by Fern Britton
‘Who was that bloke?’ Queenie asked.
‘I was told he’s a very good doctor.’
‘It’ll be good stuff then.’
‘Queenie,’ Mamie was serious, ‘we must never breathe a word of this to my family.’ She smiled conspiratorially.
Queenie tapped her nose. ‘No names, no pack-drill.’
While Angela had the vicarage to herself she had invited Helen over to talk through how the social media sites might be set up.
She prepared some cheese and pickle sandwiches for their elevenses and left them in the fridge, then ran the vacuum round before finally sitting down in her office to catch up on some work. Just after eleven, she heard the front gate open. Looking up, she saw the postman approaching with Helen just a few feet behind.
‘Hello. Welcome,’ Angela said as she opened the door, expecting to see both postman and Helen. But the postman was already walking back to his van. Helen, however, had a bundle of letters in her hand.
‘I told him I’d take them for you,’ she said, handing them over.
‘Thank you. Come in, come in. I’ll just put these on my desk then we can have a coffee?’
Sitting at the kitchen table with the bright morning sun coming in through the open back door, the women sat and chatted.
‘It is so kind of Piran to give up his time to look out the pond’s history,’ Angela said, offering Helen a sandwich.
‘He loves all that stuff. He’d like to search the parish records that are kept in the church.’
‘He’s very welcome.’
‘Thanks. He’ll be pleased, because he hasn’t found much yet, but secretly I think he’s enjoying the search.’
‘Did a child drown there?’
‘He hasn’t found any record of that. He reckons that might have been a story put about, an old wives’ tale, to keep children away from the pond.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Me too. However, he wonders whether the pond might have been used as the ducking pond for the village. Sometime in the sixteenth century.’
‘Oh gosh.’ Angela was very interested. ‘The village children would love to hear about that. Witches and witchcraft in the village. What a terrific lesson in history that would be.’
‘Oh, yes. Social history brought right up to date. The persecution of women through the ages.’
‘Faith would sign up to that. Even her knickers have “FEMINIST” printed on them,’ Angela said.
‘I approve. Good for her,’ Helen smiled.
Angela laughed, then said, ‘So, what about the poisoned cattle? Any record of that?’
‘Piran found a possible account for that. There was a serious drought around the 1900s and it’s probable that the pond not only began to dry out but that any stagnant water would have developed an algae that proved fatal when the animals drank it.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘Probably didn’t do the locals any good either. I shouldn’t think there was much fresh water available for humans around that time.’
‘Does Piran have any feelings either way as to whether the pond is worth digging out?’ Angela finished her sandwich and picked up the teapot. ‘Fancy a top-up?’
‘Please.’ Helen pushed her cup forwards. ‘I think he’s very intrigued.’
‘So it’s worth a dig?’
Helen laughed. ‘Piran’s an archaeologist. He thinks anything is worth a dig.’
Angela began to feel more certain. ‘In that case, I shall ask Mike Bates if we can get the ball rolling.’
‘By the way, Robert and I have made a start on the village website. I’ve got a template and the password up and running, and also paired our computers so that we can work on things together while he is here and I’m at home. I have high hopes! Let me know when you have a clear idea of how you want to announce the new women’s club.’
‘I will, and thank you. It’s so kind of you. To be honest, I am rather surprised at how into it Robert is.’
When Helen had left and Angela had the vicarage to herself, Angela went to the peace of her new office and dialled Mike Bates’ number. He answered on the second ring.
‘Mike Bates,’ he said with authority.
‘Hi, Mike. It’s Angela Whitehorn. I’d like to request permission to excavate the old Pendruggan pond. Can I come over to you now?’
The pub lunch had lived up to all Queenie’s expectations (Mamie’s too, but in an opposite way) and she was now sitting in the Jensen snoozing as Mamie drove home along the pretty coast road. It was one of those late spring/early summer days when the acid-yellow gorse flowers stood bright against the deep blue Cornish sky. The sea beyond heaved and wrinkled gently, the odd wave cresting far out, and seagulls playing on the wind.
Enjoying herself, she drove past the turning for Pendruggan and continued on the road that would lead to Newquay. She wound down her window to take in the soft breeze. The coconut scent of the gorse and the excitement of that morning’s secret assignment filled her with a lightness of being and joy. (And a hefty slice of the guilt of forbidden pleasure.) She’d always been unconventional. Was proud of it. Occasionally it had got her into trouble, but she had always had her sister, and later Angela, as her anchors. Her sister, Elsie, had never judged her. Had always listened to her latest heartbreak or escapade with compassion and love. When Elsie was in her last illness, Mamie stepped up to the mark and swore that she would care for Angela as well as, or better than, Elsie had.
‘It’s your turn now,’ Elsie had whispered to her through the tubes and monitors. ‘You and Faith.’
‘I promise,’ Mamie had said through her tears.
‘She is all yours now.’ It was getting harder for Elsie to speak.
‘I swear on my own life.’ And Mamie had kept that vow.
Now she tore her thoughts back to the present and remembered the little bag of cannabis in her bag. Not enough for more than two joints. One each. For old times’ sake. Just enough to ease Queenie’s arthritis. No one would ever know.
Queenie stirred and sat up. ‘I could do with a cup of tea. Where are we?’
‘I’m not sure. We’re on a mystery tour.’
‘No we ain’t. Bedruthan Steps is just up here. Lovely National Trust teashop. Fancy a cream tea?’
Angela got back from Mike Bates’ just as Mamie pulled in, having dropped Queenie off at the village store.
‘Good day out?’ she called from her office where she was taking off her coat.
‘Wonderful. Finished off with a cream tea,’ Mamie said, shutting the front door behind her. ‘Queenie is enormous fun. Totally unafraid of life. She’s an icon to modern womanhood.’
Angela was unsure. ‘Really? Queenie?’
‘Ah!’ Mamie wagged her finger in Angela’s face. ‘You have fallen into the trap of seeing her as an old lady with bad hips. But what I see is a woman with an enormous experience of life. A woman who takes on challenges as if they were just a basketful of ironing. Open-minded. Courageous. Funny.’ Mamie dropped her coat on the hall chair. ‘I’m making tea. Want some?’
‘Yes. Thank you. Golly.’ Angela wrinkled her forehead. ‘I may have underestimated Queenie.’
‘You won’t be the only one.’ Mamie swept into the kitchen. ‘How’s your day been?’ she asked over her shoulder.
Angela, following, held up two crossed fingers. ‘It looks like I have the sign-off for the biggest community event Pendruggan has held for a long time. A big village event that will get everyone together.’
Mamie filled the kettle. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes! The Big Pendruggan Village Pond Dig has the go-ahead! Well, subject to council approval, but Mike Bates doesn’t think that will be a problem.’
‘Wow!’ said Mamie, hiding her lack of enthusiasm. ‘That’s wonderful, darling. Thrilling. Now, here’s your tea. Take it to your office and tidy up for the day, while I get supper on the go. Robert has left me instructions to defrost a chicken casserole to have with his bread.’
An
gela did as she was told and sat at her desk to answer the remaining emails of the day. Pulling her laptop towards her she saw the bundle of letters that Helen had handed to her earlier in the day. She picked them up and flicked through them. There were seven. Three junk mail. Two charity requests. An electricity bill and one, in a blue Basildon Bond envelope, marked personal and addressed to her. She opened it and unfolded the typed message inside.
She read the message with little understanding and read it again. On the page were the words:
YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. GO HOME.
11
Angela folded the note and put it in the pocket of her fleece. Then, opening one of the drawers of her desk, she took the note out of her pocket and pushed it under the collection of greeting cards that she kept for emergency birthdays, etc.
She closed the drawer and sat down. Cold with shock.
Who had the letter come from?
What had she done so wrong that someone, or maybe many people, couldn’t come and speak to her? Face to face?
In her mind she went through as many conversations and meetings she could remember. Queenie? No. Mike Bates? Surely not. Helen? Absolutely not. Piran? No, not the sort of man who’d resort to playground tactics. Audrey?
Angela stopped. Audrey was certainly a difficult person. She’d displayed her opposition to any of Angela’s ideas at the parish meeting. So would a person so obviously disapproving be snide enough to send an anonymous letter? Angela shook her head. No. Audrey liked an audience. She wouldn’t be so cowardly.
Then, who?
Some poor individual who needed help, clearly.
Angela thought back to her time at school and the fashion for chain letters. Hideous, anonymous missives that would insist you would die if you didn’t send the letter on to ten other friends, and worry them sick too.
She remembered coming home with one. Her mother took it from her hands and put it on the fire. ‘Utter rubbish sent from wicked people who enjoy bringing fear and unhappiness.’
Angela had lived the next few weeks waiting for disaster to come, but it didn’t.
How she wished she had her mum with her now.
She picked up her dog-eared Bible from the desk, held it to her chest and prayed for the soul of poor person who had written it.
When she had finished she went in search of Robert. She needed to touch reality.
He was in the old dining room sitting at Penny’s desk. She had cleared her things before she had gone to Brazil, and told Robert to make himself at home.
Now, he was working at his laptop, trying to get into the fledgeling village website.
‘Hi,’ Angela said, sticking her head round the door.
‘Arrgh.’ His hands flew to his scalp and literally pulled his hair. ‘This bloody thing.’ He was shouting at the screen. ‘I told you what the bloody password is.’ He began tapping furiously at the keyboard saying, loudly, ‘Bugger bugger bugger.’
‘Not a great password,’ Angela replied quietly. ‘Is this the website for the village?’
‘Yes. If I can remember what the bloody password is.’
‘Can I help?’
‘No,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Helen will know it. Drop her an email.’
His shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘What time is it?’
‘Late enough to stop working for the day. I was thinking we could take Mr Worthington down to the beach? Blow a few cobwebs away before supper.’
‘Yeah. I need some fresh air. Let me just email Helen. She’ll think I’m absolute fool.’ He typed a short message then closed the laptop lid.
‘How cold is it outside? I might take my jumper,’ he said.
‘I’ll get it,’ smiled Angela.
‘No, no, I’ll go.’
‘I’m going upstairs anyway to get my fleece. You get Mr Worthington’s lead.’
‘Thanks, love.’ He smiled at her retreating back then bent down to Mr Worthington, who was snoozing at his feet, and whispered into his cocked ear, ‘We might get Mum to come with us to the pub for a pint. What do you say?’
Mr Worthington turned his wise old eyes to Robert and licked his lips.
‘Good lad. Sometimes we men have to stick together.’
Angela returned with the jumper. ‘Ready?’
‘Absolutely. Yes. All ready.’
‘Got the lead?’
‘It’s just in the hall. But I can’t find his dog whistle – think you had it last?’
‘Oh, it’ll be there somewhere, probably in one of your coat pockets. Come on then.’
Robert followed her then said, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, ‘Fancy a drink in the pub before dinner?’
She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘Maybe. Let’s have the walk first.’
The fine April afternoon, walking the lane to Shellsand Bay, held fresh scents of primroses and wild garlic. The campion, its tall spires of pink blooms, waved gently on the soft breeze. Bright clumps of cow parsley shone as white as snow.
‘This must have been a peaceful place for villagers to bring their cattle when the pond was here,’ said Angela, leaning into Robert’s shoulder.
‘If there was a pond here,’ he answered. ‘Stop for a moment.’
She stopped. ‘What?’
‘Just imagine this two hundred years ago. Hardly changed. The young men and maids …’
‘Maids?’ Angela smiled.
‘Stick with me …’ he nudged her ribs gently. ‘Young men and yes, maids, walking through that cornfield.’ He pointed up to his right where the fields gently sloped towards the sea. ‘Cows and sheep following them …’
‘Cows and sheep?’ Angela giggled.
He sighed. ‘Look, I’m trying to paint a picture here but if you are going to spoil it then I’ll shut up.’
‘No. No. Go on. I love it.’
‘Right. So. One of the boys, let’s call him Robert, is walking down, his heart thumping under his loose shirt, hoping that the maid he has his eye on, let’s call her Angela …’
‘Oh yes, let’s.’
‘… will be there.’
‘What’s he going to say to her?’
‘He’s going to tell her that …’
‘Yes?’ Angela lifted her twinkling eyes to Robert.
‘He’s going to tell her that he loves her.’
‘Ah.’
‘And then he’s going to take her in his arms, carry her to the nearest haystack, lift her skirts and ravish her. With tender passion.’
‘Ooh. I like the sound of that.’
Robert bent his head and kissed his wife. ‘How about it?’
‘It’s a bit chilly and I am the vicar.’
‘True, true. If we were discovered, me with goosepimpled buttocks, you with … well, shall we say your immodesty on display, we’d be drummed out of the village.’
‘I might be anyway.’ Angela’s throat tightened as the thought of the poison-pen letter, which she’d tried to bury in the back of her mind, suddenly sprang forward.
Robert pulled her to face him. ‘Why do you say that?’
She told him.
‘Why didn’t you tell me straight away?’
‘I wasn’t sure whether to tell you or not. It’s too horrible. And I think it must be a hoax or the sender must be very ill. I can’t take it seriously. I shouldn’t take it seriously.’
‘You should. You must go to the police.’
‘Oh, no!’ Angela was clear. ‘No. I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.’
‘What happens if you get another?’
‘I won’t get another. Will I?’
‘Maybe this nutter is sending them to lots of people but they are all keeping quiet, not wanting to cause embarrassment.’
‘Oh, please don’t say that. It would be awful.’
‘Listen, if someone is picking on you they are bound to be picking on others. Mark my words, you won’t be the only one.’
The sun was dropping slowly t
owards the horizon and the breeze became chillier.
Angela shivered.
‘You’ve got to show me the letter,’ said Robert.
She nodded, looking at her shoes. ‘OK. But let’s just give Mr Worthington a run on the sand first. I don’t want to go back home yet. Let it just be us for a few minutes more.’
The beach was empty save for a group of wading seagulls, scavenging in rock pools. They cocked their heads and eyed Mr Worthington with glinting arrogance, daring him to approach them. He didn’t. Instead he veered after the tennis ball Robert had pulled from his pocket, running after it as it landed and rolled over the wet sand, sending up a plume of seawater droplets.
Angela had her chin buried in the zipped neck of her fleece.
‘Hey,’ said Robert, thinking to distract her from thoughts of the anonymous letter. ‘Helen had an idea for the name of your women’s group.’
Angela gave him a ghost of a smile. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘The Friends Forum.’
Angela shrugged.
‘Do you like it?’ Robert asked.
‘Forum sounds a bit formal.’
‘Hmm. I know what you mean.’ Robert racked his brains. ‘The Girls Friends?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘The Sisterhood?’
‘We are not the mafia.’
‘Angela’s Sisters?’
‘Or group of nuns.’
‘OK …’ Robert would not be beaten. ‘Angela’s Angels?’
‘And we could all ride around on Harley-Davidsons? Please!’ She laughed.
‘OK, how about Angel Friends?’
‘Too twee.’
‘Well, I rather like it.’ Robert put his arm around her. ‘Friends are angels in disguise, aren’t they?’
‘And enemies are devils who hide behind anonymous letters.’
Robert pulled her to him. ‘OK, well let’s look at it another way. What do you hope the group will achieve?’
‘I imagine it as a place of trust. A safe place to discuss everything without being judged. A group of diverse women with a point of view and a desire to help the community near and far.’
‘This is sounding like a manifesto!’
‘I don’t want it to be pious. It’s important to stay politically centrist with the focus on helping those who need help.’