A Village Dilemna (Turnham Malpas 09)

by Shaw, Rebecca

  Without looking at her Dicky said casually, ‘I think it’s time you went back to keeping Georgie company at the pub at night.’

  ‘You do?’

  Dicky nodded. ‘I do. I’ve talked to Peter tonight and I’m feeling better. In fact I might … just …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I might, just might, start work at the pub on Monday.’

  ‘Sooner than that. She’s thinking of finding someone else.’

  ‘See how I feel tomorrow, then. I can’t go back to my old job, couldn’t face all that boredom. In any case the money’s not as good.’

  Bel sipped her hot chocolate for a while, then said tentatively, ‘I wonder if Mrs Charter-Plackett is still of the same mind.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was going to buy that half-share. That’s a whole different ball game.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Don’t push me, Bel, I’m not ready for it.’

  ‘Never mind, then. Sorry. I’ll move my things back to the pub tomorrow if that’s all right.’

  He nodded firmly. ‘It is. Got to pull myself together.’

  ‘Can I ask?’

  Dicky looked hard at her.

  ‘Can I ask if going back means anything? You know, should we draw some conclusions from it?’

  Wide-eyed with innocence Dicky said, ‘None.’ But in his heart he knew differently. As Peter had said, you can’t carelessly throw away the offer of a lifetime of love. Maybe, just maybe, he’d been too hasty.

  It was Alan’s late-turn shift and Georgie was wondering how on earth she and Trish would manage without some muscle on the premises to heave the bottled drinks in and bring supplies up from the cellar.

  ‘Don’t worry, Georgie. You and me, we can manage. We don’t need men, they’re just handy from time to time.’

  ‘Are they, indeed? Well, we’ll have to, we’ve no choice. I just hope we can cope tomorrow with Bryn’s group coming. Twenty-five all at once. I’m starting to get nervous about it. I wish, in the circumstances, I’d never agreed to it, but I did and we need the trade. Bel says the kitchen is all organised so all we’ve got to do is keep the drinks coming. Anyway, I’ll make a list of what we want for today.’ She found a crumpled piece of paper right at the back of a drawer, smoothed it out and laid it on the bar counter. ‘Right. Mixers. Yes.’ As she wrote ‘mixers’ at the top of the paper the back door shut with a tremendous bang. If she hadn’t known it couldn’t be, she would have thought that was Dicky. He always managed to let the heavy back door get caught by the wind. She wrote down ‘sparkling water’ and glanced around to see which other shelves needed filling up. She smelt his aftershave first of all; that fresh lime and tea tree she’d given him on his birthday. Her heart gave a lurch and began to beat erratically. Slowly she turned round and found she was right. It was Dicky. Thinner, leaner, more grave, but Dicky. ‘Hello, love.’ His eyes didn’t light up when she spoke, but there was something there, a kind of strength, she thought, which she hadn’t noticed before.

  ‘Realised it was Alan’s morning off. Thought I’d better give a hand.’

  If that was how he wanted it, unemotional, casual, then so be it. ‘Thanks. We were just debating who’d be getting the beer up from the cellar.’

  ‘Right. Done the list?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘I’ll wait, then.’

  Trish decided to pretend it was no surprise to see Dicky there. It was easier than having to find something embarrassing to say. ‘Morning, Dicky. Put Coke on that list, Georgie, there’s hardly any on the shelf.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘It’s the hot weather.’

  ‘Not before time. We deserve it hot.’ Georgie looked at Dicky from under her eyelashes and found he was covertly weighing her up. She gave him a cautious smile, but he didn’t respond. No wonder, Georgie thought, no wonder, after what I’ve done to him. ‘There’s the list, I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything. Thanks.’

  They worked all day like this, saying the minimum, pressing on, till Georgie thought she might burst with frustration. She was relieved when he went home for his meal at five, but he came back to work an evening shift, which he wasn’t scheduled to do.

  By closing time Georgie couldn’t take it any longer, making up her mind that enough was enough and she was having it out with him. As she opened the safe to put in the cloth bag she used for storing the takings overnight she said, ‘Dicky Tutt! I want a word.’

  Alan said a hasty ‘Goodnight!’ and disappeared.

  Dicky stood silently, waiting while she locked it.

  ‘There was no need to come back tonight; you weren’t due on.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve got to make up for my absence somehow.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘I feel there is. If you pay me a wage, then I’ve to work for it. It’s only right.’

  ‘We can’t avoid what’s happened between us. We can’t ignore it, disregard it. Someone has to say something.’

  ‘No, they don’t.’

  ‘Yes, they do.’

  ‘I’m off. See you lunchtime tomorrow.’

  Georgie daren’t say she didn’t want him to come tomorrow because of Bryn, but she had to say something to stop him coming in. ‘Dicky!’

  Before she could come up with a credible excuse he’d said ‘Goodnight’, turned on his heel and closed the door sharply behind him.

  At eleven thirty precisely the following day, right on schedule, the tour coach pulled into the village to disgorge its load. It had begun as one of those eternal village mornings blessed by peace and serenity as it had been for more than a thousand years, the only sounds those of the geese on the green honking at a feral cat, the delightful singing of the children in the school floating out through the open windows and the spasmodic chatter of the people in the queue outside the Store waiting for the lunchtime bus into Culworth. But the quiet was to be blown apart by the thrum-thrum of the coach engine and the noisy, excited babble of its occupants.

  They disembarked from the coach with an eagerness amazing to behold. They scattered hither and thither like a host of vividly feathered parrots just released from captivity, exclaiming at the green, the houses, the pub, the geese. Best of all for the queue at the bus stop was the sight of Bryn marshalling his flock. Over white trousers and shirt he wore a navy blazer. They could just see a badge of some sort on the pocket and the regimental tie which completed his outfit. The white moccasins on his feet induced a burst of giggled comments from the queue. ‘What does he think he is?’ ‘Looks the part, though, don’t he?’

  Then they spotted Jimmy emerging from his garden on to the green. He was carrying a basket they were sure they’d last seen displayed in Jimbo’s window full of Easter eggs, but what he wore was the most amusing of all. It was a very old Victorian farmer’s smock, a work of art to the eye of a collector but to the people in the bus queue he made a highly rib-tickling picture. On his feet he wore a pair of old boots from his poaching days and to top it off a soft black felt hat with a wide wavy brim.

  They watched Jimmy walk steadily towards the seat beside the pond, observed him touch the brim of his hat and call out a greeting to the tourists. ‘Good morning to ye all. You be welcome to feed my geese, you be.’

  All twenty-five of the tourists leapt at the opportunity, cameras flashing: ‘Hold the bread. Merle, turn this way.’

  ‘Hi, sir. Can I photograph you for my album?’

  ‘Sue-Ellen, smile!’

  ‘What a souvenir! So genuine!’

  Jimmy turned this way and that, obliging the Americans. The geese took exception and began to hassle one of the men by noisily pecking at his trouser seat as he crouched to take a picture.

  ‘Hey, Marlon, watch out!’

  Before Jimmy could distract his geese with another chunk of bread, Marlon was racing across the green with two of the geese in full pursuit, the man’s huge stomach shaking and shuddering like a firm jelly as he ran. By this time the queue was having hysterics, but the
twenty-five Americans were wielding their camcorders and their digital cameras as fast as they could, loving every moment of the chase.

  Bryn was boiling with temper. Between clenched teeth he bent over Jimmy’s shoulder and muttered, ‘Stop those damn birds, or else.’ Jimmy leapt up and, putting his fingers to his lips, he emitted a piercing whistle. To his surprise it worked, the two geese put on their brakes and came racing back half flying, half running, leaving Marlon to stagger back as best he could.

  Finally Bryn got his tourists assembled and suggested they might like to hear from Jimmy, whose ancestors had lived in the village for something like six hundred years.

  ‘Gee! No!’

  ‘Can that be true?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  Unfortunately the queue couldn’t quite hear what he was saying and only occasionally a snatch of his well-practised discourse drifted across the green: ‘My family name’s on the memorial plaque in the church … given their lives for old England … so we been ’ere my ancestors all them years, poachers mostly. I’ve poached these wood man and boy … this ’ere is my dog Sykes … my family’s bred Jack Russells for generations.’

  ‘The liar! His dog’s a stray!’ muttered someone in the queue. ‘What a load of rubbish.’

  ‘See that old oak tree yonder … a hundred years ago … terrible storm … it lost a third of its branches … but it survived … once the old oak dies so will the village.’ He used such sepulchral, doom-laden tones that the tourists were reduced almost to tears. Some took notes, others filmed Jimmy sitting lost in gloom.

  Unfortunately the lunchtime bus rumbled into the village at that moment and the queue had no alternative but to climb aboard and miss the fun.

  Bryn decided Jimmy would soon be over-egging the pudding if he didn’t move everyone on pronto, so he assembled his charges and suggested they wander across to the church, where they would be treated to a talk on its history, a history going back over a thousand years.

  ‘You mean that very church?’

  ‘There’s been a church on that site for well over a thousand years. The present church has parts going back to the eleventh century, the rest is fourteenth century. But let’s go and hear all about it. You can find Jimmy’s ancestors’ names if you like.’

  Jimmy called out as they left, ‘Don’t forget to visit the plague pit,’ his voice once more laden with doom. Once they all had their sights set on the church, Jimmy threw all the leftover bread in the pond and went as fast as he could to the pub for a restorative drink.

  Georgie had to congratulate him on his costume. ‘You look so authentic, Jimmy. Absolutely right for the part.’

  ‘Thanks. Like the smock? Genuine, you know. Harriet’s lent me it, and the basket.’

  ‘Did it go well?’

  ‘They were delighted. Nice folk. Very nice. I shall be on all their pictures.’

  ‘Talk go well?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Very well. They’ve gone across to the church now, so half an hour and they’ll be ready to eat.’ Jimmy took his real ale over to the settle and Sykes crept under it as he had always done, ever since he’d adopted Jimmy.

  He was still sitting there when the Americans came in for their lunch. Three of them offered to buy Jimmy another drink, two of them sat on the settle with him for photos and they enticed Sykes out for his share of glory. Another asked if he knew where they could get a smock like his. ‘How long has it been in the family?’ The moment had come when he either lied or told the truth and spoiled the fantasy. It was a question he hadn’t quite prepared himself for. ‘Being poachers, we didn’t own things like this to pass down the generations, but this belongs to someone in the village who comes from farming stock.’ Half-lie, half-truth and he got away with it.

  Bryn took them through to the dining room, got them settled and came back into the bar for a word with Georgie. ‘Going like a dream. Like a dream. They’re paying for their own drinks, you know, apart from the half-bottle included with their lunch. Pour me a whisky quick, I need it.’

  He tossed back the whisky, slapped down the glass on the bar, then spotted Dicky talking to a customer at one of the tables. Bryn glanced at Georgie and raised an eyebrow. In reply she very slightly shook her head.

  Bryn watched Dicky for a moment and went across to speak to him. There didn’t seem to be quite so much naked hate in Dicky’s eyes as there had been and Bryn took hope from that. ‘OK, Dicky? Glad to see you picking up the threads. One step at a time, eh?’

  Dicky looked at him but didn’t respond to his question.

  Bryn put out a hand and patted his arm, but Dicky dusted off his sleeve where Bryn had touched it. ‘Too soon yet for the friendly gesture. Just keep out of my way.’

  Bryn stood back. Palms exposed and held up in reconciliation he said, ‘Fine. Fine.’

  ‘Bryn! Hi, baby!’ One of the American tourists approached them.

  ‘Hi, Lalla! How can I help?’

  ‘Marlon’s wanting souvenirs. Where do we go?’

  ‘The Village Store. We’ll all go across there in a moment.’

  ‘Right! I’ll be powdering my nose. Don’t go without me.’ Lalla pattered off, twinkling her fingers at him as she went.

  They were all charmed by the Store and most especially by Jimbo. A real English gentleman, they declared, and were exceedingly impressed when Bryn let out that Jimbo had been to Cambridge. He did a roaring trade with his souvenirs and items of food they bought to keep them sustained while on the coach.

  ‘It must be wonderful living here.’

  ‘You’ve made us all so welcome, fancy living here all the time. Great!’

  ‘Everyone’s been so kind. Just another picture! That’s it!’

  ‘I don’t want to leave.’

  ‘I guess it’s like going back in time.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed, ever.’

  ‘Not a road sign in sight. Wonderful!’

  ‘And the church … well … I can’t wait to get back home and tell them all about it. So old. And the tombs! And the ghost! They’ll be so envious.’

  ‘That lovely man who guided us round. Such a wonderful tale to tell.’

  ‘You won’t let them change it, will you? Keep it as it is.’

  Bryn wholeheartedly agreed with these sentiments and, catching Jimbo’s eye, said, ‘We’ll keep it like this, won’t we, Jimbo?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Not even an advertisement of any kind. Marvellous.’

  ‘We’ll be telling our friends. They’ll all be coming.’

  ‘Come along, Bryn, baby.’ Lalla, clutching her two Turnham Malpas Store carrier bags to her chest, hooked her free arm through Bryn’s and led him out of the Store, the others following reluctantly.

  Georgie had decided to wave them off and took Trish and some of the customers out with her into the car park.

  ‘’Bye! ’Bye-bye!’

  She came in for some serious embracing before they all left, and compliments about the food and the ambience of the Royal Oak flowed back and forth.

  Lalla squeezed Dicky’s arm and said, ‘That joke! You naughty boy. I could come back just to hear some more. Only wish I could squeeze you into my case. Be seeing you!’ She climbed up the coach steps and turned to wave for the last time. ‘’Bye, everyone. You lucky people!’

  Before he climbed into the coach Bryn put his hand on Georgie’s shoulder and whispered, ‘Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. Food wonderful, they’re all so impressed. It’s the start of something big for you and me, I’m sure.’ Georgie smiled up at him, pleased by his success as well as her own.

  Dicky’s hand closed in a vicelike grip on Bryn’s elbow. ‘Unless you’re wanting to do the rest of the tour with a black eye, let her go and get on your way.’

  Bryn prised Dicky’s fingers from his elbow and said quietly, ‘When I get back, you and me’s going to have a talk. Man to man. Clear the air. Right?’

  Dicky shrugged his shoulders.
r />   ‘See you both. Thanks for everything you’ve done. We’ve made a great start.’

  As the coach backed up and swung round to leave the car park Georgie waved brightly to them all. The Americans responded enthusiastically and Georgie had the feeling that some of them at least would be back. The moment they were out of sight she turned on Dicky. ‘Dicky Tutt, grow up! He’s trying to made amends. He wants the divorce and he’s going to get it. Whether or not you want to marry me afterwards is up to you, but I want to marry you, remember.’

  Chapter 13

  ‘Caroline, I’m home! Just got some things to put in my study and I’ll be with you. Good day, darling?’

  Caroline felt that lift to her heart which only Peter’s presence could bring about. ‘Fine, thanks, and you?’

  ‘All right. Tell you later.’

  Caroline brought the Bolognese part of their evening meal out of the oven and called the children to wash their hands. ‘It’s ready, don’t delay.’

  Peter, Alex and Beth all arrived at the table at the same moment.

  Beth said loudly, ‘You haven’t washed your hands, Alex.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘He hasn’t, Mummy.’

  ‘Only Alex knows if he has or not, so if he hasn’t, he can wash them at the sink.’

  As she drained the spaghetti Alex came to turn on the taps and run his hands underneath.

  Triumphant Beth exclaimed, ‘You see, I knew he hadn’t. You’ve started telling fibs, Alex.’

  ‘That will do, Beth. Alex’s conscience is his own responsibility.’

  Caroline served the spaghetti Bolognese and after Peter had said grace she asked him if he’d seen the Americans.

  ‘No. I didn’t leave Little Derehams until well after lunch, but Willie told me almost every word of what he’d said on his guided tour. They were deeply impressed by the war memorial plaques and all the names on there, and seeing Willie’s uncles and grandfather and Jimmy’s four uncles, and our wonderful banners and the architecture and how old the church was. He seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed himself, to say nothing of the tips he got. He told them everything, even to the ghost he vows is there by the tomb.’