The Village Show (Tales from Turnham Malpas)

by Shaw, Rebecca

  Up earlier than usual the following morning because she hadn’t slept properly, Pat was thoroughly at odds with herself. Michelle had fallen out with her over the holiday, and because of it she hated herself. She’d thrown away the best chance of a holiday they’d ever had. She’d been stupid playing that daft trick on him, with the pasta and that and her clothes and the rings and things. In retrospect she wished she’d behaved with more dignity. Pat opened the back door to let in some fresh air. It was going to be hot today. Make a change.

  On the doormat in the porch was an envelope addressed to her. The handwriting seemed familiar. The letter read:

  Dear Pat,

  I was planning to tell you about the rumours going round but I realised last night you’d already heard.

  I want you to understand, they are only rumours. That baby is not mine. I’m not saying I haven’t, you know, but I haven’t lately and the baby is nothing to do with me. I’m going to see her today, and ask her to stop telling these daft lies. I’m really sorry about all this. I don’t want you hurt.

  You know I’m fixed on you, and since we’ve been going out I haven’t been with anyone else. Please believe me. Am I forgiven? Let me know how you feel.

  Love and kisses. Barry. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-XXX

  She tore the letter into tiny pieces and threw them in the bin. The whole village would be laughing at her, and brightness had gone from her life – all because she’d been jealous and stupid and listened to gossip. And she’d never given him a chance to explain. Serve you right, Pat Duckett, she thought, just serves you right. She’d thrown away the best chance she’d had in years. Pat Duckett was a fool.

  Chapter 21

  The whole village had noticed the difference in Louise since she went to work up at the Big House. She was slimmer, she was livelier, she was kinder and more sympathetic, and above all she didn’t look down on everyone as she used to when she first came back to Turnham Malpas. The change in her had been sudden and nothing short of miraculous. Malcolm the milkman even swore he’d seen her out running early one morning, but they’d all dismissed that as fantasy.

  In the rectory they put it down to the accessibility of the pool and the fitness rooms at the Big House. In the Store they attributed it to her having a lover; it must have been quite five minutes before anyone was capable of speech, they’d laughed till tears were running down their cheeks. Sheila put it down to the voluntary work Louise had recently taken up with the homeless in Culworth. Though Sheila had to confess she didn’t know where the homeless were in Culworth, because it didn’t seem quite that kind of place. But coming home in the early hours after taking the soup and bread rolls round was certainly exhausting. Louise always slept late on those mornings. Once she’d helped out on a weekday night and Sheila had had a terrible time getting her up in time for the office. With Mr Fitch still on the rampage about the Show and its possible cancellation, that would be the last thing he’d need, his receptionist turning up late for work.

  But at least, thought Sheila, she wasn’t bothering with the rectory any more, and Caroline had found a nice retired secretary who was willing to come in, as and when for a few hours, and help out with the parish typing. So that little problem was solved, and working up at the Big House seemed to have turned out rather well. Louise was earning good money and enjoying the job, and she’d been out the previous Saturday and bought some lovely flattering clothes too. Best of all, she was much happier and easier to get on with. Sheila wasn’t quite sure why she’d mellowed, but whatever the reason she was glad. Altogether life was much improved.

  That was how Louise felt too. Life had taken a definite upturn. She lay in bed one morning in the middle of June smoothing her hands over her hips and right down her thighs thinking about Gilbert doing just that. He always ran his hands over her body, fingering her hip-bone, moulding his palm over the bone in her shoulder, smoothing his fingers over her elbows, running his hand down her spine. When he’d counted her vertebrae then she knew the real foreplay was about to begin and the anticipation of what was to come excited her more than she had ever imagined. You could read about it in books, see it on film and television, but actually experiencing it was something out of this world. The more often they made love the more her pleasure increased.

  Gilbert had this strange earthy scent to him which she found incredibly stimulating. The first time she’d noticed it was when they’d been in the church trying out the handwritten music she’d discovered, but it was in the close proximity of his house when she’d called with a letter from Mr Fitch, that it had really hit her. He’d invited her in and his body aroma had made her crave his touch.

  He’d recognised the look on her face and he’d unhesitatingly planted a soft response-seeking kiss on her lips. Her body had reeled with the shock of the intimacy she so powerfully desired, and he’d caught her elbow as she staggered. From that moment there was no going back. She was undressed and in his bed almost before she knew it. It was all so tremendously beautiful, her need for love so great, his approach so teasing and amusing that she was carried on the crest of a wave into a world of exquisite experiences the like of which she had never known before. When they’d finished, she’d lain beside this total stranger with her eyes closed, still shuddering with pleasure, thrilled by her daring, a slave to his sex drive.

  She’d quickly learned the ways of love and desperately hoped, though never asked, that she satisfied him as he satisfied her. But there never was a post mortem for Gilbert, no analysis. It had happened and that was it. She knew that her appetite for him would always be insatiable.

  Sitting in church the first Sunday morning after they’d become lovers, she’d watched Gilbert come in with the choirboys, his white surplice immaculate, his eyes downcast, his hair falling over his forehead as it always did. Who would have imagined, she thought, that he could be this wonderful lover of hers; that he could make taking off her dress into an act of worship? There was no hint of his sinewy strength nor his passion. Louise had looked round the congregation and said to herself, ‘No one here knows the real Gilbert Johns, only me.’ She then looked at Peter as he stood on the altar steps, waiting to speak. She was startled by the fact that she could look at him and feel only a small sadness, nothing devastating, just quiet regret. But when she gazed on Gilbert, her insides heaved and she longed for him to meet her eyes. But Gilbert didn’t glance in her direction; he behaved as he always did when he was choirmaster – quiet, unassuming, absorbed in his music … a watchful eye on his boys, and his long, sensitive fingers conducting with such style.

  Suddenly Louise recognised the music they were singing. It was the piece she’d found in the music cupboard on Revelation Monday and which had thrilled Gilbert so wonderfully. As the incredibly beautiful sounds reached the rafters of the church on their way to Heaven, Louise flushed with excitement. She was seized by the idea that Gilbert must have chosen to sing that particular piece, on this particular Sunday, as an offering to her. What more glorious tribute could he give her! Louise wept quietly for joy.

  One Monday morning, Mr Fitch had said, ‘This Gilbert Johns …’

  Louise jumped at the mention of his name.

  ‘Miss Bissett?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fitch.’

  ‘I said Gilbert Johns is on the point of calling it a day.’

  ‘Calling it a day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh! Is he?’

  ‘About the Roman ruins.’

  ‘Oh, the Roman ruins. Ah, right! Oh, is he? I didn’t know.’

  Mr Fitch smiled wryly. ‘Seeing as you don’t know him very well, I don’t expect you do.’

  ‘No, that’s right. So, right. The Show. We can carry on then?’

  ‘He says it’s definitely a very minor find. He’s rescued everything and the items are being catalogued or whatever they do with these things and they’ll be sent to Culworth Museum. Heaven alone knows what kind of a mess he’d have made of our lawns if it had been a major find – he’s du
g trenches all over the place as it is. However, it’s all turned out for the best. Thank goodness. The sewer people have promised to work night and day to finish laying the pipes and then the work in the house and surrounds can carry on and it won’t affect the Show at all. So we’ve got the go-ahead: there’s nothing to stop us now.’

  ‘I’m so glad. I’ll get a piece in the Culworth Gazette – let everybody know it’s definitely on.’

  ‘Yes, good idea. I want this Show to be the best ever. It’s more than fifty years since the last proper Show at the Big House, and that wasn’t anything like the size of this one. It’s just got to be the best. I know I can rely on you, Louise.’

  ‘You can, Mr Fitch, certainly. I’m so pleased. We’ve all done so much work and everyone’s so involved with growing things and everything … what a relief. Thank goodness. It’s all organised right down to the last detail. We just have to press the “Go” button.’

  ‘Good. That’s how I like things to be – in smooth running order. Have we invited the rector to sit on the platform? I think it would only be courtesy to do so.’

  Louise found that her heart didn’t even blip at the sound of Peter’s name and the prospect of close contact on the platform. ‘We haven’t, but we can if you wish.’

  ‘See to it, please. A courteous invitation – we must observe the niceties of village life.’ Unusually for him, he smiled at her. ‘You and I will get on very well together. Shall we agree between ourselves that this is a permanent job? Would you be willing to accept it?’

  Thinking of Gilbert she said, ‘Oh yes, of course I would.’

  ‘You can get a letter done to that effect then, there must be a sample contract somewhere in the files. I’m afraid Fenella hasn’t long to go now. Very sad.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘However, life goes on. How are you finding village life, Louise? Not very exciting, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. There’s always something happening. For instance,’ she lowered her voice, ‘someone’s had weedkiller poured on the peas they were growing for the competitions.’

  ‘No! Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. There’s been a terrible upset about it. It happened in the middle of the night and they got caught. The police were called.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Yes, because there was a fight. Barry’s mother, you know Barry the carpenter,’ Mr Fitch nodded, ‘and her neighbour Carrie Evans were fighting. Apparently they were both in their nightdresses in the alleyway between their houses. Barry came out, and one of his brothers, and the neighbour’s husband and there was a real dust-up. Mrs Jones flatly denies she poured weedkiller on the plants but they were wilting unto death, and she was caught with the watering can in her hand.’ Louise was laughing so much she had to wipe her eyes.

  Mr Fitch was appalled. ‘I didn’t know these things were taken so seriously.’

  ‘Oh yes. These competitions bring out the worst in people. Heaven alone knows what the neighbour will do to Mrs Jones’s flowers in retaliation. She goes in for the cut-flowers class, you see. Been winning prizes at the Culworth Flower Show for years with her cut flowers.’

  There came the sound of a gentle step in the doorway, and Gilbert entered carrying an outsize cardboard box. This morning he was wearing a vivid red shirt, open almost to his navel as usual, with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. On his head was a stiff-brimmed Australian bush hat without the corks. To Louise he looked so vital, so vibrant, that Mr Fitch’s dynamism faded into insignificance.

  ‘Good morning. Good morning.’ He nodded briefly to Louise. ‘Brought some things for you to look at, Mr Fitch.’ He put the box down on Louise’s reception desk.

  ‘Just a few, there are more, but these are some of the best pieces. This here is a very nearly complete wine jar.’

  ‘Complete?’ Mr Fitch queried the odd collection of bits Gilbert held in a small box.

  ‘I know it looks nothing now but it will be when we’ve finished with it. The mosaic we found is in a crate, too heavy to carry in. Very pleased about that. Now here in this box waiting to be cleaned up are these …’ he tenderly lifted some knobbly almost unrecognisable items and laid two of them on Louise’s hand and two on Mr Fitch’s. ‘Those in your hand, Mr Fitch, are hairpins, and those you have, Louise, are rings – women’s rings. Gold, I suspect. I think there’ll be a carving on that larger one; we’ll see when it gets cleaned up. Aren’t they beautiful? Not seen the light of day for something like possibly sixteen or seventeen hundred years.’

  ‘We’re very privileged then.’

  ‘You are indeed, Mr Fitch. And so am I, to have a job like this. Here’s a brooch, this here is part of a spoon, and this, and this spoon is virtually complete. All quality stuff which, with the mosaic flooring we’ve found, makes me know it’s the corner of a small villa, and not a peasant’s house. Pity it’s not complete, but there we are. Once the Romans had gone home the villas were looted for their stone and anything the owners had left behind, and over the years they were ploughed up and that kind of thing. So this appears to be all we’re left with. There’s lots of other bits and pieces I haven’t brought in. County Hall have established the exact position on the map and so now the diggers have got the ‘all clear’. I’ve had a word with the site manager and they’re getting ready to restart tomorrow.’

  He smiled at Mr Fitch. ‘The Museum is going to make a special exhibition of all this, once we get it sorted. They’ll be buying new display material to exhibit it. I don’t suppose …?’ He looked at Mr Fitch with that curious ‘heron’ look Louise had noticed before; she almost expected him to be standing on one foot.

  ‘You mean would I contribute to it?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking of it being called the Turnham Malpas Fitch Collection.’

  Mr Fitch couldn’t conceal his delight. His face lit up and he beamed at Gilbert. ‘Really? I hadn’t thought of that. What a splendid idea! Really put Turnham Malpas on the map, eh?’ He chuckled. ‘I say. Never thought my name would finish up in a museum! The Fitch Collection. Marvellous. No expense to be spared. Remember, send me the bill. Well, well.’

  Mr Fitch turned away and walked towards his study as nonchalantly as he could. He didn’t need to think twice about it; he’d pay – oh yes, he’d pay! No matter what it cost. He was delighted beyond belief. It would give him more pleasure than all the big deals he’d brought off over the years. What was it about this village that had so captivated him, and got him so excited about a few broken remains found on land he owned. Ah! that was it. Land he owned. He now had three cottages of his own in the village – Pat Duckett’s and the two weekender cottages. Soon, soon, he’d have the lot. Well, almost.

  Gilbert waited until the door was safely shut. Louise was standing leaning against her desk. He looked at her from his deepset eyes, pushed his hair back from his forehead and came to stand beside her – close, so close. Louise’s heart began thumping thunderously; he really shouldn’t, not here at work. No one knew, and she didn’t want them to know, and how long she could go on deceiving her mother about the homeless of Culworth she couldn’t tell, but they mustn’t find out about him, not yet at least. It was all too precious, too fragile to be shared. For a moment she leaned away from him but then she couldn’t resist his touch. He kissed her without any preliminaries, a heart-stopping, blood-pounding kiss. She slipped her hands inside his open shirt and relished the slight sweat on his skin: something which, with anyone else, would have repulsed her, but with Gilbert it added to his attraction.

  The door from one of the lecture rooms burst open and out came some of the students, laughing and joking on their way to lunch. Louise couldn’t believe that they didn’t know what earth-shattering things were happening to her. She was on such a high she was convinced there must be visible beams of passion radiating out from her. But the students were quite oblivious.

  ‘Gilbert, you must go.’

  ‘See you later then? Hmmmmm?’

  ‘A
bout eight?’

  ‘Bye for now.’ And he sauntered out with his cardboard box, apparently unaware of the turmoil of emotions he’d left bubbling in Louise.

  Chapter 22

  The news that the Show would definitely be going ahead was round the village like wildfire. Willie Biggs, who’d been giving Caroline a hand to dig out a rosebush which had succumbed to some dread disease, said, ‘Now the Show’s back on, why don’t you enter the cut-flower class? You’ve got some lovely blooms here.’

  Caroline laughed. ‘I’m not up to that standard, Willie. Heavens above! They would laugh themselves silly at my flowers.’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t. It’s time that Mrs Jones had some real competition. You’ve got them lovely delphiniums – they’d be good for a start. Another week and they’ll be at their peak. Think about it.’

  ‘Well, I’m really flattered and it would be fun. Shall I?’

  Willie chuckled. ‘Go on, give it a whirl.’

  ‘I will then. Yes, I will. I shall be so nervous. I’ve never done anything like it before.’

  ‘I’ve got a spare schedule, I’ll pop it through the door.’ He lifted the bush into his wheelbarrow. ‘There we are then. I’m ’aving a bonfire tomorrow with churchyard rubbish. I’ll put this on it, got to burn it else whatever it’s got will spread.’

  ‘Thank you, Willie. You’re most kind.’

  ‘Not at all. Glad to ’elp.’ He looked at her as though deciding whether or not to say something else. Then he made up his mind. ‘My Sylvia loves working for you. Them children’s like her own grandchildren. Forever telling me stories about the tricks they get up to, she is. I just hopes yer here for a long time.’

  ‘Oh, I hope so too. I’ve been asked to do some morning surgeries at a practice in Culworth while someone’s on maternity leave. It’ll be after Christmas when the children go to playgroup. Under no circumstances can I ask Peter to take and collect the children, he’s too busy and it’s just not on – but do you think Sylvia would mind? I haven’t spoken to her yet.’