Threats at Three (26 page)

“Father Rodney! Helloeee!”

Dear God, could you not have held her back until I was well out of sight? Father Rodney turned and saw a perfectly turned-out Mrs. T-J striding towards him. He smiled his friendliest smile, just to show he could, and wished her good morning.

“Just the person I wanted to see!” she said. “There’s always such a crowd waiting to speak to you after the service, and now here you are and I’ve got you all to myself!”

Alarm bells rang. Surely she was not about to make him some discreet partnership proposal—or worse, suggest . . . But no, she was years older than him, and could not possibly . . .

“How can I help?” he said coolly. “I am up and about early to make the most of this beautiful morning before the nine o’clock at Waltonby.”

She looked at her watch. “You’ve got another hour yet. May I join you? I am quite a fast walker.” And a fast worker, Father Rodney said to himself in dismay.

“I was just thinking of turning back,” he explained. “Have to get showered and togged up in ecclesiasticals, you know. My Sunday best, as they say.”

“In that case,” she said, “we’ll walk up the drive to the hall, you shall have a quick glass of water and I’ll run you back to the vicarage.”

Father Rodney gave up. He fell in with her now much slower pace, and to his relief she announced that she had a problem with her gardener. “He is such a good worker, but I find it difficult to get much out of him about his private life.”

“Perhaps he regards that as his private affair,” Father Rodney said gently.

Mrs. T-J puffed up like a pigeon. “Oh, no. I think as his employer I have every right to know what kind of man I am allowing free run of my estate, don’t you? He gave me his name and address, and that is all. I have checked both, and find them fictitious. No such name at no such address.”

“So what have you done about it? That surely is enough to justify asking for an explanation?”

“Of course. But so far I have done nothing. There is something about the man that warns you off. As you know, I am a strong character. Used to be called fearless on the back of a horse! But I feel I must tread warily. For once, Father Rodney, I am not sure. That’s why I wanted your advice. What do you think?”

He reflected that she probably would take no notice of anything he advised, so it didn’t much matter what he said. “I think your instincts are probably right,” he said. “Go slowly. Perhaps you could ask around and find out if anyone knows anything about him? You must have a friendly policeman you could consult, you being a magistrate and so on?”

“Of course I know the commissioner, but it’s rather a small matter. . . .”

“So far it may be,” said Father Rodney. “But he must have a reason for giving false details. Obviously he doesn’t want his real identity known. Why? That is the question you need answering. Have you thought of asking Mrs. Meade at New Brooms? Her girls go cleaning all round the county. They are sure to know something about him. Doesn’t one of them work for you?”

Mrs. T-J nodded. “Mrs. Hickson, yes. But she doesn’t seem to want to have anything to do with him. I’ve watched her, and when he comes towards the house she retreats upstairs.”

“There you are, then!” he said triumphantly. “She knows something about him, and maybe something bad, if she seems scared. Ask her, Mrs. T-J, that’s my advice.”

They had now arrived in the stable yard, where her large limousine was parked. In no time at all, he was more or less ejected outside the vicarage with plenty of time to prepare for the service. So much for his solitary, contemplative morning stroll! Ah, well, no doubt He had a reason that would in due course emerge.

 

 

THE VILLAGE CHURCH CHOIR WAS NOW REDUCED TO THREE sopranos, one alto, two tenors and a bass who could not read music and made it up as he went along. Their robes were assorted shades of red, resulting in uncomfortable clashes, and their singing was much along the same lines. The popular singing teacher who had been their director of music had left a year ago, and things had gone downhill ever since.

Father Rodney was tone deaf, fortunately, and so continued to congratulate them on their rendering of four-part discord, and the few who remained were intensely loyal to him and to each other. Every so often, they tried a recruiting campaign, and occasionally a couple of new people would try it out. But they faded away quickly, and the small band of pilgrims remained.

“I wonder if young Jack Hickson would be interested in joining us?” said Tony Dibson, the improvising bass choir member. He had been impressed by efforts made by several villagers to get the lad to join in, and now he thought how good it would be to have a treble voice amongst them.

“No harm in trying, Tony,” said Father Rodney, as he prepared the bread and wine. He insisted on having small pieces of real bread and not the usual papery wafers that were impossible to swallow before the wine came along the row of communicants. “Why don’t you have a word with his mother?” How extraordinary, he thought, that this new family in the village should have come up twice in one morning! But perhaps not so extraordinary. Life in this small community was often nothing like the tranquil existence some incomers seemed to expect, but when presented with a problem, or somebody genuinely needing help, many of the real villagers rallied round, as it seemed they had done for the Hicksons. Derek Meade, he had heard, was offering young Jack some work in the school holidays, and the church should certainly not be the last to stretch out a welcoming hand.

“So can I leave it to you?” he said, smiling at old Tony. “And how is Irene? I see she is with us as usual, and looking very pretty, if I may say so.”

She’d be a lot happier if she could be ugly and on her feet, Tony said to himself, but nodded and said how much she had enjoyed last week’s sermon.

 

 

THE CHANCE CAME TO SPEAK TO JACK JR. AS TONY PUSHED IRENE back home after the service. The boy was kicking a football up and down the lane that led to the village hall, and as Tony passed by, the ball came fast directly towards Irene in her chair.

Jack had chased it desperately, but not fast enough, and Tony caught it with a nifty sidestep and grab. He held on to it and frowned sternly as Jack stood looking fixedly at the ground. “So what d’you say?” Tony growled at him.

“Sorry,” muttered Jack.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, boy!” said an exasperated Tony. “That was a very stupid and dangerous thing to do. The playing field is the place for football. So how’s about making amends?”

Jack frowned and looked up at him. “Making what?” he said.

“Amends,” repeated Tony. “Showing just how sorry you are. You could have injured my wife, and she’s got enough to put up with without that.”

“What do you want me to do?” said Jack, now seeing a possible escape from yet another lecture from his mother.

“You can put your back behind pushing this wheelchair to our house,” said Tony. “But only if Irene allows it.”

Irene was looking distinctly alarmed, but took a deep breath and said that was fine, so long as Jack was really careful and made sure they were at the dropped curb before crossing the road. They set off, and when Tony said that they were safely home, Irene said, “Thanks, lad. D’you fancy a smoothie? Hard work pushing the chair, I know. Come on in, we don’t bite.”

By the time Jack said it was time he went , he had reluctantly agreed to give the choir a go, but only to see if he liked it, and only if the Dibsons agreed not to tell anybody. “The kids on the bus would give me hell if they knew I was a choirboy,” Jack said, and one of his rare grins crossed his face.

“See you next Tuesday, then, for practise in the church, seven o’clock sharp,” Tony said, and watched as Jack walked off home. “I doubt he’ll be there,” he said to Irene, as he set the potatoes on the stove, “but at least we’ve tried.”

W
HAT ABOUT TRAFFIC IN AND OUT OF THE VILLAGE?” SAID Gavin. “Shouldn’t we be in trouble if we don’t tell the police.” The subcommittee had met for an extra session as the date was suddenly nearly upon them and there were a number of urgent matters to resolve.

“No need,” said Derek. “John, you’ve thought of a solution. Would you like to explain?”

“Simple really,” John Thornbull said. “We have a responsible person each end of the course, in communication by mobile phone, and when there’s two or three cars waiting to get through the village either way, we hold up the next race until they’re through. After all, there’s not a lot of cars using our road since they built the bypass.

“How long on average will it take to run each race?” Gavin asked.

“We need to do a trial run,” John said. “I thought you and me could do that,” he added, smiling at Gavin. “Relive our boyhood and all that.”

“I’m game,” said Gavin. “But it’ll have to be last minute, maybe the night before, when the ramp’s up.”

John nodded. “Good thinking. It’ll be a chance to try out the soap boxes. But it’ll have to be just you and me, otherwise things’ll get out of hand.”

“So that’s you in the Youth Club’s
Rebellion
, and which entry for you, Gav?” said Tony.

“I’ll ask the pub lot. I’m giving them a hand building it, anyway. So that’s fixed then. Trial run on the Friday night. Who shall we ask for the two responsible men at each end on the day?”

“How about Douglas Meade?” said Hazel. “He’s giving the WI a lot of help, and he’s a big lad. Authoritative, like. Get’s it from his mother,” she added, with a sly look at Derek.

“Fine,” said Derek blandly. “I’ll ask Douglas. Who else?”

“I would like to volunteer,” said Father Rodney. “I don’t mind not being the target for a wet sponge!”

There was a small silence, as a picture formed in their minds of the vicar in his black shirt and dog collar stopping the traffic with one hand, and then waving it on again at the right time, mobile phone glued to his ear.

Douglas cleared his throat. “Excellent,” he said. “Can’t get more authoratatiwhatsit than the vicar. Double authority, eh?”

Father Rodney got the reference and smiled. “I’m sure He’ll be with us on the day,” he said quietly.

“Any other points we’ve missed?” Derek said.

“Yes, there is one question. Is there an age limit on the drivers? Minimum or maximum?” John Thornbull had nearly forgotten Jack Jr.’s ambition to drive
Rebellion
. It could be important, not just for Jack, but for any other minors or old idiots who thought they could do it.

“If you’re thinking of me,” Tony Dibson said firmly, “I have no intention of driving. It’s taking me all my time to stop Irene entering herself and her wheelchair!”

“Had you got anyone in mind, John?” Derek said, though he had a good idea who it might be.

“Well, yes and no. Young Hickson mentioned it, and then some of the other kids wanted to be in on it. We shall have to give ’em all a go down on the playing field, and see who’s fastest.”

“I votes anyone over fifteen,” said Hazel.

Tony Dibson shook his head. “Why don’t we leave it open to all, provided they can reach the brake? We could have the starter checking them over before they start. I don’t think anybody would be stupid enough to drive without a brake.” Tony knew Jack Jr. was thirteen, desperate to drive, and undoubtedly capable of doing so. “After all,” he added, “I remember lads of all ages having soap boxes, and none of us ever got hurt.”

“Let’s have a vote, then,” said Derek, looking at his watch. “All those in favour of an age limit?”

Only Hazel raised her hand.

“Right, that’s carried. Thanks everybody. Next meeting we’re walking the course first, then coming in for business. I shall have a list of points for us to check, including the other entertainments. All going well there, Hazel? Right, I close the meeting for this evening.”

 

 

GAVIN WENT ALONG WITH THE OTHERS TO THE PUB, CONFIRMED that he could do the trial run in the pub’s
Speedy Willie
, and then said he had to go home. “Kate’s got a migraine,” he said, “so I promised to go straight home to be there if Cecilia wakes.”

The others chorused good wishes for Kate’s recovery, and got down to the serious business of ordering.

As Gavin walked back along the High Street, he tried to imagine it on race day. Straw bales would line the road, with a gang of the biggest lads from the Youth Club making sure people didn’t stray off the pavements. Loudspeakers were to be placed along the course, and Derek had agreed to do the commentary. He’d been practising in the bath, and although Lois said he sounded like a man in severe pain, he had assured a doubtful Gavin he could be mistaken for Murray Walker anytime.

Then the soap boxes, careering down the street, hopefully gathering momentum from the sloping length of it. The ramp would give them a good start, and the better they were built, the faster they would go. At least, he thought that was how it would be. Lightest or heaviest? He had no idea, but some of the technical chaps would know. It would be a day to remember, he said to himself as he turned into his lane.