Village Matters

by Shaw, Rebecca

  ‘For heaven’s sake don’t torture yourself about it. The man is stealing. Full stop. He knows he is, we know he is, and it has to be stopped. When we get it back, then the decision can be taken as to whether or not it is sold or we keep it. The responsibility of keeping it safe is mind boggling, but there you are. Now, Alex is waiting for you to play football and Beth wants to play too, and she has a doll which needs mending, so please, darling, apply your mind to that and stop fretting.’

  ‘What shall I do if he doesn’t bring it back?’

  ‘Report him to the police. At five minutes past midnight. Off you go, Sylvia and I have work to do and you’re cluttering the place up with your moral dilemmas.’

  The telephone rang in the rectory at half past eight that night. Peter answered it.

  ‘Good evening. Turnham Malpas Rectory. Peter Harris speaking.’

  ‘Fitch. Craddock Fitch. Can you come to Turnham House?’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you. Come straight in. I’ll be in the library.’

  On his way up the drive in the dark, Peter’s way was barred by the estate Land Rover parked on the road. He got out. In the headlights he could see Jeremy and two men, whom Peter recognised as village residents, struggling with what appeared to be a body hanging from a low branch of a tree growing about six feet from the edge of the drive.

  One of the men touched his cap and grinned saying ‘Good evening, Rector. Just busy moving this. We’ll be out of your way in a minute. Shan’t be long.’

  Jeremy, through tight lips, said, ‘I’ll get the damned fools who did this, and when I get my hands on ’em I’ll throttle ’em.’

  Peter peered at the body. It was dangling from a rope. Its head, topped by what appeared to be a mophead sprayed with silver paint, hung forward, the rope around the neck. A navy suit jacket covered the well stuffed rag body, and stabbed straight through where its heart would be were two thick, silver-coloured knitting needles. From its neck hung a placard with two words written on it: ‘FITCH! THIEF!’ A torch had been tied onto the branch so that the rag effigy was illuminated. It couldn’t be missed by anyone going past. When they’d cut it down and taken the torch off the branch, they stuffed it in the Land Rover. The two men winked at Peter as they jumped in beside Jeremy, who sped off towards the house as fast as he could.

  Mr Fitch was waiting in the library and offered Peter a drink, but he refused. Mr Fitch poured himself a whisky.

  Please, Rector, please sit down.’ Mr Fitch sat in his desk chair. ‘I suppose you saw my effigy?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Since Tuesday it has been mayhem here.’

  ‘I did hear something about you having problems.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He paused to sip his whisky. ‘I am unaccustomed to not getting my own way. But it would appear I am thwarted this time by a pack of country yokels not worth a ha’penny.’ He snapped his fingers in a derisive gesture. ‘If I sold the silver, the money I would get would be a drop in the ocean. That’s not the point. It’s the principle. What I buy is mine, or rather my company’s.’

  ‘You may snap your fingers at them, but to me they are my prime care. They are good, honest, hard-working people who instinctively know, without really knowing how, what is right. I owe them a lot. They have supported me through a very difficult time in my life, not saying anything but just being there, shoulder to shoulder like some invisible army. If you do what you intend, nothing will go right here. They’ll see it doesn’t.’

  ‘I can bus people in.’

  ‘Of course, there are ways round it. But sell what they feel is rightly theirs and somehow they will get their revenge. They will never accept you. Never.’

  ‘You talk as if they are one body.’

  ‘They are in a kind of a way. They and generations before them have lived here in this place. It is theirs. Not yours. Not mine. Theirs. We’re here on sufferance till we’ve lived here fifty years and more. Imagine, if you can, the feeling of taking communion from a cup that has been used by one’s ancestors for over two hundred years. Think of living in a cottage which was standing when the plague came. Worshipping in a church which has stood here for almost seven hundred years. What a sense of permanence. What a sense of history. What a sense of belonging. I feel deeply privileged to be allowed to be at the heart of these people.’

  Mr Fitch swirled his whisky round his glass. He finished off the last drops and, resting his elbows on his desk, looked straight at Peter.

  ‘What you’re saying is if we are to keep going here, I’ve to kowtow to these yokels.’

  ‘No, I am not saying that. I’m saying do what is right. If you kowtow, as you call it, it won’t work. They are not fools and they’ll know if they’re being patronised.’

  Mr Fitch pondered for a while, taking his time putting papers and files on his desk into neat straight lines. Peter watched his face and endeavoured to understand what he was thinking. Suddenly Mr Fitch appeared to make up his mind. He took some keys from his pocket. With a wry smile on his face he said, ‘Then, my first step on this road to acceptance will be to return the church silver to its rightful place. Hopefully doing this will put an end to the chaos here. I don’t mind admitting to you that effigy made me blanch when I saw it. Positively mediaeval!’ Peter thought he saw him shudder.

  Mr Fitch helped Peter stow the boxes in his estate car. He slammed down the door and turned to shake hands. ‘I see you’ve got two safety seats in the back.’

  ‘Yes, they’re for my twins.’

  ‘Lucky man. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, and thank you.’

  Chapter 8

  Dawn was just breaking when Malcolm the milkman brought his van to a standstill beside Jimmy’s garden fence. ‘Morning Mr Glover. You’re up and about in good time. Not often I see you on the go so early nowadays.’

  ‘No, well, I’ve got a project in ‘and. Are yer wanting yer money?’

  ‘If yer like, but it can wait till next week if yer busy.’

  ‘I’ll go inside and get it. I’ve turned over a new leaf since I ’ad that big win.’

  ‘Are you still filling ’em in?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m not greedy. ‘Angon.’

  Malcolm waited while Jimmy went inside to get his money. Beside the fence was a big fourteen-pound hammer. Stacked neatly against the wall of the house were ready-made timber panels, which looked as though they would make a shed when put together.

  After Jimmy had paid him, Malcolm couldn’t resist asking what Jimmy’s intentions were.

  ‘Making a new chicken house.’

  ‘But you’ve got one already.’

  ‘I know I ’ave, but that’s coming down and a new one, nearer the house, is going up.’

  ‘I see. Why?’

  ‘Wait and see.’ Jimmy turned away and began work on the rough ground about twelve feet nearer the house than the old chicken run. Malcolm had to leave it at that, as Jimmy obviously had no intention of revealing what he had in mind.

  Vera and Pat tolerated the hammering for most of the morning before coming out to protest.

  Pat shouted across Vera’s garden, ‘Look, it’s grand to see you working hard, but ’ow much longer is this banging going on for? My head’s absolutely spinning.’

  ‘And mine as well. What are yer doing, Jimmy?’

  ‘You’ll see, you’ll see.’

  ‘Making a new chicken run by the looks of it. What will yer do with the old one?’

  ‘Knock it down.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wait and see. Yer going to ’ave the surprise of your life shortly.’

  ‘That’ll be the day. Well, if yer won’t tell us then, when this surprise appears I for one won’t be surprised, I’ll ignore it.’

  ‘Do that then.’

  ‘Winning that money ‘as gone to your ’ead, Jimmy Glover, that’s what.’

  Flick Charter-Plackett stopped to have a word
with him after lunch.

  ‘Hello, Mr Glover. Will you sponsor me for Brownies? I’ve got my list here and a pen.’ She held up a smart clipboard she’d purloined from Jimbo’s office.

  Jimmy leant on his fourteen-pound hammer, pushed his cap to the back of his head, and asked her what she would have to do for it.

  ‘It’s a sponsored silence. I’ve to promise not to say a word for a whole hour and then Brown Owl signs my sheet and I can collect the money.’

  ‘You! Keep silent for one whole hour? You can’t keep silent for one whole minute!’

  ‘I can if I try. My Daddy gave me fifty pence for keeping quiet for one whole hour when we set off on our holidays. He said he needed peace and quiet to pull himself together after he’d struggled to organise us all. So Fergus and Finlay and me, we sat in the back of the car and never spoke for an hour. Mummy said it was like heaven. So I can do it.’

  ‘’Ow much ’as your Dad promised?’

  ‘Well, he’s promised five pence a minute, but that’s because he thinks with all those girls there I won’t manage it, but I shall. But you can give me one pence a minute if you like. That’s what Mrs Wright next door has promised me.’

  ‘If she’s promised you one pence I’ll give you two pence. ’Ave you asked Mrs Duckett?’

  ‘I’m going there next, she wasn’t in when I called before.’

  ‘Put her name down and I’ll give you two pence a minute for ’er and don’t bother to ask ’er, right? And don’t let on?’

  Flick nodded sagely, ‘Oh right, I understand. That’s very thoughtful of you, Mr Glover.’ After she’d carefully written in the names and amounts, Flick asked Jimmy what he was doing.

  ‘Well now, Flick, it could be said that my moment has arrived. There comes a time in a man’s life when he has to take steps and this is it for me. I’m not telling you what I’m doing because it wouldn’t be fair to expect you not to tell and I don’t want anyone knowing. They’ve always thought of me as a daft useless old bugg— chap but I’m going to show ’em and not half.’ He grinned at her, pulled one of her plaits in a friendly way and went back to work.

  ‘I’ve never thought of you as a daft useless old what you said. I’ve always liked you, Mr Glover.’

  ‘In that case then, we’re friends for life.’ He shook her hand and she left smiling.

  By evening the entire village had grown weary of Jimmy’s banging. Worse was to come, because before it got dark, he knocked down the old run with much gusto and then commenced on the fence. His chickens, objecting to their abrupt removal to new quarters, squabbled and squawked, adding to the general din.

  No one except Georgie knew what he was up to and she refused to declare his secret. ‘He told me the night he knew he’d won, and I’ve not told a soul, not even Bryn. It’s Jimmy’s secret and all will be revealed shortly. Now what can I get you?’ Before the evening was over Georgie had made this declaration several times. Every customer who came in wanted to know; having put up with the din all day they felt justified in inquiring.

  ‘Winning them pools ’as sent ’im crackers. That secretive he is.’

  ‘He’s always been secretive, it’s nothing new. I remember when his wife died, what was ’er name? He spoke to nobody for months. Yer couldn’t even say ’ow sorry yer were. ’E shut up like a clam.’

  ‘How much money did he win, ’as he told you?’

  ‘No, and not likely to, after I opposed him about his rabbit snaring.’

  ‘’Eard about these houses the council’s building? Two hundred they say.’

  ‘Two hundred? On that bit of land, never, they’ll be like rabbit hutches.’

  ‘I’ve heard they found out it’s Sir Ralph’s land and it’s him building ’em.’

  ‘Never! There’s that many rumours flying about.’

  ‘More houses, better chance of keeping the school open, more business for the Store and we need that, can’t trip into Culworth every time yer need a packet of tea, could do us all good.’

  ‘Well, I disagree. We don’t want all them houses whosoever’s building ’em. We got our own way about that church silver and we’ll get our own way about this. Mark my words. With all our talk we still haven’t found out what Jimmy Glover’s doing. Whatever it is, he’s either gone cracked or at last he’s waking up to the twentieth century.’

  It poured with rain the following day, so no one noticed Jimmy getting on the breakfast-time bus; they were all inside keeping dry.

  Around five o’clock a bright red, brand new Vauxhall Cavalier rolled gently into the village. The driver signalled right to turn down Stocks Row in front of the weekenders’ cottages, and then quickly signalled left and humped and bumped onto the bottom end of Jimmy’s garden, now free of the fence and the chicken run.

  It was Jimmy who got out of it. It was Jimmy who got out a handkerchief from his inside pocket and wiped his finger marks off the door. Though it was raining, it was Jimmy who strolled slowly round the car, relishing its colour and the complete and glorious newness of it. He got the key from the ignition and opened up the boot, but he had to close it quickly because of the rain wetting the inside of it. He got back in and, sitting in the driver’s seat, he fiddled with the radio. Suddenly ferociously loud music hammered its way through the windows. Jimmy hurriedly twisted knobs and pressed buttons and the wipers began working furiously, the horn sounded, the lights went on and off until he got the noise under control. Before long, despite the rain, a small group of curious villagers collected. Georgie, tapped on the driver’s window and signalled to him to wind it down.

  ‘Beautiful, really beautiful. What a good choice.’

  ‘Do yer think so? Isn’t it great. I’m that pleased with it.’

  ‘Since when did you learn to drive, Jimmy?’ Vera asked.

  ‘Learned years ago when I worked on Home Farm for a spell, and I’ve kept me licence up to date all these years.’

  Pat said, ‘We’d better warn everybody then if it’s that long since yer drove! But Jimmy, what will yer use it for? It does seem an extravagance.’ She trailed her fingers along its smooth glossy paintwork, enjoying the rich feel of it.

  He got out of the car and locked the door. ‘Central locking, yer notice. All mod cons.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Pat.

  ‘I ’eard that one of the minicab drivers at Culworth Station had got finished, so I went there to see about it, and I’ve got miself ’is job. I start this week. This is an investment, this is.’ He patted the car and then got out his handkerchief and wiped the bodywork in case he’d left any fingerprints.

  ‘Well, I never. Jimmy Glover with a regular job. ’Ope you won’t be coming ’ome from work at all hours and waking us up.’

  ‘Yer never know.’

  Saying that, he turned on his heel and walked into his house.

  Pat swallowed hard. It was difficult not to be envious of such good luck. Ah well, egg and chips again tonight, and let Dean or Michelle grumble and they’d get the sharp edge of her tongue.

  *

  A week after starting work with the Culworth Cab Company Jimmy spent his only free evening in The Royal Oak. As he took his first frothing pint from Alan Crimble he said, ‘’Ow’s that old banger of yours Alan? Still holding together is it?’

  ‘Just about. Lady Luck doesn’t come to us all yer know, Mr Glover. She’s old, I know, but I love her. Living in this Godforsaken place, I ’ad to do something about my own transport. The last bus from Culworth gets here at six o’clock and what use is that to a young man with a sex life?’

  Jimmy wiped the froth from his lips and said, ‘Wouldn’t know about sex life in Culworth. Didn’t think they ’ad any.’

  ‘Seeing as you’re doing your taxi job now, I thought perhaps you’d know. That new night club, yer know in Deansgate, The Force . . .’

  ‘That’s a daft name and not ’alf.’

  ‘Daft it might be, but it’s great.’

  ‘Anyways, last time I see’d your car, it struc
k me it needed servicing. Got to keep ’em well looked after, yer know.’

  ‘Servicing? The money I get paid ’ere you couldn’t afford to service a push bike.’

  ‘Dangerous yer know, Alan, dangerous.’ Jimmy took his pint to his favourite seat and settled down to wait for some company.

  Pat Duckett came in. Jimmy watched her order her drink. Her shoulders were slumped and he noticed that the cheerful face she usually wore had been left at home.

  ‘Hello, Jimmy.’ Pat sat down on the settle opposite him and sipped her port and lemon.

  ‘Need cheering up? Kids is it?’

  ‘No, mi Dad. He’s got his notice this morning. Job gone ’cos of council cuts and he has two months to get out of his house, goes with the job yer see. He’s never saved any money so guess where he’s coming?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Pat.’

  ‘Not as sorry as I am.’ She dolefully took a sip of her drink and changed the subject. ‘We’ve won over the church silver, haven’t we? It was me found out, yer know.’

  ‘Oh, right. Busybodying were yer?’

  ‘No, just working up there, waitressing, the day they found it. Couldn’t let ’im get away with that, could we? The old sod. Rich as hell and still wants to make more money. Couldn’t ’elp but laugh about that dummy they hung up on that tree. ’Ope it frightened him to death. Did the trick, didn’t it?’

  ‘Do you know who did it?’

  Pat looked him in the eye and said, ‘No.’

  ‘Yer lying, I can tell.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You weren’t the only one who brought pressure to bear.’

  ‘Why, what did you do?’

  ‘Just passing the bus stop when some of them students got off and asked me the way to Turnham House. All la di da they was. Plums in their mouths an’ that. So I directed ’em down Royal Oak Road. I laughed all morning about that.’