Authors: Ann Purser
CHAPTER FORTY -SIX
Several days had gone by since the Ringford Newsletter had hit the streets, and Greg's article had fuelled village gossip. Reaction had been mixed, from Jean and Foxy Jenkins threatening to bang Brooks's and Jones's heads together, to Mr and Mrs Ross refusing to speak to anyone about it in case they should be thought to be taking sides.
'Why 'e can't come straight out with it, face to face, like a man, I don't know,' said Fred Mills, leaning on his gate and chatting to Michael Roberts. 'No need for all that fancy stuffin’ the Newsletter, takin' up all the space. My gardenin' tips were squashed into a bit of a corner.'
'I know what I'd do with 'er, that Gabriella Jones, I'd put 'er over my knee and -'
'Oh yeh,' said Fred. 'We all know what you'd do with 'er. It ain't Mrs Jones I worry about. Not that I lose much sleep over any of' em, but it don't seem fair on that poor vicar chap. He ain't been here five minutes, but what he's under fire from several quarters.'
Michael Roberts nodded, and reached out to cuff William ritually round the ear as he went by on his bike. Bill Turner came out of his gate on the opposite side of Macmillan Gardens, and the three men nodded a greeting.
'And as far as I can see, Reverend Brooks ain't done nothing wrong,' continued Fred. ' 'E's bin a bit of a silly bugger, but that ain't no crime. Forget the whole thing, and give him another chance, that's what I say.' He heaved his fork over his bent shoulder, and left Michael Roberts standing at the gate, with no chance to reply.
Up at the vicarage, Nigel and Sophie worked hard and spoke little. Sophie was busy with domesticity and long walks with Ricky. In the evenings she knitted small garments and watched television, occasionally switching it off in disgust, but always turning on the radio or playing a music tape, not wanting a silence between them.
'The best thing we can do,' Nigel had said that evening when Peggy came to warn them, 'is ignore it. The more you prolong these things with accusations and denials, the longer it takes for the whole thing to be forgotten.'
He went about the parishes, comforting the sick and dying, rejoicing with proud parents at the arrival of new babies, planning his confirmation classes and a revived church choir. His confidence seemed totally restored. Surely, thought Sophie, the sight of Nigel flying round the village in his black cape, Superman of the Church of England, will quell the rumours and restore his position in the village. She felt herself slowly recovering, getting back to normal.
But alone in his study, Nigel brooded on the cold, monosyllabic conversations with Gabriella, and the sight of Greg crossing the road to avoid him was like a wound that would not heal. He prayed for guidance, and knew that the answer was patience. It was not one of his strong suits, patience, and he spent far too much time plotting ways of healing the rift instead of thinking out his sermons.
'Not quite back to the old Nigel,' said Richard Standing to Susan after morning service on Sunday. 'The sermon was a bit simple-minded, I thought. Not much to think about there.' He handed Susan carefully into the passenger seat of the car, and they drove off for lunch with Richard's brother over at Fletching.
'Did you notice anything different about Susan Standing?' Doreen Price walked down the little path from the church with Peggy. It was a grey morning, heavy layers of fog hanging over the wooded hills, and a thick claustrophobic mist enveloping the Green. The air was quite still, not a breath of wind to stir the trees.
'No,' said Peggy, 'but I did think Mr Richard was fussing over her more than usual. Not the usual marching out of church with his little wife following meekly behind.'
'Yes, well,' said Doreen, 'there was something about the way she got into the car. Don't laugh, but I think she's pregnant.'
'What!' said Peggy. 'But she must be past it, surely?'
'Need not be,' said Doreen. 'Their son's only nineteen, and she was very young when she came to Ringford. Had her twenty-first after they were married. She's not more than forty, forty-one.'
'Oh, Doreen, do you really think so?' said Peggy, feeling excited. It was just what was needed in the village, after all the doom and gloom of the Brooks affair. And even the Bates wedding was rumoured to be having problems.
'I'm not taking bets,' said Doreen, 'but you can treat me to a box of chocolates if I'm right. Come on, now, Peggy, step out, the beef will be overdone and Tom hates that. You sure you won't eat with us?'
Peggy shook her head and thanked Doreen, but said that she had a lot of work to do in the stock room and this afternoon was her only chance. This was partly true, but she had also told Bill that he could come round and fix a broken window catch in the sitting room.
As she opened the side gate and bent down to greet Gilbert, Peggy heard a shout from the road.
'Peggy! Can you spare a moment?'
It was Greg Jones, standing with one foot on the ground, the other on his bicycle pedal. He had been for a ride in the fog, and droplets of moisture clung to his hair and beard.
Peggy stood leaning on the gate, not making any move towards opening it, and waited as he crossed to her side of the road.
'What is it, Greg?' she said. Ever since the article in the Newsletter she had avoided the Joneses. Maybe right was on Greg's side, but it was on Nigel's too. It was a conflict without a guilty party, unless you looked at the real root of it, and that lurked, if anywhere, in Victoria Villa.
Old Ivy was on a better wicket with me and Bill, thought Peggy. At least we are obviously guilty.
'We were wondering if you would like to come to supper some time?' said Greg, nervously clicking his gears. 'Gabriella's been a bit low lately, and we've decided to do more socialising in the village.'
Peggy was taken aback. She had lived in the village for nearly two years, and the Joneses had never asked her to supper before, not even after Frank died. She thought quickly, and thanked him kindly, saying she was rather busy at the moment, but perhaps in a few weeks' time it would be very nice.
He nodded, complimented her on the creamy white magnolia in her garden- 'Amazing, isn't it, how those great waxy blossoms come out so early!'- and rode off on his bike towards Barnstones.
Peggy made herself a quick omelette with three cracked eggs from the shop, and sat at the kitchen table, eating and reading the Sunday newspaper at the same time. Solitary meals were not much fun, not like when she and Frank lingered over the roast and chatted about the shop and the village, relishing Sunday's peace and quiet. It had been her favourite time of the week, and now she got it out of the way as soon as possible.
Stacking and sorting in the stock room absorbed her attention, and it was only when she heard Ivy chopping wood next door that she looked at her watch. Half past three, and Bill had said he'd be round soon after two. Peggy finished unpacking a large, slithery polythene pack of toilet rolls, and went back into the kitchen. She washed her hands and looked again at the old clock over the Rayburn. A quarter to four, and no Bill.
She stared out of the window, up and down the street. A breeze had sprung up, and the mist had cleared. Small patches of blue sky allowed momentary shafts of sunlight to warm up the village. Gemma and Amy Jenkins were walking hand in hand along the side of the Green, prim and neat in their new dark blue raincoats. Behind them came Warren, obviously deputed to keep an eye on them, but unable to resist occasional running passes with his football up and down the pavement, and round the empty seat under the chestnut tree.
But no Bill.
Well, I'm not going to worry, thought Peggy. He must have been held up. He wouldn't forget, and there's no way for me to find out what's happened. She reflected on the impossibility of ringing up the Turners and asking to speak to Bill.
Better just get on with something, and put it out of my mind, she thought. I shall see him tomorrow, sure to.
Bill sat in the reception office of St Lucien's, waiting to see the doctor. He was used to crises and dramas with Joyce, but this afternoon had been a nightmare. He'd cooked a nice lunch, and she had thrown it at him. After he'd cleared up the mess, he'd said he had to go out for an hour or so, and she had exploded. It had been a real explosion, thought Bill, a horrible, frightening explosion with poor Joyce at the centre of it all. In the Sunday quiet of the hospital reception office, he went over and over the past couple of hours and felt again the terror of seeing Joyce in the grip of a fierce convulsion.
He had been in the kitchen, clearing up, when he heard her scream. It was a different scream from usual, high and full of fear. He had rushed into the sitting room to see her fall, hitting her head on the fireplace's tiled surround. Then the convulsions had begun, racking her poor body. Not realising what was happening, he had put his arms round her, trying to contain the awful jerking. It finally quietened, and he looked at her face, calling her name. Joyce! Joycey! Her eyes were shut, and she was blue. Then she stopped breathing, and he had panicked, trying to remember from long-distant first-aid classes what was the right thing to do.
After an interminable time of stillness and silence, she suddenly gulped in a choking mouthful of air and began to breathe again. He had held her close, stroking her face and saying her name over and over again. When she opened her eyes and looked about her in a dazed, blinded way, he had laid her gently down on the sofa and gone to ring for an ambulance.
'Mr Turner?' Bill looked up and saw a young doctor in a white coat, holding a blue file and smiling kindly at him. 'Mrs Turner is sleeping quite peacefully now,' he said. 'You can go in and sit with her for a while.'
Bill stood up. 'When can I take her home?' he said.
'Not today,' said the doctor. 'We need to keep her in overnight, do a few tests, that sort of thing. You can telephone tomorrow, and then we shall have something more definite for you.'
Bill handed over the battered canvas bag containing Joyce's pitifully few, scruffy belongings, and made his way into the ward, where he almost walked past Joyce's bed, not recognising her exhausted face on the pillow.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The day was one of those deceiving February miracles, when the sun shines warmly and pigeons swoop in pairs, crooning and keening, pretending that it's spring and seeing off marauding suitors.
It isn't really spring, thought Peggy, brushing down the yard and trying to avoid Gilbert, who followed the broom in a ridiculous, kitten-like game. We could still get snow, she thought with a shiver. And in the yard, hidden from the sun, it was cold and damp.
She took her broom through the shop and out to the pavement, where she brushed up the previous day's litter and muttered about children who couldn't be bothered to use the wire basket provided.
'Lovely morning, Mrs Palmer.' She looked up quickly, but it wasn't Bill. He wouldn't call her Mrs Palmer, anyway. It was Mr Ross, walking his little dog and tapping the ground smartly with his stick as he disappeared swiftly into the Bagley Road.
Peggy stood in the sun, looking across the Green to the willows glowing orange where their long, whippy shoots moved in the light wind. The roofs of the Hall showed clearly today, not a trace of mist. Smoke rose vigorously from one of the chimneys, and Peggy wondered if Susan Standing was feeling sick this morning.
The hunt is meeting at Fletching today, Peggy's thoughts wandered on inconsequentially. I expect we shall have them all riding through later on, horse dollops all over the road and the hounds rooting in people's gardens. I must make sure the side gate is shut.
She heard the telephone ringing in the shop, and ran up the steps to answer it. It stopped as she picked up the receiver, and she frowned. Didn't give me much time, whoever it was, she thought. Probably Susan Standing wondering if I happened to be going that way, maybe I could possibly take half a pound of butter as they have run out.
She unlocked the till, and made the Post Office cubicle ready for the day. Nearly nine o'clock, might as well open up. Peggy drew the blinds on the shop door and the big window, and sunshine streamed in, taking off the overnight chill and glinting on the plate-glass window of the cubicle.
The telephone began to ring again, and Peggy walked quickly across the shop to answer it.
'Peggy?' It was Bill, and Peggy knew instantly that something was wrong. He was not in a telephone box, and he would never normally ring her from home. She perched on the edge of the stool behind the counter, listening without interruption.
'... so I'm just off to see her at St Lucien's,' Bill said. 'They're doing tests, and I should get some news. Must go, Peggy, I know she's going to be terrified in there, a strange hospital and all those people...'
Peggy said all the right things, and put the telephone down feeling cold and dismal. Bill's voice had been distant, his mind on the still, pathetic figure in a hospital bed. Joyce has won, Peggy thought, and then was horrified at her reaction to a terrible experience for the poor woman.
It was, of course, the chief topic of conversation in the shop all morning, and those who hadn't heard were swiftly informed by those who had. Peggy had the difficult task of appearing objectively sympathetic, while her concern for Bill and herself mounted to near panic by lunchtime.
She gave Gilbert a saucer of milk, and walked down to the bottom of the garden, where a patch of golden crocuses shone in the weak sunlight. The fields around Walnut Farm in the distance were empty. It was too early in the season for the beasts to be out, and the sun lit up bare branches and leafless hedges. Peggy unbuttoned her cardigan and turned to go back into the house. She saw Ivy Beasley hanging out washing, pillowcases and sheets, sensible knickers and an icy white nightdress. Peggy walked along the garden path, ignoring her neighbour, not expecting any conversation.
But Ivy Beasley had seen her, and, smartly elevating the washing line with an old wooden prop, she called, 'I expect you've heard the news, Mrs Palmer?'
Peggy hesitated. She was tempted to carry on as if she hadn't heard, but that would be childish and silly. She turned and looked over the hedge to where Ivy stood, hands on hips, feet squarely placed on the concrete yard.
'Yes,' said Peggy, not bothering to pretend. 'Very worrying, poor Mrs Turner.' She took a step towards the safety of the house, but Ivy Beasley hadn't finished.
'You'll remember what I said on Gardens Open Day, Mrs Palmer,' she continued. 'You can drive a person too far.'
Then she turned her back on Peggy, picked up the empty washing basket and disappeared into Victoria Villa.
Could've been worse, thought Peggy, nibbling at a piece of cheese in her kitchen, and waiting for the kettle to boil. At least she spared me the worst of her poisonous tongue.
She sat down at the table, and sipped hot tea, rejecting the biscuits and cheese she had put out for herself.
And, what's more, Ivy's right. Joyce Turner has been driven over the edge from the sound of it, and I have played a part in it. Oh God, Bill, I'm so sorry, sorry for us all, but most of all for me.
The shop bell jangled, and a voice called 'Shop!' Peggy got up slowly, and found Mr Richard helping himself to a half pound of butter.
'We've just run out,' he said, 'and Mrs Standing fancies hot buttered toast for tea ...'
*
The hospital ward had been divided into cosy bays, with a large television set at one end and cheerful prints on the walls, brightening the clinical atmosphere. There were flowers and cards everywhere.
Joyce was sitting up eating grapes, colourful curtains either side of her, half drawn to give her privacy. She looked at Bill without any sign of recognition.
'Good morning!' she said, brightly.
'Joycey?' he said uncertainly, handing her a bunch of freesias bought from a stall outside the hospital.
'What a lovely morning,' said Joyce, in a high, social voice.
She laughed, a thin, tinkly sound, and patted her neatly brushed hair.
Bill had seen no staff when he arrived in the ward, and had walked on until he found Joyce's bed. Now a nurse bustled up, and took the flowers from him.
'We must find a vase for those,' she said. 'Aren't they lovely, Mrs Turner?' And then she turned with her back to Joyce and said, in a quiet voice, 'Will you come to my office for a moment, Mr Turner, just a little word?'
Sister's desk was neatly organised, with piles of notes and files, and a small pot of purple African violets placed on a mat in one corner. She indicated a chair for Bill, and then sat down herself, clasping her hands tidily in her lap. Her pleasant, round face looked kind, and Bill waited for her to speak.
'It's absolutely nothing to worry about, Mr Turner,' she said, 'but we think Mrs Turner may have a slight memory lapse, quite common after a convulsion of that magnitude. She seems very happy occupying another world at the moment, and we must just humour her gently.'
'She's escaped,' said Bill quietly.
'I beg your pardon?' said the Sister, leaning forward.
'I reckon she's escaped,' he repeated. 'She was very unhappy at home, has been for years. It's her way out.' He sat hunched and miserable, and Sister walked over and patted him on the shoulder.
'Don't worry,' she said. 'When she's gained some strength, we plan to move her to Merryfields for a week or two. If you are right, Mr Turner, she needs some help, and they have the resources there to give it.'
Bill returned to sit with Joyce, and for a while he listened as she prattled on about shopping and children, and making sure she'd left a note for the milkman. It was as if he were a total stranger, called casually to enquire after her health. He rose to go, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. She looked up at him with a surprised smile.
'Well, thank you, kind sir!' she said, and waved to him as he walked quickly out of the ward.
Bill collected some chicken feed from the warehouse in Tresham, called in at a pub by the river for a pint and a sandwich, and then drove reluctantly back to Round Ringford. He dreaded the questions and the village concern. Most of all, he realised, he dreaded seeing Peggy. It was all different now, all changed.
He turned into Macmillan Gardens and parked outside his house. There was nobody about, and he walked quickly into the garden and let himself in at the back door. It was quiet, very quiet. He went through to the front room and saw Joyce's toy bear, on his back with his paws in the air, where he had fallen from her arms.
Bill walked over to the window, and drew back the layers of curtains, pulled them all back until the light flooded the room. Then he took the bear and sat him on the windowsill, looking out.
'There you are,' he said. 'You can sit there and wait for her.'
Then he went around the rest of the house, drawing curtains and opening windows, letting in light and fresh air.
Ivy Beasley, walking along on the opposite side of the Gardens to call on Doris Ashbourne, saw Bill at the window, and was shocked.
'He hasn't wasted much time,' she said, as Doris opened her door. 'There's no end to the wickedness of man, is there?'