A Tangled Web (18 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY- THREE

It was very quiet in Victoria Villa. Ivy Beasley had not taken off her coat, or her grey woollen gloves, and was walking rapidly round the house, from room to room, not looking for anything, just walking.

She stopped eventually, and found herself in her mother's bedroom. The quiet was so thick in here that she crossed to the window and opened it a fraction, replacing the heavy net curtains quickly.

The Green was empty, except for the distant figure of Mr Ross, muffled and disguised, taking his little dog for a walk by the river. As Ivy looked, old Ellen came out of the shop and headed for home. She did not once glance in the direction of Victoria Villa.

Ivy took off her gloves and coat, and let them fall in a heap on the floor. Then she sat down on the dressing-table stool and looked at herself in the mirror. That can't be me, she thought, that's not me. She got up again quickly, and began to walk towards the door.

Stand still! Stand still at once! said the voice in her head. Ivy halted, for once relieved that her mother was still there. What exactly do you think you are doing? said the voice. Ivy tried to speak, but words would not come.

You've really messed it up now, haven't you, you stupid girl. Ellen Biggs will tell everyone and the few friends you have got will turn against you. Why did you have to choose today of all days?

Ivy sat down on the edge of the bed, her hand repeatedly smoothing the cold white cover.

I thought you'd given up on Pushy Peg? said the relentless voice. Thought it was Gabriella Jones you were after? Well, answer me, girl!

But Ivy could find nothing to say. She slowly slid off the edge of the bed, down on to the rag rug made by her mother in winter evenings long ago, and curled up like a child, closing her eyes tight against a hostile world.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Gabriella gathered her music together and put it into her old brown music case, the one she had had at school, and had promised to give to Octavia if she wanted to follow her mother's career in teaching music.

'That old thing?' Octavia had said. 'No thanks. I'm going to be a model, anyway, marry some rich old man who'll die quickly and leave me lots of money to enjoy myself.'

It was a bitterly cold evening, and Gabriella looked at her cosy sitting room with some regret. Greg had built up a big log fire, and sat buried behind the newspaper in his deep armchair.

'Hope not to be too late back,' she said, wrapping her scarf several times round her neck. Greg did not answer, and she walked over to him.

'Greg, you might say good luck, or something,' she said.

He put down the paper with deliberation and looked up at her.

'It's only the dress rehearsal, isn't it?' he said. 'I'll save the good wishes for tomorrow night.'

Gabriella frowned. 'Is something wrong, Greg?' she said. He shook his head and began to read.

'It's not that ridiculous thing Robert said that night, is it? You're not still brooding about that?'

'Don't be silly, Gabriella,' he said. 'You'd better be going, you don't want to be late.'

'Is it Octavia, then, is there something you're not telling me?'

'Gabriella, there is nothing wrong ...and I have never kept anything important from you, you know that. I hope you can say the same thing. And now leave me in peace, there's a good girl.'

It is what Robert said, thought Gabriella. Sophie Brooks has been very off with me ever since, and Doreen and Peggy have been giving me funny looks. And then there's old Ivy, dripping her poison all over the village. She's probably been spreading untruths, as usual. Perhaps I shouldn't have moved her to the back row, mortally offended her, no doubt.

Most of the company, including Susan Standing, were already in the church, and from the excited level of conversation Gabriella knew that tension was mounting. It was all very well to sing just for themselves, and have a lot of fun doing it, but now the prospect of an audience was sending shivers through many of them.

'Here she comes,' said Nigel Brooks, dignified in his full cassock, his face shining with benevolence and encouragement.

'Hello, everyone,' said Gabriella, forcing her mind back to the concert, and the importance of conveying confidence to her nervous choir.

'Take your places, and we'll make a start,' she said.

'Remember the stopwatch, Colin?'

'Yes, Miss!' said Colin, full of good cheer.

The Reverend Nigel Brooks had stepped forward to welcome the invisible audience and announce the first item, when the door opened and Ellen Biggs hobbled in. She looked cold and furious, and Nigel halted mid-sentence.

'Ellen,' he said, 'come along in, we're just about to start.'

'Where is she?' said Ellen, her voice cracked and gruff with the cold.

'Where is who?'

'Ivy,' said Ellen. 'Ivy Beasley- where is she?'

Nobody had noticed Ivy's absence, but now they all began to talk at once, and Gabriella moved into her conductor's position.

'Quiet, please, everybody, quiet.' She took Ellen's arm and helped her up the chancel steps into the altos, telling her to keep on her scarf and gloves until she had warmed up.

'Anybody seen Miss Beasley?' said Nigel. He turned and looked at the choir, his face genuinely concerned.

Nobody had, and various suggestions of indisposition and unexpected visitors were put forward.

'Well, it's most unlike her to be late.' said Gabriella, 'but we must begin.' She looked at Nigel.

'Will you do the welcome again?' she said, and nodded to Colin Osman, who restarted his stopwatch with a flourish.

It was a ragged, unsatisfactory dress rehearsal, and, despite her best efforts, Gabriella felt the choir's exuberance draining away. By the end of the programme, everyone looked miserable and low. Small groups formed as usual, but the conversation was quiet, desultory.

Sophie Brooks found herself at odds with the rest. She had a nasty, mean feeling of pleasure that things had not gone well. I don't care, she thought, if it is a disaster. In fact, I rather hope it is a disaster, then Nigel and his beloved Gabriella will stop preening themselves like a couple of love birds and get back to their proper work and families.

'Now, everyone,' said Nigel, standing on the chancel steps, 'you know what they say, a bad dress rehearsal means a good performance, and vice versa, of course. So I, for one, am not downhearted, and with the good Lord's help we shall have a triumph tomorrow night. So let's cheer up, and away to our beds.'

Bill Turner offered to run Ellen home in his van, and the rest walked away from the church in twos and threes, chattering in a more lively way, their spirits somewhat restored by Nigel's little pep-talk.

"As Peggy told you about Ivy?' said Ellen, as she settled back in Bill's sagging front seat.

Bill wiped condensation off the windscreen with an old rag and grunted. 'She did say something, but didn't want to talk about it when I asked.'

'It was wicked, on this particular day,' said Ellen, pulling up her coat collar against the draughts. 'Shouldn't be surprised if old Nick hadn't come for 'er. That's where she's gone, I shouldn't wonder, straight to Purgat'ry.'

'Who? Peggy?' said Bill, only half listening.

'No, old Ivy,' said Ellen. 'What you and Peggy Palmer mean to each other is your own business. And don't let that Ivy tell you it's driving Joyce mad. You and me and most of the village know that Joyce has been unhinged for years. You done your best by 'er, Bill, and no man could 'ave done more.'

'Thanks, Ellen,' said Bill. 'You're not such a bad old devil yourself.'

Ellen chuckled, and scrambled out of Bill's van outside the Lodge.

'Ta, Bill,' she said. 'You'd best go and check on old Ivy. Wouldn't want even that old misery lying cold on 'er kitchen floor and nobody to find her.'

Sophie lingered in the church, putting away chairs and helping to move the piano back against the wall. Nigel seemed in good spirits, but Gabriella would not be cheered up.

'It was terrible, Nigel, wasn't it. Sophie, wasn't it terrible?' she said. 'The tenors were flatter than usual, and Ellen went wrong several times. Her mind seemed to be elsewhere, and with her strong voice the mistakes are really noticeable. Then Susan Standing was stammering with nerves - she's never done that before- and the Gloria at the end sounded more like a Requiem ...'

'It wasn't nearly as bad as that!' said Nigel, patting her on the shoulder. 'You'll see, they'll all come up trumps tomorrow. It's a sense of occasion does the trick, always works.'

But Gabriella shook her head, her blonde hair swinging, and walked disconsolately to the door.

'Come back with us and have a cup of tea,' said Nigel, an impulsive offer made on the spur of the moment. 'I hate to see you disappearing into the night with such a long face. We always have a cuppa last thing, don't we, Soph?'

I don't believe it, thought Sophie, how can he be so insensitive? Does he think I am some dutiful handmaiden, who will jump to the kettle and the teapot when he feels like indulging his fancy woman?

'Of course,' she said. 'Do come over, Gabriella. I am sure you and Nigel still have final details to discuss.'

'Are you sure?' said Gabriella, unwilling to go back to the unresponsive Greg. 'Well, then, thank you very much, Sophie.'

In the big kitchen at the vicarage, the three of them sat drinking tea round the table, and, as they talked sensibly about the rehearsal, Gabriella seemed more optimistic.

'I suppose it wasn't all that bad,' she said. 'It was just that I was so anxious for it all to be perfect.'

She stood up. 'I must be going, Greg will be wondering where I am,' she said, and Sophie and Nigel also got to their feet.

'I'll walk back with you,' said Nigel. 'It's a very dark night.'

Sophie felt sick. He can't do that, she thought. If he walks her home, I shall leave. Straight away. I shall just get in the car and go, anywhere, anywhere to get away. I can't take any more.

'Shan't be many minutes, Soph,' said Nigel, pulling on his coat and following Gabriella across the black and white tiled floor and out of the heavy front door. It shut with a thud behind them, and Sophie rushed to the cupboard, pulling out her own coat. She took her car keys from the board over the hatch, and walked quickly out of the kitchen. At the foot of the stairs in the hall, she stopped.

Ricky, the old black dog, stretched out on the door mat where everyone fell over him, lifted his head and looked at her with his bluey-black eyes. It wasn't an invitation to a walk, he knew that. He also knew that his favourite person was in trouble. He walked in his meandering way over to Sophie and pushed his nose into her hand, tentatively wagging his ratty old tail.

She looked down at him, and patted his bony head. Then she took off her coat, put the keys back on the board, and went wearily upstairs to bed.

CHAPTER THIRTY -FIVE

Ivy Beasley stared out of her mother's bedroom window at the falling snow. Her face was closed, and the thin skin under her eyes bruised and black from crying and restless sleep. She had heard Bill Turner banging at the door the night before, and finally, to get rid of him, she'd gone down and yelled, 'Go away!' through the locked door.

She turned and went out on to the landing, where she hesitated, then continued on downstairs and into the kitchen. The range fire was out, and the house cold and damp smelling. She put on the electric kettle, given to her by Robert last Christmas, spooned tea into the pot, and went to sit down by the dead grate. The kettle boiled and switched itself off, and Ivy did not stir.

Two hours later, with the village transformed into a picture postcard by the snow, thick and soft, Robert Bates found her still sitting in the same chair, staring into space, her hands idle in her lap.

'Auntie?' he had called through the letterbox. Receiving no reply, he fished out the key which she had given him on his insistence, and let himself in.

'Auntie?' he repeated, seeing her sitting there, not even looking up as he came in the kitchen. He took her hands, and felt that they were ice cold. He rushed up to her bedroom and took a rug off the bed, running down again and wrapping it round her shoulders. The fire was quickly lit, and Robert piled on dry logs to give off as much heat as possible. Handing her a steaming cup of sweet tea, he said, 'Come on,

‘Auntie, drink this, it'll warm you up.' She shook her head, dazed, and looked up at him. Like a child, she allowed him to hold the cup to her lips, and slowly tip the hot liquid into her mouth.

At last she took the cup from him, and finished the tea down to the last dregs. Without speaking, she pulled the rug closer round her and closed her eyes. Robert sat and watched her until her breathing became light and regular, and then he went quickly into the shop and asked Peggy to ring for the doctor.

'Could've died, Doris,' said Ellen, as they sat having a cup of coffee in Doris's sitting room. The white morning light, reflected from the snow, filled the room, and old Ellen shivered.

'Doctor said it were 'yperthermia, or some such. She were ice cold, I 'eard Robert Bates telling Peggy in the shop.' Ellen shifted her chair closer to Doris's glowing gas fire.

'What brought it on?' said Doris. 'Our Ivy's always been one for a good fire. I don't understand it.'

'She weren't at choir last night. Nobody seemed to care much, but I thought it were very unlike Ivy to miss out on anythin'. I asked Bill to look in on 'er, but 'e couldn't get 'er to open up.'

They sat silently for a minute or two, appalled at the thought oflvy, strong and invincible in the order of things in Round Ringford, brought low by some strange force which they could only guess at.

'Perhaps it were a brainstorm,' said Ellen, not yet ready to tell Doris about her set-to with Ivy in the shop. "Er mother were a funny one, used to have these turns where she'd go all peculiar. Or it could be a judgement...' she added darkly.

Doris shrugged. 'There's been such a lot of bad feeling in the village, ever since the Harvest Supper,' she said, getting up and collecting the cups. 'I for one shall be glad when this concert's over and we can get back to normal. We all thought the Brookses were such a good thing, but now I'm not so sure.'

Sophie Brooks was standing in the high ceilinged drawing room of the vicarage, a small address book in her hand, her face pale and oddly set.

She leafed through until she found what she wanted: Jones G., Barnstones, High Street- Ringford 956474.

She had woken early in the morning, and said sleepily, 'Nigel? What time is it?'

When there was no reply, she awoke properly and sat up. She was alone in the big bed, and there was no sign of Nigel or his clothes.

She shot out ofbed and on to the landing. The small guestroom door was closed, and standing uncertainly outside she could hear snoring. What is he doing in there, she thought. And then the old evil thoughts began, and before she had reached the foot of the stairs she had constructed a terrifying scenario. He had stayed out with Gabriella, somewhere secret, and had come in too late to sleep in the marital bed.

'Didn't want to wake you, Soph,' Nigel said at breakfast. 'I peeped in and you were fast asleep, with your thumb in your mouth - dear little thing.' He reached out to give her an affectionate squeeze, but she dodged, taking the dishes to the sink.

Now she stood with the little yellow book in her hand, willing herself to make the call that would put it all straight.

The snow had drifted during the morning, forming little mounds at the corners of Gabriella's garden. Young trees, fragile in the strong wind, shed powdery showers, and a robin perched on the edge of the bird bath like an animated Christmas card.

I remember a time when Octavia would have been out there in her little red boots, joyfully making a snowman with Greg, thought Gabriella. The telephone rang, and she turned away from the window.

'Hello?' said Gabriella. 'Hello, who's there?'

A strained voice said, 'It's me, Sophie Brooks. I have something to say to you.'

Gabriella frowned. 'Is it a message from Nigel?' she said. The slow-burning fuse finally reached its destination, and Sophie began to talk, softly at first, and then shouting, blaspheming, accusing.

Gabriella said nothing. Her hand holding the telephone receiver began to tremble, and after a while, but not soon enough, she put it quietly back into its cradle.