The audience turned up in little knots and flurries between half past seven and a quarter to eight. The meeting was called for eight, but since they had only come to chat and look, most people gave themselves plenty of time beforehand. Mrs Leaze shuffled in in her splendid musquash, bought on her inflated profits, though the grand effect was somewhat marred by the expanse of grubby petticoat showing underneath.
‘What’s it all about then, eh, Mrs Brewer?’ she shrieked to the fishmonger’s lady, who was taking time off from her disinterested endeavours to provide a meals-on-wheels service. ‘I don’t know what they mean by amenities, all these new words, do you? Strikes me if a village shop i’n’t an amenity, I don’t know what is, eh?’ She crowed with merry laughter. ‘Same with fishmongers, of course.’
Miss Potts crept in, and sat in a corner seat right at the back of the hall. Her eyes were in her lap, but she was watching everyone out of the corner of those eyes, just as she had trained herself to keep the whole of her little library under surveillance from her seat at her desk. She tut-tutted as loudly as she dared when Mrs Buller sailed in, with her Val in tow, already almost aggressively pregnant and dressed in a fluorescent green garment. Val’s sailor husband followed them, chunky and sheepish and giving every sign of having been dragged along. Jack Edgar from the secondary school, Timothy’s bête noire, strolled in and lounged across two seats in the back row, his face set in an expression of tolerant patronage of anything Timothy could put on. He knew that if the Radio Broadwich men came they would sit at the back, and with Miss Potts blocking one end, he thought it a fair bet that they would take the other if it were vacant. Therefore he sprawled his length across the fifth and sixth seats in, and gave no welcoming looks to anyone who might feel like sitting with him.
Mrs Withens arrived a minute or two later. No back row for her. She chugged up the side gangway making grave acknowledgements to various nervous little greetings. She eased herself gently down into her seat in the third row, with a sense on her of the absurdity of any public occasion in which she did not play a major role. She drew her fox fur around her and tried to look benign. Arnold Mailer slipped in late, and took a seat towards the back, perhaps feeling that he had to put in an appearance since his wife was neglecting her duty. None of these local notables were what the public had come to see, however. At one minute to eight Ted Livermore slouched apologetically into the hall, followed by Harold Thring, who could not enter a room apologetically to save his life. They looked around them, Ted with every appearance of wishing himself at any other of the earth’s dead ends, and made for the back row as Jack Edgar had known they would. Timothy Jimson had his equilibrium upset by seeing Jack Edgar acknowledge them with just the right degree of friendly but not cringing interest, and most of all by seeing the greeting returned – in the case of Harold with some suggestions of personal interest. His equilibrium was further upset a moment or two later, when he was just clearing his throat to begin and setting his face in an unaccustomed expression of welcome and benignity, by the vicar, who entered the hall in a disorder of arms and legs, flailing his way up the gangway and upsetting several empty chairs in his path. Finally he stationed himself in front of the centre of the stage and cleared his throat for silence:
‘Blessings be on this meeting,’ he shrilled, peering up at the rafters in a short-sighted manner, ‘and God’s grace be on the tasks you set yourselves. Evil is at work among us,’ he continued dramatically. Several in the audience looked guiltily into their laps. Miss Potts, Mrs Withens and a few others looked straight ahead, guilty of no greater evil than self-righteousness, complacency and lack of charity. ‘Evil is here, with us, at work in slander, in rumour-mongering, in the propagation of lies. Put out all evil counsellors, set not Mammon upon the seat of righteousness, nor worship the works of the ungodly. Humble thyselves to His commands and the Lord will bless thy comings and thy goings, thy couplings and thy uncouplings. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.’
And he was gone by a side-door, knocking over a lectern on his way, before the meeting could recover itself from its posture of semi-reverence and semi-ridicule. Used as Timothy Jimson was to the sight of the vicar exposing his second-childishness to the village, it was undeniable that he was a difficult act to follow. He could think of nothing more striking to do than to stand up and say: ‘Well, perhaps we’d better begin, then.’
This said, he indulged in the usual orator’s tricks while the hall stilled itself from its mutterings and giggles over the conduct of the vicar, and launched into an opening speech which he had been preparing for some weeks. As a starting-point, he touched with a becoming modesty which deceived nobody on the victory achieved since the last meeting in the matter of Three-Bottoms Field (a name he had discovered in his Records Section research, and one which totally mystified everyone in the hall, though Harold thought it sounded attractive). He passed from this to the matter of seats for old-age pensioners in the main street, touching gracefully as he did so on the splendid meals-on-wheels service being provided for the same, and the sterling work being put in by Mrs Brewer and her devoted body of helpers. Mrs Brewer sat there glowing modestly, and looking forward longingly to the day when the whole thing could be dropped.
Then Timothy passed on to the other matters he had been thinking up over the past weeks, and launched himself into the inexhaustible topic of the need for a community hall and centre, with special reference to the needs of the dramatic society. This involved a convoluted tribute to his blushing fellow committee member, whose notion the dramatic society had been, and a long recital of the endless possibilities for fund-raising – bazaars, sweepstakes, special appeals and various forms of genteel blackmail. By this stage Timothy was speaking quite well. Any teacher, other than the most hopeless and tongue-tied, can summon up a reasonably convincing flow of mellifluous nothings for an occasion of this sort, which is no doubt one reason why teachers are so universally disliked. Timothy even managed to take felicitous advantage of a slight interruption to his discourse: when Tom Billington arrived from his post at the Lamb ten minutes late, and massively edged his way to a seat, Timothy paused to let him settle, and brought him in gracefully when he resumed: ‘I was just saying, Tom, that . . .’ All in all, the assembled inhabitants of Twytching felt that he was doing a very good piece of public relations for them, or con job as they put it to themselves, and they glowed in the conviction that the gentlemen from Broadwich must be getting the idea that this was a really united and go-ahead little community.
This new fund of self-confidence and feeling that he could bask in a general approval had only carried Timothy a little way further in his discourse when he was thoroughly disconcerted by the sight of the main radio chappie – Livermore, wasn’t it? – slipping out of his seat at the back of the hall, and out through the swing doors at the back. For a few minutes Timothy hoped it might be no more than a call of nature, but if it was it was not of the sort that can be relieved quickly, for Ted Livermore did not reappear. That was a bit thick, thought Timothy, speaking of the need for a united community effort, he shouldn’t have come at all if he was going to do that. Bloody off-putting, and rude into the bargain. Made you wonder about the whole idea of commercial radio when you saw the sort they were recruiting. ‘Just one big push is what we need,’ he said stirringly, when his mood was further depressed by the movement of an arm and the dropping of a gaze at the back of the hall. Timothy was possessed by the suspicion, which soon strengthened into a conviction, that Harold Thring had put a hand on Jack Edgar’s thigh.
From this point on Timothy rather tailed off, and his introduction was brought to a much speedier conclusion than he had wished, since he found he could give little dramatic heart to his peroration. But there was no lack of speakers from the body of the hall, anxious to back him up in proving that Twytching was a lively, thrusting, go-ahead little community. Little Miss Marriot put in a say about the drama group, and blushingly confessed that they were short of young men, which won her a
burst of rustic guffawing from the hall and a flutter of the eyelashes from Harold Thring. Mrs McGregor, the doctor’s wife, contributed a mystic piece about the place of flowers in the life of the town, and what each and every member of the community could do about making Twytching a more spiritually satisfying place to live in by means of flower-arrangements. Mrs Brewer inevitably appealed for volunteers for meals-on-wheels, and somebody else wondered why there were no keep-fit classes.
Things rather began to degenerate after that. Someone complained about the lack of dentists in Twytching, and the length of time one had to spend waiting to see the doctor at surgery time. Someone else complained about delays in the postal service, and finally Mrs Buller, a determined little woman and a conscientious complainer and troublemaker, got up and gave it out as her impression that this town was run by a small clique, and that it was high time that a bit of democracy was introduced into the running of things around here. There was enough truth in all this for a timid little murmur of sympathy to run around the hall. Mrs Withens bridled fit to kill, and Timothy hurriedly pointed out that elections to the Council were democratically conducted, that anyone could stand, and that he was sure that any help Mrs Buller felt able to give to all the various voluntary organizations in the community would be very welcome indeed – and so on for some minutes. Not quite liking the way things were going, he pulled the meeting together by proposing a few unexceptionable resolutions, setting up a couple of working parties, and then bringing the meeting to a platitudinous close. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief that this strenuous bout of civic duty was at an end and began stirring in their seats and drawing their furs and their duffels around them. As people began filing out Timothy was quite sure he saw Harold Thring removing his hand from Jack Edgar’s thigh.
Wisely as it turned out, for Harold was the inevitable centre of attention as people came to the back of the hall, and settled into little groups, either around him or watching him. He basked in the open expression of popular interest. The ladies whose cakes, wines, babies, gardens and cats he had enthused over during his last visit were assiduous in thrusting their greetings at him, so that his little wave of acknowledgement became quite limp. Jack Edgar kept him in conversation for a minute or two, calculatedly not seeming too pressing, but in any case Harold seemed to have lost interest and detached himself from him in order to swop words with Tom Billington, though whether for his own pleasure or to delay his return to the Lamb, who can say? Tom Billington responded with genial tolerance: he’d known that type in the East End. One or two of the hardier ladies gathered around them, Timothy Jimson tagged self-importantly along, and quite a nice little conversation got going.
‘I will say this,’ said Mrs Brewer, with the feathery hat and the vaguely fishy smell, ‘I think you’ll find people in Twytching will choose a very nice type of music. And it’s not so easy to find these days, what with all that Radio One stuff, and these cassock recorders that the kids have going the whole time.’
‘We cater for all types at Radio Broadwich,’ said Harold with his brilliant smile, shaking his orange hair-do provocatively at her.
‘We’re very musical in our household,’ said Mrs Buller, smiling forthcomingly at her pregnant daughter in tow. ‘We’ve got twenty-five long-players, so that will give you some idea. Everything from the very popular like the Beatles to the severely classical like the Warsaw Concerto!’
Harold stored this little gem up for telling at his next Gay Lib party, and said: ‘That’s what I call being catholic.’
Mrs Buller seemed about to put in a correction of her religious position, but her daughter thrust out her stomach and put in a say on her own account:
‘I do think, though, you want to avoid getting stuck with the middle-aged, see what I mean? Well, you want to have some young people on, don’t you, not teenagers I don’t mean, ’course you wouldn’t want anyone ignorant, or anything, but more of the young parent group, like, I mean otherwise it’ll be the oldest inhabitant and all that stuff, see what I mean, don’t you?’
‘I see what you mean, ducky,’ said Harold. ‘You don’t have to rub my nose in it.’
‘No, but you can see her point in a way,’ said Timothy judiciously. ‘Of course you’ve got to have all the community leaders, and the artistic figures and so on and so forth, but then perhaps there ought to be one or two ordinary figures – representative citizens so to speak, part of the rising generation.’
‘Perhaps we could have a raffle,’ said Harold, perking up again. ‘Only guaranteed ordinary citizens to buy tickets. First prize, an interview on This is Twytching.’
‘Very Gilbert-and-Sullivan,’ said Timothy, with a sycophantic little laugh.
‘Of course we do see that the leaders of the town have to be on,’ said little Miss Potts loyally, ‘that’s only right. The world would get a very strange impression of Twytching if we didn’t hear from Mrs Withens, wouldn’t they?’
She looked around the group appealingly, but everyone maintained a respectful silence, especially as the lady in question was at that very moment steaming out of the hall and giving a greeting to Harold designed to express a degree of mutual understanding and agreement which did not stretch as far as actual approval of him on her part. There was a moment of uneasy silence.
‘On the other hand,’ said Timothy when he could be quite sure she was out of earshot, ‘she can hardly be allowed to dictate who should and who should not appear.’
‘Nobody’s dictating to us, ducky,’ said Harold, bristling with professional jealousy, ‘I assure you. My Ted’s got ideas of his own, and so have I, come to that.’
‘That’s nice to know,’ said Mrs Buller with emphasis.
‘Not that Deborah hasn’t been an absolute sweetie,’ Harold went on, ‘and awfully co-operative and all that. Couldn’t have been nicer, as I’m sure you all know.’ And Harold gave an outrageous wink. Everyone relaxed a little, though poor little Miss Potts looked very bewildered.
‘So nothing’s really been decided yet, then?’ said Mrs Buller, looking towards her Val and her Val’s Sam as a couple eminently suited to represent the future of Twytching – as indeed it could be argued that they were.
‘Nothing at all yet,’ said Harold. ‘Apart from Mrs Mailer, everything’s completely open still.’
‘Mrs Mailer,’ came a ragged chorus, in a variety of intonations suggestive of surprise, disapproval and I-might-have-guessed.
‘Yes, she’s on. I don’t know the lady myself, haven’t had the pleasure yet. But Ted says she’s on – that’s our producer – lovely boy. Apart from her, all the places are vacant – just slots waiting to be filled up. But of course we’ve got our ideas . . .’ and here Harold gazed with admiration and affection at Tom Billington, who had been standing by in a strong silent manner, rather as he did when the talk turned to politics in his bar. Jack Edgar felt distinctly put out, and wondered whether he ought to mention that he took PT classes at school.
After this the little group began to break up. Jack Edgar took himself off home, pretty sure that he was not likely to get any further with Harold Thring that night. Timothy Jimson was less wise, and tagged along with Harold and Tom Billington to the Lamb, where they found Ted Livermore drinking pints of beer with a moderately satisfied smile on his face in a snug corner of the saloon bar. All Timothy’s indignation returned. Bloody cheek, he thought, coming away from the meeting just to come along here and swill beer. And he downed a quick scotch and left. The rest of the audience drifted away from the primary school hall in their various directions, some chatting and comparing notes, and wondering what that Mrs Mailer had done to get on, others singly and brooding, to pub or bed or late-night TV. After closing time a further stream dribbled their way home, and the sound of cheerios and hiccups occasionally disturbed the night air until finally peace descended and the drowsy murmurs of Twytching life stilled themselves to nothingness as the lights went off and the streets were empty. The night was cold, and the courting couples kept
themselves indoors, so no home-coming lovers from the bluebell woods saw Alison Mailer, who was lying beside the path with her head bashed
CHAPTER VI
A DEATH IN THE FAMILY
Jean Jimson was half conscious for much of Tuesday morning of bustle next door, of comings and goings, and she wondered vaguely whether they had anything to do with Alison’s ‘business’, which she was no more able to fathom the nature of than Timothy had been. But Jean was not the type to spend her life spying on her friends and acquaintances, conscious as she was that her life had conundrums enough, and she had her eldest in bed with a nasty cold and cough, so the Jimson household did not evince that twitching of the net curtain which is the invariable sign of interest and concern in an English village. She washed up, cleared up mountains of toys, and listened to Waggoner’s Walk with her usual cheerful uncertainty as to which character was which.
At twelve o’clock, however, she found she had to go and buy a few things at the inevitable Mrs Leaze, and she pushed her youngest, a heavy, sleepy child, down the hill to the supermarket, not even noticing the unusually large numbers of gossipping pairs and groups on her way. When she got there, however, she was scarcely given time to get to the refrigerator, with its grubby packets of cheese, and to pause undecided before tasteless Cheddar and tasteless Wensleydale, before she was made aware of the fact that for once she was an extremely popular customer.
‘Oh, Mrs Jimson!’ said Mrs Leaze, breathless and emphatic, all straggly hair and petticoat, and waddling towards her in a perfect lather of interested friendliness. ‘I’ve been wondering all morning if you’d come in. I never did, really, I feel so shocked, right inside me, I do, I don’t know what I’m doing. And I thought if anybody knew the truth you would, and it’s never ’appened before in Twytching, not to my knowledge it ’asn’t, I never thought it would, but they say it ’as, and ’oo’s to say ’oo to believe because people do talk something terrible and it may be a lot of smoke without fire, though they do say you can’t ’ave it, but is it right, Mrs Jimson, is it? – in complete confidence of course.’
A Little Local Murder Page 6