Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death Read online

  “I’m really sorry about poor old Alastair,” Lewis said. “We go back a long way; we did part of our training together at Barts. But it must have been a dreadful time for Rachel—he was ill for so long and he needed a lot of nursing. I must say,” he continued, looking across the room, “she looks pretty good after all she’s had to go through.”

  “Rachel’s always been tough,” I said, “mentally and physically, right from when we were at school together. She always coped, no matter what. That’s why I’m glad she’s back here with Phyll. Poor Phyll. I don’t think she’s really got over her father’s death, even now.”

  “He was a good age.”

  “I know, but I suppose we all expect our parents to be immortal.”

  “Ah, there you are, Lewis.” Naomi came toward us holding her plate, glass and handbag in the sort of elegant and effortless way that I can never achieve. “Are you getting some food?”

  Lewis got up obediently and went over to the table while Naomi joined me.

  “So, Sheila,” she said, “and what are you writing now?”

  “Writing? Oh, nothing special, just a few reviews.”

  “Such a pity. I greatly enjoyed your book on Mrs. Gaskell.” She gave me what might pass for a smile. “We shouldn’t let our talents rust as we get older.”

  “I never seem to have the time,” I said, disconcerted as I frequently am by Naomi’s style of conversation, “what with the house and the animals and the children.”

  “I find that one can usually make the time if it’s something one really wants to do.” She bit neatly into a vol-au-vent without, I noticed with loathing, scattering shards of puff pastry as other people do.

  It was with some relief that I saw Annie Roberts making her way towards us.

  “Sheila,” she said. “Just the person I want to see.” My heart sank because I knew immediately that there was something she wanted me to do—and one never says no to Annie. “Just come over and have a word with me and Ellen. It’s about the Book.”

  The Book, always referred to with a capital letter by those involved with it, was Annie’s latest project. Realizing that there’d been a proliferation of village history books—not meager little brochures, but substantial, glossy publications—with documents going back (if possible) to the Domesday Book and ancient photographs and reminiscences, Annie decided that Mere Barton should not be left out. Unfortunately, to produce such a volume it’s necessary to have suitable material (especially pictorial records), and the only people able to provide that would be those whose families had lived in the village for generations. Mere Barton was singularly lacking in such people. Of the original inhabitants only Fred and Ellen Tucker, Phyll and Rachel, Toby Parker and Annie herself remained.

  Annie detached Ellen from the group she had been happily engaged with.

  “Right, then. I thought you two ought to get together,” Annie said. “Sheila’s our local author so she’s obviously the person to help you, Ellen, and I thought we could all meet sometime next week and get things moving. We’ve got some material—that stuff of Fred’s, for instance, Ellen—and I’ve got all those photos of my grandfather’s. Sheila will be able to tell you what we can use, and I’ve got a lot of ideas we can all of us follow up. So shall we say next Monday morning, ten o’clock at my cottage?”

  Ellen and I looked helplessly at each other and silently nodded our agreement to this arrangement.

  “Right,” Annie said. “I’ll see you then. Oh, there’s Diana. I’m sure Toby has all sorts of family things that we could use. I’ll get her to look them out, and I’ll have a word with him when he comes down.”

  She dived across the room and Ellen and I looked at each other and smiled.

  “Poor Diana,” I said. “And poor Toby too. Perhaps he’ll take refuge in the House where she can’t get at him.”

  “I’m sorry, Sheila,” Ellen said. “I’m sure you didn’t want to get roped in for this, but I really would be grateful if you could lend a hand. It’s not my sort of thing at all and I haven’t the faintest idea how to go about it.”

  “Well, apart from being resentful at being pushed around by Annie, I’d really quite like to have a look at the material. I love old photos and things like that so it will be a pleasure.” I saw Rosemary making little waving gestures to me across the room. “Oh, I think Rosemary wants to go, but I’ll see you at Annie’s on Monday.”

  Driving home, I told Rosemary about my involvement in the Book.

  “It might be interesting,” I said, “if only I didn’t feel so cross at being manipulated by Annie!”

  “Well, you know what she’s like—she’s got the whole village under her thumb; I wish I knew how she manages it! Still, she does get things done; I’ll say that for her.”

  I cautiously overtook a tractor with an unsteady load of silage. “I wonder what happened to Anthea.” I said. “Do you think she’s ill?”

  “And, did you notice? Nobody asked about her. I wonder,” Rosemary continued thoughtfully, “if she was actually invited.”

  Chapter Two

  Foss, my Siamese, in his endless quest for entertainment, has invented a new ploy. When I go upstairs he rushes past and lies across the stair in front of me. This means that I either have to step over him (difficult because they are steep cottage stairs) or pay him the attention he requires by stroking him. This continues all the way up the stairs (mercifully he doesn’t do it for the downward journey). I suppose I should have sharply discouraged him when he started it, but because he thought of it all by himself, and because (of course) I’m a fool about animals, I go along with it even though it makes going upstairs a very slow business indeed. This, and the fact that it took me ages to find anywhere to park in the village (the main street is always full of people who have driven the short distance to the village shop), meant that I was late getting to Annie’s.

  I went in through the open front door and found Annie and Ellen seated at the large round table that takes up the greater part of her small sitting room.

  “Oh, there you are,” Annie said. “We’d almost given you up.”

  I made my apologies, aware that I’d started off on the wrong foot and would have to be especially cooperative to make up.

  “Well, sit down now that you’re here and see what you think of these photos that Ellen’s brought.”

  A collection of old sepia pictures was spread out, mostly of agricultural pursuits—harvesting with open wooden carts and heavy horses, ploughing (the horses again), people in old- fashioned clothes, holding farm implements, standing self-consciously in front of groups of sheep or cattle—the collective memory of one family pinned down in time.

  “Aren’t they splendid!” I said enthusiastically. “And look at this one of the village street; all the cottages look quite shabby, very different from now when they’ve all been done up.”

  “Oh well,” Ellen said, “the village is full of off-comers now—retired people or commuters. Everything’s been buzzed up. Fred’s father said that when he was a boy it was a proper working village. There was a tailor, a baker, a wheelwright, a shoemaker, a blacksmith, and an alehouse.”

  “An alehouse?” I asked. “Where the hotel is now?”

  “Bless you, no.” Ellen laughed. “It was at Rose Cottage, just down from here—you knocked on the door and handed in your jug and they filled it with ale.”

  “I remember old Johnny Yates at the bakery,” Annie said. “When I was a child he’d bake your pies for you in his big oven. And the blacksmith’s only been gone a few years—when Ted Andrews died.”

  “Still, his son, Geoff, has kept on the business,” Ellen said. “Well, he’s just a farrier now and drives around with a portable forge in the back of his truck.”

  “I suppose that’s something,” I said, “but it’s very sad, to think of how things have changed, and not necessarily for the better.”

  “Well, and that’s what this book’s all about,” Annie said briskly, “putting it all down so i
t isn’t forgotten.”

  Called to order, we went back to sorting through the photos.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s a splendid start. Do we have the promise of any more?”

  “I asked Diana to see what she can find of Toby’s family,” Annie said. “They’ve been in the village for generations—gentleman farmers, is what they used to be called. I must get her moving on that. There are all mine, of course. I didn’t get them out today because there’s still a lot of stuff in a chest upstairs and I wanted to see what I’ve got.”

  “And I suppose there should be some from Rachel and Phyll,” I said. “Dr. Gregory’s family goes back quite a long way. Has anyone asked them?”

  “Oh, I’ve got Rachel on to that. She’s more organized than Phyllis,” Annie said approvingly. “And Ellen here has some old newspaper cuttings and objects that could be interesting.”

  “That’s splendid,” I said. “Lovely to have things like that. I wish we did.”

  “Oh, nobody ever throws anything away in our house,” Ellen said. “The place is full of stuff. Honestly, trying to keep it clean and tidy is a nightmare!”

  “Now, Sheila,” Annie said. “I’ve asked Father William to let you have access to the church records so you can deal with all that side of things, and I want you to write a history of the village—it was mentioned in the Domesday Book, you know.”

  My heart sank. “A history?”

  “It can be quite short, and I’m sure you can find a lot of material in the County Records Office.”

  “Yes,” I agreed despondently. “I’m sure I can.”

  Ellen gave me a sympathetic glance. “Well, then, if that’s all, I’ve got to be on my way. Fred’s moving the sheep up into the top field and he’ll need me to lend him a hand.”

  She got up and I looked at my watch and said hastily, “Oh, is that the time? I really ought to be going too.”

  “Well,” Annie said disapprovingly, “we haven’t got nearly as much done as I thought we would. Now, Sheila, do keep me up-to-date with how you’re getting on, and, Ellen, if you can look out those old farm implements soon, Jim Fletcher said he’d photograph them.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  “As soon as I can,” Ellen said as we both backed quickly out of the room.

  When we were outside, we walked a little way along the village street together and Ellen said, “Do you fancy coming back for a coffee?”

  “What about the sheep?” I asked.

  She laughed. “I always go prepared with some excuse when Annie corners me like that. I advise you to do the same!”

  “How very sensible,” I said admiringly. “Yes, please, I’d love to come.”

  “We’ll go down in your car. I walked up because I know how impossible it is to park anywhere near the shop in the morning.”

  I looked back along the village street. It was lined with a variety of vehicles and with people standing about in the middle of the road chatting, oblivious of a large van trying to make a delivery and a dilapidated Land Rover attempting to make its way through, with two Jack Russell terriers, their paws on the open windows, barking furiously.

  “I do see what you mean,” I said.

  We retrieved my car from the driveway of the Exmoor Hotel at the edge of the village, where I’d left it in desperation earlier on, and drove down to Black-well Farm. A couple of sheepdogs came bounding out to meet us, with Fred Tucker coming in behind them.

  “So you managed to get away, then,” he said. “Hello, Sheila. So she’s got you roped in as well, then.”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said ruefully. “I suppose I did sort of offer, but I’d no idea what I’d let myself in for— hours in the County Records Office in Taunton for a start!”

  “Never offer to do anything for Annie,” Ellen said. “You’ll always get more than you bargain for. Come on in to the kitchen, Sheila, and I’ll put the kettle on. Do you want one too, Fred?”

  “Can you fill a flask for me? Dan and I are going to put up that new pig arc.”

  “Dan is working for you now, then?” I asked. Dan, their youngest son, has just left school; Mark, the older one, is away in the army.

  “He’s helping out for a bit before he goes to agricultural college next year,” Ellen said.

  “And then he’ll come back here?”

  “If there’s anything to come back to,” Fred said. “I don’t know why I bother with pigs—they don’t fetch enough to cover the feed. If the wheat prices keep up, I can put some more fields down to arable, but a lot of the land, on the edge of the moor, that’s only fit for sheep, and they’re no more profitable than the pigs.”

  He sat down opposite me at the kitchen table and seemed prepared to continue to air his grievances.

  “Fred’s always been one to look on the gloomy side,” Ellen said, spooning some coffee powder into a jug, filling it with hot water and milk, pouring it into a flask, and screwing the top down tightly. “There you are, then,” she said, picking up a packet of biscuits from the table and giving it to him along with the flask. “That’ll see you and Dan all right for a bit.”

  A young man put his head round the door and called out, “Are you coming, Dad? Those weaners’ll be here in an hour and we haven’t got that pen ready for them.”

  “I’ll be off, then.” Fred got up reluctantly. “Nice to see you, Sheila. Don’t let Annie work you to death.”

  Ellen laughed. “Poor old Fred. He does love a chat and we don’t get many visitors he can let off steam to.”

  She pushed a cup of coffee towards me. “It’s only instant,” she said. “I gave up the proper stuff years ago—too much effort.” She opened another packet of biscuits and put some on a plate. “And I never seem to have time for baking anymore.”

  “It must be pretty hard,” I said.

  “Market prices are dreadful and the feed goes up all the time. I do all the paperwork now—there’s no way Fred could spare the time. I mean, in the old days there’d be two or three men working on the farm, but now, even with the machinery, and that costs the earth, it’s still a lot of work for the two of us.”

  “Dan must be a great help.”

  “He’s a good lad, and I do hope Fred’s just being gloomy and we can manage to carry on somehow.”

  “Oh, you must!” I exclaimed. “You’re the last farm in the village. Everyone would be devastated if you had to give up.”

  “Not everyone,” Ellen said. “We get all these complaints.”

  “Complaints?”

  “Oh, the tractors leave mud on the road; it isn’t nice to have trailers with manure going through the village; the bird scarers are too noisy; the pigs smell—that sort of thing.”

  “But that’s ridiculous!” I exclaimed. “How can they complain about country living?”

  “That’s it, of course,” Ellen said bitterly. “They don’t want to live in the country—they want to live in some idyllic rural spot with people just like themselves and no nasty noises or smells.”

  “Not all of them, surely,” I said.

  “No. It’s the Fletchers, really. The others are more or less all right—the Sanderses are quite sympathetic. Though, mind you, I don’t think they realized what they were taking on with the village shop.”

  “People have a dream,” I said, “and I suppose it’s inevitable that reality sometimes gives them a real awakening.”

  “I must say, though,” Ellen said, “that Maurice has been very clever.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s worked out that people in the village are going to go to the supermarket for their main shopping, just for cheapness, and he knew he couldn’t make a living relying on them coming to him if they’d just run out of sugar or something, so he’s specialized in fancy foods and deli things. They cost the earth, but all the newcomers are well-off and can easily afford them. They think it’s rather smart to have a speciality shop right here in the village—they’re always boasting about it to their friends when they
come down from London.”

  “Well, good for him. Come to think of it, I seem to remember he stocked a rather nice smoked eel pâté. I must call in on my way back to get some.” I took a biscuit and said, “It really is awful to think how the village has changed—even in the past few years.”

  “What really gets me,” Ellen said sadly, “is not having the school bus stopping here anymore. There’s not a single child in the village now—not since Dan left school.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Oh, people’s grandchildren come to stay in the school holidays, but it’s not the same.”

  “No continuity,” I said.

  “No. When these villagers die they’ll simply be replaced by other people who’ve retired and so it’ll go on.”

  “Well,” I said encouragingly, “your Dan will marry and have children one day.”

  “I hope so—if we haven’t been driven away by the Fletchers.” She laughed. “Listen to me—I’m beginning to sound like Fred!”

  When I left Riverside I managed to park quite near the village shop. I looked in through the window to make sure Annie wasn’t there. Fortunately she wasn’t, though there were quite a few other people in there and a great deal of conversation, though not, as far as I could see, much trade being done. I suppose Mere Barton is lucky to have a village shop and, I suppose, it’s mainly thanks to the off-comers who can afford to pay fancy prices to keep it going. When I went in I gradually identified some faces that I knew: Mary Fletcher, Diana Parker, George Prosser and Judith Lamb, who, perched on a stool by the counter, looked as if she was a permanent fixture there. She greeted me warmly.

  “Sheila—fancy seeing you again so soon!”

  I explained my involvement with the village book. “Annie’s just been giving me my orders,” I said.

  Captain Prosser gave a bark of laughter. “I bet she has!” he said. “I’ve served under admirals who frightened me less than our Annie.” Sometimes he overdoes the bluff seafarer.