A Tangled Web

by Ann Purser

'Forgotten to feed you, has she? Her thoughts elsewhere, no doubt,' she said, pouring a saucer of milk and setting it down on the tiled kitchen floor. Gilbert began to lap enthusiastically, purring at the same time.

  Ivy made a pot of tea, put a large piece of fruit cake on a plate, and, with milk, sugar and a cup and saucer, took the loaded tray back into the sitting room. She turned on the wireless, and settled down to listen to the play.

  Don't think you can forget I'm here, said the voice. You always were one for not facing up to things. If your beloved vicar loses his job, it will be thanks to you, Ivy Beasley.

  Ivy put her teacup back on the saucer with a shaking hand, spilling hot tea over her mother's embroidered tray cloth, and stood up. She reached for the photograph in its heavy, dark wooden frame, and turned into the middle of the room, her eyes wild. She walked over to the oak drop-leaved table, and, lifting the wedding portrait high over her head, brought it down with a splintering crash, face down on the polished surface.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Richard Standing stood at the long windows of his drawing room, a glass of red wine in one hand, and in the other the latest issue of the Ringford Newsletter. He had turned directly to his own poetic contribution, and smiled and nodded to himself as he read it again.

  'Not bad, not bad,' he said. 'It really looks quite good in print. What do you think, Susie?' He turned to hand the Newsletter to Susan Standing, resting with her feet up on the long sofa, a glass of sparkling mineral water and a dish of cashew nuts on the table beside her.

  'Let me see it, darling,' said Susan. 'Dear Jenkins brought it in this morning, but I only glanced at it.'

  'Mind on other things?' said Richard, with a conspiratorial look.

  Susan took the newsletter and began to read aloud:

  'Now is the winter nearly spent,

  And merry spring is on the lea,

  Soon will the bullfinch be content,

  With yellow crocus for its tea.'

  She began to laugh, and hastily turned it into a choke.

  'Are you all right, Susan?' Richard said anxiously, and rubbed her back gently.

  She nodded. 'Fine,' she said. 'I'm perfectly all right, Richard, just a piece of nut caught in my throat.' She adjusted the cushions behind her head and continued reading.

  'Well?' said Richard.

  'Oh, yes, well, it's really good, Richard. As you say, it looks better in print. Really moving, darling.'

  Richard refilled his glass from a dusty bottle on the shaky legged table by the great fireplace, easing George along with the toe of his shoe, and managing a very small dig in the terrier's ribs without Susan noticing.

  'I'm getting supper tonight,' he said. 'You stay there with your feet up. Take it easy, and tell me all the village news later.' He left the room, and the little dog lowered its beribboned head on to its front paws with a sigh.

  There were a dozen or so pages, reports of village events and dates for the coming month. Colin had written a cheerful editorial, and made Fred Mills's gardening tips comprehensible to the average amateur. Mr Ross had written a memoir of his boyhood in industrial Bradford, and Miss Layton at the school had compiled a page of puzzles for little ones.

  Susan turned to the last page.

  Headed 'Comment for Today - An Endpiece', Greg's contribution had been reduced by at least a third. But in spite of Colin's best efforts, the message came through loud and clear. The job of the parish priest was a difficult one; it needed a very special person to do it well. Most failed, and some failed dismally. Colin had cut out the bit about vanity and insensitivity, but the comment on latecomers to the job was still there. 'Greg does have a point,' Colin had said to Pat, 'and it is very relevant to the issue.'

  Pat had been doubtful, but Colin had begun to see himself as a questing editor, righting a few wrongs in the village, and left it in.

  Susan once more sat up, and put her feet to the floor. She went to the door and called. 'Richard! I say, Richard! Come here a minute.'

  He came at the double, rushing into the room and saying, 'What is it? What's the matter?'

  'Calm down,' said Susan. 'It's just something in the Newsletter- read it for yourself. I think we may have some trouble brewing here.'

  Richard sat down, breathing fast, and read Greg's piece.

  'That's awkward,' he said. 'I suppose it's all about that nonsense with Jones's wife?'

  'Gorgeous Gabriella,' said Susan. 'Yes, I'm afraid so. But what a sneaky way of getting his revenge! I hate these slow burning campaigns - give me a short, sharp shock any time. Why doesn't he just kick him in the balls and be done with it?' Richard laughed.

  'Poor old Nigel, he's a good fellow,' he said, 'but we're not done with it yet, I fear. Now, do you fancy a nice piece of salmon, lightly poached, with a delicate sauce and buttered potatoes?'

  Susan's usual pallor took on a greenish tinge. She shook her head. 'I think a Marmite sandwich is what I really fancy,' she said.

  Bill cycled down Macmillan Gardens and turned right, past Victoria Villa, the shop, the Brights' new house and the Village Hall. It was a beautiful afternoon, and as he turned up the Bagley Road he got off his bike to retie his shoelace. He leaned against his cross-bar and looked back across the Green. The sun was still travelling on a low arc in the sky, but it shone with brilliance in the cold, clear air, turning humps of damp moss on the school extension roof to a vivid shade of lime green. Away over the park, Bill -could see growing wheat, furrows still visible, a reminder of a new season's bounty to come.

  Afternoon playtime had sent the children into the playground shrieking and pushing at each other. One or two hefty boys hadn't bothered to put on anoraks, but smaller, more timid ones had heeded their mother's warning to wrap up warm.

  Bill looked away over the park and to the hills beyond, sharply outlined against the shining sky. Ted Bates's old barn stood out, black and solid on the horizon, and a couple of crows hung in the air, then wheeled on the wind and disappeared behind the trees. Bill pulled his scarf tighter, and set off again up Bagley Hill. As he propped up his bike against the rickety fence, his eyes were held by a patch of pure white snowdrops, sudden and unexpected, gleaming against dark ivy under the trees.

  'Here you are, Peg,' he said, as they met at the clearing by the tree stump. He handed her a tiny bunch of exquisite white flowers, anthers and petal tips a delicate green, carefully arranged with a shiny ivy leaf and held by an elastic band from his pocket.

  'How lovely, Bill,' she said, reaching up to kiss his cold cheek.

  'Would have brought you orchids,' he said, 'but these were going free.'

  'We'd better keep walking,' Peggy said. 'It's too cold to hang about.'

  'Madam's hide is coming along nicely,' said Bill, taking her hand and squeezing it. 'Come the spring, we should be able to have a few bird-watching sessions ...'

  'We'll see,' said Peggy. 'I shouldn't really have come today, with all this going on in the village with Greg and the Brookses. Have you seen the Newsletter?'

  Bill shook his head. 'Haven't looked at it yet,' he said, 'but if Joyce doesn't decide to tear it up first, I'll probably get round to it this evening. Anything exciting in it?'

  Peggy told him about Greg's broadside at the vicar, and how it had been the sole topic of conversation in the shop all day.

  'I tried to stop people speculating and making it worse,' she said, 'but it's gone too far. Still, Sophie and Nigel are now at least prepared for something like this.'

  'Not serious enough to reach the Bishop's ears, then?' said Bill, pulling brambles aside on the overgrown path. 'That first idea of Greg Jones was a real killer, could have had the Brookses out on their ears.'

  They walked on, through the mud and snagging briars, holding hands and talking about Ringford affairs. Totally at ease with each other, they now had no need of passionate declarations, were content for the moment to be in each other's company.

  Coming out of the wood, they were alarmed to see a figure approac
hing down the side of the wheatfield.

  'No good trying to pretend we're not here,' said Bill. 'And anyway,' he added, 'we've nothing to be ashamed of (Well, not much,)' he added, seeing Peggy's expression.

  They waited until the figure was close enough to recognise. 'It's Mr Richard,' Peggy said. 'He's got his gun, been shooting.'

  'Afternoon, Turner,' said Richard Standing, and lifted his hat to Peggy. 'Lovely afternoon, Mrs Palmer.' he added, 'wonderful weather for walking.' He smiled kindly at them both, and walked on.

  'Whew!' said Bill. 'I was waiting for him to ask me about the fence I'm supposed to be putting up in the long field. He must be in a real good mood about something.'

  'Couldn't stop smiling, could he,' said Peggy.

  'Well,' said Bill, 'I've witnessed one or two of his secret assignations in the past. Village memories are long, as he well knows.'

  'No, I don't think it was us,' said Peggy. 'There was something in his walk, very springy, it was. He's either in love or inherited a fortune.'

  'Or both,' said Bill. 'Some buggers have all the luck.'

  The lovely afternoon had caused Ivy and Doris Ashbourne to walk slowly on their way to the Lodge for tea with Ellen. 'Old Fred was out there digging when I came by,' said Doris, 'making it look terrible hard work. One of these days he'll have to give it up, take it a bit easy.'

  'He's an old fool,' said Ivy. 'Never knows when to stop. I saw him at the bus stop yesterday, and he said the soil was lovely, just like Christmas puddin', he said. ‘Going senile, if you ask me.'

  'Well, we've all survived another winter,' said Doris. 'You can feel the turn of the year, I reckon, it's in the air.'

  Ivy had no time for such metaphysical thoughts, and stepped carefully round a large puddle outside Ellen's front gate. She had for the first time been reluctant to turn out for the weekly tea party. Her sleep had been disturbed by nightmares, in which she rescued Nigel Brooks singlehanded from a number of fatal situations. She had woken exhausted and with a splitting headache. Now she shrank from the inevitable topic of teatime conversation, and wondered if she could plead illness and go back home.

  But it was too late. Ellen was at her door, smiling a welcome, dressed as usual in an outlandish assortment of other people's cast-offs. She would have to go in with Doris and make the best of it.

  The small log fire, spitting and cheerful, warmed a half circle of the room to a radius of about four feet. The rest of it was cold and damp, and the chill seemed to rise from the floor. Under the odd pieces of worn carpet were bricks laid on earth, common enough in the village years ago, but now unique to Ellen's cottage. To give Mr Richard his due, he had offered her proper concrete flooring, but she couldn't face the upheaval, and got used to wearing several layers of clothes against the cold.

  It smells in here, thought Ivy. She's not really fit to be on her own. Soon be time for her to go into Bagley House. The thought depressed her more than usual, and she looked at Ellen, busy with the tea things and wincing as she bent down to pick up a dropped spoon. Poor old devil, she thought, and went into the kitchen.

  'Shall I carry that tray, Ellen?' she said, in her sharp voice.

  'We don't want to see our almond slices all over the floor, do we, Doris?'

  Ellen growled that she was quite capable of carrying a tray of tea things, thank you very much. She would have been really worried if she'd heard compassion in Ivy's offer.

  For once, however, Ivy did not snipe at Ellen's hospitality, and the three women sat quite amiably drinking tea and chatting about the buses being late, and the kids breaking the medieval glass in the church porch windows.

  'I blame the parents,' said Doris. 'They'd come into the shop with their offspring, and then they were all over the place, into everything, with never a sharp word from their mothers. Jean Jenkins was the only one who ever stopped her kids from picking things off the shelves and that.'

  'Not like in my day,' said Ivy. 'We knew how to behave, and woe betide us if we didn't.'

  'You mum went too far, Ivy,' said Ellen. 'Spoilt your chances, she did, without a doubt.'

  Ivy didn't rise to this. For one thing, she knew Ellen was right.

  'Look at them Joneses with their Octavia,' said Ellen, and Ivy's heart sank.

  'What can you expect,' said Doris, 'when there's no example for her to live up to?'

  'They could've given her a sensible name, for a start,' said Ellen. 'Only makes her think she's somethin' special, calling her that fancy name.'

  'Some funny names about,' said Ivy, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction. 'Don't care much for "Mandy", come to that.’

  'Bein' called Gabriella is bad enough,' said Ellen, seeing Ivy's drift and successfully thwarting her. 'Did you see 'er Greg's been writin' in the Newsletter? Couldn't make 'ead nor tail of it myself.'

  Ivy drew her knees up tightly together, and pulled down her skirt, pursing her lips and saying nothing.

  'He was definitely having a go at Reverend Brooks, no doubt about that,' said Doris. 'But there was nothing in it, Peggy says, not from either side. It was made worse by gossip, making that Sophie mad with jealousy.'

  Ellen's eyes sparkled. This was more like it.

  'Makes you wonder,' she said, 'whether she'd had somethin' o' this sort before? You never know what 'e got up to before they came to Ringford.'

  Ivy stood up; her hands twisting and a deep frown on her plain, worried face.

  'That's nonsense, Ellen Biggs,' she said. 'There were references from all kinds of important people, and he would never think of doing anything like that. It was just that Jones woman, throwing herself at him night and day. He didn't stand a chance.'

  'Quite right, Ivy,' said Ellen, nodding slyly. 'Specially when some busybody, supposed to be doin' the brasses, dropped words of poison into 'is poor wife's ear.'

  Ivy stared at her and said nothing. She reached for her coat and gloves, and put them on. Without a word, she pushed her chair back against the wall and left the room. The old front door creaked and banged behind her and Doris and Ellen, aghast, heard the gate latch click shut.

  'You've done it now, Ellen,' said Doris.

  'She were near to tears, Doris,' said Ellen, looking guilty. 'I swear our Ivy were near to tears.'

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The sun had gone behind a bank of dark cloud over Bagley Woods as Ivy marched down Bates's End and across the Green, careless of the mud and wet grass dirtying her polished brown shoes. So much for Doris's ideas about the season turning and that rubbish, she thought, shivering and scraping her shoes on the mat outside her front door.

  The kitchen at Victoria Villa was warm from the range, quietly glowing under the bank of coal dust Ivy had shovelled on before she went out. She gave it a poke, and flames licked round the black iron bars, brightening the room. Without taking off her hat and coat, she stood looking out of the kitchen window to where sparrows quarrelled and fought in the bare branches of the apple tree.

  She stood waiting, but there was no disembodied voice. Just as well, thought Ivy. She never says anything nice, never a word of comfort. And if you're listening, Mother, you won't catch me twice. I know you'll be back.

  She hung her coat and hat in the narrow hall, and returned to the kitchen window. As she watched, Gilbert squeezed through the hedge and stalked across the neatly dug earth. She crouched behind a thick viburnum shrub, her tail slowly thrashing from side to side. Then, with a releasing quiver, she sprang up the trunk of the apple tree and all the sparrows flew off crossly, scolding and chattering.

  Ivy opened the back door and called, 'Tiddles! Come on, Tiddles, come and have some milk with Ivy.'

  The tabby climbed out of the tree and came at a trot towards the house. She lapped happily at the creamy milk; the top of the bottle saved especially for her, and then jumped on to Ivy's lap, arching her back to the stroking hand and purring loudly. 'What shall I do, Tiddles?' said Ivy, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat and leaned her head back
on the hard wooden spokes of her father's old chair.

  Too late to put it right now, Ivy. The unwelcome voice intruded without mercy on Ivy's thoughts.

  Ah, said Ivy, you're back.

  If you're not careful, you'll lose the few friends you have got. The nagging edge wormed its way into Ivy's already aching head. But it wasn't finished yet. That Ellen Biggs isn't much, granted, the voice continued, but she's better than nothing, and Doris Ashbourne has always had a soft spot for her. You'll turn the two of them against you, you'll see. Then Robert'll be off with Mandy, and who'll you have left?

  Ivy's head felt swollen and hot. She closed her eyes. Maybe if she could have a nap it would be better, stop her brain churning. She was just beginning to doze when the heavy front door knocker jerked her awake. Gilbert jumped off her lap and ran towards the door, meowing.

  'Now what?' said Ivy, and let out the cat. Then she went down the hallway to the front door and opened it a crack.

  'Ivy?' said Doris Ashbourne, standing solid and calm on the scrubbed stone step. 'You all right, Ivy? Can I come in for a minute?'

  Ivy thought for a moment, then opened the door wider. 'Of course I'm all right,' she said. 'Why shouldn't I be? What do you want, anyway?'

  'You don't make it easy, Ivy Beasley,' said Doris, pushing her way into the hall, and walking through to the kitchen. She sat down, her handbag on her lap, and looked up at Ivy, standing uncertainly in the doorway.

  'Better put the kettle on,' she said. 'We might as well have a cup while we talk.'

  Ivy frowned. 'There's been plenty enough talking, I would say,' she replied, but began to fill the kettle nevertheless.

  'Yes, well,' said Doris, 'that's what it's all about really, isn't it. We haven't had anything like this in the village since that stupid feud between old Price and Joe Barnett all those years ago.

  Doris's reasonable tones soothed Ivy, and she made the tea, pouring two cups and handing one to Doris. 'It's warm in here, Doris,' she said. 'Give me your coat, else you'll not feel the benefit.'