Authors: Rebecca Shaw
Village Matters (11 page)
It was two days after her operation before Flick regained
consciousness. Harriet, shocked beyond endurance by the news of the accident, had been kept in hospital; she was taken in a wheelchair to the orthopaedic ward, where she sat in Flick’s side ward watching and waiting. She couldn’t bear seeing the tubes and the machines surrounding Flick. She couldn’t tolerate the twenty-four-hour attention from the nurses, it seemed Flick was never left in peace. She almost begged them to leave her alone and let her go. Then she persuaded herself that while there was life there was hope. Jimbo, kept better informed than Harriet, didn’t dare sound too encouraging.
They were both there when Flick opened her eyes. She gave the tiniest smile when she saw Jimbo and Harriet leaning over her.
‘Darling, it’s Mummy. Daddy’s here too.’
‘Frances, where’s Frances?’ Her eyes closed, and she drifted away again.
To cover his relief Jimbo said impatiently, ‘What’s she talking about? Who’s Frances? Is it someone at school?’
‘It’s not anyone at school. I’ve never heard her mention Frances. I haven’t the faintest idea. But Jimbo, she’s coming round. She spoke, so that must be a good sign surely, Sister?’
‘It certainly is, it certainly is. Still a long road to travel, but that’s very positive.’
Jimbo became possessed with an idea. ‘Sister, do you think it would be a good move if we brought the baby down from the maternity ward and let her see her? It might just trigger her into staying awake, mightn’t it?’
‘What a good idea. I’ll phone Sister in maternity and ask how she feels about it. We could keep her here until Flick wakes again, couldn’t we? The staff will be delighted. They’ll all be in to see her.’
‘Look darling, look who’s come to see you. Flick, look Flick.’
He held the baby close to Flick’s face and waited for her response.
Flick smiled, and in a tiny voice said, ‘Hello, Frances,’ and then drifted away again.
‘Harriet, she wants to call the baby Frances, that’s what it is, she wants to call her Frances. Well, we shall if it pleases her. Frances. I like that.’
‘So do I. She’s beginning to come round, isn’t she, Sister?’
‘It’s encouraging anyway, I must say. Now you must both go and wait outside. Mr McKintyre is on his way.’
After the surgeon had examined Flick, he spoke with Jimbo and Harriet, waiting out in the corridor. ‘Not out of the woods yet, but I must say the wee one’s holding her own. A little fighter she is, yes, a little fighter. Early days, early days, but you’ll be pleased to know the word “hope” has entered our vocabulary. Lovely wee bairn you’ve got there, Mrs Charter-Plackett. See you again.’
‘First things first. My great-great-great-grandfather Tristan Templeton, who lived at the end of the eighteenth century, was a racing man, and a gambler. Fortunately, he usually won so he didn’t devastate the family fortunes. He had a rival Geoffrey de Guillet, living in the old manor house in Little Derehams. All that’s left of it are the walls of the old kitchen garden which the council have turned into the rose garden. You know which one I mean?’
Muriel nodded. ‘Well, his rival threw out a challenge that he could beat my great-great-great-grandfather Tristan in any race he cared to suggest. They decided on a race starting at the stocks here in Turnham Malpas and finishing at the market cross in Culworth. The wager was that if Tristan won he would get the spare land as his prize, something he had always coveted. If Geoffrey de Guillet won he would
get Tristan’s prize racehorse. Well, Tristan Templeton won the race by three lengths. The deeds for the land were duly handed over. All the rest of the estate was in one large piece. The spare land he’d won was quite separate from it. When the council bought the estate in 1946 they intended using Home Farm and the surrounding woods and fields for teaching the orphan boys farming skills so they could earn a living when they left the home. All that didn’t work out and the council sold off the estate except for that piece immediately surrounding the Big House and Sykes Wood.’
‘Which is the land still belonging to the Big House?’
‘Quite right. The council
assumed
the spare land belonged to them, but due to a slip-up in the original sales contract written in 1946 the land was not mentioned at all, but no one noticed that. I still have the deeds and this letter confirms officially that I have owned it all these years.’
‘Well, isn’t that amazing?’
‘So now I can go ahead and see about building the houses.’
‘I wouldn’t wish to pry into your business affairs, Ralph, but how can you afford the money to build all these houses? Are you so well off?’
‘No, my dear, are
we
so well off? We share everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘Yes. When we married I transferred half of everything I own to you.’
‘To me? Was that what all those papers that I signed were about?’
‘Yes, my dear.’
Muriel was aghast. ‘But I didn’t give anything to you! I still have my money, well my bit of money in my own bank account. When you said about being “truly married” I thought you meant . . . you know . . . making love.’
‘I did, but I meant money and possessions too.’
Hands clasped together under her chin, Muriel contemplated what Ralph had said. ‘What a wonderful gesture. What a completely wonderful thing to have done. You make me feel very humble, dear, very humble. I don’t really deserve your generosity. I just do not. I was so confused at the time when I signed those papers I simply didn’t realise. You must have thought me very ungrateful.’
‘Well, now you know.’
‘So in that case I own half the spare land?’
Ralph thought for a moment and saw he was in a tight corner. ‘Because we’ve only just discovered the spare land is mine – ours, on paper nothing is official. But yes, in theory you do.’
‘I see. I’ll go make the lunch.’ She left Ralph contemplating what would be churning around in her mind while she made it. After a few minutes Muriel popped her head round the door and said, ‘So, if you shared everything equally with me when we married, I can have a say in what we do about building the houses?’
Ralph hesitated and then said, ‘Yes, of course. But I would expect you would heed my advice.’
‘I see.’ Muriel returned to the kitchen to finish the lunch.
Part way through eating her lunch, Muriel said, ‘But, Ralph, I still have my own bank account with my small savings in and with the money in it from selling my cottage. I shall go to the bank this afternoon and transfer it all into . . . What shall I transfer it into?’
‘Don’t do it.’ With a twinkle in his eye he said, ‘If I lose all our money on this house caper, we might need yours to live on.’
Muriel was shocked. ‘You don’t mean that, do you? There really isn’t very much, you know.’
‘I shall have a flutter on the Stock Exchange, Yes, that’s what I shall do.’
‘You’re getting very daring, my dear.’
‘No doubt I shall change my mind as soon as I’ve done it, but I’ve decided I fancy the idea ofliving dangerously. Oh, I do wish there was good news about Flick. That poor dear little girl. She’s taken a turn for the worse because of the anaesthetic, and her lungs are affected now. She was, I mean
is
, such a joy. Jimbo is a shadow of what he used to be.’
‘Look, she’s held on for a week, she’s conscious and she’s talking lucidly, so there must be hope. She’s a tough little thing, you know, really tough. If anyone can pull through she can. I saw that Alan Crimble this morning. Like Jimbo, he’s a shadow of what he used to be too.’
‘Oh dear. What’s that expression they use about ice cream? I know, he won’t be flavour of the month, will he?’
‘No, it could be very distressing for him. But she did run out of the shadow of the lych gate and into the road, apparently without looking. So it’s not entirely his fault. The police took his car away. I doubt they’ll find it roadworthy.’
‘He’ll be prosecuted then?’
‘Without a doubt. I have letters to write, Muriel. The lunch was lovely. I’ll study the
Financial Times
if you like, and we’ll choose some shares.’
‘Thank you, dear. When I’ve cleared up I’m going to the Store for a card to send to Flick.’
Harriet went in to say
au revoir
to Flick before she left the hospital with the baby. She thought perhaps there wasn’t
quite so much machinery around her now, but she still looked like something from outer space.
‘Flick, darling, it’s Mummy. Hello-o-o, anyone at ho-o-ome?’ Flick stirred, opened her eyes and said, ‘Are you going now?’
‘Yes, darling, I am. Daddy or I will be here every day to see you. But I’ve got to go now. I wasn’t supposed to be here all this time in the first place, so I’ve outstayed my welcome. And the boys are needing me, too. Look, nurse has brought Frances up for you to see to say bye bye.’
‘Bye bye Frances. Isn’t she beautiful, Mummy? So beautiful. Take care of them all, Frances, till I get back.’ Harriet held the baby close to Flick’s face and she kissed her. ‘We belong together, Fran and me, you know. We’re
sisters
.’ Flick closed her eyes, twinkled her fingers at them both and went to sleep. Harriet stood watching her. How close they’d come to losing her. How very close. That first terrifying night Harriet had become obsessed with the idea that she’d been given Frances in exchange for Flick, and that Flick would die. But thank the Lord, here they both were, and Flick improving a little every day. She’d make a rota and get her mother and anyone she possibly could to come to spend time with Flick. The next few weeks were going to be horrendous, but they’d win through, oh yes. For a brief moment Harriet thought about Alan Crimble. Damn him and his stupid car. She didn’t think she could ever speak to him again.
There were some customers who refused point blank to be served by him; indeed some had walked out rather than have him pull their pints. The drop in takings was noticeable but not worrying. They dreaded the day his case would come up in court. It was very quiet in The Royal Oak this particular Saturday evening. The school parents were holding a Summer Barn Dance in the school hall, and there was the final whist drive of the summer season in the church hall. If their past experience was anything to go by, there would be a sudden influx of people shortly, all wanting to be served at the same time. Sure enough in they came, plus a group of young men holding a celebratory drink for a friend’s twenty-first.
‘Pint of bitter please, Bryn, what will you all have?’ They sorted out what they wanted and while they waited for
Bryn to serve them, they were laughing and jostling each other. One of them spotted Alan.
‘Hallo, Alan. Still ’ere then? Thought you’d have been gone long since. When does yer case come up?’
Alan smiled his thin, ingratiating smile. ‘Too soon for me to know that. I may not even get prosecuted.’
‘They’ll throw the book at yer, and it’s only what you deserve.’
Georgie spoke up. ‘It wasn’t entirely Alan’s fault, you know, Flick did run out without looking.’
‘We know that, but he still deserves whatever he gets. That car was a heap and no one in their right mind should have been driving it. Just thank yer lucky stars, Alan, she’s still alive.’ The young man, a redhead, picked up his drink and made to move to a table. ‘Yer deserve a horse whipping, but I reckon you’ll most likely get the easy option and go to prison.’
Alan shrank back against the optics. ‘Think so?’
‘More than likely.’ Alan’s tormentor grinned at his obvious distress, raised his glass in salute and joined his friends.
The bar began to fill up, so Alan had to go round the tables clearing away the used glasses and wiping away spills.
‘By Jove, Bryn, Alan isn’t a patch on Sharon MacDonald, we all enjoyed her backside slipping between the tables as she cleared away the glasses. Always ready for a bit of slap and tickle was Sharon. He’s a poor substitute is Alan. We can’t enjoy a glimpse of his cleavage!’
‘It was more than a glimpse with Sharon.’
‘Good for trade she was, though. Alan puts us off, don’t yer, Alan?’ The speaker gripped his shoulder. ‘Heaven alone knows what he gets up to in that cellar, down there in
the chill cold air, attending the beer. Got some pin-ups down there, Alan, to warm you up? See’d you Thursday at The Force. Right little raver yer were with. All backside and big ti . . . teeth. She yer latest then?’
Alan withstood this barrage as best he could, but Bryn could feel trouble brewing. Customers had been awkward and truculent with him since the accident but tonight there was a different feel about the joking. From behind the bar Bryn called out, ‘Alan, we need some more bitter lemons and tonics, please.’
‘Rightio, governor.’
‘He’ll be saying that in prison, ’cept it’ll be “Certainly governor, yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir”.’ They laughed uproariously and began telling prison jokes.
Alan came back into the bar carrying the bottles Bryn had asked for. The twenty-first birthday crowd was getting noisier. One of them noticed Alan was back.
‘You got any good jokes to tell us, Alan?’
The door swung open and in came Peter with the chairman of the school governors, his wife and Michael Palmer.
Peter called out, ‘Good evening, everyone.’ A chorus of ‘Good evening, Rector,’ came from the customers.
Peter took out his wallet and bought drinks for the four of them. They took them to the only spare table, and when they were satisfactorily seated Peter said, ‘A toast to a very successful evening.’ They echoed his words, and Michael said, ‘And can I add a big thank you for all your support. I think it’s been the best ever.’
Peter said, ‘Most definitely.’
‘I’m a great believer in school parents getting to know each other at social events. It all helps to pull them together as a team. I know of a village where . . .’ The chairman of
the governers looked set for a big speech. His wife, reading the signals, decided to escape. She interrupted with, ‘Excuse me, while I go to the little room.’ Peter stood up as she rose from the table. Standing up gave him a good view of what was happening to Alan. He could see him clearing away glasses at the table where his tormentors were seated, then saw him unbalanced by a savage kick at his ankle. Alan clutched at the table to recover himself. ‘Oh, whoops, he’s had one over the eight, he’s been indulging down in that cellar. We all wondered what he got up to down there, and now we know.’
‘Come on, Alan, we’ll buy you a drink to top you up. Double whisky for Alan, please, Bryn!’
‘My bar staff don’t drink when on duty, sorry.’
‘This one does.’ Two of them grabbed Alan and pinned his arms behind his back. The red-haired assailant picked up someone’s whisky and began trying to force it down Alan’s throat.
Peter glanced across at Bryn. He saw him nod meaningfully at Georgie, who disappeared straight away, and then Bryn came out from behind the bar.
‘This is getting out of hand gentlemen, please. I won’t have this.’ Bryn spoke firmly.
‘No, you won’t, Alan is. Come on you demon driver, open yer mouth, that’s it, that’s it, that’s the way, down the hatch.’ The whisky was partly going down Alan’s throat and partly running down his chin and splashing onto his shirt. Bryn stepped up and tried to pull one of the men away, but the others, enjoying the spectacle, dragged him off.
Peter walked purposefully towards Bryn, intending to give him moral support. The ugly situation was made worse by the fact that customers not directly involved were
quite liking the idea of Alan getting some punishment. They all knew how long Flick had been in hospital and what a narrow escape she’d had, and they quite relished the thought that if the courts didn’t punish him as he deserved, they certainly would.
Michael joined Peter and whispered, ‘You grab the red-haired one, I’ll get the other.’
Peter nodded. They both dived together, grabbing the two men from behind, and pulling their arms behind their backs. Neither of Alan’s attackers had seen who’d pulled them away, all they knew was that the fun was at an end. As soon as Peter released his grip on his arms, the red-haired one spun himself round and without really looking at his victim swung his fist at Peter’s jaw. Fortunately Peter’s height lessened the impact, but even so he staggered.
Deathly silence. The customers froze. Georgie gasped. Bryn was rooted to the floor Peter, determined to maintain control so his attacker wouldn’t gain any satisfaction from what he’d done, stood steadily looking at his assailant.
One of the men pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Please, Rector, accept our apologies.’
‘Apologies!’ shouted Bryn. ‘Going down on your knees and begging for mercy wouldn’t be enough for what you’ve done tonight. The lot of you are banned. Banned, do you hear? Punching the rector! Causing mayhem in my bar! The courts will decide what happens to Alan, not a bunch of rabblerousers like you lot. And the court will decide what to do with you lot, too. Because when the police get here I shall tell them exactly what’s happened. Then they’ll throw the book at you.’
‘We didn’t mean any harm. Things got a bit out of hand.’
‘Out of hand? I should say!’
‘You shouldn’t employ him in here.’
‘Who I employ is my affair, not yours.’
‘Well, if that’s how you want it so be it, but we shan’t want to drink in here.’
‘I don’t want you to drink here, and when the police . . .’
As though on cue the swing doors opened and in came the sergeant. He bent down to remove his bicycle clips and said, ‘Now then, what have we here? My word, Rector, I could almost think someone had been giving you a good thumping.’ The sergeant pretended to examine Peter’s jaw. ‘Now, who did that, I wonder? Ah, I see, don’t need to look any further, you’re the same lot I turned out of the Jug and Bottle in Penny Fawcett three weeks ago. Well, this time I’m definitely charging you.’
Peter started trying to speak in their defence, but the sergeant held up his hand and silenced him.
‘No, Rector, I’m not listening to any excuses, sorry, but they need sorting. If I listen to you, sir . . .’ Two of the men were trying to slip away. ‘’Ere you two, not another step, stay right where you are.’ The sergeant pointed with the end of his pen. ‘Right there. If I listen to you, sir, I shall be buying them a drink and tucking them up in their beds with a goodnight kiss before the night’s out. No, sir, this is it. They’ve met their Waterloo.’ His ballpoint pen wouldn’t write, so he licked the end of it to make it work and began writing in his black notebook.