A Tangled Web (3 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

'And where were you last evening?' said Joyce Turner, from her chair in the corner of the sitting room. 'Everybody else's husband was home to tea, but not Bill Turner, oh no, he was out with his fancy woman up Bagley Woods, like some randy little teenager!' The last words were loud and thrown at him like a weapon.

The Turners lived in Macmillan Gardens, a cluster of council houses set back from the main street. Across the far end, with a good view of the Green, were the old persons' bungalows, with tiny gardens where retired people, used to their own produce, could still grow a few potatoes and peas to eat as a treat with their small Sunday joints of spring lamb.

Bill Turner's house was distinguished by a high privet hedge, and windows perpetually blanked off by layers of drawn curtains.

He had found Joyce in bed with the door locked against him when he returned home, his head still full of thoughts of Peggy. He'd made a sandwich and watched television, and then retired to the hard little bed in the spare room, where he slept fitfully.

This morning, Joyce was still wearing yesterday's grubby pink dressing-gown and down-at-heel slippers, and her uncombed hair fell forward over her pale, discontented face. 'You promised to get washed and dressed today,' Bill said, ignoring her uncanny gift for guessing right. 'Why don't you go and smarten up now, while I'm getting breakfast? Ivy will be in later, with your magazines.'

'Not feeling well enough,' she said, with a pout and a little girl voice that used to work with Bill, but no longer had any effect.

'There's nothing wrong with you, Joyce,' said Bill wearily.

'You know what the doctor said - try and get out and take your mind off yourself for a bit.'

Joyce got slowly to her feet, an unattractive, slovenly figure, wincing as she put her feet to the ground. 'What does he know?' she said. 'Stupid old fool in his dotage. He don't know what I've suffered all these years, nobody does.'

Bill wondered whether to tell her exactly what he thought of all of it - the dreadful miscarriage, the long years of blame and mourning and reclusion, the sluttishness and vindictive revenge, the jealousy and recriminations- how tired he was of her and everything
to do with their travesty of a marriage. Or should he humour and pacify her as usual, buying a few more days of uneasy truce?

'Joycey,' he said, 'couldn't you just try, just this once? I'll get a nice piece of fish from Len's van, and we could have a proper tea, sitting up at the table. You could make yourself look decent - there's still plenty of clothes up there in your cupboard, and you...'

He dodged automatically, from long practice, as she threw one of her slippers at him. It flew straight into a picture on the wall, smashing the glass, which fell in shards on to the carpet. Without speaking, Bill went out to the kitchen and fetched dustpan and brush. It was an almost daily task, brushing up after Joyce's wilful destruction of their home. Not much left now, he thought. I shall soon have to start buying stuff from the jumble sale just to give her something to break. He no longer felt compassion, and only seldom allowed anger to rise to the surface, but increasingly he longed to ditch the whole thing, get out and start again.

'Did you tumble her in the daisies, then?' shouted Joyce from her bedroom, where she had retreated, opening and shutting doors and drawers violently, working herself up into a frenzy of jealousy and rage.

'I'll be out with the rabbits,' called Bill. 'See if you can calm down by the time I come back.'

He went quietly out of the back door and walked down the concrete garden path, disappearing into the big shed where he kept his beautiful long-haired angora rabbits.

'Hello, my pretties,' he said, 'breakfast time ...'

He put rabbit mix into the troughs, and changed the water, talking to each rabbit as he worked. 'There, my beauty, just you eat it up and grow big and strong. No need to be scared Bill won't let any harm come to you.'

He did not see the shadow at the door, nor hear the back door of the house slam shut. He was deep in his own thoughts, feeling again the softness of Peggy's skin, and the warmth of her in his arms. He checked the cage doors, and set off back to the house.

'Hello Bill!' his neighbour, Jean Jenkins, called across rows of green vegetables and raspberry canes. 'Everything all right?' And then, because she knew it wasn't, she changed the subject. 'Sad about Reverend Collins, wasn't it? I was up there on Tuesday, and thought he looked very peaky.'

The Jenkins family lived next door to Bill and Joyce, and had grown used to Joyce's screams of rage coming through the thin dividing wall between the two houses. Jean and her husband Foxy, and their five children- three boys and twin girls- squeezed into their council house in Macmillan Gardens with surprising contentment, considering their lack of space.
Jean was a big girl, tall and comfortably overweight, and Foxy's gingery head came happily up to her shoulder.

Bill was fond of Jean, grateful for her unsuccessful attempts to persuade Joyce to live a normal life.

He smiled at her and said, 'Poor old sod's probably worried himself to death, wonderin' what to do when he retired.'

'No, it were his heart, apparently,' said Jean. 'If only he'd said, we could all have helped a bit more.'

A sudden eruption of screaming came from the house, and Jean rushed back in yelling. 'Gemma! Amy! Just cut it out, both of you, or I shall tell your dad when he comes home.'

CHAPTER SIX

'So matters are rather accelerated,' said Richard Standing to his wife. They were sitting after dinner in their cool, highceilinged drawing room at the Hall, discussing the ramifications of Cyril Collins's recent and unexpected death.

It was dusk, and one pink-shaded lamp barely kept the dark at bay in the room. Dimly visible ancestors with protruding eyes stared down at them from ornate gilt frames, and the scent from a silver vase of delicate freesias, grown by Bill Turner in the Hall greenhouse, combined with fragrant beeswax polish vigorously applied by Jean Jenkins each week, to give the room a pleasant, lived-in character.

'I suppose the Bishop will have taken charge of things?' said

Susan, smoothing her cream linen skirt and crossing one slim leg over the other. She set a fragile coffee cup down on the little table by her chair. 'What is there for you to do, my darling? It's all a mystery to me.'

'Well, for a start I am one of the patrons, and have the right to present the incumbent to the benefice ... at least, that's how things are at the moment, but there are changes afoot.'

'You've lost me, Richard,' said Susan.

'Just means it is my turn to choose the next vicar, along with parish approval, of course.' Richard turned the pages of The Times to see if the passing of Cyril Collins had been registered in print.

A companionable silence fell whilst they pondered the strangeness of it all. Richard and Susan had had a choppy passage over the years of their marriage, but at present were in calm waters, and the departure of the kindly old man who had presided so sunnily over their wedding day made them think of those times and look affectionately upon one another.

'Difficult,' said Richard, after a while. 'It is difficult to know just what sort of a man would do the job well.'

'Does it really matter these days?' said Susan, turning the pages of Country Life, looking for faces she recognised, events she wished she had been seen at. 'After all,' she ventured, 'so few people go to church, and half of them are asleep by the time the sermon's preached.'

'Not necessarily, Susan, in town churches they have full congregations every week.'

'Well, they don't in Round Ringford, and I think it will be more important to get a really nice family who will fit in, than an academic clergyman who preaches above everybody's head. I mean, face it, Richard, Ivy Beasley is not desperately concerned with a philosophical proof of the existence of God.' Richard, who had been summoned to the vicarage by Ivy Beasley on the day of Cyril Collins's death, had been moved by her dignity and self-composure, and found Susan's flippancy unacceptable.

'Maybe not,' he said stiffly, 'but that's because she has never doubted, and never would.'

Susan stood up and walked across to draw long, silver-grey curtains, shutting out the still, dark terrace outside.

'Fine, Richard,' she said, 'just a little joke, that's all. You do what you think best, you've always made the right decision for Ringford, anyway. Doreen Price is the one to talk to, she's the leader of the village opinion, the old guard, certainly. '

Tom and Doreen Price sat over their coffee at the farm kitchen table, listening to the weather forecast and thinking about Cyril Collins. Doreen was a big-boned woman, but well proportioned, her muscles firm from constant use. She worked hard on the farm, her husband's traditional right hand, knowing how to do most things and happy to run errands to the agricultural engineers or to the big farm suppliers in Tresham. Her round, pink face was usually broadened with a cheerful smile, and she had her neatly permed brown hair cut short for convenience.

Two village families were united when Tom and Doreen married. Doreen's family farmed up the Bagley Road, and the Prices at Home Farm had been tenants of the Standing estate for as long as anyone could remember.

At lambing time, Dor
een Price bloomed into a foster mother for the orphan lambs, proud that she seldom lost even the most tiny and frail little creature. It was a passing sadness that their only child, a daughter, had married outside the village and lived in Manchester.

'Mr Richard's asked me to go up to the Hall this evening,' said Doreen. 'We have to advertise for a new vicar and the poor man's a bit lost, I think. It is a big responsibility for him. If we get the wrong man after years of Cyril being so right for the village, everybody'll blame him.'

'Then you must tell him, Doreen, tell him what we need is a youngish family and a good straightforward chap who won't try any fancy new rubbish.'

Doreen sighed. 'I'm very glad you're not on the church council,' she said, 'we've got enough old fogies as it is.'

'What about that nephew of Bates’s, old Jim Bates' son, he went off to be a vicar of some sort. He'd be all right, fit in with what the village needs. Why don't we ask him? He's married now and got a couple of kids.'

Tom got up from the table, a tall, thick-set man with wavy, nearly white hair and a pleasant, outdoor face. He picked up a letter from his big roll-top desk, and opened the back door, lifting its black iron latch with a snap.

'Better get this in the post,' he said, 'don't want the bailiffs in.'

Like all farmers, Tom paid the bills at the last possible date, and would have thought it very foolish to do otherwise. Bills were paid, but discounts were bargained for, and favours to farming friends were rewarded by other favours in return. The golden age of fortunes to be made in farming was over, and Tom and Doreen watched the pennies like anyone else.

'I expect you'll be calling in at the Arms on the way back?' said Doreen, taking the coffee mugs to the sink. 'See you at bedtime, then, Tom. Mind that slurry in the road, you'd best dear that tomorrow, stinks the place out.'

The Standing Arms was an old ale house, recently smartened up and extended under the direction of the new landlord, Don Cutt, a boorish, tough character from Birmingham, who knew what kind of pub he wanted to run and had set out to make sure he got it. The locals felt ill at ease with the new furniture and the strange beers Don Cutt had brought in. But they admired his ability to deal firmly with trouble, and kept their heads over their dominoes when the smart set from Tresham came pub-crawling on Saturday nights.

Tom had negotiated his way through the offending slurry with reasonable success, and arrived at the pub with the comfortable feeling of good things to come. He joined old Fred in the usual corner, and settled down over his pint.

Doreen tidied up and went upstairs to change into something suitable for a visit to the Hall. As she walked up the long avenue, under the fine chestnut trees, she thought about Cyril Collins and how much he would be missed. 'End of an era,' she said aloud. 'Who knows what we might get next?'

Ringford Hall was an eighteenth-century manor house of pleasing proportions, surrounded by parkland where spreading oaks and chestnuts sheltered herds of sheep and cattle. From a distance, the green park, its grazing animals, and the elegant, long-windowed fade of the Hall, seemed little changed from the delicate watercolours executed by talented Standing daughters of two hundred years ago. Their paintings still hung in seldom-used guest rooms, and the colours had faded with the years, as had their leisured, privileged way of life.

Doreen Price and Richard Standing, fellow churchwardens, sat in the oak-panelled room that had been his father's study and was now his, where he used the same desk and books, and looked out over the same parkland. He loved it as his father had done, and now, talking to Doreen Price, he felt at ease, knowing that she and her forebears were part of it all.

'I was thinking,' Doreen said, 'it's true nobody much goes to church, not to the services, but most folk in this village are christened or married or buried through the church- or their children are - and it is still a very important part of our lives here, don't you think?

Richard nodded. 'There'd be a riot if we decided to close it down, I do know that, Doreen,' he said.