[Churchminster #3] Wild Things (31 page)

His knuckles tightened round the steering wheel. ‘Not you as well.’

‘Well?’ she demanded.

Jed looked pained. ‘Calypso, please don’t get involved. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

As he went to drive off, Calypso put one hand on the window frame. ‘I swear to God Jed, if you’re cheating on her I’ll rip your balls off!’

Jed looked up, his face drained of blood. ‘Fuck you.’ He screeched off in a cloud of dust, leaving Calypso open-mouthed.

Chapter 40

A FEW DAYS
later, on a scorching June afternoon, the film crew packed up and left Clanfield Hall. Frances watched as a line of white trucks snaked down the drive and on to their next location. Even though she had been looking forward to getting things back to normal, Frances felt a slight regret as the last tail light disappeared through the front gates. The film crew had bought an energy and life to Clanfield Hall, made the place sit up and take notice after centuries. Would they go back to the stifling inertia she had been suffering from before? Frances couldn’t bear the thought.

Cook and Mrs Bantry hadn’t known what to say when the old van had screeched up at the back of the house, and they’d been even more nonplussed when they realized the giant beaver driving it was Lady Fraser. She’d tried to make an excuse, but they’d been so dumbstruck that Frances had given up. Luckily Ambrose hadn’t seen her, and by 6 p.m. she had been back in her study sipping Earl Grey as if the whole
thing
had been a dream. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more it seemed as if it hadn’t happened. Aside from when she’d given birth to Harriet, Frances couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so happy. The last time she’d had proper
fun
. Frances had expected to feel guilt about the sex, the way she had before, but to her surprise she didn’t. If anything, she felt revitalized.

‘Frances!’ Ambrose strode into her study without knocking. ‘Have you seen the bloody mess that film lot have left behind?’

‘They’re going to clean everything up. Don’t get worked up, Ambrose,’ she said, sitting back down behind her desk to finish her correspondence.

‘It’s not bloody good enough,’ he complained. ‘The east wing is upside down and I still can’t find Great-uncle Algie. Some bloody buffoon hasn’t put him back in the Red Room.’

Frances looked up sharply. Her husband stood before her, red-faced with indignation, eyes bulging furiously. ‘Oh, who gives a shit about Great-uncle bloody Algie!’ she said.

The next day Clementine opened her bedroom curtains to be confronted by the most alarming sight. Against her better judgement, she had allowed the last few scenes to be filmed in the back fields of Fairoaks. At least, she had thought, she would be able to keep an eye on them and Dan the locations manager had told her they would only be there a week.

She’d been told they were filming some sort of
wedding
scene, but Clementine still hadn’t been prepared for the huge gazebo that had somehow been erected overnight. It was almost as big as Fairoaks. Clementine had to admit it was rather striking, but it was still disconcerting to wake up and discover a structure as big as the Taj Mahal just outside one’s garden.

She was putting on her pearls when Errol Flynn started barking. Someone had to be at the door. Clementine slid her feet into her brogues and hurried downstairs. To her surprise, Pam Viner was there, waving a package. Clementine went over to let her in, Errol wagging his tail behind her furiously. ‘Good morning, Pam, do come in.’

‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you,’ Pam said, cheeks rosier than ever. ‘I just thought I’d come with a peace offering, seeing as we’re rather taking over the place.’ She handed Clementine the package. ‘Catering do a mean fruitcake, I thought you might like to try some.’

‘That really is very thoughtful.’ Clementine put the cake on the kitchen table, well out of reach of Errol Flynn’s quivering nose. Fruitcake was his favourite.

‘I was just about to put the kettle on. Would you like something?’

Pam smiled gratefully. ‘A cup of coffee would be heavenly. Unfortunately catering’s coffee doesn’t match up to its fruitcake.’

Clementine gestured for her to take a seat. ‘Yes, I must admit I was alarmed when I woke up and saw the set today,’ she said. ‘It’s a lot bigger than one thought it would be!’

Pam laughed. ‘It always feels like that, especially when it’s practically in your backyard. They won’t leave a trace, I promise.’

Clementine handed her a steaming cup of coffee.

‘Just what I needed. Lovely.’ Pam said. She took a sip. ‘How are things going with Britain’s Best Village? I still feel awful about the truck reversing on to the green, you know.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ Clementine said. ‘It was just an awful accident.’ She sighed. ‘Things could be going better, to be perfectly frank, and now we keep getting these awful acts of vandalism round the place.’

Pam made a sympathetic noise. ‘Aren’t some people awful? I read in the local paper police are following up leads.’

‘Yes, they think it’s that lot of hoodlums from Bedlington,’ Clementine said. ‘Although I’m not holding out much hope – the Bedlington police force aren’t the sharpest tools in the box.’

For a while they chatted about the competition and what plans the Garden Club had, before a mobile phone started ringing. Pam apologized for the interruption and answered it. ‘Wes? Yes, I’ll be there in a minute.’ She ended the call and looked regretful. ‘Time’s up for me, I’m afraid, back into the eye of the storm! Clementine, thank you for the coffee.’

‘And thank you for the fruitcake,’ Clementine told her, walking Pam over to the back door. Behind them, and with surprising agility for a dog his age, Errol Flynn jumped up at the table and quickly exited the
kitchen
with half the fruitcake in his mouth, to devour in the drawing room.

Down on the film set, Wes Prince’s day hadn’t started well. He’d stubbed his toe getting dressed at the crack of dawn that morning, and now one of his cameramen had called in sick, just as they were getting to a pivotal scene. It was all Wes needed.

A full English breakfast in the catering truck, snappily called ‘Lights, Camera, Snacktion’ was just getting his spirits up when the door flew open and Gordon Goldsmith, Sophia’s manager, stormed in. Wes groaned inwardly. The guy was a pain in the butt on set and was getting worse every day. He swallowed a tomato as Gordon came bustling towards him.

‘Wes, a word please.’ Gordon had seated himself opposite Wes before Wes had even had a chance to reply. Gordon’s thinning brown hair was slicked back, his keen brown eyes channelled straight on to Wes’s.

‘Graham, isn’t it?’ Wes said pleasantly, knowing it would get the manager’s back up. The little shit strutted round like he was more important than the talent.

Gordon narrowed ferret-like eyes. ‘Gordon. Wes, I’d like to speak to you frankly. Sophia’s Winnebago is far too cold. She’s been complaining of a sore throat, and if she loses her voice, that’s the last thing
you
guys need. I’d like her moved to a new one, I was never happy with the one you gave her anyway, it’s far too small.’

Wes speared a grilled tomato into his mouth. ‘’Fraid
that’s
not my bag. You need to speak to the assistant director. Or maybe one of the runners can help.’

Gordon didn’t look appeased. ‘And what’s this about you cutting Sophia’s lines? I’m not happy about that at all.’

Wes was beginning to lose patience. He didn’t have time for a five-foot-nothing telling him how to run his own film. ‘The scene was too long and needed cutting. Sophia should know it’s routine.’
And so should you, you stumpy-legged imbecile
, he thought.

‘Sophia didn’t bring it up,
I
am. I’ve got to look after my client’s interests.’

Wes gave a strained smile. ‘Then we share the same goal. Now, if you don’t mind?’ He looked pointedly at the rest of his breakfast. ‘I can’t work on an empty stomach.’

He watched the little man bustle out to go and terrorize someone else. Did Sophia have any idea what a tosspot he was?

Chapter 41

‘
JED, YOU HAVE
to say something to her.’

Sophia reached out and took his hand. They were in her Winnebago, facing each other over untouched cups of tea on the coffee table.

Jed’s jaw clenched momentarily.

‘I know. I just don’t want to break her heart.’ His dark eyes met Sophia’s blue ones.

‘It’ll devastate her.’

Sophia squeezed his hand again, savouring the warmth of his touch.

‘Jed, you know it’s the right thing to do.’

His jaw clenched again.

‘I hate the thought of letting her down.’

Sophia smiled tenderly.

‘Darling, sometimes the right choices in life are always the most difficult ones. You and I both know that.’

Eventually Jed nodded.

‘You’re right Soph, you always have been. I just need a bit more time. Do you understand?’

Sophia gritted her teeth and smiled falsely.

July came to Churchminster in a flurry of azure skies and soaring temperatures. Beryl Turner was on official watering duty, which involved going round every house in the village to make sure the hanging baskets were all they possibly could be. Everywhere people’s hard work was paying off, and from the luxuriant and glossy flowerbeds on the village green to the graffiti-free walls, the village looked happy, healthy and as neat as a pin.

As she took Errol Flynn for a walk that evening round the village, Clementine felt a huge sense of pride in what had been achieved. There was little trace of the devastation that had been wreaked on them last year. It wasn’t just outward appearances, either: peoples’ lives were getting back to normal, too. Beryl and Jack Turner had smiles back on their faces as the pub went from strength to strength. Brenda Briggs was throwing herself into the community more than ever, setting up all manner of groups she urged everyone to join. Even if Clementine didn’t fancy learning how to burlesque dance in the village hall on Tuesday evenings, she was thrilled that Brenda was back to her sociable, interfering self. A subtle harmony had been restored, and it could be sensed in the way Angie’s shoulders had stopped hunching in unconscious worry and the strength of Lucinda Reinard’s gusty hellos when she
screeched
over in the Volvo estate to have a natter. Last summer Clementine had despaired of things ever being the same again, but Churchminster had almost regained its rhythm.

Almost. Clementine stared at the green, drinking it in. It all looked so lovely, but what was the point, really, when they lived in constant fear of being flooded again? Clementine wanted to reach a moment in her life where she could turn on the weather forecast and not have her heart sink every time rain was predicted. It was no way for anyone to live their life. They just had, had, had to win the Britain’s Best Village competition!

The next morning, Clementine was woken early by the telephone ringing. It was Beryl Turner. Her tone was serious.

‘Sorry to call so early, but you’d better get down here. Something awful’s happened.’

Clementine surveyed the mess with disbelief. The vandals had done a really good job this time. The new flowerbeds, which Beryl and Clementine had spent so long nurturing, had been ripped apart. Pink fuchsias and blue begonias lay there like deflated balloons, while the earth had been kicked about viciously, leaving crater-like holes. Every one of Beryl’s hanging baskets, her pride and joy, had been pulled down and now lay like a line of collapsed puddings in the road outside the pub.

Beryl was in tears. ‘Bastards! If I get my hands on them!’

Jack put his arm round his wife, squeezing her protectively. Clementine could see the anger and upset in his tense jaw.

Stacey Turner came out of the pub. She was bleary eyed and dressed in a silky black dressing gown. Face solemn, she handed her mother a steaming mug of tea. ‘Drink this, Mum, it’ll make you feel better. I’ve put three sugars in, it’s what you do when someone’s in shock.’

Beryl took the mug. ‘Thanks, Stace.’

Silently, all four took in the ruined green. Stacey eventually verbalized what they were all thinking. ‘It looks like shit.’

‘Stacey,’ said her mother, shooting a look at Clementine.

‘Are you gonna call the police?’ Stacey asked.

Clementine didn’t see the point. What could the police do? Vandalized flowerbeds were hardly going to be high on their crime-prevention agenda.

‘I bet it’s that lot from Bedlington,’ muttered Jack darkly. ‘I’ve got a good mind to go across there …’

Beryl stopped him. ‘Leave it, Jack, the last thing we need is to have you banged-up for assault.’

‘No, we don’t need that at all,’ Clementine said hurriedly.

‘So what are we gonna do?’ Stacey asked.

Clementine gave a small smile at her use of the word ‘we’. There was nothing like times of trouble to pull people together. ‘Start again, my dear,’ she said wearily. ‘That’s what we do here. I suppose I’d better get down to the garden centre.’

Word spread quickly, and by mid-morning they had a good turnout. People had taken time off work, or juggled child-care arrangements to make sure they could come down and help in whatever way they could. To Clementine’s surprise, even Frances Fraser turned up, looking slightly out-of-place amongst the muddy-kneed volunteers, in an immaculate white shirt and razor-pressed trousers, a gold clip holding her neck scarf in place.

‘Mrs Bantry told me at breakfast what happened,’ she told Clementine. ‘I had to come down and see what I could do to help.’

‘It really is very good of you, Frances,’ said Clementine.

‘It’s the least I can do. Now, where would you like me to start?’

Clementine looked at the dead plants and flowers lying strewn about. ‘They all need picking up, the bin bags are over there.’

She thought Frances might turn her nose up, but she nodded enthusiastically.

‘Righty-ho, I’ll get started.’ And with the offer of a pair of smelly old gardening gloves from Brenda Briggs, Frances got on with it.

A few hours later all the new flowers had been planted and Jack had re-fixed the hanging baskets to their hooks, from which they’d been ripped down earlier.