A Tangled Web

by Ann Purser

  Ivy's front room was spotless, no speck of dust and every surface polished until it seemed an affront to put even a handbag down on the table. A photograph of Mr and Mrs Beasley, unsmiling, stood on a bureau by the fireplace, watching Ivy's every move.

  Each piece of furniture was solid and well-made, the pictures on the walls were respectable prints of Scottish glens and lochs, and the curtains heavy maroon damask. There was nothing frivolous, no rash purchases made on seaside holidays, no cushions with embroidered kittens, no laughing snaps of the Beasley family caught enjoying a joke.

  'There's Ellen,' said Doris Ashbourne. 'Shall I let her in, Ivy?'

  Ellen Biggs, breathing fast from her walk and the ascent of Ivy's front steps, took off a light purple garment, which in its day had been called a duster coat. She pulled her beige lacy cardigan well down over a sugar-pink cotton skirt and looked at herself in the hall-stand mirror. Her thick brown stockings had wrinkled a little over comfortable canvas shoes, but on the whole Ellen was pleased with the general effect.

  'You bin cooking, Ivy?' she said, her eyes taking in the small table set with a fresh white cloth, and a perfect Victoria jam sponge in pride of place.

  'Just had time to bake a quick cake,' said Ivy casually.

  Doris raised her eyebrows and smiled at Ellen. Ivy was an excellent cook, judged the produce classes at local shows, and singlehandedly kept alive the spirit of jam and Jerusalem in Ringford Wl.

  'That were quite a bombshell this mornin', Ivy,' said Ellen, when tea had been handed round and the light sponge cake broached and served on Ivy's mother's best china plates.

  'Poor Cyril,' said Doris, 'I remember when he first come to the village, a young man all alone in that great vicarage. Many's the time he sat having a cup of tea and a warm in my kitchen.'

  'Pity 'e never married,' said Ellen, 'though some say 'e 'ad plenty of chances.'

  'It isn't given to all of us,' said Ivy grimly. 'Some people get on quite well without being wed.'

  'Quite right, Ivy,' said Doris, 'and come to that, Ellen, none of us can remember the late Mr Biggs ...'

  'God rest 'is soul,' said Ellen devoutly. The truth was that Ellen had long ago been very nearly married, and had felt no guilt in subsequently taking on the honorary tide given to all cooks in the kitchens of great houses.

  'Well, it's one more gone from the village,' said Ivy. 'Makes you wonder who'll be next for the grim reaper.'

  Doris Ashbourne delicately wiped crumbs from the corners of her mouth with a paper tea napkin.

  'That's quite enough of that, Ivy,' she said. She had noticed a shadow cross old Ellen's face, and judged it time for a change of subject. 'There's still a lot for us to do,' she continued, 'and I for one mean to be useful for many years yet.'

  Ellen gave herself a shake, and sat up as straight as her bent shoulders would allow.

  'Another piece of cake, Ivy,' she said, 'would go down a treat.'

  Ivy cut a wedge of sponge for Ellen and another for Doris, and, as the conversation seemed in danger of drying up, went to stand by the window, looking out across the Green, hoping for a subject for comment.

  Heavy clouds lowered over the village, and the air was thick with moisture. It was like a big greenhouse, thought Ivy, all the colours so bright, and everything growing so fast you could almost see it happening. Her small front garden was full of flowers: pansies and forget me-nots and sweet-scented wallflowers, all planted in neat, orderly rows.

  'What's Bill Turner doing to that tree?' she said, pulling back the lace curtain. Doris and Ellen got up and the three women stood staring at the big chestnut on the school corner of the Green.

  'There's a dead branch needs lopping,' said Doris. 'Doreen Price was telling me, Bill and her Tom are doing it.'

  The Prices were farmers, and had lived in the village for generations. Tom was Chairman of the Parish Council, and his wife Vice-President of the WI. Tradition kept the President's job in the gift of the squire's lady, but Doreen Price was the one who got things done. Tom and Bill were good friends, and could cope with most of the parish jobs needing a couple of strong men and a ladder. As the women watched, ropes were slung over branches and the chainsaw's earsplitting whine started up.

  'There she goes, trust her not to be left out if Bill Turner's anywhere about,' said Ivy tartly.

  Peggy Palmer, neat and quick, walked across the road from the shop and stood watching as the men took off the dead branch and lowered it gently to the ground.

  'Don't you never leave off, our Ivy?' said old Ellen. 'Ain't that poor man got trouble enough at'ome, without you addin' to it?'

  'Trouble of his own making, if you ask me,' said Ivy Beasley.

  'Nobody is asking you, Ivy,' said Doris Ashbourne, 'and Peggy Palmer can do with a little charity after all she's been through, and not your everlasting sniping.'

  Ivy sniffed and shrugged her shoulders.

  'As my dear mother used to say,' she pronounced firmly, 'charity begins at home.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Peggy Palmer watched Bill and Tom cut the big branch into shorter, manageable pieces and load them into the trailer. They brushed up twigs brought down by the amputation, and climbed into the Land Rover. Tom leaned out of the window and smiled.

  'Right-o then, Peggy,' he said, 'I'll tell Doreen, another six dozen eggs if possible. You ready, then, Bill?'

  Peggy looked at Bill, and he nodded to her without speaking, as if affirming something secret, and the Land Rover drove off, Tom's old sheep dog barking wildly from her usual place in the trailer.

  Peggy returned to the shop, and was quickly followed by a tall, red-complexioned man, a lock of hair falling over his face as he stooped in the low doorway.

  'Could have helped myself, Mrs Palmer,' he said. 'You must be careful when you leave the shop unattended.'

  Mind your own business, thought Peggy, but smiled at him dutifully.

  He was not, anyway, likely to be a big spender. Richard Standing was Ringford's hereditary squire, living in the Hall with his languid wife Susan, in a style which would have horrified his parents. By making do with a part-time cleaner and simplifying the grounds and gardens, the Standings held on to the estate which had been in their family for hundreds of years. It was a struggle, but Richard Standing could not imagine living anywhere else.

  'What can I get for you?' Peggy straightened a display of birthday cards, askew from the last customer.

  'Just a packet of envelopes, please,' said Richard Standing. I might have known it, thought Peggy, and sighed. Although a small weekly order went up to the Hall, she knew that, like most of the families in the village, the bulk of their supplies came from the Supa Shop at Tresham.

  'Very sad about Reverend Collins,' she said, 'it will be difficult to replace such a popular man.'

  'Such a good fellow,' agreed Richard Standing. 'Who could be better?'

  'I think a family would be nice,' said Peggy. 'At least they'd fill up some of those rooms, warm the place up a bit.'

  'Not the first duty of the incumbent, though, Mrs Palmer, to fill the vicarage with children,' said Richard.

  'Incumbent?' said old Ellen, looming up behind him. She had left Ivy Beasley's and come directly into the shop for a tin of cocoa for her bedtime drink. 'Incumbent?' she repeated, making much of the word. 'Swallowed a dictionary, 'ave you, young Richard?' This excess of familiarity was allowed old Ellen, because she had known Richard Standing since he first squawled into the world, and had been his favourite companion in the kitchens during the long, boring school holidays.

  'Come on, Ellen,' he said, 'get your shopping and I'll give you a lift back to the Lodge.'

  ' 'E's not a bad bloke,' said Ellen, as Mr Richard left the shop and waited outside for her in his big silver car. 'Bin 'appy as a san'boy since his Susan came back- taught him a lesson he won't forget, I reckon.'

  'It was a storm in a teacup, Ellen, nothing more. Anything else today?'

  'That's it, my dear,' said Ellen, 's
oon be time to put up the shutters and 'ave a nice cuppa. You look tired, and no wonder. Get yer feet up and watch the telly for a couple of hours, that's what I recommend.'

  *

  But Peggy had other plans for refreshing her soul and body after the long day in the shop. She locked up, fed her she-cat Gilbert, and pulled on boots and anorak. 'Back soon, Gilbertiney,' she said, and let herself out of the side gate next to the shop.

  Bagley Woods were damp and cool, and the undergrowth soon made dark wet patches on Peggy's light-coloured skirt. 'God, these nettles have grown inches overnight!' she muttered, picking up a piece of stick and thrashing her way through waist-high stingers. As she lashed out fiercely at the tough, hairy stems, they seemed to fight back, and she gasped in alarm as a frightened young rabbit started up from under her feet and ran crazily through the underbrush. From beech and ash trees all around her, wood pigeons, disturbed by the noisy intruder, clattered into flight, and low, twiggy branches left bits of leaf in her hair as she ducked underneath.

  Coming out with relief into a clear path bordering the wood, she saw pink-tipped shoots of wild honeysuckle in the hedge, and felt calmed and delighted at the delicate colour and the promise of scented summer days. Her mood lightening, she struck off into the wood again, across a carpet of bluebells, the heavenly colour shimmering through the trees. Her boots flattened the shiny leaves, and she looked back to see her own trail clearly marked. She emerged into a clearing where an old oak had been felled, leaving a broad stump surrounded by smooth, sandy greensward, dotted with tiny white woodruff flowers.

  Warm from the climb up Bagley Hill and her struggle with the nettles, she took off her anorak, spreading it over the stump to give her a dry place to sit down. She shaded her eyes from the evening sun, brilliant again after a heavy shower of rain. The village lay before her in its protected hollow, and she could identify every feature.

  'Poor old Cyril,' she said, 'all by himself all those years in that gloomy vicarage . . .'

  'Talking to yourself again, Peg?' Bill Turner came up behind her and planted a kiss on the top of her tangled hair. She turned, smiling, and he kissed her again. Then she shifted to one side, and he sat down close to her, taking her small hand in his, squeezing it gently.

  'How's my Peg today?' he said. 'No more broadsides from Old Beasley?'

  'Not directed at me,' said Peggy, leaning her head against Bill's shoulder. 'She and old Ellen had their usual barney. Keeps them going, the two of them.'

  'Wicked old tabs,' said Bill absently, carefully pulling pieces of twig from Peggy's hair.

  'And Joyce?' said Peggy tentatively. 'Has she been playing up?'

  'No more than usual,' said Bill, sighing, 'but I couldn't get her to eat at dinnertime. Sometimes she eats it after I've gone out again, but not today. There was cold bacon and egg still on the plate when I looked in.'

  'Oh Bill, I'm so sorry,' said Peggy, touching his cheek with a warm, loving hand. He turned and put his arms round her, holding her tight, kissing her softly at first.

  'Peggy, oh Peggy,' he muttered, 'it isn't easy ...' He released her and sat, hunched and defeated, his head bowed.

  Peggy smoothed his hair, kissed him and tasted salt on his closed eyelids. 'Don't Bill, don't…I wish I could help…but…oh, I don't know...'

  Bill kissed her again, and she pushed him gently away. Smiling shakily, she opened his waterproof jacket, and smoothed her hands over his broad chest, feeling the solid strength of him through his thin shirt. She slid her arms tightly around him under the jacket, drawing him close until she could feel his warmth hard against her, enclosing her.

  'What now, then?' said Bill, fuzzily into her ear.

  And then it was Frank, laughingly turning her over towards him in their marital bed, and she shook her head, pulling away and frowning.

  'Oh Lord, I'm sorry, Bill,' she said, 'sod it all.’

  Bill took a deep breath and stood back. 'We'd better walk, then, gel,' he said, 'I'm not made of wood.'

  They wandered off through the trees, hand in hand, Bill pulling aside brambles for Peggy to walk safely, like young lovers oblivious of the world.

  But the world in the shape of Ivy Beasley was far from oblivious of them. Her eagle eye was trained on the street, watching for their return. Bill had anticipated this, and he and Peggy parted in the trees, Bill going back past the new houses and along the footpath behind the cricket pavilion, straight home to Macmillan Gardens, while Peggy continued on down the road into the main street, and up the path at the side of the shop.

  Doreen Price, large and solid, very much the farmer's wife, driving slowly with her trays of eggs for the shop, saw Peggy in her muddy boots and knew exactly where she had been. And it's none of my business, she thought, though I hope to God she knows what she's doing.

  'You had a run on eggs, then, Peggy?' said Doreen. She was a broad-hipped, cheerful woman, and Peggy's best friend.

  'Everybody's baking today,' said Peggy. 'Thanks for bringing them down.'

  Doreen put the eggs on Peggy's kitchen table and settled herself on to a chair. Her solid figure was reassuring, comfortably at ease.

  'Going to WI tonight?' she said.

  Peggy nodded. She appreciated the companionship of the village women, and had been borne up by their kindness after Frank died. Ringford Women's Institute was one of the oldest in the county, and, though perhaps a bit slow to take on new ideas, maintained the comforting strength of a long established rural institution.

  'I've found the very first Minute Book, nineteen twenty six,' said Doreen, 'thought I'd pass it round for members to see how it all started.'

  'Any names we'd know?' said Peggy, filling the kettle and putting it to boil on the Raybum.

  'Mr Richard's grandmother was founding President, and old Mrs Beasley served as Honorary Secretary for years. They used to meet in the orangery up at the Hall.'

  'Mrs Beasley was Ivy's mum, I presume?' said Peggy.

  'She was a very strict woman,' said Doreen, 'kept a firm hand on Ivy and a sharp tongue for anybody she disapproved of. Caused a lot of trouble, one way and another, Granny Price used to say. She was not a popular woman, and folks were afraid of her. She had an all-seeing eye.'

  'Are you trying to tell me something, Doreen?' said Peggy, looking straight at her friend.

  'Maybe,' said Doreen, 'you'll know yourself well enough, I dare say.'

  Nothing more was said, but Peggy went to bed that night feeling frustrated and guilty. Her husband, her only companion for so many years, was still as real to her as when they moved to Ringford with such high hopes, and yet up there in the woods she had wanted Bill with an urgency she had never once felt with Frank.

  What am I to do, my poor love? She said to the photograph smiling at her from the bedside table. It would be a lot easier if Bill were unattached, she thought, but not only is there Frank still popping unannounced into my mind, but the real live problem presence of Joyce, always there and always a threat of infinite complication.

  Peggy moved over to Frank's side of the bed, trying and failing to gain some comfort from the ever-smiling face, and waited for sleep to come.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  'And where were you last evening?' said Joyce Turner, from her chair in the corner of the sitting room. 'Everybody else's husband was home to tea, but not Bill Turner, oh no, he was out with his fancy woman up Bagley Woods, like some randy little teenager!' The last words were loud and thrown at him like a weapon.

  The Turners lived in Macmillan Gardens, a cluster of council houses set back from the main street. Across the far end, with a good view of the Green, were the old persons' bungalows, with tiny gardens where retired people, used to their own produce, could still grow a few potatoes and peas to eat as a treat with their small Sunday joints of spring lamb.

  Bill Turner's house was distinguished by a high privet hedge, and windows perpetually blanked off by layers of drawn curtains.

  He had found Joyce in bed with the door locked a
gainst him when he returned home, his head still full of thoughts of Peggy. He'd made a sandwich and watched television, and then retired to the hard little bed in the spare room, where he slept fitfully.

  This morning, Joyce was still wearing yesterday's grubby pink dressing-gown and down-at-heel slippers, and her uncombed hair fell forward over her pale, discontented face. 'You promised to get washed and dressed today,' Bill said, ignoring her uncanny gift for guessing right. 'Why don't you go and smarten up now, while I'm getting breakfast? Ivy will be in later, with your magazines.'

  'Not feeling well enough,' she said, with a pout and a little girl voice that used to work with Bill, but no longer had any effect.

  'There's nothing wrong with you, Joyce,' said Bill wearily.

  'You know what the doctor said - try and get out and take your mind off yourself for a bit.'

  Joyce got slowly to her feet, an unattractive, slovenly figure, wincing as she put her feet to the ground. 'What does he know?' she said. 'Stupid old fool in his dotage. He don't know what I've suffered all these years, nobody does.'

  Bill wondered whether to tell her exactly what he thought of all of it - the dreadful miscarriage, the long years of blame and mourning and reclusion, the sluttishness and vindictive revenge, the jealousy and recriminations- how tired he was of her and everything to do with their travesty of a marriage. Or should he humour and pacify her as usual, buying a few more days of uneasy truce?

  'Joycey,' he said, 'couldn't you just try, just this once? I'll get a nice piece of fish from Len's van, and we could have a proper tea, sitting up at the table. You could make yourself look decent - there's still plenty of clothes up there in your cupboard, and you...'