The Bells of Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

*

  The next day, an hour or so after Olivia had cycled past The Grange to start her early shift at the hotel, two massive removal vans drew up outside her old house. Miranda Osborne stood by the door and watched the removal men get out of the cabs and open up the lorries’ huge back doors. She looked ready to spend a day lunching with girlfriends rather than about to move into a new house. Out of habit she fingered one of her emerald earrings – a present from her husband to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary. She’d protested at the time that they were a ridiculous extravagance while rather hoping she might get a necklace to match when they got to their fifteenth.

  ‘Roderick,’ she called back into the house. ‘Roddy, they’re here.’

  Roderick, a man who was the wrong side of sixty, with the hint of a paunch and thick glossy pepper and salt hair, dressed in mustard yellow chinos and a dark green V-necked sweater, clattered down the stairs. He looked at his Rolex. ‘I’ll give them their due, Miranda, they’re punctual.’

  Miranda arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘As they bloody well should be.’ Her accent was pure cut-glass. ‘We’re paying them enough. Besides, I told them you’re a barrister and that we’d take them to the cleaners if the job wasn’t finished today and done properly.’

  Roddy Osborne laughed. ‘I’d have thought you could have scared them into doing exactly as you wanted without bringing the threat of a lawsuit into it. And anyway, why mention me when you’ve got a perfectly good legal qualification of your own?’

  Miranda bridled slightly. ‘But I’ve been out of the loop for years now.’

  ‘The removal men don’t know that. Besides, there’s nothing to stop you from getting back in the groove.’

  She stared at her husband. Nothing to stop her…? OK, so it had been six years since she had lost the baby and almost lost her life in the process, but the mental scar was still there, the pain still caught her unawares on occasion, she still found herself gazing at prams in town and being reduced to tears… No, there was no way she could go back to work. Supposing she found herself dealing with a similar medical negligence case to the one she’d had to fight on her own behalf? Because if that happened there was no way she could be certain she’d be able to maintain any sort of professional detachment in court and what if she didn’t? No, it would be too ghastly to even contemplate.

  Except Roderick didn’t see the issue like she did. He’d got over it, accepted they’d never have children and thought she should too. But he hadn’t been carrying the baby, hadn’t formed that bond, he hadn’t experienced the guilt she’d felt. What had she done wrong? And while her insane workload during her pregnancy had been an excuse, it didn’t absolve her of blame. Why hadn’t she cut down on work, why hadn’t she insisted that the health professionals were missing something when she felt under the weather…? Dear God, if only she had.

  Miranda took a deep breath. Picking over the past wasn’t going to bring little Emily back. She squared her shoulders, stepped over the threshold and went to greet the removal men.

  ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘Bang on time. If you get started I’ll make a pot of tea. Which would you prefer, Earl Grey or English breakfast?’

  ‘Got any builders’ tea, missus?’

  Miranda narrowed her eyes as she considered correcting the foreman’s familiarity. ‘I imagine English breakfast tea is what you are referring to so, yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ll bring a tray out in a few minutes.’

  ‘Right, lads, let’s get going.’

  The men gathered at the ramp at the back of one van and began to unload boxes.

  ‘Mr Osborne will give you direction,’ said Miranda as she left the men to work and headed to the kitchen. The place, she noticed, still smelt faintly of paint. They’d had the whole interior redecorated in white as soon as they’d completed on the deal. The previous owners had had, she’d thought, quite a dubious taste in colour and wallpaper – especially in the bedrooms. She’d also had a wall of white fitted cupboards with push-to-open mechanisms built along the gable end wall under the mezzanine. To all intents and purposes the wall looked almost blank – as it should do – but behind was concealed a mass of shelves and drawers ready to hide their possessions from view. Less was, indeed, so much more.

  The bathrooms and the kitchen were going to get the same treatment in due course but, for the time being, they would have to wait. She could live with them in the short term – just – but the sooner these awful faux-cottage cream kitchen units went along with their naff wooden handles the happier she’d be. White units, white tiles on the floor, white marble work surfaces and stainless steel appliances. Perfect.

  Stacked on the counter were a few basics from their Kensington apartment, including a kettle and a box of identical white mugs. The milk, sugar and a couple of packets of biscuits, she’d bought that morning at the local Co-op. She’d dithered with the idea of giving the removal men soya milk because, as everyone knew, dairy farming was an abomination – just think what happened to the poor veal calves. However, Roddy had warned her that the movers might be difficult without a regular supply of tea with full-fat milk so, for the sake of their possessions, it might be worth abandoning her principles in the short term for a long-term gain. So, even though she could barely force herself to handle the plastic bottle, Miranda had conceded that her husband might have a point. As she’d proceeded to the checkout with her purchases she looked at the shop floor and concluded that, as a supermarket, it was a complete joke but it would just about do in an emergency. In London, for everyday groceries, she’d used a local Waitrose and she thanked God for online shopping, because there wasn’t one close now they’d moved. For those decadent little luxuries that made life bliss, Harvey Nicks’ food hall, or Fortnum’s had been wonderful but that would have to be a thing of the past unless she could persuade Roddy to pop in when he went up to Town.

  As she sorted out the men’s tea, they hauled a steady stream of boxes and packing cases into the house and were directed by Roderick as to which room they should be taken.

  Having delivered a tray of tea and biscuits to the workers, Miranda began to tear the tape off the crates and start unpacking various bits and pieces. She wasn’t expecting the process of getting straight to take overly long. She didn’t believe in clutter. When she’d viewed the house she’d been appalled at the amount of furniture the previous occupants had – such a waste of the vast airiness of the building. Surely, she’d thought, the whole point of living in a place like a barn conversion was to celebrate the space, not to try and make it cosy! What were they thinking of?

  Several huge chrome and white leather sofas were hauled in, followed by a glass and polished stainless steel dining table, the fragile top swathed in acres of bubble wrap and heavy grey blankets. Miranda swooped on it as soon as the removal men had positioned it to her satisfaction. She dragged off the blankets and then tore off the rest of the protection. Once the table top was revealed she examined it minutely.

  ‘If this has been damaged…’ she muttered as she ran the tips of her fingers right around the bevelled edge, checking for the tiniest chip.

  ‘OK?’ queried Roderick.

  ‘I think so,’ said Miranda. ‘By the way, Roddy, when is the chappy coming to look at the bathrooms and the kitchen?’

  ‘He said later today.’ Roderick got out his iPhone and checked his diary. ‘Three o’clock.’

  ‘Good. The sooner the better.’ She cast a glance at the hideous kitchen. ‘At least the decorators have finished.’

  ‘Where do you want this, guv?’ said one of the men. He was carrying a massive flat package.

  Through the swathes of protective plastic Miranda could see a picture of stylised poppies.

  ‘Prop it against that wall there,’ she directed. Once again she had to bite her tongue. Why couldn’t these oiks manage to call them Mr or Mrs Osborne and not resort to ‘guv’ and ‘missus’? Pick your battles, she told herself. Once again she got busy
removing the packaging so she could check for damage. She looked at a corner… was that a chip on the frame? She crouched beside the oil painting and rubbed the mark. No – just as well.

  ‘Oi, missus.’

  For God’s sake… ‘Yes,’ she hissed.

  ‘Visitor.’

  ‘Visitor?’

  She stood up in a fluid movement and walked to the door. Standing there was a short dumpy blonde with far too much cleavage showing. Dear God, this better hadn’t be a neighbour. She hadn’t paid such a vast sum for this house to have riff-raff like this on the doorstep.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hiya. This is a bit of a cheek—’

  ‘Mind ya back,’ said a burly bloke hefting a stainless steel and white leather dining chair.

  Miranda pulled her visitor out of the way and into the house.

  ‘Blimey,’ said the woman. ‘This is a bit bright, ain’t it?’

  ‘Isn’t it,’ corrected Miranda. ‘And no, it’s not; it’s called style.’

  ‘What?’ The blonde looked bemused. Well, what would a woman like that know about style? ‘Anyway, bit of a cheek,’ she continued, ‘but I used to clean for the last people. I was wondering if you’d already got yourself fixed up or if you were looking for a char.’

  Miranda stared at her. She had to admire her enterprise but she was similarly shocked by the brass neck.

  ‘I’ve got a bunch of references and everything.’

  ‘I’m sure you have.’ And from other riff-raff, no doubt.

  ‘I clean for lots of people; the vicar’s wife and the doctor’s.’ The woman beamed at her.

  ‘Really?’ Good heavens – so not all riff-raff.

  ‘Yeah, honest.’ She rummaged in her bag and produced some rather dog-eared envelopes. ‘Have a look.’ She proffered the letters.

  ‘Look, this isn’t convenient. As you can see I’m quite busy.’

  ‘I can come back tomorrow.’ She beamed even more eagerly at Miranda.

  Oh God, this woman was persistent but part of Miranda still quite admired her and she would need a cleaner. She’d employed a commercial firm in London but she’d never been entirely happy about the arrangement. And they’d been ruinously expensive. Not that that had mattered but she’d always worried that they’d hiked their prices because of her postcode.

  ‘What do you charge?’

  ‘A tenner an hour,’ was the cheerful answer.

  ‘A tenner?’

  A worried frown creased the blonde’s forehead. ‘It’s what my other ladies pay.’

  ‘No… no that’s fine.’ Ten pounds an hour? Good God, could anyone live on those sort of wages? And a bit of a price change from the iniquitous sum she’d paid to get her apartment cleaned before.

  ‘So I’ve got the job.’

  ‘You’ve got a trial.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘If you meet my standards, then you’ll have a job.’

  ‘I did for Mrs L on Tuesday afternoon and Thursday morning. Is that OK for you, cos if it’s not I’ve not got much other free time?’

  ‘I suppose it’ll have to be.’

  ‘Good.’ The blonde looked about her. ‘I like your stuff. Bet that table shows the marks something dreadful though.’ She stared at the big glass dining table. ‘How many can you get round that? A dozen? Sixteen?’ Miranda nodded. ‘That’s going to be a bugger to polish.’

  ‘It just needs elbow grease,’ advised Miranda. ‘Now then, if that’s everything…?’

  ‘Yup. So, seeing as it’s Thursday tomorrow shall I pop over in the morning to give this place a once-over?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Only all this coming and going is bound to drag muck into the house.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Right, see you then. I’ll be over around nine.’ The woman bounced out of the door and down the drive leaving Miranda feeling slightly, and unaccustomedly, shell-shocked.

  Chapter 17

  ‘Coo-ee,’ yodelled Amy as she let herself into the vicarage. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late – had to do something on my way to work.’ She shrugged off her coat and hung it on the newel post.

  ‘Morning, Amy.’ Heather glanced at the kitchen clock. Nine fifteen.

  ‘I’ll make it up at the end.’

  ‘Amy, a few minutes really don’t matter. Tea?’

  ‘Please. Gasping, I am.’

  As Heather got out mugs and milk Amy put on the pinny she kept hanging behind the kitchen door and took her box of cleaning materials out of the cupboard.

  ‘Meant to say last week – you’re getting low on polish.’

  ‘But you’ve got enough for today?’

  Amy shook the aerosol. ‘Probably. I’ve just been up at Olivia’s old gaff.’

  ‘Really?’ Heather switched on the kettle.

  ‘Yeah. Had a call from a mate of mine off the estate telling me the new people were moving in. She saw the vans there when she was dropping her kid off at school. So I thought I’d go up there on my way here and see if they want a char.’

  ‘Very enterprising of you.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought so and all. If you don’t ask you don’t get, that’s what I say.’

  ‘And did you? Get, that is?’

  ‘Might of. She said she’d give me a trial.’

  Heather dropped teabags in the mugs. ‘So… what’s she like?’

  ‘Dead posh. And she’d painted the whole of the inside of the house white. And all her stuff is white and shiny. I tell you it don’t half hurt your eyes just looking at it. She got this massive dining table – glass. I wouldn’t give it house room, me. You’d only have to look at it and it’d be all smears. That’s going to be a bugger to clean – I told her that, too.’

  Heather didn’t doubt it.

  ‘I reckon they’re loaded. I mean it stands to reason they’ve got a fair old wedge, given they’ve bought Olivia’s place… but Mrs L only ever looked normal, if you know what I mean. This new woman looks like she’s stepped out of a fashion mag. And her earrings… well, they might have come from Accessorize but if they were real emeralds they must have cost a mint. Honest, they were massive. Huge.’

  ‘In which case,’ said Heather as the kettle clicked off, ‘I might have to approach her to help out with the bell fund.’

  ‘Good luck with that one,’ said Amy. ‘When I told her what I charge for cleaning she looked like she’d swallowed a wasp. I mean, a tenner an hour is fair, ain’t it?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I reckon she’s as tight as a duck’s arse. But a job is a job and I don’t have to like her to work for her.’

  *

  Brian pushed the study door shut because Amy’s conversation with his wife was distracting and looked at the report from the bell foundry, rereading, for the umpteenth time, the final amount. Thirty-six thousand pounds. Brian took his glasses off and polished them. He supposed he had to be grateful for small mercies; the tower itself was sound. Graham had regaled him with a number of horror stories of actual towers becoming unstable because of the weight of bells swinging in them over the years. It seemed that the fact it was just chunks of wood that had to be replaced and girders installed to underpin the work – but no repairs to the stonework and masonry or the bells themselves – meant they’d got off remarkably lightly. But the parishioners were already moaning about the lack of bells at services and several brides who had booked them for their weddings had had to be disappointed. He’d tried explaining about the dangers to the ringers if the damaged bell frame failed but it hadn’t seemed to have cut much mustard. Huh! It’d be a different story if it happened.

  He pressed a key on his computer and the screen saver which had been revolving mesmerically and gently on the screen disappeared to be replaced by a couple of dozen icons. He hit the one for the internet and then clicked through to access the church’s bell-fund bank account. He gazed at the sum on the statement. Just over a couple of hundred pounds – the result of his exhortations from the pulpit. At this rate
it was going to take years and years to get the bells ringing again.

  He pulled a sheet of paper out of his filing tray – it was covered in Heather’s handwriting; her notes from her fundraising brainstorming session with Olivia. One of the things mentioned was sponsorship by wealthy residents and successful local businesses. And the only way to approach them was in person… and the only person who could be expected to do that was himself.

  Brian had drawn up a list of possibilities from the business community and now he needed to pick up the phone and start asking for appointments to see the CEOs or MDs or head honchos or whatever the bosses were called.

  ‘Give me strength,’ he prayed. He loathed this sort of thing but it was, he supposed, a necessary evil if he managed to add to the coffers but, seriously, was this really what he’d trained for when he’d followed his calling?

  With a deep and heartfelt sigh he picked up the phone and began dialling the number at the top of his list.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said when the phone was answered. ‘I’m Brian Simmonds, vicar of St Catherine’s and I was wondering if I might make an appointment to see your managing director sometime in the near future.’

  ‘I’ll put you through to his PA,’ said a female voice.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Ghastly tinny music came over the line as Brian waited. He started to lose the will to live. He switched from the computerised bank statement to a game of patience and began to move the cards on the screen. The game was resolved; he started another and the music played on.

  ‘Hello.’

  Brian jumped. ‘Oh, hello.’

  ‘So sorry to keep you waiting.’ The woman sounded indifferent.

  ‘No, that’s fine.’

  ‘I’m Mr Milward’s PA. I gather you want an appointment to see him.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘May I ask what it’s about?’

  Brian was tempted to say no, she couldn’t. ‘I would like to ask him if, as a valued member of our local business community, he might be prepared to donate to the restoration of the church bells.’

  There was a second’s silence. ‘Mr Milward isn’t a churchgoer.’