by Hazel Holt
I heard the shop door shut and went back in to find Wendy looking very distressed.
“Are you all right?” I asked tentatively.
She looked for a moment as if she was going to say something. Then she gave a wan little smile and said, “No, I’m fine. Can you take over here?” and went into the storeroom.
I thought it would be tactful to leave her to Jean and the cup of tea that she obviously needed.
I asked Rosemary what she knew about Desmond Barlow.
“I’ve only met him a few times, at the occasional dinner party and so on. Not a nice person—always has to be right about everything and, like I said, a control freak.”
“Michael says he’s a great one for good works.”
“That’s as may be. It’s all a bit ostentatious—‘look what a splendid person I am,’ that sort of thing. Edna Palmer—you remember her, her son married Jilly’s best friend’ Susan.”
“I don’t think…”
“You must remember—she wore that hideous mauve outfit for the wedding—a designer label, she said.”
“Oh yes, I do. And she went around at the reception telling everyone how much the wedding was costing them! So what about her?”
“Oh yes. Well, she goes to Desmond Barlow’s church—the one he’s a lay reader at—and she said he’s offended a lot of the congregation, trying to take over too much from the vicar there. Poor man—the vicar, that is. He was grateful at first for the help—he’s got three parishes to cover—but it’s really getting out of hand, Edna says. The Barlow person is going around laying down the law about parish matters and organizing things without any sort of consultation, just as if he’s the vicar of St. Mary’s himself.”
“I can quite believe it,” I said.
“And he’s got that wretched wife of his working her fingers to the bone with coffee mornings and things.”
“I saw their son the other day; he came into the shop to talk to Wendy. It looked as if he was telling her something upsetting—she was quite distressed and looked awful when he’d gone.”
“He’s another poor soul, according to Edna. Apparently he’s the artistic type, not at all academic, but his father somehow got him into Nottingham University to read law and he hates it and is really miserable.”
“Oh dear, other people’s lives!”
“Well, yes, but I do think Wendy Barlow might stand up for herself a bit more, for her son’s sake as well as her own.”
“I don’t think she’s capable of standing up to anyone—she’s just as bad with Norma. Some people just don’t have it in them.”
“I suppose so,” Rosemary said doubtfully. Rosemary, bless her, is a great one for standing up for other people as well as for herself. “Actually,” she went on, “Edna says they’re having a coffee morning and produce sale at St. Mary’s this coming Saturday—do you fancy going along to see the dreaded Desmond in action there?”
Chapter Two
The church hall was quite busy when we arrived and most of the produce had gone, but Rosemary got some shortbread and a couple of tomato plants and I found a well-grown fuchsia that would go nicely in one of my planters. We located an empty table at the far end where the refreshments were being served, and Rosemary sat down while I went to get the coffees. Wendy was serving. She looked surprised to see me.
“Edna Palmer told us about it,” I said, “and I can never resist a produce sale! It’s being very well supported.”
“Yes, we usually have a good turnout, and everyone works very hard to make it a success.”
“The vicar will be pleased,” I said.
“Oh yes—though, of course, Desmond organized it all. Mr. Nicholas—he’s our vicar—has three parishes now and so many calls on his time.”
“He must be very grateful for all the help Desmond gives. Edna was telling us how much he does.”
“Desmond likes to keep busy.”
“I must let you get on,” I said. “I’m holding up the queue. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”
I’d just taken the coffees back to the table when Edna arrived.
“Well,” she said as she pulled out a chair from one of the other tables and sat down beside us. “Fancy seeing you two here!”
“We thought we’d come and see how your Mr. Barlow is running things,” Rosemary said.
“Running things is right,” Edna said scornfully. “Telling Beryl Robinson, who’s been in charge of the cakes for the past ten years, how she should arrange her stall! I can tell you, she nearly walked out there and then.”
“Goodness!” I said.
“And Sybil Wells—she looks after the books and CDs—she said he insisted on going through all the books and changing the prices. Apparently he’d heard of someone finding a first edition of something or other that was worth a fortune. Sybil said it made her laugh to see him going through all the piles of Mills and Boone and Catherine Cookson, but then he found some old gardening book or other and took it away to look it up on the Internet.”
“And was it valuable?” Rosemary asked.
Edna laughed. “No, of course it wasn’t. He came back with it looking quite embarrassed, and Sybil gave him one of her looks and marked it, while he was there, at 50p.”
“How splendid,” I said.
“Is the vicar here today?” Rosemary asked.
“Oh no, he always keeps well away from things Desmond Barlow is organizing. Poor Mr. Nicholas. He’s a nice man, but, really, with all he has to do these days—well, I suppose he’s glad enough to have someone to help. And he’s not the sort of person to say anything to anyone. Sybil said she was thinking of writing to the bishop, but as I said to her, you can’t very well complain about someone doing too much in the parish!”
“I suppose it’s better that someone does these things,” I said, “rather than not have them done at all.”
“That’s as may be,” Edna said, “but there’s been a lot of umbrage taken. Mr. and Mrs. Williams have left St. Mary’s and now they go to the Methodist church in the Avenue. And, mark my words, they won’t be the last. It’s hard enough to keep up a good congregation when that sort of thing is happening.” She caught sight of someone across the room and stood up. “Excuse me, I must go and speak to Beryl about the Parish Breakfast.”
“And I bet,” Rosemary said, “that’s being organized by Desmond Barlow as well!”
I laughed. “Where is he, anyway? I’d have thought he’d be keeping an eye on things, making sure everything’s going to plan.”
“There he is—over there, talking to that man with gray hair. They seem to be having some sort of serious conversation. The other man looks quite put out.”
“Desmond laying down the law again, I expect.”
“I don’t know. It looks too personal for that. I wonder what it’s about.” She got to her feet. “I think I’ll just go and have a look at those artificial flower arrangements.”
“But you hate artificial flowers….” I began as I saw Rosemary making her way towards the stall, which was near where Desmond and the other man were standing. People are always saying how inquisitive I am, but really, Rosemary’s just as bad, and, when she’s particularly interested in something, even more determined.
I watched with interest as she bent to examine some of the arrangements, but only a short while after she’d got there, Desmond broke away and went off towards the refreshment area, where he was obviously criticizing the way Wendy was stacking up the crockery.
Rosemary, having disappointed the artificial flower seller who’d felt sure of a sale, came back to our table.
“Well?” I said.
“No luck. They’d almost finished. But there really did seem to be something going on there.”
“How do you mean?”
“For a start, I got the impression the man wasn’t a parishioner.”
“Perhaps he just wanted to buy a homemade cake or a potted plant.”
Rosemary ignored my frivolous interruption. “There was defini
tely an atmosphere, some sort of tension between them. Desmond was saying, ‘I think, however high they take it, they’ll find it difficult to get anyone to take it seriously,’ and the other man said, ‘Don’t think they’ll let it rest there. It’s too big a thing and too important.’ Then Desmond went away and left the man before he’d even finished what he was saying.”
“It was probably just about some committee business, nothing earth shattering.”
“But the man was very angry. And Desmond, in spite of that unpleasant sneering manner of his, seemed quite shaken. There was a lot of emotion going on about whatever it was.”
“There’s a lot of emotion at Brunswick Lodge committee meetings,” I said.
“No, but seriously, Sheila, I do feel it was something important.”
“Oh well, we’ll probably never know.” I got up to join her. “Shall we go now? I think we’ve had all the excitement a church coffee morning can provide—whatever you think you heard. I must say, I thought you were going to have to buy that hideous beige-and-orange flower arrangement. It had feathers in it!”
Later, when I was tipping some old compost out of a planter to put in my new fuchsia, I did wonder what Desmond’s conversation had been about. “However high they take it” and “Too big a thing and too important”—it did sound more than the usual committee exchanges.
Perhaps Rosemary was right. I began to wonder what other things Desmond was involved in as well as St. Mary’s and the charity shop. Michael had mentioned some trusts; it could be something to do with one of them. Perhaps that was something I could find out about that might go some way to satisfying Rosemary’s curiosity. My train of thought was broken when I realized that the planter I’d emptied had been invaded by ants. So I had to put it to one side and find another one for the fuchsia that I was now beginning to regard with dislike.
The next day I was having Sunday lunch with the children, and I took the opportunity to ask Michael a little more about Desmond Barlow.
“Like I told you,” Michael said as he was putting out the table mats, “he’s connected with a couple of charitable trusts—one’s about providing low-cost housing for people and the other’s about facilities for youth training—nothing spectacular. Why are you so interested, anyway?”
“Just because of working with him, really, and because of something Rosemary overheard at the St. Mary’s coffee morning.”
“Oh, if you and Rosemary are off on one of your wild-goose chases! Poor man, little does he know what dark forces he’s unleashed.”
“No, honestly, it was a bit odd—all about high places and things being too important to let rest.”
“Come on, Ma. That could be anything.”
“I suppose so, but still—”
I couldn’t pursue the topic because Alice came into the room, carefully carrying a large salad bowl.
“Gran, Gran—I made it myself. I mixed the dressing and everything. Oh, and I helped Mummy make the trifle for pudding—I did the jelly and put the juice on the sponge cakes.”
Alice is going through a cooking phase, which we are all naturally eager to encourage, though Thea, who bears the brunt of it, has said that she does wish Alice was as excited about washing up afterwards.
I told Rosemary, when she phoned later, that as far as I could see, there didn’t seem to be anything sinister about Desmond’s activities; the conversation at St. Mary’s was probably just him being unpleasant as usual.
I had another opportunity to observe his unpleasantness on the Tuesday. I was putting out some more skirts on the rails when I saw Desmond outside looking in the window. He stood there for quite some time, occasionally writing in a small notebook. After a while he came into the shop and walked around, looking at the stock, making more notes and totally ignoring the staff and a couple of customers who watched him curiously. All this time he didn’t say a word to anyone, and no one (not even Norma, who was at the till) said anything to him. After about ten minutes he went away.
Jean went into the back room, and I followed her.
“What on earth was that about?” I asked.
She filled the kettle and switched it on before answering. “Oh, that’s his lordship putting us in our place.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s to show us he’s in charge and is keeping an eye on things. He does it from time to time.”
“I was surprised Norma didn’t say anything.”
“She did the first time, but you know what he’s like. He simply put her down. So after that, rather than be made to look a fool, she gave up. It’s just one of his little ways—we don’t take much notice now.”
She stopped talking since Wendy, who’d been out to get some biscuits, came back. I was touched to see how neither Jean nor Norma seemed to make any sort of comment about Desmond when Wendy was there. I suppose it’s because she’s such a gentle creature and we all feel so sorry for her that it would (as I told Rosemary afterwards) be like kicking a puppy to be unkind to her.
Later on, when Norma was in the shop and Wendy had left early (some errand she had to do for Desmond), I said to Jean, who was in the back unpacking some bric-a-brac, “If Desmond’s so horrible, why do you all stay?”
She put down a heavy cut-glass vase carefully on the table and thought for a moment.
“I suppose, basically, it’s because we were here first and we don’t see why someone like Desmond should drive us out. We enjoy working here; that’s why we volunteered in the first place. Wendy is here because of him, of course, and Norma is tremendously keen on her social position in the town and she thinks that doing Good Works will give her an entree into Taviscombe society!”
I laughed. “I can see that, but what about the others?”
“Margaret never married and Dorothy is a widow and her only son is in New Zealand—they need the company. It’s a bit like a family for them. Monica, as you know, was bullied into it initially by Margaret, but found she liked it and stayed on.”
“And what about you?”
“Oh, I’m a golf widow—George spends every day down at the golf club, the children are away and I got fed up stuck at home all day. I like Wendy and the others—Norma’s a bit of a pain, but I can laugh at her, so that’s all right. Besides, I think it’s a good cause. Don’t you?”
“Yes, it is. And I can see how none of you want to be pushed out of what you enjoy doing by Desmond’s unpleasantness.”
“Exactly.” She took another object, a grinning china cat, out of the box and looked at it critically. “What a grotesque looking creature—who on earth would buy that? Certainly not a cat lover!”
I was getting into the swing of things at the shop and quite looked forward to going in now. I was interested in the customers—some hunting for a bargain (and there were some really terrific bargains), some “just looking round,” and some (mostly visitors to the town) coming in out of the rain or looking for something to do when they had sampled the few entertainments the town offered. Then there were the professionals, looking for bargains that they might sell on or hoping (like Desmond) to find some valuable object underpriced because of ignorance—though with all the antiques programs on television, these days there’s not much chance of that. And, anyway, Desmond had a couple of dealers in from time to time to value things.
Those are the interesting ones. There are some, though, you dread seeing—the disagreeable ones who try to beat you down over the price in an aggressive manner; some who are downright rude; the shoplifters, of course (there are always some of them); and the mad ones. There was one girl, about eighteen, perhaps younger—very thin, dressed in torn jeans and a grubby T-shirt, with long, tangled hair, a lot of heavy eye makeup, and piercings on her nose and eyebrows. She never bought anything but would roam round the shop, taking the garments off their hangers and leaving them draped over the rails.
“Keep an eye on that one,” Jean said to me one day after the girl had prowled round the shop for a while and left. “We’ve never
actually caught her taking anything, but I’m sure she does.”
“Who is she?” I asked. “Do you know?”
“Oh yes, we know who she is. Her name’s Sophie Randall.”
“Randall? Nothing to do with Dr. Randall?”
“His daughter. It’s very sad, really—she’s been on and off drugs, run away from home twice, and goodness knows what else.”
“How awful. Her parents must be desperately worried.”
“Yes, I know all about poor Sophie,” Rosemary said. “I’ve only met Dr. Randall a few times, but they have a younger daughter, Daisy, who’s in the same class as my granddaughter Delia, so I see Mrs. Randall quite a bit at school things.”
“They must be frantic—I know I would be.”
“They’ve been through a lot. There was that time she ran away and was living in a really ghastly squat in Bristol—they found her through the Salvation Army, and Dr. Randall got her into some sort of drug rehabilitation scheme. Mrs. Randall hasn’t said anything—naturally—but I think they’re afraid Sophie is back on drugs again.”
“Oh dear. She certainly looks terrible.”
“Apparently she’s been hanging around with a really unsavory young man, some sort of Goth, or whatever they’re called, almost certainly on drugs and possibly a dealer. They’ve tried talking to her, but they’re terrified that if they come down too hard on her, she’ll run away again.”
“What about the sister?”
“Daisy? The absolute opposite—works hard at school, gold medal for the Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme, wants to be a doctor like her father.”
“And what does she think about Sophie? Has she tried to help?”
“She tried, but Sophie just laughs at her and calls her a stupid little loser. Daisy used to be very fond of her sister, but now—so Delia says—she’s just embarrassed, especially at school. Well, Sophie’s a very visible presence around the town, and you know how unkind some schoolchildren can be.”