“We’ve had more turnover than Tesco’s,” Tony Dibson said, catching sight of the vicar. He was pushing his wheelchair-bound wife up the uneven path, just as he did every Sunday for morning service. She listened while the bell ringers, including Tony, rang out the peals, if a little unevenly, across the surrounding countryside. “Come
The vicar, smoothing his wiry hair in front of the small, cracked mirror in the vestry, wished the call was answered by more people than the elderly faithful few who turned up, rain or shine, to worship their Maker and reserve a place for themselves in the hereafter.
The Dibsons had arrived inside the church, and Irene said, “What did you mean, about Tesco’s and turnover?” Tony pushed her to a suitable place where she would not block the exit in case of fire. The thought of fire reminded him of the village hall and he wondered if Lois had found out anything more.
“Tony! What did you mean?” Irene could see his mind was elsewhere, but persisted.
“Vicars,” he said. “Turnover in vicars. They never stay long in Farnden. Must be something about this village.”
“Nothing wrong with us,” Irene said, “except maybe we could do with a few more in church. Go on, then, I’m all right. Off you go. Get ringing, boy.”
THE VILLAGE HALL AND THE PLAYING FIELD AT THE REAR WERE approached by a narrow lane, and Gavin Adstone walked along trying to avoid piles of horse dung left by a group of girls on ponies heading for the bridle path that led out of the playing field and over the stream. “More horses than people in this village,” he muttered to himself, cursing as a dollop of the sticky stuff stuck to the toe of his shoe. “And the horses would win in an IQ test every time,” he added angrily.
He was heading for a meeting with John Thornbull, the only member of the SOS committee who might possibly be persuaded to Gavin’s point of view. John was a practical man, a farmer with education and a small daughter a year or two older than Cecelia. He was more likely to be able to see a future for Long Farnden than the rest of the old codgers or dim-witted women Derek Meade had enlisted.
He could hear voices coming through the open door of the hall, but not John Thornbull’s. Damn, he couldn’t see him anywhere. Still, he could go in and have a look round. He’d never really examined the place properly, and with a few informed criticisms of the structure and its proposed renovations, he might still be able to persuade SOS into seeing the folly of the restoration proposal.
The cricket wives were gathered in the kitchen preparing tea for the afternoon match. Gavin looked in, smiled his most charming, and asked if he might wander round. “I’m a newcomer, as you already know,” he said, addressing Floss, who seemed to be in charge. Her Ben was captain of the team, and she presided over sandwiches and cakes and umpteen cups of tea.
Far from being bowled over by Gavin’s charm, Floss stared at him. “What do want to look round for?” she said sharply. “There’s nothing going on here today, except cricket.”
Gavin bridled. “In case you’ve forgotten,” he said, “I am a SOS committee member and have every right to come and inspect the ‘shed’ we’re intending to pour money into for its restoration. And in any case, I have a meeting scheduled with John Thornbull-”
“I suppose you can, then,” said Floss. “It’s just that we’ve been told to be very careful since the arson attempts. That’s all. Look round all you want, but don’t get in our way. Look, there’s John now, just parking his quad bike.”
“Morning, Gavin,” John said. He led the way into a small room where meetings were held, and asked what exactly he wanted to talk about. He explained that he had several cricket matters to attend to, and hadn’t much time to spare.
“Just wanted a few words about SOS,” Gavin said. “I felt a bit odd man out at the committee meeting, and had a sort of feeling you might be more in tune with me than the others.”
John frowned. He was a Farnden man, born and bred, and he had no wish to side with this unpopular incomer. It was true, however, that he privately thought the others had grouped themselves unfairly against Gavin’s ideas, and though they were much too ambitious as they stood, a lot of them could be adapted to widen the scope of the soap box grand prix. After all, the man was young and keen, and that was not easy to find in Long Farnden.
They talked for a while, and when Gavin left the hall and walked back up the muddy lane, he realised that he had gained nothing. John had been very polite, sympathetic, but in the end committed himself to nothing. Waste of time, then, Gavin decided. He could have been at home, playing with Cecilia.
“Morning, young man,” said a voice behind him. It was Tony Dibson with his wife, Irene. Gavin could see that pushing Irene’s wheelchair through the muck on the lane was heavy going.
“Here, let me have a push,” he said. “Been to church?”
Tony said they were on their way home, and had stupidly decided to come along the footpath and home by the longer route.
“The Thelwell girls have been along here,” Gavin said. “D’you remember those cartoons, Tony?”
“O’ course I do,” the old man said firmly. “Long before you were born. Wicked little girls on small fat ponies. D’you want me to take over?”
Gavin said he was fine, and added that his mother had loved the Thelwell brats on ponies and had kept books of them.
Glad to talk about something other than SOS, Gavin chatted to Irene, asking her questions about her disability without reserve or false sympathy. Tony could tell she was warming to another side of Gavin Adstone. When they reached the Dibson’s gate, Gavin insisted on pushing the chair right into the house, and accepted an offer of coffee with what seemed to be genuine pleasure.
But what is he up to? thought Tony suspiciously. Wouldn’t trust the bugger as far as I could throw him.
“What a nice young man,” Irene said, after they had drunk coffee, chatted of this and that, and Gavin had left, promising to bring Cecilia and Kate to meet Irene.
“GUESS WHO WAS IN CHURCH THIS MORNING,” GRAN SAID, TAKING off her summer hat and donning her apron in the kitchen.
“President Obama?” said Derek.
“How did you guess?” said Gran. “We had a lovely chat, but he had to get back to saving the world.”
“And apart from him?” Lois said, laughing at the pair of them.
“The Hickson woman. Paula, did you say, Lois? There she was, her tribe all washed and brushed and fidgeting in the pew at the back.”
“Including Jack Jr.?” Lois said.
“If you mean that unprepossessing teenager with a hood permanently over his spotty face, yes, he was there, too. Sat staring at his feet most of the time.”
“How could you see them, Mum?” Lois said. “If they were at the back, and you were in usual place up front, you must’ve been screwing your head round most of the service.” And I bet you weren’t the only one, she added to herself.
Gran ignored the question, and went on to say how Father Rodney was all over them in the church porch. “Poor woman looked really uncomfortable. That’s the trouble with modern vicars. They try too hard. Puts people off, you know. Now, Lois, get me the milk from the fridge. Time I made the Yorkshire batter. Josie’s coming up for dinner, isn’t she?”
“Yep,” Lois said. “And she’s bringing a policeman with her.” Derek said, tongue in cheek, that the police had heard that a certain Mrs. Weedon had been seen with petrol can and matches having a go at the village hall, and were wanting to talk to her.
Gran, who was also Mrs. Weedon, menaced him with a dripping spoon. “That’s enough of that, Derek Meade,” she said. “Quite enough. I know perfectly well that Josie’s policeman is Matthew Vickers, an’ he’ll be off duty, bless him. We must make him really welcome,” she added, and then, remembering her strictures about vicars trying too hard, she resolved not to do the same with a possible grandson-in-law.
FIFTEEN
