[Churchminster #3] Wild Things

by Jo Carnegie

  ‘Hold on!’ Brenda announced. ‘I might have a spare box out the back.’ She disappeared behind the counter, while Calypso waited hopefully. After a minute or so, Brenda reappeared holding something. ‘Here we go! Thought I had one left.’

  Calypso looked at the battered, dated-looking box. They weren’t tampons – they were huge, unwieldy looking sanitary pads. Even worse, they seemed to have some kind of belt attached to them, which a smiling model was wearing round her waist. ‘I’m not wearing those! They look like something out of the seventies!’ Calypso exclaimed.

  Brenda looked at the box. ‘You’re right! The sell-by date was March 1978. I’m sure they’ll be OK, though.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Calypso looked down at the offending item. She had no choice. Opening her purse, she counted the money out on to the counter. At least the price tag was only 27p.

  ‘You young girls don’t know how lucky you are!’ Brenda called after her. ‘In my day it was like having a brick between me legs!’

  Reeling from the unpleasant image of Brenda’s gusset, Calypso fled the shop. She had just crossed the village green when a sleek sports car pulled up beside her. She hesitated for a moment, and, thinking the driver might need directions, leant down to the passenger window.

  A man sat in the driver’s seat, wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses. Calypso was just thinking he looked familiar when he pulled them off and smiled. The periwinkle blue eyes were unmistakeable. ‘Hello there,’ said Rafe Wolfe.

  Calypso couldn’t keep the surprise off her face. What was Rafe Wolfe doing here? She regained her composure. ‘Driver got a day off?’ she asked acerbically.

  Rafe Wolfe laughed. ‘I prefer to drive myself.’ He was wearing an open-necked blue shirt, a cashmere jumper chucked on the passenger seat.

  All he needs now is a Labrador puppy, thought Calypso.

  Rafe cocked his head, trying to read her expression. ‘Sorry, am I missing something? Every time we meet you seem to be having a private joke at my expense.’

  Calypso raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t recall meeting you before.’

  His eyes travelled down to the box in her hands. Calypso wanted the ground to swallow her up.

  ‘They’re for my sister,’ she said quickly, holding the box behind her back. ‘So how can I help you?’

  Rafe smiled. ‘Do you play tennis?’

  ‘Gave it up when I discovered fags and boys. Why?’

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like to play a game with me.’

  Tennis! Calypso tried to keep a straight face. Was this guy for real? ‘Thanks, but I don’t make a habit of going round playing ball sports with strange men.’

  Rafe held her gaze. ‘Coffee, then.’

  ‘Haven’t you got a girlfriend?’ Calypso asked, before immediately regretting it. He probably thought she was a groupie.

  ‘Had,’ he corrected her. A smile hovered on the corner of his mouth.

  Calypso straightened up. ‘Sorry, I only drink tea. If you’re that desperate I’m sure there’re plenty of other coffee lovers out there.’

  A look of disappointment crossed Rafe’s face, but he smiled. ‘Shame. Well, if you ever fancy it …’

  He reached across and gave Calypso a card. ‘That’s my personal mobile number.’ With that, the passenger window slid up again and the car glided off.

  ‘Can you believe it? Handing me his card like I was some kind of minion. He probably thinks all us “simple country folk”…’ Calypso put on a comedy burr. ‘“… are gagging for a piece of him”. And can you believe he asked me to play tennis with him? I mean, how random is that? Does he think we all live in an episode of Brideshead Revisited, or something?’

  ‘He still asked you out, Calypso!’ said Camilla.

  They were sitting round the kitchen table with cups of tea and Calypso had just relayed her experience.

  ‘Who’s asked Calypso out?’ said a voice in the doorway.

  Camilla spun round. ‘Jed! I didn’t expect you back. Is everything all right?’

  He came over and kissed the top of her head. ‘I had an hour off for once. Thought I’d come back for lunch.’

  ‘Calypso’s just been asked out by Rafe Wolfe!’ Camilla said. ‘He drove past her in his sports car.’

  Jed raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Ay-up. We’ll be rolling out the red carpet for you, next.’

  Camilla giggled.

  ‘Oh shut up,’ said Calypso. ‘He is so not my type.’

  ‘What, good-looking, famous and millions in the bank?’ Jed asked wrily.

  ‘I’m not into all that shit,’ Calypso retorted.

  Jed opened the fridge and brought out a plate of ham. ‘If you say so.’

  Calypso rolled her eyes at him. ‘You’re so annoying.’

  ‘That film lot got to Clanfield today. It’s bedlam up there,’ said Jed, as he set about making a sandwich. Camilla got up to help him.

  ‘Did you see any of the actors?’ she asked, getting the butter out. ‘Sophia Highforth was at the welcome party, she looked jolly glamorous.’

  Jed looked nonplussed. ‘Don’t know who she is. I think it’s just the crew setting up.’

  Calypso stood up and tossed aside the paper she’d started reading. ‘I’m going back to work, see you guys later.’

  The door slammed shut behind her, making Camilla wince. She looked at Jed’s sandwich. ‘Do you want anything else with that?’

  ‘You,’ he replied, with a serious expression on his face.

  Camilla raised a teasing eyebrow. ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Come here,’ he said, and sweeping her up in his arms, carried Camilla up the narrow staircase to their bedroom. He put her down on the bed, peeled off her clothes and made gentle love to her, their bodies moving together with a comforting familiarity.

  Afterwards, they lay entwined, Camilla in post-coital bliss. ‘Hey,’ she said softly. ‘Shouldn’t you be thinking about going back to work?’

  He hesitated. ‘I was just thinking.’

  ‘Thinking about what?’ Camilla propped herself up on one shoulder to look at him.

  ‘Well, maybe we could set up a bank account for the future. I could start paying some of my wages in. You know, for our kids, so they’d have a good start in life. Better than I had, anyway.’

  ‘I think that’s a lovely idea,’ she said, quite taken aback. ‘I can get something set up, and …’

  ‘No.’ Jed stopped her, caressing her collarbone. ‘I know your parents would help us out, and I appreciate their generosity. I just want to make sure it’s me looking after our children, not your family. Does that make sense? Of course, it won’t be anything grand …’

  Camilla felt a lump in her throat. ‘They won’t need anything grand,’ she whispered. ‘Neither do I.’

  Jed smiled his crooked smile, making her heart do a somersault. ‘Let’s have another practice before I go back to work.’

  Chapter 14

  CAMILLA WAS DUE at the travel agent’s in a few hours, and as she emerged from the shower felt that all-too-familiar feeling of dread creeping into her stomach at the thought of another afternoon being treated like a general dogsbody. She sighed and hung her damp towel on the back of the door. At least I can make a good cup of tea, she thought self-deprecatingly.

  The mid-morning sun streamed in through the window. Camilla’s heart lifted: it was a beautiful day. She went to open the window and stepped back, wondering what to wear. She was still floating on air from her conversation with Jed about trying for a family. While her friends had been settling down and producing babies by the dozen, Camilla had never pressed Jed. She hadn’t wanted to scare him off, and it seemed her tactics were paying off.

  We’re going to have a baby!

  Camilla wondered if they should start thinking about converting the spare room into a nursery. It was a sweet little room that looked out on to the apples trees in the back garden. A perfect nurturing environment. Camilla smiled at herself, she was getting carried away. Still, it wou
ldn’t do any harm to start planning …

  Lost in happy thoughts, she absent-mindedly looked down at her bikini line. God, it was getting rather overgrown; she must book in for a wax at the beauty salon in Bedlington. Calypso had been urging her for months to get a Brazilian – ‘Big muffs are so 1970s’ – but Camilla didn’t know if she could bear the pain.

  Camilla noticed an ingrown hair. Definitely time to get a wax. Especially with the amount of action she was getting at the moment. It wasn’t fair on poor Jed, although, to be honest, it never seemed to put him off. Camilla squeezed the offending hair, and to her great satisfaction it popped free. Camilla looked round for her tweezers, which were on the dressing-room table. She was in the process of pulling out the offending hair, when she suddenly got the feeling she wasn’t alone.

  Slowly, afraid of what she might find, Camilla raised her head and looked out of the window.

  Twenty-six pairs of eyes looked back.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she screamed. Rushing over, she wrenched the curtains shut.

  Outside, the driver of the double-decker bus taking extras to the film set re-started his stalled engine and drove off.

  At Clanfield Hall, Frances gazed out of her own bedroom window at the melee below. She’d known that it was a big production, but she had had no idea just how many people there would be. Girls in black with clipboards, men in overalls lugging toolboxes, white vans lined up side by side, from which a startling array of things – from lighting equipment to a life-sized pair of stocks – were being carried out. Frances found it all rather fascinating, but was equally apprehensive about Ambrose’s reaction when he returned from visiting his sister in Scotland – to find his estate taken over by men shouting into megaphones and gaggles of filthy fake peasants with pustules and brown teeth. Even more so when he had to get through the paparazzi who had clustered at the front gates, hoping to get an off-guard shot of one of the cast.

  For a moment Frances questioned her judgement in letting the film crew in. She wondered if her longing for a change of routine had influenced her decision. Seraphina Inc. were taking over the little-used east wing of the house, and the shoot was scheduled to last three weeks. The Frasers’ fee for filming was going straight to the village fund, which would add much needed cash to the kitty.

  Frances was roused from her thoughts by her mobile ringing. It was probably Harriet, for whom Frances had left a voicemail earlier. She picked it up and was surprised that rather than her daughter’s number, the word ‘call’ was flashing up on the screen.

  Maybe she’s calling from work, Frances thought. She pressed the answer button. ‘Darling?’

  There was a chuckle down the phone. ‘That’s a helluva of a greeting.’

  ‘Devon! Is that you?’ Frances sat down in the chair heavily. Her hands started shaking.

  The familiar cockney voice. ‘The one and only, princess. How yer doin’?’

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ she replied awkwardly. Instinctively Frances ran her hand over her chignon to compose herself.

  There was a pause. ‘What’s wrong, Frannie?’ Devon Cornwall asked. ‘You don’t sound very pleased to hear from me.’

  ‘Oh I am! You just caught me off guard.’ Frances couldn’t keep the smile out of her voice. ‘Oh, Devon, it really is marvellous to hear from you!’

  Another throaty chuckle. ‘That’s more like it. You know, I’m sitting here on some rich git’s yacht having a bit of chill time, and you came into my mind. So I said to myself: “Sod it, Devon, get on the old dog and bone and give the lady a tinkle.”’

  Frances laughed. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Somewhere bloody hot in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Don’t ask me where, I’ve done eight countries in as many days.’

  ‘I assume the tour is going well, then?’

  ‘Going a blinder, but I don’t want to talk all about me, princess. Tell me what you’ve been up to, and all the Churchminster news.’

  They chatted for several minutes and Frances filled him in on the Britain’s Best Village competition and the film.

  Devon sounded impressed. ‘Blimey, it’s all going on there. Makes me quite nostalgic for the place.’

  There was another pause, in which Frances didn’t quite know what to say.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better shoot. I’m on stage later.’

  Frances was dismayed at the disappointment she felt. ‘Of course, I won’t keep you. It was lovely to hear from you.’

  ‘You too, princess. I miss that lovely Joanna Lumley voice of yours. Take good care of yourself.’

  She could hear a motor being started in the background. Frances hesitated. ‘Devon, was there any particular reason …’

  ‘I called? No Frannie, I was just thinking about you. Wanted to say hi.’ His voice changed. ‘I do miss you, you know.’

  Frances felt a lump in her throat and swallowed it down. ‘Well, I better let you go! It sounds very busy there.’

  He reverted back to his normal chipper self. ‘It’s always busy in Devon world. See ya, Frannie. It’s been really good to catch up.’

  ‘You too, Devon.’

  Frances ended the call and sat motionless in the chair. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. It was so silly the effect Devon still had on her, but she couldn’t help it. Frances leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. She wasn’t sure if she was pleased or frustrated he’d phoned. Had Devon really only called to say hello?

  Her mobile rang again, startling her. This time it was her daughter, Harriet. ‘Hello, darling.’

  ‘Mummy, are you OK? You sound a bit out of breath.’

  ‘I’ve just been rushing around,’ Frances lied.

  ‘Oh, all right then.’ Her daughter sounded as cheery as ever. ‘I just phoned to see how things are going with the film! It’s awfully exciting.’

  ‘Touch wood, quite smoothly,’ Frances told her. At that moment there was a loud crash outside.

  ‘Oh, heavens, I’ll call you back!’ she exclaimed and ran over to the open window. Mrs Bantry had come rushing out the front door at the same time. An empty props truck had reversed into the stone statue of a lurcher, toppling it over.

  Frances watched as her housekeeper went over to the fallen statue. ‘Mrs Bantry, please don’t bother yourself …’

  ‘Ma, don’t you dare pick that up!’ Jed had suddenly materialized in his overalls, a stern look on his face. He easily righted the stone dog, before putting a tender hand on his mum’s shoulder. ‘I’ve told you not to lift anything. You know your back’s playing up,’

  The driver stuck his head out the window, looking relieved. ‘No harm done, then?’

  Jed looked over at him. ‘No, mate, but I’d watch your driving in future. And next time, don’t get my ma here to pick up your mess.’

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ the driver muttered, looking contrite. He drove off at a more sensible pace, and Frances watched Jed kiss his mother on the cheek, before striding back to work. Her phone started ringing again.

  ‘Hello? No darling, everything’s OK. We just had a small commotion …’

  Chapter 15

  MAY ARRIVED IN the village, bringing with it longer, warmer evenings and renewed hope. Everyone who had entered Churchminster’s Got Talent was still practising madly. At the Jolly Boot one lunchtime, the music coming from Stacey’s bedroom was so loud that Jack went to tell her to turn it down. ‘Stace!’ He banged on the door. Brittle pop music blasted from within. Suddenly, there was a large ‘thump’ followed by a shout and muffled expletives. ‘Stacey!’ Jack was getting alarmed. ‘Are you all right?’ He tried the door, but it was locked.

  A few moments later the music went off and a merciful quiet descended over the building. Jack could hear cross stomping across the room, and then the bedroom door opened. Even though it was gone midday, Stacey was still wearing her dressing gown and looked extremely displeased at being disturbed. ‘You don’t have to kick the door in!’

  ‘Your bleeding music is deafening my punters!’ Jack s
aid crossly. ‘Keep it down.’

  Stacey pulled a sulky face. ‘Whatever. Most of them are probably too deaf to hear it, anyway.’

  Jack looked over his daughter’s shoulder. Her bedroom looked more like a tart’s boudoir than ever, with various leopard-print clothes lying scattered around, and a pink feather boa draped across the top of her wardrobe. A heavy, exotic scent hung in the air. ‘What’s going on in here, anyway? Why are you still in your dressing gown in the middle of the day?’

  Stacey pulled the door shut to a crack and glared through it belligerently. ‘Keep your beak out, Dad! This is, like, a total invasion of my privacy.’

  Jack sighed and gave up. She was getting more like her mother every day. ‘Just keep it down,’ he warned. Stacey rolled her eyes dismissively. At the top of the stairway, he stopped and looked back. ‘So you’re busy, then?’

  Stacey stuck her head out the door. ‘Duh, like yeah!’

  ‘Fine,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘I’ll tell Rafe Wolfe you don’t want to serve him, then. He’s in the bar.’

  Stacey’s eyes lit up like Christmas lights. ‘Oh my God, he’s here? Wait, I’m going to get changed! Who’s he with?’

  ‘Oh, Mother Theresa, Princess Di,’ Jack replied. ‘I think Freddie Mercury’s here, too.’

  A look of confusion entered Stacey’s face, until she realized her dad was winding her up. She narrowed kohl-rimmed eyes. ‘Oh grow up! That is so immature.’

  The bedroom door slammed shut. Chuckling, Jack went back down the stairs to serve his customers.

  The next day the Daily Mercy, a gossipy national newspaper, printed a double-page spread about the Britain’s Best Village competition. In it, they assessed each of the four finalists and their good and bad points, with a final score out of ten. Clementine was furious to see that Churchminster had only scored four, the lowest by far. She was particularly incensed to hear it described as a ‘country village lacking in rural charm’ and see that they had been marked down by the ‘unsightly hole in the churchyard wall’. There was an inordinate amount of detail, and none of it was good. To add salt to the wound, Maplethorpe had come out top with nine and a half out of ten, with a quote from Veronica Stockard-Manning that: ‘even perfection can be improved on’. Clementine wondered crossly why the journalist hadn’t approached her; the whole article was biased towards Maplethorpe. Clementine sat back in her study chair, convinced that that ghastly Stockard-Manning woman was behind it all. She knew just how devious she could be. As the old, painful memories came rushing back, her jaw tightened with resolve.