick wad of notes from his back pocket. Peeling off five twenty-pound notes he rammed the rest back into his pocket and turned to give her the hundred pounds.
‘All right, Mum. Stop the yelping. Here, take this towards the housekeeping.’
Mrs Jones, silenced by the shock of what he’d said, looked at the money in astonishment. ‘Why, Kenny! How much is that?’
‘Hundred pounds. Now can I have a sandwich?’
Alerted by his nonchalance Mrs Jones asked, ‘Just where did you get that from?’
Kenny tapped the end of his nose. ‘Ask no questions …’
‘Well, thanks very much. It’s not left you short, has it?’
He used up another of his guises and played the part of the martyr. ‘Don’t you worry about me, I can manage, I don’t need much to live on.’
‘But where did you get it?’
‘Business deal, with a chap in the market in Culworth. Owed me a favour.’
‘Oh! Right. It’s not illegal, is it, Kenny? I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble just because we’re desperate.’
‘No, of course not.’ She tucked the money into the pocket of her apron and went into the kitchen to make him a sandwich. Kenny lay on the sofa again, berating himself for allowing her to dominate him like she’d done when he was a kid. There’d be no end to her demands now she knew he had money. Might be better if he did move out. In fact after his sandwich he’d get the car started and go see the Templetons himself about the house.
After half an hour messing about with jump leads and with the help of their Terrry’s old banger, Kenny eventually got the car started and drove off up Shepherds Hill into the village.
Yes, Sir Ralph was at home and, yes, of course he could see him, do come in. He followed Lady Templeton into their sitting room and there sat Sir Ralph in an imposing winged armchair,
The Times
open on his knee, his gold-rimmed reading glasses in his hand, wearing a smart checked suit, gleaming brown shoes and a welcoming smile on his face.
‘Come in do, Kenny. Long time since I saw you. What are you getting up to nowadays?’
‘This and that, Sir Ralph, this and that.’
‘Me too. This and that. What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve heard you’ve a cottage in Hipkin Gardens coming free. I wondered if I could, well, me and our Terry, could rent it from you?’
‘Have I? I didn’t know.’
‘He didn’t tell me. If it’s true, which I expect it is, I have to say I am very particular about my tenants. I won’t have unreliable people. I won’t tolerate tenants who neglect or abuse the cottages and the lease is for six months in the first instance and if I’m not satisfied then it’s out. I mean that, Kenny. I’ll ring my agent, if you’ll excuse me, and ask him what he knows.’
While Sir Ralph went to his study to use the telephone Kenny looked around the room. This was just the sort of décor he’d like in his house. Mellow, friendly, welcoming, quality. Yes, that was it. The key was quality. Not a thing in poor taste. He quickly leaped to his feet and tried out Sir Ralph’s chair. The suppleness of the leather upholstery was stunning. Your hands wanted to stroke it, to enjoy the lovely expensive pliable stuff, to caress it almost. Oh, yes! This fitted the bill all right! Kenny sat back enjoying the comfort and the sensation of importance the chair gave him. This was what he lacked, possessions which gave him prestige. No wonder Sir Ralph could be the sort of person he was: sitting in this chair would without doubt bolster his feeling of authority. Kenny felt envy trickling along his veins. One day! One day! A chair like this could be his. He leaped up at the sound of the study door opening and was seated back in his original chair before Sir Ralph had set foot in the sitting room.
‘You’re right, Kenny. He is going and the agent hasn’t
got a tenant in view as yet.’ He seated himself back in his chair. ‘But what about money? I don’t usually have anyone who can’t provide references from their employer. Why should I make an exception for you?’
‘I’m self-employed, Sir Ralph, sir.’ A bit of deference never did anyone any harm and what’s more it cost nothing. ‘I can give three months’ rent in advance if you prefer.’
‘Self-employed doing what, might I ask?’
‘Like we both said, this and that. But I’m on to a good thing at the moment and there’s no likelihood of the market drying up. In fact I’m well pleased with how things are going.’ He delved into his back pocket and hauled out the thick wad of notes, which looked not at all depleted by his gift of one hundred pounds to his mother. He loved the action of peeling notes off a wad with his thumb. So he did it rather slowly and dramatically but with a carelessness meant to signify it was all nothing to him. He’d reached the fifty-pound notes now, peeled off twelve of them and swaggered across to give them to Sir Ralph.
He shook his head. ‘I haven’t said yes yet and I don’t touch the money. That’s for my agent to deal with.’
Kenny could have kicked himself. Of course, Sir Ralph wouldn’t be touching
money
, not he. The first he knew about it would be when it arrived in his bank statement. That was what being a gentleman was, if indeed he ever bothered to look at his bank statements. Kenny put his money away in his pocket and found himself apologising.
