A Village Feud Page 7

  ‘I didn’t take him in, he chose me. Funny, that was. Can’t get over it really. Remember I thought he was a ghost?’

  ‘I do. Gave me a terrible shock he did. Under this ’ere settle and looking so like your old Sykes. Terrible, it was. But he’s been a good friend to you.’

  Jimmy nodded towards the huge fireplace. ‘See that Andy whatsit over there by the fire? Funny chap. Gave him a lift home the other night in me taxi, car broken down he said. But what’s he doing wandering about Culworth that time in the morning? There’s more to him than meets the eye.’

  Sylvia nodded ‘She’s nice, though. This beauty business might be a step too far perhaps. Might give her a try. I’ll hold my opinion on ’em both till I know ’em better.’

  ‘You might be right. Thanks for this, Willie. Now, what’s your opinion about the cricket? Do we have a chance?’

  Jenny put her brand-new advertising board out by their front door around lunchtime just as Grandmama Charter-Plackett was approaching the Rectory. Knowing about Jenny’s proposal to begin a business, she took her opportunity to make her feelings known.

  ‘Hello, there. What’s this you’re putting out?’

  ‘Hello. My new board. I’m starting up in business.’

  ‘As a masseuse?’

  ‘Yes. As well as other things. I do,’ she began counting her skills off on her fingers, ‘reflexology, aromatherapy, massage, sports injury treatments, hairdressing, manicures, pedicures. You name it, if it’s beauty or designed to make you feel good about yourself, then I’m qualified to do it.’ She smiled triumphantly.

  Grandmama was determined to take the wind out of her sails, as she said later to Harriet over their afternoon cup of tea. ‘How could anyone genuinely be qualified to do all those things? So I said, “Jack of all trades and master of none.” Of course it was lost on her, her having a brain no bigger than a pea. I told her over my dead body was she starting up. Of course it turned out she hasn’t got council permission, which I imagine she needs to set up in business in a conservation area such as ours.’

  ‘I expect she does. But does it matter? I’m sure there are more heinous crimes than putting a board out and hoping for the best.’

  ‘If she makes a go of it, and I understand she’s doing a leaflet drop in Culworth, we’ll have cars nose to tail round the Green. It’s simply not on.’

  Harriet inquired gently if she’d done anything about it.

  ‘Not yet. I’m planning my strategy at the moment. We’ll be having a chiropody clinic and osteopathy and heaven knows what within two years. It’s got to stop.’

  ‘What’s wrong with extra life and extra money coming into the village? It’s progress, that’s all.’

  ‘Progress, my eye! What’s more, I thoroughly dislike the man.’ Grandmama waved an arm vaguely about. ‘That whatsit, whatever his name is, he’s up to no good.’

  Harriet protested, ‘You don’t know the man. How can you assume he’s up to no good?’

  ‘He’s shifty and what’s more he’s taken a dislike to Jimbo.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Instinct,’ Grandmama admitted. ‘How could anyone dislike Jimbo? He’s harmless, isn’t he?’

  ‘He can be stroppy. Look how many times he sacked Linda from the Post Office.’

  ‘Look how many times he took her back. Very forgiving, is my son.’

  Harriet had to smile. ‘You’re right there. However, tread carefully. We don’t want a massive upset in the village when Peter’s not here.’

  ‘Bless that dear man. Not even he could like that Andy. No, not even he.’

  She placed her cup and saucer on the low table by her side and showed all the signs of settling down to sleep. So Harriet cleared the tea things, flung them in the dishwasher and began to make a lemon meringue pie as she’d promised Fran she would.

  The flap of the letterbox snapped shut so Harriet went to see what had arrived. There was a flyer about Cottage Beauty and an envelope addressed to Jimbo. Full name and address but no stamp. Hand-delivered, then. Harriet turned it over and studied it both back and front. There was something odd about it, curious and disturbing, and she hadn’t even read the contents. Well, she was a partner in both marriage and business so she’d open the envelope.

  It was, well, yes it was, but it couldn’t be … was it what they called a poison pen letter? Quite definitely it was. The letter wasn’t signed but that was neither here nor there because it was the content of it that was horrifying:

  Jimbo Charter-Plackett,

  The rubbish you serve in your Store, dressed up as gourmet, organic, or home-produced, is nothing more than an absolute sham. Animal fodder tarted up to look like first-class food. You should be prosecuted for offering it for sale. You do not deserve success and I shall make certain you don’t achieve it. I shall make sure you are bankrupt before the end of the year. Be warned!

  When she’d finished reading it Harriet flung the letter down on the kitchen table, then picked it up and decided to act. It must have been delivered at the same time as the flyer and she guessed who’d delivered that.

  She leapt across the Green and straight to Jenny and Andy’s door. She’d sort this matter out! Oh, yes. As of now. But there was no one answering. She hammered again and again and still no response. It was damned annoying. What next? Jimbo!

  She charged round the Green having realized too late that her shoes were covered with mud by taking the short cut, and straight into the Store shouting, ‘Where’s Jimbo?’ But she was through and in the back before anyone could answer her.

  ‘Jimbo? Jimbo?’ He wasn’t in his office nor in Greta Jones’s mail order office. The kitchens! All was busy in there. They’d begun making the first batch of Christmas puddings and the air was redolent with spices, dried fruit soaked in brandy and joyful busyness which should have cheered her. But not today. Waving the letter in her hand, Harriet said ‘Where is Jimbo?’

  ‘In the storeroom, Harriet, getting us more dried fruit out.’

  He was there, standing on a ladder and reaching well above his head for a box of Californian raisins. ‘Jimbo! There’s something you must see.’ Harriet waved the letter at him. He glanced down, wobbled a bit, dropped the box as he tried to steady himself – it missed Harriet by a hair’s breadth – then the ladder began rocking, and down came Jimbo with an almighty thud, landing awkwardly on the stone floor of the storeroom. The ladder followed him in slow motion and Harriet had to jump out of the way. Jimbo had fallen with his right leg twisted beneath him and was suddenly hit by searing pain.

  For a moment Jimbo didn’t move or say a word then he let out an epithet which would have done credit to a ship’s captain about to take his ship onto the rocks in a Force Eight gale. He writhed with the pain and didn’t know how to control himself and behave like a man. All he wanted to do was lash out against the agony of it all.

  Harriet looked at his face and saw the grey sweating skin of a man in terrible pain.

  Jimbo snarled at her. ‘Don’t touch me. I think I’ve broken my right ankle. It’s a damn lot more than a sprain. It’s hellish painful. Get an ambulance right now. Don’t touch me! Whatever you do, don’t touch me!’

  ‘Oh, Jimbo! I could drive you. I will. It’s all my fault.’

  ‘No, It isn’t. There’s no way I can get up and you can’t lift me, and I can’t get to the car. Argh! Just get an ambulance. Argh!’ Jimbo shuddered.

  So Harriet rang for an ambulance, got Jimbo a glass of water, dispersed the crowd now standing at the storeroom door asking anxiously about Jimbo, dashed about telling everyone what had happened and what were they all going to do, and generally behaved like a woman who’d taken leave of her senses.

  Sweat was now running down Jimbo’s face, and Harriet rushing about did nothing to alleviate the agony. With a great effort Jimbo said, ‘Harriet, Harriet! Please. Calm down.’

  ‘Calm down? How can I with you in such pain?’

  ‘Please, calm down. It’
s not terminal.’ But he didn’t know about the letter they’d received.

  ‘OK. OK.’ She took a deep breath, and placed the folded letter underneath a box so she wouldn’t put it down within his reach. Today was not the day for him to be reading it. ‘Don’t move. Please don’t move an inch.’

  Jimbo said rather weakly, ‘I’ve no intention of moving anywhere, it’s too bloody painful. What did you want me for anyway?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It can wait. I’m coming to the hospital with you. I can’t let you suffer all by yourself.’

  ‘You’re not, you’re needed here.’

  ‘Your mother can cope. After all, there’s only Fran to cook for, she won’t mind, I know.’

  ‘I’m going by myself.’

  ‘Sorry, Jimbo, you’re in no position to argue. I’m coming.’

  By the time the ambulance arrived Harriet had organized her mother-in-law, sorted out the kitchen staff, who were only too willing to put themselves out when they saw how ghastly Jimbo looked, and talked to Tom about being in charge until tomorrow.

  The ankle was a complicated break and Jimbo had to stay in hospital overnight under heavy sedation. He came home by ambulance the following evening with his ankle intricately pinned, feeling grumpy, exhausted and miserable, to find his mother in residence again.

  ‘Well, Jimbo dear, you know Anna found refuge in those weekenders cottage? Well, as it turned out the husband was taken seriously ill in Australia almost immediately and he got the idea that coming home was all he wanted to do. Didn’t like the idea of being buried in Australia, he said. So they’ve come back, and Anna’s back in my cottage again and I’m here to help Harriet and Fran to take care of you till you’re mobile again. There now, isn’t that lovely? It’s all worked out well. Anna and I have had a nice little chat and we’re friends again. I’m so glad.’

  ‘I’m pleased my agonizing broken ankle is fitting in with everyone’s plans.’

  His mother ignored his sarcasm because even she could see he was feeling acutely depressed.

  Jimbo was so very rarely ill that he’d had little practice at being a patient and this time was no exception. He snapped at every suggestion made for his greater comfort, refused painkillers, developed a delicate appetite and generally hated the world. The TV came in for a lot of criticism so it became easier to turn it off than have him complaining right through each and every programme. Harriet had to spend more time at the Store, which left Jimbo with his mother virtually all the time, and that became a further irritation for him.

  On the fourth day after his fall Harriet suggested he went into the Store, sat on a chair in his office and did some work. ‘After all, you’ve hurt your ankle, not your brain. I’ll drive you round there, then you’ll only have to walk from the car into the Store. You could even sit on the seat outside for a while.’

  Jimbo visibly bristled at the suggestion. ‘I’m not an old age pensioner yet, thank you very much.’

  He received a sharp retort. ‘You’re certainly behaving like one.’

  Jimbo raised a sceptical eyebrow at her, and suddenly saw the truth of what she said and burst out laughing. Harriet did, too, and it cleared the air. He let her drive him round to the Store and he hobbled out on his crutches and back into his life.

  Harriet lingered in the kitchens for a while, leaving him to organize himself. She’d just finished discussing a menu with the kitchen staff when she heard Jimbo roaring her name. ‘Harriet! Harriet!’

  She dashed into his office and found him clutching the poison pen envelope and reading the letter. Her heart sank.

  ‘When did this come, might I ask? Greta’s just found it in the storeroom.’ He thrust the letter at her.

  ‘I’ve read it. It came the day you broke your ankle and I decided it best not to show it to you. It’s been worrying me ever since.’

  ‘I should say it has. No signature, I notice. How do they intend ruining me?’

  ‘No signature, that’s right.’

  ‘Do you recognize the writing?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘What evil-minded beggar would do such a thing? Did you see who put it through the letterbox?’

  ‘I don’t stand at the back of the door waiting for the post to arrive, you know. It came at the same time as a flyer advertising Cottage Beauty, or rather I picked it up at the same time. They may have been delivered at different times, I don’t know.’

  ‘This is serious. Who the hell could it be.’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But they mean business, don’t they?’

  ‘Oh! Yes.’

  They both glared at the letter.

  Jimbo looked up at her. ‘You should have given it to me sooner. This needs stamping out.’

  ‘These last few days I’d all on not to strangle you, you were behaving so badly. Even your mother couldn’t love you. You’re right, though, it does need stamping out. But how can we do that when we don’t know who sent it.?’

  ‘Get Greta.’

  ‘She’s up to her neck with orders.’

  ‘Get Greta.’ Jimbo shouted in a tone which brooked no argument.

  ‘Right. Right.’

  Greta read the letter but could throw no light on the writer. ‘I don’t know the handwriting. I mean, who wants to bankrupt you? We were almighty glad for you to take over Mrs Thornton’s flyblown, understocked, scruffy shop and provide us with a Post Office, what’s more.’

  ‘It’s a mystery to me. Get Bel.’

  Mrs Jones disappeared and in came Bel, anxious that trouble was brewing and unable to think what on earth she’d done to merit an interview in his office.

  ‘You wanted me? I’ve only a minute; we’re very busy this morning.’

  ‘Read this. Any clues. Have we upset anyone that you know of? Disappointed someone? Not dealt fairly with a customer over an order? Can you give us a clue?’

  ‘I’m absolutely horrified. This is evil. Whoever in this village would want to do such a thing?’

  ‘So you’ve no clue?’

  Bel shook her head and patted Jimbo’s arm comfortingly. ‘It must be a crackpot. Don’t worry about it. Honestly, just someone with an imaginary grievance, that’s what. They couldn’t possibly carry it through. I mean, who would?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. Yes, maybe you are. Nevertheless, we all need to keep our eyes and ears well open the next few days. Listen to gossip, you know.’

  Bel grinned. ‘Don’t we always?’ She nudged his shoulder. ‘You included. You’re the worst.’

  Jimbo was particularly lacking in humour that morning and didn’t respond in kind to Bel’s jocular answer. ‘You may be right, but if there’s any more of these,’ he waved the poison pen letter in the air, ‘then we shall have to be rather more serious about it. We’ll let this go for now. Thanks, Bel.’

  Bel went back to the cash till, but she was less buoyant about the letter than she’d seemed.

  Jimbo was weary by three o’clock that afternoon and had to ring Harriet to ask her to collect him. It was when he had relaxed enough to give his mind time to roam that he thought about Andy Moorhouse and his problem with the Brie. Who the devil was he? There was something about him that rang bells. Perhaps if he pushed the fellow to the back of his mind, his name, and why he felt he knew him, might pop into his head unexpectedly.

  Chapter 6

  Dottie Foskett was having the time of her life working at the Rectory. It was nothing like as hard as working for Louise and Gilbert when they lost the baby. All them kids. My God! The washer never stopped going and neither did the iron with Dottie wielding it. As for the washing up! She felt like Ruby in Upstairs Downstairs, always faced with a sink full of pans and dishes. Still, Sir Ron had paid her handsomely and it had all been added to her retirement nest egg.

  But working at the Rectory – she couldn’t have chosen a better place. The furniture, the bathrooms, the pictures, the ornaments. When she looked at the attic where Sylvia used to sleep before she married Willie Biggs, s
he wished she’d been there when the twins were babies. She could just see herself sitting the other side of the Aga from Caroline, each with a twin and a feeding bottle, like Sylvia had described. Contentment. That was it. Complete contentment.

  As for the twins now. If she’d had children she’d have wanted two exactly like Beth and Alex. Both so well-mannered, never a cheeky answer back and so polite to her. They’d asked if they could call her Dottie and she’d said yes. Made yer belong, like.

  Apparently Beth had started coming downstairs to eat her breakfast so that when she, Dottie, arrived to begin work Beth could have a word with her while she munched her toast and honey and drank her tea.

  Inevitably Beth would ask if she would like a cup and of course she always said, ‘Yes, please.’ And they’d sit and natter for ten minutes, putting the world to rights and Doctor Harris never seemed to mind. Almost appeared to be glad that Beth was able to talk to her. Funny situation really, her not going to school, seeing as Alex went every morning on the school coach that picked up in the village.

  The day after Jimbo read his poison pen letter Dottie and Beth got talking about it. Everyone knew that the first day back at work after he’d broken his ankle the letter had been found and half the village had heard him bellow, ‘Harriet! Harriet!’

  ‘But Dottie, I can’t see why someone would do such a thing. Jimbo’s always so kind and considerate.’

  ‘Don’t know about that, Beth. Look at that time when Flick was missing. Well, you won’t remember. Only about six or seven she was. He was so angry he could have killed someone with his bare hands. He’s a powerful temper on him when moved.’ Dottie mopped her lips and got up to leave the table and get cracking but Beth delayed her.

  ‘Dottie, is it ever right to kill someone?’

  She seemed to have a frog in her throat because her voice was deep and choky as she spoke and that alarmed Dottie.

  She sat down again and thought for a moment. ‘I can remember when my sister Iris had a baby when she shouldn’t have, and it wasn’t any too good, up here you know.’ Dottie tapped her head. ‘You knew it wasn’t right because its eyes was so blank kind of, and it was backward in everything. I can remember as clear as day my dad saying it should never have been allowed to live, and he cursed modern science. Then there’s some people so wicked they deserve to die. It seems so anyway, but it’s not in our hands, is it? As I’m sure your dad would say, it’s God’s decision not ours.’