The Bells of Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

  Amy and Mags exchanged triumphant looks and Ashley’s euphoric mood popped. He put his empty beer can and his dirty glass on the table and stood up. There was no point in arguing with them – they didn’t get it and they never would.

  ‘Night, Gran. Night, Mum.’ He sloped up the stairs. They didn’t understand. No one understood. But he clutched onto one little straw of hope. Miss Watkins had told him that old man Johnson had been in the audience and had told her in the interval that he was surprised how talented some of the cast were.

  ‘He was talking about you,’ she’d said. ‘I know he was. I also know you and he have had a falling-out but why don’t you try out for the Woodford Players? Mr Johnson is only the treasurer when all’s said and done, not the director or the artistic director… Why don’t you?’

  Ashley made his mind up as he shut his bedroom door. The theatre group rehearsed on a Tuesday. In the New Year he’d be there and he didn’t care what Mr Johnson said or did. He was going to join them.

  *

  ‘Oh, Megan,’ said Bex as she walked her daughter home after the Saturday matinée, with Lewis and Alfie still squealing with laughter as they exchanged their recent memories of the panto. ‘Megan, I thought I’d burst with pride. You were so brilliant, so lovely.’

  ‘Thanks, Bex,’ she mumbled.

  ‘I have to say, I did think that Miles might have been exaggerating but he underplayed it if anything. And your pal Ashley… where did that come from?’

  ‘Everyone is saying that.’

  ‘With good reason. He had that audience in the palm of his hand.’ They walked in silence for a few paces. ‘You won’t know what to do with yourself when this is all over.’

  Megan shook her head. ‘I do, I’m going to sleep and sleep.’

  ‘You do that. Tomorrow you don’t have to do anything so you can lie in as long as you like.’

  ‘Until I have to get up to do my homework. And then it’ll be Christmas in a couple of weeks. And then mocks.’ She grimaced but then cheered up with, ‘But there’s a party tonight to look forward to.’

  ‘I’ve asked Miles if he’ll come and collect you from that.’

  ‘Miles?’

  ‘I can’t come out at that time – who will stay with the boys?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘You won’t do anything silly at the party tonight, will you?’

  ‘Bex!’

  ‘Sorry, I know I can trust you.’

  ‘Didn’t sound like it.’

  ‘Well… you just steer clear of any sex or drugs or rock and roll.’

  Megan rolled her eyes and grinned. ‘Yeah, promise, although I have it on good authority that there won’t be any rock and roll going on. As for the rest…’ She glanced at Bex who was also smiling. ‘Anyway, Miss Watkins will be there, and Mrs Edwards, to say nothing of the teachers from IT who did the lighting and the ones from the art department. Trust me, there’s no chance of anyone getting away with anything. Nothing at all.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’m reassured. And Miles’ll be there at midnight.’

  ‘I won’t be late. I know what happens to girls who stay at parties after midnight, remember.’

  *

  The curtain came down on the final performance and the noise in the auditorium went off the scale. Quite apart from clapping, people stamped their feet, whistled, whooped, shouted and, when the curtain went back up again for the walkdown, the wall of sound that burst onto the stage was ear-splitting. Megan, in the centre, thought she’d cry with happiness and pride and her smile was so broad her face ached. When the audience finally started to settle down, Mr Smithson, the headteacher, got up on the stage and thanked the cast and crew for everything they’d done.

  ‘This was all quite remarkable,’ he said. ‘Not the least because I think you’ll all agree that we have discovered some remarkable talent, not just in the drama department but also with our textiles group, in the young artists we have here who did the painting and set design and even in the IT and tech department with the effects they achieved through lighting and sound. But our especial thanks must go to Miss Watkins whose brainchild this was in the first place. Ashley? Dan?’

  And with this cue, Ashley and Dan left their places in the line-up; Dan to drag Miss Watkins from one side of the wings into the centre of the stage and Ashley to collect a massive bouquet of flowers from the other wing and present it to her. The audience went mad once again and the curtain fell for a final time.

  *

  At the party afterwards, Ashley was the centre of attention and Megan found herself feeling a little resentful – even more so when she tried to catch his eye and he didn’t respond; he was too busy hoovering up the praise. She’d been joking when she’d made the comment about adoring groupies but it now seemed that her glib remark had turned into reality. She remembered that after the first night, when she’d told him how good he’d been he hadn’t reciprocated with compliments about her performance. She was right – he was self-obsessed. But, despite that, she still fancied him and she couldn’t help it. But it was a one-way street. Megan’s euphoria slowly trickled away and she was glad when midnight came and she could go home.

  Chapter 34

  On the following Monday evening, Heather slicked on a coat of lipstick and pursed her lips in her dressing table mirror to check the effect. You’ll do, she told herself. She grabbed her winter coat from the cupboard and pottered downstairs and into the kitchen.

  ‘Evening, Jade,’ said Heather, as she saw her lodger standing by the counter, making a cup of tea. How could anyone make such a mess while making a hot drink?

  ‘Hi, Heather. Want one?’ she asked as she lifted the kettle.

  ‘No, thanks.’ And risk further chaos? And did she risk a row and mention the mess? Heather bottled out. ‘No, you’re good. Brian and I are going out to the pudding evening at the pub.’

  ‘Yes, you said, yesterday. And to judge by the posters it looks like a chocoholic’s idea of heaven on earth.’

  ‘Oh, yes indeedy!’ Heather smacked her lips in anticipation. ‘You didn’t fancy it?’

  ‘Heather, I’m going to get as fat as a pig over Christmas – I don’t need to add to the damage by stuffing myself with puddings as well.’

  Heather eyed Jade. ‘You, fat? I’d like to see it. You can only be nine stone soaking wet.’

  ‘I wish. Anyway, I hope you and Brian have a great time and raise a zillion pounds for the bells.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Heather walked out into the hall. ‘Brian. Brian!’

  The study door opened and Brian appeared. ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘Time we were off.’

  ‘Off where?’

  ‘The pudding evening.’

  ‘Oh. Is it tonight?’

  Heather shook her head as she put her gloves on. ‘Yes. And as it’s in aid of your bells I suggest you get your skates on. You, of all people, should be there on time.’

  ‘Righty-o, sweetie.’ He disappeared again and re-emerged a minute later pulling on his tatty old jacket. Heather despaired. It was rare they went out in the evening to anything other than church-related events and she thought that it might be nice if, once in a while, he made an effort.

  Brian must have caught the expression on her face. ‘What? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He looked down at his clothes. ‘It’s only the pub, Heather.’

  ‘Yes, yes it is.’

  Brian grabbed his mac off the hook in the porch and the pair let themselves out of the house. With their arms linked they made their way into the town.

  ‘Jade was in the kitchen when we left,’ she told Brian.

  He sighed. ‘How bad?’

  ‘Like a bomb had gone off. And I said nothing because I didn’t want to come out feeling angry – it would spoil the evening and I am so looking forward to it.’

  ‘I’ll have another word.’

  ‘No, it’s my turn. And we’ll not say anything to Olivia. Deal?’


  ‘Deal.’

  They reached the pub, pushed open the door and a barrage of sound greeted them along with the waft of hot chocolate, beer and caramelised sugar. The place was rammed. Brian and Heather wove their way through the tables to where Olivia and Bex were sitting.

  ‘Hello, you two. Thank goodness you saved us places,’ said Heather as she took off her coat. She draped it over the back of her chair. She dipped over the table to give her friends a peck on the cheek. ‘Brian, don’t stand there, go and buy a bottle of something.’

  ‘No need,’ said Bex. ‘We’ve got one on the go.’ She picked up a bottle of Merlot. ‘That is if you don’t mind drinking red. And I took the liberty of buying you a pint, Brian. There’s one in the barrel for you. I thought you might prefer that to start off with.’

  ‘Oh, Bex, you shouldn’t have done, but thank you, thank you very much.’

  Brian went off to join the throng crowding round the bar to collect his drink and Olivia poured a glass for Heather.

  ‘Well, I must say this is very well attended,’ said Heather looking around.

  ‘Good, isn’t it? Miles said it’s a sell-out,’ said Bex.

  ‘And how are you and Miles?’ asked Heather.

  ‘Good, thanks. He’s even better with the boys – as if that’s possible – and even Megan seems to have decided that he’s not evil incarnate.’ Heather laughed. ‘OK, I exaggerate. And I think she’s accepted that it’s not morally unacceptable for a widow to think about having another relationship.’

  Heather put her hand on Bex’s. ‘That’s good. And how’s the pregnancy going?’

  ‘It’s fine. All going swimmingly.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ Heather picked up the printed menu card that was lying on the table. ‘So what has Miles got for our delectation?’ She ran her eye down it. ‘Hang on… what’s with the steak and kidney pudding?’

  ‘That’s to start with,’ said Bex. ‘Miles thought that no one would have had supper before they came out so he’s made some teeny little individual ones that he’s going to serve up with petits pois and baby carrots before we get onto the main event. A sort of savoury amuse bouche.’

  ‘What an ace idea.’

  Brian returned with his beer just as the kitchen door opened and the staff brought in especially for the occasion appeared carrying the first of dozens of plates of food. The level of conversation quickly died as the guests were served and people concentrated on eating rather than talking.

  The steak and kidney puddings were followed by the sweet variety; sticky toffee, bread and butter, spotted dick, chocolate sponge… all served with a choice of cream or custard. Brian began to flag.

  ‘Stop, please,’ he groaned, holding his stomach.

  ‘Wimp,’ said Heather cheerfully as she accepted a spoonful of apple crumble. ‘Look, even Bex is managing another pud.’

  ‘Yes, but I am eating for two.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Olivia. ‘I’m just being greedy!’

  But even they had to admit defeat by the time they got to the chocolate fondant and decided that what they needed most was a cup of coffee to round things off.

  Bex went to the bar to order them.

  ‘Fab evening,’ she told Belinda.

  ‘And Miles reckons that once we’ve taken out our expenses we can donate over five hundred to the fund.’

  ‘But that’s brilliant. Does Brian know?’

  ‘Not yet. Miles is going to make an announcement in a couple of minutes. Go and sit down. I’ll get one of the girls to bring your coffees over.’

  As the coffees arrived at their table so Miles came out of the kitchen. He was greeted with a round of applause and a rousing chorus of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow!’

  ‘Thank you, thank you.’ He held up his hand for silence and people shushed each other loudly. The sound was like air being expelled from a dozen bike tyres. Silence gradually fell. ‘Thank you. Thank you for supporting this event, thank you for eating the puddings but most of all thank for the contribution you have all made to the bell fund. Brian… If you’d like to come here please…’

  Brian stood up and squeezed between the tables and chairs to reach Miles. He paused at a particularly narrow point. ‘You know,’ he said, turning to address his fellow diners, ‘a couple of hours ago I slipped through this gap with no trouble at all. But now…’ He looked around in mock despair as one guest had to move to let him through. Everyone laughed.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Miles as Brian reached him. ‘I have here a cheque for five hundred and forty pounds, which is the profit from tonight.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful,’ said Brian, beaming. ‘Just wonderful. And the good news is that yesterday I heard that that the full amount that we applied for from the Heritage Lottery Fund has been approved. As a result of that and the generosity of the people of this fabulous town we can instruct the bell foundry to start work straight after Christmas.’

  Everyone cheered and clapped and some people banged their pudding plates with their spoons. Heather sat there, looking as if she might cry.

  As Brian came back to the table she stood up and hugged him. ‘You didn’t tell me!’

  ‘I thought you’d enjoy the surprise.’

  ‘I did, it was wonderful. What a fabulous Christmas present.’

  ‘All we have to hope for now,’ said Olivia, ‘is that that woman doesn’t mess things up with her petition to keep the bells silent.’

  Heather’s face darkened. ‘Indeed. You know she’s still down the market most Wednesdays, yelling about meat being murder.’

  Olivia shook her head. ‘I don’t get why someone would move to a town and then try and change everything about the place when – presumably – they liked what they saw when they were thinking of buying a house.’

  ‘Maybe, in her head, she thinks she’s making it better.’

  ‘If she consulted the locals she’d soon discover that we don’t want better – we want it left alone.’

  *

  Two days later, up at The Grange, that woman picked up the local newspaper off the doormat and walked over to the kitchen to make herself a soya milk latte while she read it. Frankly, Miranda didn’t give a toss about what the townspeople got up to in the course of their humdrum little lives – did anyone really care if Amelia Gutbucket (or whatever the chubby teenager, leering out of a picture on the back page was called) got a medal for swimming? God, if that was the best the neighbourhood newshounds could come up with then they must be suicidal about their career prospects. However, the local paper wasn’t just about local news; she liked to keep abreast of the wider picture, to see what the council might be getting up to, whether the town was going to be subjected to further housing development, whether a new road or, heaven forefend, an airport might get proposed. And that last fear wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility – look at Luton and Stansted. She’d moved out of London to get away from gridlocked traffic, noise, pollution and ridiculous numbers of people, and she wasn’t going to countenance those problems creeping into Little Woodford because the country bumpkins that made up the town council didn’t know how to run a proper protest to nip such proposals in the bud.

  She cast an eye over the front page. Vicar Thrilled by Lottery Grant. And there was a picture of the vicar and his mousy little wife, grinning like loons with the belfry in the background. She threw the paper onto the counter. Over her dead body. Her coffee forgotten, she sat on a stool and stared across the vast, mostly empty, expanse of her new home and at the white Christmas tree decorated with identical but graded silver baubles as she wondered how best she might stop the din that the bells would create. She did not want her weekends ruined by the endless clanging of tuneless bells for weddings and services. And that was before the bell-ringers practised… which presumably they did, despite the evidence to the contrary, which was bound to happen at least once a week. No, she wasn’t having it.

  Miranda put on her coat and let herself out of the house. She noticed the blades
of her recently installed wind turbine were barely turning in the almost still air. Even so, they’d be generating the odd kilowatt hour. All grist to the environmental mill. She pressed the button on her key fob and opened the garage door to reveal her shiny hybrid Range Rover. A couple of minutes later she’d backed it out of the garage and was trawling along the high street, trying to find a parking space. Bugger – in her irritation at the news about the church bells she’d forgotten it was market day. Moreover, it was the last market day before Christmas. The town was teeming with locals, wrapped up against the bright, cold weather and cluttering up the pavements with their pushchairs and wheeled shopping baskets. Miranda sighed crossly as she drove past the town hall and then the rec and there was still no sign of a space. She turned the car round and retraced her route. Nothing. Really! Couldn’t some of these people have walked into town? She passed the town hall a second time – still nothing – and decided to see if there might be a chance of a space in the station car park. But that was full too. She continued on into Beeching Rise. Now that was an estate that was going to go downhill, if she was any sort of judge. But at least there were no parking restrictions and it was close to the town centre. She just had to hope that if she parked on this ghastly development no one would vandalise her car. She drew up alongside the kerb and got out.

  ‘You can’t park there.’

  Miranda spun round. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘You can’t park there, you’re blocking my drive,’ repeated the woman in a surprisingly educated and cultured voice for someone who lived in a place like this. She was apparently about to go somewhere because she was holding the handlebars of her bike. So if she was going out by bike, what was her problem?

  Miranda said as much to the woman who looked vaguely familiar – she was sure she recognised her from somewhere. ‘Besides, I’m only going to be a couple of minutes.’ Even so, she checked where her car was in relation to the dropped kerb. She had to concede it was across about a foot of it but it was hardly blocked. Any driver with any nous would be able to get past if they needed to.

  ‘It’s Mrs Osborne, isn’t it?’