The Village Newcomers (Tales from Turnham Malpas) Read online

Purely for devilment Jimbo said, ‘My mother’s going,’ simply because she’d just walked in.

  ‘Well, if it’s her bed I end up in I’ll definitely realise where I am. There’ll be hell to pay.’ Maggie used a couple of very unkind epithets about her which Grandmama heard.

  ‘Well, really!’ said Grandmama. ‘Just what are you saying? That my bed linen isn’t clean?’

  ‘I do apologise! We were only joking and I’d no idea you were here. It was Jimbo who set me off, talking about the mead at the banquet.’

  ‘Heaven alone knows what you might be saying once you’ve had some, then. And you should know better, Jimbo.’

  ‘Just improving my customer relations.’

  ‘I must say you’ve a funny way of doing it. I need one of your coffees. Am I too early?’

  ‘You most certainly are not. It’s just freshly brewed. This is the second pot today so far. Never been busier. This banquet is bringing me more business than ever.’

  ‘Where’s Tom?’

  ‘Taken Evie to the coast. She’s not been well.’

  ‘Not her old trouble, I hope?’

  ‘No. Just a heavy cold. She needs some sea air.’

  ‘Have a coffee with me, Maggie, go on.’

  ‘Very well, I will. Show there’s no ill feeling.’

  Grandmama raised an eyebrow, feeling that if there was any ill will it should be on her part. They squeezed together on the seats provided and Grandmama opened up their conversation. ‘You’re not one of the embroidery group, are you, Maggie?’

  ‘No, but I wish I was. Where the heck did they get the money from to go to London? They had a smashing time, you know. Theatre, cinema, sightseeing, casino, posh afternoon tea. Do you happen to know how it came about? The men were grumbling like mad about it in the pub while they were away. What puzzled them same as me was where did the money come from? There’s none of ’em earning much.’

  ‘Well, I happen to know.’ Grandmama tapped the side of her nose and winked.

  Maggie gave her a sharp glance. ‘You do?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  Grandmama leaned closer to Maggie’s ear and whispered, ‘Betting on horses.’

  ‘No! Really?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘So they must be winning a lot, then. My hubby liked a bet on the Derby and the Grand National, that kind of thing, but ’e never won anything big, just a few pounds here and a few pounds there.’

  ‘No prizes for guessing where they get their tips from.’ Maggie hesitated for a moment and then suggested, ‘Not Ford?’

  ‘Exactly. You’ve hit the nail on the head.’

  ‘Well, I never. The cheeky monkeys never even told their husbands.’

  There appeared to be a few customers conspicuously lurking close to the greeting cards, which happened to be displayed near the coffee machine, and they were obviously listening in. The result was that the word went round the Store in a flash.

  At that very moment, so opportune it was unbelievable, Ford walked in with a parcel for the post. Instead of the usual hubbub he was accustomed to in the Store, silence fell. Ford looked around and called out, ‘Good morning’ loudly and headed straight for the Post Office.

  Jimbo leapt into the Post Office ‘cage’. ‘Inland?’

  ‘Yes. How much?’

  ‘Three pounds and eight pence.’

  ‘Right. I want my Racing Post while I’m here.’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve saved it for you. There’s your change.’

  Was this indeed divine intervention? All seven customers in the Store converged on Ford and stood patiently waiting for Jimbo to present him with his paper.

  ‘Morning, Ford. What’s your tip for today, then? We’ve been hearing all about your kindness.’ This from Don who, well set up at finding out where Vera had got the money for her trip to London, couldn’t let this moment pass by.

  Ford grinned. ‘I only give Zack a tip, no one else. Has he been talking?’

  They were all a little nonplussed by this remark. Only Zack? What did that mean?

  Don asked, ‘And then some. How about my Vera, Evie and that Barbara and them others?’

  It was obvious that Ford knew nothing about the increase in his influence in the betting department. ‘I don’t know about them. I thought it was just Zack. Of course! The embroidery group!’ He paused for a moment while they all waited, scarcely breathing in their anticipation. ‘Look, I’m not really in the business of giving out tips, not now, just a favour to my friend Zack. But just this once . . .’

  There was a lot of gleeful hand-rubbing, shuffling about in handbags and pockets to find paper and pens, and grins all round.

  Ford, loving the idea of an audience, took a while to open his paper. He pretended to study form, with much rustling and head-scratching, then proclaimed, ‘It must be clearly understood that a run of luck is possible, but horses don’t always run to form, as I well know to my cost, so sometimes you’ll lose, sometimes you’ll win and there’s to be no comeback.’ He looked sternly round the group, catching the eye of everyone so there could be no mistaking his meaning. ‘For this weekend, I suggest - suggest, mind - Flybynight, two-thirty, Ayr, Saturday.’

  He folded his newspaper, stuck it under his arm, and marched out. Coming back in again, he said, ‘It’ll be word of mouth, nothing written down. No evidence. Right?’

  ‘Right!’ they all promised.

  He shouldn’t have agreed, he knew that. It could cause endless bother. But he loved the thrill of it. He’d put bets on all his life and didn’t suppose he’d made a fortune at it. No doubt all he’d done was break even at best. He didn’t bet these days, not since making his fortune in scrap metal, but he missed the rush of adrenalin, the excitement, the disappointment, the triumphs. Merc would kill him.

  Crossing the Green, Ford paused to admire the geese busily grazing. He loved the stocks, the huge oak tree they were all so superstitious about, the ancient cottages. Then he glanced across at Glebe House and wondered if indeed they would have been better buying a cottage, as Merc had wanted, because there was one thing for certain: their house would never be full of comings and goings. A cottage would have been big enough. All his fault, too, not Merc’s. It coloured your thoughts, year in year out. Now with no business to keep him occupied twenty-four seven he only had the race meetings to fill his life, though he did love going.

  Still, the replies to the banquet invites would be coming in soon and he guessed there wouldn’t be a single refusal. That was going to be the social event of the year! He’d show ’em what life was about, and not half. They all needed waking up. He strode up his garden path with a spring in his step.

  But the first reply to the banquet invitation was from Craddock Fitch, on his business headed paper. It was a curt refusal. Ford and Merc were devastated.

  ‘He’s refused on purpose, not even had the courtesy to claim they’d be away. I’m so disappointed.’ Merc flung his reply down on the breakfast table and buttered her single piece of toast with enough butter for two slices, piled the marmalade on top and bit into it as though breaking a long fast.

  Ford couldn’t bear for her to be so bitterly let down. His mission in life, due to his inability to give her children, was to give her everything else she might want, whatever it was. Well, he wasn’t putting up with it. He’d go round this minute and ask why?

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ he announced. ‘Shouldn’t stay indoors when the sun’s shining.’

  Ford raced upstairs, cleaned his teeth, checked his appearance in the bathroom mirror and set off. He didn’t wear his old gardening boots, couldn’t prance about in that historic old house in them, so he crept out, hoping Merc wouldn’t notice he was wearing his gleaming tan leather shoes, which he wore to race meetings.

  It was a long walk up the drive so he had to pause for a moment behind a tree to catch his breath. The view of the Big House was breathtaking. It was quality and not half. Living there you’d fee
l . . . well, you’d feel special and no mistake. Really special. Slightly intimidated, Ford marched up to the front door and into the magnificent Tudor hall.

  Yes, Mr Fitch was in, the receptionist said. Would he please take a seat for a moment while she checked if he was available.

  So the beggar was in. Now what did he say? He hadn’t planned what to say he’d been so angry.

  The receptionist returned quickly. ‘Do come this way, please. Mr Fitch is free.’

  He followed her into a large office.

  Hand outstretched in greeting, Ford said, ‘Good morning, Mr Fitch. Kind of you to make time to see me.’

  Craddock Fitch sat back in his chair, waved a vague hand towards a chair for Ford to use and waited.

  But Ford didn’t speak.

  So Mr Fitch said, ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Mercedes and I are so excited about the banquet and we want everyone to come and enjoy themselves. Jimbo is performing miracles, he’s making it very special, and it would have given us great delight if the two of you, your wife and yourself, would come. Merc’s so disappointed you’re not coming, and, like you, I expect, I don’t like to disappoint my wife.’

  ‘Can’t come.’

  ‘There’ll be excellent food, good wine, entertainment, music in keeping with the period, not pop or rock or whatever, no awkwardness because we all know each other. Please will you come?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you tell me why ever not?’

  ‘It is not the kind of entertainment I enjoy. In fact, I can’t think of anything more painful. Having to tolerate a whole evening of it would be just . . . well, too much.’

  ‘What kind of entertainment would you like, then?’

  Mr Fitch shrugged.

  In a flash Ford grasped the essence of the man. Mr Fitch couldn’t find the banquet beneath him intellectually, because he wasn’t superior in any way to Ford Barclay. No, not he. He really hadn’t got an excuse. It was pique that was making him refuse. Damn the man. He stood up, his eyes glazed with temper, leaned his hands on the edge of the enormous desk and said, ‘I see. Don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes. You were damn well not born a moneyed person. You might have made pots of the stuff, but deep down you’re an ordinary bloke just like me. There’s nothing upper-class about you. Pretending the banquet’s beneath you! Huh! You and I can look each other in the eye as equals. Dragged ourselves up by our bootlaces we have, left education behind on the shelf and concentrated on making money. I’ve met too many guys with inherited money at race meetings not to know the difference in their accent, compared to yours. Accent might not count for much nowadays but it still tells an awful lot about a chap. It’s all there too in their bearing, in their style. Hang your Savile Row bespoke suits. I,’ he forcefully tapped his own chest, ‘have got your measure, believe me.’

  All anger gone, he could see clearly now, and when he studied Mr Fitch’s face he honestly thought the fellow was about to have a heart attack. He was too kind-hearted not to feel dreadful about it.

  ‘Here! Let me get you a glass of water. Don’t get up.’ He rang the bell on the desk. The receptionist came in almost before the sound had died away.

  ‘Glass of water and quick.’

  One look at Mr Fitch and she disappeared through a discreet little door and came back with the glass of water.

  ‘Here we are, Mr Fitch, sip it gently. I’ll get some ice.’

  Ford froze with fright. The man’s colour was kind of puce and grey all at the same time, he was breathing in great gasps, and sweating, there were beads of sweat all over his face. What if he died?

  The receptionist loosened his shirt collar, pressed his head against the back of his perfectly splendid leather chair and held the bag of ice to his forehead.

  ‘Breathe gently, Mr Fitch, try to breathe gently. That’s better. Steady. That’s it. Slo-o-ow. Good. Good.’

  ‘Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘I think you’d better leave.’

  But Mr Fitch, despite his distress, signalled to Ford to sit down again. So he did, feeling guilty and useless and appalling all at the same time.

  Gradually the strange colour receded from his face and his breathing became more normal. The receptionist removed the ice bag and Mr Fitch spoke, but not with his usual crisp delivery. ‘Get me a whisky, if you please.’

  ‘I most certainly shall not, Mr Fitch, not when you’re in this state. An ambulance would be more appropriate. I’ll ring for one immediately.’

  ‘I didn’t bloody well pay for you to go on a first aid course for you to tell me whether or not I can have a drink. Get me a whisky and one for Ford.’ When she didn’t move to do as she was told he roared, ‘Now!’

  The receptionist hesitated, then she caught sight of Mr Fitch’s glare. ‘Why pay for a first aid course for me and then completely ignore my advice?’ she said as she returned with the two whiskies.

  ‘Because the Health and Safety said I needed a qualified first-aider on the premises and I chose you, so away with the ice bag and leave Mr Barclay and me to talk.’

  Neither man spoke at first, just quietly sipped their whiskies. Then Mr Fitch said, ‘Not a word about just now. Don’t want my wife to know; she’s not to be worried. In fact, my wife mustn’t know, ever. Right?’

  Ford nodded. He daren’t speak and he needed his whisky just as much as Mr Fitch did.

  After he had drained his glass Mr Fitch began to speak. ‘The chap who helped me start my business, when it was just me and him with a stolen wheelbarrow and one shovel between us, was the only one who dared to speak to me like you’ve just done. Kept my feet on the ground all the years he worked for me, even told me when he met Kate the first time that I’d better hurry up and marry her because she’d keep me cut down to size. He reckoned nothing to people who thought too much of themselves, you see.’ Mr Fitch sighed.

  ‘Right.’

  Mr Fitch sat up and leaned his elbows on his desk. ‘We’ll come if you’ll allow me to take back my refusal.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll put you and your wife on our acceptance list, then?’

  Mr Fitch nodded. ‘Good. I shall be delighted to come.’

  Ford stood up, reached across the desk and shook hands. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I needed that.’

  Ford didn’t know if Mr Fitch meant the whisky or the straight talking.

  Chapter 14

  ‘You see, Mum, it’s not fair, is it? All of us can go to the banquet, but I want Jake to go, too. He’d love it, and I’d enjoy it so much more.’

  ‘Well, darling, unfortunately only people living in Turnham Malpas and Ford’s own family can go. Invitation only, as it says.’

  ‘I know that. But could I just sneak him in?’

  ‘How old are you? Six? No, of course you’re sixteen, therefore you know you mustn’t.’

  ‘They wouldn’t notice just one more.’ Beth pouted, but to no avail.

  ‘About Jake.’ Caroline sat down on Beth’s bed and took hold of her hand. Beth looked so lovely, so young, so vulnerable sitting up in bed in her Shaun the Sheep pyjamas that were far too small now. Caroline’s heart almost broke. If only she didn’t have to say this. But she had to.

  Beth got in first. ‘I know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘Tell me, then.’

  ‘You’re going to say that I have to be very careful about Jake, that’s he’s not my type, that’s he’s sex-mad and I’ve to watch out and not let things go too far.’

  ‘Exactly, my very words. I know this sounds an old-fashioned thing to be saying nowadays but . . . my old headmistress always said that it was the woman who kept a relationship in balance.’

  ‘OK! And no sex before marriage, I expect.’

  ‘What she said was that the woman drove the relationship. If you dressed like a tart men treated you like one, because that was the message you were giving out. If you conducted yourself with dignity and never deliberately egged the man on to go too far,
then you would be in control. Let’s face it, girls do dress far too sexily—’

  ‘Oh come on, Mum. Honestly!’

  ‘They do, Beth, and then they wonder when men want to go the whole way. I’m saying this because I don’t want anything to prevent you from reaching your absolute potential in life. A husband and babies before you’re twenty-five do that very thing.’

  Beth couldn’t bear this kind of talk any longer. ‘Look, Mum, I—’

  ‘Young men like Jake have great difficulty in controlling what they want most of all. Let’s face it, Jake is up to the brim with testosterone right now and wanting to have sex more than anything in the world.’