by Jo Carnegie
The next morning a puffy-eyed Calypso was walking back to the cottage when a car pulled up. She didn’t need to look and see who it was. The passenger-side window slid down.
‘Calypso, can we talk?’ asked Rafe.
She ignored him and carried on walking.
‘Calypso!’
The car was beside her now, following. Rafe leaned over.
‘At the very least, let me reimburse you for the Eurostar tickets.’
He tried to catch her eye. ‘That was really nice of you by the way.’
‘I don’t want your money,’ she said stonily.
Rafe pushed the door open.
‘Get in Calypso. Please.’
She hesitated. Might as well listen to what he’s got to say for himself, she told herself, as she climbed in.
They drove in silence until they reached a lay-by outside Churchminster. Rafe cut the engine.
‘What did you want to tell me?’ Calypso asked bluntly. He turned to face her, but Calypso resolutely kept her gaze ahead, afraid that if she did turn and look into those deep blue pools, she just might just forgive him for being a philandering, cheating arsehole. ‘Actually let me ask you something first. Your dear grandmother on her deathbed, that was a load of bollocks wasn’t it? You were meeting up with Daphne, weren’t you?’
He looked away.
‘That’s really low.’ Calypso was disgusted.
‘It’s not how you think,’ he said.
She gave a derisive snort.
Rafe tried to touch her on the arm, but she pulled it away. ‘Daphne is my fiancée, but I swear to you that when we first met, we were on a break.’
‘And when did this “break” finish?’ she asked, feigning big interest in a blackbird that had flown on to a branch in front of them.
‘A few weeks after we met.’
‘A few weeks?’ Incredulous, Calypso turned to face him. ‘So basically, you’ve been pulling the wool over my eyes the whole time? For Christ’s sake, Rafe!’
Despite what he’d done, Rafe still looked impossibly handsome. His full lips, the contours of his jaw, that she had traced with her fingers so many times … Calypso forced herself back against the car door, putting as much space between them as possible.
‘You did mean something to me!’ he urged. ‘You still do. By the time Daphne and I got back together, I had fallen so badly for you I couldn’t break it off.’
‘So break it off with Daphne,’ she said casually.
Rafe looked sheepish. ‘It’s more complicated than that. Daphne’s dad is a big studio boss in LA; he’s got great plans for my career.’
‘Glad to see you’ve got your priorities sorted,’ she said acidly. ‘What’s in it for Daphne? Why does she put up with your little indiscretions?’
Rafe gave a little grin. ‘Come on, I’m not exactly a bad catch. Daphne’s more of a social climber than her daddy, she wants to see us on every best-dressed list in town.’
Calypso looked at him, really looked at him properly for the first time, gazed beneath the film-star looks and charming veneer. She didn’t like what she saw.
Rafe mistook her silence for something else. His hand edged on to her bare thigh. ‘We had a great time, didn’t we, Calypso? We can still go on having good times if you want to.’ He gave her a meaningful look. ‘The ball’s in your court.’
She shot him an equally meaningful one back. ‘Then take your fucking hand off and drive me home.’
Chapter 46
TWO DAYS LATER the film crew packed up and left the village, the only sign they’d ever been there a tatty luminous sign fluttering from a telegraph pole on the Bedlington Road. For Clementine, it was a huge relief. Even though it hadn’t turned out as badly as she had expected and the location fee had come in very handy indeed, she was pleased they could finally get on with the task in hand.
Calypso had been left with a wealth of emotions. It was the first time she’d ever really been hurt, and boy, was it painful. Even though she had managed to keep up a front with Rafe, it didn’t stop her spending hours sobbing while Camilla held her. The worst thing for Calypso was that she was grieving for a relationship that hadn’t been real, for a man who hadn’t existed. She was alternately furious with herself for falling for the nice-guy act, and with Rafe for pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Most of all, though, there was heartache. A huge hole had been left in her life, a life that she had imagined ending happily ever after.
‘Do you think I meant anything to him?’ Calypso sobbed one night on the sofa in the cottage.
‘Darling, I really do,’ said Camilla. She’d seen the way Rafe had looked at her sister. Pity he’d neglected to mention there was a fiancée in the background. What a bastard! She’d never pay money to see a Rafe Wolfe film again.
Aside from Calypso’s anguish Camilla was uncomfortably aware that things still weren’t right with Jed. The euphoria and closeness they’d shared again on him getting the all-clear had been a fleeting experience. Several times she’d walked into the living room to find him staring into space and he seemed edgy with her, like he was back holding her at arm’s length. They hadn’t had sex since but Camilla didn’t want to push it. She told herself that Jed was coming round from the shock of the whole thing, that it would take time to get back to normal after going through such a traumatic experience. These words were becoming harder to believe by the day however.
It was Thursday, the 17th of July. In twenty-four hours’ time, the Britain’s Best Village judges would descend on Churchminster, bringing their voting pads with them, along with the chance to change the lives of everyone for ever. The whole village was aware of the irony that it was almost a year to the day that the floods had rampaged through, ripping apart homes, businesses and people’s livelihoods.
Churchminster would always carry the scars of that dreadful summer, but over the past twelve months they had picked themselves up. In fact, standing on the green that warm summer’s evening with the rest of the Garden Party, Clementine felt a huge sense of pride about what they’d all achieved. OK, so they had been blighted by the blasted vandals – who Bedlington police still hadn’t caught yet – but there was no doubt the village was looking great. Front gardens were well-kept, with an array of flowers in each one. The village green looked pristine. The shop was doing a roaring trade, the Jolly Boot was filled with Pimms-drinking punters every lunchtime and evening. The notice board outside the village hall was festooned with flyers for mum and baby coffee mornings, charity bike rides, OAP bingo evenings and lunches, under-eighteen workshops, local gardens open to the public; all the elements that make for a happy, prosperous community.
This really, was what Britain’s Best Village was about. It wasn’t just appearance that mattered, but what was happening underneath. Did the village have a heart and soul? Did everyone look out for each other? It might not be the grandest place in the land, but Clementine took huge satisfaction in knowing that Churchminster was a place that people wanted to live in, not just drive through on a day out. It was this single factor that convinced her they could still win BBV.
Later, after they’d all had a celebration champers at the Jolly Boot, the members of the Garden Party retired to their respective houses, each hoping and waiting for the day ahead. The judges were due at 10 a.m., and would spend three hours walking through the village to assess how well all the categories had been met. As the residents of Churchminster climbed into bed that night, their minds whirred with possibilities, anxieties and excitement.
Could they, would they win it?
Clementine woke with a start. Something was wrong. She opened her eyes blearily and looked at her bedside clock. Ten past three in the morning. Then she realized why she could read it: instead of complete darkness, there was an orange glow creeping in through the windows, lighting up the room. Clementine frowned; that was strange. In the distance she could hear a strange crackle. It reminded her of the fat spluttering on a belly of pork when she took it out of the o
ven.
Suddenly she sat bolt upright, hand clutching her throat in fear. She knew that sound! Moving hurriedly, she got out of bed and went over to the window. The orange glow behind the curtains was even stronger, illuminating the rosebud pattern. Heart clenched with dread and in trepidation, Clementine yanked them back.
For a moment, she registered complete shock and disbelief at the sight before her. Then Clementine’s face crumpled and she started wailing. ‘No! No, it can’t be! Oh, please Lord, no!’
St Bartholomew’s was on fire. The building was a black silhouette against the thirty-foot flames that raged through it. As Clementine watched she heard a huge groan reverberate, as if the old church had finally given up in agony, and part of the roof caved in, disappearing in a crash of sparks.
Clementine gripped the windowsill, mesmerized by horror. It was like seeing one of her oldest, dearest friends dying a terrible death in front of her, and she could do nothing about it. She became aware of another, high-pitched noise, which, she suddenly realized, was herself screaming.
Suddenly in the distance, she heard another sound, which snapped her back into the present. Someone had called the fire brigade.
Within five minutes, Clementine was down on the green in her Wellington boots, her gardening overcoat pulled over her nightdress. Two fire engines were there, fruitlessly spraying water over St Bartholomew’s, but the flames refused to relinquish their hold. Already the village green was dotted with people, their cars left parked haphazardly on the roadside as they rushed down to try and help.
Calypso was there, barefoot in a tiny pair of pyjama shorts and vest top. She started sobbing as soon as she saw her grandmother. ‘Oh, Granny Clem!’ she said, running into her arms, ‘I can’t bear to watch, it’s just too awful.’
‘Where’s your sister?’ Clementine asked anxiously, but Camilla appeared by her side, dressed in her nightie.
‘I’m here, don’t worry, but Jed’s in there somewhere! He went in with Jack to try and save some things.’
Just then, two firefighters emerged from the smoke, clutching a blackened-faced Jed between them. Camilla ran over in relief but Jed shook her off.
‘I’ve got to go back!’ he shouted. ‘Jack’s still in there!’
Stacey Turner, standing a few feet away with her arm round her mother, started screaming. ‘What do you mean, my dad’s still in there! He’s gonna die! Someone get him, get him fucking out!’
She made a start for the church, but Beryl pulled her back, tears running down her face. ‘No, Stacey!’
In the distance an ambulance siren could be heard. There was a large whoosh and another part of the roof collapsed. More people started screaming. One of the firemen moved towards the crowd, waving his arms.
‘Get back everyone! This is dangerous!’
Suddenly, through the hiss and crackle, another fireman appeared, half-dragging something beside him. It was only when the exhausted man pulled the shape clear of the fire and laid it down on the wet grass, that everyone could see who it was.
It was the burned, blackened body of Jack Turner.
Stacey started screaming afresh and rushed over. ‘Dad, dad, oh Daddy! Please, someone do something!’
Two firemen were there, one leaning down to his face to listen for Jack’s breathing. He glanced at his colleague, face grim. ‘We’ve lost him, start CPR.’
As the other fireman ripped open Jack’s shirt and started to do resuscitation, Stacey Turner fell in a heap, almost animal-like in her hysteria. ‘My daddy, my daddy, my daddy!’
Beryl tried to comfort her, crying hysterically and white-faced in shock. They were all crying: Clementine, Camilla, Calypso, the Bellows, and Angie and Freddie Fox-Titt, with their arms around each other.
An ambulance pulled up and the crew jumped out to take over. One of the firemen looked up at them. ‘I can’t get his heart started!’
The ambulance crew took over, then, and the last sight everyone had of Jack Turner was of the doors closing on his lifeless body, a sobbing Stacey and Beryl by his side.
Chapter 47
THEY’D GOT THE fire under control in the end, but not before it had swept through the entire church taking almost everything with it. In the end, all that was left standing were the four walls, windowless and roofless. As Clementine stood in the early morning light, debris floating down in front of her, she thought it looked like the carcass of a poor animal that had been ripped apart by vultures. A plume of smoke hung over the blackened wreck of St Bartholomew’s, while a fine layer of ash had settled on the green and surrounding houses.
Freddie came over and squeezed her arm. ‘How are you doing old bean?’
Wordlessly Clementine shook her head. ‘Have you heard from the hospital?’
‘Jack’s in theatre now,’ Freddie told her gently. Clementine’s chin wobbled and she cast her eyes heavenward.
‘Oh Freddie! How dreadful.’
Amongst the villagers still on the green, strange faces were milling about. The local police had turned up, and the fire-investigation team were doing what they could before the building was cool enough to let them start their extensive work. It didn’t bode well, one of them had already found a petrol can, which had been tossed over the graveyard wall. The residents rounded on PC Penny, desperate to express their despair.
‘Who would do such a dreadful thing!’ cried Angie angrily.
PC Penny looked overwhelmed. ‘Madam, we will do all we can to find the culprits.’
‘Don’t you mean murders?’ cried Calypso, ‘Did you see Jack being carried out of there?’
Camilla put her hand on her sister’s arm. ‘Easy, sweet pea.’
‘I bet it’s the same bloody vandals who did all the damage last few times,’ sniffed Calypso defiantly. ‘The ones who kicked off at Churchminster’s Got Talent. As far as I’m concerned they’ve got blood on their hands.’
‘We will be following up all lines of enquiry,’ stated PC Penny.
‘I should go to Bedlington and find them myself,’ muttered Jed.
‘We don’t need you in trouble as well,’ Camilla told him.
‘What do you think, Granny Clem?’ asked Calypso. Her grandmother always knew what to do.
Clementine looked at her, eyes vacant.
‘What do I think about what?’
‘About who did it, if it was started deliberately? Do you think it was that lot from Bedlington.’
‘Oh, who knows? It’s pointless worrying about it now. We have a far greater tragedy on our hands.’
Everyone fell silent, thinking about Jack. Calypso gave another sob. The last few days had been an emotional roller coaster and now this. It was too much.
Eventually Freddie looked at his wristwatch.
‘Christ, the judges will be here in a few hours!’
‘Do you think we should try and put them off for a few hours?’ Angie asked anxiously, ‘We could try and clear up.’ She trailed off. There was no point, Churchminster looked like a war zone. It would take weeks to get back to normal again.
Until that moment, Clementine had completely forgotten about the competition, which had so dominated her life the last few months. There was no way they would win now.
‘I need to go to bed,’ she said wearily.
‘We’ll walk you back,’ Camilla said anxiously.
Clementine raised a hand. ‘No darling, don’t bother yourself.’
They all watched as her tall, hunched figure disappeared into the morning mist.
As well as poor Jack, it wasn’t just the physical act of desecration that had so badly affected Clementine. It was all the memories that had been lost as well. She had married and put her darling Bertie to rest in that church, had her son christened there, seen the next generation of Standington-Fulthropes start there, along with many other families in the village. As she curled up in bed, exhausted yet unable to sleep, Clementine reflected that a piece of her had gone, along with the church. And she would never, ever get it bac
k again.
They lost Jack three times on the way to hospital. The surgeon who treated him said he was amazed anyone could come back to life with that amount of smoke in their lungs.
‘My dad’s a fighter,’ Stacey told him proudly, as she and Beryl kept a bedside vigil in the intensive care unit. Jack, rigged up to breathing apparatus and unable to say anything, squeezed his daughter’s hand. White bandages swathed his hands and forearms where he’d been burned.
‘We thought we’d lost you, Dad,’ Stacey said emotionally. The familiar feisty look returned to her face. ‘Don’t be such a gaylord and do anything so stupid again.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Beryl echoed weakly.
At ten o’clock precisely, the people carrier containing the three judges pulled up at the village green. Grim-faced they dismounted, taking in the scene of carnage. Marjorie Majors, a stout woman in her fifties with cropped grey hair, muttered something to the other two judges, who were male, and shook her head. As Clementine had taken to her bed, it was down to the Fox-Titts to welcome the judges and tell them a little bit about the village. As much as Angie gaily tried to tell them about their wonderful community spirit and picturesque beauty, the hulking blackened shell of St Bartholomew’s sat there in the background, like a great ugly albatross.
One of the male judges coughed. ‘All this ash is getting in my throat. Could we get some refreshments at your public house?’
‘I’m afraid it’s shut,’ said Angie apologetically. ‘Jack Turner, our landlord, is in hospital. He went into the church last night, when it was on fire, to save some of the artefacts.’
Marjorie Majors shook her head again. Angie couldn’t make out if it was a gesture of disapproval or regret. ‘You have a lot of bad luck in this village, don’t you? What with floods and now this.’
‘Yes, but we are good at getting back on our feet again,’ said Freddie hurriedly.
‘Hmmm,’ Marjorie Majors didn’t sound convinced. Her eyes travelled over the freshly replanted flowerbeds.