Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

  She turned the page to the letters column – the usual mix of complaints about dog mess and potholes and locals moaning about empty wine and beer bottles up at the park. Well, she’d done her best by reporting it to the police – there was little else she could do, short of taking a bin bag up there herself and litter-picking and she wasn’t going to do that. Lord alone knew what she might find. She shuddered. No, now it was up to the police.

  Her eye moved down the page to the planning applications: Application for residential development for up to 60 new dwellings at Coombe Farm, Rowan Road, Little Woodford. Coombe Farm was McGregor’s place. Sixty? Olivia boggled. Sixty! That was a huge development. And why hadn’t Cynthia at the town hall rung her to let her know? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t made it plain that she was interested. She scanned the application for further details. She noticed who the developer was – a local company who’d done some other projects in the surrounding villages. They had a reputation for building high-spec, well-crafted, well-designed and well-finished buildings. If it wasn’t for the size and position of the development Olivia might almost be tempted to back it but no... Too big and in the wrong place. She scanned down the rest of the details... vehicular access off Rowan Road, blah, blah, blah, landscaping, blah, blah, children’s play area, forty per cent affordable and social housing. Hah! That last was a sop to try and sweeten the pill for the trendy-lefty-do-gooders. In Olivia’s opinion, the last thing Little Woodford needed was another load of council homes – even if they were nicely built ones. The ones at the other end of town caused quite enough trouble. No, no, that was the tin lid. She was definitely going to fight it all the way.

  ‘No!’ she said out loud, and slammed her hand down on the counter. ‘Over my dead body,’ she added as she reread the notice in the paper.

  The front door banged open and Zac slouched in.

  ‘Hi, Zac,’ she called. ‘Nice day at school? Tea?’

  Zac glared at her. ‘It was school, Mum. Of course it wasn’t nice. And I’m still getting the piss ripped out of me because I’m the only kid in my year who didn’t go away at Easter.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ said Olivia.

  ‘Ha. Everyone else went skiing or somewhere hot and had proper holidays and what did we do? Fuck all.’

  ‘Don’t swear, dear. You know your father doesn’t approve.’

  ‘I look like a real loser.’

  ‘Does it matter? Your father was busy at work and couldn’t take the time off.’

  ‘He never takes time off – and d’you know why? Because he hates spending time with us.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Olivia, mildly. Really, where did Zac get his ideas from? Yes, Nigel could be tricky, but that was because he worked so hard. Of course he didn’t hate his family. Although she would prefer it if he got home earlier in the evening, and now he’d taken up this badminton club nonsense... Which reminded her, he’d be late back tonight because of it.

  ‘Anyway, you’re late home. Did you go into town?’

  ‘Jeez, Mum, I’m fifteen, what’s it to you if I did?’

  ‘I was only asking,’ said Olivia, nettled.

  ‘Well, don’t.’ And with that Zac stormed off to his room.

  It’s his hormones, Olivia told herself. Except she couldn’t remember her other three being quite so volatile.

  *

  Nigel picked up his sports bag as he stood up, pushed his swivel chair back under his desk and hit the button on his computer to put the terminal to sleep.

  ‘Bye, guys,’ he said to no one in particular as he left the office. He was one of the first to leave but he’d worked through his lunch hour so it wasn’t as if he hadn’t put in the hours.

  ‘See ya, Nige,’ someone called after him as he made his way through the ranks of desks.

  Out on the street he swung his bag over one shoulder and clutched his briefcase in his free hand as he headed for the Tube and then the mainline station. The streets were thick with people making their way home and the Underground was smelly and fetid and hot. As a rule Nigel travelled home later than this and he loathed the awfulness of the rush hour but it couldn’t be avoided as he had something he wanted to do.

  He was lucky to get a seat on the train back to Little Woodford and, with his sports bag between his feet, he put his briefcase on his lap and hauled out some papers, a bunch of bank statements and a calculator. He was so engrossed in his work that he almost missed his stop and he had to make a mad dash to get his papers put away and get off before the train pulled away again. Panting, he sorted out his possessions on the platform while all the other commuters streamed to the car park. Unlike his fellow travellers, Nigel turned left and went over the bridge across the railway to the new development and the show house in its manicured garden beside a huge advertising hoarding telling anyone who was interested that COMING SOON stunning 3- and 4-bedroomed executive houses from as little as £475,000.

  *

  It was late when Nigel got back home.

  ‘How was your badminton club?’ asked Olivia as he threw his sports bag down on the stairs and then headed to the kitchen to pour himself a drink.

  ‘OK.’ He got out the gin bottle and looked at the level. ‘Have you been hitting this, Oli?’

  ‘Me? No, I had a glass or two of wine.’

  Nigel shook his head like he didn’t believe her as he made his drink.

  ‘So what is it? A league, a ladder...?’

  ‘What?’ Nigel took a swig of G & T.

  ‘Your badminton club.’

  ‘Oh... it’s a ladder.’

  ‘So how are you doing?’

  ‘God, Ol, I’ve just got in. What’s with the Spanish Inquisition?’

  ‘I thought you’d like me to take an interest.’ Olivia got off the sofa and went to join her husband in the kitchen. ‘Zac and I had lasagne for supper. There’s plenty left for you. It won’t take me a mo to heat it in the microwave.’

  ‘Sure, yeah, whatever.’

  Olivia pinged her husband’s supper and took it to him where he was now sitting on the sofa, plipping through the channels on the TV, then she put the dirty gratin dish into soak in the sink.

  Nigel found an episode of Family Guy and settled down to watch it.

  Olivia loathed the show. She grabbed his sports bag and took it upstairs where she took out his trainers then tipped the rest of the contents into the laundry basket before going through the laundry bag to find enough other whites to make up a load. She returned downstairs to shove the washing on. The forecast for the next day was for dry weather so she could peg it all out first thing.

  ‘I think I might have a nice long soak before I hit the sack,’ she told Nigel.

  Nigel shovelled in some of his supper and mumbled something unintelligible before he wound the volume up another notch on the TV.

  Olivia went upstairs, grabbed her book and then went into their en suite and turned both taps on.

  It was only when she was stepping into the hot scented water and sinking down with a contented sigh that she realised that Nigel’s badminton kit had looked remarkably uncrumpled when she’d stuffed it into the washing machine.

  14

  The next morning, as Heather went towards the stairs to make the bed and have a general tidy up before the arrival of Amy, she glanced through the study door at the back view of her husband. He’d barely talked over breakfast, which wasn’t especially unusual, but he’d hardly talked to her the day before either, or the day before that. She didn’t expect a running commentary, far from it, but this silence wasn’t contemplative but morose. She was sure something was bothering Brian. Again, that wasn’t unusual. He was often burdened by the problems of his parishioners, who seemed to expect him to be able to provide some sort of magic solution to their troubles, an expectation which weighed heavily on Brian when he couldn’t. Heather paused at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the newel post, as she thought about her husband’s silence, and then she turned and wen
t to the study door.

  ‘Brian, darling, is something the matter?’

  He spun round in his office chair. ‘Whatever gives you that idea?’

  ‘You’ve been very quiet... thoughtful.’

  ‘I’m not the comedy turn,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been more entertaining.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. Is it money? I could always ask for more work at the school.’

  Brian shook his head. ‘It’s not money. Honest.’

  ‘The bishop?’

  ‘Nor the bishop. Really, Heather, if I was worried about either of those I’d tell you.’ He stared at her over the top of his glasses. ‘Now then, you must let me get on. I’ve got to go and talk to the primary school year sixes this morning and I need to read through my notes before I do.’

  Heather left him shuffling through the papers on his desk and pattered upstairs. She made the bed, tidied the bathroom, folded the towels and picked up the washing to take back down with her. Laden with laundry she returned downstairs slowly, her slippers making almost no noise on the carpet. When she got to the landing a pair of socks fell off her armful and she stopped to pick them up. The house was silent – apart from the sound of a muffled sob. Brian?

  Heather tiptoed down the remainder of the flight.

  ‘Brian?’

  His chair remained turned away from the door for a second. She saw his hand move to his face – to dash the tears away? – and then he turned.

  ‘Heather. You startled me. I didn’t hear you come back down.’

  Obviously, she thought. She dropped the washing and went into the study. ‘What is it, Brian? Don’t deny it, I’m not stupid, please tell me what the matter is.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s confidential.’

  ‘One of your parishioners?’

  Brian nodded but he didn’t meet her eye.

  ‘Is there nothing I can do to help?’

  Brian shook his head. ‘A lost cause, I fear.’

  ‘Oh, darling. I am so sorry this is upsetting you. If circumstances change, and there is something for me to do, you must let me know.’

  ‘In that unlikely event, yes, I’ll tell you.’ Brian fished a crumpled hanky out of his trouser pocket and blew his nose. ‘Now, I really must get on.’

  Heather returned to the hall where she gathered up the laundry and took it to the kitchen. As she pushed it into the washing machine she cast her thoughts over the regulars in the congregation, the ones she and Brian knew best, the ones he’d care about the most, and tried to work out which of them it might be who was causing her husband such distress.

  *

  Belinda walked to the bank clutching her handbag tight against her side, aware that she had an awful lot of cash in it. After years of running a pub she knew she ought to be used to banking the takings but she always worried that someone might mug her. And recently there had been talk of break-ins in the town and neighbouring villages; nothing too serious, nothing violent, no one had been attacked, but it was slightly unsettling all the same. According to the gossip in the pub it had mostly involved the theft of small items of jewellery, cash, laptops – items of value that could be easily fenced, thought Belinda. The word was that it was druggies from Cattebury hitting on soft targets like Little Woodford because, like lots of small country towns, the police station had been closed long ago and bobbies on the beat were as rare as rocking-horse balls. They had Leanne Knowles, the local police community support officer, but there was only so much one woman could do.

  Belinda felt a familiar slight whoosh of relief when she got to the bank and stepped in through the door. There were only two people queuing ahead of her and she was soon at the counter.

  ‘Hi, Belinda,’ said the teller.

  Belinda opened her bag and took out the bags of coins and bundles of notes which the bank clerk put on the scales or through the automatic counting machine. As the money was counted she ticked off the sums on the deposit slip. ‘That’s fine,’ she said, finally, as the last of the money was put in the drawer under the counter. ‘Business is looking good.’

  ‘Yes, but I wish I could get decent staff. There must be someone in town who wants a part-time job. I like to think that Miles and I are good employers so I don’t understand why we don’t seem to be able to keep people, although, to be fair, my last part-timer has got a new baby as an excuse for leaving. Anyway, I think I’m going to have to put yet another ad in the post office window – but if we get anyone reliable it’ll be a triumph of hope over experience.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Feeling more relaxed now she’d off-loaded the takings at the bank, Belinda wandered back along the road towards the pub. Ahead of her she could see Amy gazing into a shop window and an idea suddenly struck her. She ran to catch up with her.

  ‘Hi, Amy.’

  Amy spun round. ‘Oh, hello, Belinda.’

  ‘Listen, I was wondering if you could help me.’

  ‘If I can I will, but it’s got to be quick – I’m almost late for Heather’s.’

  ‘I just wondered if you know of anyone who needs a job – part-time, at the pub.’

  ‘That new woman who’s moved into The Beeches – she told me she was after a part-time job.’

  ‘But she won’t want to work in a bar, will she?’

  ‘Dunno. When she spoke to me she didn’t sound as if she was picky. I think she wants something to get her out of the house and take her mind off the fact her old man got killed not long back.

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘Traffic accident, so she said. Mind you, she’ll probably only want to do daytime shifts, what with having young kids and being on her own and everything.’

  ‘Even so...’

  ‘Ask her. She can always tell you to get lost.’

  ‘True. Maybe I’ll pop round there later and have a word. Anyway, it’ll be nice to meet the new neighbour.’

  *

  Later that morning, Brian walked to the ancient church and unlocked the vestry door. He remembered his wedding vows and all those promises about sticking with your spouse through thick and thin. Would Heather want to stick with him if she knew what was going on? It was one thing coping with sickness and the bad patches but how would she feel if she discovered that she was married to an out-and-out hypocrite? For weeks now he’d been lying to her, lying to his congregation, pretending he was a Christian, a believer, when the reality was he was a sham, a charlatan, someone no better than a snake-oil salesman, peddling something he had no faith in whatsoever, and now he was about to do the same to a group of primary school children. As a man who ought to be able to inspire them to be good, truthful and honest, he was about to let them down.

  He went through to the cool vastness of the nave. Sunlight shining though the stained glass dappled colour onto old stone flags, worn smooth by thousands upon thousands of footsteps. The footsteps of people who had believed and still did believe, without question, that there was a God, there was life ever after, that prayer had the power to cure the sick and calm the troubled... So, why couldn’t he any more? He knelt down in front of the altar and gazed at the cross above. Nothing. He shut his eyes and listened to the silence. Nothing. No comforting feeling that he was not alone, no reassuring presence. Wearily, he got to his feet again and headed back out of the church wondering how long he could carry on living a lie.

  *

  Bex was trying to decide if she liked the way the sitting room furniture was arranged when the doorbell went. She opened the door to a stranger.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, I’m your next-door neighbour. I run the pub. I’m Belinda.’ The woman stuck out her hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Bex took the hand and shook it. ‘Hi, I’m Bex. I think we waved at each other some while back when I had, literally, just moved in.’

  ‘We did.’

  Bex opened the door wide. ‘Come in. And lovely to meet you too.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Belinda, ‘I’m here for a reason. This is
a bit cheeky, but Amy told me that you’re looking for a job.’

  ‘Amy?’

  Belinda smiled and nodded. ‘Are you? I mean, Amy often gets the wrong end of the stick – that doesn’t stop her from talking, but her information isn’t always completely reliable.’

  ‘Fake news?’

  Belinda grinned and nodded.

  ‘Well, this time she’s right, I am. But only part-time.’

  Well, Miles – he’s my partner – Miles and I are run off our feet at the pub, my last part-timer went off to have a baby and we’re really keen to try and recruit people to do some of the shifts.’

  Bex frowned as she thought about the idea. ‘Bar work?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, it was a long shot...’

  ‘No, no, I’m not offended that you asked me but I’ve never done anything like that before.’

  ‘It’s not tricky, honest. The till’s dead easy to work and I’m sure you can pour a drink.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Bex had been in pubs and she’d seen how busy they could get. Would she be able to remember a long list of drinks, tot up the total, clear the tables, load and unload the glass washer without pissing off the customers by keeping them waiting or getting it horribly wrong? In theory it shouldn’t be difficult but in practice...?

  ‘To be honest, if you did the lunchtime shifts it’d be pretty quiet. Market day can be busier but I wouldn’t let you cope on your own – or not till you really knew what you were doing.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m not flattered at being headhunted—’

  ‘There’s a “but” coming, isn’t there?’

  Bex nodded. ‘I suppose it’s because...’ She paused. ‘I don’t know.’ Then she said, ‘It’s just a bit sudden, that’s all.’

  ‘Look, think about it, you want a job, I want staff...’

  ‘Put like that... Maybe if I had a look at the pub.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not? I mean, if it’s OK with you.’

  Belinda nodded.

  ‘I just need to lock up and grab my bag.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Two minutes later Belinda unlocked the front door of the pub and led Bex inside. The ceiling was beamed and there was a fire crackling in the grate of the big inglenook that stretched across one of the walls. Above it was a long shelf, crammed with books. The brass handles of the beer pumps gleamed on the polished wood of the bar, there were pictures of local scenes on the walls, and a pile of newspapers and magazines on the sill of the bay window, and the place smelt of beer and wood smoke. Everything was as it should be in an English country pub.