‘She did indeed, Lady Templeton. Must go.’
He nodded to Anna as he squeezed past her on his way out.
Anna rubbed her eyes to make sure there were no tears lingering there, straightened her cassock and looked as brightly as she could at Muriel.
Slowly and deliberately Muriel said, ‘I’m glad it was I who came in just then, because I shan’t say a word of what I saw.’
‘Muriel! He was comforting me because I was crying, that’s all. Nothing more.’
‘Of course, my dear, I know that, but there are others who would delight in passing on what they’d seen. In your position you can’t be too careful.’ Oh, dear. Oh, dear. At such a time as this. Poor Dean. Poor Anna.
‘Terrible news, isn’t it, about the children. Peter and Caroline must be distraught.’
‘Anna, my dear, having no children of my own, I can’t even begin to understand what the pain must be like for them. We’ve known the twins since the day they were born, you know, they’re both very dear to us all. It’s so hard to bear. However, thank you for this morning. You held us together.’ She shut the door behind her and slowly made her way up the church and wished, how she wished, Peter and Caroline would be at the door saying good morning to everyone. But they wouldn’t be.
Throughout the night, silent figures could be seen making their way to the church to maintain the chain of prayer for Beth and Alex. From down Shepherd’s Hill they came, from Penny Fawcett, from Little Derehams, from big houses and tiny cottages, from Church Lane, Stocks Row and the Culworth Road, an army of sympathizers praying with desperate hope in their hearts for Peter and Caroline and that the children might be recovered safe and sound.
It had a profound effect on the village. What should have been a fun week looking forward to the midnight skinny-dipping event became more sad than they could have ever imagined. Sales in the Store suffered and Jimbo was inundated with people coming to see if there was any more news, standing around and cluttering up the floor space but not spending money. He chided himself for thinking on those terms but his thoughts were really the outcome of his pain. He had two more emails from Peter, each saying nothing more had been heard, not even a ransom note, which might have given a smidgen of hope.
But time moved on, intricate arrangements had been made, and, willy-nilly, the skinny-dipping had to take place as a demonstration of their steadfast faith, if nothing else.
Chapter 14
Early on the Saturday morning, the men installing the temporary lighting arrived to begin work in the back garden of the Store ready for the Sponsored Skinny Dipping at midnight. They arrived with a large van which they parked at the bus stop, an action which rattled the bus driver when he arrived to take everyone into Culworth for their shopping. ‘Who’s this, then? Making a film are we?’ he asked sarcastically as he drew up alongside the van.
There was quite a crowd waiting for the bus and they informed him of the reason for the van.
‘A skinny-dipping? Good God! You lot?’
With as much dignity as she could muster given her vivid red hair, Greta Jones said, ‘Yes, for charity.’
‘What the hell will you get up to next?’
‘You never know. We’re not some flea-bitten ancient dump like Little Derehams, we have ideas.’
‘You can say that again. Get on, then. Sharp’s the word this morning.’ He took the money for the tickets, meticulously checked each free pass and launched the bus on its journey by stamping on the accelerator before everyone was seated. Those not already sat down lurched and careered about the aisle as though they’d been imbibing since dawn.
‘I’m complaining about ’im.’
‘It’s disgusting, it is.’
‘Absolutely disgusting. He isn’t fit to be on the road.’
Mrs Jones shouted down the bus, ‘You’re right there; he isn’t fit to drive a horse and cart, never mind a public vehicle.’
Vince, dragged out by Greta and Paddy for a bit of shopping in Culworth, which he hated, gave vent to his spleen by shouting, ‘I’m definitely reporting ’im. He’ll be injuring someone doing that. He’s a maniac.’
At this the driver slapped the brakes on and came to an abrupt halt just as he was turning into the Culworth Road. He stood up, faced the crowded bus and yelled, ‘Right, everybody off! I’m not going another inch. Why should I drive you anywhere at all? You do nothing but complain. Come on. All off. I’m taking the bus back to the bus station.’
Complete silence greeted this, until Paddy said with delighted surprise, ‘Well, now, would you believe it! In that case you can take us with you, ’cos that’s just where we want to go.’
There was an hilarious uproar at this remark.
‘It is. It is.’
‘Handy that is.’
‘Right to the bus station! Good on yer, mate!’
The driver decided to wipe the smiles from their faces. ‘Empty. Not full of you ungrateful, miserable lot. Come on. Off the bus.’
Children began to cry, fearing they were losing their chance of a McDonald’s and toys in the market. Mothers remembered all the things they needed and couldn’t buy in Turnham Malpas. Older people were disgruntled at missing their weekly trudge round the stalls.
‘Here! That won’t do! We’ve paid!’
Vince shouted, ‘Listen here, you! Sit down, turn that key and get a move on. The bargains’ll all be gone before we get there.’
‘Do yer job and do it right. We put up with enough from you week in week out.’
At this, the driver got out and went to sit on the low wall beside the road. He folded his arms and looked very determined. Immovable in fact.
Paddy decided to teach him a lesson. Action was needed and action they’d get. This could be his moment for showing just what he was made of. Could he do it? Yes, he could. There was nothing a Cleary couldn’t do once he’d made up his mind. He’d never driven a bus in his life – he didn’t even have a driving licence for a car let alone a public transport vehicle – but swift action was required, pronto, and he was just the man for a crisis. He rose nonchalantly to his feet, strolled to the front of the bus as though getting off, but instead nipped swiftly over the barrier around the driver’s seat and before you could say Jack Robinson he had turned the ignition key, put the bus in gear with a considerable amount of grinding and grunting, and set off, to gasps of astonishment and loud cheers from the passengers.
As for the driver, he was so astounded by Paddy driving away, almost a whole minute passed before he leaped to his feet and began to run after the bus as it jerked along the road, but he was no match for Paddy’s driving. Paddy went off at speed, great gusts of fumes coming from the exhaust, and the driver gave up almost as he started, seeing that catching it was patently impossible. Instead he ran to the phone box outside the Store and rang the bus depot to tell them his bus had been stolen. It took quite five minutes of explanation and protestations before they finally accepted what he told them. They hustled to organize a police reception to wait for Paddy when he turned into the Culworth Bus Station and, when he did, they arrested him immediately.
‘You can’t arrest him!’ Sheila protested. ‘He’s swimming tonight at our skinny-dipping.’
Greta added, ‘He only did it because the driver refused to drive us. It wasn’t his fault.’
‘Now, come on,’ said Vince, hoping to get them to see reason, ‘he’s a good lad, is Paddy. He doesn’t deserve this.’
But it was all to no avail. Paddy was arrested and that was that. Theft. Driving without a licence. In charge of a public vehicle while unauthorized to be so. Reckless driving … The list was apparently endless. It was a wonder it didn’t include kidnapping, too.
Paddy, considerably concerned about the predicament he was in, nevertheless put on a brave face. ‘See yer tonight. Don’t fret, Sheila, I’ll be there. This won’t take long, you’ll see.’
‘He’s a hero he is. A hero.’ They all gathered round and cheered and clapped Paddy as he
was marched away. Facts were facts though: Paddy was being charged.
The whole incident fired everyone up and they found themselves liking Paddy, forgetting how angry he’d made them and the trouble he’d caused in the past.
By four o’clock in the afternoon Paddy was back in Turnham Malpas, having cadged a lift in Jimmy Glover’s taxi.
Greta greeted him with joy. ‘You’re back! Wonderful. Did they feed you?’
Vince was more concerned about Paddy’s fate and asked what had happened.
‘Court appearance in a few weeks. They’ll let me know. I could eat a horse. Any chance of some food, Ma?’
Greta noticed he’d said ‘Ma’ and it went right to her heart. ‘Of course there is, son. Sit down. It’ll be ready in a minute. A doorstep with Jimbo’s special smoked ham? Mustard?’
‘Just right. Thanks.’ Paddy settled comfortably before the fire, him on one side and Vince the other. They smiled at each other and Vince leaned across to pat his knee, glad to have him back.
Sheila had reached an all-time height of panic. What if this skinny-dipping didn’t work? What if it rained heavily? What if it was a bitterly cold night? What if the lights didn’t work? What if everyone went ultra-modest and daren’t, wouldn’t, downright refused to swim? The sponsorship money wouldn’t come in and they’d be letting Peter and Caroline down so badly.
Ron comforted her as best he could, but everything he said she turned back on itself and moaned louder than ever. Her hands were shaking, her throat as dry as the bottom of a parrot’s cage, she started out through the door without her coat, she left her clipboard on the hall table and had to unlock the door again, she left her bag propped on the umbrella stand for some strange reason, which caused utmost confusion as she searched for it, and altogether she was in no fit state to organize a knees-up in a brewery let alone the delicate matter of people stripping to the buff and plunging into a pool on a chilly autumn night.
‘Whyever did I suggest this? I must have been mad.’
‘Well, you did and you’ll have to get on with it. I did say it was a bit daring but you didn’t listen to me, did you?’
‘No. Because I never do. Come on, what are you standing about for and holding me up? You’re always so slow.’
They left at half past eleven. Jimbo and Harriet had organized several areas at the back of the Store for people to undress in. Everyone had been asked to bring their own bathing towel, to wear it until they stood at the pool edge, then swim two lengths, climb out, pick up their towel, drape it round themselves and go back inside to get dried. It all appeared very simple written on the now well-known clipboard, and Sheila knew nothing could go wrong. But she was horrified when she saw the floodlights. Surely they were far too bright?
Jimbo agreed, and switched off two very prominent ones, which reduced the lighting to more a modest glow.
Sheila bent down and dipped her hand in the water. ‘Jimbo, it’s dreadfully cold.’
‘Sorry, it’s the very best we can do.’
‘All right then, but it would have been better just that bit warmer.’
‘It’s not a bath, Sheila. This is the hottest it gets.’
Ron tried to calm her fears. ‘They’ll be in and out before they realize how cold it is. Don’t worry, old girl.’
She swung round on him saying with gritted teeth. ‘Don’t call me “old girl” ever again. Not tonight nor any other night. I’m not your old girl.’
‘You’re right, you’re not. Sorry.’
His abject apology did nothing to improve her nerves. She fluttered about with a major hysterical outburst only just below the surface. Gradually the people began to arrive, not just the swimmers but people wanting to watch. A split-second decision had to be made. ‘Very well, then, five … no ten pounds to watch. OAP’s five pounds. Everybody stand this side of the pool so’s not to get in the way of the swimmers jumping in. That’s right, this side, and you can put your ten-pound notes in this box here look.’ She produced a cash box from inside her bag with a flourish rather like a magician and held it under their noses. Inspired, she called out, ‘And another five pounds for each camera.’
Things were getting out of hand. There were people all over the place. She couldn’t cope. Why had she ever thought of this? She must be the biggest fool. She’d have to move. That’s what, she’d move house ’cos she’d never dare show her face again in the village. Ever.
Somehow it all sorted itself out and before she knew it, the church clock had struck twelve, Jimbo had rung a handbell to announce the start of the swim and they were off!
Gilbert jumped in, they just caught a glimpse of his powerful shoulders and his long legs and he was in swimming furiously, he did a very professional turn at the end of the pool, swam a stunning butterfly stroke all the way back, leaped out and grabbed his towel. It was Gilbert they’d all fancied seeing but he’d jumped, swum, turned, swum and got out before they’d had a chance to admire his physique. Bit disappointing that.
Next was Maggie Dobbs wanting to get it over with before she lost her nerve. She’d certainly lost weight and was looking positively sylphlike as she sat on the edge and slipped in. She swam much more slowly than Gilbert but nevertheless put up a good performance – she’d never let on she’d been to Culworth pool to practise – and they clapped her as she got out. In her haste to be decent she dropped the towel as she was putting it round herself and got a cheer and a loud ‘Wow!’ from someone.
Paddy had had two swift double whiskies in the Store kitchen just before he ventured out, so swam his two lengths in an alcoholic haze. He got thunderous applause for bowing to them all, before he put the towel back on.
By this time there were villagers peering over the hedgerow by standing on chairs they’d dragged out from their homes. It was the best entertainment they’d had in years. All free, too. But not for long. Sheila came round shaking her cash tin and telling them she was disgusted with them for leering over the hedge and they weren’t going to escape her tin.
Next to come was Greta Jones. Whether it was on purpose or not – he flatly denied later that it was, but the music which Jimbo played for her appearance was not Fingal’s Cave as he’d promised but the cancan, so she made her way to the pool kicking her legs as high as she dare, flinging her towel down and leaping into the pool like a twenty-year-old. The crowd roared their approval and those balancing on chairs the other side of the hedge had to hang on to each other for fear of falling off as they cheered and laughed every inch of the way.
There hadn’t been a night in the village when everyone had had such fun.
Dean and Rhett followed next, they’d had an argument in the bar and bet each other they wouldn’t dare, but they did, and the two of them swam together side by side. Angie Turner came next and she got wolf whistles because her figure was so slim and taut, and altogether delightful. It put the pyjama party right in the shade.
Despite the hour and the cold, they stayed there until the end and no one took fright and wouldn’t swim; after all, there was too much money at stake. The last one to go was Harriet Charter-Plackett. She’d just turned to begin her second length when a loud noise, not unlike a police siren, could be heard approaching. At first no one noticed except for Sheila who heard every waver of the siren and went into complete hysteria, though somewhat relieved that Jimbo must have gone to attend to them because he was nowhere to be seen.
Then, before it registered with anyone else, two powerful torches were making their way across the garden and a loud voice said, ‘Now then, what’s going on here?’
It was the two police officers who had arrested Greta Jones and Grandmama Charter-Plackett that day in the market. Someone snatched up Harriet’s towel and held it up so she could climb out of the pool with complete modesty. The main floodlights, which Jimbo had turned off, sprang to life and there they all were, watching in horror. The two police officers took out their notebooks. The larger of the two said, ‘Streaking in public, causing a furore, causin
g a public nuisance – what is going on?’
Jimbo, who had returned, began to explain.
‘Who organized this?’
There was a silence and then Jimbo replied, ‘The Women’s Institute.’
‘I need a name.’
What could Sheila do but step forward? ‘Me.’
‘Name?’
‘La … Sheila Bissett.’ Couldn’t say ‘Lady’, it obviously wasn’t a thing a Lady would do.
‘What is the purpose of this exhibition?’
‘To raise money for the New Hope Fund.’
Greta Jones had appeared in the garden having now dressed herself and was wondering why the music had stopped. When she recognized the two police officers she almost had a heart attack. Thank God she was dressed.
‘Names, we need the names of everyone. No one is to leave without giving their name.’
So they went round taking names. Most of the crowd were dreadfully shocked by what was happening. If this turned into a prosecution they might be mentioned in the Gazette. Then what would people say? They’d never get over it. It’ud give Turnham Malpas a bad name and not half. So a few gave false names, others were truthful and Jimbo tried to intervene by saying, ‘Now, come on, officers, we’re doing it for charity, not to leer and to be disgusting. The swimmers are all sponsored, you see.’
‘Have you got police permission for this, then?’
Everyone looked at Sheila.
‘Police permission? I didn’t know we needed it. It’s just a private party.’
‘Private party you say? Really?’ The officer looked sceptical at this and pointed to the frozen figures standing on chairs, though there were fewer than at first as some had taken the chance to scuttle home with their chairs when they realized names were being taken. Then, extra loud unfamiliar music broke the silence; it was certainly stick-your-fingers-in-your-ears kind of volume. The police constable taking the notes suddenly flung his notepad over his shoulder and in time to the music began unbuttoning his jacket. What the …
Whispers in the Village Page 17