The Village Green Affair Read online

  He waited for her reply.

  ‘Was she? I didn’t see much of her.’ She knew she sounded false.

  ‘I went into the garden for some fresh air and thought I heard your voices. The two of you talking, you know.’

  Alarm bells rang in Liz’s head. ‘Well, you were mistaken.’

  Neville leapt from his chair and grabbed her arm as she added another present to the pile under the window. ‘No, Liz, I’m right.’ With his face only inches from hers he glared right into her eyes. ‘She warned you about Titus Bellamy, I heard her.’

  ‘If you have reached the level of believing what an old lady, suffering from dementia or whatever it is, says then—’

  ‘I’ve seen his eyes when he looks at you. I’ve seen your eyes, full of messages.’ His grip on her arm tightened.

  ‘Neville! You’re hurting me.’

  ‘I’ll hurt you even more if you’re not careful. How many times have you seen him?’

  ‘I won’t be questioned like this. You’re being ridiculous. I met him in the Store and then tonight. You’re deluded if you think there’s something going on.’

  Neville snarled at her. ‘You’re my wife, not a tart, and I won’t tolerate anything untoward.’

  Liz mocked him, she couldn’t help herself. ‘Untoward indeed! You’re archaic. You’re also paranoid. What can possibly be going on between us? We’ve only just met.’

  A present placed awkwardly fell off the pile onto the carpet at Neville’s feet. He let go of her to pick it up, and Liz made her escape up the stairs and into the bedroom at the speed of light. As an afterthought she locked the bedroom door.

  Within moments Neville was at the door, rattling the knob and saying through gritted teeth, ‘Open this door. I demand you open it.’ Then he hammered on it with his fist. ‘Open it right now! I haven’t finished.’

  Hugh and Guy appeared on the landing. ‘Dad?’

  But Neville was so incensed he didn’t hear them.

  ‘Liz! Open this door. At once! I have my rights.’

  ‘Dad!’

  Neville swung round, his face glistening with sweat. ‘Ah! Boys.’ He wiped his top lip with the silk handkerchief from his top pocket. ‘Lovers’ tiff. I expect you boys know what it’s like.’ He laughed, a strange, cracked laugh which seemed more like a cry for help.

  ‘Is Mum all right?’

  ‘Of course she is. Storm in a teacup, as they say. Goodnight, boys.’

  He turned away to go downstairs, patting Hugh’s shoulder as he went as though apologizing. But his insides heaved and tossed, threatening to make him sick. Such terrible lack of control. How could he have behaved like that? How could he have accused her of something that wasn’t? How could it be? As Liz said, they’d only met twice. He’d got it completely wrong. But as he sat in his study sipping his whiskey he was haunted by the look in Titus’s eyes and that look Liz had when she looked up at him, so full of life. He knew he was right. The way they’d danced. Why couldn’t he dance with her like that? Close and intimate. Warm and pleasurable. Comfortable with each other.

  Worst of all, he’d given Titus the money to come to the village every week with his market. In one sense he’d actually paid him to see his wife. Neville tipped another double whiskey down his throat and fell into a drunken sleep.

  That was Saturday night. Early on Monday afternoon, just as Liz was finishing her lunch, the phone rang. It was Caroline.

  ‘I’m home. Tea? I’ve put the kettle on.’

  Liz thought she sounded slightly abrupt. ‘Lovely. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Got a phone call to make.’

  ‘Fine. See you then. Too cold for the garden, don’t you think?’

  ‘I agree.’

  The teapot was at the ready on the coffee table in Caroline’s sitting room when Liz arrived. The pretty china cups were laid out and a plate of Liz’s favourite biscuits were waiting for her.

  ‘Caroline! Thank you. You’re just what I needed.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in need of a large dose of common sense.’

  ‘I don’t know about common sense, but I am in a state of surprise. ’

  ‘No more so than I.’

  Liz took one of the biscuits before Caroline had a chance to offer them. ‘I love these.’

  ‘I know. So-o-o?’ Liz knew from her look that Caroline was talking about the party.

  ‘You noticed? I don’t know what happened. It feels like he has known me for years. He hasn’t but that’s how it is.’

  ‘The way you danced. What came over you?’

  ‘If you lived the barren emotional life I do it might have happened to you. He’s so . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Heart-stopping.’

  Caroline paused to put more hot water in the teapot while she thought what to say. ‘Liz, be careful. You’re treading on dangerous ground. Does Neville realize?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He does. He’s very angry.’

  ‘Hardly surprising.’

  ‘We’re not speaking. I got swept off my feet. But I shan’t be seeing him again, shall I.’

  ‘That’s what you suppose, but he looked captivated by you.’

  Liz studied her own feelings for a moment and then admitted so was she by him.

  ‘You should never have invited Sheila Bissett. She’s spread the news. They’re all talking about it.’

  ‘They’re not. Oh, God! Well, nothing can come of it, so that’s that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. I don’t believe in divorce.’ But the tone of her voice gave her away, it being barely convincing.

  They chatted for a while more, about the success of the party, about the latest news in the village, in fact, until almost the time for the twins to be home, not mentioning Titus again. But he never left Liz’s mind. In fact, he hadn’t left her mind since Saturday night, and she didn’t give a hang that Neville was so angry with her. And in her heart of hearts, no matter what she’d said to Caroline about being against divorce, Liz knew the dance they’d had at the silver wedding anniversary party was only the beginning of something important . . . to her and to him.

  Chapter 6

  The following Thursday morning there was no resistance to the market whatsoever. The more militant had hoped for an organized demonstration but after the pleasant events of the first week there was no enthusiasm for one.

  However, at the civilized hour of 9 a.m., Grandmama Charter-Plackett appeared out of her back gate with a placard. Not for her the scrappy, badly written messages of most protest placards. Hers was beautifully printed, colourful and to the point:

  NO MARKET

  IN TURNHAM MALPAS

  LEAVE US IN PEACE

  She marched firmly, ringing a handbell she’d borrowed from the school, weaving her way between the stalls, not even sneaking a glance at what was on display, and taking up her position outside the Store.

  Jimbo was at the Old Barn supervising the delivery of some kitchen equipment when he heard the bell. Having no idea it was his mother ringing it, he continued supervising the delivery until Barry came charging on site shouting from the van window, ‘Jimbo, it’s your mother making that racket. She’s got a placard.’ Frankly, Barry thought it hilarious but Jimbo was appalled.

  His immediate reaction was to abandon ship, but his business mind told him to stay and keep checking the delivery, otherwise he might find that stunning cooker he could see on the van had ‘not been delivered’. It took another quarter of an hour before he was free to go. He raced down the drive out into the road, down Church Lane, left into Stocks Row and screeched to a halt in front of the Store. His mother was still ringing the bell, and at such close quarters the sound was deafening.

  Jimbo jumped out and went to speak to her. She stopped the bell, put it down on the seat, stood her placard up against the back of it and, with her hands free, removed her earplugs.

  ‘There you are. Aren’t you pleased with your mother? Do you see anyone el
se protesting? No, not a soul, but I’m here in defence of my son’s business. Aren’t you proud?’

  She beamed at him, and was horrified to see the disapproval in his face.

  ‘Don’t you want me to protest?’

  ‘I don’t see the point. The market went supremely well last week, and apparently the same is happening today.’ Jimbo shrugged. ‘I don’t see how we can stop it.’

  ‘There’s more people here this week. Word’s getting around, and there’ll be even more next week. I’ve seen three women I know from my exercise class in Culworth, two married couples from Little Derehams and a whole host from Penny Fawcett in that old minibus they all career about in. I tell you, that damned Titus Bellamy has struck gold. We’ve got to do something, and I’m doing it.’

  Grandmama put her earplugs back in, picked up the bell and her placard, and began ringing the bell again. Jimbo went inside the Store and firmly closed the door.

  Several people came to have a word with her so she graciously refrained from swinging the bell while they chatted to her. But then Jimbo and Tom heard the sounds of an altercation and, looking out, saw Kate Fitch from the school apparently telling her in no uncertain terms that she wanted the school bell back, as they couldn’t tolerate the noise and teach at the same time.

  ‘But you promised me. Just for the morning, you said.’

  ‘I know I did, Katherine, but I never thought of you ringing it continuously. It’s got to stop and the only way I can do that is to repossess the bell.’ She held out her hand.

  Grandmama saw she was being unreasonable by refusing to return it, but her jaw jutted out and she held on to it. ‘I’m sorry but . . .’

  ‘It’s still only ten o’clock. We can’t take another two hours of it. I won’t have my children’s learning interrupted by this racket.’

  ‘Racket? Racket? This is a cry from the heart. My son’s business is being strangled by this market, can’t you see that?’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry but—’

  Grandmama answered her with another ear-cracking peal of the bell. Then she felt a firm hand on her shoulder. Indignantly, she swung round to see who’d dared do such a thing, only to find herself facing the much-moustachioed six-feet new police sergeant, John MacArthur, already known to everyone as Mac.

  ‘Good morning, madam.’ It was said in village circles that his moustache had been seen to bristle when he was really angry, but he hadn’t reached that stage yet. ‘May I ask what you are doing?’

  ‘It’s very obvious, Sergeant.’ She pointed with an authoritative finger to her placard. ‘My son is losing business because of this market and I want to put a stop to it.’

  ‘A one-woman campaign.’

  Kate Fitch interrupted. ‘I lent her the school bell but she’s making so much noise with it I’ve come to get it back. The children can’t concentrate because of it.’

  ‘Breach of the peace, then.’ He got out his black notebook, his police issue ballpoint, flicked open a page and began to write. Grandmama, with her arrest in Culworth the Saturday they collected for Peter’s Africa mission still very fresh in her mind, felt her determination begin to waver at the edges. When he got out his digital camera and asked her to turn her placard the other way so he could photograph it more easily she finally crumbled.

  ‘If I stand here without ringing the bell, is that all right?’

  ‘A silent protest is perfectly acceptable, Mrs Charter-Plackett.’

  ‘You know my name?’

  ‘Indeed I do. I know virtually everyone’s name now.’ He tapped his head. ‘Stored away in here. A lot more strangers here today, I notice.’

  Kate Fitch took her chance and politely removed her bell from Grandmama’s grasp, then marched off back to school holding it by the clapper.

  Grandmama agreed with Mac. ‘There are. That’s going to be the problem. Mark my words, it will get worse, and you’ll have it to deal with.’

  ‘Exactly. Now, no more noise, madam, please.’ He stalked away for a general inspection of the market stalls, thinking he might take the chance to buy some of that stinky French cheese he bought last week and so enjoyed.

  Tom came out with a coffee for her, so she propped up her placard so everyone could see it and sat down on the seat for a rest. She was just finishing her coffee when she caught sight of Vera Wright amongst the stalls, stuffing a parcel into her shopping bag, the wrapping of which looked suspiciously like that from the organic meat stall.

  Grandmama never shouted when she was out in the street, and patiently waited until Vera was within easy hailing distance.

  Thinking she hadn’t been spotted, Vera said innocently, ‘Good morning, Mrs Charter-Plackett. Doing your bit? With the placard, I mean.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s plain you’re not doing your bit. I am very grieved to see that you have bought some meat from the market. Don’t deny it. I recognized the bag when you stuffed it in your shopper.’

  Vera, appalled she had been caught, denied that was what she had done.

  Grandmama got to her feet. ‘I am not senile, Vera. I saw what you did. You are a traitor. You said you were on my side and Jimbo’s side. How can we succeed if you do that?’

  Vera sensed she’d lost the battle. ‘The steak looked good and it was very reasonable. I never expected it to be so cheap. It certainly isn’t cheap in your Jimbo’s Store.’

  ‘The least I can hope for is that the steak is so tough you won’t be able to cook it through if you cooked it for a month of Sundays, and that will serve you right.’

  Grandmama got a more tart reply than she ever expected. ‘Well, my Don likes it running red so that’s all right.’

  ‘That is insolent to me. Disrespectful, indeed. You’ve let yourself down, gravely let yourself down. I’m appalled. You’ll be lucky if I speak to you again.’

  ‘Well, that won’t bother me.’ Vera stalked into the Store, defiant to the last.

  She complained to Bel about her altercation with Grandmama.

  Bel, ever mindful that Vera had Don to cope with, said, ‘Look, you know what it’s like in this village: tempers flare, protests erupt, lifelong friends fall out, and then, before we know where we are, it’s all blown over and we’re all friends again. Am I not right? Things will settle down.’

  Grandmama made a point of completely ignoring Vera when she emerged from the Store to wait for the lunchtime bus into Little Derehams.

  Jimbo came out to sit on the seat. ‘You know, Mother, there’s no need to do this for me. While I appreciate your support I’ve reconciled myself to the market. I wish it would go away, but it won’t, so there we are.’ He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. ‘But I’ll come to the committee meeting tonight, if you like. Now, go home when you’re ready. I love the placard, by the way.’

  ‘So do I. Leave us in peace. I thought that most appropriate. We’re not used to all this hubbub, in Turnham Malpas, are we?’

  ‘No, we’re not, but maybe we need stirring up a bit.’ He got up. ‘Going home to work in the office. So glad I’ve got Tom, he relieves me of the daily grind.’

  ‘Quite right.’ She stayed for another half an hour and then walked the long way round to her cottage. She propped the placard alongside the front door, and found, to her surprise, that the front door was unlocked. Puzzled she checked the door again. Yes, it was unlocked, yet the key . . . yes, the key was in her pocket. Of course! She’d gone out through her back door and forgotten to check if the front door was locked. She got sillier as she got older. That was a stupid thing to have done.

  Thinking how very welcome a bite of lunch would be, she went into the kitchen, put the kettle on and began making a sandwich. It did, however, occur to her that maybe a glance round her sitting room might be a good idea, seeing as she’d left the front door unlocked.

  Sure enough, she’d been burgled. All her Georgian snuffboxes were gone.

  An unbearable, ghastly pain surged through her chest at the thought. The money they’d cost! But it was
the love she bore them that hurt the most. That was a searing pain, running from her head right down to her toes. Who on earth in Turnham Malpas would dare do such a thing to her?

  Paddy Cleary? But he was a reformed character now. He wouldn’t dare, would he?

  One of those boys who lived in the sheltered housing for teenage runaways down the Culworth Road? No, they’d all be at school in Culworth.