A Change of Pace

by Budd, Virginia

  On the Tuesday evening Bet ate en famine with the Redfords — yet another olive branch from Pol; the boys were out enjoying themselves, Nell and Bernie were having coffee with friends, and Liza was God knew where. Returning from supper, Bet was met by Diz. ‘Where’s Tib, Mum? He wasn’t here when JP and I got back, we thought he must be with you.’ But he wasn’t with Bet, she never took Tib to the Redfords, Pol was always such a bore about him.

  It was only hours later, when they abandoned the fruitless search until morning and went sadly upstairs to bed, that they discovered Liza had been in her room all the time. Of course, they asked her in the morning if Tib had been there when she returned to the Rectory last night. No, she did not think so; she had not felt too good, her friend had had to get back so she’d come home early and gone to bed. She had thought the dog must be with Madame Brandon next door. Now if they would excuse her, she must hurry to catch her bus.

  All that day they hunted for Tib. They rang the police, they rang the RSPCA, they even rang old Monty Cornwall. Helpers were roped in — Don Stewart, Ron Stokes, Mr Bone — and up in the seclusion of her bedroom Bet looked at Tib’s empty basket and cried as she had not done since, as a child, her puppy, Masterson, was knocked over and killed in the road outside their house.

  Then, in the evening, rummaging through the rubbish sack, she found an empty box of chocolates that bore unmistakable signs of having been chewed by a dog. The box belonged to Liza, Bet knew this, she’d seen it the previous morning, tastefully tied up with pink ribbon, on Liza’s dressing-table. So the bitch was responsible for Tib’s disappearance! Bet had known it all along, really, but hadn’t quite liked to suggest it to the others. Liza must have found Tib in her bedroom and chased him out, then ... What? And, as usual, it was all Bet’s fault; she should have foreseen it, she should have kept Tib away from her.

  That was Wednesday.

  On Friday morning there was still no sign of Tib; everyone but Bet went shopping, Pete having promised them lunch in The George afterwards. Bet said she would rather stay at home; Tib might turn up, or someone ring with news; besides, the men were coming to erect the marquee at two. No one bothered to press her, in fact they all looked rather relieved.

  It was while she was weeding the stocks in the bed by the front door, trying ineffectively to make her mind a blank, that Simon drove up. He was alone, and for the first time since Bet had known him, looked his age. ‘Bet, I’m so frightfully sorry about Tib, I only heard this morning. Why on earth didn’t someone ring the Manor? I’ve been in London, but Cyn has contacts everywhere — someone’s bound to have spotted him.

  This was too much! And what was all this rubbish about being in London? How dare he make such a fool of her! She got up off her knees — no position to be in when dealing with the likes of Simon — and ignoring that inner voice urging her to be careful, said, ‘Do you really mean to stand there and pretend your girlfriend didn’t tell you? But perhaps it’s not so surprising, really, as she’s the one responsible for Tib’s disappearance. I bet she didn’t tell you that, did she? She hated him; only the other day Diz caught her throwing stones at him. Then when he stole her miserable chocolates while we were out, she must have frightened him so much he ran away.’

  ‘I assume you’re referring to Liza Dupont,’ Simon blinked and shook his head as though he had bees in his ears. ‘Before we go any further with this asinine conversation I should like to make one point quite clear. Liza Dupont is not my girlfriend, she has never been my girlfriend, I do not go in for girlfriends, as you ought to know by now. I came round here on a purely friendly basis to say how sorry I was to hear about Tib and to offer to help find him. I did not come round here to be forced to listen to a lot of baseless accusations from a neurotic, menopausal idiot whose only real gripe against a girl is that she’s young, pretty and half her age.’

  Now Bet’s eyes were opened! Now she saw the wretch in his true colours at last! She was so angry she thought she might quite possibly go mad. ‘How ... how dare you speak to me like that! It’s because I’m alone, isn’t it, with no one to defend me? And because you and your bloody family think they own this place and everyone in it. Well, here’s one inhabitant you don’t own, and let me tell you, Simon Morris, if I ever see your face round here again I’ll — ’

  Tor Christ’s sake, Bet, take a grip on yourself and stop carrying on like some half-witted heroine in a soap opera! If that’s how you feel about me, it’s a pity you didn’t say so before, it would have saved us both a lot of bother. I’d no idea you were such a snob; always the same with these pinko-liberals, scratch one, and underneath there’s a true blue Tory struggling to get out. Now, if you’ll excuse me I’ve a few more starving tenants to evict before lunch.’

  It was at this point that Simon made his mistake. Having refused to take Bet seriously, he turned his back on her. And the second he did so, Bet, the pent up rage of months erupting round her like a fire-cracker out of control — rage against Simon, against Liza, even against Miles for leaving her to battle on alone with powers she didn’t understand and wasn’t equipped to deal with; but above all, rage against herself for being such a stupid, neurotic fool — was on him with such force that Simon, taken by surprise at the savagery of her attack, was knocked humiliatingly to the ground.

  Bet, triumphant, watched him grovel.

  Not, however, for long. In a flash, spitting pebbles and grit, he was up and had struck her so hard across the face that she fell back into the flowerbed. ‘I’m not a gentleman, Bet, in case you didn’t know that already; if a woman hits me, I hit back, only harder. And next time your bloody little dog goes missing, don’t expect any help from me.’ With that, he climbed rapidly into his car, slammed the door and drove out through the front gate so fast he smashed his wing-mirror on the gatepost.

  Bet, her face streaked with mud and tears, her rage turned to ashes, sat in the flowerbed and watched him go. It was only later that she began to wonder where Liza had been that morning, and if she wasn’t with Simon, where was she?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wind groaning through summer greenery, black clouds chasing each other across a storm-yellow sky; the day of the fête at last.

  ‘What a super morning!’ Nell, Mothercare incarnate, bounced into the kitchen where Bet, feeling as if she’d been run through a mincer not once but several times over, crouched over yesterday’s Guardian and a cup of black coffee. ‘You could have fooled me.’

  ‘Oh Mum, do snap out of it, things can’t be that bad. Honestly, I sometimes think you enjoy being miserable. Anyway, here’s some news to cheer you up; Bern and me are friends again — isn’t that great? He says he can’t think what got into him, he says he must have been mad.’ Bet grunted. ‘Do you know, Mum, I really believe it’s worth having a row now and again, it’s so absolutely wonderful when you make it up.

  God, the egotism of one’s children. Did they even consider one might have a life outside their petty little orbit? That if one’s silly daughter makes it up with her silly husband it isn’t the be-all and end-all of one’s existence?

  ‘Morning all.’ Bernie now, more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed than Nell, if that were possible, raining kisses on the back of his wife’s neck. ‘What a super aroma of coffee — I could eat a house.’

  Bet fled.

  *

  ‘Now then, everyone, I don’t want to make a speech, but I should just like to say I’m counting on you all to do your bit this afternoon. I’m afraid the weather forecast is not too good, but I’m sure you won’t let that get you down, and they’re always wrong anyway.’ The audience laughed dutifully. This was Pol’s eve-of-fête pep-talk and she was damned well going to make the most of it.

  ‘I thought she said she wasn’t making a speech,’ Bet whispered to Don Stewart, who happened to be sitting next to her. ‘Splendid stuff though,’ he whispered back, ‘reminds me of my National Service days, we had a C.O. — ’

  ‘Is that correct, Mr Stewart?’ Don jumped
guiltily. ‘You’ve volunteered to fill the fortune-telling slot? I’m afraid I found your writing a little difficult to read.’ Pol held up the questionnaire she’d efficiently issued to all would-be helpers. ‘Er, yes, I studied the subject a little in my army days; tarot cards and so forth, you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Shouldn’t a fortune-teller be a lady?’ This from Emmie Stokes in the back row, her remark greeted with a faint titter. Pol sighed. ‘Unfortunately there’ve been no lady volunteers for the job. Now, Mr Stewart,’ she turned briskly to the cringing Don, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with the old outside loo, there’s no room for a tent.’

  ‘Won’t it be rather a squash. I mean ... ‘ But Pol had already swept on to more important matters.

  ‘I’ve had about enough of this,’ Bet whispered, ‘let’s go and make some coffee.’ They crept away.

  ‘I gather the French piece is doing a belly-dance?’ said Don as they walked across the lawn.

  ‘Oh really, I wouldn’t know.’

  Damn! He’d put his foot in it again. He longed to take her in his arms, kiss her better, find her dog, murder Simon Morris — anything, just to make her smile again. You’ve got it bad, old son, he thought, you’ve got it bad.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘I’ll show you the outside loo, it’s lucky you’re on the small side.’ Don smiled wryly, then remembered that the bastard Morris was none too tall himself. He tentatively took her hand. ‘Lead on, then, I’d like to know what I’ve let myself in for.’

  *

  ‘Morning, Mrs Brandon, any news of your little dog?’ It was

  Mr Bone, outside the village shop. ‘I’m afraid not, we’re beginning to give up hope.’

  ‘You mustn’t do that, Mrs Brandon, that’s not like you,’ Mr Bone smiled encouragingly and Bet smiled back. ‘How’s the baby?’

  ‘Oh fine, absolutely fine. She keeps us awake a bit at nights, but they do, don’t they. No, she’s great, ever so pretty.’ Bet, still smiling, said goodbye and turned away. It wouldn’t be too long now before there was a baby at the Rectory; her first grandchild ... A car swept past her, going much too fast down the village street, Simon at the wheel, unsmiling, ignoring her. A gust of wind caught at her hair and blew raindrops in her face. Arrogant bastard! She turned for home.

  Back at the Rectory she was greeted by Nell wearing her will-Mummy-bite-me face. ‘Ah, Mum, there you are, I’ve been looking all over for you.’ Oh God, what now? Bet plonked her shopping bag down on the kitchen table. ‘I had to go up to the shop, someone seems to have pinched those sausages I’d earmarked for lunch. I do wish people would tell me when —’

  ‘Actually, I think that may have been Bernie.’

  ‘What d’you mean, you think it may have been Bernie —surely you know?’

  ‘Well, yes it was. When he got back from squash last night he felt like a fry-up.’

  ‘I see. Well, I don’t want to be difficult, but would he mind awfully in future not —’

  ‘In a way, Mum, that’s what I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘What, Bernie’s predilection for late-night fry-ups?’ She knew she was being uncooperative, but to be reduced to arguing about sausages at this particular moment seemed somehow more than she could bear. ‘No, of course not!’ Nell, now rather pink in the face, made for the door. ‘Anyway, it can wait, I can see you’re busy and — ’

  ‘Nell, will you please tell me whatever it is you’ve come to tell me. I’m perfectly able to talk while I’m scrubbing new potatoes, and if you’ve been hunting all over the place for me, it must be important.’

  ‘Let me help you then.’

  ‘If you must, but there’s only one brush and —’

  ‘Mum, Bern and I have been discussing things.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘About when the baby’s born and I’m at home all day. We were — that is, Bern was, and I agree with him — thinking along the lines of perhaps — subject to your consent, of course — converting this part of the house into two self-contained flats. Bern says there’d be plenty of room to have one on each floor. It might be easier if we had the ground floor and you and Diz the first floor, but of course you can choose. He says as the place is now, there’s an awful lot of wasted space, so it wouldn’t be hard to do, and if you agree, he’d like to start shopping around for estimates as soon as possible. We wouldn’t want to hurry you, but —’

  But you’d like it all over and done with before the baby’s born?’ Was this how one felt after being told one’s right arm must come off — nothing? Except perhaps cold fear about what one would feel when one came back to life.

  ‘Well, yes, that’s the idea. Then you won’t have to go through all the business of coping with a new-born baby again; I mean, I should think you must have had enough of that with Diz and me.’

  What you’re really saying is, you don’t want to have me to cope with as well as a new-born baby ... But of course Bet didn’t say that; she might be an idiot, but not that kind of an idiot. Instead she went on scrubbing potatoes, and — trying to keep the tremble out of her voice, and with as much enthusiasm as she could muster — said that to have two separate flats seemed an absolutely splendid idea and the answer to all their problems; indeed, she wondered why no one had thought of it before. There was, as far as she could see, only one possible stumbling block, and that no doubt solvable. How much did Bernie reckon it would all cost?

  ‘Well,’ and the relief in Nell’s voice was so obvious it was painful, ‘he doesn’t think that’s too much of a problem. If we try and keep the costs down to a minimum, and he does the decorating, he thinks we could probably get away with ... ’

  But Bet was no longer listening. She was thinking about Tib.

  *

  ‘You look a little faint, dear, why not sit down for a minute and let Mrs Kettle take over?’

  ‘I’m perfectly all right, Mrs Snately, just a bit tired, that’s all.’ The fete was in full swing now and it was sweltering in the tea tent, the smell of squashed grass and sweat mingling unpleasantly with frying hamburgers. Bet felt hot and sticky all over.

  ‘Sugar down the end,’ she shouted above the din, handing three cups of tea to a huge woman in an orange silk dress, ‘spoon on a string by the urn.’

  ‘Now, dear, I really must insist you take a rest, I can’t have you passing out on me.’

  ‘Honestly, I’m fine, and it wouldn’t be fair on Mrs Kettle.’

  ‘Very well then, if you won’t take a break, perhaps you could get some more cups, the washers-up are a bit behind. The caterers left some spares in your kitchen, and a breath of fresh air would do you good.’

  Dismissed, Bet gave in.

  The atmosphere outside the marquee was little better; it would thunder before the day was out. She’d go the long way round through the vegetable garden, there’d be fewer people about.

  ‘Bet, where on earth are you off to? I thought you were supposed to be doing your stint in the tea tent.’ Pol, like all good organisers, seemed to be everywhere at once. ‘I’m fetching some cups, if you must know. I think Mrs Snately wanted to get rid of me, she kept telling me I looked ill.’

  ‘I suppose you know what’s happened?’

  ‘What?’ Actually, she couldn’t care less if the whole place caught fire and burned down.

  ‘Pete’s somehow managed to get himself drunk.’

  ‘So what’s new?’

  ‘Bet, do pull yourself together, if only for the sake of our reputation in the village —’

  Tor heaven’s sake, Pol, you sound like someone out of a Trollope novel ... ’ But Pol wasn’t listening. ‘He’s been judging the home-made wine competition. Of course you’re not supposed to drink the wine, just spit it out, but you know Pete.’ Bet nodded; she knew Pete. ‘Well, he persuaded Bernie to try some, then that wretched Don Stewart turned up, he said he didn’t seem to be getting any customers; frankly, I’m not in the least surprised, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know the first thing
about telling fortunes, let alone tarot cards. And now all three of them are behaving like a lot of idiotic schoolboys. You’ll just have to pull yourself together, Bet, and help me, I simply cannot cope with them on my own.’

  Back in Pol’s kitchen, Bernie had disappeared, but Pete and Don were leaning against the draining-board gazing owlishly at the row of neatly labelled bottles drawn up in front of them on the kitchen table. ‘Rhubarb and damson, gooseberry and prune,’ intoned Pete in his comic Church-of-England-vicar voice, a glass of greenish liquid trembling in his hand. ‘Date and doughnut, plumbago and pomegranate —’

  ‘Redford, I don’t think that last one’s quite right.’ Don, minus his spectacles, was holding a half-empty bottle up to the light. ‘Isn’t plumbago some sort of shrub? I’m not sure if you can eat its fruit, I’m not sure if it has fruit ... ’

  Suddenly, blessedly, a spurt of laughter bubbled up inside Bet. Ratty and Toad! Ratty and Toad from The Wind in the Willows! But if Pete were Toad and Don Ratty, who was Mole? Who indeed?

  ‘Bet! My poor, sad little Bet! Come here, ducky, come to your Uncle Pete,’ Pete had seen her and lunged forward, arms flailing. ‘Leave me alone, you great idiot!’ Bet, her laughter quickly turning to outrage, wriggled expertly out of Pete’s grasp, at the same time giving him a violent push. The effect of this was rather more than she’d bargained for; he staggered back and then, like some giant ninepin, keeled heavily over on to the floor where he sat, immobilised, his head resting against the back of one of Pol’s spindly chairs, staring glassily in front of him.

  There was a horrified silence. This sort of thing simply did not happen to Pete. He got drunk, of course — all the time —but never like this; this was unprecedented. What were they to do with him — what could they do with him? They looked at him helplessly, three acolytes gathered round their tribal deity, waiting, awestruck, for him to speak. Nothing happened. In the end it was Pol who brought them down to earth. ‘I don’t wish to appear ungrateful, Don, but I cannot help thinking that this is your doing.’ That’s right, dear, thought Bet, when in doubt always blame someone else. ‘I left you to keep an eye on my husband for just five minutes, while I organised refreshments for the Morris Dancers, you promised faithfully you’d make him some black coffee and try to get things going again, and this is what happens.’