[Churchminster #3] Wild Things (28 page)

By 6 p.m. everyone had arrived and was enjoying drinks on the terrace. Clementine clinked her glass, signalling the meeting was about to start. She waited until people had sat down and made themselves comfortable.

‘Welcome to the seventh Garden Party committee meeting. As I’m sure you’ll agree, the last two months have flown by and we have achieved a great deal, but there is still even more to be done. We only have four weeks left until the judges come round and change the fate of Churchminster. For ever!’

Slightly alarmed, everyone glanced at each other. It had all come round so quickly. Four weeks was nothing!

Clementine looked down at her list of copious notes.

‘As you know, we have had to use up some of the money meant for the Church that we raised at
Churchminster’s Got Talent
to not only reseed the village green from where the film truck reversed over it …’ At this her mouth set in a grim line as she thought to herself:
I told you the film was a ridiculous idea
. ‘…but more worryingly, we have had to repair the spiteful acts of vandalism this village has suffered recently.’

Despite Clementine’s hopes that they could have started restoring St Bartholomew’s, they’d ended up having to call out industrial cleaners to get rid of the graffiti on the rectory wall because the paint was
impervious
to Jack Turner’s special brew. Only days later, the new flower tubs had been kicked over on the village green and ruined. PC Penny was proving as much help as a chocolate teapot, and short of sitting up playing vigilante all night, they didn’t know what else to do.

‘Bloody disgrace,’ shouted Brenda Briggs. ‘If the police didn’t spend so much time giving out speeding tickets to anyone who goes above 15 mph through Bedlington town centre, they’d have this lot by now!’

‘Angie and I had a run-in with some yobbo from Bedlington the other day,’ boomed Lucinda. ‘I bet it was him!’

‘Unless we install CCTV cameras on the village green, I don’t know how we’re going to prove it,’ said Freddie gloomily.

‘CCTV cameras are not going to help us become Britain’s Best Village,’ said Clementine.

Joyce Bellows cleared her throat. ‘Has anyone seen the Maplethorpe website?’

Angie made a frantic chopping motion, but it was too late.

‘Website? What website?’ Clementine said.

‘Er, they’ve got their own website,’ said Angie.

Clementine was a bit behind the times. ‘And what’s on it? Why has no one told me?’

Several people exchanged looks. No one had wanted to tell Clementine because they knew it would only get her hot and bothered. But now it was too late.

‘It’s just like a parish newsletter, really,’ said Angie.
‘Only
they seem to spend an awful lot of time criticizing Churchminster. It’s nothing to get upset about, I’m sure it’s sour grapes.’

Clementine looked shocked. ‘Criticizing us about what?’

‘Oh, just saying how we’re a failing village, that we’re not really pulling our weight,’ Angie said. ‘They’ve done it to the two other villages as well,’ she added hurriedly, seeing the anger building in Clementine’s face.

Clementine shot a look at Calypso, who normally helped her out with the Internet. ‘Why didn’t you inform me about this?’

‘I didn’t know!’ protested Calypso. ‘I’m up to my eyeballs with work, do you think I’ve got time to go searching for random websites?’

‘I want to see it for myself,’ Clementine said. ‘Come along!’

She marched off to her study, followed by everyone. They all crammed in as Angie turned on the computer and brought the website up. It was a well-designed thing, with a picture of Maplethorpe’s pristine village green on the home page. A banner saying, ‘Winners, Britain’s Best Village!’ had been designed to hang above it.

‘It’s here,’ said Angie, clicking on to an icon saying ‘Veronica’s BBV Blog’.

‘What on earth is a blog?’ asked Clementine.

‘It’s like an online diary, that anyone can read,’ explained Calypso.

Clementine shuddered at the thought of anything
so
self-indulgent and vulgar. But then again, Veronica had always been a terrific show-off. She started reading.

Churchminster is a rather woe-begotten little place and one does wonder if the judges only felt sorry for it to put it through to the final. It certainly isn’t up to the usual standard of the competition, as well as the hideous ivy choking the rectory, which should be one of the most important houses in a village, I hear the village shop repeatedly sells items past their sell-by dates! Rather a case for health and safety to investigate, don’t you think?

‘Bloody cheek, that tuna I had in was only six months out of date,’ said Brenda.

Joyce cast a worried look at her husband. ‘I told you we needed someone in to trim it back,’ she murmured.

Clementine’s brow darkened as she leant over Angie’s shoulder to scroll back through previous entries. Everyone stood in silence, until she stood up again, grim-faced.

‘They seem to know an awful lot about us and what we’re up to. For instance, how could Veronica Stockard-Manning know about us painting the recycling bins?’ Clementine fixed them with a beady eye. ‘In my mind it is perfectly clear that we have had an undercover journalist or spy amongst our midst.’

‘Well, it’s not me!’ Brenda Biggs exclaimed. Clementine rolled her eyes.

‘I don’t mean
us
. As you said before, one of those
ghastly
reporters that always seems to be hanging round the place, asking all sorts of questions. I had another run-in with one outside the village shop yesterday; she only put her tape recorder away when I threatened her with my walking stick.’

‘Steady on, Granny Clem!’ Calypso laughed. Her grandmother was lethal with that thing.

Lucinda wasn’t about to give the spy theory up. ‘Why couldn’t it be one of us?’ she boomed. ‘This Britain’s Best Village is serious stuff. Someone could be getting paid a handsome backhander. God knows, people need the money.’ She eyed Beryl Turner suspiciously. ‘You were wearing a very nice sequinned jacket the other day. It must have cost a fortune.’

‘I got it from TK Maxx!’ Beryl said indignantly. ‘What are you implying?’

Clementine interjected. ‘Now then, now then. I’m sure it’s not one of us.’ She couldn’t stop the thought.
Could it be one of us? Lucinda’s right about people taking the competition seriously
. She dismissed the idea quickly. It was far too silly. ‘I want you all to keep an eye out for any suspicious-looking characters and report back to me. Now then, let’s get on with the agenda …’

By the time they’d finished it was past nine o’clock. The shadows were lengthening on the terrace, bringing a much-needed coolness to the heat of the day. Smoke from the barbecue, which Jack had already started, was wafting over and Clementine could see several people glancing over at it. She was rather hungry herself, by now.

‘Right, everyone, I think that’s it,’ she called. ‘Thank
you
for being patient. If you’ve got any questions about your list, please do come and ask me.’

The meeting broke up, and for a moment Clementine stood observing her fellow villagers, chatting and laughing as they helped set up the barbecue. Everyone had bought along something, whether it was Lucinda’s new potato salad recipe or Ted Briggs’s home-made potent cider that he’d been brewing in his potting shed. Clementine felt a pang in her heart; Churchminster was such a close-knit community and they all looked out for each other. She couldn’t bear it if it disappeared. Brenda Briggs had already said she’d sell up and move away if they got flooded again, and so had her next-door neighbour, Pearl Potts. Could the Jolly Boot and Angie’s Antiques withstand more months of being shut if they got deluged again? These were people’s livelihoods. It seemed one thing after another was threatening their little idyll, so warm, so helpful, such a rich tapestry of British life. Clementine couldn’t even bring herself to think about what would happen if St Bartholomew’s was closed down.
Churchminster would cease to exist
, she thought, stricken.
And I would, too, along with it
.

Over by the buffet table, Lucinda was getting stuck into her fourth glass of Pimms. Unbeknown to the hostess, Lucinda had emptied another bottle of Pimms mixture into the jug. Mrs S-F was a dear, but she did stint on the booze sometimes.

‘Another top-up, darling?’ she asked Angie Fox-Titt.

‘Please,’ said Angie, holding her glass up.

Joyce Bellows bustled over, holding a tray of cucumber sandwiches. She put them down on the table.

‘Fancy a drinkie, Joyce?’ Lucinda boomed. Her voice got even louder when she’d had a few.

‘No, thank you, Lucinda. I never drink on the day of our Lord.’ Joyce poured herself a glass of Clementine’s home-made ginger beer instead. ‘Are you enjoying your Garden Party duties?’ she asked eagerly. ‘I’m simply thrilled with the progress of the hyacinths in the churchyard, they look wonderful!’

‘Wonderful!’ echoed Lucinda. A mischievous glint entered her eye.

‘Actually, Angie and I found a load of porn magazines when we were on fly-tipping duty.’

‘Oh!’ squeaked Joyce, going bright pink.

Angie shot Lucinda a half-warning look.
Don’t wind her up!

Luckily, at that point Lucinda’s mobile went off. She scrabbled round in her huge handbag.

‘It’s from the house. What have the children done now? Hello! Yes, Hero, what is it?’ Her face dropped. ‘Oh bloody hell! One of the ponies has escaped!’ She looked round frantically for her husband, who was deep in conversation with Calypso. ‘Nico! That little sod Pippin has got out again, apparently he’s galloping up the Bedlington Road! You’ll have to drive, I’m feeling squiffy.’

Lucinda dragged her reluctant husband away, tripping over a stone badger and almost going head over heels on her way out. A minute later they heard
the
screech of Volvo estate car tyres as the Reinards took off in hot pursuit of the four-legged escapee.

‘I wouldn’t want to be Pippin when Bedlington Pony Club’s District Commissioner gets her hands on him!’ laughed Angie.

Chapter 38

‘
FEEL MY BALLS
… that’s it … bloody hell!’

Calypso’s blow job was just reaching its finale. As she paused to take breath (deep throat always did take it out of her) Rafe blissfully ejaculated, white spurts shooting skywards like an atomic explosion.

‘Oww, shit!’ she yelped.

He looked up in alarm, chest still heaving. ‘What?’

Calypso winced. ‘You just shot in my eye!’

‘You’re kidding me.’ Rafe sat up to take a better look. Calypso was kneeling between his legs, her right eye half-shut and beginning to turn red. Rafe let out a snort of laughter. ‘Sorry. It’s just quite funny.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. It’s stinging like fuck!’ Calypso tried to open it without much success.

‘I’ve got some eye drops in the bathroom, hold on,’ Rafe said and leapt out of bed. Moments later he was back. Calypso turned her face up and waited for them to be administered. Rafe started putting the drops in with the utmost care. Calypso winced again.

‘Urgh …’

‘Hold still for a second more … there you go.’

Calypso flopped back on the bed. ‘Still bloody hurts.’

Rafe chuckled. ‘It’ll get better, although I’m not sure if the manufacturers intended them to be used for this. Just keep putting the drops in.’

‘Eye eye, Captain,’ she grumbled.

Rafe looked down at her, sprawled naked with one hand over her eye. He started laughing again. ‘You might be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met, but you’re also the most accident-prone. What are we going to do with you?’

‘Get me an eyepatch next time I give you oral sex?’

Rafe grinned. ‘I think I can do better than that.’

Leaning over to the bedside table, he opened a drawer and bought something out. Through her one good eye Calypso could see it was a small box. She sat up, the pain in her eye temporarily forgotten. Was it a ring? Her stomach did a somersault. He was going to propose!

Rafe came to sit by her and slowly opened the box. Instead of a silver band, however, a stunning pair of diamond studs glittered back. Calypso’s stomach did another funny whirly thing and finally settled.

Rafe looked at the plastic anchors dangling from her ears. ‘I know they’re probably a bit safer than anything you’d choose, but I still thought they’d look good on you.’

‘Oh my God!’ she gasped. The pang of disappointment she’d felt when she’d seen they weren’t an
engagement
ring had quickly been replaced by excitement. They must have cost a bomb!

Rafe watched as she took her own earrings out and put the diamond studs in.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, suddenly a bit self-conscious.

He looked at her, face full of meaning. ‘They look stunning, but you’re stunning anyway.’

‘I adore them! Thank you so much,’ she breathed. She leaned in and started kissing him in the way that drove him wild. It didn’t take long before his breathing became more laboured, coming in short, moaning breaths.

‘And now,’ Rafe murmured. ‘If the patient feels up to it, I’d really like to fuck you in them.’

‘Told you I was a diamond shag,’ Calypso sighed happily.

Despite his best efforts to remain incognito while he was back, someone had spotted Devon going into an organic deli in Stow-on-the-Wold and tipped off the local press. The next day Frances happened to see Cook’s copy of the
Bedlington Bugle
lying on the kitchen table, when she went in to make herself a pot of Earl Grey.

‘THE RETURN OF DISHY DEVON’ proclaimed the front page, together with a photograph of Devon on stage, and a picture of the deli he’d bought his vegetarian red bean pâté in. The shop-girl was breathlessly reported as saying he looked as good as ever and she was convinced he was staying somewhere
near
by, as he had left his bicycle propped up outside. The report went on to say how he was rumoured to be selling Byron Heights to a private owner.

Frances read it with a sinking feeling of dismay. If the press were on to Devon, it would make it very difficult to see him again.
That’s if I wanted to
, she quickly told herself.