‘I’ve felt sorry about that. You could be right. But the stubborn fella won’t have anything to do with her. He’s gone back to work because he needs the money, but he reckons that Georgie and I … well … I have besmirched their love.’
‘Hm. I heard about that. You were an idiot.’
‘Maybe. While I’m here, I’d like to ask if you approve of this business of the yellow lines, and street lighting et cetera.’
‘No, I do not, and if you’re starting up some opposition then count me in, as they say. It would ruin everything. Imagine! Huh!’ She shuddered.
‘You’re the first one I’ve spoken to, apart from Mr Fitch and Jimmy, who’s against it.’
‘Oh! He’s back? I’ll do some campaigning for you. That Kev everyone talks about …’
Bryn tapped his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve got him right there.’
‘Good. Good.’
They drifted on to talk about all manner of things and Bryn found her an entertaining woman. Eventually she signalled that he should be moving off so he stood up and carried the tray inside for her, but before he left she said, ‘I’ll have a word with Dicky. See what I can do.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re not interested in staying married, then?’
‘No. Divorce is going through.’
‘Good man. I’ve enjoyed your company.’
‘And I yours.’
Bryn’s luck was in that day for he found Peter at home. He was sitting in his study reading a prodigious tome the size of which quite intimidated Bryn. ‘Sorry if I’ve interrupted …’
‘Quite glad of an excuse, actually. Sit down. What can I do for you? I hear your tour went well.’
‘It did. Yes, it did.’ Bryn sat on the sofa wishing Peter were wearing mufti. This clerical collar bit and the cassock felt like a barrier to normal conversation. He’d be confessing his sins if he didn’t watch it. ‘It’s like this. You know the plague pit; well, are we any nearer to having a service and a burial? If so, will there be a headstone saying who – or is it what? – is buried there?’
‘Two weeks today. I’m paying for the stone, I feel so strongly about it.’
‘That’s more than kind, that is, more than kind. I just wondered because those Americans of mine were fascinated by the pit and the idea of a burial. Yes, indeed they were. Does everyone know?’
‘It will be in the weekly newsletter on Sunday.’
‘Right. I see.’
‘How’s Dicky?’
‘Working. He said he’d never set foot in the Royal Oak again, but he has, so maybe there’s hope for him and Georgie.’
‘I sincerely hope so. They need each other. I’m just so sorry it all went wrong.’
Here we go, thought Bryn, confession time again. ‘He’s being stubborn.’
‘With good cause, I think. But I have talked to him and tried to get him to see reason.’
‘Well, old Grandmama Charter-Plackett is on the case so watch out. With her …’ They both laughed. ‘The other thing is did you know that the council are thinking of modernising the village? Zebra crossings by the school, lighting et cetera?’
‘I had heard rumblings.’
‘How would you feel about that? For or against?’
‘Half and half, actually. Lighting. Zebra crossings, possibly even one-way traffic …’
‘But not the whole hog surely? Think of the signposts. And whatever kind of lighting standards would they put up? Ruin the …’
The telephone rang and Peter lifted the receiver. ‘Turnham Malpas Rectory, Peter Harris speaking.’
Bryn watched his face change to complete puzzlement, then concern. ‘No, no, you’re all quite busy enough. I’ll come. Tell her I’m coming right away.’
Bryn stood up. ‘I’ll go. I can record you as half and half, can I?’
Peter didn’t appear to know what he was talking about. ‘Got to go. Sorry. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all.’ The two of them left together and Bryn stood in Church Lane to watch where Peter went. Mm, he thought, I wonder what’s happened?
Then he had a stroke of luck: one of the weekenders staying over for the week was setting off for a walk. He called a cheery ‘Good morning to you!’ as he passed.
‘Good morning! You won’t know me …’
‘I do. Bryn, isn’t it, used to be landlord at the pub. How’s things?’
‘Fine, fine.’
‘Coming back to take over again, are you, though that Dicky’s doing a great job.’
‘No, just back for a few days. I wondered …’ Bryn explained his mission and the weekender nodded his head in agreement. ‘Oh, I wholeheartedly agree with the protest. Disgraceful. We’re sick to death of government interference, sick to death. It’s diabolical what they think they can do with the country nowadays. Your life isn’t your own. We haven’t bought this cottage to find ourselves in a wilderness of signposts and traffic lights. Certainly not. You’ve got my support, definitely.’ The weekender strode away in his imitation Barbour jacket and walking boots towards Sykes Wood with a cheery wave and a thumbs up shouting, ‘Leaflets, leaflets, that’s what you need. And a big protest meeting to discuss strategy.’
Bryn rubbed his hands with glee. He appeared to be having a more profitable morning than he had first thought. Leaflets, though. He went back to Glebe House to rough one out. Perhaps even posters for windows.
Peter could hear Beth screaming as he crossed the school playground. He lengthened his stride and arrived full pelt in the hall, where he found her having the most terrible tantrum he’d ever seen her have. Miss Pascoe was struggling to calm her down but to no avail. The classroom doors were open and children were spilling out to witness this phenomenon.
Peter scooped her up and carried his grunting, snarling daughter into Miss Pascoe’s office. He closed the door behind him with his foot, sat in the chair and hugged her hard. ‘Hush! Hush, my darling child, calm down. Hush! Hush!’ He tried to rock her but she was fighting him like a hell-cat. She beat her fists on his chest, grabbed his hair to pull it, pushed at his chest with her fists to be released but none of her strategies worked because he held her so firmly. Finally her strength ran out and she burst into tears, flushed and exhausted by her outburst.
Peter stroked her hair and gently rocked her, allowing the tears to flow. Slowly the crying lessened and he was able to get a tissue from Miss Pascoe’s box on the desk to wipe her eyes. ‘There we are. There we are.’ The two of them sat quietly hugging each other until Beth relaxed against him, shielding her face with the tissue. She’d laid it fully open so that it completely covered her face. He could feel her shuddering as she strove for control. ‘There we are. That’s better. How about going home for the rest of the day, eh?’
He thought he detected a nod.
‘What do you think, eh?’
He got a positive nod this time.
‘They’re all out playing, your class. Shall we wait till they come back in?’
Beth nodded again from under the tissue. She laid her head on his chest and enjoyed the security of his arms round her helping to make everything right. Gradually the love he felt for her reached her innermost turbulent being and she began to relax. ‘Daddy?’
‘Yes, my darling.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You must have had good reason.’
Beth nodded.
‘Are you able to tell me?’
‘No.’
‘I see. Does Miss Pascoe know why?’
‘No.’
‘Is it something you’ve done and shouldn’t have?’
His answer was a shake of Beth’s head.
‘Well, then. I think she’ll be needing her room. Let me dry your eyes again and we’ll leave. Blow everyone out playing. Head up and we’ll march home. How about it?’
‘They’ll all see me.’
‘Of course they will, but who cares? You and I, we’re tough.’
Beth took the tissue from her face and he coul
d have wept at the sight of her distress. Her sweet rounded cheeks were streaked with dusty tears, her eyelids swollen, her lashes still dripped a tear. Carefully he reached out and wet a fresh tissue under the washbasin tap and cleaned her face. ‘There, that’s better. Let me straighten your hair. Now you look like new. I think we’ll say sorry to Miss Pascoe tomorrow, shall we?’
Beth nodded. She got off his knee, and prepared to show herself to all and sundry.
Peter opened the office door and found Miss Pascoe in the book corner picking up the books Beth had apparently flung about.
‘There you are! Going home? What a good idea. We’ll talk about it another day, shall we, Beth?’
Peter answered for her. ‘Thank you. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, Rector. We’ve seen worse, believe me.’ She patted Beth’s cheek. ‘See you tomorrow, Beth, bright and shining new.’
Beth refused to look at her because she was so embarrassed. How could she explain to Miss Pascoe that she’d realised that very morning what it was her daddy had been trying to tell her on the evening with the parish photo albums? Tell her that she’d seen a photo of her real mother but at the time hadn’t understood what it meant, but now she did? That they had the same colour hair and the same rounded cheeks. Tell her how she’d made her mummy cry like she’d never cried before, tell her she, Beth Harris, wasn’t what she thought she was and that she’d three sisters she hadn’t known about. That when she looked in the mirror she didn’t know who she was. Was she Elizabeth Caroline Harris any more? Now she knew she wasn’t normal would they let her sit the exam for Lady Wortley’s after Christmas? Maybe they wouldn’t want her, not when they knew she didn’t belong. If she’d got it right her daddy must have done what you did to get babies … So was she Beth Meadows, really, and one of those flower girls? But she couldn’t be because Elizabeth wasn’t a flower name. So she didn’t even belong to them either. Her daddy slotted his key into the Rectory door and together, hand in hand, they went in.
‘Would you like a nice cold drink, darling? You must be thirsty.’
‘Yes, please.’ Daddy went into the kitchen, poured two glasses of that fizzy real lemonade they both liked, and together they went into the sitting room to sit on the sofa and drink it. Daddy pulled the coffee table closer so she could put her glass on it when she’d finished. She’d better say it. Might he be cross? She glanced at him and saw he wasn’t cross, only hurting. ‘Sorry, Daddy, for screaming.’
‘That’s all right. I feel like screaming sometimes when things get too much. The thing is to get out in the open why you screamed.’
Daddy was so gentle when things were upset. He always understood. She couldn’t bear making Mummy cry again as she had that night; she had to sort it out with him, not her. Very softly she told him why she’d screamed and cried and thrown the books about. It had boiled up inside her into a huge balloon and it burst at school. ‘I was crying because all of a sudden I understood what you meant.’
‘I thought perhaps it might be so.’ Daddy was being so careful not to hurt. But he had hurt her that night, though she hadn’t realised at the time. She needed to get Daddy to sort it out. He’d always said they could ask anything they wanted and he’d try to answer truthfully.
‘Daddy, you’re my real tummy-daddy, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Mummy isn’t my tummy-mummy?’
‘No, because Mummy’s place for growing babies till they’re ready to be born isn’t there, so she can’t. It’s like I said when you were very small.’
‘So instead, this Suzy person had us.’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. So was my mummy pleased when she knew?’
‘She wanted you both so very much.’
‘So am I a Harris or a flower girl?’
‘You’re a Harris because Mummy and I adopted you, for ever and ever and ever. You are ours by law. It’s all written down.’
‘I’m glad about that. I’m glad I’m a Harris.’ She felt a sharp pain of fear in her heart. ‘That Suzy person can’t come and get me, then?’
‘No, she can’t.’
‘I don’t think I’ll bother to see the flower girls and the Suzy person. I won’t have to, will I?’
‘Definitely not.’
She’d asked as much as she could. She couldn’t be bothered to try to understand any more of it at all. She was worn to a shred with the whole thing. ‘I’ll watch TV now.’
Beth switched it on quickly to put him off explaining any further. Oh, good, that was the phone ringing again. As her daddy went to answer it she lay back against the cushions and prepared to forget the whole thing. But couldn’t, at least not quite. This Teletubbies was ridiculous. There was nothing on. Maybe she’d go back to school after lunch. But what would they all think? They’d tease her. No, she’d go back tomorrow when she felt better. Mummy would be home before long. Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. The word ran like a well-beloved tune through her head.
Having run off far more copies of his leaflet than he’d any right to do on someone else’s computer, Bryn set off to push them through every village door. He was surprised at how vicious some people’s letter boxes were; his knuckles became quite tender. At some doors a dog snatched it straight out of his hand, which served to remind him not to let his fingers linger the other side of the letter boxes for too long. It was quite soothing wandering along in the sun stuffing the leaflets in every door. The blasted council mustn’t succeed or it would ruin everything he’d planned. Bryn decided to give our Kev a call, ask him about further developments. Now the council had changed their routines and become less keen on allowing the general public to attend their meetings it was becoming increasingly difficult to learn about future plans, so our Kev had to be kept sweet. As he reached the bottom of Shepherds Hill and was crossing over to do the other side and so back to the village he thought about inviting our Kev out to a meal. But he felt that was going too far. No, he’d simply hand over more dosh, that was the best way. Money spoke to rats.
He met quite a group of mothers coming home with their children from the school. ‘Good afternoon, ladies, would you be so kind as to take time to read one of my leaflets. You may live outside the boundary of Turnham Malpas but it will, I’m sure, be of interest to you, with your kiddies attending the school.’ He smiled sweetly at the children; he even chucked one little boy under the chin as he’d seen politicians do and began handing out leaflets, but he hadn’t bargained for their vigorous reaction. ‘We want some traffic control, it’s our kids’ lives that are at risk.’ He thought this particular mother was about to strike him.
‘Is that what it’s about?’ another asked.
‘Thank you, but no.’ The third mother stuffed his leaflet down his shirt neck.
Bryn protested. ‘I say, I say. Please.’
‘We’ll stuff them all down your neck if you want.’
Bryn backed off. ‘Sorry, ladies, but it’s a free country …’
‘Not so’s I’ve noticed. Buzz off.’
Disconcerted by their opposition, Bryn finished putting leaflets in letter boxes when he arrived at the last of the new cottages in Hipkin Gardens. He was hot and sticky and thirsty. He’d done every house including those down Royal Oak Road and Church Lane and the Culworth Road. Was it worth it? Honestly, was it worth it? Then he thought about the delight his group of Americans had expressed about the village and decided, yes, it was. So he popped into the Royal Oak for some much needed refreshment and while he was there distributed the last of his leaflets to what turned out to be several very enthusiastic supporters of his protest, and felt tremendously heartened.
Chapter 15
It had been mentioned twice in the weekly church newsletter that the funeral service for the bones was being held on Tuesday morning at ten o’clock and that afterwards there would be coffee served in the village hall. Peter rather suspected that he would be the only person present apart from Mrs Peel at the organ and Caroline. He�
��d written a special funeral service as there were large parts of the normal one which would be inappropriate, and he’d laboured long and hard to get the wording exactly right.
‘Caroline! I’ve finished it. Would you read it through before I print it out?’ Getting no reply he went in search of her. He found her in the attic looking through small baby clothes belonging to the twins.
‘Do you remember when we bought these? No, of course you won’t, but I do. I was so excited. The twins were coming home from hospital and I was hurrying to get things ready.’ She held up two very small premature baby sleep suits, each with a tiny rabbit embroidered on the front. ‘I loved these. Still do. They are lovely, don’t you think?’
Peter took hold of them and held them up to the light. ‘Indeed they are. Beautiful. Weren’t we excited?’
‘Oh, we were. And these! Remember these?’ She was holding up a pair of bootees she’d made for Beth because her feet were always cold. ‘I loved every stitch of these, every single stitch.’ She kissed both bootees before she replaced them in the box along with the other early baby clothes and put on the lid. ‘I’m sorry for all those tears that night. It spoiled the telling, didn’t it?’
Peter had to smile. ‘A little, but it was understandable. They were horrendous times.’
‘They were, but at the same time so joyous. I wouldn’t have had it any other way, though. After all, I’ve got the babies I wanted and you’ve got children of your very own.’
‘I have. Thanks be to God.’
‘Exactly. Poor Suzy. I wonder if she ever thinks of them and what they’re doing. It hurts me still thinking about how brave she was, but they are turning out to be terrific people, aren’t they?’
Peter kissed the top of her head. ‘They are.’
‘What did you want me for?’
‘To read the funeral service I’ve written for the remains.’
‘Ah, right. I doubt there’ll be anyone there but thee, me and Mrs P.’
‘I know, but we’ve got to do it right whatever.’
‘Of course. I’ll be down when I’ve tidied up. Really all these things should go to someone in need.’
A Village Dilemna (Turnham Malpas 09) Page 21