A Tangled Web (8 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Nigel and Sophie Brooks drove over the brow of Bagley Hill and marvelled at the view. It was a calm, brilliant day, and the village smiled, all its green and golden colours heightened in the bright sun. The Ringle glinted through the willows and the white flag pole in the school yard stood out like a marker post for travellers across the- wilderness.

'Slow down, Nigel,' said Sophie, 'there's something in the road down there.'

The something was a herd of black and white cows being driven to new pasture by Foxy Jenkins, and they were taking their time. At last the final cow lumbered by, and Foxy followed, waving his thank you to the car. When he saw who was in it, his smile broadened, and he shouted, 'Mornin', vicar! Mornin', missus!' and went on his gingery way, calling instructions to the cows who took no notice at all but wandered where impulse took them.

'Looked a nice chap,' said Sophie, her spirits rising. It had been a grey, misty morning when they left Wales, and she and Nigel had travelled in silence for most of the first hour or so. Then, as the sun began to break through, Nigel talked about Round Ringford, telling Sophie details which were coming back to him as he drove nearer to the village.

He was at that church meeting,' said Nigel. 'Can't remember his name, but he had a fat and jolly wife.'

Nigel had had a telephone call from Richard Standing, who said that of course it all had to be finalised by the Bishop and a number of formalities gone through, but assured him that if he still wanted the living of Round Ringford, Fletching and Waltonby, it was his. Nigel and Sophie had celebrated with a half-bottle of good champagne, and toasted each other over a delicious supper enthusiastically prepared by Sophie.

'Are we to go straight to the pub?' said Sophie, turning her head this way and that, not wanting to miss anything as they drove down the main street past the Green and came to a halt outside the Standing Arms.

'Yes, Richard Standing will find us later on, he said.'

'Come on, then, Nigel,' said Sophie, 'let's go and check in. I can't wait to get out into the village and see the church and the vicarage and ... oh, come on Nigel, quickly!'

Their progress had been observed from Victoria Villa, and Ivy Beasley felt her heart flutter in an unaccustomed way as she caught sight of a handsome greying head, and knew it was Nigel Brooks. For the moment, Ivy had only a swift impression of the red hair and fine features of Sophie sitting beside him.

She got out of her chair and watched the car pull up outside the pub. The passenger door opened first, and a small, slender woman got out, stretching and turning round in a complete circle, taking in the whole village in a long, slow look.

Looks a bit of a titch, Mother, said Ivy Beasley, and pulled the lace curtain a little to one side to get a better view. The driver's door opened, and the familiar figure of Nigel Brooks emerged. Ivy thrust tightly closed hands into her cardigan pockets and watched Nigel say something to Sophie, and then both of them disappeared into the Standing Arms.

Ivy walked back into the kitchen and looked at herself in the small mirror over the sink. She saw a long face, the skin red and coarsened by lack of care, and a short bush of grey hair cut relentlessly without shape. Her eyes stared back at her, grey, with flecks of black, and short, straight lashes. Not much to look at there, Mother. Never was, said her mother's voice, looks aren't everything. Ivy tried a smile at the face in the mirror, and was comforted by her white, even teeth. Pity there's not much to smile about, said Ivy. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, said the answering voice, get on and do something useful.

But Ivy felt restless. She didn't want to bake, or work in the garden, or knit. Even the prospect of seeing Bill Turner going yet again into the shop could not tempt her back to the window. I think I'll nip up and see Doris, she thought, take her a few peas. Not for one moment would she admit to herself that she might just bump into the Reverend Nigel Brooks. 'That's very nice of you, Ivy,' said a surprised Doris, taking the little basket full of fresh pea pods and two small lettuces from the garden of Victoria Villa. 'Have you had your dinner, or do you want a sandwich with me?'

Ivy would usually have spurned such an offer, rejecting a quick sandwich as part of the general decline in standards, but today she needed company and so nodded stiffly. 'If you've got some spare, Doris, I wouldn't say no,' she said.

It was very pleasant in Doris's little sitting room, with the sunshine warming it, and the two women sat eating and drinking tea, chatting idly and watching the Roberts and Jenkins children with their bikes and dolls' prams and footballs.

'You got company here, anyway, Doris,' said Ivy. 'You could've been lonely after all them years in the shop with folks in and out all the time.'

'Quite right, Ivy,' said Doris, 'it's almost as good a look-out as your front room.'

Ivy looked at her suspiciously, but Doris's face was bland. 'Do you fancy a bit of ice-cream, Ivy?'

'Turning into quite a party!' said Ivy Beasley, and at that moment caught sight of Nigel and Sophie Brooks walking hand in hand across the end of the Gardens.

'No thanks, Doris,' she called out to the kitchen, 'better be off now- thanks for the sandwiches.' She was out of the door and halfway down Macmillan Gardens before the ice-cream was dished out, and Doris stared at her retreating back in amazement.

'Might have known something was behind Ivy callin' like that,' she said to old Ellen as they met later outside the shop. 'What's she schemin' now?' said Ellen. 'God 'elp some poor soul.'

Sophie sat with Nigel in Ivy's front room wondering how they could get away. Ivy had nabbed them as they stood looking across the Green, and asked them if they'd like a glass of elderflower wine to quench their thirst.

'It is most delicious,' said Nigel appreciatively. 'Have you always made wine, Miss Beasley?'

'Oh, indeed, Reverend Brooks,' said Ivy, 'and my mother before me, and generations of Beasleys before that. We've lived in this village for hundreds of years, you know, though not in this particular house.'

Ivy's voice had a strangulated posh edge, and the voice in her head said warning things to her as she poured herself another glass of the cool, clear wine. Ivy ignored them.

'We are very much looking forward to you coming to Ringford,' she said, remembering to include Sophie in her smile. 'When do you think you will be with us? In time for Open Gardens Sunday?'

'Unfortunately not, but it should be by the end of August with any luck,' said Nigel, returning her smile with his customary twinkle. 'There seem to be no obstacles, and we can't wait, can we, Sophie?'

Sophie nodded, and tried to signal with her eyes to Nigel that she wanted to go. There was something not quite right about this Beasley woman, something lurking under the surface that Sophie did not like. She stood up, draining her glass.

'Well, Nigel, if we are to see the rest of the village, we must be moving.'

Nigel took the hint, and stretched out his hand to Ivy Beasley. She took it and he shook hands warmly.

‘Thank you so much for your warm welcome, Miss Beasley,' he said. 'No doubt we shall soon be firm friends!'

Ivy watched them walking slowly along the street, stopping to read the stone tablet on the school commemorating its benefactor, the Hon. Charles William Standing. Reverend Brooks is a lovely man, she thought, hoping Mother wasn't listening, but her ghostly parent was never far away. Be your age, Ivy, the voice said, that wife of his is a very attractive woman. Ivy looked at the hand that had been shaken so warmly, and reflected that it was the first time anybody had touched her since Mother died, apart from Robert's quick peck on the cheek.

Be your age, do, repeated the voice, and there was a tinge of unkind amusement.

Ivy slammed the tray of glasses down on the draining-board and turned on the tap until the water ran violently into the bowl, splashing up round the sink and on to her skirt.

Why don't you just leave me alone, Mother, she said, just leave me alone and go away! She swished the glasses through the water and stood them to drain, then went to fetch a drying-up cloth from the range. Halfway across the kitchen she stood still, frowning, her mouth pursed. She sat down suddenly on a chair by the table, bowed her head, and cried bitterly into a white handkerchief with exquisite drawn thread work that had been her mother's.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Open Gardens Sunday was the one day of the year when the whole village prayed for fine weather. Eight gardens were to be opened to a well-behaved, meandering crowd who came from the ends of the county to praise and criticise, to make notes of interesting plants, and to have a surreptitious snoop into open windows of houses which they wouldn't otherwise have reason to visit.

From steady, thorough hard work throughout the winter and spring, clearing and trimming, sowing and planting, the nervous owners of gardens on the list reached a frenzy of last minute clipping and tweaking as the Open Day dawned.

Fred Mills was up at six thirty in Macmillan Gardens, pulling scarcely visible weeds out of his immaculate circular flower bed, positioned exactly in the centre of a smooth, knife-edge trimmed lawn of velvety green grass.

At the Hall, Bill Turner had a last conference with Mr Richard about how to route the crowds round the rose gardens and the shrubbery, so that they would get the full impact of the lavender walk down to the exquisite stone shepherd boy, eternally merry as he blew on his silent pipes.

Bill's garden was to be open, too, by special request from the Parish Council. Everyone knew that the Turners' flowers and vegetables were well-nigh perfect, and in spite of all the spring rain, Bill had a display of dahlias and snapdragons, asters and delphiniums, golden rod and montbretia, rivalling the grandest garden in the district. His orderly rows of vegetables, and rich, shiny clusters of red and yellow tomatoes, were a delight to the eye as well as the stomach. But he never put his name forward, and everyone knew that it was because of Joyce.

'Don't you dare let all those bloody strangers in our garden!' she had screamed, when he tentatively mentioned the idea. But in the pub one night Tom Price had persuaded him over a couple of pints to add his garden to the list. 'She'll never know, boy,' Tom had said, 'with all them curtains constantly drawn. And if she does peep out, it'll be too late for her to do anything about it.'

'I shall pay for it later, though,' Bill had said gloomily, but he allowed his garden to be listed nevertheless. He was proud of it, knew it was worth seeing, and he still had just enough fight left in him to risk a confrontation with Joyce.

'Best get back now, Mr Richard,' he said, 'make sure everything's tidy for the visitors.'

'Well done, Turner,' said Mr Richard, 'and best of luck.' Mr Ross, in his neo-Tudor house up the Bagley Road, nervously tied up a stray rambler and called to his wife to set up the card-table at the gate. Each open garden had its entry manned by one or two locals, who checked tickets and handed out the sheets of closely typed script giving histories and details of the gardens.

For many years, in his geometrically arranged garden, Mr Ross had mown and edged, and planted French marigolds, salvia and alyssum at exact intervals, all in quiet isolation from the rest of the village. But now he had neighbours, the new development in Walnuts Farm Close, and although he and his wife had hated the thought of their privacy being disturbed, Mr Ross had gradually become a friend and adviser to the young couples starting their gardens from patches of builders' rubble. One of his protégés had joined the list of open gardens, and Mr Ross felt a glow of pride.

Pat and Colin Osman had inherited a tightly controlled garden from their predecessors at Casa Pera, and had maintained it in much the same way. Planting had been organised for colour all the year round, and fruit trees were bullied into tortuous shapes, taking up the minimum space but producing the maximum harvest. Beyond their garden, in sharp contrast, was the Hall parkland, widely spreading and free from constraint. But, as Colin had pointed out knowledgeably to his wife, the park itself had been just as artificially designed in the first place. Only time had given it the illusion of Nature wild and free.

Colin Osman was a member of the Gardens Committee which organised the event, and had tackled it with customary enthusiasm. He was up at the crack of dawn, sorting and stacking leaflets, and telephoning people who had not yet stirred from their beds.

Refreshments were being served at Doreen Price's farm, and she and fellow WI members had spent a whole day scrubbing out an old stable, setting up an attractive tea-shop with red and white gingham cloths and posies of flowers on each table. Doreen's green and generous garden was open to visitors, too, and Tom had grumbled that she'd have no time left to collect eggs or feed the chickens in the top field. Doreen had just smiled and blown him a kiss as she passed by with a box full of crockery from the Village Hall.

'Looks like we're going to be lucky with the weather,' she said. 'There's not a cloud in the sky.'

At two o'clock precisely, Ivy Beasley stepped out of her front door and locked it carefully behind her. She walked up towards Macmillan Gardens, and joined Doris Ashbourne who was waiting for her on the corner.

'Where's Ellen Biggs, then?' she said, looking back across the Green. 'Late as usual, the old slug.'

'Don't you ever stop to think what you say, Ivy?' said Doris. 'Ellen could be ill, or held up for a good reason.'

'Not her,' said Ivy, 'strong as an ox, that one. There she is, look, just coming over the bridge, and taking her time about it.'

They watched Ellen silently, and the old woman quickened her pace, shouting a greeting to Don Cutt in the pub yard, and finally catching up, her chest heaving with the effort of hurrying.

'Where shall we go first, then?' she said, hoarsely, but with a cheerful smile. Gardens Open Day was a treat for Ellen, as she was incurably nosy, and the influx of strangers was a welcome source of novelty and speculation. She had dressed appropriately, in a full-skirted white cotton dress, printed with tiny sprays of forget-me-nots, and unashamedly feminine with big puff-sleeves and a heart-shaped neckline. The white ankle socks and large men's plimsolls rather spoiled the effect, but Ellen had sacrificed looks for comfort.

'I remember Doreen Price's daughter in that dress,' said Ivy. 'She was about sixteen at the time, and just the right age for such a garment. You do look a right fool, Ellen, but there's no telling you, is there?'

'Now, now, that's enough,' said Doris quickly. 'I suggest we go to Fred's garden first, and Standings' last, and the others in between.'

The gardens had been open since eleven o'clock in the morning, and cars were parked nose to nose around the Green. Local people mixed with visitors from Tresham and around, and there was a pleasant hum of conversation as the three women approached Fred Mills's house in Macmillan Gardens. Fred was in his element, his pipe tucked in the pocket of a grubby linen jacket that could have done with a visit to the cleaners. He lived with his old, bed-ridden sister, and they did well enough. But niceties like taking clothes to the cleaners had been given up long since.

Fred hadn't stopped talking since the first visitor arrived, and his rheumy eyes shone behind a pair of spectacles as he read aloud the details of his own garden from the dog-eared sheet he kept firmly clenched in his hand.

'Noted for a fine collection of brassicas,' he read, peering over the top of the sheet at Ivy, Ellen and Doris.

'Don't be such an old fool,' said Ivy, 'we know you've got some decent cabbages coming on. You don't have to put on a show for us.'

'Nasty Black Spot on them roses, Fred,' said Ellen, pulling off a disfigured leaf.

'It's everywhere this year,' said Fred defensively, leaving the trio to get on with it, and going back to the gate to welcome strangers who were hovering uncertainly on his concrete path, and could be trusted not to make snide remarks. 'It is nice and neat, though,' said Doris. 'Considering his age, old Fred does very well.'

'No better than mine,' said Ivy, 'and I've nobody to help with the heavy work.'

'Better ask your beloved Robert to do some digging this autumn,' said Ellen. 'If he can spare the time, that is, from courtin' his Mandy.'

A ripple of excitement passed through all three women as they approached Bill Turner's garden on the opposite side of Macmillan Gardens. It being Bill's first year, curiosity had drawn most of the village to file through the narrow passage by the house and marvel at the rich productiveness of Bill's garden. The shed, they noticed, was shut firmly, and its windows were whitewashed, blind and forbidding.

'That's where 'e kept them rabbits,' whispered Ellen, 'them what Joyce ... you know, Doris.'

'I do know,' said Doris, 'and so does everybody else. It's a wonder Bill didn't do for her right there and ...' Her voice tailed away as she turned to look back at the house, and at the same moment a silence fell on the sunlit garden.

At the front gate, Bill was trying to persuade a reluctant Peggy to come in.

'I'll pick you some parsley, gel,' he said, 'you said yours was no good.' She followed him nervously through the passage and round to the patch of lush green herbs by the water-butt, aware that nobody was talking and convinced that they were all looking at her. Bill bent down, and was beginning to pick the parsley when he heard Peggy gasp.

He straightened up and was rooted to the spot, staring with her and every other visitor at the bedroom window over looking the garden.

'Oh my God,' he said. 'Oh, dear God, she's done it now.' Joyce had drawn back the curtains, and those who saw her do it reported a mad theatricality in the act. There she stood, posed like Botticelli's vision of the birth of Venus, except that there were no long tresses to hide her nakedness, and confinement and lack of exercise had loosened her body so that it sagged and bulged in a way that would have disgraced the goddess of love.

She looked down at where Bill stood beside Peggy, and her face was full so full of hate that Peggy winced.

'Bill,' she said quietly, 'Bill, dear, you'd better go in and sort her out. I'll see you later.'

In the shocked stillness in the garden, Bill made his way to the back door, his head bent and his face scarlet. He disappeared inside, and seconds later could be seen pushing his way in front of Joyce and drawing the curtains once more.

'Show's over,' said Peggy in a cracked voice, and turned to leave. As she passed Ivy Beasley, the spinster put out a hand, barring Peggy's way.

'Satisfied, are we, Mrs Palmer?' she said. 'A person can be driven only so far, you know. But no doubt you think you know best.'

Ivy turned on her heel, and proceeded past the lettuces and marrow bed, and on down to the compost heap at the bottom of the garden. She stayed there, looking out over the quiet fields, until Ellen and Doris joined her, and then without speaking they continued on their way.

Peggy fumbled with her back-door key and almost fell into the kitchen. She collapsed on to a chair and thumped at her temples with clenched fists.

'What the bloody hell are you doing to that woman?' she yelled, and Gilbert shot out of her basket and through the cat flap in alarm.

A long time went by and Peggy did not move. The kitchen was silent and still, and then Gilbert-returned, rubbing against Peggy's leg and meowing softly for her supper. At last Peggy stood up and went wearily to the fridge, taking out a half-full tin of cat food and spooning the strong-smelling meat into a yellow plastic dish.

'It's no good,' said Peggy. 'What I'm doing is wicked, and there are no excuses. I shall have to explain to Bill, and he'll have to accept it.' She shivered. I have to get out of here, she thought, get some fresh air. I feel dirty.

She pulled on a cardigan and went out of the back door again, latching the side gate and setting off in the direction of the church. It was after closing time for the gardens, but a few people still lingered, sitting on the bench on the Green in the evening sunlight, and strolling in groups by the river.

One by one the cars drove off, people staring out at Peggy as she crossed the road without looking, causing a big grey Mercedes to stop with a jolt and hoot angrily.

She came to the bridge and for once did not stop to look at the water. Her mind was blank, and her eyes saw only the road beneath her.

Finally she stopped, and realised where she was. There was the headstone, so sadly new and clean. 'FRANK ARTHUR PALMER - Died 6.12.1992. aged 53 years. Beloved husband of MARGARET. "Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new." Peggy stood looking at it for several minutes, and then sat down on the warm grass by the gentle mound. 'It's a mess, Frank,' she said. 'You would be ashamed of me. Come to that, I'm ashamed of myself. But I'm so afraid that I can't stop it. Bill means too much to me now, and he is so unhappy, always will be unhappy with that woman, whatever I do or say. It isn't fair, Frank, it isn't fair at all.

A blackbird sitting high above her on the church roof began his liquid, magical evening song, and she looked up. The sky was pale and limpid, and the breeze too slight to stir the heavy black yews. She looked down at Frank's grave, and put her hands on the short grass, digging her nails into the turf, deeper and deeper. 'Frank,' she said, and repeated his name desperately as her fingers grew black with earth and became entangled in the mat of roots.

'Don't do that, Peggy,' said a woman's voice, 'you'll do yourself no good, my dear. Come away now, come away.'

It was Doreen Price, large and comforting, and Peggy allowed herself to be led out of the churchyard to where