‘I’m overwhelmed. It’s more than kind of you, Ford, it’s very generous. We’ve been meaning to buy a new mower but there’s always something more urgent to spend the money on. Our previous verger was deeply attached to it, you see, because his father used it for years when
he
was the verger and . . . well, he always said it was the best for getting between the gravestones. So we’ve never bothered about it.’
‘Well, to save any friction, don’t want to ruffle feathers, we’ll keep the old mower for that very job, between the gravestones, and buy the up-to-date one for the big spaces. We’re having a grave here for the two of us - when we’ve done the paperwork, that is.’
‘You intend staying, then? For good?’
‘Oh, yes. We are. I’ve taken a real fancy to this place, and we intend putting down roots now I’ve retired and sold my business.’
‘What was it?’
‘Metal. Scrap metal. Knew it was the right moment to sell. Copper and lead are fetching small fortunes nowadays. No good selling when the bottom’s dropped out of the market, is it?’
‘Of course not. So you’re a man of leisure, then?’
‘Apart from my hobby, horse-racing. Love it. I shall be able to indulge myself any day I like.’ Ford smiled as he got to his feet.
‘You don’t look old enough to be retired!’
‘I’m not. I’ve made my pile and now I’m going to enjoy spending it. Good morning, Peter. Hope you didn’t mind me popping in?’
‘Not at all.’ Peter checked his watch. ‘Dottie will be coming in with my coffee shortly. Would you like to have one with me?’
‘Thanks, but another day. I want to get off to buy the mower. Very nice to have met you.’
‘It’s been a pleasure. Give me a knock when the mower arrives; I’d like to see it. I’m in my study all day today unless there’s an emergency.’
‘In case someone decides it’s time to die, you mean, and wants to confess all, eh!’
Peter had to smile. ‘Well, I suppose so.’
‘Just in case, as you might say, do you do confessions?’
‘We’re not high church, so we don’t advertise confession as such, but I’m always available. And if you have a problem I’m good at listening, and it’s always entirely confidential.’
‘Right. I’ll remember that.’
The persistent sound of the new mower being put through its paces three hours later couldn’t be ignored. Finally Peter had to go out to see it.
A small crowd had gathered to watch the inauguration of this fantastic piece of twenty-first-century equipment, and in the front stood Willie Biggs, once verger of the parish until digging graves became too much for him and brought about his retirement.
He gave Peter a nod, but said nothing. Peter knew from experience that shortly Willie would burst out with a criticism of modern technology.
Ford was marching rapidly up and down the open green parts of the graveyard, energetically cutting the grass. All the cuttings were caught in the superior bag attached to the mower.
‘Huh! Nobody bought one like this for me! Oh, no. Daft old Willie Biggs had to manage as best he could, and had all the cuttings to collect up after.’
Sylvia Biggs nudged his elbow. ‘Shut up, Willie. You sound just like a grumpy old man. You used to say it made the graveyard look like a superior bowling green it was that good. You were proud of it; you know you were. You should ask for a turn. Where’s it come from anyway?’
Peter said quietly, ‘Ford’s bought it, and I understand a small digger is on order.’
Sylvia smothered a giggle. ‘Whoops! One in the eye for old Fitch, then; he’s supposed to be the benefactor round here. We’ll wait for the balloon to go up.’
Willie laughed. ‘But what about that little old mower? It needs overhauling, it does. Thrown it away, ’ave we? Like me, dispensed with through old age.’
‘Definitely not, Willie. We’re keeping it for cutting between the graves. In any case it was you who wanted to retire, remember? ’
‘Yes, sir, you’re right. Sorry.’
‘I’m fancying a turn. How about you?’
‘Wouldn’t mind.’ The temptation was too great. Willie couldn’t resist, even though he would have preferred to have his tongue ripped out rather than demonstrate any kind of approval.
Peter asked Ford and Zack if he could have a turn. Ford lowered the throttle and stepped aside. ‘Here we are, sir.’ Peter took charge and found himself racing along behind a mower he simply did not feel himself to be in charge of. There was a round of applause when he found how to slow it down and come to a full stop. ‘My word, Ford, but that’s powerful. Willie, come and have a go.’
Willie, more cautious than Peter, went along at a sedate pace, loving its super, up-to-date efficiency. But all he said when he stopped was, ‘It’s not bad.’
‘Not bad?’ Ford was very disappointed; it was as though his wonderful gesture was being thrown back in his face.
‘Yes, like I said, not bad.’
Ford left Zack to carry on mowing and went to speak to Peter. ‘All right, eh?’
‘My word it is. I can’t thank you enough for your generosity. We should have had it years ago. By the way, “not bad” from Willie is high praise indeed. He’s very sparing with his praise, is Willie.’
Ford dug in his jacket pocket. ‘Ah! Right. Thanks. Here’s the receipt and the guarantee, and I’ve written on the back to say the mower’s the property of St Thomas à Becket Church, so there can be no misunderstanding.’
‘I very much appreciate that. Thank you from us all.’ Peter shook hands with Ford to demonstrate openly his approval of him. He knew instinctively that Ford, with his lack of knowledge about the delicate niceties of village life, would not easily be accepted in Turnham Malpas, and it concerned him. ‘Must get back to work. Thanks again. Our treasurer will be delighted.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Hugh Neal. He and his brother have offices in Culworth. They’re the church auditors.’
‘Neal? We bought the house from a Liz Neal.’
‘Hugh is one of her sons; he’s in charge of the family firm since his father died.’
‘I’m looking for an accountant in the area. I might try them.’
‘You could do worse. Good afternoon, and thanks again.’
Peter left Ford propped against a grave with a look of extreme satisfaction on his face, watching Zack enjoying his new toy, and Peter wished his self-satisfaction was not quite so evident. That kind of thing got the village annoyed. Yes, they’d accept Ford’s generosity, as they’d accepted Craddock Fitch’s all these years, but Craddock had learned to keep his self-satisfaction under wraps when he was in public. It was a lesson Ford had better learn, and quickly.
The whole matter was aired in the pub that night, and opinions varied. There was extreme annoyance at the length of time they’d had to put up with the racket the mower made, simply because Zack was enjoying himself so much he was mowing parts of the churchyard that hadn’t seen a mower of any kind ever since he became verger. The other side of the argument was if Ford Barclay thought they were all going to fall over themselves with gratitude at his generosity he’d another think coming. If he wanted to throw money about, that was his choice, but he needn’t think he’d wheedle his way into their affections by looking so
pleased
with his own generosity.
Willie, always up front with his opinions, said sharply, ‘What is it they say in the Bible: “Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth”? Well, he showed us with both his left and his right how wonderful he was for buying that massive machine. Stood there full of himself admiring the blasted thing, he did.’ Willie took a long drink from his home-brew and looked about him for approval. Getting no response, he added, ‘What they’ve never thought about is that it’s too big to go in the shed!’ Willie positively cackled at Ford Barclay’s predicament, and all the people sitting at the same table roared with laughter.
Wiping her eyes, Dottie said, ‘One thing leads to another . . . and another by the looks of it! But it must be heaven-sent to Zack.’
‘All right for you, living down Shepherd’s Hill. We’ve got to put up with it, and does it make a racket!’
Vera Wright took a sip of her gin and tonic before saying, ‘But it can’t take an age to cut the grass. After all, the churchyard isn’t
that
big.’
Sylvia said, ‘I happened to look at the clock when the racket started and he didn’t stop using it for one hour and twenty-three minutes. I know ’cos I timed it.’
‘One hour and twenty-three minutes? Did he cut everybody else’s grass, too?’
‘No,’ said Willie, ‘but he did cut all the difficult bits that have been growing longer and longer ever since he took over from me. This damn thing does the lot. And if Ford NatWest thinks he’s going to . . . that was my ankle you kicked, Dottie . . . what’s up?’
To Willie’s horror Dottie was saying, ‘Good evening, Mr Barclay. Coming to join us?’
‘Uncommonly kind of you, Dottie. I’ll pull up another table and join it on to yours, because Mercedes is with me. That’ll make it more friendly, won’t it?’
Dottie blushed when she found out she was on first-name terms with this huge man who had all the makings of being public enemy number one.
By coincidence, all those at the table were at the point with their drinks when someone was going to have to get the second round in. In the hustle of moving a table and joining it on, and finding two extra chairs, no one offered.
So it fell to Ford to offer. Dottie introduced everyone and as they shook hands they said, ‘And mine’s a home-brew’, or whatever they fancied. As Ford was about to head off to the bar, Mercedes put in an appearance.
It would have been untrue to say she was a fine figure of a woman, because she wasn’t. She was scarcely less obese than Ford, and short with it. Sylvia guessed she’d be just over five feet tall, which cruelly emphasised her girth. Dottie judged her make-up excessive, Vera thought her clothes too loud to be permitted, and Vera’s Don decided she was common. But she had the sweetest smile, which compensated a little for all her drawbacks. She brought up the subject of the mower while Ford was buying the drinks.
‘Ford is so pleased to be able to do a good turn for poor old Zack. He’s delighted with the mower, he really is. Always looking for a chance to do good deeds, is my Ford.’
Willie, determined to put the boot in, said, ‘Has he realised it won’t go in the churchyard shed?’
Mercedes turned her large, slightly prominent hazel eyes on Willie and gave him a huge wink. ‘Of course, Willie. You’re Willie, aren’t you? There’s no flies on my Ford. New shed arriving Thursday.’ She smiled so sweetly at him that Willie almost knocked over his glass. Sylvia neatly retrieved it for him.
‘Oh! Right, well, that’s good. I’m pleased he’s realised.’ And strangely enough, he
was
pleased, because there was something about those hazel eyes that had nothing whatsoever to do with her lavish make-up and her outrageous gaudy clothes. It was almost as though there was a sweet, pleasing, much younger woman behind the lurid façade.
Ford came back with the drinks and handed them out without a falter, as though he’d known them all for years. The time sped by because they were thoroughly enjoying themselves, mostly listening to Ford’s tales of his exploits at racecourses all over the country. Don and Willie between them got the next round in, Dottie and Mercedes the next, then Ford happened to mention that he and the wife were going to the races on Saturday. Would any of them like to go?
Within minutes, everyone had agreed.
Everyone ready for the off outside Glebe House at eleven-thirty, right?’
They all nodded.
‘Will we be in time for the start?’
‘Of course, Sylvia. I’ll see to that. You’ll love it there. Very friendly and the food - mmwah.’ Ford bunched his fingers, put them to his lips and kissed them.
Rather tentatively, Sylvia said, thinking of the expense, ‘Would sandwiches be out of place?’