Scandal In Prior's Ford

Book 4: Prior's Ford

by Eve Houston

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Prior's Ford's Women's Rural Institute finds itself on the verge of a civil war when Moira Melrose is defeated in her bid to become president for the third time by newcomer Alma Parr. Moira seeks revenge by trying to outdo the Parrs' extravagant Christmas outdoor decorations, and the feud escalates from there, setting neighbour against neighbour. A former villager returns to set up the village's first holiday home, causing deep resentment, and things are going from bad to worse at Tarbethill Farm when building starts on the field that Victor McNair persuaded his father Bert to hand over to him.

Release date: March 7, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 336

Sample

The Ralston-Kerrs – Hector Ralston-Kerr is the Laird of Prior’s Ford and lives with his wife Fliss and their son Lewis in ramshackle Linn Hall. Lewis is engaged to Molly Ewing, the mother of his baby daughter, Rowena Chloe. Fliss wonders, secretly, if Lewis is really Rowena Chloe’s father, and if flighty Molly is the right person to take over the reins of Linn Hall.

Ginny (Genevieve) Whitelaw – Is helping to restore the Linn Hall estate, which Lewis hopes to open to the public to raise much-needed income.

The Fishers – Joe and Gracie Fisher are the landlord and landlady of the local pub, the Neurotic Cuckoo. They live on the premises with their widowed daughter Alison Greenlees and her young son Jamie.

Jenny and Andrew Forsyth – Live in the private housing estate, River Walk, with their young son, Calum, and Maggie Cameron, Jenny’s teenage stepdaughter.

Helen and Duncan Campbell – Live on the local council housing estate. Helen records village news for the local newspaper and is also, secretly, the newspaper’s agony aunt columnist. Duncan is the gardener at Linn Hall. They have four children.

Ingrid and Peter MacKenzie – Live in River Walk with their daughters Freya and Ella. Ingrid is Norwegian and runs the local craft shop, the Gift Horse, with the assistance of Jenny Forsyth.

Clarissa Ramsay – Lives in Willow Cottage. A retired teacher and a widow.

Alastair Marshall – An artist, lives in a small farm cottage on the outskirts of the village. Although Clarissa Ramsay is some twenty years his senior, Alastair has strong feelings for her.

Sam Brennan and Marcy Copleton – Live in Rowan Cottage and run the local village store together.

The Reverend Naomi Hennessey – The local Church of Scotland minister, part Jamaican, part English. Lives in the manse with her godson, Ethan Baptiste, Jamaican.

The McNairs of Tarbethill Farm – Bert and Jess McNair are struggling to keep the family farm going with the help of their younger son Ewan, who is in love with the local publican’s daughter, Alison Greenlees. Bert has fallen out with his older son, Victor, who has deserted the farm for a life in the nearby town of Kirkcudbright. Victor, engaged to a town girl, persuaded his father to sign one of the fields over to him to use as a caravan park. When his plans fell through he broke the promise made to his parents, and sold the field to a builder.

Jinty and Tom McDonald – Live with their large family on the village’s council housing estate. Jinty is a willing helper at Linn Hall, and also cleans the village hall and the school, while Tom is keen on gambling and frequenting the Neurotic Cuckoo.

Normally the Prior’s Ford branch of the Women’s Rural Institute meetings were relaxed and friendly occasions, but on the day Alma Parr was voted in as the new president the village hall was more like a nest of angry wasps than a Rural meeting.

‘I demand a recount,’ thundered Moira Melrose, the only other nominee.

‘I’m quite sure the count was fair,’ Iris Waldron, the outgoing president, insisted, but as Moira and her supporters began to argue loudly with her, she swiftly capitulated. ‘Very well, since you feel so strongly about it, but can we please have a moment’s silence in which to regain our composure before we vote again?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my composure!’ Moira snapped.

‘Then I’d hate to see you losing it,’ one of Alma’s friends fired back at her.

‘Enough!’ Iris banged the president’s gavel on the desk and said into the sudden hush, ‘Let’s all count silently to one hundred – all right, then, to twenty,’ she amended as a twitter of protest began to arise, ‘very slowly. I shall lead by counting aloud. Then we shall have another show of hands.’



‘Who did Doris Thatcher vote for?’ Ivy McGowan asked Gracie Fisher, landlady of the Neurotic Cuckoo, in a loud stage whisper as the counting began.

‘Moira – sshh!’ Gracie muttered, while Iris droned, ‘… and – five – and – quiet – and – seven …’

‘Then I’ll plump for Alma.’

‘One more word and we’ll start over again. And – ten – and …’ Iris intoned, grateful to be at the end of her own stint as president.

The second show of hands resulted in a drawn vote, which puzzled everyone until they discovered the three ladies on tea duty had gone off to the kitchen, not realising their absence would make a difference.

‘While we’re having our tea,’ Iris announced after a swift discussion with her committee, ‘you’ll each be given a piece of paper on which to write the name of your choice of president. The papers will be collected and counted and the result’ – she ran a stern gaze over each and every face – ‘will be final.’

‘You would think,’ said Cissie Kavanagh, her left hand whirling about the growing ball of wool held in her right hand, ‘that grown women would have more sense.’

‘Mmm,’ her husband Robert murmured, his eyes fixed on the television set to the left of his wife’s busy arm. A cookery programme flickered on the screen; Robert had no interest whatsoever in cooking, only in eating the results, but he had discovered that watching Cissie create a ball of wool at top speed tended to make him feel dizzy. He had hoped by now to be enjoying a pre-dinner pint in the Neurotic Cuckoo but Cissie had caught him on his way to the street door.

‘I mean, it’s only the presidency of the Prior’s Ford Rural, not the United States,’ she prattled on as the skein of pink wool holding her husband’s wrists captive as firmly as metal handcuffs began to shrink, ‘but Alma and Moira managed to turn it into another War of the Roses. You should have seen Moira’s face when Alma got it by one vote. She was livid. You know how people say that someone’s nostrils flared? I could never understand what that would look like. I didn’t think it was possible, but today in the village hall I saw Moira Melrose’s nostrils flaring. Not a pretty sight. You could have cut the air with a blunt knife!’

For some reason, probably because the television chef was dismembering a cooked lobster and Robert detested all forms of shellfish, his wife’s final sentence caught his attention. ‘Why would anyone want to cut air with a blunt knife?’ he asked, confused.

‘Nobody would. I’m just saying that when Alma was voted president of the Rural over Moira by one vote there was such tension in the village hall you could have cut the atmosphere with a blunt knife.’

‘You make it sound more like a champion snooker match than a Rural meeting.’

‘Anything,’ Cissie said, the ball of wool growing fast, ‘is more exciting than a champion snooker match, if you ask me. I don’t know – it’s bad enough with this feud between Ivy McGowan and Doris Thatcher without another starting between Moira and Alma. I really don’t see why Moira should get a third crack at being president just because she’s local born and bred. Alma’s a go-ahead woman with a lot of good ideas, and there’s nothing wrong with a fresh outlook, is there?’

‘What’s this about a quarrel between Ivy and Doris?’ Ivy McGowan and the Kavanaghs were neighbours, living as they did in the row of houses that had once been the village almshouse before being turned into six neat little dwellings with a shared back garden. ‘When did that start?’

‘Oh, a lifetime ago as far as I know. Something about them both falling for the same man – Jinty McDonald’s father, I’ve been told.’

‘So who got him?’

‘If either of them had got him, Robert, she’d have been Jinty’s mother and grandmother to that brood of hers. He married someone else entirely, but Ivy and Doris never got over the loss for all that they both married after he did. And now it looks as though the Rural’s going to have a rocky time ahead. Mark my words, Robert, Moira might well have the touch of an angel when it comes to choux pastry, but she’s not the type of woman to take failure kindly. I can see trouble ahe—’

The phone rang and without thinking Robert reached out to pick up the receiver. What was left of the unwound wool slipped off his other hand and the almost completed ball of wool was twitched from Cissie’s fingers to roll across the floor. Monty, the kitten Robert had given his wife the previous Christmas, appeared from nowhere and went dashing after it.

‘Robert – Monty. Naughty cat!’ Cissie made a dive for the ball, but Monty neatly batted it to one side from beneath his owner’s fingertips.

‘Robert!’

‘I’m on the phone,’ Robert said, beating a hasty retreat to the kitchen with the cordless phone.

It seemed to him that dangerous things such as helping wives wind balls of wool should be on a list given to men considering marriage, not sprung on them when it was too late to change their minds.

‘I am not going to have a blow-up Father Christmas on the roof, or a bunch of reindeer pulling a sled across the front wall of the house,’ Andrew Forsyth said firmly.

‘Are you telling me that I’m going to have to cancel the order at this late stage?’

‘Jenny, you haven’t!’

‘Of course I haven’t, don’t be such a goose! When I said I wanted to make this Christmas the most special ever, I meant inside the house. Lots of decorations – tasteful decorations,’ Jenny added hurriedly as her husband screwed his nose up, ‘and a full Christmas dinner and lots of presents and friends round for drinks, and all the trimmings. I’m celebrating!’ She threw her arms wide. ‘Celebrating you getting over cancer and Maggie beginning to settle in and us being a proper two parent, two children family with a future before us. Call me a sentimental fool—’

‘You’re a sentimental fool, but on the other hand, I can see what you mean. Let’s push the boat out.’

‘Let’s! Remember that guinea pig Calum said he wanted for Christmas? We should get it for him, and a good keyboard for Maggie. She ought to get back to her music lessons, and you can get keyboards with headphones so only the musician can hear what’s being played,’ she added as Andrew frowned slightly. ‘I’ve checked. And that kitten she mentioned as well. It would be nice to have a kitten.’

‘Don’t blame me if the kitten eats the guinea pig and Maggie starts playing horrible rubbishy pop music on her keyboard,’ Andrew grumbled, but she could tell by the slight lift to the corners of his mouth that he was willing to go along with her plans.

‘It won’t and she won’t, and everything will be lovely,’ she assured him, ‘you wait and see!’

She hugged him hard. The past two years had been difficult. Maggie, Jenny’s teenage stepdaughter from a disastrous early marriage, had come to live with them, and had found it hard to settle down in Prior’s Ford; Jenny, Andrew and their young son Calum had suffered considerably from her teenage sulks and tantrums. Then to make things even worse, Andrew had been diagnosed with bowel cancer and had had to undergo chemotherapy, radiotherapy and finally an operation. He had recently been told he was cancer-free, though he would be monitored for the next five years. He was due to return to work in the new year.

As it happened, this new crisis had forced Maggie to think of others instead of herself and, as a result, she was finally beginning to settle into the family, though there was still some way to go.

Jenny was right, Andrew thought as his wife bustled off to the kitchen, singing a Christmas carol even though it was still November. They had a lot to celebrate this Christmas.

* * *

Cissie Kavanagh’s prediction about unrest in the WRI began to come true in early December. When she, Gracie Fisher and Clarissa Ramsay met in the Neurotic Cuckoo the Rural was the main discussion point. The Kavanaghs had gone there for lunch, as had Clarissa, who had had a busy morning turning out her spare room. The pub was quiet, so once the meals had been served and eaten Gracie, Clarissa and Cissie had coffee together while Robert Kavanagh and Joe Fisher talked over a couple of pints at the bar.

‘The meetings are beginning to seem more like minefields,’ Cissie said gloomily and Gracie nodded.

‘You’re right. Alma has her following, and Moira has hers,’ she explained to Clarissa. ‘Moira likes to be in control of every part of her life, including her husband and the Rural, and her nose has been put right out of joint. Now she and her friends criticise everything Alma and her committee say and do. It’s getting beyond a joke. I don’t often get to the meetings, being so busy in the pub, but they’re not the pleasure they used to be. I’m thinking of giving up the Rural.’

‘Don’t do that,’ Cissie said. ‘We need as many neutral members as possible. I’m sure it’ll all settle down eventually.’

‘I’m beginning to feel quite glad that I’ve resisted the attempts to get me to join the WRI,’ Clarissa said thoughtfully.

‘Oh, but it’s a wonderful organisation, isn’t it, Gracie?’

‘Yes it is, and everything was fine before the bickering started. I always thought Alma and Moira liked each other. They’re neighbours, aren’t they?’

‘They are, and they got on well enough before this business, but unfortunately they’re both very competitive. Remember that time you gave the Rural a talk on your travels last April, Clarissa?’

‘Not the rock-cake ladies?’ Clarissa asked, and when Cissie nodded, went on, ‘I do remember, and I don’t think poor Alastair Marshall will ever forget them. He only came with me to show the slides, and nobody told us that speakers were always asked to judge competitions afterwards. I did homemade jams and poor Alastair got landed with the baking competition. When the winner was announced more than one lady glared at him.’

‘Alastair voted Alma the winner, and Moira Melrose and Ivy McGowan were both deeply offended,’ Cissie said. ‘I left the hall with Moira and she informed me that Alastair Marshall was a pleasant enough young man, but he certainly didn’t know his way around a well-made rock-cake.’

‘But surely it was just a little inter-group competition. Why make such a fuss about it?’

‘Hear hear!’ Robert Kavanagh called over, having caught Clarissa’s comments.

‘Just you concentrate on your pint and get on with your male gossiping,’ his wife told him.

‘Women gossip, men talk.’

‘Aye, that’ll be right,’ Cissie said drily, and her husband winked at Clarissa.

‘It’s a matter of seniority,’ Cissie explained, turning her attention back to the matter in hand. ‘Moira’s in her fifties and she’s village born and bred. Alma and George only came here eighteen months ago when he got a job with one of the animal-feed suppliers. She’s in her forties, and a really energetic WRI member. When Alma suddenly put herself forward for president Moira never expected her to get voted in but, unfortunately for her, some of the members were in the mood for a change.’

‘Specially the younger members,’ Gracie added. ‘Alma’s already come up with some good ideas for future events. Personally, I think we’re ready for some new blood.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with new blood,’ Cissie said, ‘but when it comes to spilling it I’m not happy. I just hope that Alma and Moira settle their differences before they’re much older. If Moira can’t accept defeat gracefully the entire Prior’s Ford Rural could be the loser.’

‘So could the Cuckoo’s darts team.’ Gracie glanced at the bar, where her husband was polishing glasses while he and Robert put the world to rights. ‘George Parr and Dave Melrose are both in the team, and Joe doesn’t want to lose either of them. Another coffee?’

‘Not for me, I’d best get back to putting the spare room in order. I got a phone call yesterday from someone I met while I was visiting relatives in America last year,’ Clarissa said. ‘Apparently she’s flying over to the UK soon to see friends in England, and she plans to come to Scotland early next year, starting here, with me.’

‘That’ll be nice for you, seeing your friend again.’

‘I hope so, Gracie. The thing is, she was really the friend of friends and I only met her twice. Isn’t it silly, the way you say things like, “If you’re ever in the UK you must let me know.” I suppose we say it because we don’t really think the other person’s going to take us up on it. But this one has.’

‘You must have liked her in order to say it in the first place,’ Cissie suggested.

‘That’s what I keep telling myself. She was vague as to just when she plans to arrive, so I thought I’d better get the room ready now to save a mad dash when she makes contact. Needless to say, I’ve been using it to store things until I decide where to put them.’

Try as she might, Clarissa couldn’t quite place Amy Rose, the woman who had phoned her a few days ago. The name was vaguely familiar and seemed to be linked in her mind to colours, for some reason. Perhaps it was the surname.

The thing to remember, she told herself as she walked the short distance from the Neurotic Cuckoo to her home, Willow Cottage, was that the Americans were wonderful and generous hosts. And so must she be, when Amy Rose arrived.

Normally the first thing Moira Melrose did when she got back from a Rural meeting was to make a cup of tea. Tea was always part of the meetings, but Moira, convinced the village-hall water was inferior to the water that ran pure and sweet from her kitchen tap, liked to get the taste of the village-hall tea from her palate.

Today, however, before she had even unpinned the hat she always wore when she left the house, she said, ‘Get the loft ladder down, Dave, I want to have a look at the Christmas decorations.’

‘Christmas isn’t for weeks yet,’ her husband protested.

‘I want to see if we’ve got any outside lights.’

‘We’ve never had outside lights.’

‘Those Parrs had the outside of their house all decorated last Christmas, and we’re going to do even better this year.’

‘But you said their place looked common. Like a dog’s dinner, you said!’

‘Ours’ll be tasteful. Nice lights on that tree in the corner of the front garden and things like that.’

‘What’s Alma done to annoy you now?’

‘For one thing, she’s breathing, for another she’s in our village, and for a third, she’s making a right mess of the Rural meetings. They’re just not the same. The loft, Dave!’

‘I can tell you now we don’t have any outside decorations; never have. You need special decorations for outside.’

‘Then we’ll get them. We’ll go into Dumfries on Saturday afternoon and buy some.’

‘There’s a darts game on in the Cuckoo Saturday afternoon.’

‘We’ll go first thing in the morning then.’

‘Who’s goin’ to put them up? I’m gettin’ too old to climb trees!’

‘Our Nancy’s husband’s good at DIY.’ Moira picked up the phone and began to punch in her daughter’s number. ‘He’ll run the show and you can do the fetching and carrying. I’ll get them to do their place up as well. We’ll all go into Dumfries on Saturday. I’ll show that Alma Parr a thing or two!’

To Dave’s horror his wife meant what she said about matching and possibly surpassing the Parrs’ outdoor Christmas decorations. On the following Saturday morning the entire family – Nancy, her husband Paddy and their three young children in their estate car, and Moira and Dave in their Vauxhall – left the village after an early breakfast, to return just before noon with both cars packed. Nancy and Paddy, who lived only half a dozen doors from the Melroses, had enthusiastically taken to the idea of decorating the exterior of their house as well as the interior.

‘Even better,’ Moira said. ‘We’ll have two houses all lit up and they’ll only have the one.’

‘Oh, I’m not bothered about Alma,’ Nancy told her cheerfully. ‘She’s all right; I just fancy having a nice Christmas garden.’

They returned to find George Parr up a ladder, attaching a string of lights to his guttering.

‘Look at that – he’s started on his lights already. We’ve made our move just in time,’ Moira said as Dave stopped the car.

‘Been shopping?’ George called down cheerfully as his neighbours each carried an armful of boxes into their house. Moira ignored him, and as soon as she got her husband indoors she issued him his orders. ‘Now then, you bring in the rest of the stuff while I get us something to eat. Fast as you can – and don’t tell that nosy-parker next door what we’ve bought.’

George was standing on the front lawn, studying the guttering, when Dave returned to the car.

‘Want a hand?’ he called over.

‘Better not, thanks.’ Dave collected another armful and then, glancing swiftly at the windows to make sure his wife was in the kitchen and not watching him, he hurried over to the fence. ‘You’ve got me into a right mess, you have!’

‘What’ve I done?’

‘You and your outside decorations. Now Moira wants us to have the same, only better.’

‘The more the merrier; it’ll brighten the street up. I’ll give you a hand putting ’em up if you like.’

‘You can’t – Moira wants to outdo your missus and I’m not supposed to tell you what we’ve bought.’

‘Why ever not?’

Dave sighed heavily. ‘If you must know, it’s to do with your Alma being made president of the Rural instead of Moira.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘It does to my missus,’ Dave said gloomily.

‘But you and me are in the darts team together – we’ve got to talk to each other.’

‘Of course we will – when Moira’s not around. But you know how it is when women get a bee in their bonnet,’ Dave said uncomfortably. ‘I’ve got to keep the peace. Don’t want to be cold-shouldered in me own house.’ And he hurried off.

‘Daft article!’ Alma said when George told her about the conversation over lunch. ‘And poor old Dave, being told who he can and can’t be friends with. Talk about small minds! Just because she was born here and she’s been president of the Rural twice already she thinks she owns it. I was voted in fair and square and I’ve got lots of plans for this year. And for the decorations, too.’

‘Now don’t you start trying to outdo Moira with our decorations, because me and Dave and young Paddy are good mates, and with us being in the darts team it’d cause all sorts of trouble if we fell out.’

‘What’s Paddy Wishart got to do with it?’

‘Apparently Moira’s got him and Nancy keen to do up their garden too.’

The smile broadened, and became triumphant rather than amused. ‘Well well, so it’s two against one. That’s not a problem for us, is it? I think we’ll pull out all the stops this year, George.’

George eyed her uneasily, past experience reminding him that Alma relished a challenge and hated losing.

‘You’re not going to make a big thing of this, are you? We like brightening up the area at Christmas, but it’s not a competition, love.’

‘Don’t you worry, pet, it’s that Moira Melrose who wants to be cock of the walk, not me. It just so happens we know more about outside decorations than they do. There’s more cauliflower cheese keeping hot in the oven. Fancy another helping?’ Alma asked and when he nodded, she went off to the kitchen, humming ‘Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better’.

Having arrived in the village a mere eighteen months earlier, the Parrs had only spent one Christmas in Myrtle Crescent. On that occasion their exterior deco. . .