A Tangled Web

by Ann Purser

  Octavia's blonde hair, drawn neatly back with a black velvet hairband, shone in the flickering lights of candles carried by the choir, and her face was bland and innocent. The singers slowly processed round the aisles of the church, serious and concentrating hard, nervously acknowledging their friends and relations as they passed the ends of packed pews.

  Once the concert got going, all Gabriella thought about was the music and the choir. She prompted readers to step forward smartly, and even smiled at Colin Osman as he launched into his solo spot, quavering on his high notes and losing the beat in his anxiety.

  Every seat in the church was taken. The audience, chilly in their responses at first, soon warmed up, and, encouraged by Nigel to applaud, clapped loudly. The readings were popular, even when words were forgotten and stumbled over. Susan Standing's passage from Dickens was especially well received, not only because she read it very movingly, but because she was there, the squire's lady, doing her bit.

  As Gabriella turned to announce the interval, the church door creaked open slowly. Puzzled, she waited before speaking, looking anxiously at the front pew. But Greg was still there, solid and reassuring, smiling at her and making thumbs up, going well, signs.

  In the silence, several of the audience looked round at the slowly opening door. The lights had come up after the last item, and the doorway was spotlit, emphasizing its graceful Norman arch and ancient oak door.

  Into the light, blinking but standing straight as a ramrod, stepped Ivy Beasley. She was pale as a ghost, but neat and smart in her best black coat and grey silk scarf, her hair smooth and curled under in the new style. She handed her ticket to a stunned Mr Ross, and muttered, 'Not too late for the second half, I hope.' Then she walked slowly and quietly to a seat in the back pew, waiting for a startled-looking Doris Ashbourne to make room for her.

  As the audience slowly got to their feet and began milling about, mingling with the choir and offering comment and opinion on the show so far, old Ellen struggled down the chancel steps and made her way to the back of the church.

  She found Ivy sitting in her pew, looking around with an apparently mild eye.

  'Glad you made it, Ivy,' said Ellen generously. "Ow you feelin' now? Shall I get yer a cup of coffee?'

  'Our Doris is gone for one already,' said Ivy, looking squarely at the old woman. Her voice grew stronger as she continued.

  'I don't know what you think you look like, Ellen Biggs,' she said, 'but if you ask me, a cross between Guy Fawkes and the fairy on the top of the Christmas tree wouldn't be far off.'

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  Well, come on, Ivy, how did it go? The voice had a taunting edge.

  Ivy Beasley took off her coat and carefully folded her new silk scarf into a neat square. She glanced at herself in the mirror of the hall-stand, and patted her hair.

  Not quite in the pink, are we, Ivy? said her mother's voice inside her exhausted head.

  At least, said Ivy, being pale makes me look less like a boiled lobster. Iron tablets, that's what you need, get yourself some iron tablets from the chemist.

  Ivy put on the kettle, and sat down heavily in her chair by the range. I'm glad I made the effort, she said. It was worth going just to see Ellen Biggs. You've never seen anything like it, Mother, she was a real sight.

  That's nothing new, said the voice. Tell me about the concert, and that Gabriella Jones and her fancy man.

  If you mean Reverend Brooks, said Ivy coolly, he never looked at her once. And his thank-you speech was much shorter than I expected. Mark my words, something's been said there. And about time too. Mrs Brooks looked like death warmed up.

  Bit like you, Ivy, said the voice, unsweetened by concern.

  I must say it was all very well done, what I heard of it. It was halfway through by the time I got away from Olive Bates. Them Bates’s were always ones for fussing, said the voice.

  Ivy leaned forward, warming her hands by the fire. She slipped off her best shoes, and, easing her painful toes, put on her comfortable, worn carpet slippers.

  Go on, then, Ivy, said the voice impatiently.

  Well, the music was good, Mother, and you'd have liked the readings, especially one about a farmer's wife and all the goodies she'd got in her larder for Christmas. Jean Jenkins read that. Pity she can't read a bit better, but still, you don't expect much from a Jenkins.

  Ivy got up and made tea in the brown earthenware pot, putting a folded teacloth over it while it brewed to the right strength.

  We have got a tea cosy, Ivy Beasley, said the voice.

  Give it a rest, Mother, do, said Ivy. It's all I can do to keep on my feet.

  Better go and see Dr Russell again, then, get a tonic.

  Maybe, said Ivy. I'll give it another few days.

  She drank the hot tea, and closed her eyes, falling almost immediately asleep; the empty cup tipping sideways in her lap. She was woken half an hour later by a coal falling noisily in the grate, and stood up awkwardly, taking the cup and saucer to the sink. She rinsed it under the tap, and riddled the grate, making it safe for the night. Then she checked the locks on both doors, put out the kitchen light, and, hugging a hot water bottle to her flat chest, climbed the stairs slowly and went to bed.

  You didn't clean your teeth, Ivy Dorothy Beasley! said her mother's voice.

  Nor I did, said Ivy, and, turning on her side, went instantly to sleep.

  The champagne cork came out of the bottle with a dull thud, but Gabriella flung her arms round Greg nevertheless, causing Octavia to sniff in embarrassment and disgust. The fire in the sitting room had gone out, and they sat in a threesome round the kitchen table.

  'You two,' she said. 'What's brought on all this luvvy duvvy stuff?'

  'Just a treat for your mother, 'Tavie,' said Greg, pouring out a fizzing glass and handing it to Gabriella. 'She did extremely well tonight - better than you could possibly know. The concert went without a hitch, and honour was saved.'

  'What d'you mean, Dad, "honour was saved"?' said Octavia.

  'Nothing,' said Gabriella quickly, 'nothing at all. Are you sure you'll be all right with that champagne, 'Tavie, it won't make you too excited to sleep?'

  Octavia smiled at her, humouring her fussy mother. 'It'll take me at least a week to calm down after the excitement of Peggy Palmer reading "How far is it to Bethlehem?",' she said. 'How can the school trip to Stratford and Lady Macbeth possibly come up to that?'

  'That's quite enough of your schoolgirl wit, Octavia,' said Greg. 'Drink up and off to bed with you. See you in the morning.'

  'Night, my pet,' said Gabriella.

  'Night, Mum,' said Octavia, and hesitated. Then, rather awkwardly, she leaned over the back of her mother's chair and kissed her on the top of her head. 'It was quite good, actually, Mum,' she said. 'I have to admit I was even a bit proud. 'Night both.'

  Greg looked at Gabriella, and he could see she was near to tears.

  'Drink up, Gabbie my love,' he said, 'then it's up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire. Tomorrow's another day.'

  It was cold in the big vicarage kitchen, and Sophie opened the Aga door to find the fire had gone out.

  'Damn,'. she said, 'must have forgotten to fill it up at lunchtime. Ah well, end of a perfect day.'

  She slammed the firebox door shut, and walked out of the kitchen, making for Nigel's study, where he had gone the moment they arrived home. She looked apprehensively across the hall, shadowy and chilly, and saw with relief that he had left his door open. At least he's not shut me out altogether, she thought.

  Nigel was sitting in his big leather swivel chair, still wrapped closely in a black cloak, staring out of the window at the silvery night. The temperature had dropped at dusk, and now the snow was frosted with fiery sparks. The moon was frighteningly bright, as if its turn had finally come to outshine the sun and take possession of the earth.

  Sophie shivered, and pulled her black cardigan closer round her small body.

  'Nigel?' she said.

  He
turned and looked at her, and his eyes were as cold as the moon.

  'Would you like a cup of tea?' Sophie said meekly. 'I think I'll have one to warm up. The Aga's out.'

  She knew the showdown had to come, but also knew it was no good trying to force Nigel into it. He would take his time, while she suffered agonies of self-recrimination and shame, and then he would justly and charitably put it all straight. At least, that is what Sophie hoped. Or thought she hoped.

  'Thank you,' he said flatly, 'that is a good idea. I will light the Aga in the morning.'

  Sophie did not say the whole water system in the house would probably be frozen up in the morning if he left the relighting till then. She returned to the kitchen and switched on the electric kettle. She arranged mugs and a plate of biscuits on a tray, and carried it all into the study, setting it down on Nigel's desk.

  'It all went well,' she said, giving him an opening to talk.

  He looked across at her, screwing up his eyes as if trying to get her into focus.

  'Yes,' he said, 'very well.' And then he added, 'It was nice to see Miss Beasley up and about again.'

  Something inside Sophie gave way.

  'Don't speak to me about that woman!' she said. 'I wish Ivy Beasley could vanish off the face of the earth, never be seen again. I suppose I wish she was dead!'

  'What do you mean, Sophie!' said Nigel, his voice rising. 'She is a poor old spinster, unloved by anybody except perhaps a very little by Robert Bates. How can you be so cruel?'

  'Cruel?' screamed Sophie, rapidly losing control. 'Cruel? How dare you say that! Ivy bloody Beasley has nearly wrecked my life ... maybe has wrecked it. Her wicked lies and serpent stories have poisoned our marriage, just about, and made me a pathetic laughing stock in this village that I so hoped to love and make my home ...and ...' She ran out of breath, and glared angrily at Nigel.

  The cold moon cast shadows in the garden, like giant night people watching the unlovely scene in the study, and a couple of owls hooted to each other from the yew trees in the churchyard.

  'It is not Ivy Beasley who has nearly wrecked our marriage,' said Nigel.

  He stood up, knocked his cup over and sent steaming brown tea over his desk and on to the carpet. He did not appear to notice. 'It is nobody's fault, Sophie,' he said, and his voice had suddenly dropped to a quiet, calm level.

  Here we go, thought Sophie, now for the sermon. She reached quietly for an old copy of Church Times and soaked up the spilt tea.

  'I was so keen, you know that, Soph, to get things going well in the village.' He ran his fingers through his hair, a habitual gesture, without vanity. 'And then, when the Joneses had had such a rotten time with Octavia, it seemed an ideal thing for Gabriella, take her mind off things, make her feel optimistic again . . .'

  Sophie felt the old pain rising in her stomach, and quelled it firmly by strength of will. No more of that, not ever again.

  'It never once occurred to me,' Nigel continued, 'that tongues would wag. I suppose we are used to a different way of going on, a freedom to make friends with all kinds of people, opposite sex, different class, without comment. I am right about that, aren't I, Sophie?’

  Sophie nodded. Thin strips of cloud were crossing the moon, trails of vapour, making little impression on the bright, relentless shining light. I shall have to draw the curtains, thought Sophie, I can't take much more of that moon. But she stayed in her chair, scarcely moving except for the occasional nod or shake of the head, helping Nigel along.

  'Well, now we know. Villages are different. And I can see that either we accept their rules, or . . .' He paused and looked at Sophie closely.

  'Or go,' she said flatly.

  They sat in silence for a few moments, and then Sophie spoke.

  'So you think it was just the village, Nigel, no blame attached to either of us?'

  He shook his head mournfully.

  'Nigel,' said Sophie firmly, 'could you just for once forget that you are a priest, and tell me honestly, straight from your heart, what you think has happened to us?'

  He sighed. 'All right, Sophie, let's pretend. Let's pretend I am still a solicitor in a flourishing practice, and you have been brewing up a fierce jealousy of my lovely blonde secretary.'

  'Fine,' said Sophie, sitting forward. 'And you have been going to her house, often when her husband was at work, supposedly to plan the strategy on an important case. I have seen your heads close together, your hand on her shoulder, her eyes looking into yours. She has been to our house many times, closeted with you in your study, and you have walked her home late at night when it was dark and nobody about.'

  Nigel was very still in his chair, his hands gripping the smooth wooden arms.

  'And I've spoken to you on occasion when she was there too,' continued Sophie, her cheeks glowing, 'and you've looked through me, as if I wasn't there. All these things,' she continued, 'and many more, have led me to believe- fuelled by gossip in the neighbourhood and in your office - that you two are having an affair.'

  It was very quiet in the study. Not a relaxed quiet or a peaceful quiet, but the quiet of atmosphere charged with tension. Not even Ricky, asleep in his basket in the corner, moved a muscle.

  Nigel got up slowly from his chair, and went to look out into the moonlit garden.

  'It's Christmas, Soph,' he said. 'Do you remember how the children would open the doors on their Advent calendar, taking turns, and then do the last one, Christmas Day, together?' Sophie said nothing. Nigel continued, 'those old bashed plaster figures, the nativity, came out year after year, do you remember? They'd always give the baby Jesus a goodnight kiss before putting him in his cradle . . . Soph, do you remember?'

  His voice was choking, and when he turned round to look at Sophie, the tears were running down his cheeks unchecked, and his hands hung defeated at his side.

  Sophie stared at him without sympathy. She walked over to him reluctantly, and took hold of his hand.

  'What a mess, Sophie,' he said. 'What a horrible mess.'

  CHAPTER THIRTY -NINE

  Greg Jones sat at the table in the tidy dining room of Barnstones with a blank sheet of paper in front of him. He looked up at the Christmas decorations and reflected that it was time they came down. Twelfth Night tomorrow, thank goodness. There was nothing more dead than left-overs from Christmas.

  After the excitement of the successful concert, Greg had been unable to shake off a growing obsession, turning over in his mind the horrors of Sophie Brooks's telephone call, and the hurt suffered by Gabriella. Instead of going away, the whole episode festered in his mind, causing him to lose sleep and interrupting his concentration on planning for next term. Should he do something about it, or let it all calm down and forget the whole thing, hoping that stupid bugger, Nigel Brooks, had learned his lesson, and that they wouldn't have anything much to do with them in the future?

  But Gabriella was talking about giving up playing the organ in church, and when Greg saw Nigel striding with apparent confidence past the window on his pastoral duties, his resentment and anger returned, and he finally decided that the vain twit needed a bit of a jolt to make him think.

  To this end, Greg bought a paperback on church laws and procedures, and read it carefully. It seemed to him that a protest could be made, but that more than one parishioner was needed to make it. Who else would join him? He knew Mr Ross had been horrified by the whole thing, had never much liked the Brookses, and might well agree to help. Then there was Colin Osman, always game for a bit of involvement. And old Don Cutt at the pub, he couldn't stand vicars at any price. Price, thought Greg, what about Tom Price? Tom had never thought the concert was a good idea. A carol service as usual was all the village needed. He'd said so, several times, in the pub. Well, that was four for a start. Shouldn't be too difficult to find a couple more.

  Greg took up his pen and began to write. In formal, factual terms he described what had happened, and how in total it added up to the unsuitability of Nigel Brooks to be a priest in the
village of Round Ringford. This, he knew from his researches, would have to be presented to the Bishop, who would then proceed on a carefully laid-down course.

  'Greg?' It was Gabriella, back from a ride round the lanes on her bike. The snow had not lasted beyond Boxing Day, and now the roads were wet and gravelly where the gritting lorry had discharged its load. It was a dismal time of the year, but Gabriella always came back refreshed, full of sighting some small, strange bird or a premature sign of spring in the hedgerow.

  Greg hastily turned his paper over and began to jot down a specimen plan for school. He wouldn't tell Gabriella until he'd really decided to go through with it.

  Bill Turner had seen Gabriella cycling slowly down the lane through Bagley Woods, and the sight of her had interrupted his thoughts about Peggy and how much he loved her, never mind Joyce and her continual, undermining campaign to destroy him.

  That's a good-looker, he thought, as she free-wheeled down the hill, her blonde hair streaming out behind her, no wonder old Nigel fancied her rotten. Peggy had given him an edited version of Sophie's end of the story, and he wondered if it had all been sorted. Dramas in Ringford had a habit of boiling up and then going off the boil when something turned down the heat. Now the concert was finished and done with, perhaps everything would get back to normal.

  He came out of the wood, and on to the road. His boots were thick with mud, and the old canvas bag on his shoulder was heavy with a couple of rabbits, one for Joyce and himself, one for Peggy. I'll have to skin and draw it for Peg, he thought, she isn't that much of a countrywoman yet.

  A strong gust of wind caught him and nearly blew off his old cap, so oily and shiny with use that it was difficult to see the original tweed pattern underneath. He saw the tiny figure of Gabriella at the bottom of the hill, blown from one side of the road to the other. A flurry of dead leaves whirled about his feet, and as he looked at the sky, over the village and to the hills beyond, the clouds scudded across, rain-filled and threatening.