Village Matters

Book 0: TURNHAM MALPAS

by Rebecca Shaw

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas; Romance

Synopsis

The third Turnham Malpas novel from bestselling author Rebecca Shaw. Times are changing in Turnham Malpas... Brash Craddock Fitch up at the Big House seems determined to make his mark on the village - and the village is determined to put him in his place. Sir Ralph is having trouble adjusting to his more modest status, and timid Muriel to her exalted one, while a change of fortune surprises Jimmy Glover too. It's all Jimbo Charter-Plackett, fount of all gossip, can do to keep up. But these concerns are eclipsed by tragedy when Flick, Jimbo's daughter, is knocked down by the unpopular barman Alan. And before the shock of the accident has passed, a bitter dispute springs up that could affect the entire village...

Release date: December 30, 2010

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 272

Sample

Peter shivered in the cold morning air. His prayers finished he got stiffly to his feet, stood back from the little altar in the war memorial chapel and crossed himself. At seven o’clock on a spring morning the church was certainly chilly. The old mediaeval stone walls kept the church cold right through the year, even in the hottest summer.

He went to stand in front of the main altar and looked around his church. Soon he’d have been in Turnham Malpas two whole years. When he’d first come here he hadn’t realised how attached to the place he would become. He loved the deep colours of the stained glass windows, the ancient tombs slumbering there through the centuries, the banners, withering away at their posts for almost as many years, and the lovely country graveyard which was as much a part of St Thomas à Becket as the church itself. Still treading the village paths were people whose ancestors had for generations rested so peacefully within the precincts of this consecrated place. There was an ongoing feel about a village church, stretching back through the years and on into the future with an amazing sense of permanence. A city church didn’t have quite the same feel about it.

He began to add up all the things he had achieved since his arrival. The Rectory cleaned and decorated and modernised and refurnished, the Scout troup, the Brownies and Girl Guides, the Luncheon Club for the pensioners, the women’s meeting, the play group . . . for a moment his face clouded. The play group. That brought Suzy Meadows to mind. She’d still perhaps have been here running it if they . . . But they had and they shouldn’t have. He still couldn’t avoid the pain somewhere around his diaphragm. It knifed deep into his gut when he thought of her. No, it wasn’t the thought of her as such, it was the thought of the crushing pain he’d inflicted on his darling Caroline which caused his agony. When she’d begged him to adopt the twins Suzy had given birth to because of him, he had thought he would die of it. But now he’d only to see their beaming smiles, feel their tiny hands grasping his, feel their soft sweet flesh against his own, and he knew Caroline had been right. It was the only course open. They were his, after all.

He glanced at his watch. Time he was off.

Peter’s running shoes made no sound as he marched purposefully down the aisle to the main door. He carefully locked it behind him, checked it was secure, and then stripped off his tracksuit and placed it in a plastic carrier bag he kept for the purpose, under the bench in the porch. Underneath he wore his old college running vest and a pair of navy rugger shorts. He hid the huge key beside the grave he and the verger, Willie Biggs, had decided upon, and set off down the path. Jimbo Charter-Plackett was limbering up by the lych gate. Jimbo had been running with him for some time now and the flab he’d been anxious to lose was beginning to go. He was still a less fit looking man than Peter, for Jimbo was older, shorter, rounder and going bald: in contrast Peter was a good six inches taller, with an excellent head of blond hair, and an athlete’s physique.

‘Morning Peter. Lovely fresh day, isn’t it?’

‘Morning Jimbo. It surely is.’ The two of them did their stretching exercises together and then at a nod from Jimbo they set off down Church Lane, then right into Jacks Lane and onto the spare land. Half way round their three-mile circuit was a five-barred gate where they always stopped for a chat. It led into a huge field and from it they had a view of Sykes Wood. It was a vast ancient wood, once part of a king’s hunting forest, but belonging to Turnham House for the last three hundred years and possibly more. To one side where the trees were not quite so tall, the chimneys of the Big House could just be seen. After he’d wiped the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his running vest, Peter nodded towards them.

‘Catering contract working out OK then, Jimbo?’

‘It is. At least the money’s more reliable than it was when it was the Health Club. Fitch plc certainly pays up on the dot, thank goodness.’

‘Nice chap, is he?’

‘Like all chairmen of big companies he thinks the world revolves round him, and his word is law, but as he knows I was a City man myself I do get a bit of respect for my opinions. They certainly do a good job with their staff training up there. Cracking computer equipment, video, cinema stuff and the rest. Technology gone berserk. That Jeremy Mayer’s strutting around throwing his weight about, completely forgetting how grateful he should be that he’s managed to sell on to Fitch and still keep a roof over his head.’

‘What does Venetia do?’

‘Mrs Venetia Mayer organises the leisure time for the staff, and Mrs Venetia Mayer organises diversions in the leisure department for the chairman of the company I think, but don’t quote me. I’ve a soft spot for Venetia despite her permanent come-hither look.’

Peter laughed. ‘Come on then, I’ve got school prayers at nine, must get back.’ They turned to go, Peter leading the way.

Jimbo followed on, thinking about his jobs for the day. First, on his way home, he’d stand outside his Store and appraise the window displays. Each window had to be changed alternate weeks. Thinking up new ideas for them was a pain, but it was one of his rules. It had to be done. No fly-blown displays with bleached crepe paper hanging loose for Jimbo. Oh no! That kind of thing belonged to the 1950s, not the 1990s. Just recently with the opening of the training centre at Turnham House there’d been quite a few young trainees in, spending their money, another boost to the profits, and summertime was always good, his sales curve went ever upward with the money spent by the visitors to the church and the old stocks on the green. In fact all told, this year looked good. The mail-order business was booming, due to some clever advertising thought up by Harriet, his outside catering was also booming and the Store itself, the hub of it all, was also doing better than he and Harriet could ever have imagined.

What next could he turn his hand to, to make money? By Jove he was going to need it, with this new baby on the way. He gave a skip and a jump when he thought about the baby. Not bad for a forty-one-year-old chap. Number four. And Harriet so well, and he’d keep her that way. More help. Yes, he’d need more help. Peter turned round to wave and continued on to the rectory, Jimbo nodded and turned down Stocks Row and round the green to his house. The windows! He’d forgotten the windows. He turned back and went to stand outside his Store. Easter. Easter. Fluffy chicks. Yellow ribbons. Chocolate eggs. A raffle? Huge great egg as the prize. That’d bring ’em in. Just get them in and they’d be buying other things beside the raffle tickets. Twenty-five pence each and five for a pound. Maybe twenty pence each, six for a pound, some of the villagers weren’t that well off. He’d work out on his calculator how many he’d have to sell to break even, and then decide. Full of ideas he was this morning. Full of ’em.

‘It’s only me! Harriet!’ The front door slammed shut. He stood, leaning on the hall table trying to get his breath. Sweat was pouring off his face and he wiped it with the sweat bands he wore on his wrists. Flick had bought them for him for Christmas. His dear little Flick. She came dancing down the stairs at that moment.

‘Hello, Daddy, I’m not going to kiss you, you’re all smelly and disgusting.’ She wrinkled her nose and headed for the kitchen. ‘Mummy! Daddy’s back. You boys hurry up, your porridge is ready.’ Flick seated herself at the table and watched her two brothers pretending to box. ‘Men do find some funny things to entertain themselves with, don’t they, Mummy?’

Harriet laughed. ‘They certainly do!’ She glanced up and saw Jimbo grinning at her from the doorway. ‘Quick Jimbo, get under the shower – I can smell the sweat from here.’

‘Thanks a million! A chap’s doing his best to keep fit and his womenfolk do nothing but complain.’

‘I’ve been thinking about an Easter raffle.’

‘So have I. Great minds!’

‘Boys come along now, that’s enough. On your chairs. Look, Flick’s already seated.’

‘Trust her.’ Finlay shouted as he dodged another blow from Fergus.

‘Miss Goody Two Shoes! Miss Goody Two Shoes!’!’ Fergus danced around the back of Flick’s chair tormenting her. Tears began to well in her eyes and Harriet put a stop to the teasing.

She indicated his chair with a sharp finger. ‘Enough. Thanks. That’s enough! Sit down and eat.’

By the time Jimbo came downstairs the children had disappeared to clean their teeth – or so Harriet hoped – and he sat down to his bowl of muesli, his orange juice and wholemeal toast.

‘Coffee or tea this morning?’

‘Tea, please. I thought about a huge Easter egg for the first prize.’

‘So did I. We get on remarkably well together in business, don’t we Jimbo?’

‘Yes, we do. And we don’t get bored with each other. It would be so easy to be bored to death seeing each other at work and at home. Feeling OK?’

‘Of course. I’ve never felt better than this time. Linda has another appointment at the dentist’s tomorrow. Will you manage?’

‘Yes, I expect so. Hope this is the last one for a while.’

‘It is, the poor girl can’t help an abscess, can she?’

‘No, I suppose not. More tea, darling, please. I’m going up to the Big House this morning, just to keep an eye on things. Will you be around?’

‘As ever.’

Jimbo stood up from the table. ‘I’m off then. Don’t overdo it will you, Harriet? I couldn’t bear it if things went wrong.’ Harriet stopped clearing the table and took time to look at him intently. ‘You’re all I’ve got, you know,’ he said.

She reached across to kiss him. ‘I know. I know. Believe me I will take care, but I mustn’t be mollycoddled. That’s not my scene.’

‘See you then.’ He went to the foot of the stairs and called up. ‘Daddy’s going now. Bye you lot.’

Flick shouted downstairs, her voice impeded by her toothbrush. ‘Bye Daddy, have a nice day.’ Jimbo winced at the Americanism. ‘Bye now. See you later, Harriet.’

‘OK.’

The weather was good for the time of year. Jimmy Glover’s geese were out and about as usual. They were grazing close to the edge of the green. He wondered if it was true that they were as good as a dog for protecting their owners. They looked remarkably relaxed this morning. But as he came closer and paused to watch them, the geese began to stretch their necks and honk menacingly. Two of them left the grass and came onto the road, their beaks, on a level with Jimbo’s knees, opened threateningly. He shouted and skipped a few steps to avoid them, waving his arms; they lost interest and left him to press on. Blessed geese, if he had his way . . . Then he caught sight of his Store and his heart swelled with pride. He’d turned it round and no mistake. He remembered the depressing aspect of it when he and Harriet had first come to Turnham Malpas to view it. They’d looked at each other and mouthed ‘No’, but old Mrs Thornton had noticed, and they’d felt obliged to show some interest.

At the time the shop had been Mrs Thornton’s front room. The stock was almost non-existent, the trade negligible. But once they’d realised that the cottage next door was for sale too, Harriet had grown enthusiastic. Now look at it. Jimbo took the keys from his pocket and opened up. He picked up the bundle of newspapers from the shop doorway, moved the two advertising boards out onto the tarmac, checked to see that the litter bin by the seat he’d provided wasn’t overflowing, noticed the telephone box needed a clear out, and then entered his domain.

Quarter past eight. He was late. It was half an hour before Linda would come to open up the post office section, so after he’d laid the newspapers out on their shelf ready for sale, he decided to begin collecting Easter eggs and all the paraphernalia he needed for dressing the window. Scissors, measuring tape, sellotape, drawing pins, stapler, ribbons, yellow and white crepe paper, silver paper. First, though, he’d dismantle the current display. But his plan was thwarted, his first customer entered. The little brass bell jingled furiously.

‘Morning Willie. Come to collect your paper?’

‘Yes.’ Willie went to help himself. Took it to the till and handed Jimbo the exact money.

‘Keep thinking we shall be hearing wedding bells for you, Willie, but you don’t seem to have set a date, or have you?’

‘Sylvia and I are taking our time about it. We’re not in a great bursting hurry like we would be if we were younger.’

‘Well, there’s one thing being the verger, you won’t have any problems making the arrangements. Will Sylvia keep working at the rectory?’

‘Oh yes, she enjoys that job, much better than at the hospital. Mrs Rector couldn’t manage without her, not yet. I’ll be off, rector’s got all sorts of plans for Easter so we’re having a conference today.’ Willie went briskly out, leaving Jimbo confident that Willie knew exactly when he was getting married but he wasn’t saying.

Arranging the windows was very therapeutic for Jimbo and he rapidly became absorbed in his work. The bell jingled again and in came his three children.

‘Daddy, it’s only us. We’ve come for something for playtime.’ Jimbo reversed out of the window and went to supervise their choices. They were never allowed simply to help themselves, they always had to pay for whatever they chose. His mother-in-law laughed at his insistence on the matter, but he knew he was right. ‘That’s twenty-three pence for you Fergus, twenty-two for you Flick, and thirty, thirty? for you Finlay. That’s a bit excessive isn’t it?’

‘Well, Daddy, we should really be getting them for free you know, it is our shop.’

‘I’m not debating that question this morning Finlay, we’ve had it all out before. Out! Out!’

As they went out his mother-in-law, Sadie, came in. ‘Bye darlings, be good.’

‘Bye Grandma!’

‘Good morning Jimbo. That word “Grandma” makes me wince, I start fumbling for my pince-nez.’

‘You’re early.’

‘Do I detect a hint of sarcasm there?’

‘No, no, not at all, but you are!’

‘Well, I’ve lots to do today. Being in charge of the mail order doesn’t give me much time to spare. Did that woman come with the jars of marmalade yesterday? She promised she’d have them made by Thursday last week.’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘Thank God for that. I hate letting our customers down. I’ll have coffee when you’re ready.’ Jimbo groaned. He’d never get the window started. He began refreshing the coffee machine he kept in constant readiness for his customers. Just as he switched it on the door burst open and in came Pat Duckett from the school. Under her coat she had her school cleaning apron on, and her thick hair was standing on end, almost as though she’d used her head on the school hall floor, instead of her polishing mop. In her hand she clutched the school keys.

Pushing back her hair she whispered, ‘Mr Charter-Plackett! Have yer got a minute? I haven’t slept a wink all night for worrying. Can we go in the back where we won’t be ’eard?’

‘Heavens above, Pat, what’s the matter?’

‘It’s that Mr Fitch, yer know, Mr Fitch plc? He’s stealing the church silver and I don’t know what to do about it.’

Jimbo took her into the store room at the back and sat her on his stool. He removed his boater, and laid it on a nearby shelf. Seating himself on an empty mineral-water crate, he said. ‘Now what’s it all about?’

‘Well, yer know I went up to the Big House last night to ’elp out, with that waitress being off with the ’flu? Well, there was a right flap on. ’Ave to admit I made it my business to find out, ’cos I’m a bit of a nosy Parker like you are.’ Jimbo began protesting but then admitted to himself he did like to hear all the latest gossip.

‘Apparently,’ Pat took a deep breath, ‘apparently they’d been doing some more alterations. Don’t know if you’ve ’eard but Mr Fitch is ’aving some rooms done up for a private flat for himself, anyway this room he fancied for a sitting room, he calls it ’is drawing room but we all know it’s where ’e’s going to sit, he starts examining the panelling. Beautiful it is, really old, bit of woodworm here and there and he wanted to get it done. Starts tapping the panelling and finds that one bit sounds ‘oller.’

‘Oller?’

‘Yer know, no wall at the back, empty like. Anyway when ’e stands back to look ’e sees that that piece of panelling is a bit different from the rest, as if it ’ad been put in later. Course, he couldn’t bear, ’as to have a look. Well, he gets the carpenter to remove this piece of panelling and lo and behold there’s like a small room. An alcove thing. No windows, just a space and there, low and behold in cardboard boxes, stuff wrapped in old newspapers. They drag ’em out and believe it or believe it not it’s all old silver things in there.’

‘Whose silver things? Sir Ralph’s?’

‘I’m just coming to that. Apparently he gets unwrapping the newspapers and finds communion cups, two big silver plates, for like propping up on the altar, a pair of beautiful candlesticks, wonderful ones, and one that big, when the pieces are fixed together it stands on the floor. All really old. Well, he looks at the dates on the newspapers and they’re dated June 1940!’

‘June 1940?’

‘June 1940. Yes, but, and ’ere’s what’s up, he says he’s bought the house so they belong to him and he’s going to sell them to help with the cost of his alterations!’

Linda came in. ‘Hi! Mr Charter-Plackett, just wondered where you were. I’ll carry on.’

‘Yes, thanks, Linda. Won’t be a minute.’ Bemused, Jimbo didn’t answer Pat for a moment. Had Fitch got a point here? He had bought the house, did everything in it belong to him? But church silver, he could hardly sell it. Could he?

‘Look Pat, I’ve got to get on, there’s only Linda and me this morning till Harriet gets here. Keep all this under your hat. Come back at lunchtime after you’ve finished at the school and we’ll have another talk.’

‘But it could be urgent. Yer know what a go-getter ’e is, it could all be sold by tonight. Then what would we do? The rector’s going to be none too pleased, is he? What I can’t understand is why it’s there in the first place. Why isn’t it in the church?’

‘I don’t know, Pat.’ He stood up to retrieve his boater from the shelf. ‘Look, I still think we’ve got time. I’m due up at the Big House later this morning, I’ll have a scout around and see what I come up with. Leave it with me.’

‘Will you tell the rector?’

‘Or perhaps we should tell Sir Ralph, after all his family still owned it in 1940 didn’t they?’

‘Did they? Yes, I expect they did. I’ll call after I’ve washed up the dinner things. Right?’

‘Right!’

‘See yer then. Yer can understand why I’m worried, can’t yer? If the village finds out what he’s done there’ll be hell to play.’

Jimbo placed his boater at a jaunty angle and led the way into the front shop. Linda was trying to serve and deal with the post office too, so for the moment he had to put the whole story to the back of his mind.

Jimbo dropped down to third gear as he went up the long drive to Turnham House. He loved sauntering up the drive, taking in the feel of the place. It mattered not one jot that it had been a children’s home then a health club and now a training centre, the old house with its parkland and gardens still had dignity and beauty. Try as they might, the twentieth-century entrepreneurs hadn’t spoilt that ambience. One mile long, exactly. He’d measured on his milometer. As he rounded the last curve the lovely old redbrick house came into view. The Big House. Even the village people who hadn’t been born when Sir Ralph’s mother had to sell because of Ralph’s father’s death in the War, still looked upon it as the hub of the village. He drew to a halt on the freshly laid gravel at the front of the house and, climbing out, left the car unlocked and went inside. Give him his due, Fitch had retained the lovely entrance hall in its entirety, and had had the sensitivity to place . . .