A Tangled Web

by Ann Purser

  Doreen, and took a deep, defensive gulp of wine.

  'A WOMAN!' said Ivy, putting the cork firmly in the bottle. 'I trust you are not serious, Mrs Price, that wine is quite strong, you know.'

  Doreen stood up, and felt the room swim. She hung on to the back of the chair, and, trying hard to collect her balance and her dignity, she made for the door. 'I'm perfectly serious, Ivy,' she said, 'it will have to be considered.'

  On a bright, sunny day, with the wind fresh and lively, and the Ringle high and in a hurry, the Reverend Cyril Collins was laid to rest in the little cemetery across the road from the churchyard.

  Gabriella played a cheerful piece by Handel, one of Cyril's favourites, as the congregation gathered, and Tom Price and Richard Standing stood by the door, welcoming a small, self consciously sombre group of distant relations. The many villagers who came to make their farewells smiled and chatted, as they knew their old vicar would have wanted.

  From her seat at the organ, Gabriella saw the sunlight streaming in through the stained glass, making coloured patterns on the pale stone floor in the chancel. She thought how many times Cyril Collins must have seen this, and thanked his God for all the natural beauties of the world. None of us knew him very well, she reflected, but he always seemed happy and content. His private time was spent amongst books and papers, and once or twice he had mentioned writing articles for learned journals. But nobody she knew had ever read them, and they were put away modestly in his desk drawer, with old photographs and yellowing letters from Oxford and Cambridge colleagues.

  With endless patience and understanding, he had gone about his parish, listening and ministering, always making time for families in trouble, never discriminating between those who came to his church and those who didn't.

  The undertakers carried his simple coffin down the little path, slippery and dangerous in winter, but now dry and safe for the people following slowly, crossing the narrow lane and grouping around the freshly dug grave.

  The wind blew strongly, billowing the surplice of Cyril's rector friend as he pronounced the final blessing. Ivy Beasley clutched her hat, and Doreen Price grabbed at her service sheet as it blew out of her hands and landed against the mossy tombstone marking the grave of Tom's long dead great grandmother Price.

  'End of an era,' said Doreen, as she walked down the road with Tom, back to the farm and the routine of jobs which must be done, animals fed and made safe for the night.

  'He was a good old boy,' said Tom, 'we shall not find it easy to replace him.'

  'You'd best get those clothes off as soon as we get back,' said Doreen, quickening her step. 'Cyril wouldn't have wanted your best suit going to the cleaners after one afternoon's wearing.'

  Tom looked at her in surprise, but, seeing that she was perfectly serious, he nodded, and they walked back in silence over the bridge, along the Green and up the quiet street to the farm, each thinking of Cyril Collins and the indelible place he had earned for himself in the history of Round Ringford.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  'We can't have a woman parson, surely,' said Foxy to Jean Jenkins, who had just heard the news from Peggy in the shop. 'It wouldn't do for Ringford.'

  'Well, Mr Richard seems to think so,' said Jean. She got up from the table, took an apple from the draining board, and began to peel it. 'You're right, of course, Fox, but you can't help wonderin' if it wouldn't be a bit of a lark.' She cut the apple into small pieces and put it on a saucer in front of Eddie. Gemma and Amy finished their dinner at the same moment, and said in unison, 'Please can we get down,' being half off their seats before they got to the end of the sentence. Mark, a solid lad, overweight like his mother, chewed on, always a slow eater, but in any case anxious to hear how this conversation of his parents developed. Eddie, in his high chair, dropped half-chewed lumps of apple to the terrier waiting beneath, who obligingly ate them. Then he dropped the saucer, and it shattered noisily. After calm was restored,

  Foxy returned to the subject.

  'I still think it should be a family man,' he said. 'They were having it over in the pub last night, and Tom Price were laying down the law about no new fancy ways and suchlike. Mind you, I agree . . .'

  'When did you last go to church, Foxy my lad?' said Jean

  Jenkins, thumping him affectionately on the shoulder. 'You wouldn't know one end of a hymn book from the other.'

  'Nor would you, come to that,' said Fox defensively, 'but that ain't the point. The church belongs to the village, and that means the vicar has to do what's right for the village. Always was like that in Cyril's day, and should continue, if you ask me.'

  'I don't know,' said Jean, 'Reverend Collins told me one morning when we were havin' our coffee- he used to love to talk, poor old Cyril- he said that when he first come here, he was full of new ideas and plans for what he would do in the village- wake 'em up and get lots of new young people in the church. But them old biddies on the PCC and doin' the brasses and that, they took the heart out of him, gradually, he said, and in the end he just did what they wanted.'

  'But he did it his way,' said Fox, 'so he won in the end.'

  A sharp clacking of heels shifted their minds to the present, and Fox's head jerked to one side, listening, just like his namesake.

  'Fox, come here and look at those two,' said Jean, smiling and looking out of the window into the garden. Gemma and Amy, each pushing a doll's pram with doll neatly tucked up inside, stalked unsteadily down the concrete path between the neat rows of lettuces and peas, each wearing a pair of Jean's best high-heeled shoes.

  'It'll be smack bums for those two,' said Fox, 'if they don't ask first before taking your shoes.'

  'And lipstick,' said Jean happily. 'Look at their faces!'

  The normally pale faces of the twins shone with cream liberally applied and scarlet lipstick inexpertly smudged with a speedy and furtive hand.

  Jean opened the window and called out in a loud and angry voice, 'Gemma! Amy! Just you get in 'ere and see what I've got to say!'

  The twins looked at each other and smiled. They turned their prams and tottered obediently back up towards the house, knowing in their telepathic way that their mother was not all that cross, not really.

  *

  Bill walked over the river bridge, and stopped to look into the water, his watchful eye noting that the water-weed was getting too thick again under the stone arches and would need sorting out. He looked back at the church, the weathercock shining in the morning sun, and thought for the hundredth time that anybody but his Joyce would be happy to live in such a village.

  He had come across the fields from a spinney far over towards Fletching, where he and Mr Richard planned to make a hide for Susan Standing to pursue her new enthusiasm for bird-watching.

  The hedgerows were full of flowers, the result of Mr Richard's ordering a stop to blanket spraying of fertiliser and insecticides. Bill had seen misty-blue scabious and scarlet poppies, shining yellow buttercups and great white heads of cow mumble, all blowing in the wind amongst feathery grasses in every shade of green and purple. There had been a time when he and Joyce had walked hand in hand down the lanes, and she had known the names of all the flowers and grasses, laughing at Bill for his ignorance. 'Call yourself a country boy,' she said, 'you might just as well have been born in Tresham . . .'

  But he knew them now, because he had learned from Joyce, admiring her quick brain and her wiry strength. What a sodding shame, he thought, blaming himself for not knowing how to cope with her when she needed him most. He walked slowly across the sunlit Green to the shop, and climbed the steps.

  'Morning Bill,' said Peggy, looking down at the order book from the Hall. Ellen Biggs was in the shop, examining closely every gooseberry she put into a brown paper bag. It was pension morning, and Mary York sat in the Post Office cubicle counting out notes for old Fred Mills.

  Mary York lived up the Bagley Road in an ugly bungalow, happily and tidily married to Graham, who worked in the Inland Revenue office at Tresh
am. They had no children, never talked about having any, and kept themselves to themselves. Mary was a pleasant, helpful girl, plain and honest, and had worked in the shop since the days when Doris Ashbourne trained her straight from school. Peggy could not afford to employ her full-time, but on very busy days, Mary came in and efficiently and quietly got on with the job.

  'Morning Peggy,' said Bill, and Peggy felt her colour rise. This is ridiculous, she thought, anybody would think I was a teenager, instead of a middle-aged widow woman. She had lately become self-conscious about looking directly at Bill when other people were around. She was sure her feelings must show in her face, and she was equally sure the echoing warmth in his eyes and smile were glaring evidence of deepening affection between them.

  Bill hung back, looking at things on shelves that he was never likely to buy, and when Ellen and Fred Mills had gone he came forward to the counter.

  'Must see you alone, Peggy,' he said very quietly, so that Mary York, apparently occupied counting stamps, did not hear.

  Peggy looked at him, startled at the urgency in his voice.

  She straightened the pile of postcards of Ringford Green, and looked across at Mary.

  'Just going to get Bill to look at that drain in the yard,' she said. 'I've tried unblocking it, but the water is still not going down.'

  Mary York nodded. It wasn't easy for Peggy, she thought innocently, being without a man in the house. Just as well Bill Turner was one who could turn his hand to anything.

  Bill followed Peggy into the kitchen and then out into the back yard. Conscious of the Beasley look-out next door, Peggy said in a loud voice, 'There it is, Bill, still blocked, though I've tried my best to clear it.'

  They bent their heads together over the drain, and Bill whispered, 'Somebody's telling Joyce tales about us, Peggy. We shall have to be very careful, girl. Not that I mind about the village - the old tabs will make a meal out of the smallest morsel- but if Joyce gets really upset she might do anything. She's always threatening to do away with herself, and she just might ...'

  'Oh God,' said Peggy, 'Well, there can be only one person gossiping to Joyce and that's Poison Ivy next door. Joyce doesn't see anyone else, does she?'

  Bill nodded, glancing over the fence at Victoria Villa. 'Ivy's a wicked woman, but not stupid, and doesn't often get caught out,' he said.

  The yard was full of the scent of honeysuckle, climbing over the washhouse and intermingling with a crimson rose which had rambled over its trellis arch and ventured up the washhouse roof. It was warm in the full sun, and Peggy stood up straight, wishing she and Bill could sit on the old bench by the back door and have a cup of coffee and savour the scents and the warmth of the day. She sighed, and she too looked across at Ivy Beasley's woodpile.

  'So it'll need drain rods, you think, Bill?' she said in a carrying voice. 'I'd be glad if you could fit the job in some time when you're not busy.'

  'Be down Saturday afternoon,' said Bill, 'and don't worry if you need to go into Tresham, I can manage perfectly well on my own. Just leave the side gate unlocked ...'

  They went back into the shop, Bill buying bacon and baked beans, and Peggy taking the money and avoiding the bleak look in his eyes.

  The bent figure of Ivy Beasley, pulling weeds behind the woodpile, slowly straightened up and pushed her springy grey hair back from her eyes. Well, Mother, she said, that was interesting.

  CHAPTER NINE

  One hundred and fifty miles away from Round Ringford, in a newly built vicarage in a medium-sized Welsh town, the Reverend Nigel Brooks, tall, greying at the temples, handsome in a crinkly, old-fashioned, Hollywood way, was talking to his wife Sophie over a sizeable breakfast of bacon, sausage, tomatoes and fried bread.

  'There's one here, Sophie,' said Nigel, 'shall I read it to you?'

  He looked across the table at his wife, who had a magazine propped up against her coffee mug. 'Mmm...what, dear?' she said, not looking up.

  'This sounds a possible,' said Nigel, pushing away his empty plate and opening out the Church Times on the table. '"Diocese of Tresham," ' he read, 'that's in the Midlands somewhere, isn't it? "Round Ringford, Fletching and Waltonby, three churches, twelve hundred population. Full details and application forms from The Patron, The Hon. Richard Standing, Ringford Hall, Tresham." What do you think, Soph?'

  'The Midlands?' said Sophie, opening her dark brown eyes wide. 'That's a bit off our patch isn't it, Nigel?'

  'Well, at least we'd have only one language to cope with. You'd be happy about that, wouldn't you, Soph?'

  Nigel Brooks was the son of an English vicar and a Welsh girl from Carmarthen. His mother had insisted that he spoke Welsh alongside English from the minute he could talk, and as a result he was usefully bilingual.

  His father had hidden his disappointment when Nigel had opted for a career in the law, not reacting against his father's faith, but wanting complete independence from parental influence. He had practised successfully as a solicitor, and married his secretary, Sophie Fothergill, a small, red-haired Yorkshire girl. She came from a well-heeled rural family and had the fine features of an aristocratic greyhound, warmed by a burst of freckles over her nose and cheeks. Nigel and Sophie had raised two daughters and a son and lived in quiet affluence.

  At forty-five Nigel had had an unexpected challenge. Not particularly disillusioned with the legal world, not wanting to retreat into the comfort of organised religion, he nevertheless knew without doubt that God required him to work for Him.

  This was quite embarrassing to explain to partners and clients. The strict logic of the law was a million miles from Nigel's emotional decision. He felt quite sure that he should become a parson with a flock to tend, and he was pretty sure he would be good at it.

  This lack of humility was tackled during his training, which he completed with honour, and after serving his curacy he had gone to a vacancy in the Church in Wales, to a town where his Welsh blood and his charming manner had made him the success he had hoped for.

  Sophie was a different matter. She could not settle into the narrow, confined life of many of the housewives in her husband's parish. She hated housework, did not consider herself her husband's chattel, and loved to roam around an open landscape, not caring what she looked like and happy not to be speaking to anyone.

  She did what she considered was required of her as the minister's wife, and expected his parishioners to respect her right to be herself. This they did not always do, and after three years a kind of uneasy compromise had settled on the parish. She agreed to take part where she could be useful and interested, and Nigel agreed to defend her against any criticism of being stand-offish and English.

  'Worth finding out more, anyway,' said Sophie, beginning to think that the Midlands were not so very far from Yorkshire, and when she and Nigel found Tresham on the map, she saw the MI was quite handy for a quick dash up to see her elderly parents.

  'Round Ringford's not marked,' said Nigel, looking up the gazetteer, 'so it must be pretty small.'

  'Population's only twelve hundred for the three parishes,' said Sophie. 'Which one has the vicarage?'

  'Doesn't say,' said Richard, reading the advertisement again, 'but my guess is that if the patron lives at Ringford Hall the vicarage will be in Round Ringford. It all sounds very feudal, Soph, do you think I could cope?'

  'Very well, Nigel,' said Sophie wryly, 'you'd be in your element- sherry at the Hall, striding about the village in your canonicals, wowing the old ladies, absolutely in your element.'

  'You're right,' said Nigel, accepting this with enthusiasm. 'I shall write off straight away.'

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ellen Biggs and Ivy Beasley were walking slowly down the avenue from the Hall, shaded from the hot sun by the cool, dark green canopy of branches above them. As they emerged into the heat of the full sun, they stopped as always on the stone bridge to look at the clear, rippling water, and the village shimmered around them. A group of children, specks of bright colour, livened up
the yellowing grass as they played in vivid summer clothes on freshly painted climbing frames and swings, their play area fenced off from the likes of the Jenkins terrier.

  'Things have come to a pretty pass, Ellen,' said Ivy Beasley, 'if Mr Richard is about to foist a woman vicar on us. Poor Reverend Collins would turn in his grave.'

  'Don't believe a word of it,' said Ellen, shaking her head. 'Where'd you get that from, anyway?'

  Ivy Beasley tightened her lips, signifying a vow of silence on sources, and reluctantly began to take off her grey cardigan. 'It's enough to fry you alive today, Eilen Biggs,' she said. 'Do you want to come in for a cool glass?'

  Eilen looked at Ivy, stem-faced and devoid of any colour in her grey skirt and strict white blouse. Eilen herself was carefully dressed in a striped skirt of many colours and a blue and white flowery open-necked blouse, with cool, wide flapping sleeves and an odd assortment of brass buttons. 'To cheer it up a bit,' Ellen had said to an astonished Ivy. 'With your scraggy old neck,' Ivy had said, 'you'd do better with a decent high collar, Ellen Biggs.'

  The two women crossed over to the Green and continued their stroll, following the footpath, which led almost directly to Victoria Villa. A single car moved slowly through the village, otherwise there was nothing much happening. All the silage had been gathered in, shiny black plastic bags of concentrated goodness for the winter cattle, and it was too early for harvest machinery to grind into action with its attendant dust and noise.

  'That's a skylark, ain't it?' said Ellen, as they trod their measured way through the short dry grass. She leaned back, shading her old eyes from the glaring sun. 'You can hear it, but you can't see it,' she said. 'Must be a lesson to be learned there, Ivy.'

  'Don't know what you ... ouch!' yelled Ivy, jumping to one side with a sudden hop and skip.