Village Gossip

by Shaw, Rebecca

  Mr Fitch was spellbound.

  ‘Will you never realise that I am not the person you left behind in 1914? You’ve come back to a new me. I’ve changed utterly and completely. That’s what the war has done to me. Changed me for ever. But it doesn’t seem to have changed you. You still have the same expectations of me.’

  Neville Neal shook his head and wept.

  Mr Fitch cleared his throat. It was all too realistic for words. He became convinced it was all true. Then he pulled himself together and remembered it was only a play. But what a play! Caroline was clinging to Hugo, her dress half off her shoulder, Hugo’s arm around her waist, knee to knee, hip to hip, standing there watching Neville.

  Then Rhett Wright came on stage. A transformed Rhett. A handsome, debonair, well dressed Rhett. And him only a gardener. What had happened to everyone? He couldn’t wait to say nonchalantly to his guests, ‘Oh, yes, that’s one of my under gardeners. Talented lot, aren’t they?’

  Rhett and Neville left the stage. Caroline and Hugo kissed passionately and the curtains closed.

  Mr Fitch crept out before anyone could see him. Vera would have to wait. He lit a cigarette, and stood outside looking at the stars and going over in his mind the tremendous excitement of the last few minutes. This only a village play and he’d financed it! Just showed what money could do. He walked down the path to the road to get in his car. Mr Fitch was well aware he was insensitive to other peoples’ feelings and the incident with Jeremy that afternoon had proved that all over again, but right at this moment, excited by the play, he had a flash of insight and thought about how Peter would feel when he saw it. The light was on in Peter’s study. He wondered if Peter knew what was going on? The Rector’s wife acting her knickers off in a dodgy play in the Church Hall. Such good acting you thought it was real! Heaven’s above. It wasn’t, was it? Were they really having an affair? Surely not. They couldn’t be. Or could they? He’d better warn Peter. The poor man. They couldn’t cancel it now, it was all too late, but he’d better know, better be forewarned.

  Peter answered the door. ‘Why, good evening, Mr Fitch, how nice to see you. Do come in.’ He led the way into the sitting room and invited Mr Fitch to sit down. Mr Fitch was glad Peter was in mufti, it made it easier somehow to talk man to man.

  ‘I’m sorry, I know it’s late but I had to come. I’ve just been watching a snatch of the play.’ Mr Fitch cleared his throat. ‘Have you seen it, by any chance?’

  The light casual note in his voice amused Peter. ‘I have.’

  ‘Oh, right. I thought it a bit … risqué for a Church Hall.’

  ‘In this day and age …’ Peter shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

  ‘Oh yes, I know. But Caroline, your wife, she’s certainly putting her heart and soul into her part.’

  ‘Unexpected talent!’

  ‘Indeed. This Hugo Maude. What d’you make of him?’

  ‘Full of charm, too much for his own good.’ Peter laughed. ‘But a brilliant actor. He’s bringing out the best in the most unexpected people.’

  Mr Fitch nodded his head. ‘Oh! I agree. Rhett Wright, for instance. Whenever I see him he’s got his boot behind a spade. Now, suddenly … well, it’s quite unbelievable. And Neville Neal, crying real tears on the stage? Always such a cold fish. That Hugo must have something special if he can get him to do that!’

  ‘Exactly, he has got “something”.’

  Mr Fitch took out a cigarette case and asked for approval.

  ‘Of course, somewhere we have an ashtray.’ He searched along the book shelves and found one. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Thanks. Thirty years ago that play wouldn’t have been staged in a Church Hall and, what’s more, the Rector’s wife wouldn’t have been playing that part.’ His voice had taken on a harder tone and Peter waited for the rest of what he had to say. ‘Always admired you and the doctor. Wonderful couple, an example to us all. Married life isn’t what it was though, is it? All this living together and divorce. Where do you stand on this divorce question?’

  ‘For myself, marriage is for life. But for others I can see there are times when if it is a living hell, then …’ Peter shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘For life. No matter what?’

  ‘No matter what.’

  ‘I admire you for that. This Hugo Maude, lady’s man, is he?’

  ‘Oh yes. They all love him.’

  ‘I expect Caroline admires him?’

  ‘She does. He’s taught her a lot.’

  Mr Fitch’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Has he indeed. None of my business, but …’ He stood up to go. ‘This is a warning from a friendly bystander. He needs watching. You do realise that?’ He looked up at Peter who’d stood too. ‘Not got your scruples you see, the man hasn’t, I should imagine. Besides which, the village is bound to be talking.’

  ‘True. Leave him to me. I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be telling the Rector what to do, you’re far wiser than I about such matters. But I just had to say something, that’s really why I’ve called. Take some advice from an older man with plenty of experience.’ He looked into the distance as though weighing his words very carefully indeed. ‘That man is endangering your happiness, believe me. Don’t leave it too late to take action. By the way the prosecution’s off. Well, it will be when I’ve had my say. Never known anything so ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m glad, so very glad. I couldn’t manage to persuade Jeremy to drop it. Thank you. How is he? Have you heard?’

  Mr Fitch looked anywhere but at Peter.

  ‘Very, very ill. I wouldn’t say this to anyone but you, and I hope it won’t go further than this room, but I’m feeling guilty about the chap. I was so blazing mad at the way he’d handled it all, but really the poor fellow was only carrying out my orders. Pay peanuts, you see, and you get monkeys. Must go. Jet lag. Remember what I said about you know who! Goodnight to you.’

  It was almost one o’clock when Caroline came home. Peter, ready for bed, was in his study reading. He carefully inserted his bookmark in his place, put the book on his desk and went into the hall to greet her.

  Caroline looked shattered. Her hair was tousled, her stage make-up smudged, her clothes thrown on rather than worn and her eyes avoided his. She dumped her bag of things on the hall floor, saying, ‘Don’t say a word. I’m going straight to bed. I know I’m late, I know I should have let you know. I’m exhausted and, what’s more, I don’t think I can face tomorrow. Goodnight.’

  She stood with her hand on the newel post, one foot on the bottom step. ‘I don’t think I can get upstairs.’

  Peter didn’t speak. He stood beside her, put his arm around her waist and began to help her up one step at a time. He left her in the bathroom and went down again to make her a cup of tea. He was carrying the tray upstairs when he heard her crossing the landing to the bedroom.

  She was standing by the bed in her slip. Peter placed the tray on her bedside table, and undressed her. When he’d slipped her nightgown over her head he lifted back the duvet and she slid in, resting her back on the pillow he’d propped against the bed-head.

  While she sipped her tea he got into bed beside her.

  ‘Thank you, Peter, for this.’

  ‘Rehearsal go well?’

  ‘Excellently well. Couldn’t have been better. This cup of tea has saved my life. I cannot remember when I have felt so tired, not even when the children were babies.’

  ‘What are husbands for but to pick up the pieces.’

  Caroline looked at him. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘You do mean something.’

  ‘I don’t. It was a perfectly innocent remark. You would do the same for me if our roles were reversed, I know you would.’

  Caroline finished the last drops of tea, put the cup back on the tray, turned off her light and slid under the duvet. ‘The trouble is I don’t deserve you.’

  ‘You do. What’s more, you’re stuck with
me, like it or not.’

  ‘Sometimes I wish …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Just sometimes I wish you’d do something instead of always being so sure.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About … me and you … you and me … about Hugo.’

  ‘That would be ridiculous, your attraction to Hugo being transitory. Which it is, isn’t it?’

  There was a silence. When she didn’t reply, after a few moments Peter repeated, ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘Am I or am I not a grown woman?’

  ‘You’re a grown woman.’

  ‘Then why don’t I know?’

  ‘Because even grown-ups can’t always find the answers.’

  ‘You always can.’

  ‘Not always, Caroline. This one has me foxed.’

  ‘Just hang on in there, Peter. Please.’

  ‘I am trying.’

  ‘What a stupid conversation. Why don’t we say what we mean?’

  ‘Want me to come right out with it?’

  In the dark Caroline nodded.

  ‘I think if I met him on a dark night and there was no one about I’d throttle him. In my most desperate moods that’s what I want to do. An absolutely childish thing to be saying, but it’s true.’

  ‘I see. He loves me.’

  ‘Does he indeed.’ The sarcastic note in his voice didn’t go unnoticed.

  ‘That’s what he claims. He made me an offer tonight.’

  ‘Did he?’ Peter turned on his side so that he faced her, and waited for her answer.

  ‘I don’t think the wife is supposed to tell the husband. It’s all so ridiculous. I’m two people at the moment. I love you, but I don’t want you to touch me, not in that way. And I love Hugo, and want him.’

  The silence lengthened and eventually Caroline put her light on and looked at him. ‘But is it love, Peter, or lust or just me in need of being told I’m still desirable by someone who doesn’t love me unreservedly, like you do?’ Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the duvet cover. She gave a great sigh and then added, ‘He wants me to go away with him, you see.’

  Despite his shock at her almost casual announcement, very slowly, choosing his words with extreme care, Peter said, ‘I wonder if the play is the root of your trouble. Emotionally you’re very charged up, you’re bound to be, it’s a very emotional part. So why not wait until the play is over? It’s not sensible to make life decisions when you’re on a high and so exhausted.’

  Petulantly, Caroline burst out with, ‘That’s right. Stand back. Leave it all to me, as always. The decision is mine, et cetera, et cetera. Let’s all play at being reasonable adults.’ Disdainfully, she added, ‘It’s all so painful.’

  Peter’s temper erupted. ‘Painful! For whom? What do you think it’s like for me watching all this happening? I’m not nearly so laid back about it as I give the impression of being. You just looking at Hugo like you do causes me such agony. Such jealousy. I hate it. Loathe it. I’m distraught by how I feel about him touching you. But I am determined to give you space, which at the moment is what you appear to me to be in need of most. However, don’t underestimate what’s going on underneath. It is flesh and blood beneath the clerical collar and the cassock, you know: vibrant, passionate, loving flesh and blood. It is beyond my endurance when you treat me like some kind of holy sounding-board, trying out your problems and indecisions about him on me. A servant of God I may be, but I am also a man, and don’t you ever, ever, forget that.’

  His outburst silenced her.

  They lay in the same bed. But miles apart.

  Chapter 16

  Jimbo’s first customer the following morning was a stranger. He bought a newspaper and some chocolate, served himself a coffee, sat on the customer’s chair and settled himself for a chat.

  It wasn’t long before Jimbo realised who he might be. ‘You’re from the Culworth Gazette, aren’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘Eddie Crimmins. Short of news this week, thought I’d call round, see if anything was happening. Like “Vicar’s wife had it away on her toes with the verger”, or something of that ilk.’

  ‘Sorry, nothing happens around here. You’d best get back to Culworth and do the courts, or something.’

  ‘Not what I’ve heard. What’s all the posters about the play. Anything there?’

  Jimbo shook his head.

  ‘Devastating new talent discovered? Some little milkmaid turns overnight into acting sensation?’

  ‘You’re behind the times, there aren’t such things as little milkmaids any more. Milking machines, you know, or hadn’t you heard?’

  The reporter ignored Jimbo’s sarcasm.

  While Jimbo served his early morning customers, the reporter sat quietly listening to their exchanges. Then to Jimbo’s annoyance in came Hugo, up earlier by at least a couple of hours than was his usual habit.

  No one but a fool would have failed to recognise his commanding presence. Jimbo saw the reporter go on red alert and then carefully mask his excitement.

  Hugo, unaware he’d drawn Eddie’s attention, went straight to the bread counter. He called out to Jimbo, ‘Jimbo! Croissants. I have a passion for croissants, do you have any?’

  His wonderful speaking voice filled very corner of the Store, and the reporter knew he’d met up with his quarry. What luck!

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve found ’em. Brilliant!’ Hugo took them across to the till. ‘You weren’t up when I got back last night. Did Harriet tell you what a superb dress rehearsal we had?’

  ‘She did. She was so fired up she didn’t get to sleep till around two o’clock she tells me. By Sunday morning she’ll be a wreck!’

  ‘Thanks for these. Need ’em for my breakfast.’

  The reporter got to his feet. ‘Mr Hugo Maude, isn’t it?’

  ‘It surely is.’ Hugo eyed the stranger up and down. ‘Mr Crimmins, I presume? Let’s do the interview over breakfast. Have you eaten?’

  Eddie shook his head.

  ‘Come then.’ As he walked towards the door with the reporter in tow, Hugo called over his shoulder, ‘Harriet won’t mind, will she?’

  But before Jimbo could answer the little bell on the door jangled and Hugo and the reporter had disappeared.

  The bell jangled again almost immediately and Jimbo looked up to see who’d come in.

  It was Willie Biggs. ‘Only me!’ Having picked up his paper on the way from the door to the till, Willie slapped the exact money down on the counter and said, ‘He’s not the first. There’s two already at the Rectory. What beats me is how they find out? Who tells ’em?’

  ‘In this case I think it was the man himself.’

  ‘Hugo? I ’spect that’s quite likely. Folk like them don’t hang about when it comes to publicity. Really putting Turnham Malpas on the map. Georgie and Dicky will be doing well out of it, yer know what reporters are like for drinkin’.’

  ‘True. True.’

  ‘Couldn’t really expect to get away with it, could we? Stands to reason.’

  ‘Good for trade!’ Jimbo laughed.

  Willie glanced round the Store, bent over the counter and confidentially whispered. ‘What does your dear lady think to this play? My Sylvia’s a bit scandalised by it. Really wonders if it’s suitable for a village Church Hall.’

  Jimbo studied what Willie had said and then declared, ‘We have to remember we’re in a bit of a backwater here. Compared to some plays in the West End it’s quite harmless and Caroline has insisted on some of the bits being cut. No, I think we’re on the right lines.’

  Willie looked indignant. ‘I don’t want to be disloyal, my Sylvia being housekeeper there and me verger, but I do think this business with Hugo Maude has gone too far.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The Rector’s very upset about it. I know. I can tell. He puts a smiling face on it but when yer catch him unawares he looks grim. Lost his inner peace, yer know, what comes from ’is faith. Course, being ’im he won’t lay the law
down, but it seems to be it’s about time he did.’

  ‘What goes on between the two of them is their affair, Willie, not ours.’

  ‘But when you think about their position in this village … The Rector has standards to keep up and she’s not keeping ’em, in my opinion. They should be setting an example, not acting like it’s for real.’

  Jimbo finished writing out a new slogan for the meat counter on one of his white plastic boards, then he said, ‘Is that how it looks?’

  ‘Oh yes. Time and again, it feels like for real. It’s not right. Not right at all. And there’s not only me who thinks that either.’

  ‘Sunday morning it’ll all be over. Storm in a teacup.’

  ‘Will it, though? Will it all be over?’

  Unbeknown to them Willie had not shut the door properly, so the bell hadn’t rung when someone had come in.

  It was another stranger, and by the looks of her a reporter. ‘Do you do ready-made sandwiches? I’m starving.’ She looked innocently at the two of them.

  ‘We do. Above the chill counter. On the left. Freshly delivered every morning. All new in.’

  Willie jerked his thumb at the reporter behind her back, pulled a face and left. Jimbo offered the reporter a coffee from the customer’s machine.

  ‘Oh! That’ll be lovely. Thanks. Early start this morning, too early for me.’

  ‘What brings you here, then?’ Jimbo inoffensively inquired.

  The reporter struggled to open the hermectically sealed sandwich and, before sinking her teeth gratefully into it, she asked, ‘This play, you’re doing. Heard it’s good and a bit, you know … spicy?’ She put her head to one side and smiled, inviting his confidence.

  ‘No, no, all very low key. First time we’ve done anything of the kind so it’s bound to be very ordinary.’