Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

  Maybe she didn’t, he thought. Maybe he’d really gone too far this time. Part of Zac wanted to confess about what was going on; tell her the situation, plead for forgiveness – and a handout. Ask her to pay off his dealer. Save him from the threat. But he couldn’t face it. It wasn’t just the row, it was the knowledge that she would be so gutted, so disappointed in him. That she’d never, ever trust him again. And shit – what if she told Dad?

  ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled. He suddenly felt ashamed of how he’d spoken to her earlier. ‘Sorry about earlier,’ he added.

  His mother turned round. ‘Too little and too late,’ was all she said before she turned back to the television.

  Ashamed, scared and close to tears, Zac took the plate of food and pinged it in the microwave for a couple of minutes before he grabbed a fork out of the drawer and took his meal up to his room to eat. Not that he was hungry but he sat on his bed and shovelled in an occasional mouthful out of habit.

  He felt completely bowed down by his situation and try as he might he could only think of one way out of it; he’d have to stay awake and creep downstairs when both his parents were asleep and see what cash he could nick. His mum often left her handbag lying around, although he didn’t think his dad took his wallet out of his jacket pocket and he always hung that up in his wardrobe. Zac contemplated the prospect of sneaking into the master bedroom to rifle that, but that was too risky. Maybe his dad had refilled the cash box... God, he had to hope. He bunged his plate on the floor by his bed and began to play a computer game – anything to kill the time till he could act.

  18

  The next morning, Olivia was hanging up some freshly ironed shirts for Nigel in his wardrobe when she found his sports bag stuffed in the bottom on top of his shoes. Really! she thought. And exactly how did he think his kit was going to get washed if he didn’t leave it where she’d find it? She opened his bag and hauled out his shirt and shorts. As she did so the smell of fabric conditioner wafted out. Olivia stopped and stared into space. Maybe she hadn’t been imagining things when she’d thought his badminton kit looked unworn the last time she’d washed it. Clutching his sports kit, she dropped the bag onto the bed and sank onto the duvet, beside it. So... if he wasn’t playing badminton, what the hell was he doing? She examined his clothes more closely and couldn’t make up her mind as to whether they’d been worn or not. They had been unfolded and then scrunched up in the bag but, and there was no two ways about it, they didn’t smell sweaty. Whatever else he’d done with this stuff, he hadn’t put it on and run around. Maybe he’d put them on but not played. Or maybe he’d played but not energetically enough to perspire. The only thing she was sure about was that the clothes didn’t need washing. Slowly she folded them up and replaced everything in his bag.

  Something didn’t add up. His moods, the way he seemed to bang on about money and now this. ‘What’s going on?’ she whispered to herself. Realistically, she knew the only way to find an answer was to confront him but there was a bit of her that shrank from the idea. Supposing she got an answer that she didn’t like? If she ignored it, it might go away.

  Olivia picked up the bag and put it back into the wardrobe then shut the door.

  *

  In the afternoon, Megan hung around by the school gate, waiting for Ashley. A couple of buses rolled past, belching diesel, stuffed with kids, then a third one stopped – waiting for a gap in the traffic so it could pull out onto the main road. Megan glanced up and saw Lily staring coldly down at her from one of the windows.

  It was completely apparent to Megan that she and Lily were never going to be friends and she did her best to stay out of Lily’s way. And, while Megan was pretty sure Lily still made the occasional snide comment behind her back, it seemed that, as long as she didn’t cross Lily’s path, then the pair pretty much ignored each other. It wasn’t particularly comfortable but it was as good as it was going to get.

  The bus was still waiting to pull out when Ashley ran up to Megan.

  ‘Sorry I was so long,’ he said.

  Involuntarily, Megan looked up at Lily again and saw her eyes narrowed. Ashley followed her gaze.

  ‘What’s up with her?’ he said as the bus revved its engine and moved off. Ashley and Megan followed it down the main road.

  ‘How should I know?’ said Megan – although she could guess. She’d seen the way Lily looked at Ashley in school and it was obvious to anyone with half an eye she fancied him despite the fact that Ashley didn’t seem to notice. So, no way was she going to be happy with the fact that she and Ash walked to and from school together.

  ‘Lily likes to think she’s the class queen,’ said Ashley.

  ‘And?’ said Megan. ‘If she wants to be that, I’m not fighting her for it. And let’s face it, she is form captain. Some people must like her.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re here now.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Maybe she’s just fallen down the popularity stakes.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘You’re nicer than she is – and prettier,’ Ashley mumbled.

  ‘Me? Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Now you’ve really lost the plot.’

  ‘I haven’t. All the boys fancy you.’

  Megan stopped in the middle of the pavement. ‘No, they don’t.’

  ‘Trust me, they do.’ Ashley was blushing furiously.

  ‘Really?’

  Ashley nodded. ‘The thing is, a few have dated Lily and she can be quite a bitch. “Treat ’em mean keep ’em keen” is her motto only she hasn’t figured it out that it doesn’t work like that.’

  Why am I not surprised that Lily is considered to be quite a bitch? thought Megan. Instead she said in a non-committal way, ‘No... well...’

  Ashley nodded. ‘I don’t think you’re a bitch,’ he said shyly.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Megan, lightly. ‘I expect I could be if I wanted to.’

  Ashley grinned. ‘Think we all can be.’

  They walked on down the road in silence for a few paces. ‘Thought I might go to the skatepark after I’ve had my tea,’ said Ashley. ‘Do you fancy coming down?’

  ‘I don’t know. I might, I’ll see. But thanks for the invite.’ They walked a few more yards in silence then Megan said, ‘I need some advice.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Lily. She’s sent me a friend request on Facebook. I mean, given that she obviously doesn’t like me, I can’t think why. But will I make things worse if I don’t accept? Is it a test to see if I blank her? Or does she really want to be friends and what goes on in school is an act? It kind of doesn’t make sense and I can’t work it out. I don’t know whether to accept it or not. You hear about people who bully other kids online... do you think she’d do that?’

  ‘You’re asking me how Lily’s mind works.’

  Megan looked at him. ‘You’ve known her longer than I have.’

  Ashley sighed. ‘Who knows what goes on in her head? But, I suppose, why not? You can always unfriend her again if she turns out to be a pain in the arse. Let’s face it, if you are friends with her online at least you can see what she’s getting up to.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  They reached Ashley’s road. ‘See you,’ he said as he rounded the corner.

  ‘Yeah, bye.’

  Megan went home feeling happier than she had since she’d started her new school, hugging to herself the news that the boys fancied her. And that Ashley thought she was nicer and prettier than Lily. She liked Ash – that meant a lot. And maybe Lily’s Facebook request was a bit of an olive branch – maybe it might be a good thing to accept it. She’d do just that, she decided, when she got home. After all, it couldn’t do any harm.

  *

  Bert had popped down to his allotment after his tea. The evenings were getting quite light and although it was gone seven thirty the sun still hadn’t set and he had plenty of time to get his spuds hoed.
His back twinged and he stopped and leaned on his hoe for a minute or two. Time was, when he’d been in the army, he’d been as fit as a butcher’s dog, but old age was starting to get the better of him. His neighbour on the plot, a nice woman called Marjorie, was also working her patch, kneeling on an old bit of carpet and grubbing around in the soil with her hands. She looked over to Bert.

  ‘Hard work, ain’t it, keeping on top of it all.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ said Bert. ‘Turn your back for a minute, at this time of year, and nature turns it back to a wilderness.’

  Marjorie staggered to her feet and eased her back. ‘That’s enough for me for today. My old joints won’t cope with no more.’ She picked up her kneeling pad and gathered the weeds she’d pulled and chucked them on the pile she planned to burn later.

  ‘I’m off home, Bert. See you again soon.’

  Marjorie locked up her shed and left Bert still taking a break, leaning on his hoe and staring at the goings-on in the park.

  He was watching the older kids on skateboards who were rumbling up and down the ramps, shrieking and wheeling and just missing each other, while overhead the swifts did exactly the same thing but with no bad language and more grace and style. Bert rolled his shoulders and watched the birds for a few seconds with a feeling of quiet contentment. Swifts – a sure sign that summer was right around the corner.

  Across from the ramps he saw the furtive bloke hanging around by the big trees again. Joan had told him that Olivia had found a load of druggie goings-on up at the nature reserve. Well, by what he’d seen here recently, the nature reserve wasn’t the only place the junkies hung out. Except Bert wasn’t sure it all added up. A lad like Zac wouldn’t be doing drugs, would he? He’d been brought up proper. But what if he was? Bloody hell, Olivia Laithwaite would have a conniption fit. Bert chuckled softly at the thought. It was almost worth wanting it to be true just to see her reaction.

  As he was mulling over the possible expression on Olivia’s face he saw a lad in a hoodie jog across the grass towards the trees. Young Master Zac, maybe? He was too far away for Bert to be sure. Again there was an exchange and the lad ran back the way he’d come. Well, whatever it was it weren’t none of his business.

  *

  Marjorie pottered back through the allotments, the sound of the playing children growing ever fainter, towards the bungalows where she and the Makepieces were neighbours. It was a lovely evening and most of the little houses had their windows open wide and quite a few of the occupants were in their gardens doing a spot of tidying up. She saw Joan in her garden, dead-heading the daffs and tying up the leaves with twine to allow them to die back properly.

  ‘How do, Joan. Your old man’s working hard on his plot.’

  Joan straightened up. ‘Glad to hear it. Mind, I never know what he finds to do with all the time he spends up there. Still, keeps him out from under my feet.’

  She bent down to pick up the twine and gave out an agonising cry.

  ‘Joan?’

  Joan stayed doubled over.

  Marjorie pushed open the gate and ran over to her friend. ‘Joan? Are you all right?’

  ‘Give me a mo, I’ll be fine,’ she gasped.

  ‘You don’t look fine. Here,’ she said. She hooked one of Joan’s arms over her shoulder and led her over to the house. She pushed open the front door and took Joan inside where she managed to get her into the sitting room. She plonked her patient down on the sofa then went and fetched a glass of water. ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting it into Joan’s hand.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Joan. ‘Don’t fuss, I’m fine.’

  Marjorie stood in front of her. ‘It don’t look like nothing from where I am.’

  ‘Just a touch of lumbago, I’ll be bound. Maybe heartburn.’

  ‘Really? Does it happen often?’

  Joan nodded and winced. ‘A bit.’

  ‘I know it’s none of my business—’

  ‘Which it ain’t.’

  ‘—but I think you ought to see Doc Connolly.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Does Bert know?’

  ‘No, and don’t you go telling him.’ She gave Marjorie a long stare. ‘Understand?’ Marjorie nodded. ‘I’ve just been overdoing it, that’s all.’

  Marjorie looked unconvinced. ‘I still say you should get checked over. If it’s nothing, no harm done, and if it’s something then the doc can make it better. What have you got to lose?’

  ‘It’ll be a waste of the doc’s time,’ grumbled Joan. ‘Anyway, I think you’d better get off before Bert comes home and wants to know what’s going on.’ She hauled herself to her feet, and began to shepherd Marjorie towards the door.

  ‘You think about what I said, Joan Makepiece,’ said Marjorie as she stepped over the threshold and began to walk down the path. ‘Better safe than sorry,’ she added, over her shoulder.

  But Joan ignored her and shut the door. Still wincing, she leaned against it.

  19

  Bex stood in the playground watching Alfie and Lewis hare around with their friends in the May sunshine and waiting for the bell to go, which was the signal for the kids to line up and the parents to leave. She exchanged the occasional smile and nod with the other mothers, as she’d done for quite a few weeks now, and wondered how long it was going to take for her to be on first-name terms with them. Most of them stood around in little groups, chatting, their friendships having been forged when the kids joined the school aged five – or even before that in a little place like this; at the mother and toddler groups or possibly even at antenatal classes. Bex knew it would take time to become integrated and accepted and, as far as she knew, there was no quick fix. The boys were making friends with their classmates but as yet there’d been no invitations for birthday parties or play-dates. It’ll come, Bex told herself, and, when it did, that would be when she got to know the parents. It was a shame, she thought, that Lewis’s birthday always fell in the summer holidays and Alfie’s birthday wasn’t until Christmas. Maybe, she mused, she ought to have an un-birthday tea-party – invite a bunch of small boys around to play in the garden. Or would that smack of showing off that she lived in a big house?

  She could not force people to be friends with her but working in the pub was helping – although, as yet, she’d not met anyone she recognised from the school playground. The people who popped in for a lunchtime drink and a snack were mostly old men, like Harry and his friends, or people who worked in the town centre. Not shop staff but men in suits – like estate agents and solicitors. Very few women, Bex had noticed. They were probably too busy racing round, getting shopping or multitasking in the way that working women generally had to. So much for the equality of the sexes.

  The bell rang and Bex waited till the boys had been led into their classrooms by their teachers before she turned to go.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Bex turned. ‘Yes?’ she said, brightly.

  ‘I’m Jo Singleton. I’m the chair of the PTA.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Bex fixed a smile on her face because she knew what was coming next. In her experience the people who ran PTAs approached other mums in the playground when they wanted something.

  ‘I expect you’ve heard,’ began Jo, ‘but it’s the school summer fair coming up in a few weeks.’

  Bex nodded. Her instincts had been right.

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like to help out.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Run a stall for me?’

  ‘Possibly. It rather depends what it entails.’

  ‘Oh, the committee do most of the donkey work. All we will need you to do on the day is turn up and take money or sell tickets or whatever. And, of course, before that, if you could bring any donations for the other stalls in to the school we’d be ever so grateful; cakes, bric-a-brac, prizes for the tombola...’ Jo smiled at Bex.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘That’s brilliant.’ Jo whipped out a notebook. ‘So, if I could have your n
ame and contact number.’

  Bex reeled them off. ‘I love baking. I’ll do you some cakes, shall I? A dozen or so?’

  ‘A dozen?’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Whatever you feel happy to produce. The cake stall always sells out.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’ Jo made another note. ‘So – are you the family who have moved into The Beeches?’

  Bex nodded.

  ‘And you have two boys here, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, Lewis and Alfie – in years four and one.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘And my stepdaughter goes to the comp.’

  ‘Not St Anselm’s?’

  ‘My late husband wasn’t a fan of private education.’

  ‘Late? Oh... I am so sorry.’

  ‘Yeah... well...’

  An awkward silence fell. ‘Anyway,’ said Jo, ‘thanks for volunteering, I mustn’t keep you.’

  ‘No.’ And as Bex was about to say goodbye, Jo raced off. Bex sighed. Death isn’t contagious, she wanted to shout after her. Or maybe she was busy, late for an appointment. Maybe. On the other hand, being involved in the school fête was probably another good way of meeting people, as long as they could cope with the fact she had a dead husband.

  Later that morning she trotted next door to her shift at the pub. Belinda let her in with a cheery ‘hello’ and then asked Bex to help her with the bottling up.

  ‘I might have to leave you on your own today for a bit,’ she said as she picked up a crate of mixers to lug up the cellar stairs.

  ‘Really?’ Bex knew she had come on in leaps and bounds in terms of competence since she’d started work there but she still had glitches. She grabbed a crate of bitter lemon and prepared to follow Belinda.

  ‘I’ve got to take the car over to Cattebury for its MOT. Miles’ll help if you have a problem,’ said Belinda over her shoulder. ‘Not that you will of course.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. It’s got to happen one day.’ She put the heavy crate down on the bar with an ‘oof’.

  ‘I suppose.’ Bex put her crate down on the floor.