Olivia shrugged. ‘If you call moving into a horrid little modern box down by the station “sorting things out”. Although in some respects it’s ideal because there’s no chain, and Nigel’s creditors will be off our backs once and for all.’ The kettle boiled and clicked off. As Olivia began to make the tea she said, ‘It would have been nice to have had the time to hold out for somewhere better but…’ She sighed. ‘The worst of it is trying to get rid of stuff. We’re going from five bedrooms to three, from’ – she gestured with her free hand – ‘all this, to a poky little kitchen-diner and a squitty little sitting room. Half the furniture has got to go, to say nothing of everything else.’ She poured milk into both mugs. ‘I keep telling myself they’re only things…’ She stopped and swallowed. ‘Just things.’ She handed Bex her mug.
Bex took it. ‘I came to ask if I can do anything to help. I haven’t forgotten how you came to my door the day I moved in and got my kitchen organised. I think I’d still be unpacking boxes now if you hadn’t spurred me on.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Olivia smiled. ‘But if you’re serious… how long have you got?’
‘A couple of hours. I’m due at the pub at midday.’
‘You’re still going to work there?’
‘Of course. I love it. Belinda found a few uni students who wanted holiday jobs but they’ll be going back to college soon so I’m back on the lunch shift.’
Olivia looked sceptical. ‘I suppose working with Miles helps.’
Miles was Belinda’s business partner and pub chef. And a good friend of Bex’s.
‘Naturally.’ Bex sipped her coffee and grinned. ‘Perks of the job. Not that he spends so much time in the kitchen these days. The new guy they got in, Jamie, is terrific. It’s nice that Miles has more evenings free.’
‘I bet it is.’
Bex ignored Olivia’s implication, mostly because their relationship was still at the ‘just good friends’ stage although Bex sometimes felt that it might be quite nice if it moved forward another few inches. But, hey, it was lovely that Miles was a friend and she wasn’t going to rock the boat by trying to force the pace. ‘Right, what do you want me to do?’
*
Across town, at the comprehensive school, Megan pushed back her mass of jet black locks to peer at her class tutor with her smouldering eyes and answer to her name.
‘Megan Millar?’
‘Present, Mrs Blake.’
Megan, who reminded everyone of her parent’s generation of a young Sophia Loren and her own of Kim Kardashian, was about as different from her stepmother as it was possible to get. Bex was blonde, blue-eyed and curvy while her daughter was sultry and leggy. And it had been her stunning looks which had made her integration in the local comp difficult the previous term as she’d aroused the jealousy of Lily, the class beauty who was also the class bully. But after a particularly ugly incident Lily had been removed from the school, the equilibrium of the class had been re-established and Megan had made new friends – foremost amongst these being Sophie, who was as much an English rose as Megan was exotic, and who now sat next to Megan.
It wasn’t just good looks that the two girls had in common – they’d both had to cope with more than a fair share of personal tragedy; Megan had lost her father, killed in a ghastly traffic accident, while Sophie’s mother had been struck down by multiple sclerosis and was confined to a wheelchair. They shared a sisterhood of adversity.
Mrs Blake handed out the new timetables. Same old, same old, thought Megan as she scanned the subjects. But, yuck, double science last thing on a Friday. Was the school having a laugh? From the look on the faces of the girls sitting near to her, her opinion was pretty much universal. At the front of the room their class tutor droned on about other admin arrangements, including dates for their year group assemblies and the parents’ evening.
‘Of course, emails will be sent to your parents to remind them…’
Megan leaned across to Sophie and pointed out the scheduled science lesson. ‘That’s well rotten on a Friday,’ she whispered.
‘Do you want to share your conversation with the class?’ said their tutor, from her desk.
‘Er… no.’ Megan felt her face flare. Bloody Mrs Blake, she thought. She’d been horrified to discover that this school’s policy was for the class tutor to remain with the same group of children from Years Seven to Eleven; better pastoral care, apparently. This was fine if your class tutor didn’t hate you which, Megan reckoned, Mrs Blake did.
‘Then shall we get on?’
Megan nodded.
‘So…’ And Mrs Blake read from her list of admin points and the teenagers in front of her fidgeted. Ashley Pullen, the first friend that Megan had made at her new school, sent her a sympathetic look.
The bell went and finally they were released.
‘That was a bit harsh of Mrs Blake,’ said Ashley, catching up with Megan as she left the classroom.
‘She’s never liked me,’ said Megan.
‘True. She always thought the sun shone out of Lily’s arse.’
‘Yeah,’ said Megan gloomily. ‘She probably blames me for allowing myself to get bullied by Lily.’
‘Well, she’s at St Anselm’s now.’
‘Lucky St Anselm’s. Lily’s poison.’
Megan peeled off to walk to the next class with a group of boys. ‘See you after school?’ said Ashley over his shoulder. ‘Meet you at the gates?’
‘Cool,’ said Megan. She stared after him. He was still, she reckoned, the hottest boy in the school; those grey eyes, those dirty blond curls and those eyelashes! But while they were friends he’d never shown an interest in being more than that. She sighed.
*
At the vicarage, Heather was tidying up the Sunday papers which were still strewn around the sitting room although they were mostly unread. She and Brian had spent most of the previous evening going over the ramifications and implications of the accident in the bell tower as well as making a phone call to the hospital to find out how Sarah was doing. She had, as Heather had suspected, broken both her legs but her back was just severely bruised. Her prognosis was good – which was a blessed relief. However they also had to face the fact that the broken stay might have caused other damage or that the stay broke as a result of other underlying problems with the bells. She bundled the papers together and was about to carry them through to the pantry to drop them into the recycling box when the doorbell went. She tucked them under one arm as she went to open it.
‘Hello, Bert,’ she said to the churchwarden. ‘You’ve heard how Sarah is, I take it?’
Bert nodded as he wiped his feet and came into the hall. ‘Better than we had a right to expect, given the tumble she took. That was a bad do. I can’t believe it took so long to get her out of the bell chamber; the best part of two hours, I heard.’
Heather nodded. ‘It was like a mountain rescue exercise. They had to strap her to a special stretcher and lower her through the trapdoor.’
‘Poor kid. On top of everything else.’
‘Still, it’ll be something to tell her grandkids.’
Bert snorted. ‘Mebbe she’d rather she’d not had the accident or the tale to tell.’
‘Point taken. Anyway, you’re here to see Brian, no doubt. He’s in his study. Go on through.’
Bert headed for the study door. ‘Only me, Reverend,’ he said as he knocked and then opened it.
Heather walked to the kitchen and dumped the papers. The doorbell went again.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she grumbled as she retraced her steps. Honestly, she thought, it would be quieter to take up residence at Clapham Junction. She opened the door again. It was her cleaner, Amy Pullen, the town gossip and mother of Megan’s friend Ashley. ‘Amy? But it’s not your day to do for me.’
‘No, you’re all right, Mrs S. I’ve just popped over to ask you a big favour.’
‘Ask away,’ said Heather.
‘Well, Olivia’s going to be moving out of her g
aff soon and she’s said she’ll recommend me to the new people, write me a reference, but she’s got a lot on her plate and… well…’
‘You think she might forget.’
Amy nodded. ‘And then there’s that business with my Billy.’
‘Indeed.’ Amy’s Billy, who had been a part of a local crime wave. Amy’s Billy, who had been mates with the local drug dealer. Amy’s Billy, who had broken into the vicarage one Sunday morning and nicked a load of Heather’s stuff including her mother’s antique silver clock. Heather glanced over her shoulder to where it had been reinstated on her sitting room mantelpiece.
‘Not that he’s my Billy now,’ said Amy. ‘I’m never having nothing to do with him no more.’
‘I should hope not,’ said Heather.
‘But if the new people get to hear that I went out with a bloke who got sent down for three years… well, it stands to reason, don’t it, that they mightn’t want me to work for them.’
Heather nodded. Amy might have a point. Guilty by association even though she’d had nothing to do with the break-ins. ‘So what do you want me to do about it?’
‘Could you write me a reference? Please. What with you being the vicar’s wife and everything, it’d give me a better chance.’ She gave Heather a winning smile.
‘Of course, I will.’
‘You’re a star. And I’m going to ask Jacqui an’ all. I mean, it can’t harm to have a doctor’s wife onside too, can it?’
‘No. So, have you heard from Billy?’
‘No, and I don’t want to. I saw his mum the other day – she says he’s finding the nick tough. And so he bloody well should, if you’ll pardon my French. When I think what he did. And there was me hoping he might pop the question. I tell you, I had a lucky escape there.’
‘You did. He was a wrong ’un.’
Amy shrugged. ‘But I miss the company. Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m better off without him but it was nice to have a grown-up to go out with. He used to take me to some well-lush places.’
‘I’m sure.’ Heather didn’t point out that it was probably paid for out of his ill-gotten gains as a thief and a fence.
‘I’m thinking about trying one of those dating websites.’
‘Really?’ Heather was aghast. ‘Is that wise?’
‘Well,’ said Amy folding her arms. ‘I can’t do any worse than Billy, now can I?’
Heather thought there was every likelihood that she could, but she kept her counsel. ‘Good luck, then.’
Amy glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better be off. See ya. I’ll pick up that reference when I come to do for you next.’
‘See you then.’ Heather closed the door. She liked Amy and admired her for the way she held down innumerable jobs to keep a roof over her and her son’s heads, but she was inclined to be impulsive and Heather was certain she wasn’t the best judge of character – not if Billy was anything to go by. Frankly, she thought, Amy’s foray into online dating might be doomed but there wasn’t much she could do, except be there if – and when – it all went wrong.
Chapter 2
Brian and Bert were both puffing like steam engines when they got to the belfry. Neither was in their first flush of youth and Bert might have the weather-beaten complexion of an outdoorsman but most of that came from pottering about on his allotment. A sportsman he wasn’t, as his slight paunch attested. Brian wasn’t much better as regards to fitness but, not being a regular at the Talbot, he didn’t have Bert’s beer belly.
A pigeon exploded out through a damaged portion of the louvres leaving a solitary feather floating to the floorboards which were dotted with bird droppings. In the centre of the belfry there was a lattice of heavy timbers that formed the wooden bell frame supporting the six bells. Around the edge was a gap of just a couple of feet which enabled Pete, the steeple keeper, to get to the bells to inspect them and their wooden frame which was something he did every few months.
‘We ought to get that fixed,’ said Brian, looking at the gap in the wooden slats. He moved towards it and stooped slightly so he could see through it, taking in the view across the cricket pitch to the Georgian town hall which rose above the higgledy-piggledy roofs of the town. On a level with him he could see the rookery in the upper branches of the oaks that formed the boundary between the churchyard and the road, and in the distance were the hills that sheltered the town from the worst of the north-westerly winds. It had been a while since he’d been up here and he’d forgotten what a stunning view it was. He turned and patted the nearest bell. ‘It always amazes me to think that these were here when James the First was on the throne. The history…’ He turned around and looked at the tangle of rope wound around the wheel of the number three bell. Beneath the bell was the broken stay. Brian bent down and picked it up. ‘You wouldn’t think that a little bit of wood like this could cause such trouble, would you?’
‘Yeah, well, that’s the thing, Reverend, it’s not the only bit of wood that’s about to cause trouble. Look at this. Here,’ said Bert who was crouched by a bell. He picked up some fine sawdust that was on the floorboards and showed it to the vicar.
‘So?’
‘So, it means the joints are moving, rubbing against each other. It’s got to be fixed because it’ll only get worse. And that’s not the only place like it.’
‘That’s not good, I take it.’
Bert shook his head. ‘We might be able to put wedges in but it’s a temporary fix. We need it properly done, if you ask me. There comes a point when we can’t tighten up the bolts no more. I spoke to Pete who says it ought to be done sooner not later cos once a bell frame starts shaking… All that weight swinging out of kilter…’
‘So what’s the solution?’
‘Pete reckons that we need to put some girders in, under the bell frame, that’ll stop the movement. He knows of another church with a problem just like ours – that’s what they did, he says. You see, Reverend, now the joints have started to move, every time we ring the bells it makes it worse and worse. These bells are blooming heavy buggers and when they swing… well…’ Bert shrugged.
Brian stared gloomily at the bells. ‘It sounds expensive.’
Bert nodded. ‘Anything involving the bells is expensive.’
‘I’m going to have to get advice on this,’ said Brian. ‘Firstly we need an expert to tell us how bad it all is, secondly I need to find out how we can get money to fix it.’
‘Yeah, but that’s not the worst of it.’
Brian stared at Bert. ‘There’s worse?’
‘Well, not in money terms.’
‘In what terms, then?’
‘Pete’s worried that if we keep ringing the bells, with the bell frame in this state, we’ll do damage. Real permanent damage. Structural damage.’
Brian looked at the ancient masonry of the tower. It looked solid enough but even he knew that the physics and forces involved with bell-ringing could change that. ‘So what’s he suggesting?’
‘No bells. Not till we get it sorted.’
Brian stared at the bells. No bells? He felt a whoosh of irrational sadness. The bells were an integral part of Sunday; change-ringing was part of what made English church services so English. The people of Little Woodford loved the sound of the bells as they drifted across the town; it was as much a part of the fabric of the place as the town hall and the weekly market.
‘The ringers,’ continued Bert, ‘agree with Pete. What if something more than a stay breaks? A ton of bell and only a few floorboards between it and the ringing chamber? It’s not worth the risk. They’re going to offer their services to some of the other parishes in the area – to keep their hand in – but, I’m afraid, Reverend, no one ain’t going to be ringing ours till they’re fixed.’
*
Amy let herself in to Jacqui’s house, calling out a cheery ‘coo-ee’ as she did. Silence. Jacqui must be out, she thought. Good. Time was, a few months back, when Amy was making a start on the cleaning, the doctor’s wife would
have just been getting up, looking bleary and hung-over and staggering downstairs to make a coffee but, since the summer, she’d quit the booze, cleared out the bedroom of her dead daughter and gone to work part-time at her husband’s surgery.
Amy opened a couple of cupboards in the kitchen, took out the spray polish, some multi-surface cleaner and grabbed a couple of cloths. She dumped these on the counter before she filled the kettle and flicked it on. Then she opened the laptop that had been left on the kitchen table and watched it boot up. Once it had stopped whirring she tapped in ‘Lisa1998’ and hit the return key. The screen flicked to the desktop icons. Good. Amy had been worried that clearing out her dead daughter’s bedroom, which had helped Jacqui to finally move on, might also have caused her to change her password which was her daughter’s name and the year of her birth – but, thankfully, she hadn’t moved on that much. As the kettle boiled, Amy clicked on Google, entered the name of a dating site and logged in. While the little hourglass spun round she made herself a cuppa before she sat at the table. She could do this on her phone, of course she could, but it was so much easier and the pictures were so much clearer on a decent-sized screen. And she was sure Jacqui wouldn’t mind… well, not much. Amy sipped her tea and looked at the talent that was on offer. After a few minutes she got up, went to the doctor’s study and grabbed a couple of sheets of paper. Returning to the kitchen she began making notes. Eventually she logged off, and switched off the computer. Amy glanced at the clock. Bugger. She was going to have to shift if she was going to get the house cleaned in the time she had left.
*
Across town, in the offices of a local solicitor, Amy’s mother, Mags Pullen, was busy signing the paperwork to allow the sale of her hairdressing salon to a new proprietor. Some months previously she’d made her mind up to retire, sell her business as a going concern and then plough the proceeds into a house on Beeching Rise – the new development behind the station. Quite apart from the security home ownership would give her, it would also make for a tidy legacy to pass on to her daughter when she died. Now her plan was all falling into place and in a couple of weeks, when the money from this sale was in her account, she could buy the house of her dreams.
The Bells of Little Woodford Page 2