The Village Green Affair

by Shaw, Rebecca

  ‘The drinks are on me you two, what would you like? Home brew for you Mac, eh? and Mrs Mac?’

  In that precise speech she suffered from, Mrs Mac said, ‘I’ll have a gin and orange please, if you’ll be so kind.’ She gave everyone the benefit of her sickly ingratiating smile, which made their flesh creep as it always did.

  When they’d got settled with their drinks Mac asked if they were glad the market was finished with, saying before they could answer, ‘I must say I am, it brought too much attention to Turnham Malpas, far too much. That was what caused it all. Before, a stranger would have stood out like a sore finger, so to come to the village in broad daylight to burgle would have been a stupid thing to do.’

  Willie interrupted him. ‘Absolutely, I agree and with the bikers there wouldn’t have been anything to spoil would there? But a village green full of stalls and loads of people, a right target and not half. And what fun I ’spect they thought.’

  Mac put his homebrew down on the table, ‘Exactly, that’s what they said, “we did it for fun.” Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. ’ He shook his head in despair. Mrs Mac, only accustomed to speaking pleasantries in public, indignantly offered an opinion, ‘Pity they’ve nothing better to do, they should be in prison for what they did.’ They all nodded their heads in agreement with her comment and then something happened that they had never expected in all their wildest dreams. The main door of the pub opened and two people entered. A deep, scandalized silence filled the bar.

  There’d been plenty of times in the long history of the Royal Oak that a full bar had whooped with joy or fallen silent at the news of some event or other - Henry V’s victory at Agincourt, when a Queen of England had been beheaded by her King, Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar, the end of the First World War - and tonight was no exception. Tonight’s news may not have been included in the national archives, but in the history of Turnham Malpas it scored highly.

  Liz was dressed all in black, but Neville wore shorts, a T-shirt and open-toed sandals. Liz was drained of all colour, and looked as though she were sleepwalking. Neville had a spring in his step and quite a flush to his cheeks.

  When they reached the bar it was Neville who ordered their drinks. ‘Two gin and tonics, Dicky, please.’

  He motioned to a table which had just been vacated, and, looking as though Neville was twitching her puppet strings, Liz walked across to it and waited for Neville to pull out a chair for her. She sat down heavily.

  Neville smiled and nodded as he squeezed past the tables on his way back with their drinks, but got few smiles in return. What were they thinking of? The night of the funeral! Liz looked so ill it seemed to everyone she’d be following Titus to the churchyard within days. Had Titus’s death deranged the pair of them?

  All eyes were on their table. Everyone saw Neville persuade her to clink glasses with him and have a toast to someone or something. To Titus possibly? Then Neville began speaking to her in quiet tones so that not even the people on the table next to them could hear, try as they might. But Liz appeared oblivious to his every word.

  Through gritted teeth Neville said angrily, ‘Smile, for God’s sake, woman, smile.’ Liz managed a fleeting grimace. For a brief moment he wondered why he’d insisted on bringing Liz out for a drink. To prove to everyone Titus wasn’t the love of her life, merely a casual friend? To prove he, Neville, still owned her? That she was still his wife? To dominate her? To restore the status quo?

  All of those things, and more. He’d show ’em he was no longer a cold fish. The whole blasted pack of lily-livered, self-righteous nosy-parkers could go to hell, and that included the Rector, who, Neville suspected, could see right through him. Keep talking. Look normal.

  Though the conversation level rose a little, the camaraderie of a usual evening in the pub was gone. Quite a few people left with subdued goodbyes. Those who stoically hung on couldn’t find it in their hearts to behave normally. Grandmama loudly declared she was leaving. She made a point of walking by their table and paused beside Liz. Taking her hand in hers, Grandmama gently kissed her cold cheek. ‘Anytime you need to talk, my dear, you know where I am.’

  Then she stalked out. That cold fish had a lot to answer for. His outrageous behaviour absolutely shocked her, because it was so obvious that he’d made her go out for a drink when it was the last thing she wanted to do. Grandmama stormed back to her cottage, glad she could call her home her own and didn’t have some man dictating to her. She could have her hot chocolate with marshmallows tonight, and wallow in her indulgence with no one to question it.

  Willie whispered, ‘I’m off home. TV must be better than this. It’s like a morgue in here.’

  Sylvia agreed, remembering she still had some gin left over from her Christmas bottle and a fresh bottle of tonic Willie had bought last week in the supermarket, so she’d make do with that. Willie paused to purchase a bottle of homebrew to take out, and they trundled home.

  ‘I want to say this here and now,’ she turned to face Willie just as they passed the Rectory, ‘if you go first,’ she gestured up to the sky, ‘heaven forbid, I want you to know I shan’t be in the pub the night of your funeral, looking as though I haven’t a care in the world.’

  Willie pondered on her devotion to him and agreed if she went first neither would he. They’d just kissed to confirm their faithfulness to each other when the Rectory door opened and out came Peter with the rubbish ready for tomorrow morning’s collection.

  ‘Goodnight, Rector,’ Willie called out.

  ‘Oh! Hello. Sorry. I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir. We’ve come home early because we’re that disgusted.’

  ‘Disgusted? What about?’

  ‘Neville. He’s brought Liz into the pub for a drink. It’s downright unseemly. She looks like death.’

  Sylvia piped up, ‘That man is not right in the head. Believe me. I was nearest and I heard him whisper, “Smile for God’s sake woman.” He’s cruel.’

  Peter straightened up from putting the black bag down on the step. ‘I’ll go in and have a word with Caroline, see what she thinks. I’ll have to do something about that. Thanks for telling me. Goodnight, God bless.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  Caroline was horrified. ‘So what’s happened to that charming husband who was giving her every consideration, mmm?’

  ‘I thought Sylvia using the word “cruel” was absolutely right. We should never have allowed her to go and live with him in Glebe House. We must have been crazy to do so. He completely hoodwinked us.’

  ‘But he did appear to have changed, didn’t he? And it seemed to be what she wanted, which I must admit I found surprising at the time. Maybe he brought it about by bullying her when she wasn’t in possession of her senses.’

  Peter stood looking out of the window. ‘I’m going over there to see how the land lies.’

  Before Caroline could suggest he should be very careful what he said, Peter was out of the door and marching off to the Royal Oak, walking so quickly his cassock was swishing about his ankles.

  He deliberately opened the outside door as gently as possible and walked in just as softly. The convivial atmosphere one was normally greeted with was missing, but there sat Neville at a table in the very centre of the bar, chattering away to Liz as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  ‘Good evening, Rector. What can I get you, sir?’ Dicky, who was wary of the atmosphere this evening, felt an incident of some kind was about to happen, which he fervently hoped wouldn’t.

  ‘I’ll have a half of your homebrew, Dicky, please.’

  Peter leaned on the bar counter, paid Dicky, placed a foot on the brass rail and turned to face everyone. There was a small chorus of greetings and then the bar went quiet again. He toasted them all and sipped his ale.

  ‘This ale gets better and better, Dicky. I always thought Bryn’s ale was good but I do believe yours has the edge.’

  Then Peter walked across to Neville’s t
able and asked if he could sit down. Without waiting for Neville’s approval, he pulled out a chair, sat on it, put his drink down on a beer mat and addressed Liz first. ‘My dear Liz, how are you?’

  She answered so softly he had to bend forward to hear her. When he looked closely at her he was appalled by the tortured look in her eyes.

  ‘Thank you for this afternoon. The service was beautiful, so right for T . . . T . . . Titus. I’m not right, though. I’m desperate. Completely desperate. I don’t know what to do about myself.’

  ‘It will take time, it’s been such a shock for you.’

  Neville said, ‘Speak up, darling, I can’t hear.’

  But she didn’t. If anything, her voice went even quieter. Liz grasped Peter’s hand. ‘I don’t want to live . . . at Glebe House. But he compels me.’

  ‘I see. Where would you like to be?’

  There was a long pause. ‘He thinks I’ll stay married, but I shan’t.’ ‘Where would you like to be? Your best place. Where is it?’ By now both Peter’s hands were clasping hers.

  Neville felt his dominance waning. ‘I wish the two of you would stop whispering. Don’t you know it’s bad manners to whisper in company?’ Cheerfully he added, ‘I’m her husband, don’t forget. No need to keep Liz’s secrets from me.’

  Peter asked her again where it was she preferred to be.

  ‘Anywhere will do. Just anywhere.’ She released a hand for a moment so she could find a handkerchief. Having dried her eyes, she repeated, ‘Anywhere.’

  This time Neville heard her, and he swore, using words he didn’t know he knew. Peter was shocked. At the sound of Peter’s gasp Neville said them even louder and grabbed hold of Peter’s wrist. ‘She’s my wife. What do you think you’re doing? You may be wearing your God get-up but it doesn’t intimidate me. In the past, I’ve accorded you respect you didn’t deserve, but no longer. Let go of her. Do you hear me?’

  Peter tried to release Liz’s hands but she clung to him and unless he hurt her by prising her fingers from his hands he couldn’t let go.

  Neville, still gripping Peter’s wrist, grew wilder. ‘Liz! I insist you let him go. He’s a nothing. He can’t protect you from me. Do you understand? He has no influence on either you or me. We can look after ourselves without his help.’

  Dicky’s heart sank. Like everyone else, he was caught up in the drama. Horrified by Neville’s attack on Peter, it was beyond his imagination to think about what might happen next. All of it was so totally unjustified.

  Then Neville stood up, and so did Peter. ‘Get out, Peter, and leave us to lead our own lives. We don’t need you to soft-soap us all, smooth over the cracks, and put life back in its place, still less to provide some kind of spiritual dummy to keep us content. You’re a waste of space.’ His voice was getting louder and louder, more forceful, more scornful, more bruising, and when he struck out at Peter they all gasped.

  Liz screamed. Neville put his left hand over her mouth, and aimed a further blow at Peter with his right, raining abuse as well as blows upon him. Surely to goodness Neville had gone raving mad? Liz, terrified by Neville’s fury, forced his hand from her mouth and fled for safety behind the bar counter, where she hid behind Dicky, sobbing.

  Peter didn’t retaliate. He stood quite still and took everything Neville threw at him.

  Realizing how futile it was becoming, Neville roared, ‘You! You preaching God from that pulpit! What a mockery! What a sham! What an overweening attitude from someone with your sin on their shoulders! Don’t think we none of us know who bore your children. It most certainly wasn’t that well-educated, smug, self-satisfied, over-confident, patronizing wife of yours, was it? No, you were taking liberties, extreme liberties, with a member of your own congregation whose husband was dead but not yet buried.’ Neville roared out the words, totally possessed by his fury.

  At that moment, Dicky, at a loss as to how to deal with this problem, rang the bell for last orders, hoping to break the spell. At exactly the same moment Peter brought his arm back, clenched his fist and caught Neville a right hook on his jaw which clamped his teeth onto his tongue. Never in his life had he hit someone with such force and such pent-up anger, and immediately Peter was bitterly ashamed of himself. But that slur on Caroline was more than he could take.

  Georgie, returning to the bar from upstairs where she been sneaking a quick break, found Peter rubbing his hand and Neville Neal, crouching against a table leg, his shirt-front soaked in blood, desperately trying to catch what blood he could with his handkerchief, and totally oblivious to the uproar in the bar.

  ‘Eh! What’s been going on? That’s an awful lot of blood there. What caused it? Someone thumped him one?’ Georgie asked innocently.

  There was a note of triumph in Dottie’s voice as she said, ‘It’s the Rector what did it.’

  Amazed, and at the same time secretly delighted, Georgie said, ‘The Rector! Well, that’s news - and no more than Mr Neville Neal deserves. Drinks all round on the house.’ There weren’t many in the bar so it wouldn’t be too costly an exercise, Georgie thought. ‘Should we send for an ambulance, do you think?’

  ‘So long as it comes from the lunatic asylum, because that’s where he belongs,’ shouted one of the customers on the point of leaving, but coming swiftly back inside at the thought of missing a free drink.

  There were more troubled minds trying to snatch sleep in the village that might than for long time.

  Caroline lay awake, concerned about Peter.

  Liz, tucked up in the little bedroom under Grandmama Charter-Plackett’s thatched roof, felt more secure than she had since Titus died but was still unable to sleep.

  Neville was under sedation in Culworth Hospital now they’d managed to stem the blood pouring from his mouth; he slept but then woke to screaming nightmares.

  Most troubled was Peter. He had betrayed the very essence of his ministry and honestly believed he would never recover from it. Striking another human being simply because his finer feelings were being insulted? He, a supposed pacifist, taking such an action? Titus Bellamy would have stoically remained silent and unmoved, but he, Peter Alexander Harris, had reacted in the worst possible way. Peter cringed to his very soul and, at 6 a.m., after an almost sleepless night, he rose, dressed and went to pray in church.

  Caroline heard him go but didn’t attempt to stop him. He was best left to sort it out by himself. She’d never liked Neville, try as she might, and now she knew why. At bottom he was evil, cleverly covered up with all the false polish of an educated chap, so much so that he believed his own opinion of himself and had lost sight of truth and honesty. Poor Liz. At least she was safe with Katherine, but what next for her? If only Titus . . .

  Caroline heard the children getting up and decided to do the same. There was no point in lying idle thinking terrible thoughts.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ asked Beth as she munched on her muesli.

  ‘Gone for his run.’

  Beth glanced at the clock. ‘He’s late.’

  ‘Got a lot to think about. He’ll be back when he’s ready.’

  When Alex had finished his breakfast, without mentioning that his intended bike ride had an objective, he picked his bike up from the back garden path where he always left it and set off to look for his dad. He knew the exact route he took because when he was small his dad had helped him to understand map-reading by showing him the route on an Ordnance Survey map, and pointing out the places Alex knew.

  He found his dad seated on a stile looking out towards the beautifully tended rolling acres of Nightingale’s Farm.

  ‘Dad?’

  All he got was a nod of acknowledgement.

  Alex stood in front of Peter, wondering how to break his silence. ‘Is it something to do with Mum?’

  Peter hesitated and then shook his head.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I struck someone an outrageous thump last night and he had to go to hospital. I can’t forgive myself. I may have broken his jaw.’ He s
howed Alex his bruised knuckles.

  Intrigued, Alex asked, ‘Whose jaw?’

  Peter muttered grimly, ‘Neville Neal’s.’

  A broad grin spread across Alex’s face. ‘Well, he must have deserved it; you wouldn’t have hit him otherwise. I bet there’s more than you would like to do the same, though I can see why you’re ashamed about it. You gave me a sense of perspective about Africa, when I killed the s-soldier, you know. Somehow you explained away all the guilt. I know I’m not grown up, but perhaps I can do the same for you? After all, Dad, you didn’t kill Neville, did you? It’s not m . . . murder like I did, just a well-deserved thumping for raping Liz.’

  Peter looked up at him intending to discuss further the words Alex used to describe the Liz incident, but his voice stopped in his throat for, surprisingly, he saw in front of him a youthful version of himself, looking him straight in the eye with a deep, unmistakable compassion. Suddenly their roles were reversed. This time it was Alex giving his father some badly needed comfort.