Village Fortunes (Turnham Malpas 17)

by Shaw, Rebecca

  Chris shot to his feet. ‘Lovely meal. No time for the pudding. You eat it. Got to go, running late. Alice home tomorrow?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘You’ll have lots to do then. I’ll be late tonight.’

  ‘Got your key?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Johnny caught sight of Chris checking his appearance in the hall mirror. So he was right that Chris had a woman in tow. Johnny watched Chris starting up his car. God, he was a prepossessing man and probably would still be when he was in his sixties, no wonder women found him magnetic. Well, it wouldn’t be long before someone in the village spotted them together, and then the news would spread like wildfire. Just who was it?

  Chapter 4

  Barry Jones pushed open the heavy outer door of the Royal Oak and hurried in to get out of the cold. As he opened the inner door the heat of the fire blazing in the saloon hit him with a welcoming blast, and he went over to warm himself by sitting in the only chair in the inglenook fireplace. Holding his hands out to its warmth he called across to Georgie behind the bar, ‘G’evening, Georgie. Icy cold out there. I reckon there’ll be a deep frost tonight.’

  ‘Good evening to you, Barry. No Pat tonight?’

  ‘No. A do on at the Old Barn. My usual, if you please. The others not in?’

  ‘Zack and Marie have a B and B guest they’re not too sure about so they’re staying in; Vera’s got a heavy cold; Dottie might be in, Vince and Greta will be in later, I know for a fact. Shall I bring it across?’

  But Barry was already making his way to the bar.

  ‘Everything OK at the big house?’ Georgie enquired. ‘Baby home yet?’

  ‘He is. Johnny’s thrilled to bits, and the baby’s grand. Stronger looking than little Charles; more robust, you know.’

  Georgie protested. ‘Don’t say that. Charles is a beautiful boy, there’s nothing wrong with him, always so happy, and walking at ten months. That’s going some, you have to admit.’

  ‘I know he’s beautiful. I know nothing about little babies, having none of my own, but this second one . . .’

  ‘Have they given him a name?’

  ‘Not yet. Can’t make their minds up.’

  ‘Don’t forget your change.’

  ‘Ah. Right. Thanks.’ Barry went back to sit in the chair in the inglenook fireplace, grateful it was still vacant. He’d been working outside almost all day putting the new fencing up at Home Farm and he still felt chilled right through. He contemplated the cost of the fence. He’d thought Craddock Fitch was wealthy, well he had been, but this Johnny Templeton was in a different league. He didn’t spend money foolishly but he did spend it where it was needed. The fencing could have been bought for half the price Johnny had paid for it, but it wouldn’t have lasted as long nor looked so good; and for a craftsman like Barry, the satisfaction he got from building the fence was enormous. There was nothing quite like working with quality wood. The fence would still be there looking good when Charles inherited, and there was something special about that idea, a permanency that hadn’t been there when Mr Fitch was the owner. And not just for the estate, but for the village too.

  Vince and Greta Jones came in and Greta settled herself at a table while Vince went to the bar. ‘Vince! Greta! I’ll come and join you if that’s all right!’

  ‘Of course!’ Vince ordered their drinks. ‘Our usual, please, Georgie. And whatever Barry’s having.’

  The three of them chose to sit at the old oak table with the settle down one side; it was the best table in the entire saloon bar and their favourite.

  Vince paid for the drinks, saying, ‘It’s quiet in here tonight, Georgie.’

  Georgie looked grim. ‘It is, more’s the pity. I don’t know where everyone gets to these nights.’

  ‘No money, that’s the trouble.’ Vince carried the drinks across and sat himself down.

  As Greta and Vince relished their first sips silence fell, and then Barry raised his drink. ‘To the new baby. Got to wet his head, haven’t we?’ So the three of them clashed their glasses together and said it again.

  Greta said, ‘Makes me feel all medieval, it does. A new baby up at the Big House. Hang all these wealthy industrial people taking over our stately homes, flesh and blood is what counts.’

  Vince picked up his glass again, examined the clarity of his ale out of habit, and said, ‘They know how to conduct themselves, they do. It’s instinct.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Barry, ‘everything Johnny Templeton does for the estate is carefully thought out, and then he strikes. Beautiful wood I’m using for the fencing. It gives a craftsman pride in his work and no mistake.’

  Greta chuckled. ‘One thing for certain is that you’ll be pleased you didn’t lose your job. I remember you sitting here one night, in that very chair, convinced you’d be losing your house and be out of a job. But now look at you.’

  Barry had to admit that Greta was right. ‘It all seemed so certain and Mr Fitch was too, don’t forget. He’d no idea that Sir Johnny had fooled him in to thinking it was that residential home company that was buying it. Mr Fitch laughed when he found out how he’d been misled. Laughed like he hadn’t laughed for years.’

  Greta questioned what Barry had said. ‘I couldn’t understand that. Why did he find it funny when he’d fought so hard to stop Johnny buying it?’

  Vince sighed with impatience. ‘I’ll tell you once again, and then that’s it. He enjoyed the idea that someone as upright and as moral as Sir Ralph had a nephew, albeit a bit distant, who was as ruthless as he himself was, Craddock Fitch that is. That’s what made him laugh.’

  Greta laughed too. ‘Oh, I see. Well, I think so. Right, now you’ve explained it proper instead of laughing like a drain so I couldn’t tell what you were saying. Yes, it is funny. He’s hating not living in the Big House, you know. I feel quite sorry for him.’

  ‘You’ve never felt sorry for him before. He couldn’t do a thing right for you for years.’

  Greta smiled ruefully. ‘I know that, don’t remind me, but I do feel sorry for him now.’ She contemplated Mr Fitch for a moment and then added, ‘Once, at one of his parties, I caught him smoothing his hand over the banister rail of the main staircase and you could see he loved it, treasured it, kind of. I bet he didn’t smooth his hand over all that red marble when he lived at Glebe House; and now he’s renting Sir Ralph’s old house, that’s a come down and not half.’

  Vince brought a dash of common sense to their conversation. ‘No. But it’s no more than he deserves when you think about all the trouble he caused us all.’

  At this moment Dottie Foskett came in, glanced round, spotted them at the best table in the saloon bar, and came across. ‘Evening everybody. Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Be our guest, Dottie.’ Greta pulled out the chair at the end of the table for her.

  The three of them watched her at the bar ordering her drink. You couldn’t help but like Dottie, added to which she cleaned at two of the most important gossip-worthy households in the village so she was a useful friend to have. And she was always good for a laugh. To their surprise, just recently Dottie had changed her favourite drink for the last four years from half a pint of home-brew ale to vodka and tonic; and now she sat down with one in her hand. She placed it carefully on the nearest drink mat and looked round at them, her eyes sparkling with interest.

  ‘Well?’ the three of them asked in unison, knowing she was bursting with news.

  Provokingly Dottie replied, ‘Well?’

  ‘What’s the latest news?’ asked Greta.

  ‘Who says I’ve got some news?’

  ‘Your eyes do. Come on, come on.’

  Dottie smiled. ‘I was at the rectory, cleaning the bedrooms, when I saw . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ urged Vince.

  ‘Sir Johnny and . . . Mr Fitch coming to Sir Johnny’s house next door but one, what was Sir Ralph’s before. They went in for a while and then I heard them in the back garden. So I went in to the back bedroom
and looked out, and there they were, viewing the garden.’

  ‘Why?’ Barry asked.

  ‘Well, funnily enough I got the answer sooner than I imagined I would. I mean, was he looking at the house on behalf of someone else, or was he looking at it for himself? Was Sir Johnny selling it to him, or renting it to him? Either way, what was Mr Fitch doing with Glebe House if he moved? Selling it because he needed the money and renting Sir Johnny’s what he inherited from Sir Ralph, or selling it to him?’ Dottie’s complicated question intrigued the three of them and there was silence for a whole minute.

  Dottie drew in a deep breath and followed her unanswerable question with another one. ‘And who was it who came to the rectory door and knocked five minutes later?’

  Vince declared himself tired of puzzling unanswerable questions. ‘For heaven’s sake, tell us.’

  ‘Mr Fitch!’

  ‘Go on then,’ urged Greta.

  ‘The rector opened the door asked him in and they stood talking in the hall. I couldn’t ’elp but hear.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Vince. ‘I thought you never told a single secret you learned when you were working at the rectory. Secretive you’ve always been, like MI5.’

  ‘I couldn’t help but hear, they were standing there in the hall, I wasn’t listening at no keyhole. Apparently he’s seriously thinking, Mr Fitch that is, of moving into Sir Ralph’s old house, renting it because Sir Johnny’s refused to sell, because Mr Fitch ’as got a buyer for Glebe House.’

  ‘Well, I never. The money’ll come in useful for him. Who’s buying it then?’ asked Barry.

  ‘Fancy that,’ said Greta.

  ‘That Glebe House is so flashy I wonder who in their right mind wants to buy it? I mean, I certainly wouldn’t.’

  Rather sarcastically Greta said, ‘You certainly couldn’t, even if you wanted to. It’s way out of our reach.’

  Vince pondered. ‘Well, who is buying it?’

  Dottie made a pretence of being occupied with her vodka and momentarily ignored their questions. But then she couldn’t help herself. She had to tell them, and she couldn’t hold on any longer.

  ‘It’s someone who used to live in the village and had to leave, and now they’re coming back.’

  ‘Coming back? Tell us. We can’t think.’

  Complete silence greeted this declaration.

  Georgie who, having no customers, was free to listen to the latest gossip made a guess, ‘And they moved house in the middle of the night?’

  Dottie nodded.

  With one voice Vince and Greta, Barry and Georgie shouted, ‘Not Merc and Ford Barclay?’

  Dottie nodded.

  ‘Well, I never,’ added Georgie. ‘That’s a turn up for the book, and not half. I thought he’d gone to prison.’

  Dottie agreed he did. ‘He’s out now, and it appears Mr Fitch has been in touch with them ever since they left.’

  ‘No! Really? Doesn’t sound like something old Fitch would do.’

  ‘They must have liked the red marble then, if they’re coming back.’ Vince had to laugh. So did the others. The red marble in Glebe House was a standing joke in the village.

  Greta liked the idea of them coming back. ‘They are lovely people, even if he has been to prison. So generous they were, and Merc so clever with her embroidery. Remember, Dottie? I bet the embroidery group have missed her on Monday afternoons.’

  ‘We have missed her and not half. She was brilliant at it. I’m OK for slaving at the dull repetitive background, none better, Evie says. But for sheer talent you can’t beat Merc Barclay. Her embroidery is absolute bliss, and she’s so good with colour. I’m glad they’re coming back.’

  Greta asked, ‘Do you know exactly when, Dottie?’

  ‘No. But they are.’

  Greta decided she too was glad they were coming back. He was a good spender, was Ford; he liked the good things in life and was generous to a fault. Though perhaps now he’d been in prison the money wouldn’t flow so freely as it had before. And anyway the village had Johnny now, and he’d enough money for all of them put together. Still, Merc and Ford would be good to have around, even if they weren’t rich. Greta remembered Merc’s overdone make-up and startling clothes, and Ford being overweight. Would he have slimmed down in prison, or eaten far too much to compensate for missing Merc, because they all understood how much he loved her?

  ‘Well, Dottie, I think you’ve topped the gossip stakes well and truly tonight. Best bit of news we’ve had in months, except for the new baby at the Big House,’ said Vince. ‘I can’t wait for ’em to arrive. Nicest chap there is, Ford, even if he has been to prison.’

  Greta added, ‘Sometimes I think that some people are in prison that shouldn’t be, and Ford is one of those. I reckon he was innocent, but couldn’t prove it.’

  ‘Well, I for one couldn’t understand why he was in. There couldn’t have been a kinder, more frank sort of person than him in that prison. He never seemed to me to have secrets he shouldn’t have,’ ventured Dottie.

  ‘There must have been something a bit iffy about him though, otherwise why would the law have accused him?’ asked Greta.

  ‘Buying stolen scrap metal, they said. But how could you know,’ argued Barry, ‘which was stolen and which wasn’t, when they came and tipped it off a lorry morning, noon and night. Church lead didn’t have it stamped on every yard or so, “this lead belongs to St Whatever’s”, did it? Or copper piping, “this came from forty-seven Withering Lane and has been stripped out by Ted and Terry while the builders nipped off for lunch”.’

  ‘Another one?’ Barry asked.

  ‘Yes, please,’ they all said, and settled down to the further detailed examination of the latest village news.

  It seemed as though everyone had only just heard the news about the return of their old neighbours when they appeared in the village. In truth, it was six weeks to the day since they’d been discussing it in the bar when Ford and Merc moved in. This time it was the middle of the morning when the furniture van arrived, and the two magnificent royal blue pots which Merc had placed each side of the front door when they first lived there reappeared at the front door once again, and declared to the world in general that they were back. Many net curtains were gently pulled aside by anyone who happened to be at home at the time. And before Ford and Merc had time to begin instructing the removal men where the furniture needed to be put, gifts were arriving, pleasantries were being exchanged and a general hubbub of greetings filled the garden of Glebe House.

  Grandmama Charter-Plackett invited the pair of them to lunch. ‘I expect you’ve been up since dawn, so shall we say noon for lunch in my cottage and then we can talk? Really talk.’ She strode purposefully round to the store, collected one of the larger shopping baskets and began planning the meal. She had to admit Merc’s fashion sense appalled her, and she found her lavish, colourful make-up intolerable, but nevertheless she liked her. In fact it was more than liking really, as she held Merc in great affection and was glad to have her back. As for Ford, he reminded her of her late husband. He was just enough of a rogue to delight her like her husband had, and he was ultra charming with it.

  As the clock in her sitting room chimed noon, Grandmama propped open her front door and hurried back into the kitchen to check the vegetables. She hoped they wouldn’t be late or the leeks would be mushy and the chicken pie crust sacrificial. Then she heard the brisk footstep which characterised Ford, and the pair of them were calling through the open door, ‘Can we come in?’

  Merc opened wide her arms in welcome and enclosed Grandmama in them. ‘So lovely of you to invite us. Food is the last essential on our list, and I was beginning to wonder what we would do as both of us have arrived here with scarcely any money in our pockets, having forgotten to call at the cashpoint before we set off. Just one of those things.’ She turned to look at Ford who was hanging about behind her, hesitating over whether to come in. ‘Ford, for heaven’s sake, we’re amongst friends, come in, come in
.’ And so Ford followed her in.

  It was only when they were in her kitchen that Grandmama noticed the change in Ford. ‘Why! Ford. You’ve lost weight. You must have been very disciplined. How much have you lost?’

  ‘He’s lost four stone. Doesn’t he look different?’

  ‘Different, I should say he does! What a change.’ Then it occurred to Grandmama. ‘Was it prison, was that what made you lose it?’

  Ford nodded. ‘It was. The food, I couldn’t eat it. Nothing wrong with it, in fact it was rather good, but I just couldn’t eat it. Thanks for the invite; we didn’t quite know how people would receive us.’

  ‘How people would receive you? Why with open arms, of course. We’re all delighted. You’ve served your sentence and that’s that, all over and done with.’ Grandmama squeezed his arm to reassure him. ‘You’re out now. Come and try my home-made chicken pie with jacket potatoes and buttered leeks. Sit down. What would you like to drink? I’ve got cider, orange juice or wine. Which is it to be? Merc?’

  ‘Orange juice for me.’

  ‘And me. We don’t drink at lunchtime, as we’re trying to cut down.’

  ‘Orange juice it is. Oh, you’ve no idea how glad we all are that you’re back where you belong. Bring us up to date with the news, then.’

  Merc helped herself to the home-made chicken pie, buttered leeks, and a jacket potato, and picked up her knife and fork. She loved every mouthful. They were home at last, and it seemed there’d be no recriminations about prison or anything else. Ah! Most important. She had to know. ‘Is the embroidery class still going? Evie’s, you know.’

  ‘Of course it is! More pie, Merc? They can’t wait for you to join them again; they’ve talked of nothing else since we first heard you were coming back. Another jacket potato? Ford, what about you? Help yourself to the leeks. I hate leftovers.’ Ford was remarkably quiet and not his usual chatty self at all. Maybe he’d feel better after a few days. Moving house could be a great strain. Somehow Grandmama found that the thin, strained-looking Ford didn’t suit the chap she’d known who’d been so full of himself and full of energy when he was fat. Ford, thin and withdrawn, didn’t seem right. He was, well, really a very different man. Outspoken as she always was, Grandmama ventured to be up-front with her comments. ‘You’ve nothing to fear, you know, Ford. None of us care one jot that you’ve been to prison. We all consider it a big mistake.’