‘Don’t you “woman” me. The money is no problem, he has the promise of whatever’s needed for buying into the partnership and that’s what I want him to do. Buy you out! Not that you deserve it considering how much money you took with you when you went off with that tart. You can try your best, Bryn, but I am marrying Dicky and I want a divorce now, or the lunch business is off.’
Dicky considered coughing in order to let them know he was there but the chance to hear the outcome of this conversation was not to be missed and he stayed where he was.
Bryn began laughing, that head-thrown-back, loud, mocking laugh he’d used before. When he calmed down he said, ‘You wouldn’t do that to me. Not to me! We mean too much to each other.’
‘Now I know where you are I shall instruct my solicitor. I’ve plenty of evidence. I want a divorce immediately. Then Dicky and I can marry. He’ll move in here and Bel will go to her house, which she longs to get back to. I can’t wait to get my life straight. OK?’
‘I don’t want a divorce.’
‘Well, you’re getting one.’
‘So where’s he getting the money from to buy my share?’
Quickly Dicky dropped the hosepipe on the stone floor, swore loudly, picked it up and meandered through the door as though he’d just that moment arrived. He’d always known he was cut out to be an actor. He smiled at Georgie and said, ‘Alan’s made the coffee, when you’re ready’ and brushed past Bryn as though he didn’t exist, hung the hosepipe on the bracket ready for another time and calmly went back into the bar. So she did want him. She did. He punched the air, triumphant. A triumph tinged with a bitter hatred of Bryn.
But Bryn wasn’t aware of the rage burning in Dicky and after he’d had an enjoyable chat with Alan and a quiet word with Georgie he set off back to Neville’s to use his computer for writing some business letters. On the way he noticed the church door was open so he decided to go in and have a look around to value its potential for a conducted tour. As he went up the church path he felt goosepimples coming up on his skin and didn’t look up at the church tower. He must have been mad at the time, absolutely mad. He went in and began walking about. There appeared to be no one around so he assumed he must have the church to himself.
Some long forgotten memory surfaced as he looked at one of the tombs. Surely tombs were supposed to lie from east to west in a church, but this one lay north to south; how odd. He’d get Willie to look it up, there was definitely some history attached to it. He studied the carved screen, stood for a moment in the war memorial chapel looking at the names on the roll of honour. My God! Biggses and Joneses and Neals and Parkins, and four Glover brothers, and that was the list for the First World War. Sobering thought. He made a note in his little book to remind Willie to point out to the tourists about the four Glovers and then they’d meet one of their descendants on the green. What a touch. They’d be eating out of his hand in no time. Brilliant! On a special plaque of its own he read of the Templetons of Turnham House who’d also given their all for their country; in the American War of Independence, the Crimea, the Boer War and the two World Wars. What a history! What a sacrifice! For one brief moment Bryn wondered if he really should be making money from such tragedy, but quickly comforted himself with the thought that as they were all dead, and had been for years, they wouldn’t be any the wiser.
The lights were on, but it was gloomy in the church because the storm clouds, which had been gathering over and beyond the bypass all morning, had finally arrived. The rain began clattering against the windows above the altar, beating a strange rhythmic tattoo on the stained glass, then lightning filled the church with a blaze of startling blue-white light, followed by the most enormous clap of thunder Bryn had ever heard in his life. Directly overhead, it appeared to make even the foundations of the building shudder. It was closely followed by another flash of lightning, which illuminated the whole of the window behind the altar and made the figure of Christ appear to move. In horror, Bryn sucked in his breath through clenched teeth. Thunder followed immediately, just as loud and close as the first clap. Bryn, who couldn’t remember having been as frightened ever before, not even as a kid watching a horror film, grasped the end of the nearest pew for support. For the first time in years he prayed. For the first time in years he felt a need to cower and hide. However, in the nick of time the man in him resisted. But the storm didn’t abate for ten whole minutes by which time he was a wreck. The thunder and lightning passed over, the glowering skies lightened, gradually the rain reduced to a gentle pattering and the church once more became the friendly, secure place it always was. He sat down in a pew, wiped the sweat from his face and hands, and pulled himself together.
‘All right, Bryn?’
Bryn almost shot out of his skin at the sound of the voice so kindly enquiring after his health. He turned, dreading whom he might see. It was Peter. Relief. What a relief. That was odd, Peter was completely dry so if he’d only just come in how could he be …?
Bryn held out his hand. ‘My, what a storm! Never known the like, not even a tropical storm.’
Peter shook hands saying, ‘How are you? I’ve been going to call.’
‘I’m well and you?’
Peter nodded. ‘Fine, thanks. You’ve come back to make things right for Georgie then?’
Bryn was about to say yes but as always Peter’s blue eyes saw right through him and he couldn’t tell a lie – well, not a serious one anyway. ‘I’ve come back to help make amends, yes.’
‘Good! May I sit down? Have you time to talk?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He moved down the pew a little and Peter sat beside him.
‘What do you propose?’ Peter rested his elbow on the back of the pew and waited for a reply.
Bryn knew all about Peter’s ability to leave a silence, which one felt compelled to fill immediately and which often made one fall right into a trap of one’s own making, but he thought for a while before answering. ‘I’m bringing some business to Georgie and the pub, and the rest of the village if they want it.’
‘This American tourist business.’
‘That’s right.’ Bryn got carried away explaining his plans, embroidering his spiel here and there to make it more appealing, mentioning the tour of the church and his hope that the tourists might contribute to church funds. He’d thought about a collection plate or something …
‘I’m not sure I like the idea of people paying to enter a house of God.’
‘There wouldn’t be a fixed charge, just …’ He searched for the word. ‘Donations.’
‘I’ll think about that. Sounds an excellent idea, but I wasn’t meaning your business plans at all. I meant making things right so Dicky can marry Georgie.’
Again that dratted silence of his.
This time Bryn had no defence against it and, fumbling in his mind for a reply, said the first idiotic thing that came into his head. ‘Let’s be honest here, padre, she won’t do herself any good at all marrying that little squirt. What does he know about business? He’s a non-starter, he is. No, I’m doing her a favour by not divorcing her.’
‘I don’t believe in divorce, Bryn, but I have come to realise that if life is hell then something has to be done about it. I can think of not one single thing in your favour that could persuade me you are not under a moral obligation to release Georgie.’
After he sorted out what Peter meant, Bryn’s jaw dropped open.
Peter got to his feet. ‘I mean it. In my view the cards are all stacked against you. Give it some thought. If you need someone to talk it over with, my door is always open.’
Bryn watched Peter walk towards the choir vestry and hardened his heart to his advice. Divorce? Not likely. Perhaps things wouldn’t get back entirely to what they were – after all, he’d be travelling to the States drumming up business and then he’d be going round England escorting his tours – but divorce was out. Bryn stood up and decided to go into the churchyard for a breath of air now the rain had virtually stopped.
/> He stood under a tree and looked over the wall towards Turnham House. Magnificent building, that. One day, you never knew, he might be living in such a house. He mused on the subject for a while, realising that it would be no fun without Georgie.
The moral dilemma Peter had presented to him niggled away at the back of his mind. What the hell, she was still his legal wife and he would resist divorce with every fibre of his body. Her marrying that … he cringed at the prospect of Dicky being Georgie’s husband. It was like something out of one of Dicky’s joke books. He focused his eyes on the figure crossing the field between him and Turnham House. It was Jimmy returning from his walk. Way behind him came a flash of white and black: Sykes hurrying to catch up. Bryn thought, he’s going to get back into the village by crossing Rector’s Meadow and then climbing the gate into Pipe and Nook.
But Jimmy changed direction and appeared to be heading for the little gate in the churchyard wall. Well, he couldn’t be bothered with Jimmy at the moment, he’d too much on his mind, so Bryn set off down the church path, into Church Lane and turned through the gates of Glebe House.
Jimmy had changed his intended route because he’d seen some people emerge from the little copse which backed up to the churchyard wall and wondered what they were up to. There’d been gypsies about for a while and he thought maybe they were them, making a reconnaissance of the church with a view to theft. But as he drew closer he recognised Gilbert Johns. Jimmy waved. Gilbert called out, ‘Hi!’ The three young people who were with Gilbert also waved. They were carrying papers and clipboards and measuring tapes and, despite sheltering in the copse, were soaking wet.
‘What you up to, Gilbert? Thinking of buying this place, are you?’ He jerked his head in the direction of the Big House.
Gilbert laughed. ‘No. No. These three are archaeology students; they’re working in my department for a few weeks. We’re looking for the possible site of a plague pit somewhere close to the church wall. We know there is one and we think it might be in this copse.’
Jimmy stood stock still. Sykes, who by now had caught up with him, bristled and growled and, when he saw Jimmy looking as though he intended to walk forward towards Gilbert, he flattened himself to the ground showing his teeth in a nasty snarl and then, apparently overcome by terror, fled under the gate into the churchyard and disappeared.
‘You’re not thinking of digging?’
‘We might, if we decide it’s the right place.’
‘You’d better not, all hell’ll be let loose.’
Gilbert smiled and the students sniggered, hiding their laughter behind their clipboards.
‘You can laugh. No one goes in that copse. See my dog? He gives that copse a wide berth every time we come past. I couldn’t drag ’im in there even if I wanted to, which I don’t. Take my advice and leave well alone. We all do, that’s why it’s so overgrown. The groundsmen never touch it.’
‘Come on, you know more than you’re saying. Tell all.’
It was the long pause before Jimmy answered that made the students want to laugh out loud. Gilbert repeated, ‘Tell all.’
‘Old people around here, if they mention it at all, call it … Deadman’s Dell.’
The students shouted, ‘We’re right, that’ll be it.’ They almost danced a jig at the prospect.
Gilbert raised an eyebrow. ‘Deadman’s Dell? Really? That sounds hopeful.’
Jimmy backed off. ‘You’re not thinking of … like … digging there, are you?’
‘We very well might.’
‘It’s not right, it’s irreverent, that is, digging for bones. Didn’t them poor devils suffer enough before they died, never mind digging ’em up now? Them could be ancestors of folk who still live hereabouts. It’s not right. No, grave robbing’s not right.’
The students looked scornful. Gilbert said quietly, ‘As county archaeologist I can guarantee that whatever we do – if, in fact, we do anything at all – would be done with the greatest respect.’
Jimmy backed off a little further. ‘It’ll be safer if you do nothing at all. We don’t want that copse digging up; tempting fate, that is, tempting fate.’ Jimmy wagged his finger at them. ‘It’s already started. What do yer think that storm was about? It was a warning, that’s what. Leave well alone, do you hear me? Serve yer bloody right if you all get the plague yerselves.’ He walked off towards the little gate, put his hand on it, briefly turned back to look at them, wagged his finger again, and shouted, ‘Take heed! You’ll be cursed!’ Then he went through and disappeared from sight.
The students at first doubled up with laughter and then fell silent, suddenly feeling concerned.
‘Cursed?’
‘Where have we come? I mean, don’t they know in this village that it’s the twenty-first century. We haven’t gone into a time warp, have we?’
Gilbert assured them that no, they hadn’t, and that Jimmy was being incredibly naïve and of course they weren’t cursed; there was no such thing as being cursed and with Mr Fitch’s permission they’d investigate. Mr Fitch, he knew, would give the go-ahead without hesitation, because he was a practical, down-to-earth man who would love nothing better than …
‘But should we be disturbing ancient bones? After all, they’ve been buried there more than six hundred years. What would we gain when all’s said and done?’
Gilbert placed a finger on his temple. ‘Knowledge. A paper published. Progress.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘To appease everyone we’d have the bones interred in the churchyard with a headstone or a plaque, and we’ll have a funeral service, which they wouldn’t have had at the time of the plague. No priest, no time.’
‘Gilbert, be honest, you must be feeling a bit of concern because you used the word “appease”.’
‘Only because these people are superstitious beyond belief. They’ll imagine all kinds of terrible things will happen, which could have happened anyway even without us opening up that pit. Right? I’ll see the Rector, too, on Sunday and make it right with him.’
Jimmy had expected to find Sykes waiting for him outside his cottage door, but he wasn’t there. Eventually he went looking for him in the church, it being Sykes’s second home, and found him shivering and afraid, hiding under a pew in the very darkest corner. Jimmy knelt down and peered under the seat. ‘Come on, Sykes, old chap. Jimmy’ll take you home. Come on, now.’ But Sykes wouldn’t come and had to be dragged out by his scruff, and carried home because he refused to walk. Sykes cowered in his bed for the rest of the morning and only came out when Jimmy, in desperation, offered him a saucer of warm milk sweetened with a spoonful of honey which, in Sykes’s opinion, came a very close second to Dicky’s home-brewed ale.
Chapter 5
Jimmy didn’t go to Culworth station to work his taxi that night; he went to the pub instead and hoped to find as many local people as he could to whom he could relate his experience of the morning. With Sykes tucked under the settle, he had a small crowd gathered round him listening avidly in no time at all. ‘So-o-o, it has to be stopped.’ Jimmy took a pull at his ale, banged the tankard down and waited for some reaction.
Vince Jones, now doorstop manufacturer and picture framer to Charter-Plackett Enterprises, scratched his head and said a little scornfully, ‘I reckon you’re making too much of this thunderstorm business. It wasn’t that bad.’
‘You should have been out in it. I was. I know.’
‘It was pure coincidence, that’s what. Wasn’t it, Willie?’
Willie, who had experienced funny coincidences in the past with a tomb in the church, didn’t dismiss Jimmy’s argument quite so decisively. ‘He could have a point. There’s some funny things happen because of the past. But what’s the use of digging up old bones, what would they do with ’em when they’d got ’em? Nothing. Rector won’t agree anyway, believe me.’
Jimmy looked towards Sylvia and asked her what she thought.
‘Well, that would be for the Rector to say, he knows best.
But I think they should be dug up and buried right.’
‘It’s not on holy ground, though, so it’s got nothing to do with ’im. If anyone can protest it’s old Fitch, it’s on his land.’
Mrs Jones piped up, ‘I reckon Willie is right, what does it matter anyway? There’s more important things than a few old bones, Jimmy.’
‘Not much more important if it brings destruction down on the village. It doesn’t do to interfere with the past. Just think, Vince, they might be ancestors of yours.’ Certain he’d thought up a reason which would bring Vince out in support, Jimmy had another long drink of his ale and waited for Vince’s reaction.
‘You’ve backed the wrong horse there, Jimmy. My great-grandfather came from the Rhondda Valley way back, but definitely not as far back as them bones. So they’re not my relatives.’
‘No, Vince, but they could be mine.’ Mrs Jones suddenly discovered a deep empathy with those bones in Deadman’s Dell. ‘There’s been Flatmans in the parish records for years. I think I might have a right to a say what happens to ’em.’
Vince snorted his disdain at her fanciful idea. ‘Get on, yer daft beggar, what the hell does it matter?’
Willie, brought abruptly to life by Sylvia’s championing of the bones burial question, demanded, ‘You mean you’d go against me?’
‘Well, yes, I think I would. They’ve a right to Christian burial, they have.’ Sylvia shuddered as though she were being asked to be buried in unholy ground. Sensing a row brewing, however, she said, ‘Anyways, they could dig and find nothing at all, so I’m not going to worry myself about it till it happens, if it ever does. Willie, go get the drinks in. Will you join us Mrs Jones, Vince?’
They’d just got themselves nicely settled with their drinks at Jimmy’s table when in came Bryn Fields. Jimmy debated as to whether or not Bryn would support him and decided that he didn’t want him on his side anyway, so he’d keep quiet. But he hadn’t bargained for Alan Crimble having overheard their conversation while he’d been going round collecting empty glasses.
A Village Dilemna (Turnham Malpas 09) Page 7