by Ann Purser
After more disagreement on placing, the tables were finally set up, and chairs arranged neatly down each side. Robert disappeared with a good-humoured wave, and Fred Mills relit his pipe and wandered off with his stick towards the shop, where with any luck he would find somebody else to listen to him.
Ivy set to work briskly, with armfuls of red and white checked cloths, stacks of red table napkins, and handfuls of knives and forks and spoons. After a break for dinner, when she met old Ellen along the road and told her what a lazy old devil she was, Ivy returned with a basket full of posies of small flowers, which she arranged at regular intervals along the tables.
'We having candles again?' she asked Doreen Price, who dropped in halfway through the afternoon to see how she was getting on.
'Yep,' said Doreen. 'At least, we've asked everybody to bring a red candle and candlestick with them. It looked so pretty last year, with just candlelight. Tom said it was really romantic.'
Ivy sniffed. 'Very dangerous, if you ask me,' she said. 'Whole place could go up in flames. Foolhardy, in a wooden building like this.'
There was a lot of sense in what she said, and Doreen felt momentarily discomfited. Why did old Ivy always look on the black side? Now the thought of fire would worry her all evening. But Tom, sitting at the kitchen table for his first cup of tea, told her not to give it another thought. 'We're all grown up, aren't we, Doreen?' he said. 'We know how to behave sensibly. Don't take any notice of old Ivy, she loves putting her spoke in.'
'For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.' The simple grace was said clearly by a smiling Nigel Brooks, and the packed hall dutifully chorused, 'Amen.'
Welcomed at the door by Tom and Doreen, villagers of all ages had made their way to the festive tables, sipping their nutty-tasting sweet sherry, and watching anxiously to make sure all members of their party were comfortably seated. Miraculously, they all sorted themselves out, and families sat next to others they liked, and newcomers occupied a whole table, bunching together to give themselves confidence, overcoming their slight unease at being present at such an ancient rural tradition.
'All right, then, Greg?' shouted Colin Osman to the Joneses, seated with a sullen-looking Octavia at the end of his table. He glanced with pride at Pat by his side, and thought how right she looked, colourful in her woollen print, but not too dressy.
With efficient speed the food was served, and the bottles of wine, sold illegally from a bench by the door, disappeared rapidly. Conversation became loud and liberally interspersed with roars of laughter.
Nigel Brooks was in his element, flattering Susan Standing at the top table, and getting up to chat to his parishioners one by one as he moved like a shining star round the warm hall.
'You'd think 'e'd bin 'ere all 'is life,' said Ellen Biggs grumpily. 'Just look at that Gabriella Jones, gazin' up at him as if'e was Ronald Colman.'
'Ronald who?' said Jean Jenkins, leaning over with a dish of roast potatoes and spooning a couple on to Ellen's plate.
'You tryin' to sink me, Jean Jenkins?' said Ellen. 'That's my third helpin'.'
At the next table, Peggy sat quietly next to Mr and Mrs Ross, and tried not to smile too much at Bill Turner opposite her. Every so often, she felt his foot touch hers, and then his hand gently caressed her knee under the table.
At least, she thought, I hope to God it is Bill's hand. Supposing it's Mr Ross? She looked sideways at the neat, moustached face, and heard the clipped voice talking about slugs and manure, and dismissed the thought.
All courses demolished, it was time for the entertainment, and Robert Bates climbed on to the stage, slinging his guitar over his shoulder and twanging a few trial chords. Silence fell on the hall, after much shifting of chairs to get a good view of the stage.
'Good lad!' shouted Fred Mills, and was shushed by Ellen Biggs. 'Save yourself 'til 'e's done something to shout about, you ol' fool,' she said in a very audible stage whisper.
Robert began with a few songs, rural in flavour, and humorous, sending ripples of laughter round the hall. Mandy, sitting with Mr and Mrs Bates, looked at him with pride, and blew him an encouraging kiss.
'Now,' said Robert, 'one of our old favourites: "I never seen a farmer on a bike!" 'This was greeted by whoops and cheers, and when Robert began altering the usual words and took good-humoured swipes at Tom Price and Michael Roberts, and gently mocked Colin Osman and his marauding cricketers, the laughter grew and Jean Jenkins mopped her eyes, saying, 'Oh dear, oh my dear Foxy, stop him, do!'
There were still gales of laughter round the hall when Robert started on his last verse.
'And on his way the vicar goes, on a bike what rattles 'is bones,
He saves our souls, and the soles of 'is shoes,
And he cheers up them what's got the blues,
And it's only 'is collar what stops him proposing
A tandem with nice Mrs Jones.'
The laughter slowly died away, and a spatter of claps fizzled out. Sophie Brooks stared at her lap, and Nigel nodded his head in a puzzled but tolerant way. But Greg Jones pushed his chair back with a loud scraping sound, waving his arm across the table and saying in a fuddled voice, 'That's enough, Robert Bates, quite enough.'
His sweeping arm knocked over a glass and wine spread over the cloth in a vivid pool. A spindly candlestick teetered, the flame on the red candle guttering, and then it fell, the candle rolled out, and the flame licked at a paper table napkin, blazing quickly as it caught fire.
Suddenly there was pandemonium. Everyone stood up at once, and one or two children screamed. Tom Price, emerging from the gents at the back of the hall, took one look and then tore off his jacket and threw it violently over the leaping flames. He leaned his whole weight over the table and the noise of the panic ebbed. Gingerly he lifted up his jacket, revealing a charred mess of tablecloth, wine and smouldering jacket lining, which he quickly doused with a jug of water.
'All done, then,' he said, looking round the room, 'no damage to speak of. Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen, and let's hear Robert sing our own special song.' And Tom began to sing, 'When you come to the end of a perfect day,' jollying along a few tentative voices joining in, and waving to Robert to continue.
'Of course,' said Doreen to Peggy next morning, as they walked up the church path together to morning service. 'Tom didn't hear what Robert said, him being in the gents at the time. When I told him, he said it explained a lot, and looked grim. Said he'd have a word with young Robert, but I told him it was only a joke, the Joneses always being about the village on their bikes.'
'I felt sorry for Sophie,' said Peggy. 'She looked as if she was about to burst into tears.'
'Ah well,' said Doreen, as they took their hymn books from
Mr Ross at the door, 'it'll soon blow over, best forgotten.'
Peggy had reservations about this. In her short experience of Round Ringford, she had learned that, although things like this appeared to be forgotten, no longer mentioned, giving way to the next bit of gossip, the village was like a murky pond, where larvae rise to the surface, ugly and alarming, and old mischief would emerge again, just when you thought it was gone for good.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The date of the concert was fixed for the second week in December, and Gabriella Jones doubled up the number of rehearsals each week as the performance came closer.
Sophie Brooks, walking along the path from the vicarage to the church for the second choir session this week, looked up at the dark yews outlined against the sky, and shivered. Winter had come to Round Ringford slowly, autumn reluctantly relinquishing its hold on the bright trees and the sparkling mornings. But now the branches were bare, except for the yews which bore their nasty little spiky leaves all the year round, dense and funereal, thought Sophie, as she pushed her way past laurels and brambles lining the path.
The black, moonless night matched her mood. Ever since the fiasco on Harvest Supper night, she and Nigel had been edgy with one anoth
er. She knew she was being ridiculous, but every time she went in the shop she was convinced the conversation stopped abruptly, that they had been talking about Nigel and Gabriella, and she collected her groceries and left as quickly as possible. Every friendly word that Nigel exchanged with Gabriella at concert rehearsals was marked down by Sophie, and, she was sure, by every other member of the choir.
It was a ridiculous situation, and she dare not mention any of it to Nigel. He had had a rare explosion of anger and contempt when she had countered him with a jealous accusation after the Supper. He had made her feel so small, so petty and immature, that she didn't mention it again, although her sleep was disturbed by lurid dreams of an avenging Ivy Beasley swooping with an axe on an entwined Nigel and Gabriella.
Ivy Beasley had been extremely charming to Sophie ever since Robert's terrible gaffe. Sophie could not understand this change of heart, and, not liking the sharp-tongued woman, did not reciprocate, and refused offers of tea and elderflower wine, preferring to maintain her friendship with Peggy, although with her too she felt some holding back, an embarrassment never explained.
An owl hooted from the churchyard, and the lamp by the gate snapped on with a welcome yellow light. Nigel must have put it on, thought Sophie, and, making up her mind to put all pettiness behind her and start afresh, she greeted Gabriella with enthusiasm as they met at the church door. Gabriella's cheeks were pink from her bike ride, and her blonde hair, twisted into a knot over a soft black woolly scarf wound warmly round her neck, shone in the lamplight.
'Let me open the door,' said Sophie, 'you've got such a lot to carry.'
To everyone's surprise, and to Nigel's delight, the music was coming along very nicely. Once the choir had mastered four-part singing, and learned that there are pleasant alternatives to belting it out at full pitch, the seasonal pieces chosen by Gabriella and Nigel were sounding tuneful and, on occasion, quite professional.
'Right, everyone,' said Gabriella, clapping her hands for silence. 'Let's begin with "Adam Lay Y-Bounden", and then we'll go through as we shall sing it on the night. Colin has kindly agreed to time us with his stopwatch, and we'll include the readings just as they will slot into the programme.' They were halfway through 'Adam' when Susan Standing slid into the front pew and sat quietly, waiting for her turn to read. She had settled on the Christmas pudding passage from Dickens's A Christmas Carol, and had rehearsed it many times in front of a patient Richard. He could almost recite the whole thing by heart. She found the account so moving that by the time she came to Tiny Tim's 'God bless us every one!' she had difficulty keeping back her own tears.
She looked up at the choir, singing earnestly, and watching Gabriella intently with the fearful concentration of amateurs. The medieval carol was a difficult one, and when the tenors wandered off key Gabriella frowned at them and they looked at each other, each one sure that it was his neighbour and not himself who had transgressed.
It's all a great credit to Nigel Brooks, Susan Standing thought, knowing that he had with difficulty smoothed down Ivy's ruffled feathers when she was relegated to an end-of-the row position in the altos. He had also comforted old Fred Mills after Gabriella had turned down his offer of 'The Fireman's Wedding' monologue, done many times to great acclaim in the past. Perhaps for Harvest Supper next year, Nigel had said.
We are very lucky that he has turned out so well, thought Susan, getting up and stepping to the front of the choir to say her piece.
Ivy Beasley would have agreed wholeheartedly, but she was deeply worried. Something seemed to have gone very wrong that night in the Village Hall. After the drama over the fire and they wouldn't listen to me about those candles, she thought there hadn't been a suitable moment for her to make her thank-you speech to the vicar. And everyone had turned away from her as they left the hall, a more subdued crowd than usual after the annual feast.
Robert had not visited her for two weeks now, sending a message via his mother that he was too busy on the farm at the moment. Too busy with that Mandy of his, more likely, she thought.
She had tried to be nice to poor Sophie Brooks, who could not have failed to get the drift of Robert's timely warning. But Sophie had shrugged off Ivy's advances, which consequently reverted from spurious sympathy to the usual acid reproach.
'We will rock you, rock you, rock you,' she grated in as quiet a voice as she could manage. Gabriella had her finger to her lips, shushing the exuberant and unrepentant Colin Osman, who as usual was singing at double forte.
The programme was fifteen minutes over its intended time, and Nigel and Gabriella went into a huddle, discussing which of the pieces could be tightened up, whether they could persuade Susan Standing to cut down on the dramatic pauses. Sophie turned her head away, desperately trying to think of something to say to Peggy, anything to take her mind off the awful gnawing suspicion that seemed to be with her night and day, and to grow with every small remark, however, inoffensive.
'Thought of everything, haven't they,' Ivy Beasley had said to her the previous day, when several women had been in the shop discussing the coming concert, 'your husband and Gabriella Jones. They should be very proud of what they have got together, the pair of them.'. …the pair of them, thought Sophie. Now what did she mean by that?
'That will do for tonight, thank you everyone,' said
Gabriella, smiling at the anxious faces in front of her. 'You did very well, and if we can cut just five or ten minutes- speed up our introductions and so on - we shall be spot on.'
'Dress rehearsal, don't forget,' said Nigel, 'everyone in church by seven o'clock sharp. That includes the readers,' he added. 'We want everything exactly as it will be on performance.'
Groups of people stood about, gossiping and laughing, and Peggy came up to Sophie as she tidied up the chairs.
'Everything all right?' Peggy said, looking closely at Sophie Brooks's downcast face.
'Of course,' said Sophie, forcing a smile, 'I'm just a bit tired, that's all. It's a busy time for us, you know, with the three parishes and all the various Christmas activities.'
Peggy nodded. 'Come back and have coffee with me,' she said. 'It's not too late, and I'd be glad of the company.'
Sophie looked round the church, empty now, except for Nigel and Gabriella, still deep in conversation by the old piano.
'Do you mind if I go in for a coffee with Peggy?' she called across the pews, and Nigel looked round absently, almost as if he'd forgotten who she was.
'Fine,' he said, 'fine ... see you later ...' And he turned back to where Gabriella had got out notebook and pen, and was jotting down notes for the dress rehearsal.
'No, Peggy, there's nothing wrong, really,' protested Sophie, sitting in Peggy's kitchen sipping coffee, with her cold hands round the mug for warmth.
'It's not this ridiculous Gabriella Jones business, is it?' said Peggy bluntly. She had heard so much gossip and innuendo in the shop that she had become worried and stamped hard on any conversation which looked to be going that way.
Sophie shook her head, but her eyes filled with tears. 'No, of course not,' she said, 'that was just a bit of Robert's nonsense. He rang Nigel the next day and apologised, said he meant to say "Miss Jones", because of Octavia's reputation, but it came out "Mrs" by mistake.'
'Do you believe him?' said Peggy.
'No, I think he meant what he said, and I think it was partly revenge on Greg Jones for that wicked accusation Octavia made about being molested.'
'I wouldn't have thought Robert was that petty,' said Peggy, opening a tin of shortbread biscuits and offering them to Sophie.
'No thanks, Peggy, I'm not very hungry these days,' she said. 'But if it wasn't revenge, then Robert really meant to make trouble. And he seems to have succeeded,' added Sophie quietly.
'Cheer up, Sophie!' said Peggy. 'I thought you were so happy in Ringford? It will soon be Christmas, and all the lovely things to come ...' Peggy's voice tailed away, as memories of last year's Christmas overcame her. They sat without spea
king for a few minutes, and then Sophie saw Peggy take out a handkerchief and wipe her cheeks, sniffing and getting up to refill the Rayburn.
'Peggy?' said Sophie.
'Yes?' said Peggy, shovelling fuel noisily.
'You're crying,' said Sophie.
'Not really,' said Peggy, sitting down again at the table and taking a deep breath.
'Oh, Peggy,' said Sophie, mortified, 'here am I going on about something totally unimportant, and forgetting completely that it will soon be the anniversary of Frank's death. Please forgive me, my dear.'
Sophie looked anxiously at Peggy, and she put out a hand across the table.
Peggy began to sniff again, and then the tears rolled faster down her cheeks.
'Oh sod it,' she said, her voice muffled by her handkerchief. Sophie frowned, and then she too began to cry. Gilbert looked in alarm from her basket by the Rayburn, her ears pricked and her eyes wild. She stood up and meowed loudly, jumping on to Peggy's lap and pummelling her skirt frantically.
'Oh Gilbert,' said Peggy, beginning to laugh, 'this won't do, will it?'
Sophie pulled herself together, and although she agreed and began to smile at the ridiculousness of it all, she returned home through the darkness slowly, her mind still revolving all the small scenes and conversations of the concert rehearsal. And she could not rid herself of that final dismissive phrase of Nigel's: 'Fine, see you later ...'
How much later? Would he be home now, or would the house be dark and empty? And what would she do if it was?
Dear God, she prayed to the distant sky, please make it go away, please ...
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
'Thank God it's not snowing,' said Peggy, as she got reluctantly out of bed and gave Frank's photograph the ritual good-morning kiss.
Exactly a year ago, it had been snowing heavily, the village transformed and coldly beautiful. But it had been the ice and snow that caused Frank's accident, and Peggy dreaded the reminder, watching the sky for the tell-tale yellow luminosity that heralds a snowstorm.