‘I think some tea and biscuits when he gets here might be welcome.’
Heather sloshed milk into both mugs and then got up to check the cupboard where she kept the ‘best’ biscuits. There never seemed to be quite as many there as she remembered. She opened the tin and surprise, surprise, the packet she’d thought almost full was almost empty.
‘Have you been helping yourself to the biscuits again?’ she asked Brian.
He looked pained. ‘No. I only eat the digestives and the rich tea in the other tin.’
Well, someone was eating them and it wasn’t her – maybe Brian gave more to his visitors than she would be inclined to. Heather sighed and put the tin back. She’d have to find time to get some more decent ones. And she was working at the school today as a teaching assistant – maybe she’d call into the Co-op on the way there.
‘So, after his visit he’ll be able to give us the low-down on the final cost,’ she said, leaning against the counter.
Brian bit into his toast and nodded. ‘Hnn-hnn.’ He chewed and swallowed. ‘That’s right,’ he repeated more distinctly. ‘And we have to be grateful that Sarah—’
‘Sarah?’
‘Our injured bell-ringer.’
‘Of course.’
‘—is healing nicely with no complications and has absolutely no intention of taking any sort of action.’
Heather’s eyes widened. ‘Was that on the cards?’
‘It might have been. You know what people are like these days.’
‘But Sarah?’
‘To be honest I never thought that it was a real possibility but… Anyway, it’s one less thing to worry about.’
‘So when will the foundry start work?’
‘Just as soon as we can pay them.’
‘But it could take months to raise the funds. Years! And then they’ve got to be repaired.’ Heather was aghast.
‘It’s how it goes.’
‘Couldn’t we get a loan?’
‘I think you’ll find,’ said Brian with a smile, ‘that the Church has rather strong views about being involved with moneylenders.’
‘But this is different. It’s not the same thing at all. We’re not inviting usurers to set up their stalls in the nave.’
‘Even so.’
Heather sighed. ‘What about the Church? Won’t they fund this?’
‘I have made a few tentative enquiries. It seems the general feeling is that bells are non-essential. An expensive luxury…’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ She snorted to emphasise her displeasure before she picked up her laptop and returned to the table and her tea. She flipped open the lid and waited for it to boot up then she clicked on the icon labelled ‘bells’ and looked at the list of ideas that Olivia had given her.
‘I think,’ she said to Brian, ‘we need to set up a dedicated bank account for the bell fund.’
‘Yes, I suppose.’
‘If people are going to subscribe to donate on a regular basis we can’t have their money mixed up with the other general funds.’
‘No, dear.’
‘So will you organise that?’
‘I suppose.’
‘When?’
Brian looked at his wife and saw her expression. Given how cross she already was it might be better not to antagonise her further. ‘Today?’
‘Correct answer.’ She drained her mug and began to clear the table.
*
The next day, when Amy arrived to clean for Heather she found her at the kitchen table typing away on her laptop. Also on the table were about a dozen boxes which, to judge by the contents of the one that was open, were filled with leaflets about the church bells.
‘Blimey, you’ve been busy,’ said Amy, slipping off her jacket.
‘I got the print shop in Cattebury to run these off for me.’ She picked a pamphlet out of the open box and handed it to Amy.
‘An Appeal for A Peal,’ read Amy. ‘That’s quite clever.’
‘It seems,’ said Heather, ‘that if Brian and I don’t raise the funds to sort out the bells, no one is going to.’
‘That’s a bit harsh, ain’t it?’ She handed the leaflet back.
‘My sentiments exactly. Anyway, I’ve had these flyers printed and I am going to leaflet-drop the whole town in the hope that some people might feel inclined to respond – or even help.’
‘The whole town?! Good luck with that.’
‘Well, I am hoping that there will be some kind souls who will volunteer to do the area where they live for me. I mean, I think I can rely on Olivia to do Beeching Rise. And if I could find someone to do the council estate…’ She gave Amy a significant look.
‘Dunno if there’s anyone from round me who goes to church.’
‘I don’t think they have to be churchgoers to want to offer to help,’ said Heather, pointedly.
‘No? So what needs doing today?’
Heather sighed and gave Amy a list of cleaning priorities. There’s none so deaf as those that will not hear, she told herself. But, if she was going to be fair, Amy was hardly a slacker and ‘volunteering’ tended to be the province of the time-rich.
As Amy got going with the dusting Heather armed herself with a map of the town and a packet of leaflets and set off to do a couple of the roads near her. As she was leaving the vicarage a large blue van pulled up at the gate and two men got out. She recognised the driver.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘It’s Graham, isn’t it?’
‘Hi, Mrs Simmonds. This is Trev, by the way.’ Heather shook his hand. ‘He’s the guy with the technical know-how. I do the sums. Is your husband in?’
‘In and expecting you,’ she said. She retrieved her key out of her purse and let them in to the house. As she opened the door she saw straight down the hall and into the kitchen – and spotted Amy, who was in the act of putting back the tin where she kept the posh biscuits.
‘Ah, Amy.’ She saw Amy leap out of her skin. ‘These two gentlemen have come to see Brian. Could you sort out tea and biscuits for them – the nice biscuits, please.’ She walked into the kitchen. ‘Yes, those ones,’ she said, looking at the tin in Amy’s hand. ‘How clever, you must have read my mind.’
She returned to her visitors, showed them into Brian’s study and then carried on with her leafleting, smiling to herself. That explained about the missing biscuits, she thought. She’d have to find a new hiding place for the good ones and put the dreary ones in the tin in the cupboard. In theory, she didn’t mind Amy helping herself to a biscuit or two – she just rather resented that Amy was tucking into the biscuits she denied herself on the grounds that they were extravagant and a luxury. She stuffed the first leaflet through a letter box. One down, one thousand, four hundred and ninety-nine to go.
*
‘Bex, Bex, Bex… I got the part,’ squealed Megan as she burst into the kitchen that evening.
‘Darling, that’s brilliant,’ said Bex as she stirred a cheese sauce on the stove.
‘It’s an awful lot to learn though.’ Megan dropped her backpack onto a chair. ‘It’s going to be so much hard work.’
‘But you can do it, I know you can. How did Ashley get on?’
‘Yeah, he got what he was going for too. Isn’t it great? Mind you, he already thinks he’s going to be the next Benedict Cumberbatch.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I thought he’d walk back from school with me but he said he wanted to talk to Miss Watkins about his part. He needs to know about the Ugly Sisters’ motivation. I mean…’
‘Blimey.’ Bex switched off the gas under her saucepan and took it off the stove. ‘That sounds a bit keen. Mind you, all great actors have to start somewhere.’ She poured the sauce over some cooked pasta.
‘Ash, a great actor?’
‘You never know.’
‘Anyway, the other thing is…’
‘What?’
‘Can I go and stay with Soph again? On Friday?’
‘Friday?’ Bex’s
heart did a massive skip of delight. Friday! On Friday Alfie and Lewis had both been invited to sleepovers too.
‘Please.’
‘If it’s OK with Lizzie.’ Please, please let it be OK with Lizzie. It wasn’t that Bex wanted shot of her kids but the thought that she could have an entire evening to herself, where she could kick back, do something entirely selfish and for pleasure… She might even go to the pub and experience being on the other side of the bar for a change. And she knew she got out now and again – there was the book club, she went to PTA meetings, and she even went to the WI most months – but she was always aware that she’d left Megan in charge of the boys and she was scrupulous about scurrying back as soon as she could.
‘Of course it’s OK with Lizzie. She likes Soph to have friends round. And she wants to help me with the play. Did I tell you she used to act?’
Chapter 13
On Friday, when Bex had finished her shift at the pub, she returned home to a house that had been cleaned by Amy that morning, and which was going to stay neat and tidy till the next day because all three of her children were going away for the night. She drifted into the kitchen and put the kettle on and then realised she felt oddly bereft. What the hell was she going to do with herself between now and bedtime?
She made herself tea and then sat at the kitchen table and considered her options – which seemed rather thin. She could take herself off to the cinema in Cattebury, she could go for a drink at the pub, or she could slob on the sofa with trash TV and a glass of wine. There really wasn’t much else on offer. Did she really want to flog into Cattebury on her own to see a film for the sake of something to do? Going to the pub by herself didn’t appeal either. She pulled the paper towards her and glanced at the TV listings pages; soaps, a documentary about the state of the planet, a bunch of cosy-crime dramas… She sighed and pushed the paper away again. If Olivia didn’t have a job and hadn’t just moved house she’d have suggested her friend might have fancied coming over for a drink… And there was Heather. But she was also a busy woman and Bex wasn’t quite sure they were on close enough terms for such an invitation. And pretty much everyone one else she knew had kids and probably couldn’t just light out. No, it looked like it was going to be a night in with the remote.
She picked up her mug and went through to the sitting room. Might as well start as she meant to go on. She switched on the TV and found a programme about house buying which she watched faute de mieux. She nodded off.
The doorbell woke her. For a second she was disorientated then she remembered – she was having an evening off. She glanced at the clock; it was gone five and, to judge by the scum on it, her tea was stone cold.
She got up and answered the door. It was Miles.
‘Hiya,’ she said happily, opening the door wider. ‘Come in.’
‘No, I won’t stop. A little bird told me you’re childless tonight.’
‘A little bird called Belinda?’ Just as she’d been leaving the pub earlier that afternoon, she’d mentioned to her boss that she only had herself to cook for that night. ‘But I hate cooking only for me,’ she’d added.
‘Buy yourself a ready meal,’ Belinda had suggested. ‘Prick and ping.’
But Bex had dismissed that idea – it always smacked of being on the slippery slope to slutdom.
‘It might have been,’ admitted Miles. ‘Was she right?’
Bex nodded. ‘All three kids have been invited for sleepovers.’
‘So what have you got planned?’
Bex shrugged. ‘A night in with the box and a glass of something chilled and white.’
‘You know how to live,’ said Miles.
‘Hey, don’t knock it.’
‘Look, I’ve got Jamie helping out in the kitchen tonight but he is perfectly capable of finishing off the last orders on his own. Why don’t you meet me at, say, eight in the pub and we can have a drink together?’
‘Really?’
‘Unless there’s something on TV that you’d prefer to watch.’
‘No, absolutely nothing. Trust me.’
‘Great. It’s a date. See you later.’ And Miles dipped in through the open door and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘Bye.’ He bounced off down the drive leaving Bex feeling slightly flustered.
Did he mean a date – as in an ‘arrangement’ – or a date? she wondered.
Time dragged after Miles had left; rather ridiculously, she felt. Three whole hours. She had more tea, she cooked herself some supper, she watched the news… still an hour and a half. She decided to take a bath. As she went up to run it she told herself that she was doing this to kill time. And, anyway, when did she get a whole tank of hot water to herself and the luxury of time to pamper herself? Besides, this was taking advantage of the empty house and had nothing to do with seeing Miles. She ran a bath right up to the overflow, added some very expensive Jo Malone bath oil she’d been given ages previously and sank into the almost too-hot water. She shut her eyes. Bliss.
She let her mind drift and, once again, she found herself wondering about where, exactly, her relationship with Miles might be going. She realised with a bit of a jolt that it only mattered because she was keen to know. She knew she liked him, but was it rather more than she wanted to admit? But, and she had to admit this too, she wasn’t sure she was ready for a proper relationship. Her husband had been killed only the previous year. But, on the other hand, she was frightened someone else might snaffle Miles before she was ready. She sploshed the water around with her hands. Was she being dog-in-the-manger?
Bex stayed in the bath until the water cooled and her skin went wrinkly and then got out and dressed with more care and thought than she’d done in years. She wanted to look casual but attractive. She finally settled on a pair of expensive jeans and a floaty blouse. She put on a hint of make-up and surveyed the result. She’d do. No… no… She slipped off her customary comfy loafers and rummaged in her wardrobe for a pair of heels. She hadn’t worn heels for weeks, maybe months. She put them on. Now she’d do.
She checked her watch for the umpteenth time. She still had fifteen minutes – actually longer. She didn’t want to be too prompt. That would look overly keen and that would never do. She went back into the sitting room and killed the time by channel hopping and checking the clock. Finally, at ten past eight she stopped checking the clock and checked her make-up instead, before locking up and going next door to the pub.
‘There you are,’ said Miles. ‘I was afraid you were standing me up.’ He smiled at her. ‘You’ve changed.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Oh… I found a mark on my top,’ lied Bex.
‘And your jeans?’
He’d noticed this pair wasn’t the same as the other pair? ‘Well…’ She blushed. Busted.
‘What are you drinking?’ said Miles moving off the subject.
‘A white Rioja, please.’
Miles ordered their drinks and steered her to a table in the corner which, surprisingly on a Friday evening, was empty.
Bex sat down and twiddled the stem of her glass. ‘I haven’t done this much.’ She took a sip.
‘What?’
‘Gone out for a drink – not since Richard died. For one, I haven’t been invited and two it’s taken a while to feel like I want to.’ She looked directly at him. ‘Not that I’ve been a complete recluse but… well, for a while it was all too soon, then we moved…’
‘Then I’m glad that you feel like you can again. In fact I am more than glad, I feel quite honoured.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ She stared at her wine again.
‘I’m not being. Tell me about Richard.’
Bex looked up and then took another sip. How much did he want to know? Did he want the complete book or the synopsis? She decided to give him the short version but it still took a while. She told him what a funny bloke he’d been, how he could talk to dukes and dustmen with the same ease, what a great dad he’d been…
‘He sounds as if he was very special.’
Bex nodded. ‘I thought so.’
‘You must miss him.’
‘It’s getting easier.’ She smiled at Miles. ‘It’s been well over a year now and being somewhere new has helped. I wasn’t sure at first that it would but it definitely has.’ She decided to move the focus off herself. ‘What about you? Did you ever have a significant other?’
Miles nodded. ‘Several. You know about Belinda. To be honest she and I were never a proper item, more…’
‘Friends with benefits?’
‘Yup, that about sums it up.’
‘And?’
‘And there was Anna – that lasted several years and I had hopes… well, I thought marriage, parenthood… I’d have liked that.’
Bex studied him. He looked quite bereft. ‘I think you’d make a great dad.’
‘Maybe. Getting less and less likely.’
‘You’re not old. And it’s not the same for blokes. Your biological clock has got donkey’s years to run yet. Look at Mick Jagger!’
Miles sighed. ‘I don’t know. And I’ve yet to find Miss Right.’
‘You will. You’re a nice guy, good sense of humour, terrific cook. You’re quite a catch, I’d say.’ And he was. But did she want to go fishing? And if she didn’t, was she being fair to Miles? Was she stringing him along? Perhaps in a few years… but then, would she want another child herself? In a few years Megan would be at uni and the boys would be heading for secondary school.
‘Thanks. But it’s not as simple as that; there’s the negatives too. When you’re a chef, the hours are antisocial and, Belinda will tell you, I’m not the easiest guy to live with.’
‘Really?’ He didn’t seem so tricky.
Miles nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m a bit OCD about things like folding up sweaters right, and how things are stored in drawers and cupboards.’
‘And that’s a problem?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Want to come and sort mine out?’
‘I’d be delighted to.’
Bex notice that Miles’s Guinness glass was almost empty. ‘Another drink?’ she offered.
‘Why not?’ He drained the dregs and passed it to her. Bex picked up her glass and went over to the bar where she handed them both to Belinda.
The Bells of Little Woodford Page 10