Village Fortunes (Turnham Malpas 17) Page 2

  Showered, moisturised, electric blanket switched off, Fran put on her favourite winter pyjamas and slid under the duvet. For five minutes she sifted through the events of the evening and then slipped gently off to sleep.

  True to her word she was up, dressed, breakfasted, and in the store at six-thirty to start on the newspapers. For one brief moment as she dragged the papers in from the porch at the front door of the store where the van had dropped them off during the night, Fran regretted her late night. But one big lungful of the frosty country air revived her and as she heaved the newspapers up onto the counter to sort them out, she knew she was in the best possible place for Frances Charter-Plackett. None of this hectic nightlife Jimbo’s other three children had, scrunched up in city apartments with scarcely a breath of fresh air even when they were outside. Not a single sight of rolling countryside, grazing cows, bleating lambs, frisky horses; only buildings, buildings, buildings, as far as the eye could see.

  With the papers neatly stacked on the shelves, Fran set up the coffee machine and drank the first gorgeous steaming cup of the day leaning against the open door looking out across the Green. The geese were already waking; the young ones born in the summer were beginning to take on an adult look, and Fran smiled at the thought that all of them were descendants of geese that had been in the village for centuries. This was miles better than dragging through the early-morning rush in the City: squeezed on to packed trains, smelling other people’s armpits. Nothing could be as fresh or revitalising as staring across the Green and seeing the old oak tree still surviving and the stocks sturdily standing tall through the long winters. No! It was Turnham Malpas for her.

  Fran heard Malcolm’s milk float coming along. Though he wasn’t supposed to, he delivered a supply of milk to the store as well as the houses. Fran remembered it was payday and carefully unlocked the safe to take out his money.

  ‘G’d morning, Malcolm. Drop them there and I’ll move them. Here’s the money.’

  ‘Your dad not about then?’

  ‘It’s my early morning. We take it in turns, Tom, Dad and me.’

  ‘I meant to tell him this morning that this is my last week.’

  ‘Your last week, after all these years? Why? I thought you liked delivering milk, the early mornings and all that? All that fresh early morning country air you used to boast about.’

  Malcolm removed his peaked cap and scratched his scalp. ‘I do, but there’s not enough business to make it worth it, nowadays. They’re all buying from the supermarkets now. Thirty years ago I delivered to every house in the village and beyond but now . . . Well, it’s not worth it.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry. You’ll miss meeting everyone, and I’ll miss you.’ Fran patted Malcolm’s shoulder. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Early retirement. That’s me. Early retirement.’

  ‘You’re too young to retire, Malcolm.’

  ‘Got my sheep to look after, you know.’

  ‘Sheep? I didn’t know you had sheep.’

  ‘Two hundred.’

  Amazed by this revelation because she thought nothing happened in Turnham Malpas without her or her dad knowing about it. ‘Two hundred? Where?’

  ‘Fields the other side of Little Derehams where I live.’

  ‘Well, I never. They’ll keep you busy then.’

  ‘I can see ’em from my front windows. Lovely sight, it is. Been building ’em up for four years, waiting for when the milk round collapsed. Well, it has. Must crack on. Tell your dad.’

  His van grunted into action and away he went, and then Fran’s first customer appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Good morning, Willie.’

  ‘Hello, Fran, love. My usual, please, and half a pound of that bacon my Sylvia likes best. You know the one.’

  Fran suddenly saw Willie in a new light. Whatever had happened to that vigorous brisk seventy-year-old she knew and loved. His back was bent, his legs appeared slightly crooked and his voice had weakened. She kept her lovely welcoming smile, served him his change and went to open the door for him. But as he passed her, he said sadly, ‘I’m not the man I was, little Fran. You’re not little though, are you? Not now. You’re a young woman and a real help to your dad. Thank you for this.’

  Willie dropped his newspaper and couldn’t bend down to pick it up so Fran bent down, glad to hide the sadness in her face. ‘Here we are. Can you manage home?’

  ‘Got to, if only to let my Sylvia know I’m not about to kick the bucket.’ He struggled over the step and set off somewhat unsteadily for home. It occurred to Fran that when Willie went there’d be no more Biggses living in the village. Ever. And there’d been someone with the name of Biggs for centuries, just like the geese. Dying and leaving behind no children to carry on the line was an awfully sad position to be in, Fran thought She’d need to make sure that somehow she had children – well at least one – so her genes would carry on. Enveloped in gloom, Fran began the routine of setting up the store for the day’s business. That terrible headache she’d woken with was lessening, thank goodness.

  Tom came to work at eight o’clock, Jimbo arrived five minutes later and at eight-thirty her mother arrived, along with Greta Jones, who was still in charge of the mail-order office. Her dad gave Fran a sharp look, he then proceeded to give every single shelf intense scrutiny followed by a detailed examination of the freezers and the chilled shelving. His eyes had reached the corner reserved for customers to sit and make use of the coffee machine, and he took a paper cup filled with coffee and two sugars, and tested it. The taste appeared to please him and then, and only then, he retired to the back office for an in-depth discussion with Greta about the possibility of extending their mail order to include fresh meat.

  He irritated Fran no end when he did that scrutiny of the store. She knew how particular he was (and for that matter so was she), but to have to witness him doing it every day had seriously begun to annoy her.

  She followed him into Greta’s sanctum. ‘Look, Dad, I like everything looking smart just . . .’

  ‘Not right now, Fran. Talk to me later.’

  ‘Dad! When you’ve finished in here, I need a word. OK?’

  Jimbo nodded. ‘Right. Now, Greta. About the meat idea I had . . .’

  ‘Not in here. It isn’t suitable. There isn’t enough room. There’s no refrigeration, there’s nowhere to put the special paper and plastic wrapping, there simply isn’t enough room for proper hygiene. And it would have to be chilled and I’d freeze to death and there’s no room for scales for weighing it all. Sorry, no can do.’

  Greta reached up to pick out two jars of Harriet’s Country Cousin Peach Jam (‘peaches from our local greenhouses’) for the order she was putting together. She considered the discussion at an end, but Jimbo hadn’t finished.

  ‘I’ve had a better idea. You would be in charge here but also in charge of the meat packing and orders in the new space I’m creating in the Old Barn.’

  Greta shrugged her shoulders. ‘I can’t be in two places at once. You know full well what will happen: your advertising will be so tempting that the meat packing orders will be three times bigger than we ever envisaged, and I’ll be working nights as well as days and my union steward will have something to say about that. Believe me.’

  Talk about unions always switched Jimbo into rocket mode. ‘Union steward? Are you a member of a union? Because if you are it’s out that door faster than you’ve ever moved before. Well? Are you?’

  Seeing that she’d finally got him to listen to what she had to say Greta secretly smiled. ‘No. But my steward is that chap I’ve left snug in bed at home. His name’s Vince Jones.’

  Harriet burst into peals of laughter. Fran shrieked her amusement, and Greta winked at them both in turn.

  Eventually Jimbo had to laugh too. ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant you supervise and I get a junior person straight from school to work in here; and your Vince could do the meat, and you could supervise him too. He could lend a hand when necessary,
and between the three of you you could manage. And then when it takes off – there’s loads of room in the Old Barn for expansion isn’t there?’ He nudged her in a friendly way. ‘So what do you think? Eh!’

  He got no reply.

  ‘I might even move the whole of the mail order to the Old Barn, if and when such a time came. There’s air conditioning there too. You’re always complaining in the summer about the heat.’

  Greta extracted a beautifully printed sticky label from a pack she kept conveniently to hand, wrote the customer’s address on it in copperplate handwriting and stacked the parcel in a plastic crate labelled ‘Ready for Posting’. Not until then did she turn to answer Jimbo. ‘I’d need a rise. My Vince would need to know how much you’d pay him; and I want to interview the junior alongside you.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, the final decision would be mine. Vince’d have to go for training, food hygiene and such. Wear the right uniform, fancy hat and that.’

  ‘You’re on. I’d insist on the proper equipment for the meat. Get organised like it is here. The only way I get through the work is by organisation.’

  ‘I have to say I admire your organisation, very much. I don’t know where we’d be without it.’

  Greta threw him a look to check if he was pulling her leg but realised he wasn’t; his compliment was genuine. He meant it. From that moment on Greta became his devoted slave. If he’d said she had to have the mail-order office on the moon, she’d have booked a season ticket with Virgin immediately.

  Fran had to admit her dad could persuade anyone to do anything at all; she just hoped she had the same skill. She also hoped that he would never find out what she was up to at the moment as, knowing him, he’d bring in every argument he could to persuade her otherwise, and so she stood in the corner by the tinned soup shelves and sent up a silent prayer: he must not find out.

  ‘I’m taking my break, Dad, OK?’

  ‘Of course. You could always step in if the junior didn’t work out, couldn’t you?’ Jimbo saw the astonishment followed by the resistance in her eyes; he backed off. ‘Temporarily, for a day or two, just until I got sorted.’

  ‘Temporarily, that’s all. Not my cup of tea at all.’ Fran saw the advantage in her of being willing to do the kind of work she hated. ‘But yes, help out, of course I would.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m better working with the customers, as you well know. Does your mind never stop thinking up new ideas? Taking on meat by mail order is a whole new ball game, speed of delivery to the customer, who would be flexible enough to provide the meat, etc? Doesn’t matter if the jams and chutneys get delayed for a day or two as nothing goes off. But meat . . .’

  Jimbo mock punched her jaw. ‘Can’t stand still. One door closes another opens.’ The two of them laughed and Fran relished their compatibility. She had a far closer relationship with her dad than the others, mainly, she supposed, because they were the same kind of people. Fran went to find her mum who was applying herself to the icing of a wedding cake of the old-fashioned kind; three tiers, sugar flowers, artificial orange blossom and, waiting on her worktable, were the plastic bride and groom for the very top. It made Fran cringe.

  ‘Mum, it’s such bad taste. I don’t know how you can bear to do it.’

  ‘They’re paying me to do this, and this is what they want and so this is what they will get. Just because you think it’s in bad taste . . .’

  ‘Mum! You agree with me.’

  ‘I know I do. But what they want to make their day perfect is what they will get. I can’t wait for the day when I can ice a wedding cake for one of my own children. Those three up in London are having a far too exciting life to settle down to marriage and babies, but I’m hoping you might decide on a more normal life. Will you, do you think?’ Harriet skilfully finished another icing flower and laid it to dry out on a sheet of greaseproof paper. Getting no reply she looked up at Fran and saw she wasn’t going to get one. A shut-down look had come over her daughter’s face, and she was already leaving. ‘Going for my half-hour break as I’ve been cracking on since half-past six. Back soon. You’re clever with the flowers, Mum.’

  Fran was glad to escape. Why did everyone appear to be intent on probing her about her life? Her life was her life and no one else’s. She’d taken an old wholemeal loaf from one of the wheelie bins at the back of the store and was about to feed the geese. This morning there were mallards too and, unusually, a couple of coots. She supposed the cold weather had persuaded these strangers to try elsewhere for food. Just as the loaf was almost finished Peter came across the grass from the direction of the church. Now this was another person she didn’t really fancy talking to. She wasn’t in the mood for his piercing blue eyes that seemed to be looking right into your soul; she’d had enough of inquisitions for today.

  ‘Good morning, rector. Cold, isn’t it?’ He towered above her, but not threateningly so, nevertheless she needed to escape.

  ‘Good morning, Fran. Taking a break?’

  ‘Well, I started work at half-past six this morning like you always do, and so I take a break about this time.’

  ‘It’s always surprises me that you didn’t go to university like your sister and brothers did.’

  ‘My choice. I just wanted to follow in Dad’s footsteps and so I didn’t want to go. Nowadays it’s so easy to work hard, get a degree, and then it leads absolutely nowhere.’ Fran squinted up at Peter to see the effect her comment had made.

  ‘True, very true.’

  ‘Time I went back to work.’ It wasn’t, but it suited the moment to tell a fib.

  ‘Fine, that’s where I’m heading.’ So instead of getting rid of him he escorted her back to the store.

  Now Fran had stopped going to church it embarrassed her to be seen with Peter. As a child she’d adored him, but now she’d put away childish things.

  He opened the shop door for her as though she was some kind of fragile Victorian creature. The doorbell jangled joyfully as always and even that annoyed her. With a brisk nod and a smile to say thank you to Peter, she vanished into the back, washed her hands thoroughly and then began to restock the bacon display, which she’d noticed, as she stormed in, was looking empty. Absorbed in her work of restocking any item that needed it because she liked the displays to look tempting, Fran’s objective was really to keep out of everyone’s way, especially Peter’s. Why had she so surprisingly found talking to Peter so difficult? In her heart she knew very well why. It was because he was a totally honest person. In fact, shiningly honest. And she wasn’t.

  Chapter 3

  By the middle of the afternoon, Fran was her charming self once more. After all she was an adult now, and was doing only what adults did, so why should she feel so guilty? Mr Fitch had come in to get some bits and pieces his wife Kate had forgotten to include in her weekly order. While she packed Mr Fitch’s carrier bag for him she decided to ask how he liked living in Sir Ralph’s old house, having now had plenty of time to settle in. ‘How long is it now, two years?’

  ‘Almost. Never will, but as Kate would say, beggars can’t be choosers.’

  ‘Oh! Come now. Beggars? I think not.’

  Mr Fitch, slightly surprised by the frankness being displayed by the girl at the checkout – Fran was it? – contemplated his answer while he put his debit card away. ‘Perhaps not by today’s standards, I keep thinking up all kinds of ideas for starting anew, but then I change my mind when I think of the expense and the effort.’ He picked up his carrier from the counter top and swung away, saying as he left, ‘Be seeing you soon, no doubt.’ He went out to untie his dog Sykes and set off for home. He paused by the school wall to watch the children leaving for the day. There was far less chaos with the two minibuses taking the children home to the outlying farms and villages now. To think he’d been rich enough to pay for it himself at one time and then later had been relieved when the council took over when he couldn’t afford it any more. Sykes began scrabbling at the wall asking to be lifted up. So he grabbed him under
his ribcage and hoisted him up. Some of the children out playing came to have a word.

  ‘Hello, Sykes. You’ve been out for a walk, your legs are all muddy.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Fitch. Why do you call him Sykes? Funny name for a dog.’

  ‘Because a long time before you were born an old man called Jimmy lived here and had a dog called Sykes named after the big wood no one likes.’

  ‘It’s haunted, that’s why.’

  ‘Well, that’s as maybe. But then Sykes died, and not long after that a little dog came to the village following a huge accident on the bypass, and he was so much like the first Sykes that old Jimmy kept him and called him Sykes too. Then he disappeared one day and never came back, and so that’s why I called this one Sykes. In fact when I went to choose a puppy I chose this one because he looked so much like the first Sykes.’

  ‘He’s a nice dog, he never growls.’

  ‘He does when he sees a cat. Can’t abide cats, can’t Sykes.’

  The children ran off to find their mothers or to climb on to one of the two waiting minibuses, leaving Mr Fitch with only Sykes for company.

  Hearing the hubbub outside that always meant the end of school, Fran thought there was only another hour and then she would be finished for the day. After her late night and early morning she was ready to leave. The doorbell jangled vigorously and in came the Lord of the Manor, Johnny Templeton, and on his face there was a broad grin.

  ‘Fran. I’m just back from the hospital.’

  ‘The man of the moment! We all know your news. Wonderful, everyone’s so pleased! Everything OK?’

  ‘I should say so. He’s beautiful, and Alice is thriving. He’s had his first feed and he’s as fit as a flea.’

  ‘So no doubts about the inheritance then? Two sons now to take over after you. You must be chuffed.’ Fran went round the end of the counter, kissed Johnny and gave him a hug, shouting as she released him, ‘Dad! It’s Johnny.’