“The school over to Murreystone’s not so big as ours,” someone said, thoughtfully.
The fact was hardly surprising: Murreystone’s inhabitants number around three hundred and fifty, while Plummergen has a population of just over five hundred.
“And nobbut the one teacher,” someone else added, more thoughtful still.
“But one or two o’ their dads works down in Dungeness,” said Mrs. Skinner, reluctant—despite the opinions of Mrs. Flax—to abandon entirely her Radiation Mutant theme. “And there’s not a soul from these parts but works on a farm, or in Brettenden or suchlike—nothing to do with nuclear power at all. Seems to me they’ll take unfair advantage, if we’re not careful.”
“Unfair it may well be,” came the automatic retort from Mrs. Henderson, “but I’d like to know what’s anyone’s notion of what anyone can do about it—because there’s summat got to be done, there’s no denying.” She sighed. “Not as if any of us knows the editor of the Beacon for putting in a word, is it? Fine chance! Open to all, so the paper said this competition is, and a daft idea it is, too—all the kiddies, anyway,” as she saw Mrs. Scillicough draw breath to protest. She closed her eyes in an attempt to recall the exact wording of the notice which had appeared at the end of a thrilling feature in that week’s Brettenden Telegraph and Beacon (est. 1847, incorporating [1893] The Iverhurst Chronicle and Argus).
“For the best essay from a child at present in full-time primary education in the county of Kent, on the subject of Nuclear Power, first prize, a ten-pound book token. Plus”—and Mrs. Henderson opened her eyes—“the honour of presenting a—a bucket to Her Royal Highness Princess Georgina on the occasion of the Grand Opening of Dungeness D Nuclear Power Station.”
This feat of memory was received with nods and murmurs of appreciation from everyone save, inevitably, Mrs. Skinner.
“And there’s the one advantage we’ve got over Murreystone,” she said. “Alice Maynard, that’s to say, on account of presenting bookays”—the pronunciation was scornful—“needs ’em to curtsey nice, and Miss Maynard’s a-going to teach the kiddies dances and stuff for the Christmas pantomime, remember. So if it’s one of ours as wins the competition, whoever it is’ll not disgrace the village by falling flat on her face or tripping over her feet when she gets to meet the princess.”
“There’s worse things than tripping over people’s feet, where Murreystone’s concerned,” said Mrs. Flax sagely. “It’s for no good reason, you mark my words, they’ll want one of theirs to—to give her the flowers.” Mrs. Flax was wise enough to know when, and how, to mask ignorance with adroit turns of phrase. “They’ll be up to summat, make no mistake about that, if they’ve half the chance ...”
Everyone nodded. During the Civil War, Murreystone had been strong for Protector Cromwell: Plummergen had even more strongly backed the Royalist side. Neither village had ever changed its stance on matters political; and if the Princess Georgina wasn’t Royalty, Plummergen would like to know who was. There could be no doubt that the selection of a Murreystone candidate for the presentation honour could lead to nothing but embarrassment, at the very least, for everyone concerned. If the editor of the Beacon had his wits about him, for all the vaunted freedom of the press he wouldn’t even consider any entries which came from the village five miles to the east of Plummergen ...
And when someone voiced the opinion that Murreystone—for whatever purpose—was bound to play dirty, not a single voice was raised against this view.
chapter
~ 2 ~
NO VOICE, INDEED, was raised for some moments, as everyone grimly contemplated many previous instances of Murreystone’s undeniable rascality. Then mother-of-four Mrs. Newport, sister to the triplet-bedevilled Mrs. Scillicough, ventured the opinion that—for all the Beacon said the essay was for the youngsters to write—she wouldn’t mind betting there’d be a few Murreystone mums and dads’d want to give their kiddies a helping hand, and in a way you couldn’t blame them, could you? Because it was only natural. But if Murreystone was going to do it, well, she didn’t know but what Plummergen wouldn’t have to, too, to stand any chance of winning, when all was said and done. Not (added Mrs. Newport hastily) as she’d any cause to say such things on her own account, of course, being as hers were all under five and even the eldest not due to start school for another year, but you had to look at it from both sides, didn’t you?
It was as everyone was attempting this Janus-like mental manoeuvre that the doorbell jangled.
Heads turned at once to see who had come to join their number: they had all been so busy brooding on Perfidious Murreystone, and pondering the uneasy sophistry of Mrs. Newport, that their attention had drifted from the world outside the post office. What part of that world was now coming in to join them?
“Morning, Mrs. Blaine.” The relieved and welcoming chorus came from those who realised that nobody now need commit herself to the merits or otherwise of stooping to Murreystone’s anticipated level. “Morning, Miss Nuttel!” And The Nuts, somewhat startled by the intensity of the greeting, responded with appropriate salutations of their own.
“The Nuts” is the collective title by which these two ladies are almost invariably known to impertinent Plummergen. Some say the name derives from their being as nutty as fruitcakes; others hold the (more probable) theory that it is the rampant vegetarianism of the pair which has resulted in their nuxial nomenclature. Whatever the reason, Miss Erica Nuttel and Mrs. Norah Blaine have around the village been referred to as “The Nuts” for nearly as long as the village has been their home: a home which they set up together a dozen or so years ago in Lilikot, a plate-glass-windowed dwelling of modern style situated almost exactly opposite the bus stop, Crabbe’s Garage, and the post office.
If shoppers in the post office blatantly observe each coming and going of those who travel or post letters, there is a recognised—and regretted—restriction in such observation. The Nuts, on the other hand, may observe as much, and for as long, as is their pleasure: and their pleasure is very great. Living where they do, Miss Nuttel (who is also known as Nutcrackers) and Mrs. Blaine (the Hot Cross Bun) are not restricted, as are Mr. Stillman’s customers, by his hours of business. Mr. Stillman stays open only from eight in the morning to six in the evening: the inhabitants of Lilikot, during the summer at least, can maintain—should they so wish—a constant vigil on outside events from dawn (around four) until dusk (almost ten). And the ladies would be among the first to support the installation of street lighting, so that their vigilance might be increased.
The Nuts, it must be emphasised, are vigilant from no unworthy cause. Their motives are pure, their intentions philanthropic in the extreme. Their only wish is to serve their fellow citizens to the best of their ability: and they pride themselves that serve them they definitely do. Their devotion to this self-appointed task, they feel, cannot be questioned; and the value of that service (to Plummergen, at least) has never been in doubt—although the editor of the Brettenden Telegraph and Beacon has been known to hold forth at some length on the topic of sales and circulation figures in the Plummergen area. For with Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine ever ready to pass on gossip, to indulge in scandal, and to monger all manner of rumour on the slightest excuse, why would anyone in the same community even think of paying good money for a newspaper?
Miss Nuttel is tall, thin, and equine of feature. Mrs. Blaine is short, stout, and black-eyed with either malice or mischief, depending on her mood. When thwarted, she is given to flashes of temper, followed by long, brooding sulks or by providential migraines, which last are known to the village as “one of my heads.” Their main purpose, Plummergen agrees, is to make Miss Nuttel feel guilty ...
And it now seemed clear, from the way in which both Nuts had responded to the greetings of their fellow shoppers, that this current excursion was taking place in a post-sulk (or post-migraine) period; and everyone wondered why the Hot Cross Bun should be so cross today with Eric.
Miss Nutt
el, having nodded to the assembled company, marched across to the revolving book-stand, where she stood in a grim silence thumbing through the pages of one of the popular Mastery series. These slim volumes held out the tantalising promise of near-professional skills or knowledge upon the expenditure of a modest sum of money and a minimum of effort; Master Banking in Thirty Minutes had been selling in considerable numbers since the recent appointment of a new manager to one of the most prestigious financial houses in Brettenden.
Norah Blaine’s blackcurrant eyes darted around in search of a sympathetic face. They fell upon Mrs. Skinner, still feeling a little peeved at her worsting by Mrs. Flax in the matter of the Murreystone Mutant, yet too nervous of the Wise Woman’s likely reaction to say so out loud.
“If you aren’t in a hurry, Mrs. Skinner,” said Mrs. Blaine in a winning tone, “would you mind too much if I just popped in front of you to make my few purchases? They’re really rather urgent, you see,” with a pointed glare for Miss Nuttel, whose interest in Master Fancy Needlework was as deep as it was unexpected.
“You go right ahead, dear.”
Mrs. Skinner’s was not the only nose to twitch at the scent of scandal when it became clear that Miss Nuttel had no intention of following her friend to the Ironmongery and Kitchenware section of the shop. Mrs. Stillman, frowning in what she knew was a vain attempt to quench the curiosity of her customers, moved across to the other counter.
“Anything in particular you’re looking for, Mrs. Blaine?”
Mrs. Blaine made to consult a crumpled envelope. “Well, to begin with, two new sieves, please, the large ones with fine metal mesh. And two buckets, but they must be galvanised. If you’ve only got plastic, I suppose”—with a sigh suggestive of martyrdom—“it will have to wait until market day ... although I’m sure I don’t see why I should.”
“Well, you don’t have to.” Mrs. Stillman gestured behind her. “Large sieves, you said? We’ve three different sizes to choose from, and as for galvanised buckets, was it the double sort for floors you wanted, or ordinary?”
Mrs. Blaine opted, loudly, for the ordinary style; Miss Nuttel slammed Master Fancy Needlework back on the shelf. Clearly, the thought of even thirty minutes’ dedication to drawing threads and weaving fine silks had depressed her.
“I don’t suppose,” said Mrs. Blaine, absently banging the buckets one against the other as Mrs. Stillman placed them on the counter before her, “that you stock glass-cloths, do you? I thought not,” with another martyred sigh. And her mood remained resolutely glum even when Mrs. Stillman reminded her of the propensity of drapers to stock tea-towels among the rest of their Manchester goods. It seemed that the very idea of having to cross The Street to Mr. Welsted’s little shop was too much for Mrs. Blaine to bear, even though it stood no more than a few score yards from Lilikot’s front door.
“I’ll pay for these.” Mrs. Blaine, wilfully oblivious of the approach of Miss Nuttel, took out her purse as Mrs. Stillman spoke the total. “Goodness, so much? Really, I do think—but there,” with a third exhalation indicative of martyrdom, “the housekeeping will simply have to stretch this week, that’s all. And if people don’t like it, they have only themselves to blame.”
Beside her, Miss Nuttel cleared her throat in a whinny, and stared haughtily down her nose. “Rubber tubing?” she enquired, as Mrs. Stillman sorted out change. “Couple of yards,” she added.
“Some more home-made wine, Mrs. Blaine?” It was too good a chance for Mrs. Skinner to miss. Mrs. Henderson’s attempts at Strong and Wholesome Barley Beer had given her neighbours their biggest shock since the council announced the latest rent increase, and the glaziers of Brettenden their most lucrative employment for months. Gleeful rumour had set the decorators’ estimates—their vans and ladders had never, in fact, appeared—at astronomical levels. “I know you takes a pride in your dandelion, o’ course, but if you don’t mind me saying so it’s a bit on the late side, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Blaine clashed her buckets together as she lifted them from the counter, but made no reply beyond another long-suffering sigh, and a shake of her head as the sieves rattled in their galvanised receptacles. Miss Nuttel, her nose in the air, ignored Mrs. Blaine to watch Mrs. Stillman wrestling, Laocoön-like, with her tape-measure and scissors against black rubber coils; and she was as deaf to Mrs. Skinner’s words as ever Mrs. Henderson could be.
“Yes. Six feet,” said Miss Nuttel, as Mrs. Stillman put the inevitable query. “Plaster of Paris, too, if you’ve got it.” She paused, and shot a triumphant look in the direction of Mrs. Blaine. “Twenty pounds.”
Mrs. Blaine uttered a squeal of fury, turned on her heel, and, with a bucket in either hand, headed—reproachfully clanking—for the door. She needed only apple cheeks and a wooden shoulder-yoke to be everyone’s ideal of the country milkmaid—that is, had the apple cheeks been plumped in a winsome smile. But Norah Blaine was far from smiling now.
“I’m sorry, Miss Nuttel. Plaster of Paris is more what you’d get in craft shops, though I believe we’ve a bag or two of cement round the back that’s old stock I could let you have half price, if you’d like it.”
Mrs. Blaine’s plump frame vibrated on the threshold as, waiting for a volunteer with unencumbered hands to open the door, she waited also for Miss Nuttel’s reply. It might have been supposed that the prospect of so tempting a bargain must please Norah Blaine: but the dark, dangerous gleam in her eyes, and the narrow set of her mouth, suggested that such supposition would be wrong.
“No, thanks.” At Miss Nuttel’s words, Mrs. Blaine seemed to brighten. “Just this. Fine.”
And, as Miss Nuttel forced the slim black rubber serpent into the capacious pocket of her coat, Mrs. Blaine, herself serpentlike as she hissed through clenched teeth, dropped her buckets with a discordant clang, snatched open the door, and, to the tinkling accompaniment of the bell, picked them up again and clanked her way crossly out.
Miss Nuttel paid for the rubber tubing and strode after her in triumph, leaving everyone staring. As Mrs. Stillman tidied away her heavy-duty scissors and the reel of tube, Mrs. Henderson spoke.
“Well!”
Nobody could have summed up the general sentiment more exactly.
“Which isn’t to say,” Mrs. Henderson went on, she having tacitly been granted the floor, “as there han’t bin summat strange about that pair over the past few days, because there has.”
“I’d call it more than strange,” said Mrs. Skinner at once. “What with digging that hole the way she was, deep as a grave if Mrs. Putts is to be believed, and I’m sure I don’t see why not, if you ask me it’s a wonder they’re still both alive to tell the tale. Ain’t that right, Emmy?”
Emmy Putts, thus addressed, jumped. She had been lost in a daydream inspired by thoughts of Princess Georgina, and wishing that the crown she herself, for the second time, had crammed over her long blonde wig as this year’s Miss Plummergen, had been as real as the gorgeous tiaras and diadems worn by the fortunate Georgy Girl.
She blinked. “Pardon, Mrs. Skinner. What say?”
“Miss Nuttel’s hole,” prompted Mrs. Skinner. “Remember, your ma said she saw her digging it when she popped along to the admiral to borrow a jar of honey, and happened to look over the fence?”
Everyone crowded close, though this was a tale they had heard told many times in recent days. Indeed, it had been the main topic of village speculation for almost a week, only being relegated to second place once the forthcoming visit of Princess Georgina had been announced.
Rear Admiral Bernard “Buzzard” Leighton, a relative newcomer to Plummergen, had from his arrival occasioned much discussion in the village, not only by sporting a ginger beard, but by keeping bees: neither of which activities anybody was ever known to have pursued within living memory. The bees—or the beard—alone would have been a cause of suspicion: both together gave Plummergen a field day, and, though rumour had it that Major-General Sir George Colveden planned to go into melliferous partnersh
ip with his new friend next spring, these rumours were not enough to place the seal of respectability on the Buzzard’s hobby (the beard was reluctantly accepted as beyond Plummergen’s control) until his honey won a prize in the Preserves section of the recent Produce Show.
People at once began to recall old country remedies and recipes which, without honey, were sure to fail. Sugar was denounced as pure, white, and deadly. The admiral, overwhelmed by this sudden interest, regretted that four hives—especially hives which had not long since been transported from another part of the country—were unable to supply the needs of his new neighbours: the odd jar or two, perhaps, as a present, but he’d no intention of setting up in business at his age. Of course, with winter coming on, if anyone wanted to sample his recipe for a hot toddy, they’d be more than welcome to drop in for a few drinks one evening ...
Mrs. Putts, in her own words a respectable widow-woman of several years’ standing, had no intention of joining the Buzzard in one of his by now (undeservedly) notorious push-the-boat-out parties, when the green-and-white Gin Pennant flew from the flagpole in his front garden, issuing its unspoken invitation to all former officers within the vicinity to consider themselves Bernard Leighton’s guests. Guest? For her, plain Clarissa Putts, to mix with the likes of Sir George and Colonel Windup? Not to mention Major Howett, who being female and a nurse did ought to have known better than encourage menfolk to pickle their livers ... Though far too sensible to voice the sentiment aloud while asking a favour, Mrs. Putts was resolved that she would do no such thing. On the other hand, if the admiral could spare just one jar: not that she held with beautification on her own account, of course, but young Emmy had read in one of her magazines that honey and glycerine, in equal parts, would soften and beautify the complexion, and, being too shy to ask on her own account ...
Miss Seeton Rules (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 18) Page 2