The Village Green Affair Page 7

  Jimbo had expected to sneer at what he saw, but he was agreeably surprised by the standard of the goods on the stalls. Everything was of the highest quality. In fact, he was rather jealous of the cheese stall and wished it was on display in his store, but it was out here in the market and he quietly ground his teeth at the thought. The only stall he didn’t like was the pottery. Lovely woman - pleasant, chatty and amusing - but her pottery offerings were chunky and, what was worse, dull. Who in their right mind would want to drink from one of those mugs? Not Jimbo.

  They reached the last of the stalls where the chap was selling fresh fish, and excellent it looked, too. He’d have been proud to have it in his store except he never had fresh fish because of the smell.

  ‘I’m envious of this fresh fish, my word,’ said Jimbo. ‘I don’t sell it because of my other stuff. The all pervading smell, you see.’

  ‘Your opinion would be appreciated,’ Titus said. ‘I won’t have anyone selling shoddy goods - well, except for Cassandra with the pots. Four children to feed and clothe, things are hard for her. We’ve had a talk but it’s had no effect. Well?’ He looked at Jimbo and waited.

  To be fair, he had to approve; he could do no other. ‘Someone in the village said it would all be rubbish and you wouldn’t last for long, but they’re quite wrong. Everything is excellent, truly excellent. Good luck to you.’ He held out his hand and so did Titus, and they shook hands vigorously.

  Titus smiled. ‘Thank you for your opinion. From a man who truly knows what he’s talking about it’s very encouraging. Perhaps some time we might have a drink in the pub together. I’ve taken a liking to it. I expected it would be all tarted up inside and the whole impression of the outside therefore ruined, but it isn’t, and the homebrew is excellent.’

  Jimbo went back to the house and sat in his chair in the study ruminating on what he’d seen. This was competition on a grand scale. No point in trying to do Titus Bellamy down. He’d just have to concentrate on other aspects of his business to make up the shortfall, because shortfall there was definitely going to be.

  Liz wandered home through the market, inspecting all the stalls and realizing that Titus Bellamy had a success on his hands. It was busy today but once the market became better known there would be hundreds of people coming to Turnham Malpas on a Thursday. She spotted Jimbo and Titus talking to Cassandra. That Titus . . . she couldn’t understand why she felt she knew him. Had she met him before? He definitely rang bells, somehow or other. She smiled when she thought about Jimbo being persuaded into looking round the market, after all he’d said, but she rather thought that perhaps Titus could charm a monkey out of a tree.

  Back at Glebe House Liz put her key on the hall table and her purse in the cupboard in the kitchen where she always kept it, and looked at her right hand as she closed the door. She put it to her cheek and imagined it felt warmer than the other one. That, of course, was rubbish. Total rubbish, but she suddenly liked that right hand better than the left; it felt smoother and softer. She recollected Titus’s face, then roughly dismissed her sentimentality. She was being foolish all because she lacked warmth and comfort in her own life.

  These few days away had only served to emphasize her loneliness. Yes, she had her two boys and they were always willing to take her out for a drink or a meal when things got too bad - well, Hugh more than Guy - but relying on them for companionship was ludicrous. Somehow she’d have to shake up Neville and make their marriage work for both their sakes. A dead marriage was a prison sentence and she for one wasn’t going to tolerate that, not at forty-five.

  According to the flier, the market would finish at one o’clock. Sure enough, the stallholders began clearing away as the church clock struck one. Each of them had taken more money than they had anticipated, considering it was the first time they’d opened in Turnham Malpas, and they congratulated each other in anticipation of even better days yet to come.

  But opponents of the whole idea waited to see the mess that would surely be left behind, anticipating concrete evidence that the market was a nuisance and not to be tolerated. But as the last of the trestle tables was loaded into the huge van, three useful-looking chaps appeared with an old truck well past its best, and began clearing the rubbish. Within half an hour the whole of the green was cleaned and tidied, including the pieces of paper that had blown onto the pond. The geese took charge of their green again and settled comfortably for an afternoon snooze beside their pond, having benefited greatly from being fed by the stallholders and the people buying from the stalls.

  Truth to tell, the opponents to the market were left with no ammunition for their campaign, but they gathered just the same in the Royal Oak that evening to discuss the matter.

  Willie returned from the bar carrying a tray loaded with drinks. They’d pulled two tables together and were seated round, anticipating a good natter comparing notes.

  Distributing the drinks, Willie got them wrong and Don finished up with Sylvia’s gin and orange. He loudly and agitatedly complained. ‘I’ve got a wrong ’un. This isn’t mine. This isn’t mine, I didn’t order this. Where’s mine?’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Sylvia, ‘you’ve got mine and I’ve got yours. Here we are.’ She swapped their drinks and Don calmed down. Sylvia looked round the tables. ‘Where’s Jimbo? He said he’d be coming.’

  Grandmama Charter-Plackett, who had allied herself to their cause because of Jimbo, looked surprised. ‘He’s obviously forgotten. I’ll give him a buzz.’ So she dug in her bag for her mobile and they all eavesdropped on her one-sided conversation.

  ‘But you said—

  ‘So, you’re not against it now?’

  They all watched her eyebrows shoot up her forehead as she said, ‘You like the chap? How can you like him? I’m astounded ... I know nothing went wrong, I watched from the bedroom window . . . Well, of course I didn’t walk round to see . . . You what . . . walked round it with this damned Titus? You traitor! I assume you won’t be joining us, then?’

  They thought she might explode she was so angry. So angry she couldn’t speak. She threw her mobile into her bag and sat arms crossed, lips folded into a thin, straight line, breathing deeply.

  They all had to admit that nothing had gone wrong. They’d expected the stalls would be filled with rubbish, lots of shouting of wares - ‘apples ten for a pound’, ‘sausages, eight for a pound’, ‘early strawberries sweet as sweet, just right for his supper tonight with a splash of cream’ - piped music, cars parked everywhere to avoid paying in the field, and, in particular, rubbish everywhere after they’d left. None of their anxieties had materialized and the reason for the meeting soon melted away.

  ‘Look,’ said Grandmama Charter-Plackett, having recovered herself when she’d downed her whiskey, ‘this is the first time and they’ll be on their best behaviour. We’ve to remain vigilant. Familiarity breeds contempt and within a few weeks things will deteriorate, believe me. Then we’ve got to strike.’

  There were hearty shouts of agreement, in particular from Willie Biggs. ‘It was the stallholders’ vans that were the biggest nuisance. The mothers had a right problem ’cos the kids didn’t know which way to go to find their mothers at lunchtime. That’ll have to be sorted or we’ll have an accident.’

  There were cries of ‘hear, hear’ all round, and Willie volunteered to get the drinks in again, so they all put money in his cap to fund it. The conversation broke up, and anyone listening from the other tables would have heard Grandmama saying, ‘I shall go over there as soon as we finish and find out what’s going on.’

  Greta Jones agreed. ‘I’ve come for Jimbo’s sake, I can’t work for him and support the market. That wouldn’t be right.’

  Tom agreed. ‘Same here. We were dead quiet this morning and not much better this afternoon. I feel real sorry for him, what with all the expense of the Old Barn, setting it up and that. It’s not right.’

  The genuineness of Tom’s voice inspired them all to agree, and they decided to
meet at the same time next week for a progress report. The Anti-Market Action Committee had been formed.

  After the meeting Grandmama marched purposefully across to Jimbo’s house, putting on her charming look as she went. After all, he had a right to do as he wished - well, so long as it agreed with what she thought was fitting. She’d never been given a key to Jimbo and Harriet’s house, except when she lived there for a while, so she had to knock.

  She presented her cheek for Harriet to kiss as she stepped into the hall. ‘Late, I know, but I shan’t be long. Where is he?’

  ‘In his study.’

  Grandmama pulled a face. ‘Like that, is it?’

  Harriet nodded and opened Jimbo’s study door, but made no move to follow her in.

  Jimbo was at his computer, entering figures. He paused eventually and nodded at the armchair. ‘Sit yourself down, Mother.’

  ‘I am appalled that you didn’t attend the post-mortem meeting.’

  Jimbo looked at her soberly. ‘I was so disarmed by his charm that I went. It was a market worthy of Turnham Malpas, and ultimately can do us nothing but good. OK?’

  ‘OK? No, it isn’t OK. It’s a damned disaster for you. Just answer me one question. I see you’re entering figures. What’s this Thursday like compared with last Thursday, or any other Thursday come to that?’

  Jimbo checked the screen. ‘Thirty per cent down. My God! Thirty per cent? I must have got it wrong.’

  He took a closer look at the screen and realized what he’d said. It was bloody awful; it was thirty per cent! ‘Don’t fret, Mother, I shall be at the next meeting of the “Against the Market Campaign”, believe me.’ He laid back in his chair and smote his forehead with his hand.

  ‘Things may level out,’ his mother consoled. ‘After a few weeks, you know, these things do. Still, we will need to keep a close eye on it.’

  With this gloomy prophecy Grandmama left, her mind churning round and round, thinking of ways to combat the market but coming up with absolutely no ideas. She walked home the long way past the school as part of her walking for health routine, and, glancing across at Glebe House, she saw Neville’s study light on. She suddenly wondered if he had anything to do with it, slimy toad that he was. He always seemed to have his fingers in lots of pies. Grandmama shuddered. She didn’t like the man but in defence of her son’s livelihood there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do, however repulsive.

  Neville, in fact, was rubbing his hands together at that very moment. He’d just asked Liz about the market and she’d confirmed that it seemed to be a triumph. So, the money he’d invested in Titus Bellamy Markets Ltd appeared to be yet another of his successful investments.

  Grandmama strode across the road up his garden path, stepped across a narrow flower bed and tapped sharply with her door key on his study window. That’d give him a surprise and a half, she thought.

  Startled, he leaped up from his chair to find Grandmama with her nose almost touching the glass of the window to his private sanctum. Neville was greatly disturbed. Not even Liz’s cleaner got as close.

  He rushed to the window, undid the security locks and opened it, saying icily, ‘This is a little unorthodox, Mrs Charter-Plackett. At this time of night, too.’

  She ignored his indignation. ‘Good evening, Neville. Been a gorgeous day, hasn’t it?’

  Puzzled by her apparently innocent question he stuttered, ‘Y-y-yes, it has. Can I help you in any way?’

  ‘Yes. I need a straight answer.’ Privately she thought that would be impossible for Neville Neal. ‘Are you pro or anti the market? Just answer me straight off the cuff, no prevaricating.’

  Without the moon and with his back to the light it was difficult to judge his expression for herself, but eventually he said, ‘Anti.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Grandmama patted the hand holding the window open. ‘It’s good to know we can rely on you. Love to Liz. Goodnight. ’

  Grandmama’s father would have called Neville a lying hound. She was astute enough to guess he was not only ‘pro’ but actively involved. One day she’d get him. Oh, yes. Neville Neal wouldn’t last much longer if she’d anything to do with it. Nor would the market, come to that.

  Chapter 5

  That same night Liz laid awake thinking about things in general and in particular about Titus Bellamy. He’d been brought to mind after she’d asked Neville who had knocked on his window. When he said that it had been Grandmama, and that he had told her he was anti-market just to pacify her, she turned on her heel and went immediately to bed, but not before she’d warned him that Grandmama was a formidable enemy.

  ‘Why not speak the truth?’

  ‘Because I don’t want anyone to know that I’ve invested money in his enterprise to help him get started in Turnham Malpas.’

  ‘You have? You never said.’

  Neville smiled that smile that never reached his eyes. ‘Can’t tell you every little thing, now can I?’

  ‘Why have you?’

  ‘Pleasant chap, a little gullible . . . I can make a lot of money out of him and his market.’

  ‘What you mean is he’s a thoroughly decent man.’

  Neville, leaning against the frame of the study door, nodded gravely. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You won’t ruin him, will you?’

  ‘What does it matter to you if I do? He means nothing to you.’

  ‘He doesn’t, but he seemed . . .’

  ‘Have you met him, then?’

  ‘Yes. When I went to the Store to post the parcels he was in there.’

  ‘Well, we’ll wait and see. Must crack on.’

  He made to close the study door but Liz prevented him. ‘There are times, Neville, when I thoroughly dislike you. Sometimes you resemble a particularly nasty, very hairy spider spinning an evil web. But don’t forget what I said: Grandmama is a formidable enemy.’

  As Liz lay in bed, her thoughts moved on to the silver anniversary party on Saturday. She wasn’t looking forward to it as she should have expected to. Fortunately Caroline and Peter would be there, as well as Jimbo and Harriet, Ralph and Muriel . . . Liz paused for a moment to think about Muriel. It was all so sad that, to put it bluntly, she had lost her marbles. Ralph was covering up beautifully for her, but there were times when even his skill left her floundering and looking foolish. Such a pity. All that love and kindness gone, and nothing left but a shell of what she had been. Apart from those six people, there was no one else she particularly wanted to have there.

  Liz had bought a gorgeous dress in the smart designer shop in Culworth that was too expensive for most people. She’d never wear it again, it was too outlandish, but she didn’t care. She’d outshine everyone and why not? It was her party, after all. Her wedding dress had been simple, almost countrified. Neville’s mother had worn an acid-yellow silk dress with exaggerated flounces and a fishtail sash at the back. God! She’d looked ghastly. All that money and still she couldn’t dress well. An idea sneakily crept into Liz’s mind. Had she done exactly the same thing with her designer dress? Damn it, she’d wear it no matter what. Come on, Saturday, she thought, let’s get it over with.

  The catering people had taken over the kitchen by four o’clock on the day, so apart from making a cup of tea for Neville and herself just before they arrived Liz was free to prepare herself for the evening. Neville was growing more anxious by the hour. He was snappy, abrupt, examining every inch of his garden, checking the floodlights, supervising the caterers, whom they’d used several times before and who had always turned up trumps, checking every inch of his dinner suit for fear of stains or creases, and generally behaving as though they were expecting the Queen at any moment.

  ‘For heaven’s sakes, Neville, calm down. Everything is under control. Finish your biscuit and go and hide in your study.’

  ‘What will you be doing?’

  ‘I shall be hanging about in case the caterers need me. Go on.’

  There was the usual panic in the kitchen: things missing; too many me
ringues crushed and useless; the plum sauce too runny; the specialist coffee insisted upon by Neville hadn’t arrived in time so they’d brought a substitute.

  ‘Don’t even mention it,’ Liz suggested to the head caterer. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it now so serve what you’ve brought. He’ll never notice.’

  ‘Yes, but if he finds out—’

  ‘I shan’t tell him. Will you?’