Authors: Ann Purser
CHAPTER FORTY -EIGHT
The wood was dank and cold, the wind penetrating through the leafless trees and scattering leaf skeletons, whipping them up in a frenzy and then letting them fall lifeless. It seemed to Peggy, plodding miserably through the mud and brambles that she was caught up in some rustic danse macabre. Only the wind and its victims moved in the wood. Everything else was hiding, hibernating, closed off from the lingering winter.
No colour, no life, no scurrying animals and birds, just a middle-aged woman walking like an idiot through a chilly wood, and nobody to meet at the end of it. Peggy had been unable to stay indoors after the shop shut, and had without thinking walked on and on, and now here she was, in the familiar clearing, wrapping her scarf round her ears and staring over the village below.
She stood still for a few moments, knowing that Bill was nowhere near, but hoping that by some miracle he would come up behind her, put his hands gently over her eyes and kiss the back of her neck.
Nothing caressed her but the cold wind, however, and she made her way back to the road, downcast and convinced that this was the end. She dared not think how she would manage. It had been Bill's strength she had leaned on after Frank's death, but Joyce had staked her claim, once and for all, it seemed. Now we shall see, she thought, slipping around on the muddy road, if I can cope on my own, really on my own.
The weather had not improved next day, and Peggy shivered as she awoke, not having warmed up properly all night. For a few seconds she sleepily planned to stoke up the Rayburn and make a casserole for her supper, mentally adding warm layers to the clothes she would wear in the shop.
Then she was wide awake and remembering that she had still heard nothing more from Bill. The heavy grey sky allowed scarcely any light into her bedroom, and she pulled on a dressing-gown and slippers and went down to the kitchen, turning on the radio for the news.
It was the regular religious homily, and a honey-voiced bishop was exhorting constancy and belief in a world full of paradox and suffering. 'Oh ye of little faith,' he said, as Peggy filled the kettle and put a piece of bread in the toaster.
'Faith?' she said aloud, setting down a plate of fish for Gilbert, who began eating hungrily. 'Faith? Faith in whom? Am I supposed to have faith in Bill, trust all the things he's said to me in the past, wait patiently until Joyce releases him, if ever?' She sat down at the table, poured a dish of cereal and began to eat.
'Or,' she said, putting down her spoon and reaching out to turn off the confident voice, 'or should I recognise Bill's duty to be faithful to his wife, in sickness, and tell him to bugger off? Which he appears to have done, anyway ...'
It was a monotonous morning in the shop, and the rumour of Susan Standing's pregnancy, now rife in the village, had superseded Joyce's drama, so that no one mentioned it, and Peggy heard no further developments. She went through her duties mechanically, making several mistakes in the Post Office and apologising for short changing Nigel Brooks on his weekly purchase of butter mints for Sophie.
The shop was empty when the telephone rang, and Peggy grabbed it. But it wasn't Bill; it was Olive Bates, checking on the big order for the wedding. Olive was doing all the cooking herself, had been baking for weeks, and the big freezer in the barn was nearly full.
Peggy put down the telephone with a sigh, and as she did so the shop door opened and Ivy Beasley came in with a chilly rush of air and an expression to match.
'Bottle of lemon barley,' she said, with no preliminary polite greeting.
Peggy put the bottle on the counter, and took Ivy's money.
Dare I ask her, she thought, and then, because she was desperate, said, 'Is that for Joyce Turner? How is she?'
Ivy was taken aback. She thought she could be in and out of the shop in minutes, and be on her way to get a lift with Robert into Tresham, where she planned to visit the hospital.
She turned, and seemed about to leave the shop without answering, but then hesitated and said, 'Not good, they say. Lost her memory. Doesn't know where she is. Didn't recognise Bill.' Her staccato delivery was like a hail of bullets and Peggy flinched. At the door, Ivy turned again and looked directly at Peggy, meeting her eyes fiercely.
'Best not to interfere,' she said. 'There's been enough damage done, one way and another.'
That's it, then, thought Peggy, and suddenly desperately wanted to put her arms round Bill and comfort him. Surely he must need her? Well, there was no way of finding out, what with Ringford rules and the impossibility of going to him.
Ivy Beasley stood at the gate of the hospital, looking up at the old, ornate building, and remembered her mother's last days. It had been a grim time, with Mother losing her power of speech, so that Ivy could only guess from her eyes what she wanted to say.
She squared her shoulders and marched up to the reception area, asking for Joyce's ward, and then walking more quietly along the shiny, antiseptic-smelling corridors.
'Good afternoon!' said Joyce. 'How nice of you to come and see me.'
She smiled brightly at Ivy, who knew at once that Joyce had no idea who she was.
'I brought you this,' she said, thrusting the bottle of lemon barley water at Joyce, who took it with elaborate thanks and put it on her bedside locker.
What on earth am I going to say to her? thought Ivy
Beasley, whose small talk was limited to Ringford doings and sayings. Since Joyce was clearly temporarily round the twist, these would be of little use. But it was easier than she thought. Joyce chatted on about films she had seen and clothes she had bought, and all Ivy had to do was nod and agree with her.
'You got plenty of magazines to look at, then, Joyce?' she said, gathering up her gloves and scarf.
Joyce stared at Ivy Beasley, her face suddenly rigid with fear, and began to scream.
The word 'magazines' had struck a terrifying, jarring note in Joyce's private world, reminding her of painful reality back at Macmillan Gardens. Nurses came running, and Joyce just went on staring at Ivy, screaming louder and louder.
Ivy hastily put on her coat and ran from the ward, her heart thumping. She didn't stop running until she was out of earshot of the dreadful screams and then she sat down on a row of chairs outside the baby clinic, surrounded by young mothers and tiny babies. She sat there until her heart slowed down and then she walked unsteadily out of the hospital and down to the busy market place where she had arranged to meet Robert.
Nigel and Sophie Brooks were hunting for old Welsh Gaudy pottery among the junk stalls in Tresham market. Sophie had been given a jug, vivid with rich blue and orange splodgy designs, and had begun to collect other pieces in a casual way. They were hard to find, and in antique shops commanded high prices. But Sophie had found an odd coffee cup on one of Tresham market stalls for a couple of pounds, and had ever since kept her eyes open.
'Look Sophie!' said Nigel. He pointed to a hideous vase, lavishly decorated with gilt and purple pansies. 'My mother had one just like that. Goodness, that takes me back.' He put his
arm round Sophie's shoulders, and they strolled on, idly picking up and putting down pieces of pottery, but not finding any Welsh Gaudy.
'Not my lucky day,' said Sophie. 'Let's go and get a cup of tea.'
They walked down the cobbled way between the stalls, and emerged by a cafe on the corner. Outside, looking frozen and pale, stood Ivy Beasley, clutching her handbag tightly to her, and staring anxiously up and down the street.
Nigel, his arm linked with Sophie's, felt her stiffen.
'Miss Beasley!' he said. 'You look like the maiden all forlorn standing there. Come in and have a cup of tea with us and warm up. The wind is really cold this afternoon.'
He tightened his hold on Sophie's arm and propelled her into the cafe, looking back to make sure Ivy Beasley followed. But she hadn't, and he saw Sophie safely into a chair and went back to find her.
'No thank you, Vicar,' she said, 'I'm waiting for Robert Bates, and don't want to miss him.'
'We shall see him from our table,' said Nigel. 'Come on, Miss Beasley, come in and have a quick cup. If the worst happens, we can run you home. You won't be abandoned.'
Ivy looked at him out of the corner of her eye, undecided and adrift. She glanced once more along the street, then turned and followed him in.
Sophie smiled at her weakly, and they sat in uneasy silence while Nigel went to fetch tea from the counter.
'Have you been to see Joyce Turner?' said Nigel, setting down the steaming cups. 'Must go myself in a day or two. Best to give her time to settle down. Folks don't always want to see the vicar when they've had a bad time! How did she seem to you, Miss Beasley?'
Ivy Dorothy Beasley took a sip of the hot tea, and began to cry, very quietly and unobtrusively, delicately dabbing at her cheeks with her mother's lace handkerchief. While Nigel stared at her in dismay, Sophie hesitated, then put out a hand and gently patted Ivy's rough, red one.
'It'll be all right, Miss Beasley,' she said. 'Don't worry; these things usually sort themselves out, in the end.'
CHAPTER FORTY -NINE
The weeks leading up to the wedding day had been hectic ones for Olive Bates and Mandy. The air cleared between them, aided by a few well-chosen words from Ivy Beasley to Olive, and they had worked together, arranging the presents, completing the cooking and sorting out last-minute problems. Mandy's mother had drifted in and out, saying how lovely everything was, but not helping much. This suited Olive well, and she happily took over masterminding the whole thing, still with some misgivings about Mandy's suitability to be Robert's wife, but she kept these to herself.
Then, with one week to go, Fred Mills's old, bedridden sister in Macmillan Gardens died, and because of Nigel's many commitments in his other parishes, the funeral was fixed for the afternoon before the wedding.
'How do you expect us to do the flowers?' said Olive desperately to Nigel Brooks. 'Me and Mandy have got it all planned to do them on the Friday afternoon, so as to be nice and fresh for Saturday.'
In the shop, Peggy listened sympathetically as Olive told Ellen Biggs that it was the last straw, and she couldn't see why an old body who was dead anyway couldn't wait for another day or two before being tucked away below ground.
'After all,' she said, 'if we'd got a dead sheep and a decent cold store it could be in there more'n a week with no problems.'
Peggy raised her eyebrows. 'Not quite the same, Mrs Bates, is it?' she said. All we need now, she thought, is for old Fred to emerge from behind the cornflakes.
'So you got to do them Saturday morning?' said Ellen.
Olive nodded. 'As if anybody could make a good job of them a few hours before the wedding! Not to mention the million and one jobs I shall have to do up the farm. I really don't know what to do, and poor Mandy is at her wits' end.'
'Couldn't you arrange the flowers on Friday morning, before the funeral?' said Peggy. 'They'd still be nice and fresh for Saturday.'
'Who ever heard of a church full of flowers for a funeral?' said Olive. 'No, Mrs Palmer, that's no solution, and I shall tell Reverend Brooks he's got to think of some other way.'
'Friday evenin'?' said Ellen.
'Ted's asked all the Bates’s from Waltonby over for a bite,' said Olive. 'Mandy's having a night out with the girls from the salon, and Robert's doing God knows what with the Young Farmers.'
Jean Jenkins had come into the shop, and behind her Doris Ashbourne, and now the problem was thrashed out once more from the beginning.
'Well,' said Doris the peacemaker, 'I don't see why you can't have flowers at a funeral. Fred's sister was very fond of flowers. He always grew a bed of tobacco plants under her window so's she could smell them on summer evenings.'
Olive snorted. 'First of all, our Doris,' she said, 'it's not summer, and second, Fred's sister's doing no more smelling.'
'It would please Fred, though,' said Peggy, allying herself with Doris.
'Peggy's right,' said Jean Jenkins, blowing on her cold, red fingers. 'Fred's not making much of losing his sister, but I reckon he must be very miserable inside. Might cheer him up a bit, having lots of flowers instead of a three-parts empty church and a couple of wreaths. There's not many of them Millses left now, you know.'
By now, the shop was full. When the door opened and Nigel Brooks edged in, complete silence greeted him.
'Morning, Nigel,' Peggy said. 'Just the person we need.'
Nigel smiled at her tentatively. He wasn't relishing another village crisis, and the atmosphere in the shop was electric.
'I've always been hoping someone would say that to me,' he said, with a small laugh. 'How can I help?'
He looked around and saw Olive Bates glaring at him, and knew what it was all about. But he waited for Peggy to continue.
'We were all very sorry to hear about Fred's sister,' she began diplomatically. Nigel nodded and muttered some soothing words.
'Pity, though,' she said, 'that the funeral will hinder the wedding arrangements.' She paused and looked encouragingly at Nigel.
He sighed. 'The flowers, you mean.' He looked at Olive Bates, and smiled apologetically. 'Have you any suggestions, Mrs Bates, how we might resolve this one?'
Everybody spoke at once. Then they all stopped and looked at each other, and it was Ellen Biggs who took the initiative. 'Do 'em on Friday morning, and let Fred's sister go in a blaze o' glory,' she said.
They all looked at Nigel, who looked at Peggy. She nodded, and said, 'What a good idea, Ellen. I am sure there would be no objections, and Mrs Bates is a wonderful flower arranger.'
Olive put her head on one side and pursed her lips, but Peggy could see she was pleased with the compliment.
'Fine,' said Nigel, 'the perfect solution. And won't old Fred be pleased? He could do with a bit of comfort, poor old chap. Shall we say any time from half past eight Friday morning, then, Mrs Bates?'
Olive Bates grudgingly agreed, and then began to plan it all with growing enthusiasm.
'Anyway,' she said, 'it'll save me sending a wreath.'
*
The wedding day dawned over Tresham with grey skies and a light drizzle. Mandy got out of bed and stared out of the window, her heart sinking. The weather forecaster had hedged his bets, prophesying that anything might happen.
'Rain before seven, fine before eleven,' said Mandy's mother, coming in with a mug of tea and putting it on the bedside table. She took Mandy's dressing-gown off the hook on the back of the door and wrapped it round her daughter's thin shoulders.
'Why don't you bring your tea in with us?' she said. 'Dad's still in bed, and we can all have a little chat.'
Mandy couldn't think of anything she would like less, but she followed her mother into the front bedroom and sat awkwardly at the bottom of the bed, sipping the hot tea.
'Don't worry, Mandy,' said her father, 'it'll clear up. Trust your old dad.'
For no logical reason, this cheered up Mandy. He'd always been the one to bathe grazed knees and fight her battles with the other kids in the street, and now she half believed that he could work one final miracle for her.
The morning passed quietly, and Mandy's friend from the salon came in and did her hair and nails. They fetched filled rolls from the shop on the corner for a quick lunch.
'Can't have you fainting in the aisle,' said Mandy's mother, encouraging her to eat.
By the time the limousine coasted to a halt outside the house, Mandy was ready and quite calm.
'There you are, my dear,' said her father, as they came out of the front door, waved to the neighbours, and walked down the garden path. 'Told you it would clear up,' he said, and the sun shone warm on his balding head and broad shoulders.
The bells in the ancient tower of Round Ringford church had got into their stride, William and Warren among the ringers, and pulling for all they were worth. The rhythm had settled down, and it was an exciting, heart-warming sound.
At the church gate a small crowd had gathered, and were gossiping and spreading false sightings of the arrival of the bridal car.
'That ain't it,' said Renata Roberts. 'That's Mandy Butler's mother. She's a smart woman, ain't she,' she added wistfully, as Mrs Butler walked up the church path, her high heels clicking on the stone paving, her lilac suit and small, veiled hat receiving warm approval from the crowd.
Mrs Ross had walked down from the Bagley Road on her own, her little dog safely tucked under her arm, and now stood a little apart, smiling at the other gossiping women. Old Fred, somehow frailer since his sister's passing, leaned on his stick and puffed at his evil pipe. He'd had a word with Olive Bates, said how much his sister would have appreciated the flowers, and promised to come and see Robert and his bride. Octavia Jones perched on her bike, one foot on the ground, scowling at the guests as they arrived, and criticising their outfits to her friend, Tanya Bright. She had expected her heart to be breaking, but as she stood there chatting to Tanya and her handsome brother, she discovered it wasn't. The wedding ceremony had taken Robert finally out of her reach. It was a bit of a relief, really.
Robert and his best man, John Barnett from Walnut Farm, stood just inside the church porch, waiting to go in. They looked resplendent, if a little ill at ease, in their grey morning suits, worn by special request from Mrs Butler.
'I don't care if nobody else wears them,' she said. 'It just looks so much better in the photographs.'
Inside the church, the winter light filtering through the old grey glass windows fell on white flowers and green foliage arranged by Olive Bates in posies on the pew ends, curving in swathes round the pulpit, filling the font, rising in fountains of ivy and chrysanthemums on the chancel steps, and paying homage in a vase of carnations and fern beneath the plaque commemorating Ted Bates's uncle, lost on a battlefield in Northern France.
Ellen, Doris and Ivy sat in a pew three rows from the back of the church, Doris and Ivy respectably dressed in smart suits and blouses. Ivy's hair was done in the new way, and she had put a pink silk rose in the band of her grey felt hat. Several times at home she'd tried it this way and that, and then taken it out again, listening to the scolding, critical voice of her
mother, but finally she'd marched out of the house, banging the front door in defiance, the pink rose still in place.
Ellen Biggs was a triumph. From the wide-brimmed black straw hat, lavishly decorated with scarlet poppies, to her black patent boots, laced very loosely, she was a riot of colour. A royal-blue coat, bought for someone a lot taller, reached to her ankles, and because it was still not spring, Ellen had added the scarlet mohair scarf, which tickled her neck and chin, but made her feel deliciously festive. She was having a wonderful time, spotting Bates family members she hadn't seen for years, and pointing them out loudly to an embarrassed Doris Ashbourne.
Ivy was quiet, and when Robert and John walked self-consciously up the aisle and took their places in the front pew, her heart lurched. But she said nothing, just frowned at Ellen and put her finger to her lips in a fruitless attempt to shut her up.
In the back pew, up against the chill, damp stone wall of the church, Peggy Palmer sat on her own, refusing Doreen's offer to sit in the Price pew. Her hands in her best navy-blue coat pockets were tightly clenched and icy cold. Days had passed and she had not once seen Bill alone, serving him in the shop like a casual acquaintance, asking after Joyce and receiving monosyllabic answers. She had not thought the hurt would be so bad. It was like losing Frank all over again. She had considered not coming to the wedding, inventing a bad migraine, ducking out of it. But then she remembered Robert's kindness after he had found Frank's crushed car, and couldn't lie to him, not on his wedding day.
There was a rustle in the church, as footsteps were heard coming up the path. But it wasn't the bridal party; it was Bill Turner in his best suit, his head up and shoulders back. He walked firmly in, looked around, declined the guiding hand of the usher, and made his way to the back pew, where he sat down next to Peggy. He looked straight at her, for the first time for weeks, and took her small cold hand in his.
'Peggy?' he whispered.
'Bill,' she said, and the relief was overwhelming.
Gabriella Jones received a mysterious signal from somewhere, and brought the meandering, time-filling music to a close. She launched on the bridal voluntary which had accompanied countless brides up the aisle in Ringford church, and all heads turned to look at the door.
Mandy, framed by the arched porch, was a floating cloud of white tulle. She walked in slowly, small and fragile on the arm of her proud father. Her dress was shimmering satin, trimmed with frills of lace and ribbon bows. Bunches of dark red rosebuds had been sewn on her wide, crinoline skirt, and the long veil was anchored with a circlet of the same dark red flowers. It was romance of the highest order, and all that Mrs Butler could desire. Mandy, on her day of days, was an enchanted princess.
Robert's nervous smile, when he saw her standing beside him, broadened with delight, and the service began.
Nigel had done his splendid best for Mandy and Robert, handsome and dignified in his smooth black cassock, crisp white surplice and brocade cope. Once more Ivy's pulse quickened, but she opened her service sheet, and sang solidly out of tune, giving nothing away.
'Well I'm blowed,' said Ellen, in a hoarse whisper, as Greg Jones approached the lectern for the reading. It had been Nigel's idea, and Robert had been willing enough to extend a hand of friendship.
'He might not want to do it, Mandy,' Robert had said, 'him having that defect, and that, but Reverend Brooks says it would be a nice thing to ask.'
Greg had been very touched, but had indeed thought of refusing with an excuse, knowing all eyes would be on him in the church. Then he thought of Robert, and what a nice lad he was, and how they'd upset him over Octavia. So he had accepted the challenge, and rehearsed the passage thoroughly, with Gabriella's help.
The great words of St Paul to the Corinthians rang out, and nobody cared about Greg's odd tone of voice.