by Paula Martin
* * * * *
Abbey was glad of Louise’s help the next day. Dolly Garside had asked Edwina to put together some historical information about the Old School so, once Louise arrived, Abbey turned to her mother.
“Now you can go home and search through all your books for ammunition for Mrs. G.”
“I’m not doing this for Dolly,” Edwina protested. “I’m determined to save the school, and I hope you are, too.”
“Yes, of course I am.” Abbey winked at her sister. “After all, at least four generations of Bartons were educated there.”
“And that’s an excellent reason to save it,” Louise agreed.
Edwina frowned. “I can’t tell whether you two are being serious or whether you’re winding me up.”
Abbey smiled. “Go on, Mum. You know we’re both a hundred percent behind you.”
Halfway through Friday afternoon, two things occurred to her. First, Jack hadn’t called, even though he said he would ring her; second, she hadn’t told him about the village meeting.
During a lull, when some customers were browsing but not needing any assistance, she pulled her phone from her pocket. “I need to call someone,” she said to Louise and went into the storeroom.
She started to dial Jack’s number, but stopped and pressed cancel. Propping herself up against one of the shelves, she tried to answer the questions that hammered through her mind.
Jack hadn’t called her. Did that mean he’d changed his mind? Did he not want to continue the shaky resumption of their friendship? If so, why not? It could be any of a hundred reasons. Anyway, he’d said later this week which could mean anything.
So what had stopped her from calling him? She could have left a casual message, or mentioned the meeting in the church.
She went back into the shop. “Louise, I’m in a quandary, and I need your advice.”
“What about?”
“I can’t decide whether to tell Jack about the meeting tonight or not.”
“Why?”
“Because the other day Dolly Garside said she didn’t want him there. Spouting all his fine talk were her words and, of course, she went on about how he’d let the village down.”
“You don’t mean you’re taking any notice of Dolly, surely?”
“No, it’s not that, but—” She struggled to explain. “I don’t know if Jack would be in favour of the roof repairs or Tom’s idea of having a new community centre.”
“I can’t see why that makes any difference. A good case can be made for both options, can’t it?”
“True, and it’s different from the gatehouse thing because everyone valued that as part of the village’s history.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“If Jack’s in favour of a new community centre, Tom Williams and his supporters will be pleased, of course, but don’t you think it would remind people of his article again and all the anger they felt at that time?”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Jack’s been accepted again now, and he’s earned people’s gratitude by offering the barn for meetings. If they start remembering what happened in the past, they might turn against him. I don’t want that to happen.”
“So you’re not going to tell him about the meeting?”
Abbey made her decision. “No.”
“He might already have heard about it, you know.”
“If he has, so be it.” She put her phone back in her pocket. It was for Jack’s sake, she told herself.
* * * * *
Abbey and her mother arrived early at the church and found seats at the end of the fourth row of pews. People continued to gather, and they waved in greeting to many of them. Abbey’s tension increased as she glanced around, wondering if Jack would appear.
Dolly Garside bustled up to them. “You’re the third speaker, Edwina. I’ll go first, and then the vicar will speak. I have several other people willing to support us when it’s thrown open for general discussion, and when I think we’re getting the meeting on our side, I’ll ask Tom to call for a vote.”
With a smug smile, Dolly went off to accost someone else, and Abbey grinned at her mother. “Mrs. G has it all organised, hasn’t she? Wonder if Tom’s rallied his ranks, too?”
Edwina’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Not if Dolly got to them first.”
“What’s your speech about?”
“Wait and see.”
The church was full by seven-thirty. Jack hadn’t arrived and Abbey didn’t know whether to feel relieved or guilty.
Tom Williams opened the meeting with a brief explanation of its purpose, and went on to read the builders’ report about the roof repairs.
The next speaker was Mark Perkins, the treasurer. Several sheets of financial details were distributed, and Mark explained them. When these showed more funding could be obtained for a new building, Abbey exchanged anxious glances with her mother. Things weren’t looking good.
Tom’s third speaker was Brian Hardy, the owner of a campsite near the village and the leader of the local Scout group. He spoke eloquently about the need for modern facilities for the youth of the village.
A blanket of depression descended on Abbey. They were putting up a good case, and she wasn’t sure whether Dolly’s supporters would be able to make as strong an argument.
Dolly was next to speak and, despite her underlying dislike of the woman, Abbey had to admit she gave an excellent speech about the history of the village and the importance of preserving its heritage.
Next, the vicar told them the history of the Old School which had originally been a church school in the nineteenth century. He also described how the villagers had raised the money to build it.
Dolly then called on Edwina to speak, and Abbey crossed her fingers as her mother walked down the aisle and stood on the chancel steps.
“Earlier today,” she said, “I had no idea what I was going to say this evening, but my daughter Abbey solved that for me when she said, At least four generations of Bartons were educated there. I think this is as important as the history of the building and the heritage of the village. The Old School is part of the lives of people here. Many of them, and their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents owe their early education to the school.”
She went on to talk about the people whose roots lay in the village, naming several of them as she spoke about pupils and teachers.
Applause greeted her speech when she ended with an impassioned plea for the preservation of a building which held so many memories for the people of the Rusthwaite valley and which should continue to play a role in village life for present and future generations.
When she returned to her seat, Abbey squeezed her arm. “That was great, Mum,” she whispered in genuine admiration.
“Not sure it’s going to be enough. The financial figures could sway things more than the appeal to history.”
Tom opened up the discussion to the audience, which went on for a long time. Opinions were divided, and it was difficult to tell which way things were going.
After Jeannie Dixon spoke in support of the Old School, Dolly leant toward Tom and pointed to her watch. He stood and held up his hand.
“We’ve heard all your views for the last hour, and we could probably listen to them for the next two or three hours, but I said we’d finish this meeting by nine-thirty, so it’s now time for you to make up your minds. Do we repair the Old School or do we build a new community centre? Those in favour of—”
Another voice echoed through the church. “Before you vote, would you allow me to say a few words?”
Edwina jerked her head around and groaned, “Oh, no.”
Abbey knew the voice before she even turned. A mixture of alarm and curiosity shot though her when she saw Jack standing at the back of the church.
“Mr. Tremayne,” Tom said. “You’re rather late—”
“I apologise, but I think you might be interested in what I have to say.”
Tom ignored D
olly’s attempt to intervene and nodded. “You have two minutes, Jack, after which I will resume the vote.”
“Thank you.”
Jack strode down the aisle and turned to face the audience. In his jeans and navy jacket over the blue polo shirt that stretched across his firm chest, he looked good. More than that, he seemed to be completely at ease as he surveyed the sea of faces. It gave him an air of quiet authority, and Abbey clenched her hands as she waited for him to speak.
“Many of you here know me,” he started. “For those who don’t, I’m Jack Tremayne, and I grew up here. So did my mother, and her parents, and their parents. My roots are deep in the Rusthwaite valley and, even though I’ve been to many different places in the world, I still consider this village as my home.” He gave a small smile before his expression became serious again. “Eight years ago, as I’m sure you’ll remember, I wrote a newspaper article which people here considered a betrayal of my home. I want to tell you now that I regret some of the things I said in the article, and I want to apologise to you all for the problems it caused.”
Abbey swallowed hard. It took a big man to stand up in a crowded church and make such a public and sincere apology. Her eyes misted and she blinked a few times. At the same time, she sensed the reaction from the audience. Half resentful, half intrigued. What was he going to say now?
“In the article, I said the Lake District needs tourism, and I don’t think anyone here can dispute that,” he went on. “Tourists, holidaymakers, climbers and hikers, and water sports enthusiasts are our lifeblood now the old industries have died out. We don’t mine copper any more, the slate industry has declined, we don’t sell our wool in the local market, or burn charcoal in the forest. Many people in this village are now dependent on visitors.” He paused, glanced around, and continued, “However, what I didn’t address in the article was, firstly, that there should be a balance between the needs of tourists and the needs of the people who live and work here. Secondly, I didn’t acknowledge the importance of Lakeland’s heritage, and specifically this village’s history and heritage.”
Abbey tightened one hand around the other so hard that it hurt as she waited for his next words.
“During the past few years, I’ve done a lot of research into the history of this area and I appreciate it far more than I did when I was a cub reporter with the Chronicle. It has rightly been said that men dwell here as well as mountains. Nature has created our landscape, but our history has been created by the people who have lived here through the ages. I believe we owe it to those people—the ancestors of many of you here tonight—to preserve and not destroy what they created. Yes, we could abandon the Old School, but if we do so, we destroy something which has been an integral part of this village for over a hundred years. Even though it’s no longer a school, it’s still the heart of the village, the place where people meet for social events and to pursue their various interests. I believe it should continue to fulfil this role in Rusthwaite.”
A shiver of delight raised the hairs on the back of Abbey’s neck, and she gave her mother a relieved smile.
Jack turned to Tom Williams. “I guess I’ve overrun my two minutes, but if you’ll allow me one more minute. There’s an old saying—Put your money where your mouth is—and that’s what I intend to do.”
She drew in a tense breath as he put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out what looked like a cheque. There was a murmur of interest around her.
He faced the audience again. “Please don’t think this is an attempt to obtain your forgiveness for the problems I caused in the past. I understand if you can’t forgive me, but this is the strongest indication I can give of my firm belief in the preservation of this village’s heritage for future generations. I’m giving it on the condition that it is used for the Old School. I’ve not examined your financial statements in detail, but I think it should be enough for the roof repairs, as well as any other necessary modernisation of the facilities.” He handed the cheque to Tom and nodded briefly at the audience. “Thank you for listening to me.”
As he set off up the aisle, Edwina stood and started to applaud. Abbey did the same and others began to stand. Jack’s face was neutral, and he didn’t acknowledge anyone as he strode to the back of the church. By the time he reached the door, the applause had risen to a crescendo, and she brushed away the tear that slid down her cheek. She was so proud of him she felt as if she would burst.
Tom Williams held up his hand, and gradually the applause died as people sat down again. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I can hardly believe what I’m holding in my hand.”
“Come on, how much?” someone called from the audience.
“This is a cheque for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”
A stunned silence was broken when Dolly Garside, beaming from ear to ear, stood and started to applaud again.
Abbey turned to her mother. “Mum, I need to go and find him.”
Edwina nodded. “Yes. Go on.”
Oblivious to everyone in the church, she ran up the aisle and out of the door. She had no idea which way Jack had gone, but dashed toward the lychgate and down the sloping path to the market square. As she reached the square, she saw his dark figure turning the far corner into the main street.
“Jack! Jack—wait!” He didn’t stop, and she started to run. “Jack!” she called again.
He slowed but didn’t look around. Eventually she caught up with him and matched his pace. Her words came out in short gasps. “Jack, that was amazing. Not the cheque—but everything you said. Even Dolly Garside was smiling and clapping, and—oh, I was so proud of you.”
“Really?” His voice was thick with sarcasm. “So why didn’t you tell me about the meeting, Abbey? Did you think I’d say all the wrong things? Things you and your mother and Dolly Garside might not want me to say?”
“No, of course not. I—” She stopped and pushed her hair back from her face. It was part of the reason she hadn’t called him earlier.
He halted and fixed her with a cold glare. “I told you I’d changed my views since I wrote the article, but you obviously didn’t believe me. Maybe one day you’ll learn to trust me, Abbey.”
Turning, he carried on walking, leaving her standing open-mouthed.
CHAPTER 12
“Jack, please stop.”
Jack heard the pleading in Abbey’s voice, heaved a sigh, and slowed down again. His frustration with everything and everyone threatened to boil over.
First, there’d been his lunch meeting with Farrell. His agent hadn’t been able to report any further progress in the negotiations about the contract offered to the other actress, Marsha Hewitt, and Jack banged his fist on the table, causing everyone in the restaurant to look at him.
“Offer her a juicier role or buy her off,” he snapped. “Dammit, Farrell, I’ll buy her off if necessary. Either Abigail Barton plays Maggie Rycroft, or I tear up my contract with Horizon Films.”
He’d deliberately not called Abbey during the week because he hoped to be able to give her the good news when they next met. Now he’d have to wait even longer before he could tell her about The Rycroft Saga.
He called her anyway, at about seven-thirty, and swore under his breath when he was diverted to her answer service. “Sorry I couldn’t ring you sooner,” he said briefly, “but please call me when you get this message.”
A brisk walk into the village only added to his disgruntlement. As he passed Eagle Croft, he saw Abbey’s red car parked outside the house and was tempted to knock on the door, but knew he probably wouldn’t receive any welcome from her mother.
Why did everything have to be so damned complicated? Earlier in the week, he’d started to hope he and Abbey had taken the first moves toward rebuilding their friendship. Admittedly, they were small steps, not long strides, but he couldn’t rush her. He needed to curb his impatience, even though he realised he was as much in love with her as he’d been ten years earlier.
Instea
d of continuing his walk to the lake on the far side of the village, he decided to go into the White Lion, and surveyed the almost deserted pub in surprise.
“Where is everyone?”
“There’s a meeting at the church,” Mike said. “Didn’t you know?”
“Nope. What’s it about?”
As Mike explained the purpose of the meeting, Jack narrowed his eyes. Obviously no one had told him because people didn’t trust him. One mistake in his youth and he was damned forever. The uncharitable thought ran through his head that Dolly Garside had probably instructed everyone not to tell him.
More to the point, Abbey hadn’t told him. Did that mean she didn’t believe him when he told her he’d changed his views? His annoyance increased to a simmering anger. So much for thinking they were finding their way back to each other.
By the time he finished his pint, his decision was made. He needed to show them all, even Dolly Garside, that he’d been wrong when he wrote the infamous article. Several years of research for his novels had opened his eyes to the lives and work of his ancestors, and helped him realise the past was as important as the present.
He stood at the back of the church, listening to all the arguments, and pulled out his cheque book. As he walked to the front, he had no firm idea of what he was going to say but, once he turned to the sea of faces, some frowning, some curious, the words had come.
The applause rang in his ears as he strode back up the aisle. Any elation he felt about putting right what he’d previously got so wrong dissolved when he saw Abbey, standing and applauding, and his anger returned in full force.
* * * * *
He carried on walking as she caught up with him again.
“Why didn’t you tell me on Tuesday night about the meeting?” he said again, his voice still icy.
“I didn’t know anything about it on Tuesday. It was only arranged when the trustees met on Wednesday evening.”
“You could have called me.”
“I was going to, honestly I was, but—”
“Why didn’t you?”