‘It’s Michael Palmer here, Headmaster at the village school. Could I possibly come round some time in the next day or two, and have a chat with you? We are a church school so you’ll be very much involved.’
‘Certainly, I shall be delighted. This is the first time I’ve been directly concerned with education and I’m looking forward to it. Now, there’s no time like the present, is there? I would be free to see you about eleven this morning. How would that suit you?’
‘Fine, I’ll see you then.’
Peter put down the receiver, leant back in his chair and contemplated the study. Hanging above the fireplace, in which a two-bar electric fire tried defiantly to warm the room, was a crude peasant-like painting of the Virgin Mary. The only thing that was good about it was the face. Who did it remind him of? – Caroline? No, not his darling girl. Then he knew who it was. The over-bright blue eyes and the rounded cheeks reminded him of the girl who’d been in church on Sunday and who had caused his heart to jolt only moments ago. Peter’s self-discipline enabled him to push his feelings into the background. He leapt up, took down the painting, and placed in face downwards on top of the filing cabinet. Above the fireplace there was now a light buff-coloured square where the picture had hung. Peter moved another picture from the wall and realised that the wallpaper was very dirty indeed. So were the bookshelves which were waiting for him to unpack the tea chests full of books stacked against the far wall. The carpet was threadbare and dirty, the desk where he worked grimy and slightly sticky to the touch. He should never have agreed to take the Rectory as it stood. He ought to have insisted on furnishing it himself. Caroline had worked wonders with the kitchen; this, being his domain, he would have to work upon by himself.
Within ten minutes of rolling up his sleeves, Peter had removed all the pictures from the walls, and unplugged the ancient electric fire. Once it had cooled down, he put it, flex and all, into the bin. The desk, filing cabinets and the sofa – ancient and falling apart – had all been pulled or pushed into the hall. The easy chairs had been stacked against the hall wall, too, and all that remained was the removal of the carpet. As he began to roll it up, thick dust fell from it and made him cough. He opened the study window and waved his arms about trying to dispel the clouds of dust and found himself once more face to face with Suzy Meadows returning home with Pansy and Rosie. His heart jolted again as he looked into those sweet, Madonna-like features.
‘Good morning, Mr Harris. I’m Suzy Meadows, this is Pansy and this is Rosie. Say good morning, you two.’ The tiny girls smiled and hid their faces in her skirts.
Peter’s voice boomed out onto the pavement. ‘Good morning, Mrs Meadows. I’m just—’
‘Call me Suzy – everyone else does.’
‘Suzy, then. I’m just clearing out the study. Sorry for the dust blowing about.’
‘The binmen come on Tuesdays. If you’re quick they’ll take anything you don’t want – and if it’s the rector they’ll most likely do it for nothing. They’ll be along here in about half an hour.’
‘Right, thank you. Most of it needs to go.’
‘There’s a furniture place in Culworth if you’re needing some replacements. I bought a lovely pair of hall chairs there for an absolute song. They’ve always got plenty of easy chairs and things.’
‘Thank you for your advice. Hello, Pansy and Rosie. What have you done with your sister?’ Neither of the two girls offered a reply so Suzy answered on their behalf.
‘Oh, she’s gone to play with Hugh Neal in Glebe House. They’re both learning the recorder at school and Liz Neal has promised to help Daisy with it. Be seeing you soon, Mr Harris. Bye!’
‘Bye.’ Peter watched her disappear down the road and recognised his feelings for what they were. Shatteringly, for a man so devoted to his wife and his Church, he felt disastrously attracted by her. Why, he had no idea. It was just one of those things which happened and over which one appeared to have no control. Peter left the clearing of the study and went across to the church. Here, surely, he would find help before it was too late. How could such a thing have happened to him? Every cleric, young in years, had his quota of young women who made sheep’s eyes and for a while became devoted to the Church until they realised they were making no progress, but this was it in reverse. He knelt before the altar and prayed. ‘Dear God, help me a miserable sinner …’
Willie Biggs, needing a rest from labouring in the graveyard, crept quietly into the church by a side door and sat munching his morning break in the gloom by one of the pillars. His Mars bar was nearly finished when he spotted the rector, head bent in prayer. Funny that, he thought – only halfway through the morning and needing to recharge his batteries. Already been here for half an hour first thing. The man must be troubled. Willie kept silent and still, hoping Peter wouldn’t see him when he went out and Peter didn’t, because he went across to the organ and, switching it on, began playing a jaunty hymn tune. Willie, whenever he heard the organ being played, always thanked the good Lord that it no longer required him to work the bellows at the back. Years he’d done that, till some benefactor or other, needing to put in a good word with God before departing this life, had paid for it ‘to be electrocuted’ as Willie described it. My word, he thought, now that Rector can’t half play. Mrs Peel’ll have to look to her laurels and no mistake. The music throbbed through the church with a kind of lively triumph which Willie found quite moving. Brass band music was more to his personal taste, but he mightily appreciated the beauty of the rector’s playing.
Peter concluded his performance with a flourish, switched off the organ and quietly made his way home. He heated a pot of coffee and carried the tray with two cups on it into the sitting room. As he put down the tray the doorbell rang.
Standing on the step was Michael Palmer, schoolmaster extraordinaire of Turnham Malpas for the last twenty years. What had been meant as a stepping stone had become a millstone, and here he was still teaching a new generation of children, holding onto life by the merest thread. His square, weatherbeaten face topped by thinning hair smiled benignly at Peter, who stood looking down upon him from his great height, Michael reaching only five feet six in his socks. The two men shook hands and Michael winced at the strength of Peter’s grip.
‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Harris. Or shall I call you Peter?’
‘Yes, please. Coffee?’
‘Thank you, black, please. It seems odd using your Christian name. We always knew the previous incumbent as Mr Furbank – it would have felt impudent to have called him anything else. It was time we had some new blood; he’d been here far too long. Sorry for being outspoken, but it’s the truth. Mr Furbank took a great deal of interest in the children but I’m afraid he didn’t have the right touch and I had difficulty preventing the children from giggling at his absent-minded ways. He came into school every Friday morning to take prayers and then gave the children a little talk of some kind. I don’t expect you to follow exactly in his footsteps, so I wondered what kind of presence you would like to have?’
Peter took a sip of his coffee whilst deciding how to answer. ‘I should very much like to take prayers one morning a week, but how about if it was held in the church?’
‘What a good idea.’
‘I’m very keen to encourage the children of the village to come into church and centre their lives around activities here. I intend to start Beavers and Brownies as soon as I can find suitable helpers, and also Muriel Hipkin has suggested that a playgroup would be a good idea. She feels that a lot of the children come into school at five not having any real experience of joining in with other children and knowing how to share. How would you feel about that?’
‘I should be delighted – it’s a perfectly splendid idea! There are quite a few children from the farms hereabouts who come to school quite afraid of what they have to face. A playgroup would be excellent. Where would you hold it?’
‘I had thought of the church hall.’
‘If we can get permission fro
m the County we could hold it in the school itself. I have a spare classroom and the facilities like toilets and equipment would all be available with very little extra expense. I’ll have a word with my assistant – she takes the infants so she would be more involved than me. I’m sure she’ll be delighted.’
‘Does your wife help in the school?’
For the moment Michael didn’t answer. He carefully placed his cup on the little table, took out his handkerchief and dabbed his moustache dry. Peter noticed his hand was shaking as he put the handkerchief away.
‘My wife died three years ago.’
‘I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, I didn’t know. What an intrusion.’
‘Not at all – how were you to know? She did teach, but over in Culworth. No, my assistant is Toria Clark, one of the new breed with plenty of energy and fresh ideas. The children love her.’
Peter put down his cup and offered Michael more coffee. The two of them talked for another hour about the village and the possibilities of change. Peter sensed that Michael was a fine schoolmaster, and Michael thought what a blessing it was for Turnham Malpas that Peter had accepted the living.
To keep himself occupied and push his current problem to the back of his mind, Peter had raided Caroline’s plentiful supply of paint in the garden shed and, having washed the walls and paintwork, was finishing putting a muted shade of antique gold on the study walls when he remembered he needed to go to the village store to buy meat for the evening meal.
Jimbo Charter-Plackett stood by the door discussing politics with Sir Ronald. Jimbo was wearing his butcher’s apron and straw boater, a get-up he’d adopted to give style to his store. He raised his boater as soon as he recognised the Rector.
‘Good afternoon, sir, welcome to Turnham Malpas Village Store. It’s an honour to serve you. See you later, Ron … Sir Ronald.’ He waved a dismissal to the self-appointed squire and made room for Peter to enter. ‘Perfectly ridiculous man. Now, Rector, what can I get for you?’
‘Caroline has asked me to buy lamb chops for dinner tonight.’
‘Come this way.’ Jimbo led him to the meat department. The Charter-Placketts had bought the next door cottage and by pulling down walls and reorganising the space available, they had made an excellent store out of what had originally been a small village shop in the front room of a large cottage.
‘I have never seen such an incredible shop in such a small village before,’ Peter exclaimed. ‘Is there anything you don’t sell?’
‘Not much. You name it we sell it – and if we don’t, we soon will.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but how on earth do you make it pay?’
‘Well, we don’t sit here waiting for people to pass the door. We run a mail-order business selling farm products to the nation, and also have a catering business providing food for weddings and the Hunt Ball. This year, we’ve won a contract for catering for the VIPs at the Game Fair in the next county. I buy almost all our fresh food from the local area and all our cakes in the freezer and on the counter are made by local farmers’ wives, so I provide work for the people hereabouts as well as giving a good service to the local inhabitants. I pride myself that there are not many villages with as good a village store as Turnham Malpas. Now, these four chops are on the house, Rector – a small token of our delight at having youth in the Rectory for a change. We loved the old boy but he should have gone years ago. When it comes to the Harvest Supper, Harriet and I would like to provide all the meats free of charge as our contribution.’
‘How extremely kind and generous of you, James.’
‘Jimbo, if you please. Here, put this box of sugared almonds under your good lady’s pillow with love from Harriet and me.’
‘You’re more than generous, Jimbo – she’ll be delighted. Must press on, got to finish painting my study. Thank you very much indeed.’
The lamb chops, delicately flavoured with rosemary and grilled to a turn by Caroline, were a gastronomic delight.
‘These chops are a vast improvement on the ones we used to buy in the supermarket, aren’t they, darling?’
Caroline, chasing the last of her mint jelly round her plate, nodded her agreement. ‘Everything in that shop is fresh,’ she enthused. ‘The fruit, the vegetables, the cakes, the meat, the cheeses … it’s a positive wonderland. They must have to work terribly hard, Peter, to keep it all up to scratch. That Jimbo is a bit of a lad, you know. Willie tells me that they swim “nakkid” every day in their pool at the back.’
‘Naked, eh? I bet that set the village tongues gossiping.’
‘In fact, one could get quite carried away with Jimbo. Harriet must have her work cut out keeping an eye on him.’
‘Caroline, really! Is there any of that cheese left that we had last night?’
The sugared almonds came to light when Caroline searched under her pillow for her nightgown.
‘Darling, what a lovely surprise! I do love you for it.’
‘Don’t thank me, thank Jimbo Charter-Placket – he gave them to me for you. Said I should put them under your pillow. Maybe it’s a secret method of his for getting his evil way with Harriet.’
‘Well, you can have your evil way with me right now. Hurry up.’ She put the box of almonds on her bedside table and lay on top of the bed ‘nakkid’ with her arms outstretched in welcome.
Peter made love to reassure himself that everything was well between his darling girl and himself, but as he fell asleep the face of Suzy the Madonna floated into his mind. He rubbed his forehead to push her away.
Chapter 3
The busy life she led keeping her three girls well cared for, compensated Suzy for the lack of her husband’s companionship. He was the archetypal mad scientist. She knew it when she married him so she’d no right to complain, but at the time it had seemed an endearing quality. Now, with lawns to mow and decorating to be done and the new sitting-room fireplace still laid out in pieces on the floor waiting to be fitted, Suzy was feeling bleak. Daisy, Pansy and Rosie were the delight of her life; without them she would have left Patrick by now. She’d willingly given up her career to have babies and had wallowed in motherhood for five years, but right now there was a powerful feeling that her life lacked purpose. Then she laughed at herself. Considering the mound of ironing waiting to be done she didn’t need to be looking for anything else to do. But the window wide open and the girls playing in the garden and the daffodils in the narrow-necked glass vase on the kitchen window didn’t provide the deeply satisfying feeling that had always lifted her spirits. Lonely, that’s what I am – lonely, she thought. She stood ironing Patrick’s shirt and felt that this was the closest she came to him nowadays. He’d provided her with the babies she wanted, and then almost departed this life. Self-absorbed and erratic, he hadn’t wanted sex for nearly a year, and she was only thirty-two. Agreed he was forty-five, but the difference in years hadn’t seemed to matter to start with, although now it seemed like a yawning void. Maybe all men went off sex when they got to their middle forties – it wasn’t really something she could discuss with the mothers from the school. Even the girls all looked like her and not a bit like Patrick. Anyone would think she’d had three virgin births. It seemed as though he’d had nothing to do with them right from the first.
Suzy contemplated how many other wives stood ironing, wondering where their husbands had gone. For all practical purposes they might as well be dead. Perhaps there were thousands of women all over Britain who felt as she did this morning. A new hairstyle, a pretty nightgown, expensive perfume, a special candle-lit dinner when the girls were all in bed … she’d tried everything. And it had all been a total waste of time. She held Rosie’s tiny socks to her face and enjoyed their warmth and the recalling of Rosie’s delightfully happy personality. How she loved them all. For their sakes she had to keep going.
She heard the front door open and then bang shut. Patrick stood in the hall looking shattered. He’d come home to pack a bag en route to America to read a paper at a co
nference there. The researcher who should have done it had been taken ill and he’d stepped in at the last minute. She made him some sandwiches which he ate while she packed his bag. He was in a tremendous hurry and after he’d left she realised she didn’t know which hotel he would be staying at. Still, he would only be gone three or four days at the most; not much could happen during that short period.
The next time she heard someone at the door it was Miss Hipkin. She couldn’t expect anything of a world-shattering nature from her.
‘Good morning, Miss Hipkin. Do come in.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Meadows. Have you a moment to spare?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m just going to make a drink for myself and the girls. Would you join us?’
‘Oh yes, please. There’s nothing I’d like better.’
Muriel stepped eagerly into the hall of Suzy and Patrick’s house. Laura Ashley had had a field day here. Muriel loved the delicate grey carpet and the complementary wallpaper. These old houses really were worth the effort of doing them up.
The three little girls stood shyly in the hall watching their visitor. Muriel made a special point of remembering children’s names as she felt it was so important to them. Daisy knew her from the infant school music lessons.
‘Hello, Daisy and Pansy, and you, little Rosie.’
‘Hello, Miss Hipkin. Have you come to see me?’ Daisy enquired.
‘Well, your mother really, but I’m delighted to see you, Daisy. Are you enjoying the holidays?’
‘Want to get back to school, I like that best. After the summer holidays Pansy will be going too.’
‘Yes, I know. I saw Mr Palmer putting her name on a list only the other day.’
Suzy brought the girls Ribena and wholesome-looking oatmeal biscuits. Muriel and Suzy had coffee.
‘Mrs Meadows …’
‘Suzy, please.’
‘Well, Suzy then, I’ve come on a little fishing expedition. Peter, you know, Mr Harris is wanting to start a playgroup for the little ones. They are hoping to have it in the church hall, although that’s not definite, but they will be looking for someone to lead the group and for other helpers as well. It occurred to me that you might be interested in running the group. I know you were a teacher before the babies came along and I thought you would be an ideal person. Mr Harris, Peter, you know, doesn’t know I’ve come to see you, so it’s all very secret at the moment.’
The New Rector (Tales from Turnham Malpas) Page 3