Village Fortunes (Turnham Malpas 17) (11 page)

‘And I shall miss you.’ But there was no pain in the tone of
his
voice. Chris didn’t say, ‘Will you come with me?’ either. Not a mention of that, and tonight he hadn’t even booked a room at the Wise Man like he had before. That hurt Fran more than she could allow herself to believe.

She reached across the table and gently touched the back of his hand as he picked up his wine glass. ‘Your mother will be glad you’re going back.’

‘Of course she is. Time I got back. Nicholas is a brilliant businessman, but there’s too much work to get through for just one person. Yes. Got to go home.’

Chris noticed tears beginning to well in Fran’s eyes, but he succeeded in not making a comment about them by asking if she wanted pudding.

‘No, thanks. It must be a long flight to Rio.’

‘It is, but it’s very comfortable when you travel first class.’

‘Of course.’ Rather wistfully Fran added, ‘I’ve never travelled first class.’

‘You should one day, just for the experience,’ Chris said, as though money grew on trees.

‘No chance of me travelling first class.’ Fran noticed he wasn’t the least embarrassed by his riches; others would have been much more apologetic after what she’d said.

‘You never know. Coffee, Fran?’

There didn’t seem much point in prolonging her agony; all she wanted was to hide under her duvet and cry. ‘I’ve had a busy day so I’d better get home. Be seeing you, Chris, some time when you come back. Have a good flight. Goodnight.’ How she got to her feet, how she managed to kiss his cheek showing no passion, no regret, she’d no idea. But she did, and Fran left him without offering to pay her share of their bill as she usually did. Without a kiss from him too, Fran thought as she walked firmly away from the loveliest, most wonderful love affair she’d ever had in all her twenty years.

Chris watched her go, grateful she’d managed not to make a scene in such a busy pub. But she wasn’t the love of his life. He’d known that right from the very beginning. But he’d wanted someone, anyone, to be honest, and she was willing and good-looking and jolly. She was just what he needed. Rio here I come, thank God. Chris decided he’d leave this village without the slightest regret. All he had to do was pay his dues for the baked potatoes – honestly, blasted baked potatoes, of all things. What made him offer to pay for them, he’d no idea. And then he could shake the dust of the village off his feet and get stuck into his social life in Rio once more. With no regrets. None at all.

Fran managed to get to her bedroom without speaking to either her mum or dad. She locked herself in her en suite, and finally gave way to her feelings. Tears didn’t come at first, but when they did they came in torrents. She felt hard done by. She’d become aware tonight, deep down, that Chris had never had any intention of taking her to Brazil with him, married or not. She was useful, available, convenient, with time on her hands, and maybe for moments together he had been fond of her. But she had sensed as he spoke about going home as though he meant immediately, that most of the time he’d simply made use of her. Or made a fool of her might be a more honest way of putting it.

Then Fran remembered the beautiful moments they had shared and she wept again. They had shared the same sense of humour, made up silly rhymes together, laughed at the same jokes, hated people who told lies, loved the same films, liked the same dramas on TV. Truly, they’d been very compatible and it would have been very pleasing to go to Brazil, where Fran could have given all those girls – well, women – a run for their money when they realised she had captured their perfect gem, namely Chris Templeton.

Fran cried until she couldn’t cry any more. At last only deep searing sobs that tore her apart came out, and she wished they didn’t because they made her chest feel raw. She wished Harriet would knock on her door, and say, ‘All right, darling?’ Then her mum would give her an almighty big hug to help heal the pain. Would the pain ever heal? Or would she have this pain in the middle of her chest for ever? The common-sense part of Fran came to the fore then, and she almost laughed at herself. One unscrupulous man who thought only of himself couldn’t be allowed to harm her for the rest of her life. One thing for certain was that she’d be much more cautious a second time round.

There came the longed-for knock at her door, and Fran heard the words she’d wanted: ‘All right, darling?’ She rapidly dried her eyes, wiped her nose, leapt off the bathroom stool, shot out into her bedroom and straight into her mother’s welcoming arms. ‘Hug me tight.’

‘I am hugging you tightly.’

‘Just what I need.’ Fran knew she was safe for ever in this pair of arms.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Absolutely sure. Is there any hot chocolate going?’

‘There soon could be. Shall we make some? The two of us?’

Fran nodded.

‘Good idea.’ Mother and daughter went down the stairs together. Harriet hoped Fran, in the close familiarity of their homely kitchen, would be able to talk about what was troubling her, because she was obviously very upset. But apparently the pain lay too deep for Fran to talk about yet. Fran and her parents watched the ten o’clock news, drinking their hot chocolates, munching biscuits and making general comments about the news. Fran was the first to go to bed, and it wasn’t until Harriet and Jimbo had turned off their bedroom light that Jimbo told his wife what he knew about Chris.

‘I already knew he was thinking of going back very soon.’

‘You did? When did you find out?’

‘In the pub the night of the meeting. It was just something he said. He said he dislikes the idea of being in England in winter. Too wet, too cold, he claims, for him. So perhaps he’s told her tonight.’

‘A big relief all round. She’s obviously not going with him then.’

‘Thank God.’

‘The question is, Jimbo,’ pondered Harriet, ‘has he asked her and she’s refused to go, or has he
not
asked her and that’s why she’s so upset?’

‘Either way, she’s obviously not going, and if she’s so upset then I think he hasn’t asked her. We’ll have to treat her with kid gloves for a few weeks, poor Fran. Anyway, it’s all turned out for the best, hasn’t it? Certainly to my satisfaction anyway. Why don’t you and Fran go on a week’s holiday, two girls together, somewhere warm? It would give her something else to think about. You’d enjoy it too, wouldn’t you?’ Jimbo turned over as he settled himself for sleep, and remarked again how relieved he was that Fran wouldn’t be disappearing off to Brazil with Chris. ‘And good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.’

‘He’s not as likeable as Johnny, is he?’

‘No, he isn’t. And Fran is worth more than being someone to make use of. Which is what he’s done. Only don’t tell her I said that. It’s true, just the same though. Goodnight, darling.’

‘Goodnight, Jimbo. Love you. She’ll get over it, and if she doesn’t know now that’s what he’s done, she soon will when she’s had time to think, after the hurt begins to lessen. But you’re right; a holiday might help.’

In his role as verger at the church, the first thing Zack did every Monday morning was to walk all the way round the outside doing what he called ‘inspecting the fabric’. He ran a caring eye over every inch of the outside for any signs of vandalism, and not a single inch of the outer fabric escaped the scrutiny of his experienced eyes. No, it all appeared to be OK. Then for some reason he took another look at the roof. He inspected it on both sides, all the way along the ridge of the roof from the gable end to where the roof joined the spire. There was something not right. What was it? He shaded his eyes and took another look. No, it couldn’t be. But he wasn’t wrong, was he? No, he was right. The lead was missing! During the night some thieving, cheating rogues had climbed up and removed it, inch by inch.

Zack boiled with anger. He marched around looking for signs of a ladder being used and he found the imprints of the two feet of a ladder in the mud and trampled grass where they’d struggled with the lead. But where had the vehicle been parked? They’d have needed a vehicle, as lead was far too heavy to have been carried away in someone’s hands. After a while Zack found heavy tyre marks of what might have been a lorry in front of the church hall. So they’d driven up the drive to the hall and then, yes, there were the footmarks, two sets of heavy prints going from the church to the church hall drive. Had no one heard them? Seen them? Had it rained during the night? No, it hadn’t. At least then the church wasn’t flooded. He had to tell someone. Sacrilege, that’s what it was. Sacrilege.

He rattled the knocker on the rectory door and to his relief the rector answered his knock. Zack found he’d lost his voice he was so upset. So he signalled urgently for Peter to follow him.

‘Zack! Are you all right? What’s happened?’

Zack still hadn’t spoken, but now they were standing on the path just beyond the lych gate and Zack was pointing upwards. At first Peter couldn’t see what he was supposed to be looking at. Then he realised. ‘The lead. No! Right the way along!’

‘Can’t believe it. Can’t believe it.’

‘Neither can I!’

‘Our lovely old church. Desecrated. They need hanging. I’m so sorry.’ Zack looked haggard.

‘See here, Zack, you’re not to blame. It is not your fault. You understand?’

‘But I’m in charge, aren’t I? What Willie Biggs will say I don’t know.’

‘Willie might be getting old but even he will know it’s not your fault. Phone. Phone.’ Peter tapped his pockets searching for his mobile. ‘I’ve left it on my desk. I’m going into the house to ring the police. Why don’t you make yourself a cup of tea in your shed? You can drink it while we wait for the police to arrive. And make one for me too, please. I won’t be long.’

So they sat together in Zack’s shed drinking tea, with Peter finding all sorts of excuses for why people stole lead, and Zack berating himself for what had happened. ‘I’ll have to sleep in the church every night. It’s the only answer to this.’

‘You will not, Zack. For heaven’s sakes, man, even if you did sleep in the church you couldn’t tackle men strong enough to climb on the roof to heave lead off and carry it down to a lorry. These are fit men, believe me, really fit. No, it’s not possible.’

‘We’ll have to have men doing night duty then, like air-raid wardens during the war. They could use this shed. Or we could get Grandmama Charter-Plackett to do night duty. One word from her and they’d crawl away and never come back. By Jove, she’s a strong woman and not half. I admire that, they don’t make women like her nowadays.’

The police car took over an hour to arrive, by which time Zack had reached boiling point again. ‘Where have you been? Keeping the rector waiting. An hour we’ve been waiting. A whole hour.’

The police officer looked up at the roof and tutted. ‘Lead you say. It’s the third church we’ve been to this morning. Every single one stripped.’

Peter stepped forward and shook hands with them both. ‘Good morning. Thank you for coming. I don’t feel too bad if we’re the third you’ve been to.’

‘Same tyre marks, sarge. Look.’ The second officer pointed to the church hall drive.

‘New to us is this. We get every crime you can think of in this area but never stealing lead before, and here we are now with three in one night. It’s like a blinking epidemic. Someone’s moved into the area and they’ve decided to make a clean sweep.’

Zack sprang to life. ‘Moved into the area? Well, we all know—’

Peter rapidly cut short Zack’s revelation. ‘We’ll have to get it repaired quickly, won’t we, Zack? In case of rain.’

‘Yes, sir, we will, but we know—’

‘Zack! Why not make a start on your Monday-morning jobs, otherwise you’ll get behind. I know you’re more comfortable if you’re ahead of yourself.’ There was a forceful note to Peter’s voice and Zack saw the truth of his statement; he would get behind, and he hated that. Never mind, he’d tell Peter later when the police had gone. On the other hand, the police ought to be told, and so he turned back. But Peter, standing behind the police officers, gently shook his head at Zack.

So Zack swept and polished inside the church, all the time fuming and cursing about the heathens who’d stolen the lead. That Ford Barclay had only been back about two months and it looked as if he was already up to his old tricks. After that fuss they all made when he first came back, and how delighted Ford and Merc said they both were to be back.

Zack even rang Marie on her mobile and told her who the police said it was. ‘Are you sure, Zack? Did they say his name?’

‘Well, not exactly. But then police wouldn’t, would they? They said it was someone who’d recently moved into the area. Well, who is there but ’im? Scrap-metal merchant by profession.’

‘Well, now look here, just be careful what you say and to whom you say it. We don’t want any bother, do we?’

‘No.’

‘So not another word about it being Ford. Promise?’

‘All right.’ But Zack decided to go to the Royal Oak that night to find out what everyone else thought. He waited until most of the regulars had taken their seats before he began. When he’d questioned everyone he could, Zack found that most of them were in the same mind as himself: Ford Barclay was at the bottom of the whole scheme. He may not have climbed on the roof and done the stealing, but he’d found someone to do the dirty deed, and he was the one selling it on. They were all outraged.

‘We’ve been duped into thinking he was innocent, but all the time he wasn’t. He was as guilty as hell,’ Willie declared.

Zack nodded. ‘Let out of prison because there wasn’t enough evidence to charge him. Oh yes!’

‘Well, I must admit it does seem a very odd coincidence. No lead stolen in this area ever, and he hasn’t been back more than about eight weeks, and wham! Three churches in one night, the police say. And each one had the whole lot taken. The whole lot! Not a scrap of lead left,’ said Marie.

‘It does seem strange, but it could be a coincidence,’ Barry offered with Pat’s encouragement.

‘Coincidence! Yes, an almighty coincidence, I must say. Have the police been round there yet? Questioning him? Do we know?’ asked Vera.