Village Secrets Read online

  The narrow passage which served as a cloakroom for some of the children’s coats – obviously the infants for the pegs had nursery pictures beside each of them – gave off the usual other school smell – a mixture of polish, disinfectant and that other, mysterious ingredient of which all English schools smelled. It excited her. What an opportunity to bring stimulus and excitement into the lives of these pliable young children. The sophistication of town children didn’t lend itself to her kind of teaching. She needed fresh open young minds, untainted by city streets and scepticism. Innocence – that was it …

  Back in the house she made herself a drink while Cat went for a stroll. She knew Cat would be back. There was no running away, ever, for her. The two of them were kindred spirits.

  Upstairs in the bedroom she had made a temporary altar in the awkward corner where she couldn’t stand up. She sat before it, legs crossed, the backs of her hands resting on her thighs. The scent of the incense crept into every nook and cranny of the room. She lit a candle and meditated. Oh yes, this ancient village was just the right place for her …

  Rebecca Shaw is a former school teacher and the bestselling author of many novels. She lives with her husband in a beautiful Dorset village where she finds plenty of inspiration for her stories about rural life. She has four children and eight grandchildren.

  By Rebecca Shaw

  THE BARLEYBRIDGE SERIES

  A Country Affair

  Country Wives

  Country Lovers

  Country Passions

  One Hot Country Summer

  Love in the Country

  TALES FROM TURNHAM MALPAS

  The New Rector

  Talk of the Village

  Village Matters

  The Village Show

  Village Secrets

  Scandal in the Village

  Village Gossip

  Trouble in the Village

  A Village Dilemma

  Intrigue in the Village

  Whispers in the Village

  A Village Feud

  The Village Green Affair

  Village Secrets

  TALES FROM TURNHAM MALPAS

  Rebecca Shaw

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  About the Author

  By Rebecca Shaw

  Inhabitants of Turnham Malpas

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Copyright

  INHABITANTS OF TURNHAM MALPAS

  Sadie Beauchamp

  Retired widow and mother of Harriet Charter-Plackett.

  Willie Biggs

  Verger at St Thomas à Becket.

  Sylvia Biggs

  His wife and housekeeper at the rectory.

  Sir Ronald Bissett

  Retired trades union leader.

  Lady Sheila Bissett

  His wife.

  Louise Bissett

  Their daughter and Secretary at Turnham House.

  James (Jimbo)

  Owner of the Village Store.

  Charter-Plackett

  Harriet Charter-Plackett

  His wife.

  Fergus, Finlay, Flick and Fran

  Their children.

  Alan Crimble

  Barman at The Royal Oak.

  Linda Crimble

  Runs the post office at the Village Store.

  Pat Duckett

  Village school caretaker.

  Dean and Michelle

  Her children.

  Bryn Fields

  Licensee of The Royal Oak.

  Georgie Fields

  His wife.

  Craddock Fitch

  Owner of Turnham House.

  Jimmy Glover

  Taxi driver.

  Revd. Peter Harris MA (Oxon)

  Rector of the parish.

  Dr Caroline Harris

  His wife.

  Alex and Beth

  Their children.

  Barry Jones

  Estate carpenter.

  Mrs Jones

  His mother.

  Jeremy Mayer

  Manager at Turnham House.

  Venetia Mayer

  His wife.

  Liz Neal

  Playgroup leader.

  Kate Pascoe

  New head teacher.

  Sergeant

  Village policeman.

  Ellie

  His wife.

  Greenwood Stubbs

  Head gardener at Turnham House.

  Sir Ralph Templeton

  Retired from the diplomatic service.

  Lady Muriel Templeton

  His wife.

  Dicky Tutt

  Scout leader.

  Bel Tutt

  Assistant in the village store.

  Vera Wright

  Cleaner at the nursing home in Penny Fawcett.

  Don Wright

  Her husband.

  Rhett Wright

  Their grandson.

  Chapter 1

  ‘She’s here, Jimbo – Miss Pascoe! We’ve seen her car. It’s just pulled up outside the school-house. She’s got here earlier than we expected. Where’s that box of stuff? Hurry up, we’re waiting!’

  Jimbo was at the till taking money. He broke off to pick up a cardboard box from behind the counter. ‘Give her my regards. Here it is. Put the carrier bag in the drinks fridge in with it, will you? There’s milk and butter and things in there, didn’t want it going off.’

  Pat Duckett eagerly took charge of the box and the carrier bag and Hetty Hardaker held open the door while she squeezed through.

  ‘You know, Pat, Jimbo really is very generous. I just hope she appreciates it. Here, let me take the carrier bag.’

  ‘Right, thanks. Well, you’ll have her to deal with more than me, being a teacher–I’m only the caretaker. I don’t mind telling you it’ll be a breath of fresh air, it will. Nothing wrong with old Mr Palmer, but he did need a kick in the pants as you might say didn’t he? A shaking-up like.’

  ‘He did, but he was still a good teacher. I shall miss him.’

  ‘Too right, so shall I.’ Across the road, Pat saw a young woman dressed in black struggling to get a huge cat basket out of the boot of her car. ‘There she is! Good morning, Miss Pascoe! Welcome to the school.’

  Hetty Hardaker’s greeting was rather more reserved than Pat’s but just as sincere. ‘Welcome, Miss Pascoe.’

  Kate put the basket down beside the car and held out her hand. ‘Kate, if you please, and it’s Ms Pascoe to the children. Nice to see you again, Hetty. Looking forward to working with you. You’ve been here such a long time, I shall look to you for advice.’ She turned to Pat. ‘And you must be the caretaker. You were away when I visited the school.’

  ‘Not away, no such luck, but blinking ill with one of them bugs you get nowadays.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. I remember the rector telling me.’

  Hetty indicated the box Pat was carrying. ‘This is a “welcome to Turnham Malpas gift” from Jimbo Charter-Plackett at the Store. There’s bread and tins and things, and in here’ – she held up the carr
ier bag – ‘is some milk and butter and cheese too, just to help you along.’

  ‘The fridge is switched on, I did that yesterday,’ Pat said eagerly.

  ‘That’s very kind. You wouldn’t get that in a city school, would you?’

  Hetty agreed. ‘I don’t think you would. Look, we’ll put these inside for you and leave you to get settled in.’

  Pat hitched the box a little higher, for it was beginning to slip from her grasp. ‘The door’s open, I left the keys on the windowsill in case I wasn’t here in time.’

  She followed Ms Pascoe inside. Somehow, despite having given the house a good clean, Pat felt the house wasn’t ‘right’ for Ms Pascoe. Didn’t suit her personality. Too faded, too masculine. Still, that was up to her. She was a modern young thing – well, not that young – thirty perhaps. She’d make some changes and not half. Time would tell. Pat hoped she wouldn’t make too many changes too soon. New broom and all that.

  ‘I don’t think you could have chosen a colder day. Still no snow yet, thank goodness. I hear you’ve been teaching in Africa. Bit of a change, coming here in winter.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been back in England for six months now, so I’m getting acclimatised, thanks. You’ve been more than kind. I won’t hold you up.’

  Seeing it as a dismissal Hetty began to leave followed by Pat, who in reality would have loved to stay for a chat. She made a stab at prolonging the conversation. ‘Hope you get settled in all right, Ms Pascoe. If you’ve any problems, give me a bell. The phone’s connected like you asked and I’ve put my number by it – just in case.’

  ‘Why, thank you, that’s very kind. Thank you too, Hetty, for taking the time to welcome me. See you soon. Bye bye.’

  The two of them walked across the school playground without speaking. They turned to wave and Kate waved back.

  When they were well out of earshot in Jacks Lane, Pat said, ‘Dad’ll be home for lunch soon, I must be off. She seems OK.’

  ‘She does, although I’ll reserve my judgement yet awhile. Bye Pat, thanks for coming, I’m sure she appreciated it.’

  Kate Pascoe dumped the heavy basket beside the school-house door and, full of anticipation, looked up at the stone lintel above her head. A.D. 1855. Like Pat had said, the keys had been left for her inside on the windowsill. Huge old keys – good grief, they could belong to a prison! Now, alone, she could take time to savour the place. There came a faint musty smell to her nostrils. She let Cat out of her basket and watched her step swiftly down the narrow passage to the first room. Kate followed more slowly.

  The room had windows looking out to the side of the playground, curious old arched windows giving a kind of churchified feeling to the place – to remind the head teacher that this was a Church of England school and that he or she must act accordingly? Kate mused.

  The walk were a boring beige – a typical old-fashioned bachelor choice. The fireplace was a kind of 1930s tiled affair, a neat fan of newspaper concealing the grate. When she pushed open the kitchen door she had the distinct feeling that it really was 1855. A huge butler sink, bleached a scorching white, with a wooden draining board stood in one corner, the brass taps above the sink burnished bright. Beside what had been a fireplace, but which was now covered by a sheet of plywood, was a large cupboard, majestic in its proportions. Everywhere was clean but that was the nicest thing one could say about it. Someone had made an effort. The kitchen was large enough to have a table in, she’d do that. There was, thank heavens, plumbing for a washing machine and an outlet for a dryer, and several power points. Next to the sink stood an old and stately cooker. It worked! The gas flame flared busily blue when she turned it on. It had been cleaned, too. How many teachers had cooked a lonely supper on it? Kate wondered.

  She emptied the carrier bag Jimbo had sent and was storing the contents away in the fridge, though she wouldn’t be able to eat most of it, when there came a knock at the front door.

  Standing outside, well-wrapped up against the cold, was a well-dressed lady holding a plastic cake box.

  ‘Good day to you, Miss Pascoe. Welcome to Turnham Malpas and to the school. My name’s Muriel Templeton.’

  ‘Good day to you too, Miss Templeton. Do come in. It’s too cold to stand outside.’

  ‘I’m not staying, not when you’re so busy. I’ve just called with a cake for you. Home-made – chocolate. Mr Palmer had a sweet tooth; I thought perhaps you might have, too.’

  Kate studied her visitor’s delicate features and white hair. There was a shy quality about her but at the same time a kind of strength. The light-blue eyes looked kind.

  ‘Well, Miss Templeton, you really are nice. You’re my second lot of visitors and I haven’t been here more than about fifteen minutes!’

  Muriel beamed with pleasure. ‘Oh well, you see, we’re a very friendly village and we’re so glad to have fresh blood in the school. I do hope you like living here, though I don’t know how you possibly couldn’t. It’s so lovely hereabouts. My husband suggested I called …’

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, you’re Mrs Templeton.’

  ‘Truth to tell, I’m Lady Templeton though I’m still not used to it myself.’

  ‘I see. Well, Lady Templeton, thank you so much for the cake. It sounds absolutely delicious.’

  ‘Has the rector called yet?’

  ‘No, not yet, but he promised he would.’

  ‘Well, he will then. He always keeps his word. Right, I’ll leave you to get on. We live along Church Lane – come to call anytime if you’re in need of help. Keep the church on your right and we’re the fourth house along.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll remember if I’m in need of help.’

  ‘Bye bye then. See you in church!’ Muriel waved as she left the school playground.

  Kate put the cake box on the kitchen worktop and carried on with her familiarisation tour of the house. The bathroom was downstairs. Brass taps, high-sided cast-iron bath, a washbasin large enough to bath a baby in, and a lavatory boasting a high cistern and chain for flushing. Upstairs, the one huge bedroom was again masculine in taste, with bare stained boards, a single curtain rail at each of the two windows. There were no clean patches on the wall to show where pictures had hung. Whoever had cleaned it for her had done a thorough job. It might be old-fashioned, but it was scrupulously clean.

  Cat had investigated the entire house by now and given her approval by sitting down in front of the empty grate and washing her face. There was an hour to go before the van arrived with their furniture. Kate went out to the car again, and began lugging in boxes and bags – some for the bedroom, some for the kitchen, some for the living room. It had character, had this place, oh yes – a feeling of years long gone and plenty of atmosphere. Cat liked it and that was good. Never lived in England before and yet she’d taken to it as if she’d lived there all her life.

  When she’d emptied the car, Kate went to take a look at the school from the outside. The windows were high and only by standing on tiptoes could she see anything at all. There were four classrooms: one for the playgroup, one for the Infants and two for the Juniors. She could just manage to see into the kitchen, which appeared clean and quite modern. A spotless roller towel awaited the beginning of term. The windows to the hall were even higher and she couldn’t see anything at all.

  Back at the house she wandered around the ground floor, then explored the upstairs again. It would take her one day to get straight, she decided, and then she’d decorate room by room. Rich dark colours, bright curtains, and that awkward corner in the bedroom where the ceiling sloped and one couldn’t quite stand would be just right for … The sound of voices brought her back to earth.

  ‘Hello, any one at ’ome?’

  Kate made the removal men a mug of tea each and supervised where she wanted her furniture placing. Her books would have to stay in their cardboard boxes till she bought some bookshelves. Some, her special ones, would go upstairs in that awkward corner.

  Cat observed all the activity from he
r position on the living-room windowsill. After their experience with the animal when they’d been loading the van, the men walked by her with respect. The excuse for her attacking them was that Cat was nervous, having just come out of quarantine, but the scratch on Bert’s leg was deep enough, nervous or not. His trouser leg kept sticking to the blood as he walked. He quite fancied going to the hospital for a tetanus; you never could tell nowadays, specially when the damn creature had been in Africa. Yes, he decided: he’d finish this job and off he’d go.

  There came a knock at the door. ‘Hello, it’s Peter Harris.’

  One of the men called upstairs, ‘Vicar’s ’ere, Miss!’