The Village Newcomers (24 page)
‘We always eat in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘We haven’t got a dining room.’
Meeting Alex wasn’t easy for Jake. After all, he’d said all those stupidly inaccurate things about Beth and got beaten up for it, and seeing him not at school but in Beth’s home in front of her and Alex’s father, whose clerical collar frightened the life out of him, he wasn’t entirely sure how to behave. But he was relieved to find Peter in mufti, which did make things a little easier for him. ‘Good evening . . . sir.’
Peter, lost in thought, shook his hand. Then, standing behind his chair, he bowed his head and said Grace. They all chimed in with the Amen and so did Jake who was blushing furiously, never having said Grace in a house before. School, yes; someone’s home, no.
Beth sat down next to him, just as embarrassed and uncomfortable as he was. Jake wasn’t accustomed to tureens and serving dishes, but my word, the food was fantastic. Just right for a chap his age, and especially now he appeared to be having a growth spurt. The lamb chops were unbelievably tender - he and the Rector and Alex had two each - the new potatoes were minted and supremely tasty, and the broccoli, coated in Beth’s exquisite white sauce, and the fresh peas were just delicious. Silence was the order of the day as they all dug in to this superb food, the like of which Jake had never had at home, ever.
‘This meal is terrific, Doctor Harris. Thank you so much.’
Beth was tempted to tell him she’d made the white sauce but decided to be grown up about it. After all, if Mum could see what it was she liked about Jake then she could take all the glory there was for the white sauce.
Conversation, once the main course had been eaten, began to flow and Jake found himself feeling rather more comfortable. The pudding, a wonderful sticky toffee sponge, hit the right spot, too, and he became quite chatty once he’d scraped the last remnants from his dish. ‘This wine’s good, sir.’
‘I didn’t think to ask if you are allowed to drink wine.’
This question rather floored Jake. Allowed to have it? My God! oh! Sorry for that God. ‘Of course, sir. We drink like fish at home.’
‘I didn’t want to upset your parents, Jake. I should have asked.’
Jake’s reply came out in an embarrassed rush. ‘That’s all right, sir, my mother doesn’t mind, and as for the idiot she’s shacked up with at the moment, well, he doesn’t care one jot about me. Glad he doesn’t; the less I have to do with him the better. The day he interferes with what I do is the day I leave home.’
Jake put his wine glass down on the table and looked up at Beth. When he saw the shock on her face he could have died. What a stupid blasted thing to have said, in front of the Rector, too. Jake began to push his chair away from the table in preparation for leaving the premises pronto.
‘I’m sorry about that, Jake, it must make life hard for you. Do you see your own father at all?’
Jake found it hard to reply. The Rector was too considerate, too thoughtful, and Jake wasn’t used to that. ‘About every six weeks,’ he managed. ‘He works abroad a lot so it’s not easy. I’d prefer to live with him, but as he’s away on business so much . . . He can’t help it . . . it’s his job. He’d have me too if things were different.’
‘I’m sure he would.’
To improve their opinion of him Jake said, ‘It’s him I get my brains from. Dad read maths at Cambridge; that’s where I’d like to go, but . . . when I won a scholarship to Prince Henry’s he was so thrilled . . .’ He shrugged desperately, finished the wine in his glass and sat looking down at his hands, at a loss to know what to do next, feeling childish and unutterably foolish.
Caroline recognised his embarrassment so she suggested that Alex, Beth and Jake took their coffee into the sitting room and watched TV. ‘Or talk or whatever. Take the coffee tray with you; Dad and I have enough.’
Alex took the initiative and stood up. ‘Come on, you two.’
Left alone, Peter got up and closed the kitchen door, and when he sat down again he said, ‘The poor chap. What a mess. I really upset the applecart, didn’t I?’
‘You didn’t do it in purpose. Beth thinks he’s gorgeous.’
‘Does she know his history?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘So it’s not sympathy for his plight?’
‘No.’
‘Right.’
They all spent an hilarious evening playing cards, which wasn’t what Beth had planned; an evening with just the two of them listening to music in her room would have been more to her liking, but somehow the card games, with Alex being in a brilliant mood and Jake much happier and winning most of the games they played, turned out far better than she had expected. Then Peter asked Jake how he was going to get home.
‘Don’t worry, sir, I’ll walk over the fields. It won’t take long. Thanks all the same.’
‘I think not. I’ll drive you home. Coming, Beth?’
So, the three of them, Beth and Jake in the back holding hands, and Peter driving, set off for Penny Fawcett. It rather felt to be a perfect ending to a perfect evening, and Beth went straight up to bed when she got back, to enjoy going over all that had happened.
They agreed that he’d come over to Turnham Malpas on Saturday morning and go to the weekly coffee morning, and then they’d catch the bus into Culworth. Beth decided it would seem odd going with Jake and not Alex, but as she acknowledged, there came a time when twins had to go their separate ways, and this was the time. It was called growing up and not before time at nearly seventeen. She really had been very backward where boys were concerned, but now she would make up for it. Then she remembered Jake’s embarrassment when he’d burst out about his home life and then realised that perhaps he shouldn’t have said what he did. She felt deeply sorry for him and determined to make it up to him as best she could. He really was absolutely terrific.
Across the valley, under the eaves of the house called Forge Cottage in Penny Fawcett, Jake lay in bed thinking about Beth. He honestly didn’t know what to think about her. Her brother had beaten him up, without a word of explanation, though Jake knew full well why, and her father was in the Church and Church wasn’t his thing, definitely not; he’d only been in one for his granddad’s funeral and a cousin’s wedding.
What had he to offer her? Nothing. Well, apart from his charm and his brilliant brain and his marvellous social skills and his sex appeal . . .
There was one thing for certain: he’d have to watch his step. The Rector’s eyes were enough to put the fear of God in anyone, not that he was all that bothered about God, but his eyes could be unnerving, kind of all-seeing right through to your guts. It wouldn’t be the Rector who gave you a beating; he’d look so ashamed of you that hell would be the easier option. He debated about giving her up. There were easier girls than her, much easier girls, without the Harrises’ standards. That’d be best: just forget her.
He turned over and instantly Beth filled his mind. He recalled how beautiful she was. Her perfectly splendid light blonde hair, those stunning blue eyes, her fantastically clear skin, the sweet, clean smell of her, her curves . . . Oh yes, her curves. Jake craved her.
No, he couldn’t give her up, but he could have someone else for fun. She wouldn’t need to know. He could keep Beth for serious and just accept a higher standard of behaviour from himself. He might even go to church; there might actually be something in it for him, and he could sit next to her in her pew. Then just before he fell asleep Jake remembered that girl who’d gone with them on the ghost trip. She looked up for it, and had kept catching his eye. She lived just down the road. Very handy, that. Yes. She wouldn’t need much persuading. Now, what was her name?
Chapter 15
Jimbo stood in the middle of the Old Barn, thrilled to the core by the look of the whole place. He glanced down at his buckled shoes and thought, yes, this is all absolutely right. My doublet and hose, my velvet cap, the gleaming cutlery, the huge jugs filled to the brim with mead, the musicians tuning up in the minstrels’ gallery . . . thank goodness he’d had the sense to make sure of a gallery; it was so entirely fitting for an entertainment of this kind. He was barely able to stand upright he was so exhausted by all the organization, but at the same time so energised that he couldn’t wait for everyone to arrive. He heard the jingle of the Morris dancers’ bells at the main doors, and he sniffed the air to relish again the glorious aroma of the pig roasting on the spit outside.
He punched the air with vigour. Yes! Jimbo Charter-Plackett had done it again. This, for sure, was going to be the most fantastic night. What fun!
He spun round as someone called his name. It was Merc, dressed as Queen Elizabeth, with Ford as the Earl of Leicester. He’d picked up a lot of gossip in the village about Merc and Ford’s costumes but even he had no idea how splendid they would be. If they’d been featuring in an international film they couldn’t have been bettered. There were rumours that the pair of them had been up to London to a top-notch theatrical costumier, and my word, it must be true.
Ford wore a rich chestnut-brown tunic with a fur collar. His velvet hat had a rim of matching fur, but surely not real beaver as it used to be? His hose also matched the colour perfectly and his shoes were enhanced by silver buckles. No expense had been spared. As for Mercedes, well . . . for a brief moment it was as though Queen Elizabeth herself had walked in. Her dyed hair was hidden by a spectacular auburn wig, around her neck hung lavish necklaces, her ringed fingers glowed with semi-precious stones, and her gown was a soft sage-green velvet that toned in a stunning way with Ford’s outfit.
Jimbo swept off his velvet cap, pointed his right foot and bowed low. ‘Your Majesty! We are greatly honoured by your presence. My lord, welcome.’ He’d practised it to perfection at home in the long bedroom mirror, because he knew how thrilled Merc would be. The musicians began to play, a positive stream of wenches quietly took their places in readiness, and the Queen, at the sound of her first honoured guests arriving, strode majestically to the doors in readiness to greet them.
As always with any event in Turnham Malpas, everyone arrived in good time. No one could bear to be late in case they missed anything.
At the top table the Queen and the Earl of Leicester took centre stage with Peter and Caroline, Craddock Fitch and Kate. Then all the guests on the lower tables were allowed to be seated. There was a fanfare of trumpets and Jimbo announced the reason for the gathering, namely the fact that Her Majesty had graced this humble home with her presence and that wine and mead would flow, superb food would be served and the musicians and actors would entertain.
Maggie, Sylvia, Willie, Jimmy, Dicky and Georgie were all sitting together at the end of one of the long tables, feeling very impressed with the authenticity of it all. They drank the mead, then a second tankard was offered and they accepted that, too. The food was brought on, beginning with steaming vegetable soup brought to the tables in enormous tureens and served to the guests by the wenches. A delicate fish course came next which brought appreciative comments from every guest. A welcome lull allowed them to enjoy some very special music wafting down from the minstrels’ gallery, then the serving wenches entered the hall with military precision, weighed down with the vast dishes and bowls holding the pork and the beef, the three different kinds of potatoes, dishes heaped with vegetables and steaming flagons of gravy. Then a pudding, an old-fashioned English pudding covered with brandy-soaked cherries and sourced from an ancient recipe book Craddock had once found at the Big House. Delicious!
‘Fancy Mr Fitch helping like that,’ said Dicky. ‘I thought he wasn’t coming.’
‘He wasn’t till Ford gave him a telling-off,’ Georgie declared as she began on her second tankard of mead. ‘Dicky, I thought you said this mead was potent. It’s nothing of the kind. It’s delicious.’
Jimmy winked at Dicky. ‘That’s right - you get it down, Georgie. It’s bringing colour to your cheeks.’
‘Stop encouraging her. It is potent and it’s too late when you realise it.’ But Dicky had to laugh.
The tables were cleared of dishes and the wenches were just bringing on great jugs of coffee and bowls of cream and sugar when there was a hammering at the main doors, a loud hammering which couldn’t be ignored. Everyone stopped what they were doing to see who dared make such a din.
Jimbo as Master of Ceremonies went to fling the doors open. With tiny microphones hidden on the intruders everyone could hear the noisy exchange of opinions.
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