The Village Green Affair Page 18

  ‘Steady, Neville, take it steady. Here, let me help you.’ Titus grabbed his arm firmly and piloted him back into the hall. ‘Study I think.’

  Neville righted himself as they entered the study and, recognizing familiar territory, headed for the safety of his desk chair, although he needed Titus to steer him into it.

  ‘I’ve come to see you, Neville, on behalf of Liz. What possessed you for heaven’s sake? Mmm?’

  ‘What possessed me? What are you talking about? What have I done?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know to what I am referring. I’m talking about y-your b-b-behaviour to Liz last night, here in this house.’

  People knew. Neville felt an explosion erupt in his head. Possibly the whole village might know about his actions. But if they thought he lacked passion all he’d done was show Liz he didn’t. But that wasn’t quite right, was it? Self-doubt made the explosion worsen.

  For a brief second Neville could have torn his torturer apart, so angry was he that it was the despicable Titus Bellamy who was standing there confronting him.

  Casually, almost flippantly, as though last night meant nothing, Neville answered, ‘Passion, that’s what. Peter came and talked about it, about love and what it means. So I did just that. I showed her passion, I showed her what it means, just as Peter talked about.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That wasn’t passion, that wasn’t loving. You damn well nearly murdered her!’

  ‘I did not. She is my wife.’ Neville threw back his head and laughed confidently. ‘She won’t be gone for long. Oh, no. She’ll be back. She can’t live on thin air. She can’t ignore the money I provide.’

  Titus firmly stated in a loud, clear voice, ‘She isn’t coming back.’

  Neville, who’d been confidently swinging his chair from side to side, stopped to glare at Titus. ‘You can read her mind, then? I think not. I haven’t been married to her for twenty-five years without knowing her mind.’ He rubbed his fingers together. ‘Money! That’s what makes the world go round. And I’ve got loads of it. She’ll be back with her tail between her legs ... begging.’ He appeared wholly delighted with the image of Liz penniless.

  Titus grew angry. ‘I’ll say it again. Liz is not coming back. I’m finding her a flat. After what you’ve done to her she cannot come back. I won’t allow it.’

  Neville shot up from his chair, rested his hands on the desk and, leaning forward, thundered, ‘You won’t allow it? You’re not married to her, I am. What the hell has it got to do with you? I tell you what - nothing. Nothing at all. Get out of my house. Right now!’

  When Titus didn’t make a move to go, Neville rushed round his desk and squarely faced up to him, fists raised, his face the colour of a beetroot, breathing heavily.

  Titus sat down and said nothing. As a pacifist he couldn’t measure up and threaten Neville. He had to confront him with stillness, and match anger with gentleness.

  It’s difficult to threaten a person who is not responding to your anger. There’s nothing to hit, nothing to vent your fury on when your opponent simply sits down, shoulders slumped, with his eyes downcast.

  By now Jimbo had left the kitchen and was standing in the hall, prepared to step into the breach.

  Neville screeched with frustration, ‘Stand up like a man and take my challenge. Stand up, you coward. Stand up! Get out of Turnham Malpas and take your damned market with you! Do you hear me? And I want every penny of the money I lent you. Every single penny!’

  But Titus didn’t answer; he remained still and silent, avoiding Neville’s eyes. He didn’t care about being called a coward; when his principles were at stake he could be extremely stubborn.

  There appeared to be an impasse. A heavy silence fell on the study. They were both so completely still they could have been figures in a painting, until Titus spoke, his voice so low he could just be heard.

  ‘You may as well understand, after the terrible things you did to Liz last night, you have only yourself to blame that she’s not coming back. It may be that she will allow me to care for her for the rest of her life. If I have that privilege then I shall cherish her and love her as you have never been able to. What you make of your life is up to you. What your sons will think of what you’ve done to their mother is something I would not like to contemplate. You’ve years of life left to live. Make the best of them.’

  Then Titus stood up and walked out, too overwrought to show surprise at seeing Jimbo standing at the ready in the hall.

  After he left, Jimbo watched Neville drop like a stone into his chair, lay his arms on the desk, drop his forehead on them and begin to rent the air with horrifying cries of grief. Sick at heart, Jimbo shut the door behind him and left Neville to his hell.

  When he got home it was the least he could do to ring Hugh and Guy to ask them to go to their father’s aid.

  Chapter 13

  No matter what the world has been up to, the sun rises each morning, and so, from first light, did the gossip in Turnham Malpas.

  Where was Liz? they all asked themselves. She hadn’t been at the nursery on Friday morning and poor Angie Turner had been left to cope, not knowing who to get to help her.

  And why did Dr Harris go round to Glebe House at two o’clock in the morning? She was there for half an hour and then returned home. That was the truth because Maggie Dobbs couldn’t sleep, had gone downstairs for a cup of hot chocolate to settle her nerves, and had seen her entering the house and about half an hour later leaving it while she, Maggie, was at the kitchen sink washing up her Royal Doulton hot chocolate cup and saucer. She was convinced she’d seen one of Neville and Liz’s boys opening the door for her, but in the dark and not knowing them very well and them being so alike - like twins, they were - she couldn’t honestly say.

  The coffee morning in aid of the Scouts opened at ten-thirty, so those who hadn’t heard the latest spent the first half of it craving whatever news they could pick up, and those who knew begged anyone they saw for more recent information. The most annoying bit was that Grandmama appeared to know the whole story but refused to tell. She never let on that rather infuriatingly for her she didn’t know anything at all, but she made herself look as though she did. Grandmama longed for an update about last night, because Jimbo, when he got back from Glebe House, had closeted himself in his study ringing, he said, Hugh and Guy Neal, and when he came out he didn’t explain, so in the end she’d gone home none the wiser. He could be, quite annoyingly, like his father sometimes, able to keep a poker face that gave nothing away. Nevertheless, she had a long morning ahead of her so there was hope yet. When she saw Caroline she called out, ‘Caroline! My dear, what would you like? This apple cake was made by Greta Jones, this nutty thing by Evie Nicholls - heaven alone knows what’s in it, though - and this was given by Miss Parkin. These fairy cakes were made by Sylvia, so you don’t need me to tell you how delicious they’ll be. This flapjack was given us by Kate Fitch; apparently it’s a speciality of hers. Well, according to Old Fitch, who delivered it personally at some ungodly hour this morning.’

  Caroline contemplated the cake stall, but she was too tired to make a choice. It wasn’t just the half-hour she’d spent attending to Neville, it was the length of time she then spent answering Peter’s questions and trying to get back to sleep again. She’d really no business dispensing sleeping tablets to all and sundry when they weren’t her patients but what could one do? Hugh and Guy had called her saying their Father was in desperate need.

  They’d finally got him into bed, clothes off, pyjamas on, rambling and raving pathetically, begging for help. He clung to his sons, asking them to fetch their mother, which of course they wouldn’t do. Then they’d got the tablets down him and gradually he became calm, closed his eyes and slept. Hugh and Guy had looked shattered. What help could she give them? There was so little one could say. Platitudes had no place in this situation, only plain, honest truthfulness.

  ‘My advice, for
what it’s worth,’ she had said, ‘is someone must be here when he wakes up, because he’ll feel appalling. By the look of the house something absolutely traumatic has taken place and he’ll be in need of support.’

  She hadn’t been told what had happened, but she’d taken a guess, and felt unpleasantly sweaty and unclean at the thought of it. Poor Liz.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor Harris, for coming. We’d no right to ask, but we didn’t know what to do.’ Hugh looked to be in shock, and no wonder, thought Caroline. Of Liz there was not a sign, but she had to ask. ‘Your mother, does she need me to attend to her?’

  ‘She says no . . . thank you.’

  Trying hard to cut through her muddled thoughts and concentrate on the cake stall, now Caroline heard Grandmama asking rather sharply, ‘Have you decided?’

  ‘I’ll take the flapjack, the whole lot, please. How much is that?’

  ‘All of it? There’s rather a lot. Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Well, it comes to six pounds fifty. But I’m not having you paying that, it’s far too much, so I’ll give you a discount. Let’s call it five pounds for quantity. All right?’

  Caroline looked at her and said, ‘No, it’s for the church, so I’ll pay full whack.’ She looked as though she were about to say something else, and Grandmama paused helpfully, but in the end Caroline gave her the money, thanked her and went away. So she was still no wiser. Then she spotted Peter coming in, looking first, as he always did, to see where Caroline was. He went across to where she was sitting.

  ‘There you are, darling. Shall I get you a coffee?’

  Caroline nodded her thanks.

  ‘Caffé latte, cappuccino or ordinary?’

  She looked up at him and was grateful for the love in his eyes. ‘Whatever you’re having.’

  She felt so lucky, after what she’d guessed about Neville and Liz. She tried hard not to loathe Neville because she shouldn’t . . . but she did.

  When Peter came back with their coffees, after numerous stops on the way to talk to people, she said, ‘They’re all wanting to know what happened.’

  ‘We don’t really know anything, do we? Except I feel responsible. I should never have said what I said. The man was too distraught to take any reasonable notice of my advice.’

  ‘Hush! Walls have ears.’

  Peter sat thinking for a moment and then added, ‘When I’ve drunk this I’m going round there.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? Hugh and Guy stayed the night, so he’s got someone with him.’

  The church hall was filling up and the buzz of conversation was mounting.

  Peter left the church hall and walked up to Glebe House. Waiting for someone to answer the doorbell, he stood idly examining Neville’s front garden. It was like a garden entered for an international competition. Not a stone or a weed to be seen; every plant and bush neatly manicured; everything behaving well. But at the same time somehow . . . barren, which was ridiculous because it was filled with plants. But there was none of the tumbling luxuriousness of Caroline’s garden, every plant thrusting for all available space.

  His reverie was broken by the door opening. It was Hugh looking strained. ‘Come in, sir. Please.’

  ‘Your dad, how is he this morning? Caroline told me, you see, so I thought I’d better come.’

  ‘Guy’s taken him to our flat in Culworth. He’s staying with us for a while. I’ve seen Mother this morning. She’s going to the flat Titus has found, so that is that. Mother and Dad have separated for ever.’ Wryly Hugh added, ‘It’s surprising how it hurts considering Guy and I are supposed to be grown-ups. But we can both see how good Titus is for her, and we’re glad she’s found someone to look after her. They’re a good match.’

  ‘But your dad, what’s he going to do?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. Too early to tell. Thanks for your help, by the way. He said you’d been.’

  Peter shook his head. ‘I don’t think I helped at all. I think I aggravated the situation, telling him about what loving someone means and not sensing just how stressed he was. I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘It was inevitable. My mother’s been unhappy for a long time. He’ll come back here eventually. He just needs time away from everything. We’ll attend to everything he’s been involved in, with the church and such.’

  ‘And the business?’

  But Hugh clammed up then, became tight-lipped and uncommunicative, and Peter saw it was time he left.

  ‘I’m just tidying up and collecting some clothes for him, and then it’s a case of wait and see.’

  ‘I won’t delay you, then. Give him my best regards, and tell him he can call on me anytime. I’m here to help.’

  They shook hands, and Hugh closed the door.

  Once everyone realized that there was nothing new to pass on about the Big Neville Neal Mystery, the Anti-Market Action Committee set about organizing everyone for the protest the following Thursday. Willie had come up with the idea that a petition would be a good idea. He’d asked Sheila if he could borrow her clipboard and harried everyone at the coffee morning to sign his petition.

  Curiously there were lots of people from Little Derehams and Penny Fawcett also present, as though by some uncanny bush telegraph they all knew something was brewing in Turnham Malpas. So Willie got lots of names on his list but also lots of rebuffs, as many of them didn’t want the market to close. In fact, it almost came to blows when Willie told someone who’d rudely refused to sign that if he actually lived in Turnham Malpas he’d be signing in quick sticks. Then it did come to blows when he asked for the third time, just to be annoying, a big chap from Penny Fawcett known as Masher Murdoch, whom everyone made certain not to annoy - Willie got thumped in the eye for being aggravating.

  Sylvia rushed out from behind the bric-a-brac, Evie from behind her embroidery knick-knacks stall, and between them, they gave a piece of their minds to Masher who’d struck Willie so forcibly. Masher apologized, confused by the double attack, and hastened when Evie said, ‘And on church premises, too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’ It didn’t help Willie’s pain, though, and Caroline was called upon to administer medical help.

  Caroline tenderly suggested it looked serious. ‘Do you know, Willie, I think you’d better go to A&E.’

  Willie, who hated hospitals with a virulent passion, shuddered and refused to go. ‘It’ll be better when the bruising comes out. I’m not going.’

  Caroline argued that she thought he’d cracked his cheekbone. ‘It needs looking at. It must have been one heck of a blow.’

  Sylvia backed this up. ‘It was an almighty punch, believe me.’

  ‘It was, but I’m still not going.’ He held a handkerchief to his eye and walked off, his head beginning to spin.

  When they got home Sylvia made an icepack from cubes of ice enclosed inside a freezer bag, and applied it to the bruising. He grumbled and moaned all the time, but by four o’clock that afternoon the pain was so bad he was begging Jimmy Glover to give him a lift to the hospital.

  As they sat in the back of Jimmy’s taxi holding hands, Sylvia said to Willie, ‘This knocks you off the list for the protest on Thursday.’

  ‘It does not. I shall be there manning the barricades.’

  ‘You will not. If I have to tie you to the bed, you’re not going. When you know Masher used to do bare-knuckle boxing, why did you ask him to sign the petition three times?’

  ‘Bravado, I expect. I shall be there on Thursday, though.’

  But his resolve weakened when the triage nurse took his homemade bandage off and gently pressed the big black and blue swelling which used to be his good eye. The other eye was waiting for a cataract operation.

  On the Wednesday night there was a final meeting of the Anti-Market Action Committee in the Royal Oak, with Willie in the chair. Newly out of hospital, he had had his cheekbone set and, despite feeling distinctly odd and needing Sylvia to read his notes, he was fully prepared to whip up ent
husiasm. By the time he’d finished his opening speech they were all right behind him. It was, thought Greta Jones, as she watched Willie bang on the table and raise a clenched fist in his passion, almost like that rallying cry by that king at Agincourt. What was his name? Willie spurred them on with talk of ridding the village of the market - and Titus Bellamy. ‘Look at the damage he’s caused!’ He lowered his voice and said, ‘And all this business with Neville and Liz Neal would never have happened but for him. Let’s get rid of him, I say!’

  A dissident muttered from the furthest table, ‘It would have happened anyway with or without Titus. Who’d want to be married to that cold fish? No wonder she looked elsewhere.’