Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
ALSO BY REBECCA SHAW
Barleybridge novels
A Country Affair
Country Wives
Country Lovers
Country Passions
One Hot Country Summer
Turnham Malpas novels
The New Rector
Talk of the Village
Village Matters
The Village Show
Village Secrets
Scandal in the Village
Village Gossip
Trouble in the Village
Village Dilemma
Intrigue in the Village
Whispers in the Village
A Village Feud
The Village Green Affair
REBECCA SHAW
Orion
www.orionbooks.co.uk
An Orion ebook
First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Orion Books,
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
London WC2H 9EA
An Hachette Livre UK Company
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Rebecca Shaw 2008
The moral right of Rebecca Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
eISBN 978 1 4091 0627 2
www.orionbooks.co.uk
This ebook produced by Jouve, France
INHABITANTS OF TURNHAM MALPAS
Willie Biggs
Sylvia Biggs
James ( Jimbo) Charter-Plackett
Harriet Charter-Plackett
Fergus, Finlay, Flick and Fran
Katherine Charter-Plackett
Alan Crimble
Linda Crimble
Lewis Crimble
Maggie Dobbs
H. Craddock Fitch
Kate Fitch
Jimmy Glover
Gilbert Johns
Louise Johns
Mrs Jones
Vince Jones
Barry Jones
Pat Jones
Dean and Michelle
Revd Peter Harris MA (Oxon)
Dr Caroline Harris
Alex and Beth
Marcus March
Alice March
Retired verger
His wife
Owner of the Village Store
His wife
Their children
Jimbo’s mother
Barman at the Royal Oak
His wife
Their son
School caretaker
Owner of Turnham House
Village school headteacher
Taxi driver
Church choirmaster
His wife
A village gossip
Her husband
Her son and estate carpenter
Barry’s wife
Barry and Pat’s children
Rector of the parish
His wife
Their children
Writer
Musician
Jeremy Mayer
Venetia Mayer
Neville Neal
Liz Neal
Tom Nicholls
Evie Nicholls
Anne Parkin
Sir Ralph Templeton
Lady Muriel Templeton
Dicky & Georgie Tutt
Bel Tutt
Don Wright
Vera Wright
Rhett Wright
Manager at Turnham House
His wife
Accountant and church
treasurer
His wife
Assistant in the Store
His wife
Retired secretary
Retired from the diplomatic
service
His wife
Licensees at the Royal Oak
Assistant in the Village Store
Maintenance engineer (now
retired)
Cleaner at the nursing home
in Penny Fawcett
Their grandson
Chapter 1
The stranger was already sitting on the bench outside the Royal Oak when the first bright streaks of dawn appeared in the east. It was a typical early morning in that part of the country: a slight mist lying over the fields; cows already in their milking parlours; the cocks crowing; the early traffic booming along the bypass; and the birds singing their morning hymn. Malcolm the milkman, who didn’t speak until he’d been delivering milk for at least two hours, gave him the briefest of nods as he left a full crate outside the pub door.
Beginning his schedule of opening up the Village Store, Tom propped the door wide open. Blinds up, lights on, newspapers heaved in from the door step, coffee machine started up for those who bought their breakfast in the Store before leaving for work in Culworth, and finally a general look around to make sure everything was in smart order for the day.
The stranger stretched his long legs out in front of him, locking his ankles together, and observed the ancient village waking up. He noted the geese by their pond beginning to take notice of the new day by flexing their wings. Yes, this was the place, he thought. The thatched roofs and the cottages crouching round the green would attract everyone, and the best part about it was there were no signs of the twenty-first century; not an aerial, not a lamppost, not a billboard, not a house number, not a telephone
line, nothing to mar the beautiful thirteenth-century ambience. Best of all there were the stocks. Believe it or believe it not, they were complete, top and bottom, and untouched by any modern repairs. In addition, the whole of Culworth was waiting just eight miles away to make it a success. The pub, not yet stirring, would provide the victuals. Very handy, that. The punters always needed food and drink.
In the man’s inside pocket was information which would knock the villagers sideways if they tried to stop him. That was the advantage of being a lapsed historian. He knew exactly where to go to find old deeds and agreements; old, very old, information about the land. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his corduroy jacket and pulled out a copy of the fourteenth-century deed agreed by one of the first Templetons at the Big House. He smoothed his fingers over the old writing, relishing the antique spelling and the elaborate language, a smile curving his long mouth, illuminating his face.
A shadow flashed past him and a loud ‘good morning’ broke the peace. God! He was a big chap.
The runner broke step, turned back and looked down at him.
The man on the bench was shaken by the runner’s expression. It was . . . he’d have liked to use the word ‘h
eavenly’ or even ‘angelic’ but that was ridiculous. Compassionate, perhaps, sounded more realistic. Whatever it was, it shook him.
‘Good morning, sir. Nice village you have here, sir.’
‘Indeed. Can’t stop, though. Just starting my morning run.’ The runner took in the beard, the dark brown corduroy trousers and jacket, the slightly frayed tweedy shirt, the ancient walking boots. ‘I see you’re not inclined to my way of greeting the day.’ He smiled.
And again there was that strange feeling of otherworldliness. ‘Not my scene.’
‘A visitor, are you?’
The tall man got a nod for his answer. He smiled again. ‘Well, must be on my way or I shan’t be back in time for breakfast.’ He nodded a goodbye and left, picking up his pace without effort.
The stranger watched him circle the green and continue on down . . . now what was it? Ah! Yes, that was Shepherds Hill.
But someone else took his eye. She was opening the gate into the school playground. A well-rounded woman, short and energetic, wearing trainers, bright red cropped trousers and a sleeveless matching top, just right for the promise the weather held for the rest of the day. Caretaker, no doubt. He’d wait a while longer though, see what the day still had to bring.
There was a continuous stream of people entering the Village Store. First a trickle of shoppers collecting their newspapers and bits and pieces, carrying their takeaway coffees and rolls to their cars, then the mothers, after dropping their children off at the school - that made quite a rush - then a steady stream, and quite a collection of people who stayed to gossip outside on the pavement where a seat had been placed and the post box stood. The local bus stopped briefly right outside the Store, the driver clearly impatient to be off to the bright lights of Culworth. Now that was handy, a bus right where he needed it. And, yes, the Store was a big draw. He rubbed his hands in glee. Turnham Malpas was more active than he’d realized; all to the good, so far as he was concerned.
His long reverie was broken by the drawing back of the bolts on the pub door, allowing a short, thin chap to put out a sandwich board on the pavement announcing they were serving coffee. Like Tom in the Store, he propped open the door and, at the same time, took in the crate of milk. The man on the bench felt that was somehow symptomatic of the whole village, a certain openness. Coffee! Now that was an idea. Languidly he picked up the small haversack he’d dropped beside the bench and went in to the pub.
From the outside he could see that it was very old, and he almost dreaded going in because he feared being disillusioned by finding the pub had been modernized inside. To his relief it hadn’t. The huge inglenook fireplace was genuine, and the horse brasses, the warming pan and the farm implements on the old brick walls looked as though they’d grown there. Genuine through and through. Wonderful. Because of all that, he liked the publican even before he spoke to him; evidently he had good taste. He found a settle, took off his cap, pushed his fingers through his hair and called across, ‘A coffee, landlord, if you please.’
While he waited he ran his hand along the gleaming well-worn table in front of the settle, feeling, as much as seeing, the history which felt to ooze from every joint. It shone smooth with years and years of polishing. He ran his fingers along the curved arm of the settle several times and fingered the small bowl of flowers, which proved to be genuine. Miraculously, a tray appeared, tastefully laid with a small silver coffee pot, silver cream jug and sugar basin, and a paper napkin.
Dicky discreetly left a bill with the tray, saying, ‘Enjoy,’ before he made to disappear.
‘Landlord! I don’t suppose you have a fresh croissant to go with this?’
‘Name’s Dicky, and yes we have. New round here?’
‘I am.’
‘Won’t be two minutes.’
The coffee was gloriously welcome and the croissant, when it came, was so fresh it might have been served in a pavement café on the Champs-Elysées. Utterly wonderful.
The stranger picked up a menu from the table. It was a clear attempt to wheedle you from the bar into the small restaurant, signposted by an arrow and the name Georgie’s Restaurant fastened to a low-lying beam above the bar. He began to smile. The licensed trade was obviously very much alert to modern day needs. No fly-blown pork pies on a doily for them, nor yesterday’s egg and cress sandwiches under a plastic dome. He thought he might try lunch there. Just a chance to meet people, see what made them tick before he launched this new project. His spirits rose.
Just then the outside door burst open and a woman entered backwards, staggering under the weight of a large cardboard box.
‘It’s me, Dicky,’ she shouted. ‘Brought you the flyers for the Scout jumble sale, Neville brought them home last night.’
Then she let the door slam shut after her, and, as she turned round, he saw her full face. He was stunned, staggered almost, by what appeared to him to be her startling good looks. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but wholesome and, he sensed, spirited. This was the first time since . . . Marie . . . he’d felt so enthralled by a woman. He gave no outward sign of his shock, though unexpectedly, his heart bounded, but she, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice he was there.
Dicky appeared through the door that led into the back. He took the box from her. ‘Thanks, Liz. I was coming across for them later, once I’d set up. Thank Neville for me, greatly appreciated.’
‘Not at all, it’s a pleasure.’ The Liz person waved cheerily. ‘Au revoir! Must get back to the nursery. Be seeing you!’ She left at speed.
The stranger, quietly eating his croissant and drinking his excellent coffee, was left alone to still his racing heart.
Liz Neal sprinted back to the church hall to begin story-time. She loved this part of the morning, when the children gathered round her and her assistant Angie Turner put out the mid-morning snacks for them all. Running the playgroup might not be the occupation thought appropriate for the smart wife of the premier chartered accountant in Culworth, but she’d given up worrying herself about that. She loved doing it, and it was the nearest she would ever get to being qualified at anything because the years had gone by and Liz hadn’t bothered herself about a career when she was growing up. Her mother had said, ‘An attractive girl like you will have a husband and a nice house and a family. You don’t need to train for a career.’ So she hadn’t, and at nineteen she’d met Neville Neal, an ambitious, self-obsessed newly qualified accountant. Her parents had lent them the money for him to set up his own business and they’d never looked back. Well, at least Neville had never looked back, but occasionally Liz did and wished ... oh, how she wished.
She picked up the story of Goldilocks from the book corner because the children knew it and loved the lines they could repeat without her help, and adored the illustrations.
‘“Who’s sleeping in my bed,” said Baby Bear?’ they all bawled.
By the time the story was finished the children were ready for their milk and fruit, and Liz and Angie for their coffee.
Angie slurped a good mouthful from her mug before she spoke. ‘I know some of them can be naughty just like my twins were - are - full of energy from morning to night, but you can’t help but love ’em, can yer?’
‘No. Have you thought any more about that course I want you to go on?’
‘Is that kind of thing for me? Really, I mean . . . they’ll all be so clever.’
Liz raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘And you’re not?’
Angie looked embarrassed. ‘Well, you know I never did well at school, not ever. I’d make a fool of myself.’
‘Angie Turner! You would not. You took to this job brilliantly. Within a week you were making constructive suggestions. Remember? Your finger right on the pulse. So I’m putting you forward.’ She glanced round the children to check that they were happy just in time to see one of the girls pour all her milk over Toby.
‘Sara! What are you thinking of ? Toby has his own milk, he doesn’t need yours.’ Angie had already pulled a cle
an shirt from the ‘spares box’ and was stripping off Toby’s soaking shirt.
‘See what I mean?’ said Liz. ‘I’m definitely putting your name down. The very best thing of all is that you never lose your temper.’
Angie grinned at her. ‘All right then, I’ll give it a turn.’ Secretly she was delighted by Liz’s conviction that she would do well.
Liz smiled her delight at Angie’s decision. ‘Well, there we are. That’s good. You see, I might change my mind and decide to leave the nursery, and then you could step into my shoes.’
‘Me? In charge? I don’t think so.’
‘You’ve got to have some belief in yourself. Where were you when self-worth was given out? Right at the back of the queue, I guess. Well, forget it, now’s the time to move forward. Children! Toilets and then out to play. Off you go. Come along.’
‘I’ll clear up.’
Liz shook her head. ‘No, I’ll clear up, you go and supervise them.’
While she rinsed the plates, threw the paper cups into the bin and wiped the tables, Liz remembered that Neville, unusually, would be home for lunch. Neville. If she could have seen her own face Liz would have been horrified. The mention of her husband’s name had made her look to have sucked hard on a lemon. Her lovely brown eyes had gone hard, her sweet mouth painfully twisted and her nose wrinkled with disgust. In two weeks it would be their silver wedding anniversary, and the huge affair Neville had made of it was embarrassing. A quiet get-together at the George with close friends would have been enough for her, but no, seventy guests, many she didn’t even know, a small band for dancing, a bar, gifts for every one, a table to display their own gifts. Liz shuddered . . . And there was nothing at all to tempt Hugh and Guy to attend, for there were no invitations to a few of their twenty-something friends to make it more enjoyable for them.