Little Woodford Page 9

  ‘Are ’e. And is that supposed to impress I?’

  ‘Well no, but I’ve heard a rumour you might be developing this field.’

  ‘Have ’e, now. And what business is it of yourn if I am?’

  ‘There’s regulations.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, they’re there to be obeyed.’

  ‘An’ who says I’m breaking ’em?’

  ‘No one – not yet.’

  ‘Then until that happens – which it won’t – I suggest that you, Councillor Olivia Laithwaite, slings your hook.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘Yes, really. Now git orf my land.’

  ‘I’m on the footpath.’

  ‘No, you ain’t.’ Mr McGregor took a step to the left. ‘This is the footpath.’

  Olivia sniffed. What an obnoxious and ill-mannered man he was. And if he thought that he was going to get away with any sort of building on this field it would be over her dead body.

  ‘Git,’ said McGregor more aggressively.

  Olivia ‘got’.

  10

  While Olivia was pedalling away from McGregor’s farm, Brian Simmonds sat in his study, staring at a blank sheet of A4. He picked up a pen and doodled on it. Someone, somewhere, had said that doodling freed up the creative mind. Really? His was still as blank as the piece of paper – blanker now that the paper had a series of interlocking circles on it. With a sigh he put down the pen again and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

  Writing a sermon, he thought as he filled the kettle, should be a doddle at this time of year; Easter had just been and gone, spring was awash with new life, winter had been banished, life after death, hope eternal, regeneration... He shook his head; this was hopeless. He put the kettle down on the counter and a minute later he was walking down the path to the church. Maybe something would come to him there.

  He let himself in through the vestry door and made his way to the choir stalls. He knelt and bowed his head but even as he did he felt awkward. He wanted to believe in God, he wanted to connect to Him through prayer, but he felt that, even by doing something as habitual as reciting the Lord’s Prayer which was as much a part of his life as breathing was, he was a fake, a fraud, a hypocrite. Before, he’d always felt as if there was a presence with him, like he always knew when Heather was in the house, even if they were in separate rooms. But now... nothing. A void, a silence. It was like he was being shunned. Blanked. Did that mean that God was testing his faith, or – and this was almost unthinkable and yet he thought it all the same – or, did this mean this was the new reality? That there was no God? He kept telling himself everyone had doubts occasionally. But the more he tried to battle onwards the harder it was becoming.

  There was a clatter from the vestry which startled him. He hauled himself to his feet. He saw Joan coming into the body of the church pushing a vacuum cleaner.

  ‘Hello, Reverend.’

  ‘Hello, Joan.’

  ‘Thought I’d give the carpet by the altar a going over. I thought it needed doing when I was down here doing the flowers last week.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But if you’d rather I didn’t disturb you...’

  ‘No, no, you go ahead.’ Brian smiled at her and began to make his way back to the vestry. As he turned he heard Joan gasp. He swung back. She was clutching the altar rail as a spasm of pain crossed her face.

  ‘Joan, what on earth is it? Are you all right?’

  Joan screwed up her eyes and nodded. After a few seconds she managed to gasp, ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘You don’t look fine.’

  ‘Just a touch of heartburn. Honest.’

  ‘Here.’ Brian went over to her, took her arm and led her to one of the choir stalls and sat her down. Her top lip had a sheen of sweat on it and her mouth was set in a tight line.

  ‘I’ll be right as ninepence in a minute.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Brian sat down beside her. ‘I’ll get the car and run you home.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort, Reverend. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.’

  The pair sat in silence for a minute or two then Joan sighed. ‘Phew,’ she said. ‘Glad that’s over.’

  ‘Heartburn?’ said Brian, his disbelief obvious.

  ‘Yes,’ said Joan, firmly. ‘And I don’t want you mentioning this to Bert.’ She skewered him with a hard stare.

  ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Is that fair on Bert?’

  ‘What the eye don’t see...’

  ‘I suppose.’ Brian thought about what he was keeping from Heather. ‘I suppose we all sometimes keep quiet, keep things from our loved ones, to protect them from stuff that might worry them.’

  ‘Heartburn ain’t nothing to worry about.’

  ‘No, heartburn isn’t...’ Brian left the implication to hang in the air. ‘Have you seen Dr Connolly?’

  ‘Not worth going to bother him with it.’

  ‘Really?’

  Joan stood up. ‘Yes, really.’ She took the flex off the hook on the back of the hoover and began to uncoil it. ‘Anyway, what are you keeping from Heather?’

  Brian glanced up. He’d forgotten how sharp she was, despite her advanced years. ‘Oh, nothing. No, I didn’t mean me.’

  ‘Really?’

  The pair exchanged a look, neither believing the other.

  ‘Whatever you say, Reverend. But if you want someone to talk about it to...’

  ‘And the same goes for you,’ said Brian.

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Joan walked over to a socket hidden behind one of the pillars and plugged in the vacuum. ‘I’ll think about it.’ She switched on the machine.

  *

  Later that day, Bex was busy unpacking, folding, putting away, hanging up, sorting, arranging and tidying and generally getting the house straight.

  ‘Mum, Mum, have you found Dougie the Digger yet?’ Alfie tugged on Bex’s cardigan to make sure she paid him attention.

  ‘Not yet, sweetie.’

  ‘But you promised.’ Alfie’s lip trembled.

  Bex put down the stack of books she’d heaved out of a box and knelt on the floor beside her son.

  ‘I promised I’d find it, and I will.’

  ‘Then why haven’t you?’

  Bex gestured to the stacks of boxes that still had to be tackled. ‘If I knew which box it was in I’d get it for you straight away, but I don’t.’

  ‘But I want to play with it now.’

  Bex began to feel her patience waning. ‘You’ll have to play with something else. You’ve lots of toys in your room.’

  ‘I don’t want to play with anything else. I want Dougie.’ Alfie stamped his foot.

  Bex sighed and went to the door of the sitting room. ‘Megan. Megan!’

  Her voice echoed down the stairs from the landing. ‘What? I’m sorting out the airing cupboard.’

  ‘I know, love, but...’

  ‘Hang on...’ Megan looked down over the banisters.

  Bex lowered her voice by a decibel or two. ‘I know but I just wondered if you’ve any idea where Alfie’s digger is?’

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  Bex shook her head. ‘Alfie so wants to play with it.’

  ‘God, Bex, he’s got a room full of toys.’

  ‘I know but...’

  Alfie wandered out of the sitting room, tears rolling down his face.

  ‘How about if I take him to see the real diggers up at the building site behind the station.’

  ‘Yeah!’ said Alfie. ‘Diggers.’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No, besides I’m totally fed up with sorting out sheets and pillow cases.’

  ‘Do you mind taking Lewis as well?’

  ‘Not really. We might go on to the play park.’

  ‘Why don’t you. The weather’s not too bad although the forecast was for rain later. You might as well make the mos
t of it.’

  Once the children had gone out the house went very quiet. Bex carried on emptying boxes, finding places to put things, until she suddenly ran out of energy. She went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and have a biscuit or two – she felt in desperate need of a sugar rush. Bugger – the tin was empty. So the choice was simple; go without or pop up the road to the little Co-op and buy a packet or two. But even as she looked at her options she knew what she ought to do because the boys wouldn’t be best pleased if they came back from the play park tired and hungry and there wasn’t anything to nibble on.

  She threw a jacket on, grabbed her handbag and a carrier bag and walked the two hundred yards to the shop. The automatic doors swished open as she stepped up to them and she gazed around at the little supermarket, wondering where the biscuits might be kept.

  ‘Hello. It’s Bex, isn’t it?’

  She turned. The vicar’s wife. ‘Hiya,’ she said cheerily.

  ‘Lovely to run into you. How’s it going?’

  ‘Still chaos.’

  ‘I’m going to have to try and persuade you to give the WI a try, you know.’

  Bex raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Seriously, last night’s talk was a hoot. It was all about Victorian underwear. God, the things women had to put up with in those days in the name of fashion, it makes me so glad I live in the here and now. The “good old days”? Tosh!’

  ‘It sounds as if it was interesting.’

  ‘Absolutely fascinating. Maybe next time.’

  ‘Maybe. Olivia’s promised to fix me up with a babysitter – someone called Amy – but, however much Olivia recommends her, I can’t possibly leave my kids with a stranger.’

  ‘I can see that. But I can assure you that Amy is lovely. She cleans for me.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s great, but you must see it from my perspective.’

  ‘I do, totally. I’ll have to arrange for you to meet her sometime; that is, if you’d like a babysitter.’

  ‘I think once we’ve settled here I could probably trust Megan to do it for me, but while everything is new and strange...’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Anyway, I must get on. We’ve run out of biscuits and I need to have some for when Megan and the boys get back from their walk.’

  ‘Just one thing...’ Heather put her hand on Bex’s arm. ‘Don’t dismiss joining in with things here just because Olivia might have been a bit heavy-handed.’ She smiled. ‘I know exactly what she can be like. But maybe, in a week or two, you might like to give the book club a whirl? That meets in the pub too – so handy for you to pop home if you felt you needed to.’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll think about it.’

  *

  Amy was walking through town when she saw the blonde woman turn into The Beeches. The new occupant; the woman she’d seen get out of the car earlier in the Easter holidays. She dithered with the idea of running after her and asking for her old job back but that smacked of being a bit desperate. Best leave it a bit longer, she told herself, although, by heck, she could do with the extra cash.

  ‘Ames!’

  She spun round. She saw a lanky, thirty-something in grubby jeans and a T-shirt, no jacket despite the brisk breeze, and carefully slicked-back hair strolling towards her. ‘Billy. What you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?’ Billy Rogers worked as a mechanic for the local car dealership. Amy always reckoned that if she could ever afford a car he’d not only be able to lay his hands on a good one for her but he’d probably get it for her cheap and he’d know how to look after it for her. It was worth putting up with his filthy fingernails for that.

  Billy stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. He bent down and dropped a kiss on her neck. ‘Nah, day off.’

  ‘Jammy bugger,’ said Amy. ‘Can’t remember the last time I had a day off.’

  ‘What you doing this evening?’

  ‘Dunno. Watching the telly with my Ash, more than likely.’

  ‘Fancy going out for a drink?’

  Amy shook her head. ‘Course I fancy doing that – trouble is, going out costs and I’m skint. Staying in is much cheaper.’

  ‘My treat.’ Billy pulled a roll of twenties out of his jeans pocket.

  ‘Bloody hell, Bill. Where’d you get that from?’

  ‘Bit of freelance work.’ Billy tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘Doesn’t your boss mind?’

  Billy leaned closer to Amy. ‘My boss doesn’t know. More to the point, neither does the tax man. And it’s going to stay that way.’ He gave Amy a knowing nod. ‘Savvy? No blabbing it around town that I make extra cash on the side.’

  ‘As if I would,’ said Amy, pained. Besides, other than the post office job, which didn’t give her the option, she was a cash-in-hand worker too. No point in giving away your earnings to the government if you didn’t have to, was how she looked at it.

  ‘Good. So, meet me in the Talbot at eight?’

  ‘It’s a date.’

  *

  Joan leaned against the counter in her kitchen as she felt the pain in her chest start to blossom. Not again, she thought. Her desire for a nice cuppa swept away by the stabbing, burning sensation, she staggered back into the sitting room and flopped onto the sofa, thankful that Bert was out at his allotment. She kept telling herself, like she had told the vicar, that it was heartburn, but what if it wasn’t? What if it was something more serious? She hadn’t been quite right since the winter when she’d had that horrible bug. And yet she was terrified of going to see Dr Connolly in case her worst fears were confirmed. And what if he sent her to hospital? Who would look after Bert? He barely knew how to make a cup of tea, let alone feed himself properly. He’d gone straight from living with his mum, to National Service where he’d met her in the NAAFI canteen in the barracks. As far as Joan knew, Bert had never cooked a meal for himself in his life. The rising feeling of panic didn’t help matters and she found herself getting short of breath. Joan shut her eyes and concentrated on drawing air, as steadily as she could, into her lungs. In... out... in... out...

  She began to feel better. The clammy sweat, brought on by the pain, dissipated and she pulled a hanky from her sleeve and mopped her brow.

  She heard the click of Bert’s key in the lock.

  ‘Just getting me boots off,’ he called through from the porch.

  Galvanised, Joan hauled herself off the sofa and shot across the hall and shut herself in the loo. She wanted another couple of minutes to get herself properly under control before she faced him. The last thing she wanted was for him to worry about her. And anyway, it was probably nothing; nothing that time wouldn’t sort.

  *

  ‘I’m off out, Ash, love,’ Amy called up the stairs.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he shouted back.

  ‘Just the pub. I’m meeting Billy.’

  ‘OK, have a nice time.’

  Amy did up her mac as she headed out the front door and snapped up her umbrella before she got to the pavement. It was nice to be going out for a change. She tramped along the wet pavements, cars swishing past, splashing her occasionally, while she, once again, wished she could afford one. Then she switched her thoughts to Billy – was he a keeper? She began to add up the things she liked about him; he always had money, which was a real plus. He got on all right with Ash – or, at least, they didn’t hate each other. He had a steady job. And he was OK in bed. Oh, and he took an interest in her; he was always asking her about her day, about her ladies, getting her to tell him about the swanky houses she looked after. And the negatives...? He ought to do something about his fingernails but then he was a mechanic so she supposed all his workmates were the same. But if he didn’t worry about his nails he was bonkers about his hair. He was always whipping out a comb and faffing with it, like he was the Fonz. But neither of those two things were deal-breakers. No, so... if he popped the question one day, she wouldn’t say no. Mulling over the possible shape of her future and the bloke she wouldn’t mind sharing it wi
th got her to the door of the pub. She collapsed her umbrella and shook the worst of the rain off it before she opened the door to the smell of beer and the sound of people chatting.

  ‘Wotcha,’ said Billy from a table near the door. ‘Got you a white wine in.’

  As Amy slipped her wet coat off she bent forward to kiss him.

  ‘Oi, you’re getting me wet.’

  ‘Sorry, babes.’ She hung it on a hook nearby then sat down and picked up her glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Tell me about your day.’

  ‘I cleaned for the doctor’s wife today.’

  ‘Her with the dead kid.’

  ‘That’s right. Won’t let me touch her room. There’s something not right there, if you ask me...’

  ‘Go on.’

  So Amy did, once again telling Billy everything she knew about what it was like behind the front doors of the posh houses in the town.

  It was almost closing time when the pair left the pub.

  ‘I’ll walk you home, Ames,’ said Billy. He put his hand under her elbow as she swayed rather alarmingly on the edge of the kerb.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she protested. ‘Jusht a bit tipshy, thatsh all.’ She giggled.

  ‘Pissed as a fart, more like,’ muttered Billy. He led the way along the high street and Amy stumbled, tripped and cannoned off street furniture till they got to her house.

  ‘Where’s your keys, love?’ said Billy as he propped her against the wall.

  ‘In my bag,’ she slurred. She started to rummage. ‘Here they are.’ She handed over a bunch to Billy.

  ‘So which one is it?’

  Amy squinted at the keys, trying to get her eyes to focus. ‘Oopsh, not those. Those are the keys to my ladies’ houses. Silly me.’ She hiccupped. She had another look in her bag and produced a second bunch with a flourish. ‘Here we are.’ She picked out a brass Yale key and tried to get it in the lock but each thrust at the keyhole was wide of the mark.

  ‘What are you like,’ said Billy with a sigh. He took the key and had the door open in a second.

  Amy stumbled in over the doorstep and Billy assessed the stairs and Amy’s condition. He put one arm around her waist and put her right arm over his shoulder and half-dragging, half-carrying her he got her up to her room where he laid her on her bed.