A Tangled Web

by Ann Purser

  He and Peggy had met infrequently, their weekend walks in the woods curtailed by the weather. She would still not allow him to visit her in the evenings, sure that Ivy Beasley was back on duty, monitoring their movements, and ready and waiting to convey any suspicious circumstances to Joyce. Joyce had been relatively quiet lately, but Bill had learned over the years that this kind of behaviour from her usually presaged a storm. Peggy had been upset by Sophie's distress, after her first reaction to the funny side of it. She had seen a happy woman, a very cheerful, optimistic woman, slowly collapse into depression before her eyes. And all because of a possible love affair, the speculation mounting in the village, and the dangerous, one-sided nature of gossip surrounding it. She had not been blind to the parallels. She and Bill had taken second place in the agenda of conversation at the bus stop. But that did not mean that they were forgotten. Joyce was still the vulnerable, deserted wife in some people's eyes, and Peggy the wicked woman. The whole concert saga had made her think very seriously, and Bill had sensed a cooling-off in her, felt himself being pushed away and held at a distance.

  He looked into the bluey grey landscape before him, and had a hard job to think of something cheerful. Must be something to look forward to, he thought, if it's only a pint with Tom in the pub.

  A car pulled up behind him, and he looked round. It was Robert Bates, in his new, smart little run-around. Beside him sat Ivy Beasley, prim and straight, her basket on her lap and her gloved hands neatly folded over its handle.

  'Morning, Bill,' said Robert. 'Got yourself something for the pot?'

  Bill answered pleasantly, leaning over, resting his elbow on Robert's car.

  'Morning, Ivy,' he said, looking at the tightly pursed lips, the face still pale and closed. She did not reply, and remained staring straight ahead through the windscreen.

  'Auntie's still not quite a hundred per cent,' said Robert, embarrassed by Ivy's silence. 'We've just been into Bagley to do a bit of shopping.'

  'How's the wedding preparations going, then, boy?' said Bill with a smile. Everyone liked Robert Bates, and since his childhood he had had the village people eating out of his hand, with his ready smile and willingness to help.

  'Pretty well, thanks, Bill,' he said. 'Mind you, Mandy's getting in a state. Only hope she hasn't got cold feet by the time the big day comes!'

  'Knows when she's on to a good thing, don't you worry,' said Ivy in a sharp voice.

  'I think it's me that's on to a good thing, Auntie,' said Robert gently, taking off the handbrake and slowly moving off down the hill.

  'Cheerio, Robert,' said Bill. 'That'll all come right on the day, you'll see!'

  Bill walked on, thinking of his own wedding day, with Joyce a picture in her wedding dress. She'd been such a pretty girl, brown curly hair and lively hazel eyes- always a bit thin, but a good figure and enough flesh in the right places. He'd known her since school, watched her flirting with all the most popular boys, and teasing him for his dogged faithfulness.

  When she'd finally settled on him, he couldn't believe his luck, though he knew his mum and dad had been a bit uneasy.

  'Once a flirt, always a flirt,' Mum had said.

  But she was wrong. Joyce had never once looked at another man, not even when things were bad between them.

  Bill moved the heavy canvas bag from one shoulder to the other, and stood in the middle of the road without moving.

  She'd been so excited when, a year or so after they were married, old Or Russell had told her she was pregnant. Doe Russell wasn't so old then, of course; and there was no doubt he'd done his best.

  Five months she'd lived in the womb, their little girl. They knew it was a girl, the hospital had told them. Joyce had been near to death, losing far too much blood, and then that dreadful hunt for the right blood group. And Joyce's mum and dad standing at the bottom of her hospital bed, looking like ghosts, but not as white as Joyce.

  She'd said afterwards, Joyce had, that she felt herself leaving, floating up a long corridor of light, with specks in it, like motes in a shaft of sunlight.

  But she hadn't left. They'd nursed her back to health. Well, health of a sort.

  Bill walked on, his head down, unable to shake off the memories, willing himself to think of something else. As he approached the playing fields, he looked up to see Warren Jenkins and William Roberts rushing about the muddy football pitch, dribbling the ball, passing to each other, and shooting goals between the leaning goalposts. Forty years ago, it was me and Tom Price out there, he thought. What have I got to look back on since then?

  It hadn't been all bad, he scolded himself. Joyce had seemed to rally for a while, but then no more babies had come along, and she wouldn't go near a hospital for tests. Said she'd had more than enough of hospitals, couldn't face it. Her mother hadn't been much help, either, putting Joyce off the tests with those terrible stories of women she'd known. Put herself like a wedge between them in the end, and by the time she died it was too late. Joyce was a stranger to him, had made herself his sworn enemy. They lived in the same house, but that was about it.

  He had arrived at the shop, and automatically climbed the steps. He needed to see Peggy, and hoped the shop would be empty.

  'Mornin' Bill,' said old Ellen, as he opened the door. 'What you got in that bag, then?' she continued. 'You look like a jolly swagman. Least, you would if you smiled.'

  Bill smiled broadly at the old woman. Trust old Ellen to sort him out.

  ' 'Ad yer invitation, then?' she said.

  Peggy was looking at him warmly from behind the counter, and he felt his spirits rising steadily.

  'You mean Robert's wedding?' he asked, dumping his bag on the floor and stretching his shoulders.

  'I've had mine,' said Peggy. 'It was very nice of them to ask me, I wasn't really expecting it.'

  'No,' said Bill, 'I haven't seen an invitation. Maybe it'll come tomorrow. I saw Robert on the hill, but he didn't say anything.'

  'Sure to ask you, Bill,' said Ellen, fishing into her old bag, and bringing out a crumpled envelope. 'Here,' she said, 'I got mine yesterday. Took me answer up the farm this mornin'. It says to reply to Mandy's folks, but I thought I'd save a bit of postage.'

  She began to gather her packages together, and turned to the door.

  ‘Just a word,' she said, looking quite seriously at Bill. 'Old Ivy's done 'er worst with them poor Brookses. She'll be on the warpath again shortly, so just watch it, both of yer. She may look poorly, but looks deceive. Don't want to see yer in trouble, neither of yer. Cheerio then, Bill, Peggy ...'

  Bill helped her down the steps, then came back into the shop, closing the door behind him. Peggy was grinning.

  'What's so funny?' Bill said. 'Old Ellen's always right, and she knows Ivy Beasley better than most.'

  'It was just the thought of the pair of us in trouble ...what sort of trouble does she have in mind? Ducking in the village pond? A day or two in the stocks?'

  Bill leaned over the counter, and took Peggy's hand.

  'You're cold,' he said.

  'It is cold,' she replied.

  'Let me warm you up,' he said.

  'No,' said Peggy.

  'All right, then,' said Bill, 'give us half a pound of Cheddar instead.'

  Nobody else came into the shop for the next quarter of an hour, and Peggy made Bill a cup of coffee. They sat in the kitchen, with the connecting door giving them a view of the shop, and chatted idly.

  Mandy Butler was the next customer, coming in for a bar of chocolate before going down to Bates's Farm for yet another conference with her future mother-in-law.

  Bill got up, shouldered the canvas bag, and, giving Peggy a surreptitious peck on the cheek, walked through to the shop door. 'How's it going, Mandy?' he said.

  Mandy sighed heavily, and turned an exaggeratedly tragic face to Bill.

  'If only you knew,' she said. 'If I'd known what I know now, I'd have settled for elopement, or even living in sin with my Robert. You lose sight of what
it's all about, don't you.' Bill smiled at her very kindly. 'Don't worry, Mandy,' he said, 'you'll be the most beautiful bride Ringford's seen for many a year. Just imagine yourself, gliding down the aisle on your dad's arm, and then you see dear Robert's face, smiling at you as you join him ...it'll all be worth it, take it from me.' It had been worth it for Joyce, he thought sadly, for a while.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Bill let himself into his back door, pushing aside the heavy curtain shrouding the panes of dusty glass. There was something different about the kitchen, and it did not take him long to see that Joyce had cleared up.

  This was a very rare occurrence. It usually meant that she had done something bad, smashed something precious to Bill, and wanted to get one up on him before the inevitable scene. She was upstairs. He could hear her moving about the bedroom, and he called up the stairs, 'Joycey! I'm home.' He got no reply, but this did not surprise him. Better go and see what's missing, lying in pieces in the dustbin, he thought. But everything seemed to be in order, the sitting room tidy and the dusting done.

  Bill went outside and poked about in the bags of food waste and old newspapers. Underneath a pile of magazines, brought to Joyce weekly by Ivy Beasley, he saw some torn-up scraps of paper. He pulled them out and saw pieces of an envelope with handwriting on it. There were more bits of card, and he saw printed words. He could read some of it: '...pleasure of ... at the marriage of their daughter ...'.He knew then what Joyce had done.

  She came downstairs with her head down. She had dressed carelessly, and was carrying her old teddy bear, moth-eaten and no longer growling. She held him carefully, her hand supporting his back, in case he should fall.

  'Joyce,' said Bill. 'Did we get any letters this morning?' She shook her head, and went into the sitting room. shutting the door behind her.

  Bill shrugged, and went back into the kitchen. What's the use, he thought. She won't own up, and anyway, what if she does? Just one more row, getting nowhere. Best ignore it. But Joyce had other ideas. She appeared at the kitchen door, still holding her teddy bear, now with his face into her shoulder, while she patted his back gently.

  'Not been asked to the wedding, then?' she said mockingly. Bill did not answer, but filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring.

  'Still,' continued Joyce, 'it's not surprising, is it? Snubbed by the whole village, I shouldn't wonder. You and your fancy woman, canoodling in front of anybody who happens to look out of the window. Not that I care, but it's disgusting!' Her voice had risen to a shout, and Bill turned round to face her.

  'Ivy been round, has she?' he said coldly. Joyce flushed, and avoided his eyes. 'Not content with stirring up real trouble with the vicar and the Joneses, she's on to us again, is she?'

  He picked up a women's magazine from the kitchen table and waved it under Joyce's nose. She backed away.

  'Been charity visiting, has she?' he said, louder now in mounting anger. 'I should have thought you could think for yourself for once. First your mother, and now old Ivy - always ready for a bit of juicy gossip, aren't you, Joyce?' He raised his arm, as if to strike her, but quickly turned away, letting it fall.

  What can I say? he thought. Ivy's right. I'd be in there with Peggy every moment of the day and night if I could. Guilty as charged.

  He took the boiling kettle off the stove, and poured the scalding water into the teapot.

  'Go back in the room, Joyce,' he said flatly. 'I'll bring you a nice cup of tea.'

  Looking disappointed, her colour retreating and leaving her face its customary greyish white, Joyce hugged her bear tightly and went to sit down.

  Doris Ashbourne's sitting room was warm, the gas fire popping reassuringly and her bits of brass twinkling in the light.

  'Nearly dark already, Doris,' said Ellen, 'and only half past three.'

  She sat in Doris's most comfortable chair, close to the fire. Her usual bulk was increased by three layers of woollies, purple upon black upon scarlet. The effect was ecclesiastical, but watered down by the baggy brown tweed skirt and scuffed fur-lined boots, too big for their former owner and not much worn.

  'Don't know if Ivy will make it today,' said Doris from the kitchen. 'I saw her yesterday, and she wouldn't say for definite. At least it's not raining now.'

  "Ere she comes,' said Ellen, looking out of the big window with its commanding view of Macmillan Gardens. 'Goin' at her usual crackin' pace- she must be feelin' better.'

  Doris brought in the tray of tea, and went back for a plate of yellow lemon-cake slices, crunchy on top where she had sprinkled granulated sugar and lemon juice on the hot sponge.

  'Come on in, Ivy,' she said, 'I've just brewed up.'

  Ivy Beasley took off her coat and hat and sat down. She leaned over and looked at the lemon cake.

  'You didn't cut that when it was still hot, I hope, Doris,' she said, picking up a small knife and pressing with the flat blade on top of a piece of cake.

  'Course not, Ivy,' said Doris, nettled. 'You're not the only one who knows how to bake.'

  Tea was handed round, and the lemon cake began to disappear rapidly.

  'Very nice indeed, Doris,' said Ellen. 'I'll 'ave the recipe off you later.'

  Ivy laughed scornfully. 'You haven't baked a cake since you stopped cooking at the Hall,' she said. 'Probably forgotten how. Mind you, you should have more idea than that Mandy Butler. I had a slice of fruit cake she'd made at the Bates’s, and didn't know how to get it down.'

  Doris and Ellen exchanged glances. 'All the fruit sunk to the bottom, Ivy?' said Doris.

  'And dry as sawdust,' said Ivy, nodding. 'She hasn't the first idea.'

  Doris tried to turn the conversation to the next WI meeting, but Ivy was not to be deflected.

  'Beats me,' she said, 'why Robert couldn't marry a girl from his own village, or at least a farmer's daughter. What good is a slip of a hairdresser going to be to him on that farm?'

  'She's very nice,' said Doris weakly.

  ‘"Nice" is not what's wanted,' said Ivy firmly. 'Olive Bates has been a good half of that farm for years. Won't be long before she and Ted want to step down and let Robert take it on. Can't see that Mandy up at the crack of dawn doing the chickens, can you?'

  'I 'eard as Robert don't necessarily want to take on the farm when 'is father goes,' said Ellen, hoping to be one up on Ivy Beasley.

  'Never said anything about it to me,' said Ivy, glaring at her, 'and Robert tells me most things.'

  'Won't for much longer,' said Ellen slyly. 'That Mandy'll soon put a stop to them Monday afternoon visits of 'is. Your little boy's grown up, Ivy, and you'll 'ave to let go.'

  'Don't talk nonsense, Ellen Biggs,' said Ivy. 'You don't get any better as you get older.'

  They settled down with a last slice of lemon cake, and Doris used all her skill to get the talk round to the next speaker at the WI, a cheery lady from Fletching who demonstrated Indian cooking for English palates.

  'You won't catch me making any of that curry muck,' said Ivy, and then leaned forward in her chair, staring out of the window.

  'There he goes,' she said with satisfaction. 'Back to his tea, and the arms of his loving wife.'

  The others watched Bill Turner get off his bike and push it through the garden gate.

  'You can be very cruel, Ivy,' said Doris. 'It's not all black and white there, not by any means.'

  'What does it take to learn you a lesson, Ivy?' said Ellen, with force, and she struggled to her feet. 'I'm glad to see you better,' she continued, 'but you should beware the good Lord don't strike you dumb one o' these days.'

  Doris Ashbourne took a white invitation card from her mantelshelf, and looked at it with a smile.

  'What shall we get Mandy and Robert for a wedding present, then?' she said, fed up with Ellen and Ivy and their constant bickering.

  'I got mine already,' said Ivy, standing up and straightening her skirt. 'A nice new book from Smith's in Tresham, reduced in the sale I'm glad to say: Cookery for Beginners. What do you think of
that, Doris?'

  CHAPTER FORTY -ONE

  Tom Price stood at the top of his farmyard, his brown overall stained with pig muck, his big hands stuffed into ragged pockets. He watched as Greg Jones approached, leather shoes sliding on the wet concrete of the yard.

  At first light, when Tom had gone out to check on early lambs, the village had been a uniform grey, hills misty and blurred, a landscape without dimensions. Clinging fog had imperceptibly turned to rain, and this had become torrential, filling rutted tracks and bursting through a hole in the guttering above the back door of the farmhouse, spouting a clear stream of water on to the yard and Doreen's tubs of straggly wallflower plants.

  The wind, a wilful litter-lout, had blown waste paper out of bins and round the village, and a mangy old farm cat, its tail erect and fur staring, like a bottle brush, chased a torn paper bag across the yard, pouncing and then losing interest, embarrassed at its own foolishness.

  The pavement outside the farm had been fouled by a wandering dog, and Tom watched Greg Jones wiping his shoe on a tuft of grass by the stable door.

  'Morning,' said Tom. 'What can I do for you, Greg?'

  'I wondered if I might have word,' said Greg, 'if you're not too busy, that is.'

  Greg had chosen this Saturday morning to make his first approach, whilst Gabbie was out shopping in Tresham. No point in worrying her. He might find nobody willing to support him in his complaint against Nigel Brooks.

  Tom stumped off down the yard, Greg in tow, and, taking his boots off at the door, he beckoned Greg into the kitchen.

  'Got some coffee on the go?' he said to Doreen, who was deep in a flower arrangement, bits of wire and languishing flowers strewn all over the table.

  Doreen frowned at him, saw Greg, and went to fill the kettle. Tom led Greg into the sitting room and indicated a seat. After a few pleasantries about the weather and the farm, Greg seemed unable to come to the point of his visit, and Tom began to wonder what the little bugger wanted. Doreen brought in a tray of coffee and biscuits, and tactfully disappeared.