by Ann Purser
'Ere,' said Ellen Biggs, soberly dressed in her best black coat and a squashed felt hat to match, 'what's she on about? I'm off home, Ivy, this ain't for me.'
'Mrs Biggs?' said Gabriella. 'You're not leaving us already?'
'Made a mistake, dear,' said Ellen, 'I'll just wish you all the best.'
'Oh, please, just stay for a while,' said Gabriella, 'give it a try, please . . .'
Gabriella had a stupid feeling that if she failed with Ellen Biggs, the whole thing would founder in disaster.
Ellen hesitated, then tut-tutted and returned to stand by Peggy Palmer in the altos. Peggy smiled reassuringly at her, and said, 'Wait till you hear me, Ellen!'
'A few a-las to start, then,' said Gabriella, playing arpeggios loudly on the piano. Crumbs, she thought, I shall have to get this tuned. 'Come on then, everybody, start softly, then louder at the top and back down softly again.'
After a shaky start, the choir gathered confidence and produced quite a respectable sound. Gabriella was startled to hear a lovely alto voice, true and rounded, and even more surprised to discover it was coming from old Ellen.
Unfortunately, another sound was coming through equally clearly, and Gabriella knew she had a growler. In her days as an infant teacher there were always growlers, and she loved them and forgave them, hoping they wouldn't shout. But in an adult choir it was a different matter. She looked hard at the singers, earnestly belting out 'While Shepherds Watched', and tried to isolate the gravelly voice. Oh no, she thought, oh, please God no, not Ivy Beasley.
By the end of the evening, the singers were feeling a lot happier, exchanging views about pieces for the concert, and reassuring one another on their singing.
'You'll be here next week, Mrs Biggs, I hope?' said Gabriella. 'You've got a lovely voice, you know, we wouldn't be the same without you!'
Ellen nodded. She knew quite well that she could sing. She had always sung at the top of her voice in the kitchen at the Hall, keeping her spirits up over the bubbling saucepans, banishing the creeping fatigue as the long working day wore on. It was talk of sopranos and altos, and the idea of reading music, that frightened her, but others were clearly just as much at sea.
She had been particularly cheered by hearing Ivy Beasley grating her way through the music, and her heart had glowed. She ain't no good at all, crowed Ellen to herself. Old Ivy can't sing a note.
Nigel Brooks was happy, too, and looked round with forgivable pride at the little crowd of people chatting and laughing together after the practice. He walked over to Peggy Palmer, who was trying not to stand next to Bill Turner for too long, and said, 'What do you think, then, Peggy, shall we make a go of it?'
Peggy smiled at him warmly, anxious to be seen sharing her favours. 'It was great fun, Nigel, and Gabriella made a terrific start. She certainly knows what she's doing. It was a really good idea of yours,' she added, overdoing the enthusiasm in her attempt at impartiality.
'Pushy Peg at work again,' said Ivy Beasley to Ellen, as they stood a little apart from the rest. 'She doesn't care, does she? Not satisfied with enticing one woman's husband, now she's after another.'
'Don't be s' daft, Ivy,' said Ellen impatiently, 'you're just jealous, you and your precious Reverend Nigel. Go and speak to 'im yerself, say somethin' nice to somebody for a change.' But Ivy Beasley gathered up her umbrella and the sheets of music Gabriella had handed round, and marched out of the church, her stout heels clacking disapprovingly on the stone floor as she went.
'She might've waited for me,' muttered Ellen, and went to smile nicely at Bill Turner, who obligingly offered to see her to her door.
It was late when Peggy turned the key and switched on the light in the warm, welcoming kitchen. She had gone back with Doreen to the farm for a cup of coffee, and sat gossiping until Tom came back from the pub.
'Poor Gilbertiney,' said Peggy, 'are you starving, kitty?' She opened a tin of cat food and spooned out a generous helping into Gilbert's feeding bowl. She slipped off her anorak and scarf and went out to hang them up in the hall. A white envelope on the door mat caught her eye.
She picked it up and returned to the kitchen, slitting it open with a knife. 'What's this, pussy, I wonder?' she said, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper and something small and hard wrapped in a scrap of tissue.
Funny, she thought, not recognising the handwriting, and then a fearful chill grabbed her as she began to read. The note was not signed, and capital letters had been used to prevent identification. The language was direct and message clear. Peggy Palmer would do well to keep her brazen ways a secret, and not leave bits of her apparel all over the village. A thinly veiled threat of divine vengeance ended the note.
With trembling fingers, Peggy pulled at the tissue, and a small bright object fell on to the kitchen table. It was her enamelled violet brooch, and she knew she last wore it when her own car was being serviced and Bill gave her a lift back from Tresham.
CHAPTER TWENTY- TWO
'There's only one person who could have put it through the letterbox at that time,' said Peggy.
'And we both know who that is,' said Bill. 'The miserable old bag has finally lost her wits. Doesn't she know that she could get in real trouble for sending anonymous letters?' Peggy and Bill were trudging through the wood along their now familiar path to the clearing. The fierce growth of nettles had fallen away with the arrival of autumn, and the spongy ground under the trees was soggy and treacherous. All the tiny woodland flowers had gone, and the smell of decaying wood and parasitic fungi was strong.
Misty air blurred the edges of Round Ring ford as Bill and Peggy stood in their clearing, looking down on the village. It seemed remote, removed from them, putting their troubles into perspective.
'Take my advice,' said Bill, 'and ignore the whole thing. She's only done it to hurt you. God knows why. She knows as well as anyone what a mess my marriage has been for years. If you don't let her see you're upset, she won't get any gratification from it.'
Peggy understood the sense of this, but she longed for a good sort out with Ivy Beasley.
'I wish I could just face her and give her a piece of my mind,' she said, 'but she's right, the fact is I am a scarlet woman, with not a leg to stand on.'
'Scarlet women wouldn't be much good without legs,' said Bill, and put a comforting arm round Peggy's shoulders. 'It'll pass, gel, you'll see. Ivy's not worth bothering with. If she hasn't scored with her latest poison arrow, she'll have a go somewhere else, with some other poor sod.'
Rain began to fall in earnest, and Peggy put up the hood of her anorak. 'We'd better be getting back, Bill,' she said. 'Winter's not going to be so easy for us, is it?'
'I know, Peg love, I know,' said Bill, 'meeting in secret, being ashamed and hiding our feelings. I hate it. I'd like to stand on Ringford Green and shout out that I love Peggy Palmer and don't care who knows it.'
'Bloody woman's spoilt it all, hasn't she?' said Peggy vehemently. She wrenched at a whippy elder sucker, which failed to break, hurting her hand.
Bill frowned and looked at her without speaking. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her consolingly. 'Don't let her win, Peg,' he said. 'Don't let the old devil win.'
Sophie Brooks wandered up Bagley Hill, delighting in the road through the woods, and the constant rustle of hedge sparrows and rabbits in the dying grass, and thought about Nigel. He was busy and cheerful, thrilled with the first rehearsal of the concert choir, and planning a gradual overhaul of church life in Ringford. 'Gently does it,' he said to Sophie, 'village people are slow to change, and rightly so. But I hope to bring in a few changes where change is for the better.'
Sophie had counselled him to make sure his parishioners thought the changes were justified before going ahead. 'There's a strong sense of continuity in villages, families have been here for hundreds of years,' she said, 'and all those rituals link them with their past.'
Nigel had taken her advice, and agreed to concentrate on the concert until after Christmas, making s
ure that this first innovation was a success. As a consequence, he was a frequent visitor to Barnstones, where he and Gabriella spent happy hours working out programmes, plotting solo performances from the best singers, and sending off for unusual music which could not be found in Tresham.
The rain began to penetrate through the trees, and Sophie decided to turn back. She stood on the road overlooking the valley, and could pick out quite clearly the bulk of the vicarage next to the church. How lucky we are, she thought, it has all turned out so well. But though she was a good and optimistic Christian, she could not help a quick stab of superstitious fear that such happiness could not last. There were bound to be a few clouds on the horizon, sooner or later.
'That's quite enough of that,' she said. to herself, and set off down the road, looking round as she heard footsteps behind her. 'Peggy!' She stopped and waited for her friend to catch up.
'Where have you been, you look absolutely drenched!'
That's the first time I've seen Peggy Palmer blush, she thought. What has she been up to? Trespassing in the woods, I suppose, though nobody seems to mind.
The two women walked quickly down the hill, hurrying to get home out of the rain. The sound of thunder and a flash of lightning behind her, from Bagley direction, caused Sophie to look back. A hundred yards or so behind them, halfway down the hill, she saw the bulky figure of Bill Turner, and was about to point him out to Peggy...and then didn't. Surely not, she thought. Oh dear, was Ivy Beasley right?
The curtains twitched in Victoria Villa, and Ivy sat back in her chair, picking up her knitting. Robert would soon be needing the gloves, and her needles clicked rapidly.
Mind you, said her mother's voice, his young woman should be knitting for him now, no need for you to wear your fingers out on his behalf, Ivy.
Ivy ignored this. She was doing her best to forget Robert Bates's engagement, though she had tried hard to smile and say the right thing when he told her the news. Mustn't lose him altogether, she thought, and at the prospect of this possibility she felt a sense of desolation so strong that she put a hand to her chest to stem the pain.
That Peggy Palmer has no shame, Mother, she said, forcing her mind on to another subject. There she is, coming along the road with Mrs Brooks, when she was all over the woman's husband not twenty-four hours ago, and keeping Bill Turner dangling as well.
Your little trick hasn't worked, then, Ivy, said the voice maliciously. You'll have to think again.
Don't know what you're talking about, said Ivy. I must put the dinner on.
She got up to set the potatoes to boil, and began to cut up a cabbage into neat shreds. I suppose Sophie Brooks is taken in by that blue-eyed smile, she thought. Everybody is except me. Reverend Brooks should watch his step, somebody should tell him. He's too nice-lookin' for his own good.
With the dinner simmering and appetising smells rising from the kitchen, Ivy went up into the front bedroom that had been her mother's. It was like a shrine to the dead woman, everything just as she had left it, and, apart from careful dusting, never touched. It was not a frivolous room, but the furniture was good walnut, and a snowy white, thick cotton spread covered the bed.
Ivy pulled open a small drawer at the dressing table, and picked up a round gilt and black powder compact. Old Mrs Beasley had disapproved of make-up, said it made Ivy look like a tart, but Ivy had secretly watched her mother indulge with a few dabs of powder and a touch of scent for special nights at the Wl.
She opened the compact and gently rubbed the little puff over the compressed powder. Holding it up so that the light from the window fell on her face, she shakily powdered her nose, and then the red, shiny cheeks. She turned, holding the compact so that she could see a reflection of her back view in the dressing-table mirror. She smoothed her hair, curling it under her fingers where it stuck out straight over her collar.
What a sight, Ivy Beasley! said the voice in her head.
Shut up, Mother, said Ivy fiercely, and, putting the compact back in the little drawer, she went downstairs to take the potatoes off the boil.
'It did seem rather odd,' said Sophie, 'and Peggy was certainly uncomfortable about something.'
Sophie Brooks was standing squarely at the big kitchen table, slicing onions and mopping her eyes with her sleeve. Nigel wore his favourite apron, the butcher's one with blue and white strips, and with a lethally sharp knife was cutting stewing steak into small cubes, rolling them expertly in seasoned flour.
'Sophie darling,' he said, 'long before we came here, Richard Standing warned me about Ivy Beasley. She is a dreadful gossip and mischief-maker- every village has one and it is very important not to give her any encouragement whatsoever. If Peggy Palmer and Bill Turner go for walks together in Bagley Woods, it is none of lvy Beasley's business, and none of ours, either. They are grown-up, mature people, and they must take responsibility for their own actions . . .'
'Hey!' said Sophie. 'Spare me the sermon, Nigel. I know all about Poison Ivy, and you might just watch it yourself, or you'll be next on the hit list. Gabriella Jones is a very attractive young woman.'
Nigel stared at her, horrified. 'Don't be ridiculous, Soph,' he said. 'What can you mean?'
'Just that all those consultations at Barnstones, and little run-throughs on the organ in the church, do not go unremarked by the three witches of Ringford.'
Sophie scooped the pile of sliced onions into a big sizzling pan, and turned to the stone sink, where she began to run hot water into the washing-up bowl. Nigel followed up the onions with the cubes of meat, and turned the mixture round with a wooden spoon. They had cooked amiably together since they were first married, when they had had few skills between them, and each learned from the other.
'You've been talking to William Roberts,' said Nigel. 'He and that Warren Jenkins are quite a pair.' He patted Sophie's neat bottom with a floury hand. 'Still,' he added, brightening, 'better keep in with those two young tearaways- I mean to have them in a regular choir after Christmas.'
He has a genius for sidestepping, thought Sophie, and then forgot all about it as she put the casserole in the oven and sat down to read once again the lovely three-page letter from their married daughter in Paris.
CHAPTER TWENTY- THREE
Bates's Farm was part of the Standing estate, and the Bates family had been tenants there for three generations before Robert. His mother and father, Olive and Ted Bates, had settled obediently, as was expected of them, into the work of the farm. After Grandfather died, Granny Bates moved to Barrow Cottage next to the pub, where she was handy for cups of tea with old Mrs Beasley, and the pair of them had sat in Victoria Villa's front window pronouncing acidly on the evil doings of the village. Granny Bates followed Ivy's mother quite soon to the graveyard, where they lay companionably next to one another.
The farmhouse was a pleasant old stone building, foursquare and with the front door facing a small garden, where Robert kept the grass neat and tidy, and his father lovingly cultivated large, deep blue delphiniums and not much else. The vegetable garden was another matter, and the cornucopia of produce from the richly manured earth kept the family going summer and winter.
Olive Bates doted on Robert, her only son, especially since he had been a frail baby, and though she was reticent and not at all articulate, she showed her great love for him by cooking and cleaning, washing, ironing, knitting and sewing, making a warm, secure home for him all through his childhood and early years of being a man. Like Ivy Beasley, she had not been at all sure about his engagement to Mandy Butler, a town girl who knew nothing about farming, and so far showed no signs of wanting to learn.
'Why couldn't he have chosen from his own kind?' Olive said to her husband, who as usual grunted his reply. Ted Bates was a tall, thin man, already bent with years of physical strain on the farm, and with a big hook nose that glowed red after a good night out with the boys in the Standing Arms.
'It's not as if we had another son to take over the farm,' said Olive.
She stood by the window, looking out over fields full of sheep, green fields and greyish-white, woolly sheep, like a child's picture book. But Olive, a wiry woman with short, straight grey hair, saw only a tough, demanding farm, which had taken all the energy of herself and her husband, and in due course Robert too, to keep going in spite of weather and all kinds of unexpected diseases and economic pressures over the years.
'There is only Robert, and he'll need a proper wife to help him,' continued Olive, warming her roughened hands in front of the fire.
Ted Bates looked up at her over the top of his spectacles. He was sitting in their comfortable front room, where an unseasonal log fire insulated them from the dingy, damp day outside the small-paned windows. It was Sunday, and Robert and Mandy were due for tea. Olive had baked a large, golden fruit cake, and had placed it on Granny Bates's cut-glass stand next to a plateful of small, crustless sandwiches. The best china was set out on a crisp white embroidered tablecloth, waiting for the young couple to arrive.
'Good God, woman, I ain't dead yet,' said Ted Bates, and returned to the Sunday paper, his lips moving unashamedly as he read.
'You never do want to look to the future,' said Olive. 'So long as you got a pint in your hand and the weather's not too bad for the farm, that's all you care.' She disappeared from the room, banging about in the kitchen and filling the kettle noisily from the old brass tap.
'There ain't a girl livin' as you'd think right for our Robert,' said Ted under his breath.
The sound of a car set the old liver and white spaniel barking in joyful anticipation, and as Robert and Mandy came through the back door into the kitchen, bringing in a flurry of moist air and farmyard smells, the dog leapt up at Mandy, catching his claws in her long black jersey. Her shoulder-length silky brown hair was loose, and her pretty legs were shown off to advantage in their tight black leggings. Ted looked at his only son with envy.