Willie left a pause but got no reply.
‘I’ll get on then if yer not talking.’
He turned his back on Muriel and heaved the bin bags off to his dustbin corner.
Muriel sat on her little seat by her rose arch, tickled Pericles behind his ears as he settled down beside her and pondered on her predicament. If she told someone, they would have her certified. If she didn’t tell someone, she would go mad. Maybe she was already mad and didn’t know it. Perhaps one would be the last to realise. If she did one more stupid thing she would give up playing for the school. Last week she had made an idiot of herself with constant wrong notes, wrong timing – and even the wrong tune, once. She couldn’t expect Mr Palmer to put up with it much longer. She didn’t profess to be a pianist as such but she could play some lively tunes for her age. That was it – her age! She was trying to be twenty-four when she was sixty-four. One glimpse of her reflection in a shop window and she despised herself. She was nothing but a faded elderly spinster, dragging out her life because she was too much of a coward to commit suicide. Death would bring its own reward. Paradise. What greater prize could one have than entering paradise? What an incentive, Thy face to see. Surely the good Lord would let her in? She’d been well-behaved all her life. For this to happen just as she was feeling needed and beginning to enjoy her life … One can’t even gas oneself nowadays. That would have been a gentle way to go. Drowning? Jumping off the church tower? But she got vertigo simply going up to take the bell-ringers their cocoa on New Year’s Eve. She’d never reach the top. In any case, Peter would be so upset …
This last incident was ridiculous, but she’d done it. How could anyone leave the oven on at full blast with the door open and all the rings on as well? To say nothing of the gas bill. The house was positively steaming when she got back. She’d had to open all the windows and the doors to cool it down. She hadn’t even intended to cook a Sunday dinner seeing as it was 82 degrees. Tomorrow when she went to church she would take particular notice of what she was doing and check everything before she left. That way she’d know when she got back that she hadn’t done it. Maybe she had a ghost. Maybe someone from years past resented the cottages being built on church land. There’d been plenty of opposition when they were built – from the living, never mind the dead. If that was it, Peter would have to exorcise it.
Sunday morning came. The sun shone brilliantly as it had done for two months now. Before it got too hot, Muriel watered her most precious plants with water from the butt. She enjoyed turning the little tap on and watching the water come running out. When she’d finished she lifted the lid to check how much water was still left: floating in the top was a drowned cat. A drowned ginger cat. A fully grown, drowned ginger cat. A beautiful fully grown drowned ginger cat! Someone’s pet, someone’s beloved pet in her water butt. The horror of its drowning whilst she’d been going about her affairs ignorant of its agony, was more than she could tolerate.
She fled out into Church Lane, past the church gate and on to Willie’s front door. She banged and banged but he wouldn’t answer. Of course – he’d be in the church opening up. She turned round and headed for the church door, hastening up the path, shouting: ‘Willie Biggs! Willie Biggs!’
He emerged, wearing his cassock. ‘What’s the matter, Muriel? What’s up?’
She grabbed his arm and began to gabble, trying to tell him about the cat. ‘Come on! You’ve got to come. Please help me, please.’ When she showed him the cat she was shuddering with the horror of it.
‘Now sit down,’ he told her kindly, alarmed at her reaction. ‘It’s only someone’s old cat got in here by mistake. Wasn’t your fault.’
‘The lid is always on tightly in case children get in the garden. Someone’s put it in there, I know it. It’s a nasty trick, a vile evil trick.’ She began sobbing.
‘I’ll find a plastic bag to put it in. ’Spect there’s one in your kitchen somewhere.’
She watched Willie invade the seclusion of her neat pristine kitchen with his big heavy shoes on, tramping on the small white tiles, defacing them with footprints, the footprints turned here and there whilst their owner found the place where a score of plastic carrier bags were stored, all neatly folded inside a Tesco’s bag.
‘I’ll put it in here and get rid of it in the church bin.’
‘It’s got a collar on,’ Muriel shrieked as he lifted it out.
‘So it has. I’ll take it off and we’ll see whose cat it is. Why, it’s Mr Charter-Plackett’s cat!’
‘Oh no, I can’t tell him, I can’t tell him. You tell him, Willie, you tell him.’ Her voice was frantic.
‘I’ll have to tell him after church then, ’cos I’m running late. Won’t do for the service to be late. You make yourself a cup of tea and then come to the service. Don’t sit here by yourself thinking about it. Do as I say, now.’
‘Yes, yes I will.’
She didn’t hear a word of the service. Her mortal remains sat in the pew but the real Muriel was in the rafters avoiding looking at Jimbo and Harriet and the children. Oh, the children would be so upset about their pet. Such dear children they were, never a mite of trouble in school. There was Caroline sitting in the Rectory pew, wearing a lovely lemon-yellow dress with big splashes of apricot and soft brown on it. What a dreadful thing that Katherine Charter-Plackett had said. ‘Red siren’ indeed. As if Peter would get involved with someone else when he had Caroline. The scent of the flowers was delicious up here in the rafters. It was like being in some heavenly garden. No weeds here. No need to water the plants. No discovering dead … no, she wouldn’t think about that. Mrs Peel is excelling herself today. Was it the ‘Trumpet Voluntary’ she was playing? Heavenly music for a heavenly day. The cherubs, decorating the arches in the roof, had joined her and were swirling about in a kind of celestial maypole dance. She’d loved maypole dancing as a child. The patterns you made with the ribbons so intricate and then you danced again and unravelled them. All her ribbons had got tangled and they wouldn’t come straight.
The church was emptying. The chosen of the Lord had walked firmly down the aisle, accompanied by His servants singing a hymn of praise. The sun shining through the ancient coloured glass of the windows had cast strange streaks of reds and purples on their white gowns. They were like Technicolor angels. She must have done it, she must have done it and here she was about to see the face of her beloved Lord.
Caroline took immediate action.
‘Peter, we must take her to Casualty. There’s something seriously wrong here. She doesn’t even know I’m speaking to her. What can have happened?’
‘I can tell you that, Dr Harris.’ And Willie related the story of the cat.
‘Whatever’s been worrying her these last few weeks, the cat has been the final straw. Whoever would do such a thing to poor Muriel – or the cat, come to that? She wouldn’t hurt a flea.’
‘Someone’s got it in for her, that’s for sure.’ Peter tried to rouse Muriel but she sat as though carved from stone.
He and Caroline drove Muriel to the hospital while Willie went across to the Charter-Placketts’ to break the news.
‘Orlando? How could that have happened?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Charter-Plackett, but I’ve got him in the churchyard shed. Here’s his collar, sir.’
Jimbo went white when he saw poor Orlando’s bright red collar. ‘Hardly dare tell the children, but I must. We’ll have to have a funeral service and bury him in the garden. I’m surprised at Miss Hipkin, having a water butt without a lid.’
‘She did have a lid and she kept it on all the time – tight-fitting it was, too. She only found him ’cos she was wondering how much water she had left in it.’
‘It was deliberate, then. How could anyone do such a thing? I’ll go in and break the news to the children and Harriet, and then come across and pick up poor Orlando. We left London to avoid dreadful things like this.’
Chapter 8
On the Monday morning, Jimbo was
busy freshening up the displays for the coming week. He hummed to himself while he planned the menu for a dinner party he’d been asked to do for a customer in Culworth. They weren’t his kind of people but you can’t pick and choose your customers in this business. Harriet sped through the shop on her way to pick up the fresh vegetables they prided themselves on supplying. As she opened the outside door she was brushed aside by the angry figure of Betty McDonald from The Royal Oak.
In her hand was a letter. Her face, normally red, was even more so; now in fact, it was almost puce.
Harriet gathered herself and said, ‘Good morning, Betty. Is that your order?’
‘Order? Order? You’ll be lucky if I set foot in here ever again. Where is that two-timing blackguard? You come from London with your fancy ways and your new ideas and before we know where we are you’re cutting our throats.’
‘Cutting your throats? What do you mean?’
‘Where is he?’
‘Is someone wanting me?’ Jimbo emerged from amongst the bananas hanging along the rail above the vegetables. His face was devoid of expression. Harriet with a sinking feeling began to suspect he’d been up to something she knew nothing about.
‘Wanting you? I’ll swing for you before long. How dare you do it!’
‘Do what?’
‘You know full well what I mean. This – this is what you’ve done!’ She smashed her hand onto the letter she was holding and it nearly tore in half. ‘This letter is informing me that you have applied for planning permission for a restaurant in old Phyllis Henderson’s house, and a car park right on the corner. I’ll fight you every step of the way, every single step. If you open up I might as well say goodbye to my morning coffees and my ploughman’s lunches and my farmhouse soup. The damage to my business will be devastating.’
Harriet held out her hand. ‘Let me see this letter, please.’ As she read it her face grew stormy. ‘How dare you do this without consulting me? How dare you? Jimbo, I shall never forgive you for this. Have you bought it already?’
‘Now hold on a minute, Harriet. I’ve made an offer subject to planning permission. A chap’s got to make progress, he can’t just stand still.’
‘Stand still? A chap’s got to make progress? I’ll give you progress, Jimbo. Not one foot will I put inside that restaurant if this goes through. Not one foot. So think on that.’ She flung out of the door and the little bell, the delight of jimbo’s heart, rattled till it nearly fell off the door. Then the Charter-Placketts’ Range Rover crashed into life and roared off down Stocks Row as if it was the M4.
Betty was triumphant. ‘See, even your wife is against the idea!’
‘Leave Harriet to me, she’ll come round. If it all comes off I shan’t be doing ploughman’s or farmhouse soup so you’ve no need to worry about that. I’ll be catering for a different part of the market.’
‘Don’t try to sweet-talk me. It can only do harm. I know – I’ve been in the licensed trade too long not to know serious competition when I see it. I shall get a petition up and ask everyone to sign it. You won’t win this one.’ And Betty McDonald marched out of the shop, whereupon the poor bell had another fit as she smashed the door shut.
Jimbo chuckled to himself. He’d have that restaurant before he was much older, and it would turn out to be a right money spinner. It was definitely a box of sugared almonds under Harriet’s pillow night tonight. He’d soon have her eating out of his hand: it always worked. He smiled to himself as he served his first customers. The Charter-Plackett charm was up to full strength as usual.
As soon as Jimbo saw Harriet pull up outside he poured out two coffees from the pot brewed for the customers, put them on the counter with a couple of special chocolate biscuits and confidently awaited her entrance. But she didn’t come in. He played the waiting game while he served two more customers and then, to his amazement, saw Harriet dressed to kill driving past in the Volvo.
‘Sadie, Sadie!’ Jimbo shouted into the back where his mother-in-law was doing the mail order parcels. ‘Where’s Harriet going?’
‘Jimbo, I have no idea. She flew past me saying “I’ll kill him, so help me, I’ll kill him.” To whom she referred I have no idea. I assume she’s driven off to commit a murder. We’ll have to hope it’s no one we know.’
‘It could be me.’
‘You? Why, what have you done?’
‘Put in a bid for old Phyllis Henderson’s cottage and asked for planning permission for a restaurant. I thought it would be a lovely surprise for Harriet and yet she’s absolutely flown off the handle.’
Sadie finished addressing a parcel of Harriet’s Country Cousin Lemon Cheese – farmhouse-made with free-range eggs – took off her glasses and said, ‘Now look here, Jimbo. As mothers-in-law go I think I give you an easy ride but this time I have to speak my mind. I don’t want to interfere but I must. Do you realise that Harriet has far too much to do?’
‘I work hard, too.’
‘Indeed you do, but you don’t also prepare meals and look after the children and cook for dinner parties and receptions and meals at Game Fairs and the like. My daughter never has a minute to herself and it’s got to stop. Employ more help. Ease the burden. She only objects to the restaurant because she physically can’t do any more than she is already doing.’ Sadie’s index finger poked Jimbo rather sharply on his lapel and she turned on her heel and left him to think.
The day wore on and still Harriet had not returned. The boys and Flick arrived home from school, accustomed to their mother greeting them with food and sympathy, to find their grandma there instead.
‘Where’s Mummy? I wish my Mummy was here.’ Flick did not take kindly to her routine being upset.
Sadie told the children that their mother had gone out for a change, and that she’d soon be back. Jimbo was feeling exactly like Flick but he didn’t voice his feelings. By eight o’clock, anxiety took the place of wishing. He sat at his office desk trying to do the VAT return, but too worried to have much success. About eleven the back door opened and in she came.
Jimbo leapt up to greet her. ‘Darling, where have you been! We have missed you.’
‘Crawled out from under your stone, have you?’
‘Now, Harriet, that’s a bit unfair. You know I’ve always wanted a restaurant. If you say no then no it shall be. I leave it entirely to you.’
‘That’s emotional blackmail.’
‘No it’s not, I’m simply being thoughtful.’
‘Don’t, it’s too painful. Goodnight, Jimbo. Good luck with the VAT return.’
‘Aren’t you going to help me?’
‘No.’
When he’d finished he went upstairs, only to find that Harriet was not in their bed. He crept round the bedrooms and discovered her fast asleep on the put-u-up in Flick’s bedroom. This was the first time they had slept apart since they were married. Jimbo knew he had gambled once too often. Serious amends would have to be made.
Next morning Harriet saw the children off to school while Jimbo started work in the shop. His first job was to write out an advertisement for the local newspaper.
‘Smart young people needed, full and part-time, to help entrepreneur with busy catering business. Excellent remuneration for hardworking lively applicants. Apply Turnham Malpas (0909)334455.’
He telephoned the advert to the newspaper and served some customers, all of whom were eager to know about the restaurant. Most of them were thrilled at the idea, but over in The Royal Oak, some, but not all of the regulars, had signed Betty’s petition.
‘I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again.’ Vera Wright was laying down the law. ‘Before we know it, this village will be as busy as the M4. Car doors slamming late at night, headlights on full blast. It won’t be the same any more.’
‘It will mean more jobs, Vera.’
‘Oh yes, more jobs for chefs and the like. How many chefs do you know in Turnham Malpas?’
‘Well, none actually.’
‘Exactly, Willie �
�� none. All it’ll do is bring people in from outside. Village folk will get the rubbish jobs like cleaning and doing the vegetables. Aren’t I right, Pat?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose you are, Vera. Who do we know who’d want to work restaurant hours? Not me for a start, though I could manage evenings, I suppose, and fit it in with the school.’
Jimmy Glover, a regular at The Royal Oak, placed his pint carefully on a beer mat, wiped the froth from his mouth and said, ‘What about all these tourists coming to see the murals in the church and the stocks and the like – where can they go for a nice meal? Not here for a start. One look at Betty McDonald’s face and it’s a wonder they don’t all run a mile – to say nothing of the rotten food here. I hope he does get permission.’
‘You would, Jimmy. That’s you all over. No thought for the village green getting churned up ’cos they can’t be bothered to park in the proper places. Oh no. It’s time that Jimbo was taken down a peg or two anyway. Too clever by half, he is.’
‘Vera, that’s not fair. He does a lot for the village.’
‘Oh yes? Like what – jumping naked into that pool of his? I seed ’im one morning when I was off to work extra early. By gum, Pat,’ she nudged her friend and nearly made her spill her lager, ‘he’s got nothing missing.’ They both laughed raucously.
Harriet didn’t begin to come round to Jimbo’s way of thinking until she answered the phone to find herself talking to an eager job applicant. After a moment or two of confusion it dawned on her what he’d done. She took the young woman’s name and telephone number, and promised that Jimbo would ring her back.
She put the piece of paper down in front of him as he ate a lonely pork pie behind the bread counter. Linda, who ran the post office and the stationery section, was nearly dying of laughter at the sight of Jimbo in the dog-house.
The New Rector (Tales from Turnham Malpas) Page 8