A Tangled Web

by Ann Purser

  Ellen explained, and Doris said that she had always loved that poem by Thomas Hardy, 'Christmas Eve', and she thought Mrs Standing would read it beautifully.

  'She went to dramatic school, you know,' Doris said, 'before she married Mr Richard.'

  'Well,' said Ellen, squashing the remaining cake crumbs on her plate into a little ball and popping it into her mouth, 'I've certainly seen a drama or two up at the 'all in my time.'

  'Could be a very good idea,' said Ivy. 'If Mrs Standing came to rehearsals, it would give a bit of order to proceedings, not so much larking about. Perhaps that Gabriella Jones would get on with it a bit better if Mrs Standing was there, perhaps she'd not waste so much time making eyes at Reverend Brooks.'

  Doris and Ellen exchanged glances, and then Ellen began to laugh. 'So that's it, Ivy, is it?' she said. 'You're suspicious of Mrs Jones, as well as Peggy Palmer. What makes you think they're all after your precious Nigel?'

  Ivy glared at Ellen, and move the coffee sponge further away from her. 'Peggy Palmer's disgracefully busy elsewhere,' she said, 'but if you'd been doing your duty with the brasses like I was, and seen Reverend Brooks and Gabriella Jones with their heads together over the organ, laughing and whispering over bits of old music, you'd be suspicious.'

  Doris Ashbourne sat up straight, and opened and shut her handbag with a snap.

  'Ivy,' she said, 'I can smell one of your campaigns coming on. For goodness sake, can't you just mind your own business for once? Reverend Brooks is a very nice, kind man, and Mrs Brooks is a nice, kind woman, and they're obviously very fond of each other. They can do without tittle-tattle such as this, and I for one intend to talk about something else.'

  In the silence that followed this, Ivy stood up and turned her back on the others, staring angrily out of her window and across the Green.

  'Go on,' then,' said Ellen, finally. 'Go on, what?' said Doris.

  'Talk about somethin' else,' said Ellen. 'Otherwise we might just as well go 'ome.'

  Doris shifted about in her sent, and said, 'Well, are you going to the Harvest Supper, Ellen?'

  'You know I am, we got it all sorted last week,' said Ellen unhelpfully.

  Doris was silent and discouraged. Then Ivy leaned forward and peered carefully through the lace curtain, turning her head to watch something happening in the street.

  'What did I say?' she said gleefully. 'Well,' said Doris, 'tell us.'

  'There he is again,' Ivy said, 'our handsome vicar going down the lovely Gabriella's path and knocking at her door. There ... she's let him in ... and Mr Jones not yet home from school. No wonder,' she added, turning in righteous indignation to the other women, 'her daughter's such a wicked miss. She's got no example to follow, none whatsoever.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY -SEVEN

  'It is much better here,' said Sophie Brooks, 'than it was in Wales, but there's still that invisible barrier between me and the rest.'

  'What rest?' said Nigel, busy with notes for his sermon. 'The rest of the women in the village,' said Sophie. 'Even Peggy treats me with just a fraction more respect.'

  'You imagine it, Soph,' said Nigel, looking up at her with a smile. 'You do have a kind of reserve, you know, always have. Took me all my courage to ask you out that first time.'

  'Honestly?' said Sophie, putting down her paintbrush in surprise. She was touching up the white-painted wooden overmantel in Nigel's study, and though she knew he hated to be interrupted, she couldn't help remarks bursting out now and then.

  'It's that nose of yours,' said Nigel. 'Makes you look as if you've just smelt something really disgusting. Come here, you silly girl, and give us a kiss.'

  Sophie obediently crossed over the carpet and kissed Nigel on top of his head, leaving a couple of drops of white paint on his page of notes.

  'Oh no, Soph,' he groaned, 'couldn't you paint some other time?'

  'There you are, you see,' she said, 'even you don't want me around.'

  Nigel sighed and put his pen neatly in the wooden penholder on his desk.

  'Go on, then,' he said, 'tell me everything.'

  'Well, you're probably right, I expect I do imagine it. But I don't imagine the fact that no one ever comes to sit next to me in church. Or that at coffee mornings they all go into laughing huddles and then stop self-consciously when I go and join them. I just wish they wouldn't ...oh, I don't know ...you must notice it, Nigel, surely . . .'

  'Of course, Sophie, it's one of the hazards of the job.'

  'That's fine for you, then, it's your job. But it's not mine, and I just don't want to be treated like some plaster saint who must stay her side of the line and not cross into the real world.' Nigel got up and stood looking out of the window into the orchard, where one or two shrivelled apples still clung to branches fast losing their leaves into the thick grass beneath. Suppose I ought to cut that before winter comes, he thought, then brought himself back to his wife's dilemma.

  'Can be quite useful, sometimes,' he said. 'You used to think so yourself in Wales. At least you could distance yourself from the endless gossiping and scheming. And how many times did you say no to invitations to join this and that and every other organisation? I thought you were really happy here, Sophie? You can't have it all ways, nobody can.'

  'Gabriella Jones can,' Sophie said sulkily. 'She's young, beautiful, talented, comfortably off, free and energetic, and popular with everybody.' Especially you, Nigel, you old smoothie, she said to herself.

  Nigel frowned at her. 'You are not being fair, Sophie,' he said. 'Poor Gabriella and Greg have their hands more than full with that wayward daughter of theirs. Have you heard the latest?'

  Sophie had heard nothing, but she had met Ivy Beasley in the street, and wondered why she asked if Reverend Brooks had any experience with delinquent children. And then again in the church, when Ivy was sorting hymn books into neat piles, Sophie has listened to half-hints of misbehaviour and lack of parental guidance in the Jones household.

  'Poison Ivy has been hinting darkly once or twice,' she said.

  'I don't think you should call her that, Sophie dear,' said Nigel. 'I'm sure she's not as bad as that.'

  'Are you?' said Sophie. 'Well, what is the latest on the wicked Octavia?'

  Nigel told her the edited version he had received from Gabriella when they met to discuss lighting and amplification in the church. Gabriella had been very upset, and it had taken several minutes comforting her in the vestry before she pulled herself together and concentrated on spotlights and micro phones. Even Ivy Beasley, crouching with brush and dustpan at the back of the pews, had expressed her sympathy and offered to get a glass of water for Mrs Jones.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Colin Osman sat in his comfortable armchair watching the regional news on television. From where he sat he could see across the park to the Hall beyond, and thought once more how lucky they had been that Peggy Palmer had not wanted to sell the shop after all. At the time, of course, they had both been really keen, but his Pat was a great one for bees in her bonnet, and her enthusiasm for running a village shop had soon waned. Now she was involved in cooking for the Harvest Supper, having long discussions with Doreen Price on the best way of serving eighty-odd people, and offering Colin's services in carving and serving giant roasts.

  He had taken on the rejuvenation of Ringford cricket team, and a possible junior football team as well. The pavilion on the playing fields had been vandalised so many times that the Committee had lost heart. Nobody ever saw the damage being done, and it was always blamed on either the Robertses or marauding teenagers from Tresham out for a cruise round the villages.

  What we need, thought Colin, is to give Ringford more of a sense of community. The old people keep to themselves, and the women have the Women's Institute, where they had certainly welcomed Pat with open arms. But if you were not a five pints a night man at the Arms, there was little for a chap like himself to do. He fully intended to stand for the Parish Council when the elections came round again, but in the mea
ntime he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the cricket revival.

  Some success had come to their revitalised team, and with volunteer help the pavilion had once more been set to rights. But Colin could the see the winter coming on and only the ragged beginnings of a young football team to keep him busy. He turned off the television, and walked over to the window, staring across the park with its great trees still burning with autumn colours and sheltering flocks of chattering birds, all congregating in their miraculous way in preparation for their epic flights of migration. They must have some magical way of communicating with each other, drawing them all together at the right time, thought Colin.

  'I know!' he said aloud, struck by a sudden idea. 'What we need is some kind of newsletter, something to report village goings on, so everybody reads it and feels part of the whole.'

  He turned round and nearly ran out of the room in his excitement.

  'Pat! Pat, where are you?' he shouted.

  'Washing my hair,' came the muffled reply.

  'I've got something really exciting to tell you,' he said.

  'I know,' she said, emerging from the bathroom with a towel wound into a turban round her head. 'I know what it is, you're having a baby.'

  'Oh, very funny,' said Colin, this being a matter of some controversy between them. 'No, Pat, seriously, I have just had this fabulous idea for the village.' He smiled at her pleadingly.

  'Another one?' said Pat, who had supported Colin through the cricket and football projects, but was now quite looking forward to a peaceful autumn and winter, when she could get on with her dressmaking and watch some good programmes on television.

  Pat Osman had an agency for make-up and accessories, and earned a good annual sum from her efforts. She was an attractive woman, vigorous and healthy-looking, eyes always bright and her hair thick and shining. With her cheerful personality she could sell most things to most people, and was on the whole happy with her lot. She would have liked a baby, but Colin said they must wait until the time was right. She was beginning to wonder when that would be, but for the moment held her peace.

  'Go on, then, don't keep me in suspense,' she said, taking off the towel and shaking her wet hair like a dog. 'Careful, Pat!' said Colin. 'It's going everywhere ...'

  Pat went into the kitchen and turned on the oven, ready to start preparing their supper.

  'What do you think about a village newsletter?' Colin said, following behind and taking a glass out of the immaculate kitchen cupboard.

  Pat opened the refrigerator and pulled out a chicken, tightly enclosed in its vacuum polythene. The slithery packed slipped from her hand and fell to the floor, taking a small jug of milk with it. The jug broke and the milk spilled into a quickly spreading pool.

  'Pat! What a mess! Here, let me mop it up and you go and fix your hair. Comes of trying to do several things at once.'

  'Oh, shut up, Colin,' said Pat, 'and go away and I'll clear it up. It's you talking at me when I'm trying to concentrate on something else. Just go away and I'll come in and have a drink in a minute and we can talk about newsletters and any other improving ideas you may have for Round Ringford.'

  Colin left the room feeling huffy, and sat down again in his armchair, picking up the paper and trying to bury himself in the sports pages.

  Half an hour later they were talking amiably about his new idea.

  'It could work well, Pat, with one or two of us acting as editors, and some encouragement to others to contribute all kinds of news and ideas.' Colin was getting into his stride.

  'You'd be editor-in-chief, I suppose,' said Pat. 'After all, it is your idea.'

  'No doubt the Rev Nigel would think it his right to claim the job, but I suspect he's one of those wanting to be in charge of everything, so he'll have to be satisfied with assistant editor.'

  'He may not want to do it at all,' said Pat. 'He's got enough on his plate at the moment with the concert and his many consultations with the lovely Gabriella.'

  Colin looked at her sharply. 'Pat? What are saying?'

  Colin had one or two irritating little faults, like his obsession with tidiness and order, but one of his good points was his honest refusal to gossip. Pat had to acknowledge that this was a good point, but often she longed to chew over some interesting speculation about, say, Peggy Palmer and Bill Turner, and that loopy wife of his, but Colin would just shut down completely.

  'Oh, I'm not saying anything, Colin,' Pat said, 'it's just all over the village at the moment that the vicar's handsome grey head and Gabriella's smooth blonde one are often seen in close conversation.'

  'That seems very stupid to me,' said Colin, a touch pompously. 'Naturally they have a lot to discuss, with the concert hotting up and people adding new items and making all kinds of weird suggestions. Did you hear that the eldest Roberts boy had offered a couple of numbers from his pop group?' Pat nodded. At the WI meeting the other night there had been a lot of talk over the coffee cups of unsuitable music for a village church, and of things getting out of hand.

  'The latest,' she said, 'is Susan Standing's offer of a recitation. Old Ellen was saying she's going to do "Albert and the Lion", but you never know when that old devil's pulling your leg.'

  'Do you think,' said Colin, getting back to his exciting idea, 'we should have an editorial committee, or just a couple of people doing the job?'

  'Committees are a disaster, mostly,' said Pat, 'but you should perhaps get a few folks together to discuss the whole thing. You'll need to decide on format and how often it comes out, all that sort of thing.'

  Now Colin was on firm ground. His work at a large printers in Tresham gave him all the technical knowledge he was likely to need in producing a village newsletter, and he immediately fetched a stack of paper from his desk and began to make notes.

  'We'd better have one more meeting on the Harvest Supper,' said Doreen to Peggy in the shop.

  The morning was dull and overcast, but it was not cold. A heavy dew had covered the Green in the early morning, and an intriguing pattern of footprints on the damp grass showed where the children had crossed to wait at the bus stop, and where old Fred Mills had taken a short cut on his morning stroll. A tangle of sodden grass marked where Gemma, Amy and Mark had scuffled over sweets on the way to school. 'Can you make tomorrow, about eight o'clock?' Doreen continued, and Peggy nodded.

  'I'd no idea so much preparation went into the Supper,' she said. 'I bet most people don't realise.'

  'We like a good do in Ringford,' Doreen said, 'though I sometimes wonder what it has to do with the harvest these days. Most of the folk who come have nothing to do with farming, and even the farmers talk about their favourite telly programmes or the beginning of the hunting season.'

  'Don't matter,' said Ellen Biggs joining Doreen at the shop counter. 'You got to keep up the village traditions, else we might as well all go and live in Bagley. You heard old Ivy on about it? You'd think she kept Ringford goin' single-handed, to listen to 'er.'

  'It doesn't do to listen to Ivy Beasley too closely,' said Doreen with a frown. 'She's stirring things up again, I hear. Seems to have taken on a new lease lately, what with her smart hair-do and that bright green coat. Have you seen it, Peggy?' 'The less I see of my charming neighbour, the better I like it,' said Peggy, totalling up Doreen's purchases.

  She and Bill had been very circumspect ever since Joyce's dreadful exhibition on Gardens Open Day. There were days and nights when Peggy longed for Bill to hold her tight and share his warmth and strength with her for longer than a few clandestine short half-hours. But there was never a time when Ivy Beasley might not be on the look-out, and Peggy felt her presence even when she went into Tresham and knew that Ivy was extremely unlikely to be anywhere near.

  'Spread the word, then, Peggy, would you?' said Doreen, and, lifting her heavy basket as if it were full of feathers instead of pounds of flour and sugar, she walked swiftly out to her muddy estate car and drove off.

  Peggy's next customer was Pat Osman, and the
message about the meeting was duly given. 'I could pick you up on my way to the farm, if you like?' said Peggy kindly.

  'Thanks, Mrs Palmer,' said Pat, pulling a sheet of paper out of her document case.

  'I'm all right for make-up at the moment,' said Peggy quickly, not wanting to hurt her feelings. She never bought any of Pat's wares, not liking the heavy scent which pervaded all the products.

  'No, it's from Colin,' said Pat, spreading out a carefully written poster, advertising a preliminary meeting for all those interested in producing a village newsletter.

  'Another idea from your Colin?' said Peggy, smiling.

  'Ain't 'e got no work to do?' said Ellen, leaning over and squinting at the poster. 'We got on all right all these years without a newsletter, or whatever you call it. Everything gets round the village sooner or later, any road. Don't need to 'ave it all writ down.'

  The door opened with a burst of energy, and Richard Standing marched in.

  'In a frightful hurry, Mrs Palmer. Could you oblige me with a couple of stamps? So sorry, ladies, I really do have to catch a train.'

  The peaceful atmosphere of the shop was transformed into immediate action. Old Ellen gathered together her few packages and left the shop, muttering about people who should know better with their upbringing. Peggy moved quickly to the Post Office cubicle and found a page of first class stamps for the impatient squire.

  'What's this?' said Mr Richard, picking up Colin Osman's notice.

  'Something to do with a newsletter,' said Peggy. 'Pat asked me to put it up.'

  Richard Standing read it in silence, and then chuckled. 'Could be a very jolly idea,’ he said. 'Might give him a ring and offer my services. I used to like writing the odd poem or two once upon a time. Thank you, Mrs Palmer, I must rush ...' Peggy watched him duck his head to avoid the low doorway, and then nearly collide with old Fred, who had stopped at the foot of the steps to relight his smouldering pipe. Should be interesting, she thought, rather wishing she was going to the newsletter meeting instead of a session on feeding the five thousand.