Secrets and Scandals in Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

  ‘Lovely idea,’ murmured Heather.

  Megan nodded. ‘Anyway, it was World Book Day and we had to take our favourite book into school.’

  ‘And you took the memory book.’

  Megan nodded again. ‘I didn’t tell Bex. She said the book wasn’t to leave the house, she said it was too precious.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I know.’ Megan sniffed. ‘Anyway, we had to tell the class about our book and why we liked it – so I did. But afterwards, Stella told me she thought my book was lame and that I ought to get over my dad and that no one was interested or cared and then she snatched it out of my hand and ran off with it.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Go on,’ prompted Heather, gently.

  ‘So, I chased her.’ Megan turned to look at Heather. ‘I had to get the book back. I’d disobeyed Bex and everything was going horribly wrong. I was scared Stella was going to chuck the book in the school pond or in one of the bins. Bex would have been so angry with me. It would have been awful.’

  Heather nodded.

  ‘Anyway, Stella was running away from me, and she turned to look to see if I was catching her, and she tripped... she fell... she hit her head on a low wall.’ Megan paused as she recalled the awfulness of the event, then she began to cry; huge juddering sobs. ‘They sw-sw-sw-switched off her life su-su-su-pport a c-c-c-couple of weeks later.’

  Heather’s heart broke for the teenager she barely knew. She got up from her swing, crouched in front of Megan and took her hands. ‘It wasn’t your fault. You aren’t to blame.’

  ‘But I wa-wa-wa-was. I chased her.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you caused her death. It was a ghastly accident.’

  Megan blew her nose again and Heather handed her another tissue. ‘That’s what the police said.’

  ‘There you go then.’

  ‘But everyone at school said it was my fault. That’s why we had to move.’

  ‘Oh, sweetie, it doesn’t sound as if the others at your school were very nice. And Stella certainly wasn’t. What she said and did were hateful.’

  Megan nodded. Then she said, ‘Other people didn’t think so. She was form captain. Everyone liked her.’

  ‘Ah – another Lily Breckenridge? She likes to think she’s the most popular girl in the school too.’

  ‘Kind of. Ashley doesn’t like her, though.’

  ‘Ashley Pullen is a fine judge of character.’

  Megan smiled weakly and blew her nose again.

  ‘So,’ said Heather. ‘Don’t you think you ought to tell your mum what happened? Apart from anything else, if I were her, I would want to have a word with Mr Smithson about it.’

  ‘He won’t be able to do anything.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that. And when he finds out who wrote that horrible message on the board, I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Megan wasn’t convinced.

  ‘How about I come back home with you?’

  ‘She won’t be there, she’ll be at work.’

  ‘At the pub?’ Megan nodded. ‘I’m sure she could be allowed a quick break.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I am totally certain Belinda will let her have a few minutes to talk to you. Come on.’ Heather let go of Megan’s hands and stood up, groaning as her knees cracked as she straightened.

  Megan got off her swing and the pair left the park and headed through town.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Heather, pushing open the door to the bar.

  ‘I’ve not been in a pub before,’ muttered Megan as she followed Heather inside.

  They approached the bar where Bex was busy putting clean glasses on a shelf.

  ‘Bex,’ said Heather.

  She turned. ‘Hel—’ She stopped mid-greeting. ‘Megan, what on earth are you doing here?’

  The lunchtime regulars all put their drinks on the tables and swivelled to look at what was going on.

  Bex lifted the flap in the bar and ushered the pair through. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ she muttered.

  Her visitors followed her through and a hubbub of speculation did too until the swing door closed softly.

  ‘’Scuse us, Miles,’ she said to her bemused boss.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Hello, Heather – and this is...?’

  ‘My stepdaughter, Megan.’

  ‘Ooh-kaaay.’ He looked completely at sea. ‘What is this? Bring Your Child to Work Day?’

  ‘Don’t be facetious,’ snapped Heather.

  ‘Sorry.’ Miles glared at her. ‘Want me to make myself scarce?’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Heather.

  ‘Sure thing. I’ll mind the bar, shall I?’ he offered sarcastically as he left.

  ‘So what’s all this about?’ asked Bex.

  Heather glanced at Megan who nodded.

  ‘You tell her,’ whispered Megan.

  Heather began to recount the goings-on of the past hour, looking at Megan every now and again to check that she was getting her facts right as she told the tale.

  Bex looked alternately as if she were on the brink of tears or furiously angry.

  ‘So, who did it?’ she demanded to know at the end.

  Megan shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You must have some idea.’

  Megan looked as if she might burst into tears again. ‘But I don’t,’ she wailed.

  ‘Someone must know,’ hissed Bex. ‘And when I find out...’

  ‘Please don’t,’ said Megan. ‘You’ll make it worse.’

  ‘Worse?! How could it be worse? Some little toerag has made an unfounded and libellous accusation, upset you and made me spit feathers... And how did they find out, that’s what I want to know?’ Bex’s eyes blazed with anger and upset and righteous indignation. ‘No, I’m sorry, Megan, but as soon as I get home I’m going to ring Mr Smithson and demand he takes action.’

  Megan looked upset.

  Bex’s tone softened. ‘Megan, you can’t let people get away with things like this.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Heather.

  Miles opened the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got an order for a toasted BLT.’ He shuffled awkwardly.

  ‘And we’re cluttering up your kitchen,’ said Bex.

  ‘Look, I’ll get Belinda down from upstairs. She’s only catching up with the accounts and I’m sure she can cover for you. Why don’t you push off – you’ve obviously got more important things going on than pulling pints.’

  ‘Well...’ started Bex.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said Heather firmly. ‘Come on, you two.’ She took Bex’s arm and pulled her towards the door. ‘Bye, Miles, and thank you.’

  27

  Brian sat in his church and, yet again, mulled over what Joan had said the day before. He’d barely thought about anything else now, for the best part of twenty-four hours, and he hadn’t managed to come up with a better solution than the one Joan had suggested. He could only come to one conclusion – she might be right; his parishioners didn’t need to be troubled with his problems. Could he continue to provide a service, go through the motions, until everything righted itself? Would they twig that it was a sham, a façade? Why would they? he decided. So, as a plan it might work. And if this was only a temporary bad patch, a glitch, and even though he was frightened and depressed by the turn of events, he had to hope and pray it would pass and until it did... well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. He didn’t need to broadcast his own problems. One day, he had no idea when but, one day, surely, his faith would return. Until then, because the parishioners needed him, Heather was happy here, to say nothing of the more trivial reason that he liked this living... he should try to muddle through.

  Given the place he now found himself in, he’d find it tricky to encourage his flock to pray when he personally doubted that prayer was going to do any good, but as long as they remained unaware and they believed it would help, was it going to do any harm? Hypocritical i
t might be but, as far as he could see, it was the only way forward without the town losing its vicar and Heather losing her home.

  Brian breathed out. He needed to accept the situation as it was – maybe it was some kind of test. Maybe not quite as extreme as being thrown into a fiery furnace like Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, or being fed to the lions like Daniel, but it was still a test and he felt acceptance, and a trust that it would end, were the key to survival. He wasn’t sure he wanted to accept this new state. He wanted the old one back, he wanted the old certainties. Maybe he’d stay in the church a while longer and see if something approaching acceptance materialised. He shut his eyes and tried to pray.

  *

  Why, thought Joan, wasn’t Bert going off out to his allotment, like he did most days? She’d made a promise to the vicar that she’d get an appointment to see the doctor and, when she went to church on Sunday, she wanted to be able to tell him she’d kept her side of the bargain. But unless Bert buggered off, and pronto, she wouldn’t be able to ring the surgery until after the weekend and she couldn’t do that with him hanging around like a bad smell. She didn’t want him worried – not at his time of life. Her being worried was quite enough anxiety in the house to be going on with, thank you. And, if she was completely honest with herself, that last turn in the church had scared her quite a lot. The other twinges had been quite nasty but they’d passed relatively quickly and hadn’t hurt half as much as that last one had. And now she’d noticed that, even when she was lying down, her chest ached. There were no two ways about it, it was getting worse and she wasn’t just concerned for herself. What would happen to Bert if anything happened to her? He could barely make a cup of tea. Fine, he was great at growing stuff but when it came to what to do with it, he knew the square root of sod all.

  Joan came out of the kitchen and saw Bert sitting on the sofa, reading the local paper.

  ‘You can’t sit around here all day,’ she grumbled at him.

  ‘Why not. I’m retired, ain’t I?’

  ‘I want to get the hoover out.’

  ‘And I’m not stopping you.’

  ‘Yes, you are. You’re underfoot.’

  Bert put the paper to one side and sighed. ‘What’s the matter with you, Joan? You’ve been right tetchy all day.’

  ‘No, I ain’t.’

  ‘If you say so, dear.’

  Joan glared at him. ‘I do. Haven’t you got summat to be doing at the allotment?’

  ‘Not specially.’

  ‘Thought you said your beans needed tying up.’

  ‘They can wait.’

  Joan stamped out to the kitchen. Being riled by her Bert wasn’t going to help things if she were poorly. She clattered around at the sink, putting away the lunch things that had dripped dry.

  ‘OK, have it your way,’ said Bert from the door. ‘I give in, I’ll go and do some weeding, give you some peace and quiet, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘I don’t. I just want to get on.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  Joan bit back a retort. Bert infuriated her when he got so conciliatory and reasonable.

  Two minutes later she heard the front door slam. Thank the Lord for that. She headed back to the sitting room, picked up the phone and dialled the doctor’s. First an automated voice told her to press ‘one for repeat prescriptions; two for appointments...’ Joan fumbled with the buttons and hit two. Then she got some violins playing. No, she didn’t want that, she wanted a person.

  ‘Please hold, a receptionist will be with you in a moment. Your call is important to us,’ said another automated voice, before the violins carried on.

  ‘Like heck it is,’ said Joan to nobody. Finally, after several minutes, her call was answered. She was so pleased to hear a real person on the other end of the line she failed to hear the click of the front door as Bert, who had discovered he had forgotten his gardening twine, retuned to get it.

  ‘Yes,’ she said to Dr Connolly’s receptionist, ‘I’d like an appointment with the doctor as soon as possible.’

  ‘Can I ask what the matter is?’

  ‘No, you blooming can’t. That’s between me and the doc but I need to see him and I won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘I’m sorry Mrs...?’

  ‘Mrs Makepiece.’

  ‘Well, unless you can be a bit more specific...’

  ‘I’ve had a couple of chest pains,’ she admitted grudgingly.

  ‘I see. How bad?’

  ‘Bad enough and I’m worried.’

  ‘Do you think you might be better going to A&E?’

  ‘I’m not that worried. I just want to see the doc.’

  ‘In that case, we can fit you in on Monday. Ten o’clock.’

  ‘Ten, on Monday. I’ll be there.’

  Joan put the phone down and Bert tiptoed out of the house again.

  *

  On arrival back home, Bex had phoned the school while Megan sat on a kitchen chair and listened to Bex’s half of the conversation. As the telephone call went on, Heather took charge of making tea.

  ‘Yes, I know she left school without permission but under the circumstances I am, frankly, not surprised... And did Mrs Blake tell you the exact cause of Megan’s upset? So you can see why... Indeed, she was very distressed... No, no she doesn’t but I sincerely hope you’re going to find out... I absolutely agree.’

  Megan squirmed in embarrassment at being the subject of the conversation until, finally, Bex put the phone down.

  ‘The good news is that Mr Smithson is taking it all very seriously indeed.’

  Heather handed round steaming mugs of strong tea.

  ‘And the bad news is...?’

  ‘No one is owning up.’

  Megan snorted. ‘Like anyone would.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘In the meantime everyone knows what I did and it’ll be as bad as it was at my old school.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ said Heather.

  Megan swivelled to look at her. ‘How do you figure that out?’

  ‘Because no one here knew Stella personally. No one here was her friend – or thought they were her friend.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, she is just a name. People lose interest very quickly in things that don’t personally affect them. It’ll be a seven-day wonder, mark my words.’

  Megan looked unconvinced. ‘It’s easy for you to say, it wasn’t your name on the board,’ she grumbled.

  Heather sat on a chair next to Megan. ‘And I think that if you tell the truth about what happened—’

  ‘No! No, I can’t.’

  ‘I think Megan would really rather put it all behind her. Telling people about what happened would be so painful,’ explained Bex.

  ‘OK, it’s just a suggestion. I sincerely hope John Smithson can get to the bottom of who is behind that horrible message. And I’m sure he will.’

  *

  Heather let herself into the vicarage, shut the front door, leaned against it and let out a heavy sigh. What a week! First Olivia and her revelation that she thought Nigel was having an affair, and then poor little Megan’s horror story about her part in Stella’s death. Heather knew she was being quite unchristian but it sounded to her as if Stella had been a thoroughly spiteful child and, while she hadn’t deserved to die, she certainly didn’t deserve much sympathy either. Architect of her own downfall, thought Heather.

  Wearily she made her way to her kitchen and put the kettle on. A nice cup of tea was what she needed.

  ‘Brian? Brian, I’m home,’ she called out of the kitchen door.

  Silence.

  ‘Brian.’

  Still nothing. Leaving the kettle hissing and gurgling she went to her husband’s study and knocked on the door. Maybe he had a visitor. She knocked again, louder. She opened the door. The study was empty. Oh well, he must have gone out.

  Heather made herself a cuppa and went into the sitting room and sat on the functional but tatty sof
a opposite the hideous green and cream tiled fireplace and put her tea on the table in front of her. She leant back on the cushions and wondered what she might be able to do to help Olivia and Megan. When she awoke her tea was stone cold. She rubbed her eyes and yawned and saw that the clock said it was after five. She ought to get supper on.

  Taking her mug of cold tea she made her way into the kitchen. As she walked down the hall she realised that the house was utterly silent. Surely Brian wasn’t still out?

  Once again she called his name and listened for a response. Once again there was nothing. Where was he? Heather changed direction and headed into the study and flipped open Brian’s desk diary. Maybe he had a meeting with someone that she’d forgotten about. Nope – the page for that day was blank. Maybe someone had needed him in an emergency. Yes, that was probably it. In which case, when was he going to be home?

  Heather retrieved her handbag from where she’d left it on the counter and rummaged in it till she found her mobile. She pressed the buttons to find Brian’s number and called him. Straight to voicemail. Damn it. Mind you, she thought, it wasn’t entirely unexpected; they were as bad as each other when it came to being contactable on their mobiles.

  Under normal circumstances Heather wouldn’t have had the least twinge of worry but circumstances seemed to be far from normal at the moment. He’d been so distracted, so distant these past weeks, and then there had been that occasion when she’d caught him actually crying in his study. She suspected there had been other occasions – only she hadn’t witnessed them. No, she told herself firmly, his absence wasn’t an indication of anything more sinister than that he was out visiting a parishioner or had been called away unexpectedly on church business. To take her mind off her niggling worries she went into the kitchen, switched on the radio, and began to think about supper.

  At eight o’clock she put cling film over the plate of food she’d prepared for Brian and put it in the fridge. She finished the washing up and was wiping down the kitchen surfaces when she heard the key in the lock.

  ‘Brian!’ She raced out of the kitchen and down the corridor. ‘Brian, thank goodness you’re home. I’ve been so worried.’