Venetia had really gone off obese men since she’d got her Jeremy down to an acceptable size and didn’t find Ford at all appealing, so she didn’t bother to fluff up her blacker-than-black hair, or to get up from the lounger. Behind his innocent question he’d only be wanting to join the leisure club and it wasn’t for the public.
‘I see. I run the youth club along with Kate Fitch and a committee of the young people in the village - well, villages, because we include Penny Fawcett and Little Derehams, too. Do you have children of an age to join, then?’
‘No, no. Someone called Sylvia in the pub just now suggested the club might be in need of funds.’
‘Always in need of funds.’ Venetia glanced at her watch and took her mobile from the pocket of her pink linen shorts. ‘It’s nine, so Kate will have finished their evening meal. I’ll give her a ring, see if it’s convenient for us to go up to their flat. She’s Kate Fitch, you see.’
She was in and yes, anyone with money to spare for the youth club was more than welcome. Venetia closed her mobile, swung her long, slender legs off the lounger and stood up. Mercedes almost fainted when she saw her figure full-length. She admired the devotion needed to maintain a figure like that, taut and neat-bottomed. She’d need to watch Ford; he was passionate about neat bottoms.
They reached the main hall of the Big House with its original Tudor panelling, exquisite flower arrangements, and beautiful banisters, along which Mercedes trailed her fingers in delicious enjoyment of the old wood. She was overwhelmed. Her mouth was dry and her legs were shaky; she wouldn’t speak, that was the easiest. Not a word. She’d leave it all to Ford.
The luxuriousness of the furnishings and the hangings in the sitting room in this Mr Fitch’s flat alarmed Mercedes. Such taste! It was straight out of one of those smart magazines that Ford kept buying her in the hope that some of the style would rub off on them both. Mercedes shook the hand he offered her and trembled all over. He frightened her. But Kate was an entirely different matter. Obviously she must have misheard; she must be his daughter, not his wife. She was much more down-to-earth.
Mr Fitch served drinks from a thing like a cocktail cabinet, except it was too old to be called that, and finally, when they were all seated, drink in hand, Ford launched into his ideas.
‘I was thinking about perking up the lunch club for the old folk but instead someone mentioned that the youth of the villages were in need of some excitement, so I’ve changed my mind. What ages do you cover, Kate?’
‘Thirteen to eighteen.’
‘Right. They’ll need something exciting, won’t they? Weekends away, camping or in hostels, trips to Go Ape - expect there’ll be one somewhere within reasonable distance - their own gigs, sport of some kind. The list is endless. Brighten everything up, we shall. How about it, Venice? Are we on the right lines?’
Venetia appeared extraordinarily at home in this room, and Mercedes wondered why that should be because she was common, no doubt about that, and didn’t really fit in. She waited to hear what she had to say to Ford’s proposals.
Venetia unravelled her gorgeous legs, fluffed her hair and said, glancing coyly at Mr Fitch, whose cold eyes didn’t appear to be the least bit impressed, ‘It all sounds brilliant, doesn’t it, Craddock?’
That she should feel free to use his first name surprised Mercedes; it didn’t ring quite true somehow.
Mr Fitch froze her with a steely look and addressed Ford. ‘Sounds to me just right for these young people.’ He turned to Kate. ‘What do you think, darling?’
Mercedes thought, darling? To his daughter? Well, she couldn’t be his wife. Heavens above, he was old enough to be her father.
‘Well, we have about sixteen regulars, more occasionally, but with activities like you’ve mentioned I’m sure there’ll definitely be sixteen, and that means an awful lot of money.’
‘Well, I was thinking about that on the way up here. If it was a big project like a four-day trip somewhere after GCSEs or A-levels then they’d have to match me pound for pound. Say it cost a hundred pounds for four days in a hostel, I’d offer fifty pounds and they’d have to find fifty plus their spending money. Would that be any good? Can’t always hand it to them on a plate, can we?’
‘For some of them that’s a lot of money,’ said Kate. ‘Believe me it is. Hardly any of them are earning, you see. And there’s transport, too, isn’t there? That’s expensive nowadays.’
‘I would pay the transport costs,’ Mr Fitch suggested.
But Ford positively disagreed. ‘No, no. It’s my project. I’ll pay for the transport.’
This well-intentioned offer was made kindly enough but Mr Fitch was having none of it.
‘Absolutely not. I’m the benefactor round here and I shall pay for the vehicle, as often as needed. That’s settled.’
Kate knew before Ford replied that he was about to drop the proverbial brick.
‘No, I’m sorry, it isn’t. I can’t allow you to feel you have to chip in. It’s not right, and you retired and living in this rented flat.’
A slight flush flooded Mr Fitch’s cheeks and in the iciest tones any human being could have summoned he said, ‘I don’t think you realise who I am. I own Fitch Enterprise Europe. The construction company. If I say I shall pay for the transport, that’s exactly what I mean.’
Ford, who hadn’t heard of the company, was only briefly fazed by this revelation. He quickly recovered and thanked Craddock profusely for his generosity.
Kate interrupted him. ‘Look, Venetia and I will discuss all this with the members this Friday and see how they feel about it. I agree they should make some effort to pay for these trips, if only on a character-building basis, and perhaps we could hold fundraising events to help them all, especially the ones whose parents can’t afford such expense. How about that, Ford? Would that be a good idea?’
Ford nodded his approval, and Kate asked Mercedes what she thought.
‘That’s fine by me. I don’t have anything to do with his charitable . . . efforts, I leave it all to Ford; he loves getting involved.’ Then Mercedes saw Mr Fitch’s reaction to what she’d said and sank back into her chair, vowing not to say another word.
‘You’re in the habit of giving a lot to charity, then?’ Mr Fitch said.
Kate heard the hint of sarcasm in his voice and wished she could think on her feet and divert the conversation to something less confrontational, but she didn’t. In fact, she hadn’t a chance because Ford plunged immediately into listing his recent donations, mentioning in particular the purchase of the state-of-the-art lawnmower for the church.
Mr Fitch almost jerked with surprise; he’d not heard a word about that. ‘A lawnmower for the church! I didn’t even know they needed one.’
‘Oh. Yes, the old one nearly killed that Zack the virgin. I saw to that pronto. You see, I feel I need to give something back.’
‘Back? To what exactly?’ Mr Fitch said sharply.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Why do you feel the need to give something back? To what are you going something back?’
‘Well, I’ve been lucky, you see, and made pots of money, so I give it back as a thank you.’
‘What are you, then?’
‘A philanthropist, I suppose.’
‘No, no. How did you earn your money?’
‘I’ve sold my metal business outright,’ Ford replied with a hint of pride in his tone.
‘You mean you were in scrap metal?’
Ford loathed that description, and began to lose his temper. Mercedes wished she could curl up and die. She slowly slid her foot over the carpet towards Ford’s ankle and kicked it slightly but it was all too late.
‘I describe myself as having dealt in metal. The phrase “scrap metal” makes the whole business sound seedy and illegal, thank you very much, Craddock . . .’
It was the spine-chilling look at the use of his first name that stopped Ford in his tracks. Who the hell did this Mr Fitch think he was to be so sc
ornful of the pride of his life’s achievements. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
‘None at all. It’s just that “scrap metal” seems to me to be common usage, surely?’
There was no doubting the underlying scorn in Mr Fitch’s voice, and Ford wasn’t going to put up with it for another moment. He searched feverishly in his mind for a cutting reply. Too late.
‘My paying for the transport for your . . . little enterprise . . . isn’t going to take anything away from your charity work, now is it? It’s simply a small helping hand.’
‘Well, I won’t spoil our concept for the sake of a man who can’t take no for an answer. Between us we should be able to do something constructive for the young people in the villages, and that’s what’s important.’
‘Indeed it is.’
Kate and Venetia sighed with relief.
Then Kate launched herself into cementing the relationship. ‘We would be delighted to have your support, and, as I said before, we shall discuss it with the members on Friday, won’t we, Venetia? Another drink, anyone?’
But Mercedes had had enough and began gathering up her smart Chanel handbag from the luxurious carpet and making ready for a rapid retreat.
However, Ford had other ideas. ‘Thank you. I’ll have another gin and tonic, please.’
Whether it was the second gin - though two gins were only starters as far as Ford was concerned - who knew? But Ford came out with the remark to end all remarks, and Mercedes almost fainted when he said it.
‘I think it’s wonderful for your daughter to give time to the village young people. She deserves support. And you, too, Venice.’
Ford blithely carried on sipping his drink, totally unaware that Mr Fitch was on the verge of an apoplectic fit.
Visibly taking a grip on himself, Craddock said graciously, though tight-lipped, ‘Kate is my wife.’
After this the conversation was sustained only just long enough for Ford to finish his second G and T. Then Mercedes actually stood up ready for the off and he had to leave.
Kate saw them to the front door, and then raced up the stairs back to the flat, to find Craddock storming about the sitting room like a maniac.
‘I’ll sort something out for him. Settle him once and for all. My daughter indeed! I’ll give him what for. The bloody little upstart!’
‘Craddock! Really!’ Kate laughed. ‘I don’t care. We’re the ones having a wonderful life married to each other and loving it, and no one can take that from you or from me, whatever they say or think.’
Craddock put his arms round her and kissed her. ‘How right you are. We’re the winners in this, aren’t we?’
‘Exactly.’ She kissed him back, glad the hurt was resolved.
‘But . . . coming here and throwing his money in my face. Who the hell does he think he is?’
‘Someone doing the youth club a very good turn. He’s being generous in the only way he knows. You were unfair.’
‘Do I go round telling everyone, quoting figures, how much money I’ve given to this village? No, I do not. It stuck in my craw listening to his list.’
Kate began laughing. In fact, she rolled about in her chair uncontrollably. Finally she managed to speak. ‘You did used to, before I appeared on the scene. You’ve learned since that giving quietly but with purpose earns you far more Brownie points than making a song and dance about it. You know that, don’t you? Look how much more acceptable you are to the village nowadays. Far more than ever you were. They’re even growing quite fond of you.’
‘Well, he’d better learn fast, or else . . .’
‘Or else, what? She’s nice. A gentle person really.’
‘She rivals Venetia in the taste department.’
‘Now that is cruel. She’s very nervous of you. She has lovely eyes and just needs a little—’
‘OK, OK. But don’t make them part of our social circle or we could come to blows.’
Mercedes didn’t speak all the way home in the car. The whole evening had been torture for her. From a poor working-class background she’d been thrust by Ford’s success into being wealthy and hadn’t yet managed to feel comfortable with it. Glebe House alarmed her for a start. They ought never to have bought it. A nice cosy cottage with a thatched roof and small rooms would have suited her better. She imagined a cat sleeping on the hearth-rug and a bathroom small enough to feel warm instead of that glistening, barn-like bathroom she had to use that was part of the ‘step up’ Ford had dreamed about. She knew he deserved a better home than they’d had, but it had been close to friends, within walking distance to the shops, and was familiar and comfortable. But here!
In their old house, she’d opened the front door and there was the narrow passage with the old Victorian tiled floor in soft browns, ochre and dark red, and the picture rail with the prints and the narrow hall table with the bowl of dried flowers on it. What had she got here? A huge hall twice as big as the front room in the old house, a shining, glossy parquet floor, definitely not laminate . . . She’d never feel at home in it, not in a thousand years, and couldn’t understand why Ford liked it so much.
At the house, as she switched the kettle on, Mercedes said, ‘He very nearly thumped you.’
‘Me? Thumped me? I thought we’d hit the right note.’
‘When you said about his daughter, I could have crawled away.’
‘Well, I thought she was - she’s too young for that old man. I mean!’
‘You didn’t see the huge diamond engagement ring and the thick gold wedding ring, nor the wedding photo on the table?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I did. I’m having my hot chocolate in bed, in that huge master bedroom you’re so proud of. You know, I much preferred our little bedroom with the furniture you put together for us.’
‘But look at the wardrobes you’ve got here! Massive, they are, plenty of room. Those wardrobes I built were as cheap as chips, and almost too narrow to take hangers, which was a big mistake on my part, I admit.’
‘So? I liked them.’
‘You’ve got to grow into this new lifestyle, Merc. Move on. Move up.’
‘That Mr Fitch. Don’t ever use his first name again, and don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s a small-time man. I’ve an idea that our bank balance will be a drop in the ocean compared to his. He’s got power, has that man, and he’s ruthless if he puts his mind to it. He could ruin you in a second, and don’t think he won’t if the thought occurs to him.’
Ford put on his sceptical look when he heard this. ‘Now, honestly, how could he?’
Mercedes nodded bleakly at him. ‘You know full well how.’ She marched up the sweeping staircase, carefully gripping her mug of hot chocolate in fear of spilling it on the thick ivory carpet, sat on the edge of the bed and put the mug down on the mat she had there for that very purpose. Her alarm clock was round and comfortable, big and made of brass, old and traditional, and, after she’d put the alarm on, she held it to her chest, loving the comfort of it and wishing . . . how she wished . . .
Downstairs in his posh study Ford sipped his hot chocolate, his feet propped on the desk. He looked round and admired his pictures of famous racehorses which now lined the walls instead of the cold, bare, unimaginative pictures that had belonged to Neville Neal. Red Marauder 2001. My, what a horse! Bobbyjo, Papillon in 2000, and last but not least Red Rum in the seventies. Three times he won the Grand National, three times! Lovely horse. He could name every horse in every picture, and was proud to do so. When he thought about his miserable start in life, and where he stood now, he brimmed with self-satisfaction.
Niggling at the back of his mind, though, was Mercedes’ comment as she was setting off up that beautifully impressive staircase, which was what had sold the house to him. He was always of the opinion that Merc was not as bright as himself, then she came out with a remark like that and it floored him. He could only describe it as hitting the nail on the head, because she’d guessed correctly what kind of a man Craddock F
itch was. He, Ford Barclay, thought he had the measure of him, but he hadn’t. Fitch had sneered at him. He’d despised him for earning a living in scrap metal, which was indeed the correct name for his business. He, Ford Barclay, would show that Fitch the way to go home with his Elizabethan banquet. It was going to be the highlight of the social year.
Ford tipped the rest of his drink down the sink, and left the mug on the draining board. Upstairs he found Merc had already fallen asleep. All the same he nestled against her, hoping she’d wake and they could talk for a while, but she didn’t, so he rolled away to the other edge of their vast bed and it took him all of two hours to get to sleep. She’d upset the applecart with that remark, just when he was beginning to feel safe.
The Village Newcomers (Tales from Turnham Malpas) Page 6