Village Matters

by Shaw, Rebecca

  ‘On whose authority?’

  ‘The authority of all right-minded persons.’

  ‘I bought this house, lock, stock and barrel. The roof in need of repair is mine, the grounds in need of attention are mine, the walls, the stables, the garden, anything and everything in it is mine. I learned when I had it surveyed that there was dry rot in the east wing, but I didn’t say that bit isn’t mine, I took it all as it was. Therefore the silver is mine and mine alone. Good morning, gentlemen.’ He rose to his feet, a slight smile at one corner of his mouth. His eyes flicked from one to the other, assessing their reaction, but not really caring.

  Peter quietly requested an opportunity to see what had been found.

  ‘In deference to your clerical collar, yes, certainly you may. Best take your chance, I’m taking it up to town in the next few days, you won’t be able to see it again. Charter-Plackett, I need a word. Do you wish to see my treasure?’

  ‘No, I’ll leave that to Sir Ralph and the rector,’ Jimbo replied, not admitting he had already seen it. Mr Fitch flicked a switch on his intercom and asked Fenella to come. She led Ralph and Peter away, glancing back to wink at Jimbo while Mr Fitch answered his telephone.

  Peter was deeply moved when he saw what Fenella brought out of the safe. He reverently cradled each piece in his hands one by one. ‘Why, they’re wonderful, just unbelievable. Worthy of a cathedral. So totally splendid. To think no one has been able to enjoy these for over fifty years. It’s simply not right.’

  Fenella, embarrassed by his obvious admiration for the pieces, observed, ‘They are very beautiful aren’t they? You must be very sorry they’re being taken away.’

  Ralph replied before Peter could answer. ‘Not if I can damn well help it.’ He glowered at Peter. ‘If you won’t put up a fight for these, then I shall. I don’t remember any of this being in the church, but look at the engravings; this is church property and it’s a crime to sell it off.’ He watched Peter tenderly tracing the decoration on one of the large altar dishes. Gruffly Ralph said, ‘Yes, certainly, this is one he isn’t going to win.’

  One by one the pieces of silver were carefully rewrapped and returned to the safe. Peter stood up and asked Ralph what he intended to do.

  ‘I shall tell him that he has exactly three days to come to his senses and then I shall act. I shall begin by speaking to the son of a friend of mine. He’s an investigative journalist and will be salivating, positively salivating, at the opportunity to dig up dirt about a big City name. Oh, yes, indeed. I shall give it all I’ve got.’ He turned on his heel, and left the office.

  Fenella looked alarmed. ‘He’s not going to challenge Mr Fitch, is he?’

  ‘I rather think he is.’

  ‘I’d stay here then, Rector.’

  ‘I’d better go support him.’

  Ralph had walked into Mr Fitch’s office without knocking. Jimbo and he were leaning over some papers on his desk, comparing notes. Mr Fitch looked up when he stormed in. ‘I beg your pardon, do you have something else to say?’

  Ralph went to lean his hands on the desk. They confronted each other like two adversaries in a Roman arena. ‘Indeed I do. If you take that silver and sell it, it will be blatant, absolutely blatant, theft and I shall make certain that a highly reputable broadsheet gets all the facts. For heavens sake, man, see sense. Don’t make me do it. It’s not in my nature, but I will act if you persist with the sale. Three clear days,’ he held up three fingers, ‘three days only, you have. If the silver is not back in the rector’s possession by midnight on Thursday, first thing Friday morning I shall ring my contact.’

  ‘I see. The church will pay me its market value, will it?’

  Ralph snorted angrily and retorted. ‘Don’t think you can ride roughshod over me. You’ve met your match in me, Mr Craddock Fitch. Heed what I say.’

  He strode from the office, with Peter in his wake. Jimbo folded up the computer print-outs they’d been looking at and put them in an envelope. As Ralph left, Jimbo said, ‘You’d be well advised to listen, he’s no fool.’

  ‘He’s not coming here and flexing his moribund aristocratic muscle at me. Those days are gone, and gone for good, otherwise he’d be standing here in this library instead of me.’

  Jimbo shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Don’t make the mistake of underestimating him. He has connections in all the right places, believe me. Unfortunately for you the whole village will be behind him and that, believe it or not, is a power to be reckoned with. Make no mistake.’ Jimbo turned to go. ‘I’ll study these at home. Let you have my opinion as soon as. Good morning.’

  Peter and Ralph were waiting in Ralph’s Mercedes for Jimbo to emerge. Ralph was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. Peter was silent. Jimbo got into the rear seat and said after a moment, ‘Thank you, Ralph, for being so forthright. It needed to be said.’ After a pause he inquired, ‘Do you really have a good contact in Fleet Street?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll finish him over this. If you have his ear, tell him so.’

  ‘I’ve told him already.’

  ‘Good. We’ll have to hope he has the brains to do the right thing. Otherwise Fitch plc will be kaput.’ He revved up the engine, crashed the gears, and they shot down the drive at top speed. Jimbo and Peter both wished they’d elected to walk home.

  Jimbo, still pale around the gills after his nightmare drive back to the village, changed in the store room into his butcher’s apron, bow tie and boater, grabbed a quick coffee from his customers’ coffee machine, and took over behind the till.

  For a Monday morning the Store was quite busy. There was a knot of people behind the cereal shelves arguing fiercely. A hold had been put on their shopping and they stood, wirebaskets on their arms, heads nodding, fingers wagging, voices lowered. Jimbo waited patiently; he knew he’d find out shortly what it was all about. They dispersed, finished collecting their groceries, and then came to the till.

  Their spokeswoman plunged straight to the point. ‘Now Mr Charter-Plackett, there’s a tale going round the village that old Fitch up at the Big House has decided he’s selling what’s rightly ours. Is it true? We understand you’ve been up there today with the rector and Sir Ralph.’

  Faced with such an outright question Jimbo had no alternative but to acknowledge the truth. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘Well, one way and another we’ve all got relatives or neighbours who work up there. It doesn’t take long for news to spread. My Barry was the joiner he asked to take down the panelling. My Barry bloody well knew what had been found, because he dragged the boxes out. What he didn’t know was what the intentions were of that high and mighty City gent. ’Cept that’s not what our Barry calls him.’ She grinned and nudged the woman standing next to her.

  ‘Well, yes, it is true. Sir Ralph has given him an ultimatum.’

  ‘Ultimatum?’

  ‘Yes, an ultimatum. It has all to be in the rector’s hands by midnight Thursday or else.’

  ‘Or else what?’ a voice at the back of the crowd shouted.

  ‘Or else Sir Ralph is telling the newspapers.’

  ‘Serves him right. Stealing from the church. It’s a wonder the heavens don’t open and he gets struck by lightning. We all know what happened the last time someone stole from the church. Divine retribution, that’s what.’

  Jimbo was hesitant about blaming God. ‘Steady, I say, steady, I don’t think it works like that.’

  ‘I may not go to church like you do, but I do know what’s what. The rector, God love ’im, would find an excuse for the devil let alone that old Fitch plc, but we know. Oh, yes, we know what’s right.’

  ‘Remember!’ said Barry’s mother. ‘Thursday night’s the deadline. Pressure will be brought to bear! All agreed?’ There was a general nodding of heads. ‘How much is my shopping then, Mr Charter-Plackett? Ten pounds forty-two?’ ’Ave you added that up right?’ She peered angrily at her till receipt. ‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about the chops.’ As Barry�
��s mother turned to leave she punched the air with her fist and said, ‘Remember everybody! It’s time for action!’ She left the Store with her rallying cry echoing in their ears.

  Chapter 7

  On the Wednesday morning, just as Linda was about to take her coffee break, an exact fifteen minutes which was not permitted under any circumstances to be shortened by the mistimed arrival of a customer for the post office, Venetia arrived in the Store.

  She was shivering. ‘Good morning, Venetia!’ Jimbo raised his boater. Harriet, who’d been helping her mother in the mail order office, appeared in case Jimbo needed a helping hand in Linda’s absence.

  Having come to terms at last with Venetia’s constant pursuit of any suitable male, including Jimbo, Harriet said cheerfully, ‘Hello, Venetia, how’s tricks?’

  ‘How’s tricks? Oh, golly, it’s so beautifully warm in here. Can I stand by the radiator for a while?’

  ‘You’re welcome. What’s more I’ll bring you a coffee. It’s freshly made.’ Harriet busied herself at the coffee machine. ‘Sugar? Milk? Cream?’

  ‘Oh no, black please, no sugar. Got to think of my figure.’

  ‘Well, your thoughtfulness certainly pays dividends.’

  ‘Thanks Jimbo, how kind you are.’

  Harriet handed the coffee to her and asked, ‘Are we permitted to ask why you are so cold?’

  ‘Something horrendous has happened to the central heating at Turnham House. The electrician says there’s an essential part gone wrong called a gizmo or something, and they’re in short supply and it could be a week before he gets the part. Jeremy’s going spare. He’s offered to drive anywhere, however far away, to get it, but the electrician says even the dealers have none in stock and it’s to come from Germany. How we shall exist for a whole week without heating I don’t know. That huge open fireplace in the hall is brilliant, but it only heats the hall and staircase, nowhere else. Added to which we had a complete blackout of the lights and power last night, so we were groping around with candles for nearly an hour. Crad . . . Mr Fitch is furious.’

  She shivered as she drank her coffee. ‘Oh! That’s wonderful. Come to say the cook’s had to go home with the ’flu, Jimbo. They can manage lunch, but Jeremy wants you to do something about dinner and pronto. I volunteered to come down to tell you, because the phones have been on the blink too. It’s like a total shut-down. Fenella found the fax hadn’t been on all night and she didn’t realise it until just now, and she’s lost a load of data off the computer. She’s tearing her hair out by the handful. Believe you me, we were better off with pens and paper and a messenger boy on a bike.’

  Harriet, knowing Jimbo as she did, suspected his complete disregard of Venetia’s news meant he knew more than he was saying. She filled the silence by saying, ‘Mr Fitch will be none too pleased.’

  ‘No, he’s not. In fact he’s fuming. I’ve been trying to calm him down.’ She fluffed her hair with her spare hand and adjusted her headband. ‘He’s leaving after lunch and says he wants everything in working order before he comes back on Thursday night or heads will roll.’

  Jimbo said quickly. ‘Is he taking the church silver with him?’

  Momentarily Venetia looked guilty, rapidly changing her expression when she saw Jimbo scrutinising her face. ‘Oh! I don’t know, that’s nothing to do with me. I’m not in the office.’

  ‘You may not be in the office, but you do have his ear. Come on, it’s vital I know. You owe me.’

  She shuffled her feet a little, finished the last of the coffee and said reluctantly, ‘He’s taking it away on Friday when he goes back to London. That’s privileged information.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll make sure there’s a replacement cook there by early afternoon. I’ve a few numbers I can ring. Will you excuse me?’ He wandered off into the back.

  Harriet served some customers and left Venetia keeping warm by the radiator. Several people stopped to have a word with her, and commiserated about the heating. Harriet had never heard them be so sympathetic to Venetia before. She thought she detected a hint of mockery in their voices.

  ‘You never can tell with all these new-fangled machines, can you? Always going wrong just when there’s a cold snap.’

  ‘Fancy, having to come from Germany. Could be a fortnight, even. Well, I never. What bad luck.’

  ‘Let’s hope that electrician knows what he’s talking about.’

  When there was a lull and Harriet had a moment to spare, Venetia said she must be pleased that houses were going to be built on the spare land. ‘Be a big increase in trade for you, won’t it?’

  ‘Well, I’m being very philosophical about it. It could all be rumour, you know. These things take so long and there’s bound to be a lot of opposition.’

  ‘I expect so. Well, I must be off, I’ve an executive trim class in half an hour. Do you really think it will take a week for the heating to come back on?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, I really haven’t. Come down to get warm any time won’t you?’

  Linda came back and Harriet went to find Jimbo. ‘You were remarkably quiet when Venetia was telling us about the electricity cut. Do you know something I don’t know?’

  Jimbo took off his boater and stroked his few remaining strands of hair into place. ‘Look, I could be completely wrong. It could all be coincidence, but I do know the village are planning a pressure campaign to force Fitch to give the silver back. They really mean business. So I think they’ve engineered it all deliberately.’

  ‘Help! I didn’t think they would dare go to such lengths. I mean, he’s not a man to be trifled with is he?’

  ‘No, and I’ve a feeling this is only the beginning.’

  ‘It’ll be effigies and pin sticking next.’

  ‘Now Harriet, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Don’t let’s get ridiculous.’ He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her soundly. ‘Expectant mothers should be going home for lunch. Off you go.’

  ‘Right then, I’ll waddle off.’

  Jimbo went up to the Big House in the early afternoon; he’d tried telephoning but couldn’t get through, and he began to worry that his meticulous planning had gone awry. As he drove through the gates, he realised there was something fastened to each of the stone pillars either side of the drive. He braked rapidly, reversed out into the road again and saw two placards with thick red lettering on them. One said ‘PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE’, the other ‘SNAKE IN THE GRASS’. He chuckled and then had a struggle with his conscience; after all he had a lot to lose. Should he take them down? But Jimbo decided that as Fitch had already left they would do no harm, and continued on his way up to the house.

  But Mr Fitch hadn’t left, he was standing outside the front door. There were several men with him, all in smart business suits. They were talking animatedly, with Mr Fitch the centre of it all. Jimbo got out and out of courtesy went to pass the time of day.

  ‘Good afternoon, Charter-Plackett.’

  ‘Good afternoon, just come to check my new cook’s arrived and everything is shipshape.’

  ‘Shipshape! Will anything be shipshape ever again? Damnation! The place is cursed.’

  ‘Cursed?’

  Mr Fitch almost exploding with annoyance, turned on his heel and disappeared inside the house. Jimbo raised his eyebrows questioningly at one of the young men.

  ‘Wanted to leave straight after lunch but all his tyres are flat.’ The young man had difficulty in restraining the smile which had crept to the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Well, couldn’t he borrow someone else’s?’

  ‘No one but him has a Rolls, and he doesn’t want to travel in anything less. He’s waiting for the odd job chappie to pump them up again with his foot pump. But it’s taking a long time.’

  ‘Ah! Right!’ Jimbo nodded to them all and strode into the house. It was cold. Fenella was wearing her coat. ‘Mr Charter-Pla . . .’

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘Jimbo then, we’re so cold. You can’t repair b
oilers can you?’

  ‘I have many, many valuable attributes, but repairing boilers is not one of them.’

  ‘I bet you have! You’ll have to tell me about them sometime! Have you come to see Mr Fitch? You’d better not have.’

  ‘No, just come to check the kitchen’s firing on all cylinders.’

  ‘It isn’t, there’s a dispute about the new cook and they’re all thinking of downing tools.’

  ‘They’d better not.’ He stormed through the green baize door into the kitchen. His staff were all clustered round the new cook and were in the process of voting on a decision.

  ‘All those in favour then!’ Using all his powers of persuasion he told them that as Mr Fitch was leaving, the only ones who would suffer from their downing tools were the trainees, so there was nothing to be gained. Added to which he wouldn’t pay any one of them a single penny for hours not worked. They agreed not to strike. They were obviously doing it on purpose, but their faces were poker straight and none broke ranks and confessed it was all part of a campaign. He gave them one of his renowned pep talks, a combination of underlying threat mixed with morale-boosting statements about the valuable service they were giving, about image and confidence, about loyalty and pride, about the importance of the role each of them played, they weren’t simply cogs in a machine et cetera. By the time he’d finished he seriously considered offering his services as guest lecturer at the house. He came out and saw Mr Fitch leave in his Rolls, his chauffeur speeding the car away in a flurry of scattered gravel. Oh God! The placards. He’d see the placards. Too late now.

  By Thursday morning Peter had to admit to himself that he coveted the silver in Mr Fitch’s safe. Each time he looked at the altar he could imagine how beautiful it would look on display there. He knew exactly where he would stand that huge candlestick, right there, no a little over to one side nearer the choir stalls, no would it . . . He stopped himself in his tracks. What was he doing? Expending energy on mere trivialities; it mattered not one jot how beautiful the church looked – well it did, but not to that extent. It was all very unedifying. What mattered most was the souls of his congregation. That was what should be at the forefront of his mind, not moaning about how to improve the appearance of the church for the greater glory of his ego. He felt ashamed of himself, and tried Caroline’s patience by discussing the problem ceaselessly in the kitchen after breakfast. She took a much more commonsense approach.