The Bells of Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

  ‘Hi, Miles. Congratulations,’ said a woman who was familiar as a pub regular but whose name escaped Miles.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ responded Miles, automatically as she passed. Congratulations? What the heck was that about? Maybe he’d misheard. The woman was now several paces away and Miles couldn’t be bothered to chase after her and ask what she was on about. He walked on. He was nearing the pub when he saw Bert, on the other pavement, wave at him followed by a thumbs up.

  What the fuck was going on? Had he won the lottery? Unlikely, given he hadn’t bought a ticket in months. He ferreted in his pocket, found the pub key and let himself in.

  He stood at the bottom of the stairs that led to Belinda’s flat. ‘Only me,’ he called.

  ‘Hi, Miles. I’ll be down in a minute.’

  Miles pushed open the kitchen door, took his coat off, grabbed a sparkling white chef’s jacket from behind the door and buttoned it up. Then he went into the pantry and began to gather together the salads and vegetables that he’d need to prep ready for the lunch service. A few minutes later he was slicing and dicing at a counter and sweeping the results into stainless steel bowls which he dumped in one of the big industrial fridges ready for use.

  Belinda appeared in the kitchen. ‘Morning, Miles. All OK?’

  ‘It’s good thanks. Are you putting in an order to the wholesaler sometime soon?’

  ‘This afternoon. Why?’

  ‘I’ve got a list of stuff we’re going to need.’

  ‘Let me have it later.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘I’m going to make myself a coffee,’ said Belinda. ‘You want one?’

  ‘Please.’ Miles returned to his chopping. ‘Hey, Belinda,’ he said after about a minute.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Bert gave me a big thumbs up when I was on my way here and I swear someone else said “congratulations”.’

  ‘Congratulations? Why?’ Then she added, ‘Who?’

  Miles shrugged. ‘Can’t remember her name, but she drops in here now and again.’

  ‘So she might have got the wrong person.’

  ‘I suppose. But Bert? Why would he be pleased for me? And what about?’

  ‘Search me,’ mumbled Belinda.

  ‘I’ll ask him later.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Miles carried on chopping and slicing and missed the worried look on Belinda’s face.

  *

  Miranda Osborne picked up a box of leaflets and dropped them into her sisal shopping bag. She might be against the church spreading the message about its services via the medium of bells and change-ringing but she had a message of her own that she felt the townsfolk of Little Woodford ought to hear – whether they liked it or not. She suspected that “not” was probably going to be the case and she was steeling herself for some unpleasantness but, she told herself, it would only be an exchange of words, nothing physical. Or, at least, she hoped that was all it might amount to. Today’s terrorist is tomorrow’s freedom fighter… not that she was a terrorist, of course.

  Feeling purposeful, she walked down to the market place. The weather was overcast but dry and she hoped that there would be plenty of people thronging the stalls of the market – people she could try and convert to her way of thinking.

  She found the spot that she’d scoped out the previous week – between the fishmonger’s van and the butcher’s stall – and put her shopping bag down by her feet. She reached down, opened the box of leaflets and picked out a handful.

  ‘Meat is murder,’ she shouted, pressing one of her flyers into the hand of a surprised passer-by. ‘Meat is murder!’

  Some shoppers managed to scuttle past her, unaccosted, but Miranda was ruthless in her attacks. One after another she managed to skewer unsuspecting market-goers with her gimlet stare and then force upon them a leaflet.

  ‘You don’t need to eat meat,’ she told people. ‘Think of the suffering you’ll be sparing the poor dumb animals.’

  One or two people, so intimidated by her, shied away from the butcher’s and the fishmonger and headed towards the Co-op where they could buy their protein without a side-order of guilt.

  ‘Oi!’ said one of the guys behind the meat counter, waving a massive knife. ‘You can’t do that. You’re ruining my trade.’

  ‘I can do whatever I like,’ riposted Miranda, firmly. ‘This is a free country with freedom of speech as one of our key tenets.’

  The butcher came round to the front of his stall still clutching the huge blade. He rather pointedly stuck his knife into his chopping block before he turned and spoke to Miranda. ‘And I’ve got a right to trade.’

  ‘In the dead bodies of poor suffering beasts.’

  ‘They never suffered and I resent your implication that they did.’

  ‘Executed in cold blood? Of course they suffered.’

  Several people gathered nearby to watch the exchange. This was the most action that Little Woodford had seen in months.

  ‘These animals were humanely slaughtered.’

  ‘Huh. And what sort of life did they have before? Intensively reared in vile conditions, caged, force-fed—’

  ‘Now you listen here, I know the farms these animals came off and they had the best conditions.’

  ‘Of course you’d say that. Do you take me for a fool?’

  ‘And why shouldn’t I? Bloody townie, interfering in matters you don’t understand.’

  ‘I understand about the indiscriminate use of unnecessary antibiotics, of overcrowding—’

  ‘Not on the farms I use.’

  But Miranda didn’t want to listen to the counter-arguments and turned her back on him to press her leaflets into the hands of the gathering onlookers. ‘Meat is murder,’ she cried as she did so. ‘Meat is murder.’

  ‘And you’re committing a breach of the peace,’ said Leanne Knowles, the local police community support officer.

  Miranda spun round. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I am carrying out a perfectly lawful protest.’

  ‘And I’ll be carrying out a perfectly lawful citizen’s arrest unless you move on.’

  ‘You can’t do that, you have no powers.’

  Leanne raised her eyebrows and reached for her handcuffs. ‘I can restrain you until back-up arrives.’

  Miranda eyed the handcuffs warily.

  Heather, who was in the market doing a spot of shopping for fruit and veg chuckled with schadenfreude. She couldn’t wait to tell Olivia about Miranda Osborne’s latest exploit.

  *

  Because of the market the pub was pretty busy – even by market-day standards. Miles was rushed off his feet in the kitchen and, in the bar, Bex had to call upon Belinda to lend a hand on several occasions.

  After about two, things began to calm down and, while Belinda went upstairs to sort out the wholesaler’s order, Bex used the last half hour, before she knocked off her shift and went to get the boys, to repair some of the damage done to the stock levels by going down to the cellar to get some trays of mixers. She did several journeys with shrink-wrapped packages, stacking them on the side of the bar ready to load them onto the shelves.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked Miles, coming out of the kitchen, his chef’s whites now spattered and stained.

  ‘That’s it. Just Statler and Waldorf in the corner left now,’ said Bex, nodding at Bert and Harry who were two thirds the way down their second lunchtime pint. It never ceased to amaze Bex that the pair could make two pints last as long as they did. Miles was about to return to the kitchen as Bex picked up a tray of ginger beers.

  ‘Oi,’ said Bert.

  Bex turned.

  ‘You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things, not in your condition.’

  Bex froze.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Miles, his hand on the door to the kitchen.

  ‘You oughtn’t let your lady friend risk the baby. Ain’t it bad for women in the family way to lift heavy things?’

  Bex felt rooted to the spot. Her gaze flicked betw
een Bert and Miles. Then she found her voice. ‘Don’t be silly, Bert,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘So Mags Pullen’s got it all arse about face, has she?’ Bert chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time, though, neither.’

  ‘Mags has got what arse about face?’ said Miles. He was staring at Bex.

  ‘About Bex expecting a baby. And there was me thinking what lovely news it was. Oh well. Sorry I got it so wrong,’ said Bert, draining the dregs of his pint and heaving himself out of his seat. ‘Still, no harm done.’ He walked over to the bar and put his glass down. ‘See yer, Harry. Bye, you two,’ he said cheerily to Miles and Bex, oblivious of the look of horror on Bex’s face and the stunned one on Miles’s.

  Bex turned and fled, banging the bar flap down behind her to block Miles’s way – even if only for a second or two. She grabbed her coat from the peg and barged past Bert to reach the front door ahead of him. A minute later, panting with exertion she had her own front door slammed shut behind her and was leaning against it, her heart hammering and feeling sick.

  ‘Shit,’ she breathed. The dring of the door bell a couple of seconds later made her jump out of her skin and she felt the vibration of the hammering of the old door knocker rattle down her spine.

  ‘Bex, Bex! We’ve got to talk.’

  For a couple of seconds Bex considered pretending she wasn’t at home but she knew it would be useless. Sooner or later she was going to have to have it out with Miles – she was postponing the inevitable. Feeling suddenly bone-weary she opened the door.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  Bex sighed heavily. How could she continue to lie? ‘I know what you want to know, and I probably know what you’re going to say, but this isn’t the time. I’ve got to pick up the boys in a few minutes and then Megan will be home.’

  ‘Is it true?’ Miles’s face was contorted with anxiety.

  Bex nodded.

  ‘And it’s mine?’

  ‘Jesus, Miles, who else’s?’

  There was a pause. ‘Sorry, that was crass.’

  Bex nodded and pursed her mouth. Yes it was – and rather insulting, but he hadn’t meant it like that – at least, she didn’t think he had. ‘Look, why don’t you come round after you’ve finished the evening service. We can talk then.’

  ‘No, not tonight. I’ve arranged to meet someone who wants me to do some catering for a function. I don’t suppose I’ll be finished till late.’

  ‘OK – then tomorrow morning, after I’ve done the school run. Nine-ish.’

  ‘That’s fine. And you’re all right?’

  ‘Miles, I’m pregnant, not ill. I’ve pretty much got the morning sickness under control and let’s face it, I’ve done this before. I’ve managed to live through two pregnancies so I think it’s safe to assume that this one won’t be life-threatening either. ’

  ‘Yes… yes, of course.’ He hovered in the hall looking uneasy. ‘And you’ve seen the doc?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve got an appointment at eleven tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. And you’re looking after yourself?’

  ‘Yes,’ she snapped. Miles looked crestfallen. She breathed and counted to five. ‘Miles, I’ve got to go and get the boys. You and I can talk tomorrow but, please, don’t fuss.’

  ‘Of course. It’s just…’ He dipped in and gave her a swift kiss. ‘This is such wonderful news.’

  Bex’s heart sank at his reaction but, hoping her face didn’t betray her feelings, she opened the front door to give him the hint to go. ‘Tomorrow – nine o’clock,’ she said, firmly.

  ‘Yes, yes, bye.’ Miles slid off looking like he’d won the lottery.

  Bex shut the door again and felt a wave of exhaustion weigh her down. No, Miles, she said to herself, this isn’t wonderful news.

  Bex went to fetch the boys and found that, once again, she seemed to be playing the Pied Piper as Alfie and Lewis both wanted to bring friends home on a spontaneous play date. Megan, she reasoned, had drama club after school and, as having friends over would probably keep her lads occupied, it wasn’t such a bad idea. She herded four small boys down the hill to her place, checked she had more than enough fish fingers, beans and potato waffles to feed them and then slumped on a kitchen chair while the boys played a game in the sitting room that involved a lot of Lego and shouting.

  After about half an hour she felt energised enough to offer them orange juice and biscuits and to see what damage had been wrought to her soft furnishings. Apart from a mountain of plastic bricks on the carpet the boys seemed to have been well-behaved and the sitting room still intact even if they had made enough noise to raise most of the occupants of St Catherine’s graveyard.

  Bex returned to the kitchen and turned over the problem of Miles, Megan and the baby again and again in her head. If there was a way of finding out Megan’s reaction without actually telling her the news, everything might be hunky-dory. Megan didn’t seem to dislike Miles, she might welcome the idea of another sibling, she might feel that enough time had passed since her dad had died not to feel betrayed by what her stepmother had done… or she might not. God, if ever she needed a crystal ball.

  Chapter 27

  The next morning Bex got back from the school run and flopped onto a chair feeling utterly beat. And it wasn’t, she knew, the tiredness that pregnancy caused, this was mostly the exhaustion of not having slept the night before. She’d gone over her options time and time again – which was ridiculous considering there were only two – keep the baby or not. Shit, if only she could turn back the clock and refuse to have sex with Miles until she got her own contraception sorted out, instead of relying on his. But that would have taken ages and they’d both wanted sex right then. And condoms were almost one hundred per cent reliable… except almost one hundred per cent wasn’t good enough. Not in the cold light of the situation right now.

  The doorbell rang and Bex jumped. She glanced at the kitchen clock – he was bang on time. Feeling anxious she went to the door.

  ‘Hi, Miles.’

  He stepped inside and took her in his arms, kissing the top of her head. Bex pushed him away.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?’

  ‘Not really. Apart from still feeling shit in the mornings there is a lot else to worry about.’ Bex led Miles into the kitchen and pulled out a chair for him to sit on. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  ‘It’ll have to be instant.’ Bex bustled about making Miles his drink, more to put off the impending discussion than in a spirit of hospitality. She put the steaming mug in front of him and took her seat again.

  ‘Look… Miles… this isn’t easy.’

  ‘No, I understand. Being pregnant is a huge responsibility.’

  Bex rolled her eyes and shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. This isn’t just about me and it certainly mightn’t be about you.’ She outlined her fears about Megan’s possible reaction.

  ‘But you don’t know. She may be fine. She may be delighted.’

  Bex stared at him. ‘She’s already been betrayed by her birth mother who ran away; abandoned her. Her father was killed in a traffic accident and now I – the only bit of stability in her life – am having a baby. She may see it as a betrayal of her father, she may see the baby as usurping her place in the family… or she may just be disgusted that I had casual sex.’

  Miles stared at her. ‘So what are you saying? You’re going to have an abortion?’ He got to his feet. ‘But it’s my baby too. You can’t do that.’ He was almost shouting, pleading. ‘I’d support you, I’d help you. You wouldn’t have to do this on your own. I know four kids would take a lot of looking after but I’ll be right here. And I’d support you financially.’

  Bex got to her feet too so he wasn’t looming over her, intimidating her. ‘This isn’t about me coping or not coping, this isn’t about money or anything like that. This is about a family dynamic that you know precious l
ittle about and which, if you’d been just a little bit more careful, wouldn’t be about to go tits up because I’ve got the most unplanned pregnancy since Mary had to break the news to Joseph.’

  ‘Unplanned pregnancy?’ said Megan from the door.

  The pair were shocked into silence.

  Bex felt the colour leech from her face. She felt sick and dizzy with horror. ‘Megan.’ She gazed at her stepdaughter, trying to think of something to say but she had no words. Nothing.

  ‘I thought having a banging headache made it a shit day,’ said Megan. ‘That’s why I got sent home. But, no… this is the shittiest day on record. Ever!’ She turned and headed for the stairs.

  ‘Megan,’ called Bex after her. ‘Megan, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ screeched Megan from the landing.

  There was silence for a few seconds. ‘Maybe I’d better go,’ said Miles. He twisted his hands. ‘You said you’re seeing the doctor this morning.’

  Bex nodded.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘I think you’ve done quite enough, don’t you?’

  Bex followed her daughter up the stairs as Miles let himself out of the front door. She got to the bottom of the attic stairs and called softly.

  ‘Megan? Megan, may I come up?’

  ‘Go away,’ was the reply which was almost subsumed by a hiccupping sob.

  It was an improvement on ‘fuck off’.

  Bex crept up the stairs to her stepdaughter’s bedroom. She stopped at the top. ‘Megan?’

  Megan was curled up in a foetal position, facing the wall. ‘I said go away.’

  ‘I know, but we need to talk.’ She took a couple of paces into the room. There was silence. ‘Megan?’

  Megan rolled over, her face blotchy and wet as she glared at Bex. ‘You mean, you want to talk. Justify to me what you’ve done… How could you?’

  ‘I didn’t plan it.’

  ‘What?’ said Megan, real anger in her voice. ‘Having sex or getting pregnant? Not that it really matters; either way it’s disgusting,’ she spat. She flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling as she dashed away her tears from her cheeks with the palms of both hands.