Village Gossip

by Shaw, Rebecca

  ‘Oh, it is. Mrs Jones has climbed down and asked me to help with the costumes. I tell yer, there’s a whole new life beginning for your gran right here and now. I’m off upstairs to sort some things out ready for moving. Here, take this ten pound note and go to the Store and get us something for our tea. There’s nothing in. Get something we can just bung in the oven.’

  Amazed by his gran’s sudden generosity Rhett departed, his mind ranging over the selection of frozen meals Jimbo always kept in his freezer for emergencies.

  Don sat impassively studying the design on the old teapot, his life being decided for him over his head.

  As Vera went towards the stairs he said loudly, ‘It’ll be a different tale when they hear about your conviction. I’ll tell ’em about what yer did to me, too, that’ll put the frighteners on ’em. They’ll be thinking yer might do it to one of them old bats yer talk so much about.’

  Vera turned back and bent her head close to his unwashed, unshaven face. Her eyes only inches from his, through clenched teeth and with a steely purpose the like of which she had never known she possessed, she uttered a desperate threat. ‘You’ll keep your bloody trap shut, Don Wright. ’Cos if you utter one single word about anything at all to anyone I’ll do for you once and for all. That blinking cut-throat razor of your grandad’s with the genuine ivory handle yer keep prattling on about will suddenly find itself, after years of idleness, being put to good use.’ She drew her finger across her throat. ‘Get my meaning? Nothing and nobody’s getting in my way. OK? Know why? Because something’ll turn up and put things right for me, because now is Vera’s moment. Not anyone else’s … Vera’s. See? And if I don’t take life by the throat right now, it’ll be the end of me.’ Her trembling legs carried her upstairs on the first step to freedom.

  Not only Vera’s legs were trembling. Jeremy Mayer’s were too. Mr Fitch, having returned from abroad in the early hours and waking from a snatched and miserable sleep feeling totally disorientated, had come into his office wanting to catch up on the latest news about the estate.

  ‘This damned jet lag plays havoc with me. What time is it?’

  ‘Three o’clock.’

  ‘It feels like ten o’clock. Where’s my coffee?’

  ‘I’ll order some.’ Jeremy pressed the number for the kitchen on his telephone, anything at all to delay telling him the crucial news about the court case. When he’d put down the receiver he shuffled his papers about, cleared his throat, shot his cuffs …

  ‘Well? I’m waiting. What’s the news? Bring me up to date.’

  ‘The new crazy paving path is finished, and looks very good. It was a commendable idea of yours, sir. Greenwood Stubbs has brought in the flowers for the main rooms in readiness for tomorrow, and the girl’s arranging them. The training staff want to have a conference with you, some new ideas they’ve got, think you ought to give your approval. I’ve had Jimbo in and confirmed the menus for the weekend, so he’s all set. The fencing is almost done. Home Farm is having staff problems, two cowmen ill, but they’re coping. The tickets are here for the play on Saturday night. First two rows centre. Everyone you invited has confirmed. Apart from that, nothing really.’

  The girl came in from the kitchens with coffee for Mr Fitch. A nicely laid tray with silver coffee pot, cream and sugar and biscuits, just how he liked it. Jeremy thanked his lucky stars that Jimbo had well trained staff.

  The girl carefully handed Mr Fitch his coffee and then said, ‘Don’t know if you need to know this, Mr Mayer, but the banners have arrived.’

  His head shot up. ‘Banners?’

  ‘Yes, Barry’s just fixing them up. Thought you might need to know.’ There was a smirk on her face which boded no good.

  Mr Fitch stopped sipping his coffee. ‘Banners? What kind of banners. I didn’t order banners.’ He waited for Jeremy’s explanation.

  ‘I don’t know what they’re about, Mr Fitch. I’d better go see. Obviously there’s been some mistake. You finish your coffee.’ He lumbered to his feet and stumbled out of the office, his heart leaden in his chest.

  Strung from the first floor windows were pieces of sheeting with lettering, huge lettering from one end to the other. He didn’t read them because he couldn’t: his eyes had clouded over as a result of the tremendous explosion of temper he experienced at the sight of them. There was a mysterious pounding in his chest and his ears throbbed. Sweat began to run down his face, the hair on his neck grew wet, his knees, already trembling, began to shake. Had he been able to see himself he would have seen that his whole body was shaking. Fear had him in its grip.

  He roared at Greenwood Stubbs who was standing giving directions to someone in an upstairs window. ‘Stubbs!’

  Nonchalantly, Greenwood swung round and innocently answered, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Remove those at once! At once, I say! At once!’ By now his face was beetroot red.

  Greenwood’s response was to laugh. ‘Not likely! We’ve got to draw attention to the injustice of this prosecution you’ve brought. It’s not fair and you know it.’

  ‘Prosecution? What prosecution?’ Mr Fitch had come out to the front, cup in hand, he turned round and saw the banners. ‘What the hell’s going on? Mayer! Inside. Greenwood, take those banners down this instant.’

  Greenwood Stubbs ignored him and carried on giving directions to the person at the upstairs window.

  ‘Do you hear me? I pay your wages, so I’m the one who calls the tune round here and I insist you remove them.’

  ‘Not for much longer you aren’t. Or so Mr Mayer gives me to understand.’

  The coffee cup began to rattle against the saucer as Mr Fitch took on board what Greenwood had said. ‘Mayer! In!’ Jeremy stumbled after him, his heart pounding as never before.

  Mr Fitch led the way to his own office, seated himself behind his desk, put down his cup and saucer, and waited.

  Jeremy began to settle himself in the nearest chair, but a withering glance from Mr Fitch persuaded him it wouldn’t be a very good idea in the circumstances, so he stood like a small boy in the headmaster’s office.

  Summoning all his strength Jeremy began, ‘Before you went away three weeks ago you stated quite categorically that the next time any member of staff, either outdoor or in, was caught stealing from the estate they were to be prosecuted. The full works, police, the lot.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Therefore when I got information regarding the disappearance of a quantity of crazy paving, an Edwardian wrought iron table and two chairs, and several Victorian garden pots of considerable value, I apprehended the guilty party and they are being prosecuted. The case comes up on Monday and I am giving evidence.’ Relieved to see an element of agreement in Mr Fitch’s face he began to lower himself into a chair.

  ‘Just a minute!’

  Jeremy straightened himself up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who exactly is involved?’

  Jeremy counted them off on his fingers, then while he waited for Mr Fitch to speak he got out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  ‘Have you interviewed these people?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve seen Vera and …’

  ‘What did she have to say?’

  ‘She said she would return everything and pay for the crazy paving and the cement if I would drop the prosecution, but I said no, I was under your strict instructions …’

  ‘And Rhett?’

  ‘Well, he said something about his grandmother needing cheering up and …’

  ‘And Greenwood?’

  ‘Stubbs agreed he’d used Jones’ van for an hour to transport all the stuff, and that he’d been a party to the theft.’

  ‘Knowing this village like I do, has anyone been up to speak on their behalf?’

  Jeremy began to feel uncomfortable all over again. A sneaking suspicion that Mr Fitch was not entirely pleased with him began to permeate his subconscious, and he started to bluster.

  ‘Now see here, Mr Fitch, I was only carrying out
your orders. You said quite categorically that …’

  Mr Fitch tapped the desk with his pen to stop the tirade and bellowed. ‘Who?’

  ‘The Rector.’

  ‘You sat here in this chair and …’

  Jeremy, clutching at straws, protested, ‘Not that chair, my chair.’

  ‘It bloody well doesn’t matter which chair, what matters is you don’t know when to let things go. I’ve spent years now building up a relationship with these people – why, I’m not quite sure, but it’s something I know I have to do – and in one fell swoop you’ve destroyed all my work. When the Rector came you could have given in very gracefully indeed, made him think it was him who’d changed your mind and honour would have been satisfied, not just with him but the entire village. They set great store by that Rector. Come to think of it so do I. That would have been the end of the matter.’

  ‘But you said …’

  ‘Never mind what I bloody well said, you fool. It’ll look fine, won’t it? Every newspaper in the county will be running the headline about greedy landlords and homeless workers.’

  ‘Homeless?’

  ‘Yes, if Greenwood’s found guilty I’ve nowhere to go but to sack the man. I can’t employ someone who’s been proved to be an accessory to theft from the estate. Think of the example to the others. The house goes with the job, the whole family would have to vacate it. The best gardener any estate could hope to have, and the best carpenter …’

  ‘Barry Jones is an idle layabout. If I didn’t keep hounding him …’

  Mr Fitch rose to his feet. ‘That’s your job, to keep him on his toes! He’s a craftsman and there’s not many of those about. To say nothing of Greenwood. I can’t afford to lose him. There’s no man alive who would keep those glasshouses in such tiptop condition for the money I pay him. He’s a brilliant asset I can ill afford to lose. No, he’s not the one to go, it’s more likely to be you who goes. You’re expendable.’ He leaned across the desk as he fired this salvo and Jeremy could see the whites of his light blue eyes and the slight flush on each of his thin pale cheeks. His snow white hair appeared to crackle with anger.

  ‘Me? What have I done?’ The pitch of Jeremy’s voice rose higher and higher. ‘All I ever do is what you want, every decision, every letter I dictate is at your bidding … what more can I do?’

  ‘For a start you can cancel that court hearing,’ Mr Fitch snapped.

  ‘If I do that I’ll have no credibility left.’

  ‘You have no credibility and never have had, that’s why I need to tell you every move you make. You … bloody, blithering idiot.’

  Jeremy opened his mouth to protest at Mr Fitch’s ungentlemanly language but no words would come.

  ‘You couldn’t organise a chimpanzees’ tea party, I should never have given you the job in the first place.’

  Their voices were now so loud that there had grown quite a gathering of students and staff in the hall wondering whether or not they should intervene. The office door was partly open so they couldn’t help but hear every word. Someone had gone to fetch Venetia and she’d appeared downstairs to witness the dispute for herself.

  ‘I … I … I …’ Jeremy clutched at his shirt collar and tried to drag it away from his throat, but his fingers had no more mobility than a bunch of carrots. He couldn’t breathe and the sweat poured in rivers down his putty coloured face.

  It was Venetia who rushed in first as soon as Jeremy began choking. The choking ceased, he gave three deep rattling breaths, then fell over backwards to the floor with the most tremendous crash and lay quite still.

  ‘Oh, God! He’s dead! He’s dead!’ Venetia knelt on the floor beside him, fitfully pounding his chest and then breathing into his mouth.

  Mr Fitch went white and dropped like a stone back into his chair.

  Later that evening Mr Fitch sat down at Pat’s kitchen table. Pat, worried beyond belief by his unexpected arrival, inquired whether or not he would prefer to sit somewhere more comfortable.

  ‘No, thank you, Pat, this is fine.’

  ‘It’s terrible news about Mr Mayer, isn’t it? Have you heard any more? Is that what you’ve come to tell me?’

  Mr Fitch studied his hands while he answered quietly, ‘It’s touch and go I’m afraid.’

  ‘He’s a bit of a chump but you can’t help feel sorry for him with that Venetia … It can’t be easy her being like she is.’

  Mr Fitch didn’t bother to ascertain whether or not Pat was scoring a point against him. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘Barry, Dean and Michelle are at the dress rehearsal and Dad’s upstairs in his room watching telly.’

  ‘Of course, yes, the dress rehearsal. Get him to come down, will you Pat? If he wouldn’t mind.’

  Greenwood Stubbs came downstairs and stood in front of Mr Fitch. ‘Well, then, sir, what have you come for?’

  ‘Sit down, man. Sit down. Tomorrow morning I am going personally to the court in Culworth and doing whatever is necessary to withdraw the prosecution against you. You must clearly understand that I do not approve of stealing, most especially from myself. If I had been asked, then I would more than likely have said yes, Vera could have all that stuff, but I wasn’t and Mr Mayer acted on my instructions. He is completely exonerated on that score. I know I said I wanted all that rubbish clearing away, but, well, I didn’t realise it was antique stuff – not being well up in that area. But taking it and using it and pinching the crazy paving isn’t quite the same thing, is it? Don’t let it happen again Greenwood, will you? Wait and ask me first. Right?’

  ‘Very well, Mr Fitch. I much appreciate your understanding …’

  Pat, hope rising in her chest, asked, ‘Does that mean we shan’t have to leave? Does it?’

  ‘Of course it does.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Fitch.’

  Making up an excuse for his change of heart he answered, ‘No, thank the Rector. If he hadn’t been on your side, neither would I.’ Mr Fitch stood up and looked around Pat’s cheerful kitchen, admiring the sunny yellow walls and the bright flowers on the sill. ‘You’ve made a lovely home here, Pat. Lovely.’

  ‘Thank you, we love this house. You’ve just no idea how grateful I am. It would have broken my heart if …’ Pat smiled at him nervously.

  ‘Well, there’s no need for you to worry. I know a good man when I see one and your father’s one of those. Now …’ he rose to his feet, ‘I’m off to Vera’s to tell her the good news.’

  ‘Oh! But did you know Vera’s moved to the nursing home in Penny Fawcett? She’s got promotion and a flat goes with it. She moved in today. Oh no, I’ve just thought. She’s helping at the dress rehearsal. She’ll be at the Church Hall.’

  ‘I’ll see her there, then.’

  Greenwood reached out to shake hands. ‘Thank you, Mr Fitch. Thank you very much. I can’t say how grateful I am.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all. The least I can do. Can’t lose hardworking skilled people like you, Greenwood. Don’t worry about Dean’s scholarship. If he gets in, the money will be in place like I promised. I’ll be off, then, to see Vera.’

  Mr Fitch stood at the back of the hall while he accustomed his eyes to the darkness. The stage was brightly lit, the body of the hall empty except for Barry, Sir Ronald and Willie Biggs who were conferring quietly in the far corner away from the stage. Barry was pointing something out to the other two concerning the stage, it involved a lot of arm waving and apparently denial on Willie’s part. Mr Fitch became absorbed in the argument. He smiled to himself. It wasn’t just big business, then, which caused serious disagreement. It happened in two-bit places like Turnham Malpas over a two-bit play. When he heard the powerful persuasive tones of Hugo Maude his attention was drawn to the stage.

  The set was splendid. Far and away better than he could ever have expected. His baby grand piano had pride of place, with a bright Indian patterned, heavily-fringed silky cloth draped over it. His eye was drawn to a vase of flowers so totally in keeping w
ith the nineteen twenties set he could hardly believe it. Seated at the piano was … who was it? It was Caroline Harris! She wore a beautiful evening dress, light and beaded, and a jewelled band round her forehead. She was transformed; the sensible, caring Caroline he knew had been replaced by a siren out of the top drawer, no less. Her hands trailed along the keys, picking out snatches of tunes and then she began to play. Or was she? No, there in a corner was Mrs Peel, the organist, doing the real playing. How clever.

  ‘My dearest! That’s the tune they played for us in the restaurant!’

  Hugo crossed the stage and stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, his lips raining kisses on her head, tiny trembling kisses. His hands roved over her shoulders and arms. She looked up at him and, seeing him upside down, said, ‘Dearest, you look quite strange this way up. I’ve never seen you like this before.’

  Hugo captured her hands and raised them above her head so he could kiss them. ‘Beloved!’

  She clasped her hands behind his head and drew it down so they were cheek to cheek. His hands began roving over her, down to her hips and back up along her arms until he unfastened her hands from behind his neck. He pulled her to her feet, pushed the piano stool away and they stood locked together, kissing.

  In the dark Mr Fitch found himself blushing: not because the acting was bad but because it was so good. Too good. He was stunned. Moved might be a better word to describe how he felt. He noticed the three arguing in the corner had stopped to watch, and no wonder.

  He looked again at the stage and now Neville Neal of all people had entered. The other two had broken apart on his arrival and were looking genuinely appalled. That was nothing to what that cold fish Neville Neal had unexpectedly become capable of. It really was as though he’d caught his own wife in the arms of another man. For a moment Mr Fitch was confused, mixing reality with the play. He shook himself. By Jove! It was going to be a real corker, was this. Those chaps he had coming to see it on Saturday night would be mighty impressed. He had a further shock when he heard Caroline, well not Caroline in truth but … She was giving her husband what for in no uncertain terms. ‘Your constant, unwavering, everlasting love is sickening.’ She pointed to Hugo. ‘He’s given me more excitement in two months than you have given me in twenty years. I never knew how thrilling loving could be till I met Leonard. Your feeble faithfulness, your self-righteous loyalty, your clinging to something which is no longer there! I’m weary of it. Weary! Do you hear me?’