Kate watched the unnatural colour in his face settle to its usual pallor.
‘I don’t need to say this to you, but there is nothing between Mrs Bliss and me. All I wanted to do was to please you.’
‘I feel ashamed that you feel the need to reassure me. Of course I know there isn’t, it never crossed my mind. But I’m grateful that you are attending to her house. It will make such a difference and I love you for it.’
‘I didn’t mean you to know until it was finished. You see, when I went to the house and saw . . . Anyway, that’s for another time. If there’s something you’d rather be doing, I’ll sit here a while longer.’
‘If it’s all right, I’ll stay with you.’
There was nothing more to say on the matter without repeating herself so she sat silently, thinking. That he’d done as she asked amused her. Secretly repairing the house wihtout telling her was, in its own way, an acknowledgement that he had heeded her good sense and her compassion. But there was something more behind it, a further reason to do with his past perhaps, the past he didn’t feel able to tell her about.
Rebecca Shaw is a former school teacher and the bestselling author of many novels. She lives with her husband in a beautiful Dorset village where she finds plenty of inspiration for her stories about rural life. She has four children and eight grandchildren.
By Rebecca Shaw
THE BARLEYBRIDGE SERIES
A Country Affair
Country Wives
Country Lovers
Country Passions
One Hot Country Summer
TALES FROM TURNHAM MALPAS
The New Rector
Talk of the Village
Village Matters
The Village Show
Village Secrets
Scandal in the Village
Village Gossip
Trouble in the Village
A Village Dilemma
Intrigue in the Village
Whispers in the Village
A Village Feud
The Village Green Affair
Intrigue in the Village
Tales from Turnham Malpas
REBECCA SHAW
Contents
Cover
Title
Also by the Author
About the Author
Inhabitants of Turnham Malpas
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Copyright
INHABITANTS OF TURNHAM MALPAS
Maggie Dobbs
School caretaker
Willie Biggs
Verger at St Thomas à Becket
Sylvia Biggs
His wife and housekeeper at the Rectory
Sir Ronald Bissett
Retired Trade Union leader
Lady Sheila Bissett
His wife
James (Jimbo)
Owner of the Village Store Charter-Plackett
Harriet Charter-Plackett
His wife
Fergus, Finlay, Flick and Fran
Their children
Katherine Charter-Plackett
Jimbo’s mother
Alan Crimble
Barman at the Royal Oak
Linda Crimble
Runs the Post Office at the Village Store
H. Craddock Fitch
Owner of Turnham House
Jimmy Glover
Taxi driver
Mrs Jones
A village gossip
Vince Jones
Her husband
Barry Jones
Her son and estate carpenter
Pat Jones
Barry’s wife
Dean and Michelle
Barry and Pat’s children
Revd Peter Harris MA (Oxon)
Rector of the parish
Dr Caroline Harris
His wife
Alex and Beth
Their children
Jeremy Mayer
Manager at Turnham House
Venetia Mayer
His wife
Neville Neal
Accountant and church treasurer
Liz Neal
His wife
Guy and Hugh
Their children
Tom Nicholls
Retired businessman
Evie Nicholls
His wife
Anne Parkin
Retired secretary
Kate Pascoe
Village school headteacher
Sir Ralph Templeton
Retired from the diplomatic service
Lady Muriel Templeton
His wife
Dicky and Georgie Tutt
Licensees at the Royal Oak
Bel Tutt
Assistant in the Village Store
Don Wright
Maintenance engineer (now retired)
Vera Wright
Cleaner at the nursing home in Penny Fawcett
Rhett Wright
Their grandson
Prologue
The bridegroom walked undetected down Church Lane, cursing the gaggle of geese engaged in their early-morning circling of the Green in the hope of being fed. He tried to squeeze past them but they hissed, stretched out their necks, spread their wings, and took rapid, threatening steps towards him. Softly he cried, ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ but they ignored him and continued their lordly procession. He never had and never would have this animal thing. He reached the lychgate, silently undid the catch and turned in. Should he wait here or go up to the church porch? He snapped back his impeccable white cuff and looked at his watch. Only fifteen minutes to go. Where was she? Where the devil were Peter and Mrs Peel? Surely they should be here by now. The bridegroom checked to make sure no one had seen him, then walked softly up the path to the church door and tried the heavy iron handle. It was open! He went inside, still unseen, except by the geese and they wouldn’t tell.
The front pew was where bridegrooms sat awaiting their brides. She’d taken some persuading, and even now he wasn’t sure he should have persisted in proposing. But she was just what he needed; whether he was just what she needed was another matter, but he had to have his own way, that was how he was made. She’d be dressed in a light grey suit, she’d said, no hat, hats weren’t her thing, matching shoes and a small spray of flowers made by the florist in Culworth. He wished, briefly, that she’d be wearing a real wedding dress, romantic you know. He adjusted the rose in his buttonhole and checked his pocket for the wedding ring. Quiet, she’d said. No best man. No bridesmaids. What do either of us want with all that carry on? The fewer people who knew the better.
He’d been too long without a partner. Ghastly word that. Been too long without a wife. He daren’t count how long, because it reminded him that he was much older than her. He certainly didn’t behave like an older man, and she claimed she never noticed his age. There’d been a twinkle in her eye when she’d said that and it had boosted his ego, not that it needed boosting, that had never been a problem with him. He checked his watch again. A chill ran down his spine. Where were they? And more so, where was she?
The bride was sitting on the dressing-table stool in her bedroom, putting on her cream satin shoes. Had she got the right shade? She held the shoes,
one in each hand, against the skirt of her wedding dress. Yes, she had. Exactly right. She put them on, stood up and went to the long mirror to examine herself now she was fully dressed. From head to toe she looked the perfect bride; hair held in place by a kind of fledgling tiara, classic high-necked, long-sleeved dress, with heavily beaded bodice, the glass beads catching the light each time she breathed. The skirt was slender with short slits each side at the hem so she was able to walk freely. Her bouquet! She picked it up from the bed and assessed the finished article. Yes! She’d got it right. Perfect! He’d love her in this. Grey suit indeed! For such an intelligent man he was easily fooled. So . . . within the hour she’d be married. It still wasn’t too late to say no. Did she want to? No to all that money? No to limitless foreign travel? No to no expense spared? No to having anything she wanted? Worse still, could she say no to love? He loved her far more than she loved him. Was she being fair marrying him knowing that? She’d told him time and again and he’d listened, but he hadn’t heard. There was the sound of a car engine. She walked sedately down the stairs and out of the door, put her house key under the flowerpot and graciously stepped into the car. The chauffeur held her flowers while she settled herself, returned them to her and they drove the few yards to the church at a stately speed.
When he opened the door for her to get out, the bride shook her head. ‘Give me a minute.’
Was she doing the right thing? Should she? She gave a thought to pulling the petals from a rose in her bouquet – ‘Love him, love him not’ – as a test. Just a test. Marriage was a big step. He’d gone on and on proposing until, in the end, she’d had no resistance left. Why shouldn’t she? He was lonely and so was she come to that. At forty-one, decisions needed to be taken. But as she’d said, no children and she wasn’t giving up her work. Absolutely not. He knew that. She opened the car door to say, ‘Drive me back home. It’s off,’ and instead heard herself saying, ‘Hold my flowers, please, while I get out.’
In a dream, she stood in the church doorway, saw Willie Biggs give the nod to Mrs Peel at the organ to play ‘Here comes the Bride’. The organ flared into sound, the majestic chords booming into the rafters. There ahead of her was Peter in his white marriage cassock and, turning to get a first look at his bride, was her groom resplendent in morning coat. Morning coat! He never said he’d wear one! His light blue eyes were bright with his pleasure at the sight of her. She walked steadily down the aisle, trying hard not to break into a run, placed her cold, trembling hand in his warm grasp, smiled at him and then looked up at Peter.
‘Welcome to you both. God bless you.’
Chapter 1
Beside the tinned soup shelves in the Village Store, Greta Jones and Lady Templeton were discussing that evening’s celebrations. ‘Well, Lady Templeton, he’s never invited all of us before, has he? I mean, just the nobs, begging your pardon, usually, but this time it’s everyone. Even the Senior sisters. Everyone is going. I can’t understand it.’
‘I’ve no doubt Mr Fitch must have his reasons. I expect he wants us all to share his pleasure in his achievements. He has got something to celebrate, hasn’t he? A major, international civil engineering company in twenty-five years and it all started, he says, with a couple of men, two shovels and a wheelbarrow. What a triumph.’
‘I expect so, and he has mellowed lately, hasn’t he? He gave all those computers to the school – state-of-the-art say those who know what they’re talking about – and he saved us from having traffic lights and what not, year before last. That was a master stroke.’
‘Absolutely.’ Lady Templeton began to study the tinned soups.
‘Is Sir Ralph going?’
‘Of course he’s going. It would be churlish to refuse.’
‘But they don’t see eye to eye, do they?’ A gentle, questioning glance from Lady Templeton made Greta Jones change her tone. ‘Well, they do these days, see eye to eye, I mean, now he’s mellowed.’
‘He is a changed man, Greta. Those frosty blue eyes of his are not nearly so chilling as they were.’ She smiled, took down two tins of vichyssoise from the top shelf and continued with her shopping. She wouldn’t have said so for the world but Greta Jones was quite right; it was surprising. But she was looking forward to it, and had already got out the dress and jacket she’d bought for a visit to Japan and never found a use for since. It was a gracious cornflower blue, which Ralph said brought out the colour of her eyes perfectly. Dear Ralph.
Jimbo was at the till and as he began adding up her purchases, she said, ‘You’ll have a busy day today preparing the buffet.’
‘I should say. Thank goodness for staff who know what they’re doing. Where I’d be without Pat Jones, I do not know.’
‘Don’t forget your good training has helped.’
‘No. Believe me, if the talent isn’t there, no amount of training will do the trick. I’ve got Sir Ralph’s cigars in, the ones he ordered. Will you take them?’
‘How lovely. Yes, of course. They say just about the whole world will be there tonight.’
‘And then some. Not seen anything like it.’ Jimbo gave Lady Templeton her change and winked at her. ‘Bye-bye, Muriel. See you tonight.’
‘Indeed. Good morning, Greta.’
Greta Jones, who was now standing behind her waiting to pay, nodded and smiled, then put her wire basket on the counter, determined to get to the hub of the matter. ‘Seeing as you’re doing the catering, you’ll be the man to ask. What is this do all about? I saw you wink at Muriel.’
‘Just a friendly wink. That’s all.’
‘You know something, don’t you? Out with it.’
Jimbo spread his hands and shrugged. ‘I have no more idea than anyone else. It’s to celebrate his company’s twenty-fifth anniversary and he wants to give everyone a good time. No expense spared. More than that I do not know. Honest. Cross my heart.’
‘You’re a slyboots, Jimbo, and not half.’
‘Eight pounds, thirty-five, please.’
As Greta Jones sorted out the money for him she said, ‘I reckon there’s a conspiracy going on. There, eight pounds, thirty-five exactly. Well, I expect we’ll all find out tonight.’
‘Best bib and tucker.’
‘What else? See yer tonight.’
‘Definitely.’
They’d opened up the field nearest the Big House for cars and ten minutes before the start of the festivities it was difficult to find a parking spot. But no one cared; they were there to enjoy themselves and eat as much as they could. Everyone always took advantage of anything Craddock Fitch had to offer, then laughed at him behind his back. He’d never been liked. Too high-handed, efficient and lacking in understanding of a countryman’s life, that was his trouble. He thought money could buy everything, but it would never buy their respect. Even so, there were gasps of delight when they saw the fairy lights, which covered the front of the house, hanging like vast curtains over the walls and windows, and draped over every tree of any size. A long table, illuminated by dozens of candles and bearing an array of drinks, stood on the gravel outside the front door and it felt smart to stand there admiring the lights, looking across Home Park to the floodlit trees, holding a drink in one’s hand, snatching a few nibbles and seeing what everyone else was wearing. Some of the men like Jimbo, Neville and Sir Ralph, for instance, were in dinner suits, which added an extra effervescence to the gathering.
Eventually, people began drifting inside to make room for late-comers and they found the inside of the house was even more amazing. The hall was bedecked with flowers, or maybe, some thought, smothered would be a better choice of word. Swags of them were strung around the walls, columns of them stood beside every door, and the vast fireplace was filled with a magnificent display, backlit and utterly breathtaking.
Ralph Templeton said to Muriel, ‘There’s more than a twenty-fifth anniversary going on here tonight, isn’t there?’
Muriel whispered, ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘He’s in danger of over
-stepping the mark, I think. Vulgar ostentation springs to mind.’
Shocked, Muriel whispered, ‘Ralph! Really!’ She smiled. ‘He just tries too hard, desperate to do the right thing.’
‘He wouldn’t know the right thing if he met it in the street.’
‘Ralph! Please. I thought you’d put all that behind you.’
‘I have, until he reminds me. Where is he, by the way? Not like him to miss the fun.’
Peter and Caroline came up to them, drinks in hand.
‘Good evening, Caroline, my dear.’ Ralph greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks. ‘Good evening, Peter. Now you might be the very man to tell us exactly what all this,’ Ralph swept a disdainful hand around the hall, ‘is about.’
Peter smiled and nodded towards the staircase. ‘I think you might be finding out right now.’
Coming down the imposing Tudor staircase was Craddock Fitch, wearing quite the smartest suit and the sharpest tie they’d ever seen him in, but what was more impressive was his smile, which stretched almost from ear to ear and made him look ten or even twenty years younger. The polite hubbub ended as they all had their attention drawn to him and a round of subdued applause rippled through the hall, begun by Muriel and picked up by everyone else. This started a rush inside from the guests still enjoying their drinks on the terrace.
Mr Fitch arrived in the hall and turned to look up the staircase. ‘Is he expecting someone else then?’ asked Ralph, one of the last to join in the applause.
Muriel gasped, ‘Oh look!’ The gasp, like the applause, went round the hall and the people, crowded in the doorway, strained to catch a glimpse. Unbelievably, it was Kate Pascoe from the school, in a wedding dress. A wedding dress? Kate Pascoe? Was this a joke? Kate walked carefully down the stairs, looking for all the world like a princess, the glass beads on her bodice and her tiara catching the light from the myriads of tall candles, her face radiant, eyes only for Craddock Fitch.
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