Little Woodford Read online

  As soon as the front door had shut, Amy opened a kitchen cupboard. Keeping one eye on the study door she stretched up, revealing a great deal of plump thigh, took out the biscuit tin and opened it. Inside was a supply of upmarket biscuits that the Simmonds kept for the meetings and Bible groups that met at the house. Amy helped herself to several before putting the lid back on and shoving the tin back where it lived.

  *

  Brian heard the front door slam shut, threw his pen down, leaned out of his desk chair and pushed the door to the study firmly shut. If his door was shut, Amy knew not to disturb him, and what Brian wanted more than anything was space to think.

  He put his elbows on his desk and rested his chin in his hands as he gazed, unseeing, across the front lawn. What was the matter with him? Where had the doubts come from? All his certainties about his faith seemed to be trickling away like water out of a breached dam. And why? He felt like asking God why? But what was the point – not now he wasn’t sure there was a God? And as for life eternal... What if there wasn’t? What if the humanists were right and everyone ended up as nothing more than worm food? And the worst thing was, he couldn’t confide in Heather; she didn’t need the burden of his doubt, not on top of trying to make ends meet on his stipend, not on top of what she put up with for his vocation – the endless stream of parishioners wanting to talk, wanting comfort, wanting advice, to say nothing of the crappy vicarages they had to put up with, the constant rounds of meetings, the fundraising, the turning-the-other-cheek, the expectations that they both had to be nice to everyone – even the people they couldn’t stand... everything. He wanted to confide in Heather but he didn’t dare. Supposing she had similar doubts? Supposing she was fed up with making ends meet, with living in houses that were inadequate and dreary? Supposing she had had enough of being at the beck and call of the parish twenty-four-seven? Supposing she said, Great, let’s throw in the towel and get a proper job? Then what?

  Brian felt himself sagging with despair and weariness. What if his life so far had been an utter, total waste of time and energy? What then?

  *

  Heather walked up the road, under the ancient oaks and yews, across the brook and past the cemetery, the old, rather higgledy-piggledy gravestones basking in the ever-strengthening April sunshine. Above her the rooks cawed incessantly as they wheeled over the rookery in the trees behind the Norman church, with its weathered grey stone walls and squat tower, and the only other noise was the distant hum of the ring road, the other side of the cricket pitch. The peace of the scene was deeply calming. Sometimes, in the summer, when there was a cricket match on and the bell-ringers were practising, she felt it was the kind of place that John Betjeman could have immortalised in a poem; leather on willow, an occasional spattering of applause, cries of ‘howzat’ and the slightly arrhythmic bing-bong-ding-dong of a peal of bells. Utter cliché but utter English bliss.

  She strolled on knowing that she could have phoned Joan to ask about the flowers but she always liked an excuse to take this walk, and besides, she was mindful that neither Joan nor her husband Bert had been in the best of health since the winter – Joan had had a nasty virus and was only recently on the mend – and they might appreciate a visit. Plus, there was every possibility that Bert would offer some of his own flowers from his allotment for the church, and every little helped. Bert’s allotment didn’t just yield a cornucopia of vegetables every year, but dahlias, hellebores, foxgloves, hollyhocks and a dozen other types of flowers that Heather would accept gratefully for the church arrangement whilst having only the vaguest of idea as to what they were called. And, even if it was a bit early for the best of Bert’s flowers, he would certainly have foliage which, in itself, was very useful.

  Towards the top of the road, the quiet was dissipated by the bustle of the high street but Heather didn’t mind. She loved the town’s wide main street with its wiggly roof line, its big market square and pretty Georgian town hall. It mightn’t be the sort of place you moved to for the shopping – Bluewater it wasn’t – but the boutiques and delis, the cafés and the pub and the hanging baskets full of winter pansies and the tubs of daffs and tulips more than made up for the lack of major retailers. And today was market day so there was the extra bustle and activity that that always brought. It was a proper small market town, she always thought. Perfect – well, perfect as long as you didn’t scratch too deep. Like everywhere they had problems with poverty, drugs and the occasional crime but there were worse places to live in the country. Far worse. She knew that – Brian had been a vicar in one or two.

  She was looking in the window of the cake shop and wondering about treating herself and Brian to a custard tart each when she heard her name being called. She turned and saw the pub’s landlady. As always, Belinda had a smile on her face. She was a life-enhancer, thought Heather. Brian might deal with the town’s moral well-being but Belinda provided an equally important service on the mental health side of things by listening to their woes, being unfailingly cheerful and totally non-judgemental. Her sunny outlook radiated out of her and sparkled out of her blue eyes.

  ‘Belinda, hello. You well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. You?’

  Heather nodded.

  ‘I’ve just been to the hairdresser,’ said Belinda. ‘That always makes me feel better. Good for morale, don’t you think?’

  Heather gazed at Belinda’s beautifully cut bob that framed her smiling face and wished she knew. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a professional hair-do. She washed her own hair and pinned it up to keep it out of the way. Not smart or fashionable but suitable for a vicar’s wife. Cheap to maintain, and when it got too long, she hacked bits off with the kitchen scissors.

  ‘It must be,’ she said, smiling and quenching the tiny pang of envy she felt. ‘By the way, Amy says someone is moving into The Beeches.’

  ‘Well, if Amy says so it must be true. Anyway, I’d better get on; not long till opening time and I mustn’t keep the punters waiting. Will you be coming to the next book club?’

  ‘I will. I can’t say I was thrilled by the last choice but it was an interesting read.’

  ‘Good. Well... Good you found it interesting, at any rate. If everyone did, it’ll be the basis for a lively discussion.’

  ‘Will you be there?’

  ‘Should be if the new girl shows up. We’ve had so much trouble with our part-timers recently. Don’t the young want to earn extra money? And don’t they realise that letting an employer down is more than just bad manners...’ Belinda stopped. ‘Sorry, I was about to go into rant mode.’

  ‘Rant away. I do it all the time – although, generally speaking, I have to do it in my head. If I said what I really think to some of Brian’s parishioners, Brian would have been defrocked years ago.’

  Belinda laughed. ‘Must get on. Much as I love chatting to you, this isn’t getting the pub open.’

  Heather strolled on, through the main square, past all the market stalls, towards the little bungalows where the Makepieces lived; close to the station and behind the main recreation ground in the town. She cut through the park, smiling at the mothers whose little ones were toddling around on the grass or being pushed on swings in the play area. Older kids, enjoying the Easter break, were thrashing their BMXs and skateboards over the concrete of the skatepark or hanging round in groups, chatting, taking selfies and a couple were puffing on illicit fags, trying to look as if they were enjoying it. Behind the ramps and half-pipes she could see the cane wigwams for runner beans in the allotments standing proud above the chain-link fence that surrounded the park. Not that you could see the mesh of the fence for the convolvulus that trailed over it. Heather always thought that it was a shame it was such a terrible weed – the huge white trumpet-shaped flowers were so beautiful – but Bert left her in no doubt as to what a bane it was where his veg patch was concerned. She ambled along to the far end of the park and turned into the Makepieces’s road and then up their garden path.

&nb
sp; Joan Makepiece was sitting in her armchair near the window and waved as she saw the vicar’s wife approach.

  ‘Come in, m’dear,’ she said, opening the door before Heather could ring the bell. ‘What brings you round here?’

  Heather stepped over the threshold. ‘I came to see you, of course.’ She smiled at the elderly woman and was rewarded with a twinkling smile back. She was the epitome of a little old lady – the sort you’d find in the pages of a child’s picture book with her snow-white hair set in soft curls, piercing blue eyes and peaches-and-cream skin creased with wrinkles.

  Joan nodded. ‘And...?’

  ‘Beg a cup of tea?’

  ‘And...?’

  ‘There’s no flies on you, are there, Joan.’

  ‘You don’t get to my age through being stupid.’ Joan led the way into the kitchen.

  Heather didn’t retort that she knew plenty who had. Instead she said, ‘I need help with the flowers.’ She put her bag on the counter.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today, for preference.’

  ‘And flowers?’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Let’s have a cuppa, then we can go and see Bert – he’s up on the allotment now – and I’m sure he’ll let you have what you need. He’s got some lovely daffs and his hellebores are a treat. I expect there’ll be some snowdrops too. Then he can run us back to yours. Now, what’s this I hear about The Beeches having a new family in it? The postie told me.’

  Goodness, thought Heather, news really did travel fast in this town.

  2

  Olivia looked at the reflection of the back of her head in the second mirror that Mags was holding up behind her. Most satisfactory. Her short bob was neatly cut and, thanks to Mags’s expert highlighting, all the grey was covered and her hair was back to the correct shade of honey. Her eyes shifted from her hair to her face. She could still pass for forty, she reckoned. She peered at her eyes – almost no crow’s feet and no bags. Good skin care was the secret; the Queen knew that and look how well she had aged.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to Mags.

  She reached for her purse and extracted a fiver which she passed over. ‘A bit extra for doing such a good job.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Mags, stuffing the note into her trouser pocket. ‘And thanks.’

  ‘And what do I owe?’

  ‘Janine’ll sort that out for you, and make you another appointment if you’d like. See you, Mrs L.’ Mags disappeared out to the back of the salon and Olivia went to pay. She was glad the weather was still decent. The forecasted rain for later hadn’t materialised and she wanted to check out the state of the nature reserve. She’d heard rumours about children hanging around in it, getting up to no good. There’d been complaints and she wanted to see for herself how bad it was. Maybe the council needed to take action. The blue-haired receptionist rang up the bill on the till. Sixty pounds – good grief! Not that the price had gone up, but the amount always managed to shock her. She handed over her card and tapped in her PIN. She wouldn’t be admitting to Nigel what it cost to get her hair sorted. He’d been bloody funny about money recently and he’d go off on one – as her son Zac would say – if he knew what it cost to stay looking presentable. Half the time she was sure he didn’t notice. Sometimes she thought that he wouldn’t notice if she wore a bin bag or got a tattoo – OK, she conceded mentally, he’d notice a tattoo. But he wouldn’t notice if she left her hair unwashed for a month. Men.

  With her head held high, proud of her newly styled hair, Olivia left the salon and headed down the high street to the turning that led to the nature reserve. Once she was off the main road the hum of traffic was soon replaced by the cawing of rooks and the alarm call of a blackbird startled by her presence on this quiet side street. She walked past the walled back gardens of the premises that fronted onto the high street, and then into open country. The lane was now flanked by an avenue of chestnut trees until it petered out at the entrance to the large meadow that formed the town’s nature reserve. The sticky buds on the ancient chestnuts were still shut fast against the sudden chills and bad weather that might still happen even though it was almost springtime but the lack of foliage made the trees starkly beautiful. The land ahead was bisected by the river Catte. The locals might call it a river but at this stage of its journey it was little more than a brook that babbled over a bed of chalk, shallow enough for kids to paddle in safely in the summer and where dogs splashed all year round. There was a stand of pines on this side, and a little network of paths that led walkers through the reserve, over the bridge that crossed the stream and took visitors through a copse, past the nest boxes nailed to the trunks of the willows that flanked the banks and the signs telling them what to look out for in the way of flora and fauna. The reserve wasn’t big but it was popular and even at this time there were a number of mums with their toddlers in pushchairs, and even more dog walkers. As it was the school holidays a few teenagers were hanging around one of the benches by the main path but they didn’t seem to be up to anything too antisocial.

  Olivia cast a critical eye over the open space. On the face of it, it didn’t look too bad. Yes, the rubbish bin nearest her needed emptying, the lid wouldn’t shut properly, but at least it meant visitors were using it. She headed along the path that led to the bridge and then the copse. She stopped on the bridge and looked into the water. A small fish was visible – its tail waving lazily to hold it steady in the current. Olivia wondered what it might be. A minnow? A trout? She had no idea but she was pleased to see it. It meant the water quality was high. So far so good. She strolled on to the tiny wood and looked at the thicket of bushes that made up the understorey. There was a visible path, beaten through the light scrub. Olivia pushed her way along it. In the middle of the trees she stopped and stared at the ground in horror.

  Empty bottles, discarded cans, pizza boxes, polystyrene cartons from the burger van, newspaper, plastic bags... the place was a tip. It was disgusting, disgraceful. Olivia shook her head. No wonder people had been complaining. She looked more closely at the bottles – mostly alcohol; no surprise there. She checked the labels; cider, vodka, Malbec... She did a double take. Malbec?! What the hell were the local yobs doing drinking Malbec? It was Nigel’s favourite tipple, quite apart from anything else, and far too sophisticated for the kind of youths who were likely to hang out in a spot like this. They probably nicked it from the supermarket in Cattebury and had no idea what they’d pinched and didn’t care either, just as long as it was booze.

  Olivia sniffed. She’d tell the town clerk and get him to organise the town’s refuse team to sort it. But how they could they stop it from happening again? She knew for a fact the police wouldn’t be interested. It might be ugly and antisocial but it was hardly the crime of the century and even Olivia could see that littering would be the lowest of low priorities.

  She turned to go and barked her ankle on a sharp object. She looked to see what it was. A primus stove. Then she saw the tinfoil, the spoons, the tiny plastic bags, and a series of connections were triggered in her brain. She knew just enough about drugs to realise the significance. Dear God, supposing there were used needles here? Worse and worse. And yet, the police would have to take an interest in the misuse of illegal substances. Where there were drugs there would be dealers. Olivia shook her head, aghast at the implications for Little Woodford. Maybe if the police patrolled the reserve for a while the druggies would all move on elsewhere. Frankly, she thought, if there were children who wanted to ruin their lives by snorting banned substances she didn’t really care. If they wanted to grow up to be deadbeats that was their problem. Just as long as they didn’t do it in this town and spoil the place for everyone else or pass their noxious habits onto children like her Zac. Not that he’d ever do drugs; she and Nigel had brought him up properly.

  Olivia shook her head and pushed her way back along the overgrown path through the thicket and out into the sunshine and the meadow. She stopped as she rejoined the main path; l
eft would take her to the top end of town where she lived or she could retrace her steps and head for the town hall to report this matter. She was longing for a cup of coffee but her civic duty took precedence. She turned to the right and headed back to the town centre.

  *

  Belinda patted her newly cut page-boy bob and glanced at the mirror behind the shelves of glasses to admire it. Like Olivia, she reckoned she didn’t look too bad for her age but peered closer and checked out the start of a few crow’s feet by her grey eyes. Hmmm – she might have to increase the old night-cream regime if she wanted to keep them under control. It was all very well to call them laughter lines but everyone knew that was a euphemism for old and wrinkly. She focused her eyes from her face to the bar behind her. The three old boys who were lunchtime regulars were sitting at their usual table by the window and had enough in their glasses to keep them going for a few minutes. Good, she had a job she wanted to do. She put her head round the kitchen door.

  ‘Just popping upstairs,’ she told Miles, her partner. ‘I shouldn’t be long but if you could just keep an eye on the bar till I get back – in case we get another customer. Everyone else is all right for a mo.’

  Miles nodded and carried on slicing carrots.

  ‘It’s the Stitch and Bitch ladies tomorrow – I want to get the room ready while I think about it and while it’s quiet,’ Belinda explained.

  Miles nodded again. ‘Want to prop the door open till you get back?’

  Belinda pushed a wooden wedge under the door with her foot. ‘Call me if there’s a sudden rush.’

  She went back into the bar, grabbed a damp cloth and ran up the stairs to the room that snuggled under the eaves. They called it the function room but it was more of a meeting room – it was hard to fit more than a couple of dozen people in at any one time but it was a perfect space for the craft group to meet, and a whole host of other clubs and committees that kept the townsfolk of Little Woodford entertained or busy or both. And Belinda was more than happy for these little groups to use the room free of charge. More often than not she was asked to supply refreshments so it was good for business.