Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Also by Rebecca Shaw
Barleybridge Novels
A Country Affair
Country Wives
Country Lovers
Country Passions
One Hot Country Summer
Love in the Country
Turnham Malpas Novels
The New Rector
Talk of the Village
Village Matters
The Village Show
Village Secrets
Scandal in the Village
Village Gossip
Trouble in the Village
Village Dilemma
Intrigue in the Village
Whispers in the Village
A Village Feud
The Village Green Affair
The Village Newcomers
REBECCA SHAW
Orion
www.orionbooks.co.uk
AN ORION BOOKS EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Orion Books
This ebook first published in 2010 by Orion Books
Copyright © Rebecca Shaw 2010
The moral right of Rebecca Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
eISBN : 978 1 4091 0802 3
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INHABITANTS OF TURNHAM MALPAS
Chapter 1
Caroline heard the familiar bang of the front door that told her Peter was back from his prayers and his three-mile run.
‘I’m back! Going for a shower.’
He said the same words every single morning, and she wondered why, after twenty-seven years of marriage, he still felt the need to say it. But she still loved him as much, if not more, than the day they married, so, as far as she was concerned, he could carry on saying it until the end of time.
The breakfast table had everything it needed. Ah, no. Beth’s muesli. That was another thing that hadn’t changed over the years, although the brand was different. At the moment it was Jordans. Caroline smiled. She loved her twins more than life itself. As their grandmother frequently said, ‘They are such splendid children.’
The sound of rushing footsteps told her Alex was on his way. Never one for lazing in bed, he appeared in the kitchen at the speed of light, flung himself down on his chair and shook cornflakes briskly into his bowl until there was scarcely room for the milk.
‘What’s happening today, Mum?’
‘Anything you like. It’s the last day of the holidays, so it’s your choice.’
‘Oh, God. Sixth form tomorrow.’
‘I don’t believe you’re not looking forward to it. With results like yours they’ll be putting out the red carpet for you.’
‘Not just for me, as you well know. They’re all so competitive it takes some keeping up to. Getting down to work again will be hard. We’ve had such a good holiday. Best ever. We loved it in Greece, and being at home. Dad back?’
‘He is.’ Caroline sat down, poured herself coffee and began eating her cereal.
‘Is he free today?’
‘I don’t expect so, but he’ll be down shortly.’ They both heard the heavy thud of the morning post arriving through the letterbox.
Alex leapt up and went to the door. There was a pile of letters, mostly to do with Church, so he put those on his dad’s desk in his study and took the rest of them, bills and such, into the kitchen.
Curiously there was a letter for Beth and one for him, both addressed in the same unfamiliar handwriting.
His mum began opening the bills and Alex tore open his own envelope, unfolded the sheets of notepaper and looked at the signature at the end. ‘With love from your mother’, it said. He knew he should fold it up and read it later, on his own in his bedroom where his mum couldn’t see, but he was so torn to pieces by the very first letter he’d had from his birth mother in all his sixteen years that he immediately wanted to see what she’d written. In his excited state of mind he knocked his spoon out of his bowl, spinning cornflakes and milk on to the cloth and down his pyjamas.
‘Blast!’ He rushed to get some kitchen roll, dropped the letter on the floor and swore as the cold milk soaked through to his chest.
‘Alex! Please!’ Caroline bent down to pick up his letter and a cold chill circled her heart. The handwriting was a blast from the past and she couldn’t think . . . She put the letter on the table and allowed her mind to wander. Whose writing could it be?
Alex, having cleared up the mess he’d made, sat back down, first carefully putting his letter under his chair cushion, and carried on eating as though nothing had happened. The letter would have to wait.
Peter came down, showered, shaved and dressed for the day in his cassock with his silver cross tucked into his leather belt, his strawberry-blond hair still damp, his face glowing with health and peace of mind.
‘It’s a Church day then, Dad?’
‘It is, otherwise I’d spend it with you. I’ve got Penny Fawcett market day first as it’s Monday, and then on into Culworth for a meeting at the Abbey, lunch with them all and hospital visiting afterwards.’
‘You couldn’t take Beth and me into Culworth, could you? We’d come back on the bus.’
‘Of course, and what’s more I’ll give you twenty pounds to spend seeing as it’s your last day. Save me time if you come to the market with me, though; then we can go straight to Culworth on the bypass.’
‘Done. I’ll go and tell Beth to get up.’ As casually as he could, Alex surreptitiously picked up Beth’s letter, took his own from under his chair cushion and went upstairs.
Caroline said nothing until she’d taken Peter’s boiled egg from the pan. After she’d sat down she looked hard at Peter, wondering whether or not to tell him what she suspected. He preferred openness so she decided to tell him. Her anxiety made the news burst out of her in a rush.
‘I think the children have had a letter each from their mother.’
‘From their . . . You mean Suzy Meadows?’
She nodded.
‘I see.’
‘Alex has taken both letters upstairs. He checked the signature on his, then folded it and never read it. I expect they’re both reading them right now.’
Peter took the top off his egg
and then put the spoon down. ‘I see. What makes you so sure?’
‘Because when Alex looked at the signature he was so upset he spilt cereal and milk on the cloth and himself, and the letter fell to the floor. I picked it up and put it back on the table, but he seemed to think I hadn’t noticed. I couldn’t recall whose writing it was, and then I remembered. I’m sure I’m right, otherwise why would he be so secretive?’
The old wounds opened up for Caroline, but she had to credit Peter with his discretion; he never said ‘Suzy’ but always ‘Suzy Meadows’, as though to put a distance between them. But it wasn’t Meadows any more. Having remarried, she was now Suzy Palmer.
‘He’d only be secretive because he didn’t want to cause you any pain.’
‘I know that. What worries me is what the hell does she want after all this time? No birthday cards, no Christmas cards, nothing. Then a letter each. And not one to both of them but one each.’
‘In their own good time they’ll tell us.’
‘They’ll tell you and then ask if they should tell me.’
‘They are both very sensitive about . . . well, about me being their biological parent and you not. They’re so careful not to hurt you, and it’s right they should feel like that. I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘You see, Peter, when they’re newborn and completely helpless, and needing love and tenderness and caring, one forgets about them growing up into separate people, actual individuals, and the problems that will bring.’
‘You don’t regret adopting them? Of course you don’t. I’m being ridiculous even to ask.’
‘I don’t, not for a single second, but this . . . They’re ours, not hers. She has no rights. What’s she doing writing to them? What does she want? Sending them letters, right out of the blue . . .’ Caroline put her finger to her lips then called out, ‘Hello, Dottie. Good morning!’
Dottie Foskett stood in the doorway. Now she was not only doing cleaning jobs but also working with Pat Jones, helping her manage the catering events at the Old Barn, Dottie had put on weight these last two years, having more money for food. But putting on weight had not dulled her hearing, and as she’d walked down the hall into the kitchen she’d caught Caroline’s last two sentences.
‘Good morning, Reverend. Good morning, Doctor. Wish I’d put a warmer coat on.’
‘I think autumn’s on the way.’
‘Exactly, Doctor. The usual Monday things? Not nothing extra?’
‘The usual. Oh! Except the bed linen in Alex’s old room needs changing. We had a visitor over the weekend.’
‘Righteo. No sooner said . . .’
Dottie had strict rules about information at the Rectory. Not a word crossed her lips, much as she was dying to tell people what she knew, because if ever Caroline found out she’d been telling confidential tales that she could have known only through the Rectory, that would be the end of the best job she’d ever had in all her life.
She liked best the days when the Doctor was doctoring all day so she had the Reverend’s lunch to make before she left. She loved knocking on his door and calling out ‘Lunch, sir’ and taking it in, finding a place for the tray on his desk, and him looking up so lovely at her to thank her and her heart melting at his sincerity. And dusting all his books, them she wouldn’t understand if she spent a month trying, but she loved the idea of all that learning and sometimes wished she’d paid more attention at school. And that photo of him at Oxford in his cap and gown, looking so handsome and head and shoulders above most of the other students, and him such a lovely man in spite of all that hobnobbing with those toffs.
She began her morning’s work by stripping the bed in Alex’s old room.
Beth put her head round the door. ‘Morning, Dottie. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks, Beth. And you? You don’t look too chipper today. Not looking forward to going back to school?’
Beth hesitated and then blamed it on the weather. ‘We’re going into Culworth this morning, she added. ‘Anything you need?’
‘No thanks, dear.’
So she was right. The twins had got letters from someone, and it had upset Beth and the Doctor, so therefore the Reverend too.
The children didn’t have an opportunity to discuss their letters until the two of them were in Culworth in the Abbey coffee shop.
Beth had chosen hot chocolate with foaming stuff on the top. Alex refused to call it cream because it wasn’t, he said, not when it came out of a tin. But Beth persisted in choosing it despite his scorn. Alex had chosen espresso, which Beth declared tasted like lavatory cleaner, not that she’d ever tasted lavatory cleaner. Having sorted out their differences, both of them brought out their letters and compared them.
Apparently Suzy Meadows’ second husband had died of cancer, and she now lived by herself with time to spare as all three of her girls - Pansy, Daisy and Rosie - lived away from home. This drove a dagger through Beth’s heart. Was loneliness a good enough reason for wanting to see them both? Alex’s letter told him how like herself Beth was. ‘That time when I saw you both at the reunion for the village school’s 150th Anniversary, I couldn’t believe how like me she was.’
Beth rapidly folded her own letter and pushed it into her bag.
Alex said, ‘I haven’t finished reading yours yet. Let me see it.’
‘I shall throw it in the first bin I can find.’
‘Beth! That’s not fair. At least read it and let me read it, please.’
She spooned some of the cream into her mouth. ‘All right, then.’ She gave him back the letter.
Alex smoothed it out and read on. ‘Now we’re sixteen going on seventeen, she wants us to stay with her at half-term when she isn’t teaching.’
‘I read that bit at home. You can go. I’m not. Ever. Ever. Never.’
‘She did give birth to us.’
‘Yes, and then handed us to Dad as though we were a couple of parcels. We’re not, we’re real people, not fantasy figures, which is what this letter makes me feel like.’
‘Yes, it does feel like that.’ He stirred his espresso, now thick with sugar. With his head down he said, ‘You and I have Mum and Dad to think about. She doesn’t mention their feelings, does she?’
‘Typical. Only hers, not even ours.’ Beth drank steadily from her glass, and waited for Alex’s answer. She knew he’d see both sides of the argument, just as their dad always did. Well, he could do as he liked. She was not going. She’d said so and she meant it. She did not want complications in her life which would screw up everything she held most dear. Beth had never forgotten that day when they met this Suzy at the school’s 150th anniversary, how she’d been utterly, utterly unable to speak to her. Nor that smooth, softly-spoken man, whom she’d disliked immediately. Everyone had said he had been headmaster at the school for years, which she couldn’t believe. Even if he was dead she still wasn’t going, and no amount of persuasion could make her. Though she had to agree, she, Elizabeth Harris, looked very much like her, but that still wasn’t a reason . . .
‘Thing is,’ said Alex, ‘do we tell Mum and Dad about these letters? Mum knows we got a letter each this morning but not who they were from.’
‘And she won’t ask. You know what she’s like about people’s privacy.’
‘Exactly.’ Alex downed the last of his espresso and wondered about ordering another.
‘So we could not tell her and save her a lot of heartache. You’re not having another of those gut-rot coffees, are you?’
‘I’m just wondering about having an early lunch. What do you think?’
Beth answered him with another question. ‘What would she mean by a few days? Is that all she can spare? Or is it a sop to our feelings? To make us feel more comfortable that it wouldn’t be for long?’
‘Both, I expect.’
‘Oh, help, there’s the Bishop’s wife. She’s spotted us. She’s coming across.’ Beth waved enthusiastically, remembering her good manners just in time.
The Bishop’s wife dashed towards them with her familiar overwhelming gusto.
‘How lovely it is to see you both! Last day of the holidays, eh? My word, Alex, you’re going to be taller than your dad. As for you, Beth, you get prettier by the day.’ She plumped down on the spare chair and, resting her elbows on the table, said in a low voice, ‘A little bird’s been telling me how wonderfully well you’ve both done in your GCSEs. Peter and Caroline must be so proud. What was it - ten As each? Brilliant! What are you hoping to do, Beth?’
Beth shrugged. ‘Don’t know, haven’t decided.’
The Village Newcomers (Tales from Turnham Malpas) Page 1