Theft on Thursday (8 page)

“Him! Oily little sod, with his ‘teeny bit louder’ and ‘lovely tone, Mrs. T-J,’ and his eyes undressing my Rebecca every time he looks in her direction! Don’t talk to me about darling Sandy!”

Lois laughed as they turned into the car park in Cross Street. “So you like him! But you sing in the choir too, don’t you? Rebecca said …”

“Got to keep an eye on the bugger, haven’t I,” growled Bill.

“Well,” said Lois, opening the van door, “you could learn a lot about estate agents from this job. Come on …”

“Lead on,” said Bill, and followed her out of the car park and into the street.

G
RAN SAT BY THE FIRE
,
HOPING
L
OIS WOULD BE HOME
soon. She had claimed she was feeling a great deal better, and had insisted on getting up and coming down to make a cake. But when she stood in the kitchen with ingredients lined up on the table in front of her, her legs felt weak, and she had to sit down for a while. She abandoned cake-making, and sat and dozed in front of a television programme with the sound turned down. The moving, smiling figures were company. She felt a little scared. Never ill, she couldn’t remember when she had felt so bad. How could she have picked up a bug? Apart from that Sandy, there was no one else sick in the village. The shop was the clearing house for all such news, and old Mrs. Carr had not mentioned a bug going round.

Indigestion, she told herself. Something I’ve always had, on and off. Just a bit worse, this time. Maybe get some new stuff from the chemist’s when she went in to Tresham.

“Mum?” Lois was back, and Gran surfaced, making a big effort to smile as her daughter peered at her anxiously. “Shouldn’t you still be in bed?”

“I’m fine,” said Gran. “Shall I make a cup of tea?”

“You stay right there. I’m making tea for a day or two. An’ supper and breakfast. Here, I’ll turn the telly up. It’s your favourite rubbish.”

Gran did not smile, and because she didn’t have a smart retort, Lois worried that her mother was far from well.

J
AMIE
M
EADE WALKED ALONG THE ROAD TOWARDS THE
Hall, whistling. He’d arranged to pick up Annabelle to go for a walk around the fields. She was the best thing that had happened to him for a long time, he thought. Didn’t seem to mind that he had no wheels, no money and none of the lifestyle to which she must be accustomed.

He’d first met her last summer, when the village fete had been up at the Hall as usual. Some daft newcomers had decided to have sideshows like in the old days. Or olde dayes. “Bowling for a pig,” one of them had proposed. With a sly grin, the local pig farmer—John Thornbull, married to cleaner Hazel—had said he’d donate a young pig if they’d come up and catch it. John’d got some of his friends round to watch the spectacle, and they’d watched for a satisfying hour as the newcomer and his son had slipped and slithered round the pen. Then they’d taken pity on them, and had it tethered in a couple of minutes. “Reckon they wished they’d never heard of the ‘olde
dayes’ by the time we’d caught the bugger,” John had chuckled to Hazel over tea.

Jamie smiled now, in recollection. Still, the best thing about that fete had been meeting Annabelle. He’d been doing well at a darts game when he’d seen her, standing watching, all by herself. She had smiled straight at him, and clapped vigorously when he’d won. A blustery wind had taken Jamie’s baseball cap and deposited it at Annabelle’s feet, and that was that.

The gates of the Hall were open, and Jamie turned in and walked swiftly up the drive. In spite of the pleasurable anticipation of seeing Annabelle, he had the customary sinking feeling at approaching the stately mansion. God, I hope Mrs. T-J is out, he thought. But she never was, not when he was expected, anyway. What did she think? That he was goin’ to drag her precious granddaughter upstairs to one of the four-posters and have his wicked way with her? Well, maybe. But it certainly wouldn’t be without Annabelle’s enthusiastic encouragement.

“Hi!” he shouted as he saw his love’s fair head leaning out of an upstairs window. “Let down your hair, Rapunzel! I’m comin’ up!”

“What?” she yelled. “You stupid, or something?” She disappeared, and he walked round to the back of the house, by which time she had emerged, pink and fresh as a daisy. “Love you,” she said, kissing him softly.

“Annabelle!” The voice was harsh, and came from inside the kitchen.

“Oh God, it’s Gran,” said Jamie.

“No, it’s Grandmother,” said Annabelle, and they both disappeared swiftly up the path and into the woods behind the house before Mrs. T-J could catch up with them. As a result, she was in a bad mood by the time the vicar arrived to talk to her about his ideas for a Requiem Mass to be sung by the church choir on All Souls Day. This was such a ludicrous ambition, that she wondered about his judgement.
Perhaps it was not his idea at all, but that of his … his … his what? Not his son, or nephew, apparently. His godson, she knew. She planned to inform the vicar in no uncertain terms what she thought of the Requiem proposal.

By the time Brian Rollinson arrived, she was restored to her usual battling form. She led the attack, already extremely displeased by young Mackerras’s lack of respect at his first appearance before
her
choir. “So what’s all this nonsense?” she continued. “Do you really expect a few squeaking women and a couple of growlers to put on a performance of the Faure
Requiem
? I cannot think you are serious.”

Brian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She had deliberately motioned him to take a spindly legged ladies’ chair, hopelessly inadequate for his attenuated frame.

The Requiem had not, of course, been his idea. He couldn’t tell the difference between Faure and Andrew Lloyd Webber. But Sandy had been so keen to have a go, planning to recruit new choir members and even possibly inviting one of the Tresham church choirs to supplement the eventual performance. Brian himself had doubts. Though he had very little musical talent or appreciation, he was nevertheless aware of the choir’s limitations. But Sandy was difficult to resist.

“Well, yes, I am, actually, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones. Well, that is, serious in examining the possibility of such a plan. Naturally, it would be in the hands of Sandy. Who, if I may say so,” he added, warming up, “is quite capable of working a musical miracle!”

Mrs. T-J frowned. “That is very nearly blasphemy, Brian,” she said acidly.

“Forgive me,” Brian said quickly. “But what I meant was—”

“I’m well aware of what you meant. You asked if you could come and discuss the matter with me, and I have allowed half an hour of my very busy day to consider it with
you. As far as I am concerned, the proposal is a foolish, unrealistic one, and I would certainly not give it my support. But then,” she added with serpent-like agility, “it is really not for me to say. You are the vicar. Sandy Mackerras is the choir master, and the decision is yours and his. However,” she added, getting up from her chair dismissively, “I would remind you that choir members are there voluntarily. Most cannot read music, some have little voice, but all are there because they love their church, the old familiar hymn tunes, the association with a village tradition which some remember spoken of by their grandparents. And finally,” she concluded, walking towards the door, “they are free to leave whenever they choose, and will not hesitate to do so.”

Brian followed her to the door, his face burning like a naughty schoolboy. “You can find your way out, can’t you,” she said, and he fled.

“S
ANDY
,
IT LOOKS LIKE THE
R
EQUIEM IS A NON
-
STARTER
.” They were in the dreary sitting room of the modern vicarage. Brian had done what he could with paintings on the walls, a few pieces of good furniture. But it was still a skimped, four-square room with metal-framed windows and a characterless beige-tiled fireplace. What a pity he was too late for the old vicarage. He would have felt at home in its lofty rooms and spacious gardens.

“What d’you mean? It’s up to me, isn’t it?” Sandy sat up straight and frowned.

“Well, we have to tread carefully at first, you know. I had a word with Mrs. Tollervey-Jones …”

“That old trout! What’s it got to do with her?”

“Perhaps more than you think. She says it is beyond the choir’s capability, and they’ll just pack up and leave. They like doing what they’ve always done, and anything new will have to be added gradually. You’ve made a start with
the new books, so perhaps you’d better leave it at that for a bit.”

“For God’s sake!” Sandy stood up, red-faced with anger. “Well, thanks a lot for your support, Brian,” he snapped. “I’m off down the pub. Maybe I’ll find some better company, or even the lovely Rebecca might be there without her flat-footed boyfriend.” He knew this would annoy Brian, with his strict moral code. Huh! He went upstairs, banging doors and cursing. Then he was back, pulling on his jacket.

“Just go, Sandy,” Brian said quietly. “I’ve had enough. And I’ve a sermon to write. Do try not to make a noise when you come in.”

S
HARON
M
ILLER STOOD AT THE DOOR TO THE STOREROOM
of the shop. She looked around at the high shelves, dusty and unused for as long as she had been working there. Half-empty boxes, jars and bottles were difficult to distinguish in the light dimly shining on them from a low-wattage bulb hanging crookedly from the ceiling. She turned around to Mrs. Carr, and said, “We should have a go at getting this room turned out and sorted. I could do it, if you want.”

“No, I don’t think so, Sharon.” The elderly woman shook her head. “Couldn’t afford the extra hours. In fact … come back in here, dear … we have been thinking that we shall have to cut down on your working hours.”

Sharon’s face fell. She loved working in the shop, with people coming in and out, telling her their news and troubles. Working in an office would drive her mad, with the same faces day in, day out.

“We’re really sorry, Sharon. You know how we rely on you. You’re like a daughter to us.” Mrs. Carr’s chin
wobbled, and Sharon impulsively put her arm around Mrs. Carr’s stooped shoulders. “The only way we can carry on is by doing more ourselves,” she continued. “Jack says he can help more, and I shall do my best. A couple more years, and we’ll have saved enough to retire in the way we’ve always planned.”

“Don’t you worry,” said Sharon, her romantic heart touched by all this. “I shall easily find some other work. Don’t you worry about me.” As she said it, she remembered the paper pinned to the shop noticeboard. Lois Meade had brought it in a couple of days ago. New Brooms was looking for extra staff. Part-time, local work. Could be just what she needed.

Mrs. Carr followed her eyes, and nodded. “Mrs. Meade’s a very nice woman,” she said. “Tough employer, but we can give you a good reference. I’m sure she’ll take you on.”

Sharon had a sudden picture of herself in rubber gloves and overalls, and wasn’t sure what Sandy would think of that. But then she thought again. Those cleaners of Mrs. Meade’s were a nice bunch, and had made a real profession of the job. And then there’d be the fun of going to different houses, meeting new people. They’d tell her things, and she would listen sympathetically. Yep, just up her street.

“I’ll call in on the way home,” she said. “Now don’t you think any more about it,” she added, patting Mrs. Carr reassuringly. “We’ll still have our get-togethers when I come to do a few hours. And I’ll always be around if you need any extra help. See you after lunch.”

L
OIS SAW
S
HARON COMING UP THE DRIVE TO THE BACK
door, and knew immediately why she had come. Gran had heard through her busy and reliable grapevine that the Carrs were struggling at the shop. They had probably cut
down on Sharon’s hours, and here she was, applying for a job.

“Hi, Sharon,” Lois said, opening the back door. “Come on in. Come through to my office, where we can talk.”

Sharon, who had passed all her formative years in the village, did not think to question how Lois seemed to know at once the purpose of her visit. Of course she would know. That’s how it is in villages.