Elaine attempted to quell the revolt.
‘What I say to you, dear Jerry, is don’t be short-termist. We mustn’t put profits above people. Yes, an influx of strangers into the village would herald a mini economic boom for our greatly appreciated local businesspeople. But what devastation would be left in its wake? We must learn from the mistakes of others. We mustn’t let the name Gently Rising become synonymous with that of Glastonbury!’
‘Oh, come on!’ expostulated Jerry, who was still on his feet. ‘You can’t seriously be comparing a few birds in the village hall to one of the biggest festivals in the world? Keep some perspective, woman!’
Amongst the ensuing hubbub a shrill voice rang out:
‘What about the double standards? That’s what I want to know!’ The speaker – Miss Tipperton, a firm friend of Elaine Jowlett – flushed as people craned to see who was speaking, but pushed on regardless. Voice quavering and hitting notes a dog-whistle would have been proud of, she piped, ‘The Brownies had the hall booked a year in advance for that date! The Brownies always have the first Saturday in June for their summer jumble sale, everyone knows that.’ She nodded at her near neighbours. ‘Why should Lady Caroline be allowed to push the Brownies out?’ She managed one final exclamation of headache-inducing shrillness, ‘Let’s hear from the village hall committee!’ before dropping back into her chair and trembling all over.
An awkward smile on her face – Miss Tipperton had forgotten that she, Elaine, was on the committee – Elaine said, ‘I’ll address that point, if I may, Valerie. When the committee granted the request, the full extent of His Lordship’s plan wasn’t clear. Now that the potential ramifications have become known, I feel it my duty as a Gently Risinger to spearhead a protest group. We should demand a hearing with Lord de Beeble to lay our concerns before him.’
Alice, taking a quick look through the hatch at that moment, noticed that Mia had come in and was looking glamorous in black jeans, a grey silk top and huge silver hoop earrings. She was leaning against the back wall and waved when she caught sight of Alice. And then Mia wasn’t there anymore. No one was there, the room was blurred - one panel of clarity remained at the entrance to the hall where a man was standing. As if she’d been trying for some time, and with some frustration, to turn a key in a rusty lock, Alice experienced a release as the door swung wide, and fresh air flooded through her senses. Time had stopped and she was glad of it because it meant she could let her gaze linger on strong, straight features and eyes that held a mixture of humour, intelligence and determination. The eyes looked into hers, briefly; her heart stopped, briefly; and then pounded so hard and fast she suspected those hadn’t been cocoa nibs in the brownie she’d just eaten but shotgun pellets. Of course. These were the elusive internal fireworks she’d heard so much about.
The man stepped forward and, looking towards the stage, called out, ‘Excuse me. Could I address the meeting?’
Interpreting surprised silence as acquiescence, the stranger passed down the central aisle and took the wooden steps at one agile bound. Holding out a hand to Elaine who, clearly discomfited, wasn’t sure whether to curtsey or spurn it, he said, ‘Mrs Jowlett. A pleasure to see you again.’
Pink with pleasure that he’d remembered her name, Elaine took the proffered hand and introduced him to the hall with a flourish and a sonorous, ‘The Honourable Henry de Beeble.’
The crowd perked up. This was more like it. The handful of dejected journalists and photographers sprang to life, turning on recording equipment and snapping away.
‘I’m sorry to arrive unannounced, but my brother asked me to come and speak to you on his behalf.’ Henry looked straight out at the crowd, catching people’s eyes, drawing them in.
‘He would have come himself but urgent business called him away at the last minute. We realised we’ve gone about this very stupidly – or rather I have, my brother’s not to blame at all. I should have organised a meeting with you all before anything was decided. I apologise that it didn’t happen.’ He looked so earnest and sincere that the audience found themselves unbending – the women perhaps a trifle quicker than the men.
‘I wanted to come here today to reassure you that we are ready to listen to any concerns you may have and to take appropriate action. Starting now. If there are any questions or comments…’
A shiny blonde bob of hair popped up above the crowd and a terracotta-coloured hand, laden with gold and diamonds, shot into the air.
‘Sinead Dumper,’ growled Sinead, in her best impression of a seductive purr. ‘Personally delighted about your brother’s idea. Wonderful thing for the village. Keen to help in any way I can. Also. What’s the criteria? Do local women get preference?’
A few titters flickered round the room.
‘Great question. My brother is proud of his Mereshire roots and is keen that his marriage should benefit the local community. With that in mind, he will be giving precedence to any applicant who has been resident in the county for more than three years.’
Sinead looked smug and sat down, keeping her eyes glued on Henry. Around the room various women were totting up how long they’d lived in the area.
Henry allowed the general chatter to die down before continuing. ‘I understand that due to our booking the village hall, a long-standing engagement has had to be cancelled.’
Elaine nodded, motioned to Miss Tipperton and murmured ‘Brownies’ in Henry’s ear.
‘My brother would be mortified to hear that the Brownies had been affected and so on his behalf I invite them to hold their…’
‘Summer jumble sale,’ hissed Elaine.
‘…their summer jumble sale at de Beeble Hall this year.’
Valerie Tipperton, still pink with embarrassment from her public-speaking, now turned puce with pleasure. The tears sprang into her eyes and she fanned herself with a copy of The Puzzler while nodding her thanks to Henry. From then on, the villagers’ backing was assured. No objection was raised but Henry had a solution, no suggestion that he didn’t agree to or promise to take back to his brother. There was one awkward moment when Lorraine Watford stood up and waved her arms at the stage.
‘I don’t wish to be dyspeptic, but it would have been the correct thing to do of course. We would have appreciated it, not just I, but all of us.’
‘What’s that, Lorraine?’ questioned Elaine.
Lorraine motioned towards Henry.
‘I’m telling His Worship how upset we all were that he didn’t ask our permission to get married in the village hall.’
Henry opened his mouth but before he could speak Elaine whispered something in his ear and then called out to Lorraine, ‘Quite, quite. We’ll minute that, Lorraine, thank you. Now, we must move on if we’re to fit everyone in, yes, Mrs Hawsbury, what point did you want to make…’
***
Meeting over and promises of further consultations minuted, the hatch disappeared under a barrage of hungry and thirsty villagers. Alice, rushing to keep up with the orders, had no time to think about anything other than teas, coffees and cakes. Jerry led a large contingent off to the Lion and Lamb ‘for some proper drinks’, and in time the rush died down enough for Alice to escape from the kitchen. She made a beeline for Mia, who had been cornered by Lorraine Watford and Colonel Markham. An amused smile played about her lips, while Colonel Markham was alternately frowning at Lorraine and dimpling at Mia. Lorraine was holding forth.
‘…nothing against you in particular, Mina. Such lovely teeth. But others, you know… They come here and do things.’ She motioned darkly, although what she was intending to communicate was beyond the ken of either of her listeners. ‘One of them moved into Oak Lane for a few months. They put something in the garden, some kind of symbol. It made me nervous. Voodoo, you know…’
‘Oh, Mrs Watford, what will Mia be thinking of us?’ The Colonel patted Mia on the arm and explained, ‘It was a reproduction of the Venus de Milo. Nothing sinister.’
Lorraine nodded and glared ov
er her glasses at Mia’s right ear. ‘Sinister, that’s the word. Armless. It’s some kind of black magic thingamajiggy. It’s not what we do here, not in Gently Rising.’
‘Hi, Mia.’
‘Alice!’ Mia leant over to kiss her on the cheek and then took her arm. ‘Excuse us, will you?’ They went and perched on the edge of the stage, Colonel Markham casting a wistful look after them and Lorraine darting off on some unknown mission of her own.
‘What did you make of Henry de Beeble?’ asked Mia. ‘Have you met him before?’
‘Not since he was a child – and that was once or twice at a distance. He’s not been around much,’ said Alice, managing to avoid the first question.
Mia scrutinised her face. ‘You look great, by the way.’
She did look well that evening. Her eyes were bright, her skin luminous and there was a rosy colour in her cheeks.
‘Well… thanks. So do you. How was Argentina?’
‘Oh, fine. What’s been going on here, though, that’s what I want to know? Tell me everything…’
Chapter 6
Strangers arrived in the village. A trickle at first, not long after the village meeting. Villagers noticed unfamiliar, heavily-made-up faces in the Lion and Lamb and the community shop. B&Bs in the area reported an unusual lack of vacancies.
Sinead, popping into the library in Market Mornington to swap her copy of The Woman in White for The Moonstone, was told that the library’s entire catalogue of Wilkie Collins was loaned out; a discovery which made her bare her small, pointy teeth at the librarian like a terrier catching sight of a juicy-looking postman. Proceeding to the bookshop, she discovered three or four Collins remaining on the shelves and promptly bought the lot to save them falling into the wrong hands. The trickle became a stream, and soon both hotels in Market Mornington were full to bursting and every holiday cottage in a twenty-mile radius had been hired out. Gangs of glamorous, and not so glamorous women were seen roaming around the village and surrounding lanes in clothes surely not meant for country rambles, hoping to bump into Lord de Beeble. Henry was forced to hire a security company to patrol the estate after Noblet complained of trespassers. He’d been very shaken one morning by the discovery of a strange woman in the house. Shambling into the breakfast room half-asleep, he was confronted by a naked intruder lying flat on her back on the table, modesty preserved by a couple of fried eggs and a portobello mushroom. He had turned faint, swayed from side to side and then bawled for Sally. Galloping in, Sally had taken in the scene at a glance and shooed the, now rather greasy, naked woman into the garden with a broom. Noblet had porridge for breakfast that morning.
When tents started appearing on the village green, Henry found himself in receipt of several heated emails and phone calls. His initial proposition of inviting the campers to move onto de Beeble land was dismissed out of hand by Lady Caroline. Instead, he called a meeting with the de Beeble Interview Village Liaison Committee (headed, naturally, by Elaine Jowlett) to thrash out an agreement. It was decided that the tents would be tolerated but any campers remaining on the Monday after the interviews would be ‘encouraged’ to leave by Henry’s security company; and any damage to the green would be made good at the de Beebles’ expense.
Gently Rising was surprised to find a number of men amongst those invading the village, but a story in one of the tabloids soon shed some light on this development. One afternoon, as Noblet was ensconced in the library, working on his theory that Wilkie Collins had foreseen, and very possibly invented, the electric trouser press, Henry received a phone call from Squeak. Henry was staying at the Hall for the week running up to the interviews to give Noblet moral support.
‘Morning, Guvnor.’
‘Gareth. What news?’
‘I fort you might not get The Sun, so…’
‘Well deduced.’
‘Yeah – so, I fort I’d let you know about the story. About the men.’
‘Men?’
‘S’right. You know what it’s like these days, don’t yer – all political correctness and women’s lib an’ that?’
‘Women’s lib, yes – where do the men come in?’
‘They got their rights too, innit? They reckon it ain’t legal to only let women apply for the job so there’s men comin’ to the interviews.’
Henry’s bark of laughter penetrated as far as the library, where Noblet looked up and frowned, before resuming his two-fingered assault on the computer keyboard.
‘They’re right,’ Henry said. ‘It didn’t cross my mind but of course, we can’t discriminate on grounds of gender.’
‘’F’you say so. Anyway, they’re gonna mount a protest an’ that if you don’t let ’em into the interviews, so I thought I’d better warn you.’
‘Don’t worry, they’ll be welcomed with open arms.’
Henry felt a pang of pity as he made his way to the library, but it couldn’t be helped.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Bob, but this won’t take long.’
‘As long as it doesn’t, old man. I’ve hit rather a rich vein, you see.’
‘Yes. Small change of plan about the interviews.’
‘Change of plan?’
‘Yes. Or rather an addition to the plan. There’ll be… a masculine element.’
‘Masculine? What do you mean, masculine?’
‘The thing is, Bob, legally we can’t discriminate against job applicants on the grounds of race, age – or gender. So if any men apply we’ll have to consider their applications.’
‘Are you saying…’
‘Theoretically, your future life partner could be a man or a woman so…’
‘It bloody couldn’t!’
‘…so we have to consider both. In order to be legal.’
‘Oh, of all the ridiculous… Oh, I mean… Henry, you’re pulling my leg, old man?’
‘Afraid not. Look, Bob,’ he said, pulling up an uncomfortable-looking chair and sitting down next to his brother. ‘You and I both know you won’t be marrying a man at the end of this.’
‘Damn right we do! I’ve never so much as kissed a man on the cheek, despite what that French pal of yours had in mind.’
‘Right. So you’ll be choosing a woman to be your wife. But in order to remain above the law, and to avoid protest marches and newspaper campaigns and all that kind of extra fuss, you must appear to be seriously considering all male applicants too.’
Noblet shook his head from side to side like a bulldog trying to rid itself of a demeaning bow.
‘What is the world coming to? I ask you? This wouldn’t have happened in Collins’ day you know. Far from it. Ha! I would have liked to have seen the outcome of their newspaper campaigns and their protest marches if Victoria had got word of them! Ha!’
‘No doubt. Elizabeth takes a more open-minded view, so we need to keep everything non-gender-specific.’
‘Non-gender-specific? Trying to find a wife? You couldn’t find something more gender-specific if you tried, man!’
Henry held up his hands in mock defence and got up, backing towards the door. ‘Not my fault, Bob. You’ll have to bite the bullet I’m afraid. Just make sure that’s all you bite,’ he added with an impish grin before darting out of the door in time to dodge an airborne stapler.
***
The front door of the picturesque Tudor cottage known as Bluebells opened and Lorraine Watford appeared on the threshold. She leaned out, peering both ways to check that none of her neighbours were in the vicinity. What she was about to do was perfectly justifiable, but experience had taught her that some of her fellow villagers – in fact, all of her fellow villagers – tended to disagree with her on certain matters. The matter of outsiders, for instance. Gently Rising, Lorraine believed, was for the Gently Risingers. Non-Gently Risingers did not belong in the village and should be discouraged. They could come to visit, if they wished, to admire the village – but then they must leave.
Reaching into the hallway behind her, she picked up something heavy and stagg
ered out into the road with it. She locked the door behind her. Not something she would normally do, but with outsiders around, well… It was dawn and the village was quiet. Lorraine tiptoed with her burden across the empty street onto the green. Gently Rising’s village green was famous in Mereshire. It was either the biggest, or the oldest, or something else that Lorraine couldn’t quite remember. She knew it was special though, and it was sacrosanct. And what had happened to it, practically overnight, was an outrage. Tears of indignation welled up in Lorraine’s eyes as she surveyed the desecration before her. A city of tents, sheltering outsiders, had sprung up. Big tents, little tents, pointy tents, round tents, khaki tents, flowery tents – even a caravan with a tent bulging tautly out of the side of it like a blister. Lorraine worked at speed, propelled from tent to tent by righteous indignation. She was nearing the other side of the grass, her task almost complete, when an unseen guy rope sent her flying into the side of a fluorescent pink tent. She scrabbled for purchase against the canvas, sliding downwards in slow motion until she came to rest, still scrabbling, on the ground.
Muffled sounds were heard from within.
‘What the…?’
A dishevelled blonde head popped out through the zip at the front. It took in Lorraine, prostrate on the ground, and screamed.
‘Amy! There’s an old woman out here bleeding all over the grass!’
Lorraine managed to extract her foot from the paint tin and her head from the guy rope and heaved herself to her feet, dripping red paint. Other heads were poking out of tents now.
‘What’s going on? Who’s painted an effing great red cross on that tent?’
‘And that one! Bloody hell, it’s on ours too!’
Lord Seeks Wife: A hilariously funny romantic comedy Page 7