A Tangled Web

by Ann Purser

  'Frank?' she said, hearing a key turn in the front door. He's early... funny... not like Frank. She got up to greet him, kissing his cold cheek and helping him off with his gabardine mac, noticing that he didn't glance as usual in the hall mirror to smooth his thinning grey hair.

  'You're cold, love,' she said, and was surprised that he did not reciprocate her kiss.

  'Anything wrong, Frank? You look... um...'

  He hesitated and looked at her for a moment, and his eyes were so bleak that she began to panic. 'Frank! What is it – for God's sake tell me!'

  'Peg, I meant to wait, but... well, you might as well know now. It's all of us, I mean, it's me - I've been made redundant.'

  'What?' She shook her head, not wanting to believe what she had heard.

  'Redundant... I've been made redundant.'

  She looked at him stupidly, saying nothing, clutching at his sleeve.

  'Not just me,' Frank went on, 'the whole department. They're going to contract our work out in future. They reckon it will save them money.'

  His voice was strange, and he brushed Peggy's hand off his arm, as if her touch would weaken the tight hold he was keeping on himself. He walked through to the sitting-room and Peggy followed, seeking reassurance from his slender, grey-suited back, his neat black shoes, the crisp striped shirt that she ironed so carefully for him.

  'There must be some mistake,' she said woodenly, 'you've been there since you left school. They couldn't do that – Mr Maddox himself said they couldn't manage without you, he said it at that party in front of everybody – how could they possibly...?'

  'Well, they have, the rotten sods,' said Frank with venom. He sat down heavily on the sofa and looked up at her. 'Oh Peg,' he said, and finally relaxing, he gently took her hand, pulling her down to sit beside him. His world had suddenly changed. Everything safe and familiar had taken on a shifting, unreliable aspect – what could he be sure of now? But Peggy was the same, the same plump figure sitting beside him, her pretty face framed in greyish fair curls, blue eyes anxious and dear mouth tense. She was the same, but he had changed, had failed her, and he felt deeply guilty.

  'It's not necessarily the end of the world, Peg,' he said, but he knew that without doubt, in all ways, it was.

  The unreality of Frank's shocking news lasted for several days. Peggy went through the motions of her regular routines in a daze, working in the bookshop, shopping, cleaning, cooking. And Frank, hollow eyed and grey faced, went to and from work at Maddox's in much the same way as usual, even won the annual championship at the firm's Chess Club, where he was Honorary Secretary and founder member.

  'We shall get a good pay-off,' said Frank bitterly, 'something like a year's salary, so we won't starve. But I don't see myself getting another job easily, not at my age. We need to do some thinking, Peg.'

  It was not being needed any more that hurt. He'd always worked quietly and conscientiously, maintaining the high standards he set himself; sure that he was giving value for money. And now in a matter of weeks Maddox's would manage perfectly well without him. He was betrayed, empty, squeezed of everything that made him Frank Palmer, Chief Designer of Maddox and Company.

  It was Heather Marks at the bookshop who put the idea into Peggy's head, and who much later on wished she had kept her mouth shut.

  'What about a business? You've got Frank's redundancy money and he's very organised and canny, and you're good with the customers here. Why don't you suggest it to Frank?'

  'What kind of business?' said Peggy.

  'Oh, I don't know – what do you fancy?'

  Peggy thought about it. 'Well, not a gift shop, full of shiny rubbish – and you wouldn't want competition for the bookshop, would you? Still, we wouldn't have to stay round here, we could go somewhere else. Maybe move out to the country?'

  'I'd think carefully about that,' said Heather.

  'A village shop?' said Frank. 'Are you crazy, Peggy? Neither of us knows anything about villages or shops–'

  'I do,' said Peggy, 'customers are much the same, whether they're buying books or cheese. I like customers; I get on well with them. I can sell things. It's the only thing I can do. Couldn't we think about it?'

  Frank had begun to talk about scrap heaps and being finished at fifty, and Peggy knew that now it was she who had somehow to keep up the momentum of planning a future. The more she thought about running a village shop the more it appealed to her. She could see herself in a fresh apron, weighing out gobstoppers and laughing with the children.

  'Could be a new start, Frank,' she said, 'fresh fields and pastures new, and all that...'

  'Woods,' said Frank.

  'What?'

  'Woods, its "fresh woods and pastures new"— might as well get it right, if that's what we're going to do.' Lethargy had taken hold of Frank, an unwillingness to talk about anything much, and this frightened Peggy more than his initial anger, increased her determination to prod him into action.

  That's it then, thought Peggy, I'm off tomorrow to the estate agents to get some particulars, and Frank can come with me, has to come with me. I'm not going under, and nor is Frank, not if I can help it.

  'Better take your time,' said Jim Marks, sorting newly delivered piles of novels, 'don't rush into the first one you see. Village shops are not exactly gold-mines these days. Still, Frank's head is well screwed on. Tell him to be sure to get the right one.'

  'There isn't a right one for Frank,' said Peggy, 'he's full of doubts and fears, and he's not made one of his corny jokes for weeks. Well, at least we shall be doing something, not just rotting away in Bryony Road. Wish us luck, Jim.'

  Jim looked at Peggy, pink faced and enthusiastic, and wished he could guarantee her the luck she and Frank were surely going to need. But he had his own worries, scraping a living from a reluctant clientele, and he patted her shoulder kindly.

  'Anything we can do to help, Peggy,' he said, 'you have only to ask.'

  Chapter Two

  'Well, it just so happens,' said Mrs Ashbourne, looking over the top of her thick, rimless half-glasses, 'there's a couple called Palmer coming this afternoon about three o'clock, just to have a look, they said.'

  Doris Ashbourne, postmistress and village shop proprietor, knew very well how to whet the village appetite for gossip. Mrs Jenkins, fair of face, fat and amiable, shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited. She had lived in the village longer than Mrs Ashbourne, and felt she had a right to know.

  'Anybody else interested in buying?' she said.

  The For Sale sign had been flapping disconsolately outside the shop since the beginning of November, but so far there had been no takers.

  'I've said all I'm going to say on the subject,' said Mrs Ashbourne, and with impeccable Post Office tact, silently counted out the Jenkins' Child Benefit. Mrs Jenkins turned quickly, hearing a dog yap.

  'Don't do that, Eddie!' she yelled at her youngest, twoyear-old Edward, who was sitting in his pushchair outside the shop, stroking the Jenkins' terrier vigorously the wrong way, until its rough coat stood up and it had ventured a mock snap at the child to warn him off.

  'Serves you right if he bites you!' Mrs Jenkins called, but added to Mrs Ashbourne, 'He never would, mind, he's gentle as a lamb.'

  'They all say that,' said Mrs Ashbourne, pushing the pile of notes under the cubicle window.

  Oh well, if that's how you feel, Doris, thought Jean Jenkins, I can see nothing more will be forthcoming today.

  'Hope they decide to buy!' she said cheerily, and moved her large frame through the narrow space between display units. She emerged blinking into the clear sunlight of an early spring morning in Round Ringford.

  It was a small village, most of the habitation, the school and the pub, clustering round a wide Green. A shallow, swiftly flowing river across the far side of the Green ran parallel to the main road, and was bordered by well-grown weeping willows and a footpath leading to the old stone packhorse bridge. Roofs and chimneys of a stately manor house showed
above tall chestnut and beech trees, and the old houses in the village were mellow golden ironstone, sometimes banded with the greyer stone of the nearby Cotswolds. It was, to the casual eye, a peaceful place.

  'Come on, then, Eddie my duck,' she said to the plump child, rewrapping him in his brightly coloured crocheted blanket, 'let's just go and have a word with Old Ellen.'

  I know Doris Ashbourne is watching me, she thought, as she untied the little brindled terrier and started off across the road, the pushchair precariously unbalanced by plastic bags. Still, she wouldn't have told me if she'd wanted it kept quiet.

  'Going to Tresham?' she said to the old woman waiting at the bus stop. Others were making their way across the village Green and down the main street, converging on the bus shelter, holding on to hats and clutching flapping coats, hurrying to get out of the blustery wind.

  Old Ellen, a bundle of greenish black topped off with a firmly tied headscarf of doubtful colour, nodded. 'Taking the weight off me feet for a few minutes,' she said, and patted the narrow bench running the length of the bus shelter. She rummaged in an old brown, peeling leather handbag, and came up with a boiled sweet, which she unwrapped and popped into Eddie's mouth.

  'You'll not be back in time to see the Palmers,' said Jean Jenkins.

  'What Palmers?' said Old Ellen.

  'I knew a Sid Palmer once,' said Fred Mills, who despite the cold wind had walked slowly down from the old people's bungalows, aided by his rubber-tipped stick. 'He shot hisself up in Bagley Woods.'

  'Shut up, Fred, you old fool,' said Ellen, and turned to Jean Jenkins.

  'Who are these Palmers, then – hurry up, gel, the bus'll be here any minute.'

  'Coming to look at the shop this afternoon about three – see if they want to buy it. Doris Ashbourne didn't sound too hopeful, but then that's her, isn't it?'

  Old Ellen picked up her rexine shopping bags, tightened her headscarf, and surprised everyone by announcing she was off home.

  'You feeling queer?' asked Mr Mills, looking hopeful.

  'Changed me mind,' said Old Ellen, 'I decided to do me shopping with Doris Ashbourne – I'll come down this afternoon with the trolley.'

  'About three o'clock, no doubt,' said Jean Jenkins, with a wink at the others.

  The green and yellow Tresham bus came slowly along the village street, giving time for last minute travellers to rush along to the bus stop. The scattering of passengers looked out and smiled at familiar faces in the Round Ringford queue.

  'Not coming today, Ellen?' said the young driver.

  'If I was, I'd be up them steps out of the wind by now,' said Ellen tartly, 'and I'm Mrs Biggs to you.'

  'Might see you later, then,' said Mrs Jenkins to the old woman, and waved the bus off with a nice sense of occasion, which indeed it was, since there were only two shopping buses to Tresham each week.

  'Soon be home by the fire,' she reassured a red-nosed Eddie, 'I banked it up well before we left, my duck. It should just need a tickle to bring it back to life.' Edward nodded violently, as if he understood every word.

  They turned into Macmillan Gardens, a council development with sixteen houses and four old people's bungalows. With the best of intentions, the Council had used a bright stone-type material to blend in with the old houses in the village, but unfortunately Macmillan Gardens had remained a sharp yellow colour, unmellowed by time.

  'There's Renata Roberts,' Mrs Jenkins said apprehensively to Edward, who was already beginning to struggle out of his wrappings, although still thirty yards from his house.

  He made a passing grab at a daffodil, and his mother steered him swiftly out of reach. 'We shall have to look out for our crocuses round the back, shan't we?' she said, 'and no, Eddie! Just stay where you are for a minute!'

  Renata Roberts stood at the gate of number eight, a dingy and untidy house which let down all the rest, with its heaps of scrap by the front door, and a gate permanently stuck half-open on a broken hinge. The straggly hedge had grown ragged at the top and thin at the bottom, and old Coke cans and bits of wire had worked their way through on to the pavement. Mrs Roberts had the dustbin lid in her hand, and had been tipping the remains of yesterday's meals into the bin, when she saw Jean Jenkins walking swiftly down the Gardens.

  'She's got nice ankles, considering,' Mrs Roberts said to no one in particular. She was a thin, worn-looking woman, who had given up trying to maintain her rough, unkind husband and unruly children in any semblance of order. Sandra Roberts, third daughter, aged fifteen and wearing her brother's jeans and a huge flapping T-shirt, heard her and said, 'Who do you mean, Mum? Not old fatty Jenkins!'

  Jean Jenkins was still thinking about the Palmers, an unknown couple who might take over from Doris and be part of all their lives. Don't know that I'd want to do it, she thought. She saw Mrs Roberts looking hopefully at her, and crossed over to give her the news. Sandra listened in, and then slipped through the half-open gate.

  'Where you going?' shouted her mother.

  'Nowhere,' said Sandra.

  'Put your coat on, you'll catch your death!' yelled Mrs Roberts fruitlessly, as Sandra disappeared round the comer of Macmillan Gardens.

  Sandra's best friend Octavia Jones was lurking about the driveway of her house, a newly converted bam, originally owned by the squire, Richard Standing, and sold to supplement his dwindling income. Octavia's parents bought her the same uniform of jeans and T-shirts, but subtly different from Sandra's – nicer colours and better cut, flattering her emerging curves.

  Octavia was hoping to catch sight of Robert Bates, the nicest of the village's young farmers, who had been carting muck up and down the street all morning. Octavia only half-listened when Sandra told her about the Palmers.

  'So what?' she said carelessly.

  Sandra couldn't think of a reply, knowing that when Octavia was in this mood she could be a real cow. 'Might as well be off home,' she said, but Octavia's attention had now been galvanised by the sight of a giant tractor turning the comer by the pub, and bearing down on them with a roar.

  'Hey, Sandra!' Octavia was instantly animated. 'He's stopping!'

  Sandra scowled, and retreated behind Octavia. She had no confidence in herself, and was self-conscious about her teenage spots. She couldn't see that her hair – if properly cut and washed – would be glossy and heavy, nor that she had inherited her poor faded mother's Italian looks, almost black eyes and finely drawn charcoal brows.

  'He is stopping, Sandra!' repeated Octavia.

  'So what?' said Sandra, getting her own back.

  Robert Bates climbed out of his cab, leaving the ear splitting tractor engine running. He found a piece of dangling chain, and tucked it up safely out of the way.

  'Hi, Robert,' said Octavia alluringly, drawing a strand of silky blonde hair across her mouth. She put a foot out tentatively and rested the toe of her shoe against the huge tyre.

  'Heard about the Palmers?' she said quickly, calling on the only piece of news Round Ringford had produced so far that day.

  Robert nodded cheerfully, climbed into his cab and drove off. He hadn't heard a word, what with the noise of the tractor, but he knew trouble when he saw it and those two were trouble.

  News of the Palmers' visit went one step further. Old Ellen called in to Victoria Villa, a solid red-brick house next to the shop, to tell Miss Ivy Beasley, before battling her way against the buffeting March wind, back across the Green to the Lodge, a tiny one-storey cottage where the floors were bricks laid on earth under the linoleum, and damp patches made strange patterns on the walls in winter.

  Miss Beasley walked through to her front room and sat down in her usual watching place by the window. She saw her friend cross the road and get smaller and smaller until she finally disappeared from sight over the far side of the Green.

  'And if she thinks I'm going into that shop this afternoon along with all the other nosy-parkers to gawp at some wretched strangers, she's got another think coming,' Ivy Beasley said aloud.

 
; She subdued her short, springy grey hair with a battered old hat, and went out to fetch coal from the shed in her back yard; and, as was her custom, kept her eyes and ears open for anything useful she might pick up from the shop next door.

  Chapter Three

  Mrs Ashbourne glanced out of the window and up towards Bates's End for the twentieth time. The sun had gone, and the wind blew scraps of paper in whorls and eddies round the Green. Pity the sun's gone in, she thought, it looks cold out there now.

  'Watch pot never boils,' said Old Ellen irritatingly. 'Won't make them come any quicker, your looking out for them all the time.'

  Doris Ashbourne ignored her and looked again beyond the pub, the Standing Arms, an old alehouse smartened up, with freshly painted, colourful heraldry on its swinging sign, past the ancient church with its crumbling pinnacles crowning a squat tower, and on beyond the tall stone vicarage, too big and too cold for today's impoverished clergy, and finally to where the road curled away round the comer by the farm.

  This time she did see a car coming slowly down the wooded hill, disappearing from sight round by Bates's Farm, and reappearing as it crossed the narrow stone bridge over the Ringle River. It drew up, very slowly, outside the Standing Arms.

  'That them, then?' said Mrs Jenkins, coming into the shop with a rush of air and setting the bell over the door jangling.

  'Could be,' said Mrs Ashbourne, 'and what did you forget this morning?'

  'A packet of suet, please,' said Mrs Jenkins pleasantly, ignoring the barb. 'I thought we'd have dumplings for tea, in a bit of stew left from yesterday. It'll be warming, won't it?'

  'It's turned colder,' said Old Ellen gloomily, 'and there's rain in the wind.'

  'You're not in a hurry, then, Jean?' said Mrs Ashbourne, 'I'll just get this order for the Hall finished.'

  'No, no hurry,' said Jean Jenkins quickly, 'school's not out for a good half hour yet. Do you mind if I push Eddie inside, out of the weather?'