Threats at Three

by Ann Purser

  “Don’t forget the Women’s Institute,” Hazel said with a straight face.

  “You’re joking!” Gavin said.

  “Oh, no I’m not,” Hazel said sharply. “A resolution’s been passed, and they are entering. I reckon they’ll show you lads a thing or two!”

  “I hope so,” said Tony Dibson, sotto voce.

  “Press and TV publicity,” Father Rodney said. “That’s important. I could volunteer for that, if it would help?”

  “Thank you, Vicar,” Derek said, and added that a vicar in the village stocks was sure to be good for a picture of two. “Not sure about too much publicity, though,” he added. “We don’t want the police coming in with all kinds of regulations and safety measures that’ll take half our profits. Keep it low-key, Vicar. Just a small village event. Everybody agree?”

  There was general approval, although Gavin Adstone appeared to be about to say something, then didn’t.

  “And they’ll take you seriously, you being a man o’ the cloth,” Tony said. “Worth a picture or two in the local paper.” The vicar agreed glumly, but told himself that being humbled in the stocks was all part of his calling.

  After more useful discussion about the length of the course, maybe a commentator with loudspeaker system, first-aid team, and so on, Derek said it was time to fix a date for the next meeting and adjourn to the pub.

  “Oh, hang on a minute,” Hazel said, stacking her papers. “Shouldn’t we decide on a celebrity opener and presenter for the winners’ prizes? People get really booked up.”

  There was a pause, and then Floss said, “Can I suggest something?”

  “Good gel,” Tony said, looking at his watch.

  “Why don’t we have a soap box queen for the day? Maybe one of the older girls from the school? Like a May queen . . .”

  “Excellent!” said Father Rodney. “A good old tradition revived! I shall speak to our headmistress. If the committee would like me to,” he added hastily. He knew only too well how a bossy vicar could end up thoroughly disliked.

  And so they all strolled down to the pub, with Derek delighted at the way things were going and Gavin Adstone somewhat discomforted, aware that his part in the whole thing seemed to be going in a completely different direction from the one he had intended.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I SUPPOSE WE MUST GIVE THE NEW GARDENER A CUP OF TEA,” Mrs. T-J said to Paula. “He’s starting this morning, and it is expected. None of the old red spotted handkerchief with bread and cheese, and a flask of whatever it was they drank. Those days are gone, sadly.” She was quiet for a few moments, and then said sharply, “You’ll find a box of those cheap tea bags in the cupboard. Please use those. Now, I have to go out this morning. Meeting at the town hall. You will probably be gone by the time I get back, so please lock up very carefully. You cannot be too cautious with new staff.”

  I suppose that goes for me, too, Paula thought. If she knew the new gardener was my estranged husband, it would look like a conspiracy. We’d both be out on our ears.

  Paula had thought long and hard about what she would do when faced with Jack Sr. She had no idea where he was living, or what he intended. He had looked quite presentable, though thin and pale, and it might be that he had been trying lots of other job applications, and this one had come up.

  The big question was, did she want him back? She had her new life, and would be able to sustain it, as long as New Brooms still employed her. If only young Jack wasn’t so unhappy and confused, obviously needing a father . . .

  She saw him arrive, and vanish into the kitchen garden. This was an old-fashioned survivor from grander days, and still surrounded by high walls to protect the vegetables and fruit from wind and weather. An ideal place to hide from view. She looked at her watch a dozen times, checking as coffee-break time loomed. The house was empty, except for herself, and frighteningly quiet. Perhaps Mrs. T-J wouldn’t mind if she put on the radio. It was permanently on classical music, but she could always put it back to the right station. But no. The old girl was telepathic. She’d probably stop in the middle of her meeting of justices of the peace at the court, and say that she had to leave early. “My char has switched stations on the radio, and must be severely reprimanded. Meeting adjourned.” Paula could almost hear her. . . .

  Her daydream was interrupted by a sudden loud knock. Oh God! It must be him. She opened the kitchen door a crack, and peered out. “Morning Paula,” he said. “Aren’t you going to let me in? The gardener always comes into the kitchen for his mug of tea. The old girl’s out, isn’t she? I saw the car going like a bat out of hell down the drive. God help anyone who gets in her way.” He spoke as if nothing had happened, as though the family was still together.

  “I’m not allowed to let anyone in,” Paula said firmly. “I’ll leave it out on that old bench by the stable.” And before he could get his foot in the door, she shut it with a bang. With shaking hands she put on the kettle and found a big mug. When she had filled it with strong, sour-smelling tea from the cheap tea bag, she looked out of the window. He had not returned to the kitchen garden, but was sitting idly on the bench where she had planned to put his mug.

  She opened the door, put the tea down on the white step that she scrubbed every week, and yelled that he could come and get it. Then she skipped back into the kitchen and locked the door, shooting the bolt for good measure. Mrs. T-J had a bunch of keys the size of a prison warder’s, so she was certain to have a front door key among them.

  She stood in a corner where Jack couldn’t see her, and watched him walk past the window to the step, pick up his mug and drink greedily. Suddenly she felt hot tears pouring down her cheeks unbidden, and fled out of the kitchen into the cloakroom, where she sat on the edge of the lavatory and sobbed for all that had gone wrong with a marriage that had once seemed so good.

  After occupying herself upstairs with bedrooms and bathrooms, she finally went back to the kitchen. He was nowhere to be seen, and the kitchen garden gate was shut. She could hear the Rotavator working the potato patch, and knew that he was still there. Slowly she unbolted and unlocked the door and opened it. The empty mug was on the step, and next to it a bunch of white daisies, tied neatly with binder twine. He had remembered. She took them in, found a suitable vase and arranged them carefully. Then she carried them through to the hall and put them on the table under the long mirror, so that there were now two vases of daisies, one a reflection of the other.

  GRAN WAS INSTALLED IN AN ARMCHAIR IN JOAN PICKERING’S front room, along with four other worthies from the Women’s Institute. It was seven thirty, and they were waiting for Mrs. T-J to arrive. This was a meeting of the WI soap box subcommittee, chaired by the president. As the little carriage clock on Joan’s mantelshelf tinkled the half hour, a firm knock at the door signalled Mrs. T-J’s arrival.

  “Evening, ladies,” she said, and looked pointedly at Gran, who, well aware she was in the best chair, stayed put and looked the other way. Mrs. T-J perched crossly on the edge of an upright, uncomfortable chair and opened a brand new notebook.

  “Now, we are here to talk about our entry for the race,” she said. “Other matters to do with refreshments, cake stall, et cetera, can be dealt with without me, but the soap box is a different matter. Does anybody have any idea how we make one, for a start?”

  The ladies looked at each other, and four shook their heads. Then Gran spoke up. “A long time ago,” she said, “my father made a soap box for the boy next door. My dad was handy with his hands, and I remember it well. I don’t suppose any of you remember what a soap box actually was? No? Well, it was a sturdy wooden box for holding soap.”

  “Never!” said Joan Pickering, in mock surprise.

  “And so,” continued Gran, undeterred, “it was strong enough to stand on, and politicians an’ people not quite right in the head, wanting to sound off about something, used to stand on them to make speeches to anybody willing to listen.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Weedon,” said Mrs. T-J.
“Very interesting.”

  “I haven’t finished,” Gran said. “And so kids used to get old pram wheels and fix them on the soap box, make a steering bar with a bit o’ wood and string, and away they’d go. No brakes, no aerodywhatsits, no Health and Safety to bother ’em. So what say we go for one of those?”

  There was a stunned silence, as each of them envisaged sitting on a small wooden box, overflowing it, some of them, trying to steer with a piece of string and only their feet for brakes. Then Mrs. T-J once more thanked Gran for her contribution, and, to give her her due, performed a clever U-turn and said that with a few adaptations, the basic construction was just what was needed. “In other words,” whispered Sheila Stratford to her neighbour, “a wheeled vehicle you can steer, and preferably with brakes.”

  “What was that?” Mrs. T-J said sharply. “If you have a useful contribution to make, do let us all hear it, Mrs. Stratford.”

  Sheila said quickly that if her Sam could tell them what to do, and she was sure he could, she reckoned Mrs. Weedon’s daughter Lois could knock one up. So long as they didn’t actually get the men to build it, she was sure they could do the job.

  “And we could decorate it to look like something WI-ish,” Gran said, quite carried away with enthusiasm.

  “A jar of jam,” said Joan Pickering, meaning this as a joke.

  “Perfect!” said Miss Wendover. “And we could all sing ‘Jerusalem’ as the jar of jam was first past the post!”

  Mrs. T-J looked around the circle of faces. Were they serious? Good heavens, they really were. Well, she herself was renowned for solving problems. She squared her shoulders and said, “Well done, ladies! Now, there’s one more thing. Who is going to be the driver of the WI soap box?”

  There was a pause, and then they all answered as with one voice: “You, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones!”

  “YOU’RE JOKING!” DEREK SAID WHEN GRAN ARRIVED BACK HOME. “Lois to make a soap box and Mrs. T-J to drive it? In your dreams, Gran.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Gran replied huffily. “You can get us the raw materials, Lois and me can knock in a few nails and stick it together.”

  “Don’t drag me into it!” Lois said. “You’ll be the laughing stock of the village.”

  Douglas, who had called in to bring some new photos of little Harry, said he was on Gran’s side. “And I can help, can’t I? I don’t live in Farnden and am certainly not part of any other team, so I can help the girls, can’t I, Mum?”

  “If by ‘girls’ you mean members of the WI, I suppose it would be okay. What do you say, Derek? You’re the chairman of SOS. Have you got any rules?”

  Derek shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “Anything goes, more or less. We wanted to keep it simple. So yes, I suppose it would be all right for Doug to help the WI. I know the pub team are recruiting a chap from Plaistow’s Engineering. And he don’t even drink in the pub. So good luck, Gran.”

  When the news about the WI entry broke in the pub later that evening, relayed by Derek and Doug who called in for a nightcap, there was disbelief and delight in equal parts. Tony Dibson, who had been playing darts on the winning side, chortled and said he hoped it was a windy day. He’d give a lot to see Mrs. T-J with the wind in her knickers, he vowed.

  IT WAS A CLEAR NIGHT, AND IN THE SMALL DEN HE HAD MADE himself in the corner of a disused barn on Thornbull land, Jack Sr. drank a flask of tea made from stream water and the tea bag Paula had, in her panic, left in his mug that morning. The tomato soup, heated up in the tin snitched from a storeroom he’d found in the stable block, tasted good, and with a stale half loaf of bread from a refuse bin in the yard, his hunger was assuaged for the moment.

  He raked out the smoldering embers, damped them down with an old wet sack, and curled up in the sleeping bag he’d been given at the night shelter. It was not new, but still clean and warm, and after reviewing what had been a satisfactory first day in his new job, he told himself Paula would soon come round to getting back together. In no time at all, he was fast asleep.

  TWENTY-NINE

  OUTSIDE THE SCHOOL GATES, JACK JR. GLANCED NERVOUSLY from right to left, then walked along towards the town centre. He had stayed after school to hunt for a lost football shoe, but he’d not found it and missed the bus home. Now he had to decide whether to phone his mother, who would be furious on both counts. She would insist on coming to collect him, with the kids packed into her old car, whatever he said about getting a lift. Or he could try finding his friend Lenny’s house and fix up a bed for the night, then ring her and lie, saying he’d been invited. He found lying easy now, since his father had gone. So many times there had been muddles and misunderstandings between him and his mother, and he had finally decided that he’d tell her just what she wanted to hear, and leave it at that.

  He trudged along, head down, and did not see the man approach, waiting for him on the corner.

  “Where are you off to, then, young Jack?”

  Jack stopped abruptly, staring at the man. He had not heard or seen him for several days and had been relieved, thinking he had finally given up. “Mind your own business,” he said.

  “Now, now, no need to be rude,” the man said. “Specially as I’ve brought you some nice sweeties. Your favourites. Velly cheap, velly nice, as the Chinaman said. How many would you like?”

  “Go away!” Jack said, his voice rising in fear. “If you don’t leave me alone, I shall get Mum to go to the police. Go away!” He was now close to screaming, and the man glared at him. “Shut yer face, kid,” he said. “Your ma would never go to the police, not after what your precious father done!”

  Jack dodged around him and ran full pelt along a side street, not stopping until he thought the man was no longer following him. But when he stopped for breath, he looked back and saw him rounding the corner and waving his hand. Jack looked desperately along the street and saw a signboard saying “New Brooms—We Sweep Cleaner.” He opened the door and dashed in, saying, “Can I use your toilet? Got took short.”

  Hazel Thornbull looked at him in surprise. “Yes, you can,” she said. “And don’t nick anything.” This last was an afterthought. Sebastopol Street was in a poorer part of Tresham, and they’d already been broken into once. A computer stolen, and the place trashed. But this was a lad on his own, and he seemed genuine enough. In fact, he looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. She decided to have a talk with him before he left.

  Just then the door opened again, and a man came in, smiling broadly. “Afternoon, miss,” he said. “I suppose you haven’t seen a boy running by? I thought I saw him dodge in here, actually. My son, the little devil, knows he’s in for a good talking-to for not doing his homework. I’ve just been seeing his teacher.”

  Hazel thought rapidly before she shook her head. There was something unpleasant about the man. Too smooth, too ready with a plausible explanation. “No, nobody’s been in here since lunchtime. Sorry. Good afternoon.”

  At this moment, she saw a reflection in the window of Jack Jr. coming out of the toilet in the back office. She stood up quickly and placed herself in the doorway, so that he could not be seen. Then she said loudly so that Jack would hear, that she hadn’t had any boys in her office, and she was about to lock up, so would he please leave.

  When he had gone, she drew the blind and locked the door. Then she turned to Jack Jr. and asked him what on earth he was playing at. “You live in Farnden, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “My mum works for New Brooms, an’ I thought you wouldn’t mind if I used your toilet.”

  “You’re lying, aren’t you, Jack,” Hazel said. “That man was after you. What had you done?”

  “Nothing. I done nothing,” he said. “He’s been following me, trying to sell me drugs. I was scared. I am still scared.”

  Hazel frowned and looked closely at his face. Was he still lying? He had a real shifty look about him. She knew his father had deserted the family. Mrs. M had given the bare facts to the team before Paula joined
, so that they wouldn’t ask tactless questions. A kid his age needs a father, she thought.

  “So why aren’t you on the bus on the way home?”

  Jack hesitated. He knew this woman was a farmer’s wife, and seemed straight enough. He decided to treat her like his mum, and tell her what he thought she’d like to hear. Then he could ask for a lift home. It would be the answer to his problem.

  “You ought to tell your mother about that dealer,” she said. “The police could stop him with no trouble. They’re usually pretty hot about men who loiter round school gates. Why don’t you tell her?”

  “I have. She said she’d do something about it, but so far she’s been too busy. Scrubbing other people’s floors.”

  Hazel ignored this. For one thing, she knew Paula scrubbed the step at the hall, but this was her own idea, because she liked doing it. But she supposed it would count in Jack’s eyes.

  On the way back to Farnden, Jack answered Hazel’s questions in monosyllables and grunts. It was all round the village that the boy was difficult and in trouble at school, and she was curious to know if he had anything to say in his own defence. After all, she had her lovely daughter who was no trouble at all, but expected things to change when the teenage blues hit them all.

  “Do you see your father at all?” she said cheerfully.

  Jack rounded on her. “Mind your own business!” he said. “I’m sick of people asking about my rotten father. He left Mum in the lurch, and I say good riddance to bad rubbish! We don’t want him back. We can get on all right by ourselves. I help Mum all I can, and the others do, too, except for the little one. I just wish people would leave us alone. Fathers are not that great, anyway. . . .” He trailed off.