The Village Green Affair Read online

  The meeting was abruptly brought to the verge of turning into fruity gossip about Liz and Neville, but Willie caught up his rallying cry once again and all was saved. The upshot of the meeting was an increased enthusiasm for getting rid of the market and a conviction that their plan of action would succeed.

  As Vince Jones and his Greta walked home arm in arm, Greta suddenly said, ‘It was Henry the Fifth! Of course!’

  Vince, steering her away from tripping over the edge of a new footpath round the wall by the school, said, ‘You do witter on. Henry the Fifth, what’s he got to do with anything?’

  ‘Willie’s speech, it was just like his. Old Mr Browning, you remember him, he did it with us the year we were fourteen and leaving school. He went on and on about patriotism and such. Brilliant, he was. That’s how Willie was tonight. I say, that black eye after the operation looks bloomin’ painful, doesn’t it?’

  ‘That’ll teach him to mess with Masher Murdoch. I understand Old Fitch wants the market to stay. Says it’s a good thing for the village.’

  Secretly Greta was half-inclined to agree, but having nailed her colours to the mast she didn’t want to give in now.

  They had cocoa and went to bed, setting the alarm for 5.15 a.m., so they had time for breakfast before they left for the protest.

  Thursday morning saw a host of villagers preparing themselves just after first light. Dressed in their gardening clothes, they carried bottles of water, some food, their placards and, above all, stout hearts. As planned, they organized three cars to block the Culworth Road, after letting Malcolm through with his milk float. The bin men they could ignore, for they were lucky if they turned up before three o’clock. But they had genuinely forgotten that a major part of Jimbo’s deliveries were due in the village by nine o’clock.

  Colin Turner had the bright idea of blocking the car park with some great lumps of concrete he’d found discarded by the side of Royal Oak Road. He’d placed them at dead of night so no one could object to his bright idea.

  Just after 6 a.m. the first big van trundled along the Culworth Road and drew up in surprise.

  Leaning out of the cab, the driver shouted, ‘What’s up?’ It was the stallholder who sold the meat. ‘It’s market day, I want to get through.’

  ‘Sorry,’ shouted Willie Biggs, ‘the road’s blocked.’

  ‘I can see that, but I bet you can’t with an eye like that. Who hit yer? An angry van driver like me?’ He roared with laughter, and a few of the protesters had to smother their grins. ‘Just a little space will do. I can easily squeeze past down this left-hand side. My van’s not as big as it looks. A free piece of best steak for anyone who ’elps to move this ramshackle car that’s blocking my way. A foot’ll do it.’

  But with Willie at the helm not even the promise of a piece of best steak would make them move. The butcher used some rather coarse language but cheered up when the greengrocer arrived with a screech of brakes and an angry fist.

  ‘What’s all this, then? I thought you liked us coming.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ shouted Willie, waving his arm to indicate how steadfast everyone was.

  The greengrocer got out and held a whispered conversation with the butcher, by standing on the van step and reaching his head almost inside the cab. Without another word the two of them managed to reverse out of their predicament and trundle off.

  The protesters cheered, thinking they’d won the day. But ten minutes later they heard a shout of triumph and saw the meat van and the greengrocery lorry gliding triumphantly alongside the village green followed by several other vehicles. Each of them had caught up pieces of bushes and plants from the gardens and fences they’d driven over in their determination not to be defeated. One in particular had a whole lupin, torn up by its roots, sticking out from a wheel arch. It had never occurred to the protesters that anyone with anything bigger than a bicycle could possibly squeeze down Royal Oak Road, and they were livid at their disregard of its possibilities.

  Vince Jones, already regretting his enthusiasm at the meeting last night, threw down his hat and jumped on it. ‘How the blazes ’ave they got along that narrow road?’

  Ron Bisset added, ‘They must have driven onto people’s gardens. No other way. And what about that bad corner everyone complains about, where Granny Stacker lives?’

  Maggie Dobbs swore the lorry must have been spirited through. ‘Bet old Granny Stacker’s been out waving her stick at ’em.’

  ‘She’d be fast asleep.’

  ‘Not her. She reckons she’s past needing sleep.’ Maggie packed her breakfast back into her holdall saying, ‘Well, might as well eat this lot at home,’ and left the field of battle, thoroughly disheartened.

  Vince was so angry he hauled a can of beer out of Greta’s goodie bag, flicked the opener and began drinking.

  ‘Vince! At this time in the morning! Take our car down there and block Royal Oak Road as well.’ But even as she shouted Greta saw another stream of vehicles had found their way down it and were now pouring into Stocks Row, and everyone had to admit that their foolproof scheme was a dismal failure.

  Willie hid tears of frustration behind his handkerchief. His eye hurt like hell and he felt ridiculous into the bargain. What a waste of effort. All the fliers and the posters and the boards they’d made! They’d been rousted, trounced, beaten - nay, woefully beaten - and Willie felt humiliated. So much for his magnificent victory. And Greta Jones thought about Henry the Fifth and was glad that at least he hadn’t been beaten after he’d roused his troops.

  Disconsolately they wandered home, hiding their placards as best they could. Expecting jeers from the stallholders who were now briskly setting up, they got nothing except embarrassed or sympathetic looks as they went by. That came as some measure of relief, but Willie hadn’t finished fighting yet, and went home scheming how he could get the better of them all, including Titus Bellamy. He was surprised to hear a knock at his door about half an hour after they’d arrived home. And there he stood, the man of the hour. Titus.

  Sylvia was all for keeping him out, but Willie wouldn’t have it. ‘Let him in, Sylvia, and put the kettle on.’ When she didn’t look as though she would do as he asked, he added, ‘Please.’

  So there they were with Titus Bellamy, the man of peace, seated in their small living room drinking tea and eating thick slices of homemade bread, toasted and buttered and topped with a generous portion of Willie’s home-produced honey. There was a silence while the sticky part of their impromptu breakfast was passed, and neither Sylvia nor Willie chose to speak.

  Titus wiped his hands on his napkin and said, ‘In one way I’m glad you didn’t manage to stop the market this morning. It’s the joy of my heart, is this market here in Turnham Malpas. Not one of my other markets thrived so well in the early weeks, and none of them is as successful as this one is going to be. It would be an awful pity if I had to close it.’

  The pain in his eye and the early hour of his rising caused Willie’s bile to rise. ‘We don’t want your damned market here, not a single one of us wants it. You’re a nuisance, a damn blasted nuisance, and we want you gone. So pack up this morning and just . . . go.’

  Titus’s face grew sad and he asked gently, ‘No one wants my market, then?’

  Willie had to pause and decide between exaggerating, and thereby telling lies, or being truthful.

  ‘Jimbo, perhaps, with his gateaux, or Evie with her wools? Or Jimmy with his taxi bringing people in from Culworth?’ Titus spoke quite gently to Willie, not wishing to hurt him any more than he had been by his magnificent protest scheme collapsing about his ears. ‘Or old Mr Stubbs from the Big House taking the money at the car park entrance?’

  ‘Well, that’s another load of bother we could well have done without. His daughter Pat was adamant he shouldn’t do it because of her being Jimbo’s group catering manager but he insisted. Wanted something to do instead of sitting home feeling useless. He finds it a right chuckle despite his arthritis. They had endle
ss rows about it. But it’s the beggars that come from outside on their bikes, and those thieves - they’re the main problem. We’re not used to it in our village. Never had no reason to lock our doors and our windows on a summer’s day before. Now we do, for fear, yer know. It’s not right.’

  ‘Can I let you into a secret? Just between you and me, Mr Fitch has had a discussion with the police and there are going to be extra officers in the village on Thursday mornings for a few weeks, proper police officers and some of those community police. I don’t know how he’s managed it but he has. I tried and got nowhere at all. He rings up a few people and before we know it the place is swarming. The magic of knowing the right people.’

  Willie grunted. ‘You’re naive. It’s not so much knowing the right people, it’s his money. A donation to the Police Benevolent Fund and hey presto! The magic has been worked.’

  Titus smiled at Sylvia. ‘If we get our own way, who cares? At least someone benefits, and what more admirable cause than police orphans? Mmm?’

  ‘I care.’ Sylvia made herself sit bolt upright before she boldly remarked, ‘I don’t specially want a market here in Turnham Malpas. Causes too much upset, so it’s no good coming here with your quiet persuading talk. I’m not taken in with it, even if Liz Neal is.’ That last phrase sprang out of her mouth before she knew it, and she wished she hadn’t said it, then she decided it had needed saying.

  Titus sat back in his chair. ‘Ah! Liz. My dear Liz. I wondered when someone would bring her name up.’

  ‘It needs bringing up. I mean, where is she? Not at Glebe House, that’s obvious. Is she dead? We know about murder in this village, you know, we’ve been through it twice in the last twelve years. It’s very upsetting. Sharon from the Royal Oak, and poor Jenny Sweetapple only last year. So where is Liz?’

  ‘Liz has moved out because of Neville, not because of me.’

  Sylvia’s eyebrows were raised and he knew she didn’t believe him. But there was no way she could be told the truth.

  ‘I’ve taken her to a place of safety, and that’s all I can say. She’s doing the nursery still, so please, if you see her, don’t question her, because she’s suffering so much over the matter. And if anyone wants to know, we’re not living together, much as we’d like to.’

  Sylvia blushed with embarrassment. She hadn’t meant for Titus to say that, her being eternally conscious of when she and Willie had lived together for a few months before they married.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Titus shook his head. ‘Don’t be. You see, we love each other, and it breaks my heart that it’s all such a terrible mess. Now, Willie,’ Titus stood up, ‘I’ve kept you long enough. I reckon a couple of aspirins and a lie-down would do you good. Thanks for the tea and toast, Sylvia. I might make a habit of it. It was delicious. I’ll see myself out.’ He shook their hands and quietly drifted away, leaving behind a strange, almost disconcerting silence.

  Sylvia put a glass of water and two aspirin on the table beside Willie. She said dreamily, ‘It’s as if he’s never been, he’s so gentle. Like a spirit that comes to earth but only now and then.’

  The pain of Willie’s eye didn’t allow him to feel such sentimental thoughts, and he roughly declared she’d better not talk about Titus like that. ‘Don’t be daft! Next you’ll be saying he’s Jesus come down to earth.’

  Sylvia was angry. ‘For goodness’ sake, I will not. He’s not that pure, at least where Liz is concerned. I wonder what has happened there, with Neville.’

  ‘I’m off to bed. Remember, what he said here,’ pointing an angry finger at their new hearth rug, ‘was private. Don’t go spreading it about.’

  ‘Do I ever?’

  Thoughtlessly Sylvia volunteered that she might have a look round the market while Willie had a sleep.

  Willie’s headache had grown worse and he only managed a grunt as he climbed the stairs. If he’d felt better she’d have had the sharp edge of his tongue. Going round the market indeed. Such disloyalty. Willie fell asleep only after he’d ruminated for ten minutes about the morning’s fiasco. It was so shaming, them finding a way down Royal Oak Road. He’d go and have a look to see how much damage they really had caused to people’s gardens and fences. Then he fell deeply asleep, missing all the excitement of yet another tumultuous morning in the market.

  Chapter 14

  Many of the customers in the market hadn’t heard about Willie’s momentous effort to stop the stallholders getting into Turnham Malpas. So far as they were concerned, everyone was in their place and their stalls open for business at eight-thirty as expected. What they hadn’t noticed were two cyclists with large backpacks cycling by merrily, innocently, drawing no attention to themselves. They propped their bikes up in Dicky’s bicycle rack and wandered away, looking for all the world as though they were sightseeing, which, in a way, they most certainly were.

  The cyclists slipped down behind the school, crossed Church Lane and came to the front of Glebe House.

  ‘Are we doing the right thing? Coming ’ere this morning when it’s so busy?’

  ‘Yes! This is the time to steal when there’s so many people about. Or’nary day and we’d stick out like sore thumbs. They’d all remember us.’

  This Glebe House looked an enticing prospect, so they turned sharp left on to the side path and down the side of the house. One of them linked his hands while the other put a foot on them and then sprang over the side gate, landing athletically in the back garden. He silently unlatched the gate and his companion followed him in. They found the kitchen window still slightly open, as it had been when Jimbo and Titus gained entry that dreadful night.

  What an amazing stroke of luck! Their technique was to take some things of value but not all, which meant that often the owners didn’t realize for weeks that valuable items had been stolen. Small but good was their motto. Not for them big bronze statuettes, or large paintings; they were all too bulky, too noticeable. So they raided the safe, which, to experienced thieves, was easy enough to open. It didn’t take long to find the key - they knew every conceivable place people chose for their safe keys - and removed Liz’s jewellery, which included the twenty-fifth anniversary diamonds, a gold necklace, a string of pearls and some good costume jewellery, just right for their purpose. Then they closed everything up as though the safe had never been touched. Experience taught them that one minute spent closing a cupboard or a drawer - or, in this case, a safe - and putting the key back where it belonged, delayed the discovery of the theft. They moved on to small ornaments, to the antique carriage clock, the silver cigarette box and the antique solid silver grape scissors. Then they looked at each other and acknowledged they’d got enough.

  Moving next door, to Miss Parkin’s they got the back door open, but as soon as they surveyed the kitchen and the sitting room they shook their heads, knowing through experience they’d find nothing in this cottage. They also drew a blank next door at Bel Tutt’s.

  Eddie, who was a lapsed religious fanatic, never ever stole from a church on principle, fearing heavenly retribution of some unmentionable kind, so they bypassed the Church by walking down the back, past the little wicket gate in the back wall, behind the church hall and then on to Willie Biggs’s house.

  Sylvia had gone, as she’d said she would, to walk round the market, and Willie was upstairs sleeping as he hadn’t slept since Masher Murphy thumped his eye.

  The back door was unlocked, so they just wandered in. But there wasn’t much to choose in this little cottage - just an old 22-carat gold gentleman’s watch, which had belonged to Willie’s granddad, in its velvet pocket in the sideboard drawer, and a lovely solid silver locket belonging to Sylvia’s great-granny, kept wrapped in a silk handkerchief in the same drawer and never worn. It would be a while before they realized they’d been burgled.

  The next house in the row was the Rectory, and again there appeared to be no one at home, so they carefully prised the back door open and wandered in, automatically listening for sounds o
f occupation just in case they were mistaken.

  But when Eddie saw Peter’s study and the rough-hewn wooden cross on the wall by his desk, he shuddered. ‘No! Out. Go on, out. Don’t touch a thing. He’s a vicar or a bishop or somefink. Hell fire! Get out quick.’

  Eddie raced out through the back door, vaulted the back gate and squatted down with his back up against the stone wall in Pipe and Nook Lane, sweating with fear.

  Tone, his mate, followed him closely, his backpack, badly strapped on, banging against his kidneys as he ran. When he got his breath back he said sharply, ‘You’re enough to scare the living daylights out of me. You’re a fool. I could tell that was a place for goodies, ornaments and that. There’d have been rich pickings there and not half. Anyway, you got your breath back?’ Eddie nodded. ‘Right then, we’ll stroll nonchalan’ like to our bikes and hop it. With you in this state, anything could happen.’