[Churchminster #3] Wild Things

by Jo Carnegie

  ‘Bravo!’ cried Clementine as they passed by.

  All three judges joined in the applause as the Beasley committee filed on stage. Alan Titchmarsh stepped forward beaming, and presented Carole Newbury with the gold trowel trophy and cheque. She held it aloft, and they all hugged and congratulated each other. It was a heart-warming moment.

  As the cheering died down, Carole Newbury turned to Marjorie Majors to ask something. The head judge’s eyes goggled in shock, before she recovered and smiled, nodding heartily. Everyone watched in surprise as Carole Newbury handed the trophy to one of her friends and made her way over to the podium. This had never been the protocol before.

  ‘Good evening, everyone,’ she said confidently into the microphone. ‘May I first take the opportunity to say how delighted we are that Beasley has scooped the top prize. It really is a dream come true.’

  More whoops and cheers.

  ‘Lend us a fiver!’ someone shouted. Laughter rippled round the room. Carole Newbury smiled along with it.

  ‘Actually, there is a reason why I’m up here now. As I said, winning this competition is the greatest accolade a village could have, and the three-quarters of a million pounds cheque really is the greatest gift we could wish to receive. But after consulting with the rest of the Beasley committee, we have decided that there is another village more deserving of the money. That is why we would like to donate half the cheque to the village of Churchminster.’

  She waggled the cheque in the air, as the news started to sink in on the Churchminster table.

  ‘Oh my God!’ squealed Camilla. ‘Granny Clem!’

  Clementine sat there, frantically doing the sums. It might not build them a flood defence but it would pay for the most vulnerable properties to be floodproofed, not to mention all the other things Churchminster needed done – although not rebuilding the church, of course. It was a glimmer of hope amongst the blackness.

  ‘I won’t have to move after all! Oh my Lord, my giddy aunt!’ cried Brenda, bursting into tears of relief.

  A tearfully happy Angie put her arm round her. Her shop would be safe now, too. ‘How wonderful!’

  On stage, Carole Newbury was smiling and beckoning to Clementine. ‘Come on up!’ she mouthed. As if in a dream, Clementine stood. Someone put their hand on her arm and guided her towards the stage, amidst thunderous applause that seemed a thousand miles away.

  As the Churchminster Garden Party walked on, the villagers of Beasley patted them on the back and shook their hands. Clementine made her way straight to Carole Newbury. The spotlights and overhead lights were blinding.

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ she said, voice trembling. ‘What a truly generous gift, but I can’t accept. It’s your money!’

  Carole Newbury gave a reassuring wink. ‘I won’t hear of it. I may live in Norfolk now, but I’m Cotswolds born and bred. It’s in my blood. I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.’

  Truly touched by her kindness, Clementine threw her arms round their fairy godmother. ‘Thank you, Carole! Oh, thank you.’

  Marjorie bustled over. ‘I’d like to say something if that’s all right with you both.’ She smiled and climbed back on the lectern. ‘Excuse me, everyone!’ she cried. ‘A few more moments of your time.’

  The crowd grew silent.

  Marjorie looked at the people on the stage and back out again to the audience. ‘Well!’ Her voice wobbled slightly. ‘What a turn up for the books!’

  ‘Lend us a fiver, Churchminster!’ the same voice shouted as before. Everyone laughed.

  Marjorie smiled indulgently. ‘As I’ve already said, it is a honour to judge Britain’s Best Village but I have never been so proud as I am today! Beasley has shown the true neighbourly spirit of a village: not only limited to the people who live within its borders. And after the disgusting behaviour displayed by Maplethorpe this wonderful act of altruism is to be commended more than ever. Well done, Beasley, you are worthy winners indeed!’ Marjorie’s eyes took on a fervent look. ‘Which brings me to the warriors in Churchminster. In an age where Britain is in the doldrums and this country is going to the dogs, this little village has showed us that, even against the odds, the British fighting spirit is alive and well! No matter where one lives, or what problems one has faced, we should all be proud of what we’ve got and help one another!’

  Several people in the audience rolled their eyes, but Marjorie hadn’t finished yet.

  ‘Churchminster has what I call the “F Factor”. It has nothing to do with that blasphemous man Gordon Ramsay, but stands for “Feel-good Factor”! The “F Factor” should make us all feel proud of being British, and enable us to look forward to a safer, happier future. Churchminster, you’re an inspiration to the nation! Here’s to you and to spreading the “F Factor”!’

  ‘To Churchminster!’ the audience roared, roused to its feet. ‘To the “F Factor”!’

  Chapter 55

  THE REST OF the night passed in a happy blur. They were bought so much champagne that Lucinda Reinard had to be stretchered upstairs to her room by a passing ambulance the doormen flagged down. Luckily they weren’t out on a call, and were happy to oblige.

  Down on the dance floor, Calypso was shaking her stuff to the disco when a man came up to her. It was the guy she’d been eyeing up earlier. Up close he was even better: his eyes fringed by enviably long eyelashes, and with touches of grey in the black hair around his sideburns. Rather than being ageing, it gave him a distinguished sexuality.

  He stuck his hand out to Calypso. ‘Hi there, I’m Isaac Majors.’ He had a confident, yet laid-back edge that was very attractive.

  ‘Majors as in Marjorie Majors, head judge of Britain’s Best Village?’

  Isaac grinned, revealing sexily crooked teeth. ‘She’s my grandmother.’

  Calypso took in his funky get-up. ‘Yeah, I was thinking you were a little out of place here.’

  He looked her up and down. By now she was barefoot, her ponytail pulled out so a wild mane tumbled down her back. ‘I could say the same about you.’

  ‘Point taken,’ she laughed. ‘So what are you doing here? Offering Granny moral support?’

  Isaac grinned again. ‘Something like that. I’ve been coming here since it started. It’s a good night. It may not sound very cool, but Gran and I share a love of gardening. Helps me wind down when I come off the road.’

  ‘Off the road?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m in a band. The Rattlesnakes. Don’t know if you’ve heard of them?’

  Calypso had. ‘My friends went to see you last month at the Brixton Academy – said you were amazing!’

  Isaac laughed, a deep husky sound. ‘Your mates are very kind. You’ll have to come and see us some time.’

  She smiled. ‘I’d like that.’

  Isaac appraised her. ‘You look like the kind of girl who knows how to have fun. Shall we hit the bar?’

  Calypso shot back an equally mischievous look. ‘That’s if you can keep up with me.’

  Clementine was standing on the other side of the dance floor with Freddie and Angie. They were talking about Frances.

  ‘Good on her, for going off travelling like that,’ said Freddie. ‘Although I can still hardly believe it.’

  ‘Quite a few people have changed in Churchminster recently,’ remarked Angie, as Joyce Bellows shimmied past, performing some kind of erotic dance for Reverend Bellows. He watched, open-mouthed, as she slid up to him, removed his bow tie and started pulling it seductively round her bare shoulders.

  ‘Go, Joyce!’ Angie cheered.

  ‘Good lord,’ Clementine said faintly. ‘What have we unleashed?’

  ‘She’s just happy.’ Angie laughed. ‘As we all are. We’ve got a lot to celebrate.’

  Clementine stared at Joyce for a moment, before shoving her glass in Freddie’s hand. ‘Hold on Joyce, I’m coming to join you!’ she called out.

  The next day the majority of the Garden Party woke up, hungover but happy. Camilla was slightly alarmed when she turned ov
er and saw Calypso’s bed hadn’t been slept in, but minutes later her sister stumbled through the door, with what looked like a stubble rash all over her chin.

  ‘You dirty stop-out!’ Camilla laughed.

  Calypso collapsed on the bed. ‘Don’t. I think I’m seriously in love. We spent the whole night snogging each other’s faces off in some all-night bar in Soho. Isaac’s just dropped me off in a taxi.’

  ‘Ooh, so are you going to see him again?’

  Calypso propped herself up on one elbow and looked at her sister.

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’ A haunted look flashed through her eyes, but she plastered a smile on. ‘Fuck that cheesy actor boy, I’m out there again!’

  ‘Good girl,’ said Camilla, smiling. She knew it would take time for Calypso to get Rafe fully out of her system, but her little sister would get there in the end.

  In her suite next door, Clementine switched the news on to find Gordon Brown on GMTV, talking about the ‘F Factor’ and ‘Feel-good Britain’. He was saying, ‘The “F-Factor” should be a byword for this nation and we should all use Churchminster as a role model.’

  Through her astonishment, Clementine raised a cynical eyebrow. That bloody Brown man would jump on the bandwagon for anything! She heard something being slid under the door. It was a newspaper. Still watching the television, Clementine got out of bed to pick it up. Her heart sank when she saw they’d given her the Daily Mercy instead of the Telegraph, but not for long. There was a big picture of Churchminster looking beautiful on the front page, accompanied by the headline: ‘THE FACE OF FEEL-GOOD BRITAIN!’

  Clementine read on, breathless. It was all there, how they’d encountered seemingly random acts of vandalism and then had the tragedy of St Bartholomew’s, only to find out their rivals Maplethorpe village had been behind it all along. After praising Churchminster and urging everyone to adopt the ‘F Factor’, the article finished by saying that two women, and a youth, were now in police custody, being questioned in connection with arson and criminal damage. Clementine lay back on her pillow, thinking. She knew that as a devout churchgoer, she should really rise above such thoughts, but she was pleased that that woman had got her bloody comeuppance. Her thoughts drifted, to young blurred faces and halcyon days playing in the Meadows.

  ‘Oh, Eddie,’ she sighed. ‘I do miss you terribly. Even after all these years.’

  At least her darling brother was in a place now where no one else could hurt him.

  Much like the night before, the morning, passed in a whirlwind. Practically every national newspaper had picked up on the story, and it was reported that Marjorie Majors had been approached by a representative of David Cameron’s to ask if she would like a career in the Tory party. It wasn’t just press-canny party leaders that had sussed this was a momentous occasion; cabbies, lawyers and hairdressers alike were all talking about Churchminster and the outcome of Britain’s Best Village. It had provided a subtle but powerful shift in the nation’s consciousness, after a period of doom and gloom; people believed things could get better again. The ‘F Factor’ was picking up speed in every household from Dundee to Dunstable.

  Churchminster even had a police escort on the way home, passing drivers tooting their horns and giving the coach the thumbs up. Sky News even covered the event in a helicopter, giving a second-by-second account. ‘Oh look, the coach is pulling out to overtake! Oh no, it’s decided not to. Doesn’t the M4 look nice today?’

  By the time they’d passed through Bedlington, where residents and shoppers had lined the streets waving – ‘Is the Queen here?’ one little boy asked his mum – the Garden Party were quite overcome. As the coach pulled on to the green, the rest of the village had gathered excitedly.

  For the first time Clementine could bear to look at St Bartholomew’s since the fire. We’ll get you back on fighting form, old chum, she thought.

  They climbed off the coach to a chorus of cheers. Ted Briggs was the first to run forward and give wife Brenda a bear hug.

  ‘Oh Bren, I’ve been crying all night!’ he sobbed happily.

  Brenda ruffled his receding hairline fondly. ‘You soppy bugger.’

  A smiling Jed was there to meet Camilla, and even Sir Ambrose and Lady Fraser had turned out, and were standing on the edge of the proceedings watching. Frances looked more casual for once, in a plain white shirt and three-quarter length trousers, her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Glancing over, Angie Fox-Titt thought she looked wonderfully pretty.

  Frances caught her gaze. ‘Congratulations!’ she called. ‘What wonderful news. We’re over the moon, aren’t we, Ambrose?’

  Her husband attempted a smile. It reminded Angie of a rusty drawbridge being pulled up. ‘Yes, dear.’

  Through the melee of people hugging and congratulating came a frail figure, propped up by a walking stick.

  ‘Dad!’ screamed Stacey and rushed over. He winced as she threw her arms round him.

  ‘Careful, Stace! I’m a bit tender still.’

  ‘You’re more than that, Jack Turner!’ declared Beryl. ‘You’re meant to be in hospital, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Discharged meself.’

  ‘Oh, Jack!’ started Beryl, but he held up a bandaged hand.

  ‘Don’t go fussing, I’m fine. Besides, you think I’d miss this homecoming?’

  They all gathered round him.

  ‘My dear fellow, how are you?’ asked Clementine.

  He grinned, the old Jack back. ‘I’ll be a damn sight better once I’ve got a tot of Johnnie Walker’s inside me. Come on, everyone, drinks on the ’ouse!’

  The celebrations continued long into the evening.

  Chapter 56

  CALYPSO AND CLEMENTINE were walking through the Meadows, Errol Flynn bustling nose-first through the undergrowth in front of them. It had been a week since the ceremony. It was a perfect summer’s day: scorching blue skies, a lazy stillness in the air. A dragonfly darted in towards them, before zigzagging off through the green pasture.

  ‘Isn’t it just heavenly?’ said Clementine contentedly.

  Calypso nodded in agreement. ‘It was worth it, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What, darling?’

  ‘All the hard work we put in, even if we didn’t win. I really think it’s helped save Churchminster,’ Calypso said.

  ‘I think you’re right. I’ve no regrets.’

  Calypso shot her grandmother an amused sideways glance. ‘What, even letting the film crew in?’

  ‘They weren’t as bad as I thought,’ Clementine concluded, ‘and the location fee has come in handy. Though that’s not to say I’d do it again,’ she added hastily.

  ‘That’s a shame, I hear Seraphina Inc. want to film a crack-crazed lesbian zombie film here next.’

  Calypso laughed at the look of horror on Clementine’s face. ‘I was just pulling your leg, Granny Clem!’

  ‘Hmph.’

  Calypso pulled the stem off a long piece of grass as she walked past it. ‘Who are those flowers in the kitchen from, by the way? They’re gorgeous.’

  ‘Oh, just a well-wisher.’

  ‘A bloody generous well-wisher! I wish someone would send me flowers like that.’

  They walked on in silence for a few moments, before Clementine spoke again. ‘Actually, darling, there was something I wanted to talk to you about. Camilla and I didn’t know whether to or not, but I think it’s best if you find out from us.’

  Calypso stopped and looked at her. ‘What do you mean? Is it something I’m not going to like?’

  Clementine sighed, ‘Let’s go back, and I’ll show you.’

  Ten minutes later, they were in the cosy sitting room at Fairoaks, the one Clementine used herself when she wasn’t entertaining. The comfy sofa and calming colours were doing nothing to quell Calypso’s growing discomfort.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded. Her voice was emotional. ‘No one’s died, have they?’

  ‘Heavens, no!’ Clementine said hurriedly. She reached into her large ha
ndbag and pulled out a magazine. ‘Camilla came over and gave this to me last night. She’d kept it out of your way and wasn’t sure what to do with it.’

  Clementine handed it to Calypso. Calypso stared at it for a moment; it was one of those celebrity American trash mags that Camilla subscribed to.

  ‘IT’S OVER!’ screamed the headline on the front cover. Calypso felt sick as she recognized the people in the photo underneath. It was a paparazzi shot of Rafe and Daphne at a red-carpet do, looking impossibly glamorous. There was a big split down the middle of the picture. Calypso’s stomach did an involuntary somersault.

  And then in smaller print underneath: ‘How Hollywood’s golden couple hit the rocks! Full story inside!’

  Wordlessly Calypso flipped to the page and started reading. It was juicy stuff. Rafe had been sensationally dumped by his socialite fiancée Daphne Winters, after she allegedly found him in bed with their pretty young housemaid. Although Rafe and Daphne’s spokespeople both issued a ‘No comment’, the fact that Daphne’s daddy, the big studio boss, had dropped Rafe from his latest film had sent the rumours flying.

  ‘Rafe also had this fling with a mystery woman a while ago, and it got pretty heavy,’ said a source close to the star. ‘Daphne had been pretty pissed about this other woman, that as soon as she realized he’d been unfaithful again, she called time on their engagement.’

  So Daphne wasn’t as invincible as she had made out, after all. Calypso looked up, eyes hurting. ‘First me and then the housemaid, eh? How classy, I feel really good now.’

  ‘Darling, I know it hurts but this must only prove you really are better off without him.’

  Calypso gave a short laugh. ‘So why do I miss him so much?’

  ‘You loved him, Calypso,’ Clementine said gently. ‘That feeling isn’t going to go away overnight.’

  ‘Well, I wish it bloody would!’ Calypso smiled sadly. ‘I’ll tell you what, Granny Clem, I’m off men for life after this.’ Her iPhone starting ringing on the table where she’d chucked it. Calypso reached across to answer it. Her face lit up. ‘Actually, hold that thought.’ She skipped out of the room saying: ‘Hey, Isaac! How’s it going? I was just thinking about you, actually …’