A Tangled Web (24 page)

Ivy stared at her and said nothing. She reached for her coat and gloves, and put them on. Without a word, she pushed her chair back against the wall and left the room. The old front door creaked and banged behind her and Doris and Ellen, aghast, heard the gate latch click shut.

'You've done it now, Ellen,' said Doris.

'She were near to tears, Doris,' said Ellen, looking guilty. 'I swear our Ivy were near to tears.'

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The sun had gone behind a bank of dark cloud over Bagley Woods as Ivy marched down Bates's End and across the Green, careless of the mud and wet grass dirtying her polished brown shoes. So much for Doris's ideas about the season turning and that rubbish, she thought, shivering and scraping her shoes on the mat outside her front door.

The kitchen at Victoria Villa was warm from the range, quietly glowing under the bank of coal dust Ivy had shovelled on before she went out. She gave it a poke, and flames licked round the black iron bars, brightening the room. Without taking off her hat and coat, she stood looking out of the kitchen window to where sparrows quarrelled and fought in the bare branches of the apple tree.

She stood waiting, but there was no disembodied voice. Just as well, thought Ivy. She never says anything nice, never a word of comfort. And if you're listening, Mother, you won't catch me twice. I know you'll be back.

She hung her coat and hat in the narrow hall, and returned to the kitchen window. As she watched, Gilbert squeezed through the hedge and stalked across the neatly dug earth. She crouched behind a thick viburnum shrub, her tail slowly thrashing from side to side. Then, with a releasing quiver, she sprang up the trunk of the apple tree and all the sparrows flew off crossly, scolding and chattering.

Ivy opened the back door and called, 'Tiddles! Come on, Tiddles, come and have some milk with Ivy.'

The tabby climbed out of the tree and came at a trot towards the house. She lapped happily at the creamy milk; the top of the bottle saved especially for her, and then jumped on to Ivy's lap, arching her back to the stroking hand and purring loudly. 'What shall I do, Tiddles?' said Ivy, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat and leaned her head back on the hard wooden spokes of her father's old chair.

Too late to put it right now, Ivy. The unwelcome voice intruded without mercy on Ivy's thoughts.

Ah, said Ivy, you're back.

If you're not careful, you'll lose the few friends you have got. The nagging edge wormed its way into Ivy's already aching head. But it wasn't finished yet. That Ellen Biggs isn't much,
granted, the voice continued, but she's better than nothing, and Doris Ashbourne has always had a soft spot for her. You'll turn the two of them against you, you'll see. Then Robert'll be off with Mandy, and who'll you have left?

Ivy's head felt swollen and hot. She closed her eyes. Maybe if she could have a nap it would be better, stop her brain churning. She was just beginning to doze when the heavy front door knocker jerked her awake. Gilbert jumped off her lap and ran towards the door, meowing.

'Now what?' said Ivy, and let out the cat. Then she went down the hallway to the front door and opened it a crack.

'Ivy?' said Doris Ashbourne, standing solid and calm on the scrubbed stone step. 'You all right, Ivy? Can I come in for a minute?'

Ivy thought for a moment, then opened the door wider. 'Of course I'm all right,' she said. 'Why shouldn't I be? What do you want, anyway?'

'You don't make it easy, Ivy Beasley,' said Doris, pushing her way into the hall, and walking through to the kitchen. She sat down, her handbag on her lap, and looked up at Ivy, standing uncertainly in the doorway.

'Better put the kettle on,' she said. 'We might as well have a cup while we talk.'

Ivy frowned. 'There's been plenty enough talking, I would say,' she replied, but began to fill the kettle nevertheless.

'Yes, well,' said Doris, 'that's what it's all about really, isn't it. We haven't had anything like this in the village since that stupid feud between old Price and Joe Barnett all those years ago.

Doris's reasonable tones soothed Ivy, and she made the tea, pouring two cups and handing one to Doris. 'It's warm in here, Doris,' she said. 'Give me your coat, else you'll not feel the benefit.'

CHAPTER FORTY -FIVE

Robert Bates's car had been parked in a layby on the Tresham road for fifteen minutes, and the row which had blown up between him and Mandy had run out of steam. The rain hurled itself against the windscreen, insulating them from the outside world. They sat rigidly upright, not touching, a wall of ice between them.

After a few minutes, Robert said, 'Mandy...' He choked, cleared his throat, and began again. 'Mandy, you don't really mean it, do you?'

She turned and looked at him, and her face was unforgiving.

'Yes, I bloody well mean it,' she said. 'I'm fed up with the whole thing, and I'm especially fed up with your mother and all the bloody
Bates’s, generations of ‘em, wonderful bloody farmers every one.'

Robert's features contracted, as if someone had punched him. He looked away from Mandy and hunched his broad shoulders.

'It isn't Mum's fault,' he said. 'She's never been away from the farm, not much, anyway, and then always with Dad. She doesn't know about anything else. She just wants to help you get used to it all, I'm sure that's it.'

Mandy said nothing, and Robert soldiered on.

'It'll be different once we're wed, and settled into the cottage,' he said. 'It will be our home, and -'

‘- and your mother will be on the doorstep every day,' interrupted Mandy vehemently, 'telling me what you like to eat, how you like your shirts ironed. Christ!' she added, her temper rising, 'I shouldn't be surprised if she comes on the honeymoon with us!'

Robert flinched. He reached out and turned the key, pressed his foot on the accelerator and drove out on the dual carriageway. There was a squeal of brakes and fierce hooting from behind, and he realised he had pulled out without looking in his driving mirror.

'I'd better take you home, Mandy,' he said. 'There's no point in our going to the farm if you're in this mood.'

'It's not a mood!' said Mandy, bursting into tears. 'I just don't want to go through with it. I don't, Robert, I really don't.'

Robert drove stolidly on, back into Tresham, and drew up outside the Butlers' house.

'I'll phone you tomorrow, Mandy,' he said. 'Don't fret, my duck, we'll sort it out.'

The rain eased off as he drove back to Ringford, and as he came down the long hill a watery sun lit up the village. Over Bagley Woods, where heavy clouds still hung threateningly above the trees, a shimmering, miraculous rainbow appeared, and Robert stopped the car. It was just here, he thought, that I found Mr Palmer that day. It's a funny old world. He sat for several minutes looking at the rainbow, and then set off again, back to the farm to explain to his mother why Mandy had not come to tea after all.

In the morning, Mandy still felt miserable and confused. She had not told her parents anything about the big row, just saying she was tired and going up to have a good rest. She had not reappeared for supper, in spite of her mother calling up the stairs.

'I think she's gone to sleep, poor little thing,' Mrs Butler said. 'There's such a lot to think about with a wedding, she's quite worn out, don't you think?'

Mr Butler dared not say what he really thought. He had watched Mandy lose weight over the past weeks, looking thin and pale. He had seen his own bank balance dwindle alarmingly, and was certain it was all a lot of unnecessary nonsense. When he'd led his wife to the altar, they'd had a knife and fork tea at the pub afterwards, and gone off on the train to Yarmouth for a week.

But Mrs Butler was revelling in the whole fantastic edifice of dresses and flowers, wedding presents, reception, speeches, limousines and confetti, horseshoes and photographers.

'Do we need all that?' he'd said mildly to his wife. 'We're only ordinary people, you know, my dear.'

'Our only daughter is not ordinary!' Mrs Butler had replied. 'Don't be such an old killjoy.' So he had held his peace.

Mandy rang the salon and said she thought she had a touch of flu, and would stay at home for the day, just to be on the safe side. With only four weeks to go, she didn't want to risk a major bout of illness, she said. She went back to bed, but could not sleep. She looked round her room, at all the souvenirs of her childhood. Her battered baby doll sat in the little chair that had been hers, and the pictures on the walls were of rabbits and squirrels having picnics, going to school, playing among autumn leaves in the woods. And then her teens: posters of pop concerts and pictures cut out of magazines, made into a collage and framed by her dad. Photographs of herself, camping, swimming, acting in the school play, laughed at her from the chest of drawers.

I wouldn't really care if I never saw it all again, she thought, burying her face in the pillow. It's Mum that's kept it all going, dusting it all and arranging it round the room. It isn't me anymore. Oh, I don't know what to think. Why does it all have to be so complicated?

She considered going down to have a chat with her mother, but she could hear her parents talking in the kitchen. Dad's not gone to work, she thought. Probably having a worry session about me. The person I really want to talk to is Robert, but I've messed that up good and proper. Anyway, we argue all the time these days, and it's usually my fault.

Mandy got out of bed and looked down on the rows of back gardens. She knew every square of lawn and vegetable patch, who worked in them and what they grew from year to year. The cat climbing over the wattle fence belonged two doors down, and she remembered it as a kitten. She thought of Bridge Cottage in Ringford, with no neighbours except the lofty vicarage and the dark, damp churchyard. Ellen Biggs would be her nearest neighbour. Well, that would be a real ball of laughs.

Then Mandy remembered Ivy Beasley. Robert had taken her to Victoria Villa once or twice, and Ivy had been polite but not particularly friendly. But there was no mistaking how she felt about Robert. Her eyes warmed when she looked at him, and her voice changed. No doubt at all, she loves him like her own son, thought Mandy, and she's known all the Bates’s for years. Mandy began to dress, pulling on an old sweater and jeans.

'Ah, here she is,' said Mr Butler, as Mandy came into the kitchen, pale but composed.

'Would you like some breakfast, duckie?' said her mother.

Mandy shook her head and reached for her jacket. 'I'm not hungry, thanks, Mum,' she said. 'I'm off out for a bit. May not be back for dinner, but soon after. Don't save me anything. See you later, then.'

At the bus station she had half an hour to wait, and bought herself a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Now she was out of the house, with people around her going about their lives and taking no notice of her, she felt hungry. On the bus, there were one or two people going to Waltonby, but only one person besides herself asked for Round Ringford.

Ringford main street was completely empty when the bus drew up opposite the Stores. Mandy stepped down, and waited to cross the road. As she lifted her hand to knock on the front door of Victoria Villa, Ivy Beasley drew the bolt and opened it.

'Mandy,' she said, 'this is a surprise. You'd better come in.'

*

Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea, thought Mandy, sitting on the edge of a hard chair in Ivy's immaculate front room. There was a strong smell of furniture polish, and although a small electric fire burned in one corner, the air was chilly.

Ivy came in, carrying a tray with cups and saucers, teapot and fruit cake. Mandy was too nervous to notice that Ivy's hands were shaking a little, making the teacups rattle.

'I won't ask why you've come to Ringford on the bus,' Ivy said. 'No doubt you'll tell me in your own good time.' Her voice was even, flat, but not unfriendly. She had looked at the girl's face as she stood on her doorstep, and knew something was up.

'What a lovely cake, Miss Beasley,' said Mandy. 'Looks like a picture in a cookery book! It's perfect. I'd never be able to. . .' Her voice tailed away, and Ivy said, 'You'd better call me Auntie, seeing as you'll be a Bates very shortly.'

Mandy choked on a mouthful of tea, and set her cup down carefully in the saucer. Ivy got up and took it from her. Then, hesitantly, she gently patted the girl's shoulder.

'What is it, then?' she said. 'You'd best tell me, if that's what you came about.'

There was a long silence, and Ivy settled herself in her chair, folded her hands and waited.

'I'm not sure,' said Mandy, 'not sure about anything. I'm not sure about being a farmer's wife, or living in Ringford when I've always lived in town. I know I'll never be good enough for Robert's mum, and I just can't see myself being the other Mrs Bates. I have nightmares about that Bridge Cottage, and the churchyard and old Ellen Biggs. I don't know who to talk to. Robert and I quarrelled yesterday and he turned round and took me back home. Mum's so excited about the wedding she can't talk of anything else, and if I told Dad he'd look at me as if I was barmy.'

'So you came over to me,' said Ivy.

Mandy nodded. 'You've known the
Bates’s a long time,' she said. Ivy chewed her lip, and poured another cup of tea.

'I've got one thing to say, Mandy,' she said, 'and it's the only important thing. Do you love our Robert?' Ivy seemed to have difficulty getting out her words, but she repeated it, to make sure Mandy understood.

'Of course I do.' Mandy's voice was low, but she looked Ivy straight in the eye, and they understood one another.

'Right, then,' said Ivy. 'Now you listen to me, young Mandy.'

The children came out of school, squealing and shouting under Ivy's window, and then the bus from Tresham Comprehensive disgorged its Ringford contingent. They all made for the
shop and emerged eating chocolate and drinking from cans, throwing down wrappers and banana skins on the grass verges.

Ivy Beasley and Mandy Butler still sat in the quiet front room, as Ivy talked slowly, in fits and starts, and Mandy listened without speaking. It was a sad story, of chances missed, misunderstandings of love forgone in the name of duty. Ivy told Mandy all she knew about the
Bates’s, and tried to be fair to Olive and Ted and their much-loved only son. She also said that if anyone asked her, she would give it as her opinion that Robert Bates was one of the best, if not the best, of the lads Ringford had produced.

From over towards Bates's End, the church clock struck a sonorous five o'clock, and Mandy jumped up. She helped Ivy carry the tea things into the kitchen, drying up the cups and saucers, and carefully putting the fruit cake back into its tin.

'What now, then, Mandy?' said Ivy, tipping out the washing-up water and squeezing the dishcloth.

'Well,' said Mandy, 'I think I might go up the farm, see if Robert's come in for his tea.'

'Good girl,' said Ivy, and helped her on with her jacket.

'Thanks, Auntie.' Mandy leaned forward and kissed Ivy Dorothy Beasley lightly on her cheek, then quietly left the house.

Ivy went upstairs and into her mother's bedroom. She picked up a book, still in its Smith's bag, from the little table by the bed.

I think I'll take this back next week, Mother, she said. 'Change it for something more suitable.'