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Falstaff Vale DiaryThe village of Falstaff Vale is somewhere in the south of England. It is a nice place to live. It has interesting and eccentric residents. Installments are being added at approx weekly intervals. FALSTAFF VALE DIARY The inhabitants of Falstaff Vale were awoken one Sunday morning by the sound of a loud crash. Henrietta Sweetly leap out of bed at Bagley Cottage, and rushed to the window. Outside an amazing sight met Henrietta’s eyes. A large lorry had shed its load of advertising hoardings right outside the Bullock’s Nose public house. A large plastic hand, with its forefinger extended, pointed to the sky, with the words “Way To Go!” clearly visible. A plastic bulldog sat crookedly in the middle of the road, whilst a giant lemon had landed on the tables set up outside the pub for the smokers.
“Oh, my!” gasped Henrietta to her husband Oliver, who was still getting up, looking a little weary after the previous evenings’ regimental reunion. Outside the driver of the lorry was being berated by ‘Mucky’ Norman, landlord of the Bullock’s Nose. Whatever shock the lorry driver had got from the accident was nothing to the shock of being confronted by Norman in a tattered tartan dressing-gown, and flapping slippers. Oliver had joined Henrietta at the window, and was chortling, “Hoo, hoo, hoo! It’s not every day you see Mucky trying to clear up the village.” Norman was by now busy hefting plastic bits and pieces into a neat pile, off of the pub’s forecourt.
A police car pulled up and out climbed Samuel Rupert Hedger, local police constable. Known to his friends as Samson, due to his father also being named Sam. PC Hedger did not live up to his nickname, being slight of build, with mousy coloured hair, and a tendency to sneeze when nervous. PC Hedger quickly took in the scene, and walked over to talk to the driver, who was sitting on the garden wall of the cottage of the Misses Avalone. The ladies peered out through their net curtains, not in the least inclined to venture outside and add to the cast of characters in the street.
Two members of the kid’s gang from the social housing estate, built with the agreement of the local council, over the resident’s objections, came rushing into view to witness, what for them, might well be the high spot of their day. Known collectively as Hooter’s Scooter Boys, the gang plagued the locals, riding their silver foot propelled scooters at break neck speed down the village street.
Oliver snorted in disgust at the sight of the scooter boys. He had fought a spirited battle to prevent the development at the nearby beauty spot known as Flagon’s Valley, but in the end the property development company owned by Bertrum Stamp had gained the permission it needed to build four hundred houses, with the one hundred and fifty nearest to Falstaff Vale being ‘gifted’ to the council for social housing. It was no rumoured that Stamp’s company was in discussions with the council to buy the council owned allotments in the area of the nearest town, Newtsbridge, called Meade’s Grove. Oliver’s former commanding officer, Sir Malcom Dunwiddy-Hoe, was even now railing support for the opposition to the building, a stone’s throw from his front door,
Hooter had been three years old when his father last came around, and seven when his mother left to be with her latest boyfriend. Hooter and his two younger sisters were left in the care of their maternal grandmother. When it became clear that Hooter’s mother would not return, his grandmother had been offered a three bedroom house in Flagon’s Valley, in place of the third floor flat they shared in Newtsbridge. Hooter had gained his nickname when as a small child he had mimicked the sound made by a toy train he had received one Christmas. His sister Louisa had always called herself Lulu, but quite why the younger girl was called Pix (short for pixel) when her name was Amanda no-one could remember.
The joy of the new house for Hooter was the garden. Hooter was busy planning what he would grow in the vegetable patch he intended to establish. His gran was no enthusiastic, saying it was a lot of work, and probably money, to grow what she could buy cheap enough in the supermarket. Besides which, the garden was needed for playing in, that’s what gardens are for. Lulu and Pix, who were pestering for a dog, agreed with their gran.
The scattered, and in some cases shattered, advertising signs had been replaced on the lorry. The driver had said he felt fit to drive. Anything to get away from Mucky Norman, who stood at the pub door glaring.
At the service later that morning, in the picturesque church of St James de Falstaff, the vicar, the Rev Matthew Patching, tried to incorperate a reference to the earlier happing. As most of the congregation had not witnessed the event, Matthew’s mention of the Hand Of God pointing the way to go, left most bemused. The location of the church and its vicarage, at the opposite end of the village to the Bullock’s Nose, meant that Matthew himself was reliant on second hand accounts.
Seated at the organ, waiting to start playing “Lead Kindly Light”, Stephen Merryman grew impatient. Stephen, a retired teacher, who had spent an “illustrious career moulding the sons of gentlemen”, as he described his life, had no patience with flippancy, especially in church.
Matthew, wishing he had not even tried to be topical, signed to Stephen to begin the hymn. As the organ’s first note sounded, and the congregation rose to it’s feet, for the second time that morning Falstaff Vale’s residents were startled by a loud crash. The time the Rev Patching had a front row view
Many people were surprised when they discovered that there had been for several years a Mr Norman Heap. The usual response, “Who would marry Mucky?” was not always spoken out loud, but it was there. Norman’s bride had been a local girl, Monica Fawcett, who was intelligent, charming and witty, all things that Norman was not. What Monica saw in Norman that others did not we shall never know. The lovely Monica was fatally injured in a car on car crash one icy winters evening on her way back to the Bullock’s Nose, the pub she an Norman had taken over only one month previously.
This Sunday morning Norman was in the pub kitchen with the staff, preparing for the expected lunchtime rush, when in burst Oliver Sweetly straight from the happening at the church. Oliver imparted the news that during the service a ‘lump of masonry’ had fallen from the church ceiling, and landed on the altar. Luckily no-one had been hurt, but everyone had left the building in a controlled panic in case anymore chunks were about to fall. There had not even been time for the collection, but Oliver had no doubt the vicar would mention that to the congregation when he got the chance.
Two days later the Rev Patching stood in St James de Falstaff with several people, all wearing various coloured hard hats. They had looked, photographed, discussed, and studied some old photos from the church restoration project in the 1920s. Now they gave their verdict. Obviously the church must remained closed to the public for the foreseeable future, scaffolding had to be erected inside and outside the church in the relevant area, an inspection could then be made close up. What they feared was that a significant area of the stonework may be unstable. The probable costs were already racing out of control in Matthew’s imagination.
Across the way in the Vicarage Matthew’s wife, Sophia, was putting her usual brave face on things. She was baking a batch of fairy cakes for the Young Mother’s weekly meeting, and singing “Lord Of The Dance” to Claude, the ginger cat on the windowsill.
Sedge, Hooter’s best friend and number two in the Scooter Boys, was sitting on a gravestone in the churchyard eyeing all the expensive cars parked outside the church. “’Corse if there were a God we’d all have flash motors to get about in, ‘cos it’d be fair shares for all”, Sedge informed Hooter , who was attempting to break the lower branch off the tree by the churchyard gate. “What’d you have?” asked Hooter, as with one final yank the branch snapped and he landed on his back on the grass. “Leave our tree alone!” snapped a voice that made the pair jump. A boy about their own age stood looking cross and ready for a fight. “Who’re you? An how come you think this is your tree?” demanded Hooter, climbing to his feet. “My Dad is the Vicar, and that makes it our tree” replied Joseph Patching. Hooter and Sedge laughed, a vicar’s kid, who was he to challenge the Scooter Boys. Joseph continued to stand his ground, but he didn’t feel quite so bold anymore. He wished that someone would come out of the church and see what was happening and send these boys on their way. “Live in the big house over there, do you?” asked Sedge, pointing to the Vicarage. “None of your business”, Joseph’s voice had gone a little quiet now. At that point the group of adults came out of St James’s, and the Scooter Boys decided maybe it was time to leave. Hooter carried the branch he had broken to the road outside the churchyard, before discarding it, and shouting back, “If you want your branch come and get it”.
Matthew came across to Joseph and was told what had happened. He went and picked up the branch and took it with him across the churchyard to the place where old Sidney, who helped keep the place neat, would have bonfires. Matthew felt depressed in the extreme. Not only did he have a church that was falling down, he also was expected to deal with an influx of people that he had nothing in common with, and knew he had no chance of understanding. None of them would set foot inside a church until there was something they wanted, and then the vicar would be seen as a soft touch. He could hear Sophia singing and wished that she would stop and see things for how serious they were.
Fred Bloom, chairman of the parish council, was in a foul mood. There had been vandalism nearly every day lately, but the latest outrage was beyond the pale. Someone had stolen the village sign, and not content with that had replaced it with a hand written poster that said “Village of Fools and ******”. It had to be those no gooders from the social housing. Nothing had happened like this before they had been transported into the area, and the worse was there were more of them to come, as so far only about one third of the house were occupied. And where was the infrastructure coming from might one ask, who would care if there were nothing here for them when they got here. It would be down to the likes of him to try and sort that out.
Hooter’s gran was not amused with Hooter’s sisters. Lulu and Pix had gone out to play and come back with a puppy they had ‘found’. Neither of them would say where they had got the pup, a Labrador, swearing that it had been abandoned, and starving. The pup was in fact plumb, well groomed, and obviously looked after. “But his IS a stray”, sobbed Lulu, “He is, he is, he is”. “For a start the pup is a girl and she is not s stray, you only have to look at her to see that,” snapped Gran “Now tell me where you got her, so we can take her back and hope there wont be any trouble out of this”. But no amount of threats would induce either girl to admit the location from which they had taken the pup. Hooter arrived home to the sound of wailing from his sisters, howling from the pup, and shouting from his gran. It was enough to make him go out again, but he stayed. “Maybe it is a stray” Hooter suggested, which was enough to set his gran off into a fury. “If it wasn’t it is now. I’m taking it out and leaving it in the street. Let someone else have the bother of it” she shouted. She would have, but Hooter took the pup and ran out. He had no idea what to do or where to go. The Vicarage! The vicars and such were supposed to take people in, perhaps they were supposed to take puppies in as well. Like boys do Hooter had string in his pocket, and so he was able to tie the pup to the ornamental rail outside the Vicarage, thinking it would not be long before somebody heard her whine, and she would be safe. Hooter ran off, not daring to look back. Matthew had watched Hooter from the window of his study.
The puppy proved a great hit with the Patching children, Emma and Joseph. Fourteen year old Emma had been particularly upset at the loss of their old dog three months earlier. She pleaded with her parents to let the puppy stay with them, but it was pointed out that the pup must belong to someone. Matthew ‘phoned PC Hedger, and found that a Mrs Catherty had reported the puppy stolen from her garden. Matthew ‘phoned the lady, who it turned out had bred a litter of pups, of which this was one. Mrs Catherty on hearing how Matthew had seen one of the social housing boys tying the pup to the railings refused to have it returned, as she said the litter was yet to have all it vaccinations, and she could not risk the infections it may have picked up even in a short time in “one of those houses”. She wondered if the pup could stay at the Vicarage until she could be sure it had no infections, or else she would call the RSPCA and ask for it to be re-homed. Matthew thought this was an imposition, and almost said so. Why should he look after the pup and then return it to the breeder. He pointed out to Mrs Catherty that if she had it re-homed she would receive no payment for the pup, and his family were prepared to take it in and give it a home. Mrs Catherty then suggested Matthew might like to buy the pup at a knock down price, but when Matthew suggested that she should get the RSPCA then, she snapped that the pup was useless to her and he might as well keep it, and slammed down the ‘phone.
Joy was unbounded in the Patching household as the puppy, soon named Mitzy, was fussed over and spoilt. Sophia went off to the shops to buy all that a puppy should need, and made an appointment for the next day at the Vet’s. She could not get the idea out of her mind that Mitzy might have caught something in the short time she had been with ‘those people’
PC Hedger called at Hooter’s house later that day. Hooter denied that he had been anywhere near the Vicarage, with or without a puppy, and his gran backed him up, saying he had been indoor for hours playing snap with his sisters. The girls meanwhile glared at Hooter. “Fancy giving our dog to the Vicar” complained Lulu after Sam had got into his police car and driven away, “They have everything as it is, it’s not fair!” Hooter pointed out that the Vicar would probably have to give the pup back to whoever she and Pix had stolen it from, and for the rest of the evening there was no peace in that house.
The story of the stolen pup soon reached the Bullock’s Nose. Everyone agreed that this was the sort of thing they would have to expect to become the norm from now on. There was a little mirth expressed at the stolen village sign and it’s handwritten replacement, but they all agreed that they hoped that ‘that lot’ would not start drinking in the Bullock’s Nose, although Norman was noticeable in his lack of support for this idea. Since the smoking ban his takings were down, and now with the talk of a recession he would take anyone’s money, no matter how they came by it. Norman did worry about violence between the incomers and the locals, but as to who might be banned, time would tell.
Bertrum Stamp, property developer, was in the process of completing a deal with the council to buy the allotments at Mead’s Grove, in Newtsbridge. He was delighted to be told that there should be no problem getting planning consent, no matter how much of a hoo-hah the locals might put up. It was nice to know where he stood, so that he could make his plans for the site. His wife Geraldine needed a holiday, or so she said, somewhere warm. Geraldine had come to the area as Mrs Merryman, when her husband Stephen had retired from teaching. They had settled in Falstaff Vale, which they thought a lovely quite village. Geraldine had thrown herself into village life, and it was her serving on the committee that ran the village hall that had brought her into contact with Bertrum. At first they had taken not a lot of notice of each other, but as time went by they had found that they were soul mates who had not met when they should have, years before. Geraldine had moved in with Bertrum in his large house, some distance from both Falstaff Vale and Newtsbridge, with uninterrupted views across the countryside, and no noisy neighbours nearby. It was about that time that Bertrum gained consent to build the houses in the vicinity of Falstaff Vale, and his new wife was glad that she had got away from the village now that it was not likely to be so quite anymore.
Sir Malcom Dunwiddy-Hoe was incandescent with rage. He had just been told that ‘that person Stamp’ was near finalising his deal with the council for Mead’s Grove. Sir Malcom would not take this lying down. There were council elections due in May, and he would be in there fighting as an independent. He had no doubt the support that he would gather within minutes of announcing his candidature. His long suffering wife, Maude, could see the weeks ahead being filled for her with the delivery of leaflets, and knocking doors asking for people to vote for Malcom. She sighed at the very idea but knew better than to express an opinion on anything so male as politics.
There had once been village schools in Falstaff Vale, Saffron Minster, Overly Down and Whitecross. These had merged into one school in Whitecross, which had closed in 2005 following falling roles, and despite spirited opposition. Two weeks after the school closed planning consent had been granted for the housing development at Flagon’s Valley. Now the nearest primary school was in Rampling St Mary on the outskirts of Newtsbridge. This school was already full and so Hooter, Sedge and the rest faced a long journey back and forth to their schools around Newtsbridge. As Falstaff Vale had lost it’s bus service the children were dependant on those with transport. Some cars were observed with so many children crammed into them that PC Hedger set up a road block one morning to check the numbers in each vehicle. This led to angry scenes as Sam and his colleges held up dozens of cars in the morning rush hour. They discovered several vehicles that were overloaded, and the drivers were told they must leave some of the children in a place of safety and return for them later. The language was not fit to be heard, and more than one adult was told to be careful they did not end up in the back of the police car. The resentment that this action led to would one day be seen as the starting point of troubles to come.
Daisy Gates and her husband and two year old daughter Poppy had moved into the new house they had bought in Flagon’s Valley with high hopes of a quiet life in the country. The houses built to be sold were of a higher specification than those built for social housing. They were nicely designed properties, with larger gardens, better kitchens and bathrooms, and were built at the farther end of the valley from Falstaff Vale. Daisy had gone into the village hall to enquire about Carer & Toddler group, and a Playgroup for Poppy when she was old enough. The lady who Daisy spoke to explained that the Playgroup was full for some time into the future, but there was a waiting list that Daisy could join. Daisy gave her details, and then the woman asked “Social service referral, voucher?” and when Daisy looked a bit bemused continued “It would be a bit pricey for you single mums on benefit to afford”. Daisy felt humiliated to have been taken for someone from the social housing just because her address was Flagon’s Valley. Poppy Gates was embracing the ‘terrible twos’ with enthusiasm. At this moment Poppy began to throw a temper tantrum that, if the UK were on an earthquake fault line, could trigger a quake at the lower end of the Richter Scale. Daisy was trying in vain to persuade her daughter that now was not the time to make such a bad impression, when out of a door marched Suzanna McPiece retired ‘something in a government department’. Suzanna was not about to listen to any more screams from the small child thrashing on the floor at her feet. “Be quiet spawn!” Suzanna bellowed, with such force that even Poppy took notice and fell silent, only seconds later to start crying, This led to an angry exchange between Daisy and Suzanna, on the lines of “how dare you shout at my daughter” and “time you learnt to control your brat”, before the two woman glared at each other one final time, and Suzanna disappeared back through the door by which she had arrived. Daisy gathered Poppy up, into her pushchair, and without a backward glance left the building.
The Misses Avalone were looking at the outside of their cottage and deciding that it was time to get someone into to paint the door and window frames. The ladies, Deidre and Verity, had lived in Sunset Cottage all their lives, and intended to stay until they were carried out on their last journey. Their parents had come to the village after arriving in the early 1900s from County Cork and starting up a haulage business in Newtsbridge with one horse and cart. Within two years they had three horses and carts, and enough money to buy Sunset Cottage. Deidre was a member of the church fund raising committee, and they now had a daunting task in front of them. The insurance on St James de Falstaff might only cover part of the repair bill, and there was a desperate need to raise every penny possible. Deidre had suggested themed evenings at the village hall, starting with an Irish night. Although some had expressed doubt that tickets would sell well, Deidre had persuaded everyone that people would turn up to support the church, no matter what the theme.
Daisy walking at speed along the village street almost missed the “Good morning” spoken in unison by the Misses Avalone. She hastily remembered her manners, and replied, whilst Poppy sat in her pushchair sucking her thumb her face still tear stained. “Unhappy little lady” cooed Verity, “what is wrong with you today?” Poppy stared. Daisy told the ladies what had happened in the village hall. “That will be Suzanna McPiece. Always full of herself that one, as if she had the right to airs and graces. “Deidre was shushed by Verity, who thought her sister was saying too much as usual. Deidre was not to be silenced, and Daisy learned that Suzanna had lived in the village as a child and young woman before securing some governmental job about which she would never speak. By this time Poppy was out of her pushchair and happily walking around the garden of Sunset Cottage on a guided tour with Verity. Deidre was obviously settling in to give the full details of everyone in the village, and Daisy felt she must make her apology and leave. As she walked away Daisy felt much better than she had done as she left the village hall.
At the Vicarage Matthew was telling Sophia about Deidre’s idea of an Irish theme night. “Who she thinks will turn up I do not know. “ complained Matthew “It’s all very well saying people will buy tickets to support the church, but what if they do but don’t turn up on the night, how will that look.” “Like they thought better of it?” asked Sophia, intending to be annoying. She always thought Matthew spent too much time worrying how things would look to others. “And if they have bought tickets we will have their money, and they will have to buy tickets to the event after as well because they have set themselves a precedent, and we can say ‘you bought tickets to the last night not intending to come, so you can buy tickets to this one’, can’t we?” Matthew decided to take Mitzy for a walk around the churchyard. He saw Joseph talking to the boy who had tied the pup to the railings to be found, and the other boy who was always with him. Matthew wished Joseph would stay away from those boys.
Of all the Scooter Boys only Hooter and Sedge frequented the churchyard. The others said it was too far to go, or that they would only get thrown out, or any other excuse that did not reveal that they were in fact frightened to be in a place full of dead people. Joseph Patching had by now spoken to the boys on several occasions and even shared a joke or two. Despite the worry of his father it appeared that the three would become friends, at least when the other Scooter Boys were not about. The boys had been talking about what they would do when they grew up. Joseph wanted to be a famous actor, and appear in adverts on the telly, because adverts are shown over and over again, not just once like the programmes. Hooter wanted to be rich, and hoped that he would achieve this state without too much effort. Winning the Lottery would be nice. “I’m joining the Army when I grow up” announced Sedge, “and I’ll get to go all over the world shooting at people and killing ‘em.” “What if they shoot first and kill you?” Joseph asked. “Then” said Sedge “I’ll be buried in this ‘ere graveyard. An’ it’ll be a big funeral, not just me mum and you two. It’ll be soldiers, big wigs an’ all, an’ someone’ll play “Last Post” an’ lots o’shots’ll fired over me grave.” “Cor” said Hooter “That’ll frighten the old girls in the village!” And then, because none of the boys could see ten years into the future, to a bright day in May, the trio walked off laughing
Lionel Gates was a man with change in his mind. The husband to Daisy and father of Poppy had been made only too aware of the discomfort felt by his wife at her being mistaken for a social housing tenant on benefit at the village hall. To Lionel the solution was obvious. The two estates in Flagon’s Valley needed to have separate names, and the best time to do that was right away before the estates were truly established. Lionel was happy that the private estate should remain Flagon’s Valley, whilst the social estate could have any name that the authorities cared to give it. To this end Lionel had contacted Fred Bloom, chair of the parish council, to ask how to go about making this change happen. Lionel was mindful that soon both estates would fill with residents, as the private houses had almost all been sold from plan, and the numbers moving in were growing daily. He felt he had a duty to those residents who would soon be his neighbours to get this sorted out asap. Fred was not much help to Lionel. Fred felt that any problems that would be caused by the name were of little consequence to the problems being caused by the development itself. There was all the extra traffic for a start, and it mattered not whether the drivers were private or tenant, their cars would still clog the road. Then there would be lots of extra children, and nowhere for them to play safely. In addition to these problems there would be extra people trying to use the already over used village hall, as there were no other community facilities in the area. And, well Fred could go on and on. So to have Lionel complaining was something Fred had no patience with, and his manner showed as much.
Deidre was busy with the arrangements for her Irish theme night. She had booked a band, and agreed with Norman that the Bullock’s Nose would provide the bar. Norman had refused to do other than split the profits fifty-fifty, despite Deidre’s best efforts, and also had refused to entertain the idea that only Irish Whiskey and Guinness should be on sale. Deidre’s other big idea, that everyone should dress in green, “there are forty shades to chose from”, had been opposed by Verity. Verity pointed out that there were some who believed that green was an unlucky colour. Deidre responded that “those are the same folk who feed their grass to make their lawns greener!” but she did concede that it would not be possible to do more than suggest people should wear the colour. Tickets had been priced at twenty pound with no concessions, “to keep the riff-raff out”.
Henrietta Sweetly was planting bedding plants in the borders at Bagley Cottage. Henrietta always liked to have as much colour as possible in the garden, to make up for the somewhat bland colour scheme Oliver insisted on inside the cottage. They had lived in Falstaff Vale for some ten years, and in all that time Henrietta had never once got her choice in décor. Their son William and daughter Mary lived abroad with their families, in New Zealand and Canada respectively. Oliver and she visited when they could afford to, which was not nearly as often as they would like. The grandchildren grew faster all the time and soon would be adults. Their cat Prudence wandered out of the shade of a bush and came to watch Henrietta planting. It was very mild for the time of year, and there was a worry in Henrietta’s mind that they might be many more frosts to come before spring were realy here. It was no longer possible to rely on the calendar for the planting seasons. She felt a little sad that the seasons were now merging in a way no one would have thought possible only a few years ago.
At the vicarage Emma was struggling to finish an essay on Roman Britain. She wished she could go outside into the pleasant day, and did not need to waste anymore of her half-term break on schoolwork. At fourteen she should be allowed to enjoy herself. Emma had no real ambition for when she left school. She would rather like to leave now and go backpacking around the world, but the authorities wouldn’t let her. Nor would her Mum and Dad come to that. Her brother Joseph was playing his music loudly in the room next to hers because with their parents out he knew that there was no one to tell him off. At least no one to whom he would listen. Joseph had become a lot more unruly of late and had started to behave differently. It had to be something to do with his friendship with those new boys. Emma had never spoken to anyone from the social housing, although she had seen some of them about. They all attended schools in Newtsbridge, whilst Emma was now at a college further away, that her parents thought would offer her a more varied education. This meant that during holidays Emma only saw her friends if she travelled into the town, where they would meet up.
Joseph was annoyed that he was not allowed to use the computer unsupervised. He wanted to join those sites that he had only heard about, where people could make lots of new friends around the world. His parents said that at nine years of age he was too young. Joseph did not think he was too young. He admired his new friends, Hooter and Sedge, who were considered old enough to go where they liked on their own, even though they were the same age as him. Joseph thought how nice it would be when he was considered old enough to join them on their adventures, which they seemed to have every day, according to what they told him. He had not met the rest of the Scooter Boys, but expected that they would be nice to know too.
Daisy Gates was in a flap. Daisy often got into flaps. How she wished Lionel were here. She couldn’t call him at work and it was hours until he would be home. The car wouldn’t start, and there was nothing that Daisy knew about cars that was any good. She had lifted the bonnet and gazed inside. She had checked the oil, knowing that Lionel would have made sure that water, oil and petrol were all topped up for her. She hopefully turned the key in the ignition a few times, but nothing happened. Daisy was due at the dentist in a hour in Newtsbridge. Poppy sat in her car seat watching her mother. She would soon get restless and insist on getting out of the car to run about. At this moment several of the Scooter Boys came whizzing into view. They had begun to frequent the private estate now that families were moving in. They stood and watched Daisy for a while before Sedge enquired “Car wont start?” Daisy was not sure how to talk to these boys. “No” she said turning away. “Bet I could get it going” boasted Solly Morgan, whose father worked in a garage “want me to?” Unable to think of a reason to refuse Daisy allowed Solly to tinker with the car, and in no time the engine was running. Solly suggested that she might like to take the car into the garage where his father worked to get it checked over. Daisy wrote down the address of the garage, thanked the boys and drove away. Later that day when Lionel heard what had happened he was pale with rage. How could Daisy have been so stupid as to become beholding to any of that lot.
Unbeknown to the local residents plans were being hatched at the Council offices to try to alleviate the road chaos that was already shaping up to a major headache in Falstaff Vale. The plan was to cut a roadway through the valley sides at the further end of Flagon’s Valley, letting the traffic from the private housing come and go through the village of Saffron Minster. The outcry this would cause was not being underestimated, but then neither was the outcry now building from the good folk of the Falstaff Vale area. It was a case of damned which ever they did.
At the village hall in Falstff Vale the Scottish County Dance Club was in full fling. The popular club had been established many years before, and it is a fact that many such clubs exist in the South of England. The FVSCDC was tutored by Mavis Hedger, mother of the local police constable. Mavis’s ’rebel yells’ could be heard from the road outside at the end of a particularly boisterous dance. She expected full commitment from her band of dancers. Henrietta had joined the club in the hope of making friends, but soon found that she had no breath left to chat for a good few months. Suzanna McPiece had been a long term member of the club and she was determined that the next of Deidre’s theme nights would be Scottish, something Deidre was not yet aware of. On this afternoon, as the dancers were allowed a fifteen minute break for a cuppa, Suzanna walked up and down holding sway on her pet subject….”those people”. “They don’t deserve to live somewhere like this,” she ranted “what have they ever done except sponge on the rest of us. As for those awful children there was one in this hall, a frightful little pest, kicking and screaming, mother had no control of it. They should all be made to do an honest days work, that’d show ‘em. As for the boys, conscription every one, make men of them.” The other dancers waited for the tirade to finish.
In the road outside two of “those people” were in the throws of a road-rage incident. Both wanted to park in the same place, which was on a double yellow line, a fact that did not seem to matter to either of them. The battered white van of Vince bore the scars of previous encounters of this kind, whilst the red 4 x 4 of Mike looked a little more presentable. The swearing of the two men, as they shoved each other back and forth, both vehicles parked at wayward angles in the road, attracted the attention of a crowd. PC Hedger drove up ready to give his mother a lift to the Library in Newstbridge, he climbed out of his car and tried to stop the fight. Both men then realised that they could be in big trouble and, as one, turned on Sam. Hit from both directions at once Sam fell to the tarmac, and lay there. The two drivers jumped into their vehicles and hastily left the scene. A scream announced the arrival of Mavis, who fell to her knees on the tarmac beside her son. The crowd who had witnessed the assault melted away.
For a big man Bertrum Stamp was walking with a light, airy tread. He had just heard on the news, the Government talking of the need for thousands more houses to be built, in addition to the number set some years ago. For Bertrum Stamp pound signs were blooming in his mind as prolifically as Daffodils were blooming in the gardens of his country mansion. His wife Geraldine, returning from her work out at the gym, roared up the drive in her bright red sports car, skidding to a halt on the gravel. “Wonderful news, Gerrykitten,” called Bertrum from the French windows, “the Government want us to have lots and lots of extra money. We will need to spend more time abroad at this rate!” He told her of his plans to build houses all around the area of the villages. Geraldine pursed her lips. “Don’t build all the way up to our boundary, Bertiedidums, we are on a flood plain and I wouldn’t want water to spoil the handmade rugs.” “Don’t worry, if the houses get that close we can redevelop this plot, and build ourselves a castle miles away” Bertrum reassured her.
Sir Malcom Dunwiddy-Hoe was forging ahead with his plan to stand as Independent candidate for the Chapelgate Ward of Newtsbridge Council in the May elections. This was the ward he lived in, and also the ward in which the allotments at Mead’s Grove were sited. The allotments were also in Bertrum’s sights, and Malcom was determined that no building would take place, not in his area. Malcom had already been to the offices of Newtsbridge Council, and made sure that he would have the right paperwork to be filled in and returned so that he could be a candidate. He had already persuaded or browbeaten enough registered voters in the ward to countersign his nomination papers. His longsuffering wife, Maude, was even now writing the first of Malcom’s campaign leaflets, which she would no doubt have to deliver as well. Maude would not be required to go canvassing, for which she was grateful. At least there was one thing she was glad that Malcom did not think she had the sense to undertake. Malcom had roped in Suzanna McPiece, a friend of his for many years. Suzanna was all fired up and ready to get out on the doorsteps. The sitting councillor, seeking re-election, Robin Dupont, would not know what hit him once the slump in his support began to make it’s self known, or so Malcom and Suzanna were convincing themselves.
Sedge had a big project at his school. He was to be the main warrior in a play staged to explain the Battle of Hastings. He was glad not to have been chosen to be one of the kings. He would much rather be a proper fighting man. His outfit was to be made by several of the mothers, who gathered at the school to sew, stick and chat. There were not many lines to be learnt, but Sedge intended to beef up his part with lots of lunges and grunts. He wasn’t too sure about the Battle of Hastings, but didn’t see that as a problem to being in the play. He thought the battle took place somewhere near to Newtsbridge, and that it was a few years ago, so no one alive could remember it, not even the old folk. King Harold had been English and King William had come from somewhere else, and they had fought, and William had won and become king. William had come across water, and so Sedge thought he might be French, although why he had not used the Channel Tunnel was a mystery. Perhaps he couldn’t ride though it on his horse. Sedge wished that Hooter was at the same school as him, maybe they could have been warriors on opposite sides, and staged a big fight in the school hall. The other age years were also putting on short plays based on history, but none of the others had battles in them. The children had been told that there would be a guest at the plays, Sir Malcom Dunwiddy-Hoe, who had been a real soldier, so he was bound to like Sedge’s year’s play the best.
Pottering in the churchyard Matthew heard the siren of the ambulance long before he saw it. It sped past and disappeared along the village street. Soon after there was a police car. Matthew looked into the car and saw it was not Sam at the wheel. He must be off duty. About fifteen minutes later the ambulance went back the way it had come, siren and lights letting everyone know it was coming. “Some poor soul” though Matthew, as he called Mitzy to come inside. He had a sermon to write.
At the Bullock’s Nose Norman was serving drinks to those who had just watched Sam being loaded unconscious into the ambulance. The pub had been the obvious place to retire to. Norman reflected that there is some good comes out of everything. Although he kept that thought wisely to himself. There was some talk about who should be held to blame for what was happening to the area. Most people decided that the Government were the bad guys in all this. Nobody thought for one moment that there would not be some more trouble out of this event. For all he had become a copper, Sam was popular with the others of his peer generation, and there would be those with hot heads who wouldn’t wait for Sam’s colleges to seek out the cuprites. “Mark my words “said Oliver, “this will get a lot worse. A lot worse.” Others nodded.
At Newtsbridge General Mavis waited in a corridor whilst the doctor examined Sam. There were no thoughts in Mavis’s head except “be alright ,Sam” over and over again. Eventually the doctor came to talk to her. Sam was still unconscious, had been since being punched, and this was a cause for concern. There was no way to tell what, if any damage had been done, besides the bruises which were already showing themselves. It was likely that Sam had concussion, and would be carefully monitored. The doctor asked if there was anything he could get Mavis, who said no, and the doctor hurried off. A nurse, looking like she should still be at school, came and took Mavis to sit at Sam’s side until he could be moved to a bed in the care ward. “It could be sometime, they are very busy up there” the nurse told Mavis. Two of Sam’s colleges, PCs Wendy Clark and May Nash arrived. There was nothing they could do, as they could not talk to Sam for a description of who had assaulted him.
.Henrietta sat in the evening in the conservatory looking up at the stars. “All of us are in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars” Oscar Wilde had said. Henrietta thought it was a shame that so many people didn’t look at the stars anymore. Not literally, but in the way that meant that they had ambition to be something they were not at that moment. Perhaps if they did poor Sam and others like him, would not be getting hurt every day. If only there were something that could be done to convince people that they all mattered. That everyone was special, not just because they were good at exams or something, but because they were unique as themselves. Everyone could make a difference every day. Something like holding a door open for someone loaded with shopping. Smiling at a stranger in the pouring rain at the bus stop. Helping a person get something from the high shelf in the supermarket when there were no staff around. Saying “hello” and not expecting a reply, and not being put off saying “hello” to someone else if no one said “hello” back. Calling the staff by the names on their badges, to show you have noticed that they are real people. For Henrietta the list was endless of the little things some one could do, often without thinking about it, that could brighten up the day for some one else.
Daisy Gates heard about Sam being attacked on the evening news. She had seen him about in his car. What sort of area had she brought Poppy to? How soon could she and Lionel sell up and move away. They said in the papers there is a downturn in the property market, and prices were dropping by the month. What with that and this area going down hill fast maybe they wouldn’t be able to sell for years and years. Poppy would be out there mixing with the kind of children that no parent would want their child to be friends with. At the Vicarage Matthew was thinking something along the same lines. Only in his case it was how long before he could ask to be moved to another parish. He hadn’t said anything to Sophia or the children, but he felt for the good of them all they should get away from here.
.
At the hospital Sam almost opened his eyes, but decided he was too tired. He could hear a voice that sounded like his mother's saying "He almost woke up. Sam! Sam!" Sam was puzzled. Why would his mother be so excited that he was almost awake? She must have seen him wake up countless time
Hotter’s gran, Julie Hodge, was explaining her family to her new neighbour, Pru Sikes. “See, these are my daughter’ kids. There’s Hooter, he’s nine, and there’s Lulu she’s seven, their dad is Dwayne Styles. We’ve no idea where he is, the useless devil. Hasn’t been around in years. Lulu don’t even remember him. That’s no loss. Pix, now her dad is Wayne Mason, he comes by sometimes to see her, but he can’t do much for her, not with him being on benefit all the time. He’s got three other kids as well as Pix. All the mothers say he’s a lovely fella. Wont hear a word against him. My Rachel, or Dolly we calls her, she had enough of the mothering lark and went off with her latest Shane Wentworth, about two years ago. Just up and left the kids. Said it was only for the weekend, she did. Next thing I know there I am in a third floor flat with the three of them. Havn’t heard from her since last summer, they were still together, down in Brighton. I’m surprised it lasted that long. Me old man, Danny, he pops in sometimes, but he’s busy with that new girl he picked up with after we divorced. Bit of a dimwit she is. Especial as she took up with him.” Pru looked sympathetic. “How’d do you think you’ll manage in a few years time. Keeping up with them as teens?” “I aint that old meself I’ll have you know. I’ll give them a run for their money!”
There was no denying it the new houses were lovely. Many of the tenants had moved from flats in blocks and now had gardens. Once the shine wore off though the tenants began to realise that there were disadvantages to this living on a new estate. There was nothing here except houses. The village might be quaint and all that, but all it had was the pub, the village hall and the church. The shops had closed, the school had closed, the bus had stopped running. If they had no transport of their own they were in a right pickle. It was miles to get the kids to school, to do the shopping, to go to the doctors. And did anyone care? The Council seemed to think that now it had provided them with somewhere new to live that was it. Now the tenants could be forgotten about. Some of the tenants had decided that they needed to get organised. What they needed was one of those resident’s associations. How to start they wondered? Just get together, that was obvious. But having got that far they weren’t sure what to do next. Sally and Alice spent lots of time looking on the Internet for ideas. They realised they could go to the Council and ask for help, but were reluctant to do that. They didn’t want their estate to become a Mecca for do-gooder types who would want to take over, and expect them to trot along like the good little under educated types that they were. “We’re as good as them any day” Sally told a meeting held at Alice’s house. The thirty or so people crushed into Alice’s front room agreed. “but will they see us like that? Corse they wont.” “What we need” said Bert Omah, “is a committee, everyone needs a committee.” “We cant just say we are the committee, and everyone else can lump it.” Objected Sally “if we do that it will be like we’ve taken over. What we need is to hold a proper meeting, and get all this sorted out with lots of people there.”
Sally and Alice were in the village hall getting nowhere. Every evening was fully used by clubs and societies. Much as the lady would like to help, there was no way a meeting could be fitted in. Weekends weren’t much better. For weeks ahead there were events on. Sally and Alice felt frustrated. Were they just being given the run around. Was this person keeping them out because of who they were and where they lived? They couldn’t tell. “You see, dears, the trouble is that village halls start to fall down after a while, and there is no money to repair them. Saffron Minster and Overly Down they don’t have halls anymore, so there are lots of people use this one” the lady explained. “It’s a sign of the times I’m afraid. The older people who used to be so generous are saving their money in case they need cares homes, and the younger people have such great mortgages to pay. The donations to repair funds aren’t there anymore. You’ve heard about the church?” the pair shook their heads. “Well, anyway, why don’t you try Norman at the pub. Perhaps he will let you meet in there, as long as you all buy plenty of drinks.”
Hooter loved art. He liked sploshing about with lots of bright colours on the paper. He only got to do art with paints at school. At home his sisters always used up all the paints. Hooter’s latest offering was spectacular even by his standards. Colours vied with each other, trying to get themselves noticed. His teacher, Mrs Vible, was most taken with the effect Hooter had created. There were times when he surprised her. She had only just got over the fact that Hooter had been using the school computer to look up gardening tips. She doubted that he would get much of a chance of establishing a garden at his home. Hooter still seemed to have no idea what he would like to be when he grew up. He never talked about being anything except “rich one day”. Perhaps he would like to take up gardening. There was a good deal of work in gardening. It was all the rage for people to find someone else to do the real work for them and then sit back and admire the end result as if it were all their own. Oblivious to any thoughts of ‘growing up’ Hooter opened his hated arithmetic book with a sigh.
Sally and Alice had been and spoken to Norman. If there was a chance that their meeting could fill the Bullock’s Nose then Norman was all for it. How about a Monday evening, Mondays were always quiet. The girls agreed that Monday was as good a day to try as any. Now they needed to advertise the event. They needed someone who would be prepared to design an eye-catching poster for them. They didn’t have much money for photocopying, certainly not in colour. What they needed was for the kids to paint several posters and then the grown-ups could do the lettering. “My Hooter’s a great one for the painting” Julie told them “Get some cheap paints from the pound shop and we’ll set him onto it.” And so they did. The posters were effective at being eye-catching. Over fifty people turned up at the pub much to Norman’s delight. The Falstaff Vale regulars were not very happy. They felt that their pub had been invaded. Hooter was annoyed not to be allowed to attend after it was his posters that had got everyone there. But it was school next day, and it was a long journey that meant an early start.
The people gathered in the Bullock’s Nose for the meeting stood around talking amongst themselves waiting for something to happen. Sally and Alice waited as well. Stephen Merryman sitting miserably in the corner, fed up that his quiet evening was about to be ruined, watched them for a while. Eventually Stephen could contain himself no longer. “What’s this supposed to be?” he enquired of Alice, who was nearest. “A meeting of the new people at Flagon’s Valley. We’re going to make ourselves into a committee.” “Not by chatting amongst yourselves you’re not.” Stephen felt a rush of irritation at the obvious lack of organisation. “Who is in the chair?” “We’re not buying rounds of drinks, it every man for himself” replied an indignant Alice “Who’re you anyway?” Stephen ignored the question. “Being in the chair means being in charge of the meeting. Who has the agenda?” “Agenda?” asked Sally “Like in everyone has their own?” “No. The agenda is what you have to tell everyone what the meeting is about and how it is to be conducted.” Stephen was now in teacher mode, all he needed was a flipchart and a set of preprinted notes to hand out. Patiently Stephen explained the basics of running a meeting and setting up a committee. The crowd were by now all listening to him, though no one had any idea who he was. “Have you decided who is in the chair?” Stephen finaly asked. “I’m sitting on a barstool, you’re the one on a chair, so it will have to be you” Sally said to Alice. Stephen was about to say that in the chair was not to be taken literally, but thought better of it. These people needed to get on, or they would be here all night.
“First off lets make it like we realy mean this. We’re not here just to have a drink and make new friends.” Alice began. “We’re here to set up a proper committee so that we gets what we deserve from all those people who think that just ;cos we aint got no qualifications and such, we can be treated any old way.” The meeting progressed, with Stephen on hand to advise. At one point it was suggested that Stephen could be chair, as no one seemed to want it, but as he wasn’t one of them this idea was quickly thrown out – much to Stephen’s relief. In the end Sally was convinced that she should be chair, something she had wanted all along but knew better than to seem anxious to do it. That way she could always play the martyr. As Alice had a GCSE in English and owned a computer she was voted Secretary. There was no need for a Treasurer, as there was nothing to treasure, but one was chosen anyway. Sid Bennet, who looked a little shifty to Stephen. Everyone agreed that as soon as Stephen had helped the three officers write out a constitution they would all join by paying fifty pence a year per adult. Then they would meet again, and those who had paid their dues would be able to vote on everything, confirm the three officers in post, and then they would be a proper organisation, one to be reckoned with. Stephen wondered how it had come about that he was writing the constitution. Norman, ringing up yet more drinks, almost chortled. That would teach smarty pants to keep his mouth shut! All that was left to decide was what to call their organisation. They decided to be Flagon’s Valley Tenants, because this made it clear that the membership was only for them, and not the owners further up the valley.
Next morning Norman was a happy soul. The previous evening had brought in a fair bit of extra takings, considering all those people would no doubt tell him how hard up they are. Norman was more than willing to make them more hard up anytime. The pub door opened and in walked a woman of the type Norman’s old gran would have called ‘blousey’. She looked around the bar and then smiling at Norman, who thought how pretty she looked, asked if he could direct her to the new housing where her mother had recently moved. She bought a drink and sat talking to Norman for a while. She said she had come up from Brighton to see her kids, who lived with her mother, she being unable to care for them. She had called at the former flat in Newtsbridge and been told they have moved out here somewhere. She hadn’t been able to keep in touch lately.
Julie Hodge had the surprise of her life when she saw her daughter Dolly on the doorstep. “And where the hell do think you’ve been for the last two years” Julie demanded. “left me with your kids, and no word when you might decide to come back. Where is he then? Finaly up and left you has he?” “I’m here now to see my children. I’ve not had an easy time of it. Where are they then?” Dolly didn’t like the feeling she was getting that her mother disapproved of her. “At school, where do you expect them to be!” Julie snapped, letting Dolly enter. At coming home time the three children arrived to find their Mother on the doorstep waiting for them. Lulu and Pix rushed to throw themselves into her arms. Hooter stopped in his tracks on the path and looked at Dolly. He was unsure what to do. He felt sick, and he felt like he ought to be glad that she was here, but he wasn’t. What Hooter wanted to do was to turn and run and run until he found somewhere safe, and then hide until someone told him that his mother had gone away again. She had left before without a backward glance, and it was Gran and him who had had to try and console Lulu and Pix. They had cried and sobbed, and wanted to know where Dolly was and when she would be back. It would all happen again. Hooter knew it would.
Hooter’s mother let go of the girls and held her arms out to Hooter. He knew he had no choice but to go to her. He took as long as he could putting his backpack down on the path, then he moved forward. Dolly watched him. “Not pleased to see me, then” she said. Hooter said nothing. Dolly put her arms around him, and he put his arms around her but he didn’t squeeze, not even a little bit. It was a relief when Dolly let him go. He went into the house leaving the girls chattering away and went to his room. He had started to decorate the walls with pictures out of magazines and one or two posters, when he had any pocket money to buy them. His Gran came in “Your Mum will be in here, you can sleep on the sofa downstairs.” Hooter didn’t even try to complain. He knew that now his mother was back he would not feel settled.
Lionel Gates was very cross when he heard that the tenants had organised themselves into a formal group to represent their interests. How dare they! It was people like him who needed to protect their own interests, not those down the other end of the valley. He was also annoyed that he had not got around to trying to start a residents group for the homeowners. He had thought to let more move in before he tried that, but in light of what had happened he would get started today. He designed a poster and wrote a leaflet, which he would take to the printer’s. He wanted the professional finish.
Oliver Sweetly was picking up the litter in the front garden of Bagley Cottage. It had not been windy in the night so he knew that the crisp packets and sweet wrappers must have been thrown over the garden wall. It was getting too much of a good thing. He wondered whether the children and adults of Flagon’s Valley ever ate anything except junk and fast food. It was time that this country did something about the appalling food that was sold in the supermarkets. No wonder there was so much anti-social behaviour. Never mind being tanked up on drink, the kids are tanked up on rubbish food with no nutritional value. They were all suffering from malnourishment if Oliver were any judge. “Morning !” the cheerful voice of the postman sounded from the gate. He handed Oliver an important looking envelope. In Oliver’s experience the more important looking the envelope the less important the contents, and so he put it on the doorstep under a stone to wait until later.
The Rev. Matthew was standing in the churchyard looking up at St James de Falstaff with an air of resignation. The report had come in from the surveyors, who had now been able to make a close up inspection of the roof thanks to the welter of scaffolding inside and outside the building. As expected it was not what anyone had wanted to be told. There was a large area of the roof of the church that would need to be renovated before the building could once again be put to its intended use. Until then it remained locked and lonely. To Matthew this seemed like the end of the world. His first parish as vicar in charge and here he was with a million and one troubles, and no sign of help on the horizon Deidre’s fund raising effort seemed such a miniscule offering in the scheme of things, but Matthew knew he should be grateful that someone was doing something. Somehow he didn’t feel very grateful.
At Sunset Cottage Deidre was leafing through the remaining unsold tickets for her Irish theme night. There were an awful lot of them. Why were people being so slow. They knew it was in aid of the church. Alright, Deidre knew the repairs would cost thousands and she could only raise hundreds, but the fund had to start with a little before it could become a lot. ‘Every pound starts with a single penny’ had been the slogan she was thinking of using in the village newsletter. She wasn’t sure the slogan was as good as it might be. The village had a small newsletter of it’s own. Two sides of an A4 sheet of paper. There was also a quarterly newsletter for the four villages, The Fourham Times. Fourham was the name of the Newtsbridge Council ward in which the villages were situated. The ‘ham’ came from the word hamlet, as fourvill had been thought to sound too much like a prison.
Hooter was at Sedge’s house. He was spending as much time as he could out of his own. Dolly had taken over his room and removed his pictures and posters. She had even torn one of the posters because she couldn’t be bothered to be careful. All Hooter’s clothes and other belongings, which didn’t amount to many, were in his sister’s room and they wouldn’t leave anything alone. He was resigned to having nothing much left by the time his mother disappeared again. Dolly would still not say what had happened to her boyfriend Shane. Was he in Brighton waiting for her? Was he waiting for her at all come to that. She had visited the Bullock’s Nose several times. She was getting on well with Norman, who had even been seen to laugh when Dolly was around. Nice man Norman if he could be smartened up a bit, and him with a pub of his own, a girl could do worse. Shane? Maybe Dolly would go back to him, maybe not. They were in touch by ‘phone and she had told Shane all about the new house and the pub. Dolly had made it sound like she was seeing Norman as a soft touch to be taken advantage of, although she was not sure that was how she did see him.
PC Sam Hedger was finaly being allowed out of hospital. It had seemed to him that he had been in there for months. He felt little the worse for the double blow that he had received. He was inclined to feel a bit tired in the afternoons and needed a nap, but apart from that he was feeling ready to get on with life. He had a spell of leave booked to him and was off on a break in the West Country. He intended to do some walking in the countryside. There was no sign that Sam’s assailants were in danger of being brought to book. It was thought that their identities were known, but to prove anything there was a need for witnesses, who did not appear to exist.
Sir Malcom Dunwiddy-Hoe was in a bullish mood. He had been interviewed for the local paper, The Newtsbridge Argus. He had told the young lady reporter all about what is wrong with this country today, in great detail. She had been quite patient, only looking at her watch twice in the whole fifteen minutes. He was sure that his views would strike a chord with many of the paper’s readers. He looked forward to a groundswell of support coming his way as soon as the interview was published. Malcom was beginning to see himself as the saviour of all right minded people in the country. It was not too late for a career in politics. Start his own party. Others did that often enough. Only needed some wealthy person to see the prospect in Malcom, always a natural leader, and who knew how far he could go. Malcom found himself looking beyond the reporter in Downing Street on the One O’clock News, to the doorstep of Number Ten.
Hooter’s Gran , Julie Hodge, and her next door neighbour Pru Sikes had decided to go into Newtsbridge with Dolly for a morning round the shops. Dolly’s little car was going to come in handy and no mistake. They pottered in and out of the department stores, not buying anything as they no money, but trying this and that on. The assistants looked at them with distain. It was obvious they were only out for a laugh not to buy. As they walked out of the biggest department store in town alarms began to sound. “Run” shouted Dolly, as the security guard started toward them, closely followed by the manager and two female assistants. The three women ran for all they were worth along the pavements, which it were fairly empty. Dolly sped down a side street, whilst the other two kept straight on. Neither Julie nor Pru had any reason to keep running and so they slowed at the corner to a walk, looking in shop windows. The followers had given up by now anyway. The women were too far away from the store. The police would be called, but by the time they might arrive it would be too late, and all that would happen is another crime would be added to the figures. The three of them met up by the café at the end of the shopping street. This was near the piece of waste ground that Dolly had parked on to avoid the need to pay. “What’d you get?” Pru asked Dolly. “Something for the girls” Dolly pulled out two t-shirts with pretty flower patterns on them, “and this for Hooter”. It was a t-shirt with a dinosaur picture on it. “And this new jacket for me” she said, taking off the jacket she was wearing. “All we need to do is get this tag off it”.
Oliver finished the litter picking and went indoors for a cup of tea. Prudence, the tortoiseshell cat, demanded to be fed. Cedric the budgie tweeted from his cage. Henrietta sang along to the radio. Oliver settled down at the computer preparing to send e-mails. The letter was still on the step under the stone where Oliver had left it, forgotten about
It was mid-evening when Police Constables Wendy Clark and May Nash arrived at the door of Hooter’s Gran’s house. They wanted to know if there was someone at this address with a child named ‘Pix’? Hooter’s Gran was bemused, but said that there was. What did the police want with a six year old girl, might she ask? It wasn’t the child it was her mother that the police would like a word with. Dolly was sitting on the sofa watching Corrie when the police officers entered the room in the wake of her mother. “Do you have a daughter known as ‘Pix?” Wendy asked. “What if I have, how come the police come pounding on the door at all hours to ask me that?” Dolly was on the offensive. “My Pix is a good little girl, never off school not for anything she aint.” Wendy held out a photocopy of a note written in childish hand. The note read…….’This lady in my Mummy. If anything has happen to her this is to say were she belongs.’ The note went on to give the address in Flagon’s Valley and was signed ‘Pix’. “And so?” Dolly demanded. “This note was found in the lining of an old coat left in the changing room of the Quality Time department store by someone who we believe left wearing a new coat she had not paid for. We have CCTV pictures of the woman, and two others, who ran from the store when the alarms sounded, triggered by the unremoved security tag on the coat in question.” By now Pix and the other children had entered the room. Gran turned to Pix “Did you write this note?” Pix nodded, silent. “You stupid little cow!” screeched Dolly You’ve brought the friggin’ police right to our door.” Before anyone realised what would happen Dolly had lashed out and slapped Pix full in the face. Pix fell back onto the rug, not making a sound, as blood began to flow from her nose. Hooter rushed forward and bundled the now starting to sob Pix to her feet, out of the room and up the stairs into the bathroom. The only room in the house with a lock on the door. He used a towel to wipe her face, but the flow of blood was too much and Hooter didn’t know what to do. Having made sure that Dolly was handcuffed, May left Wendy to deal with the living room scene whilst she went to talk through the bathroom door to the children. Hooter was afraid for Pix in two ways. One, she was still bleeding and he knew that something should be done, but this meant coming out of the bathroom. Two, children got taken away from their families for things like this, and he didn’t want to be handing his sister over to strangers for the rest of her life. May tried to reason with him, and seemed to be on the point of getting him to open the door when his gran came charging up the stairs shouting at the ‘little bleeder’ to stop making matters worse and “let the Police have the little cow. She’s no good to us. Your Mum’s off to prison because of her!” Now Hooter knew that his gran did not want Pix to stay with them he slumped down on the floor, with his back against the door. He felt defeated by the whole situation.
Oliver had finaly remembered the letter on the doorstep. Luckily it had not been raining. He opened the letter, which now he had his reading glasses on did look more likely to be important. It was to inform him that he had been awarded the OBE for his services to the local community. The letter was to ask if Oliver would accept the award. It warned him that if he was accepting the award he must keep the matter confidential until the Birthday Honours were announced. Failure to do so could result in the award being withdrawn. Oliver sat stunned and delighted all at once. Of course he would accept, who wouldn’t, except some scruffy pop singer who wanted publicity for refusing. They didn’t deserve awards anyway! He would reply by return. Not to tell anyone. That couldn’t mean Henrietta. Although, she could be a chatterbox. Might be better to tell his son William in New Zealand. He could rely on William, always level headed.
Hooter’s gran had been ordered back downstairs. She had gone effing and blinding about being told what to do in her own house. May had managed to persuade a now helplessly distressed Hooter to open the door of the bathroom. An ambulance had arrived to take Pix to the hospital. Dolly had already been removed from the house and was on her way to the Police Station. Hooter’s gran had no time for Pix and refused to go with her in the ambulance. Hooter climbed aboard, whilst Lulu stood beside their gran. “Don’t bring her back ever.” shouted Lulu, “ We only just got out Mum back and now we lost her again.”
Sir Malcom and Suzanna had started on the canvassing that evening in Newtsbridge’s Chaplegate council ward. They decided to begin in the ‘nicer’ part of the ward, and leave the ‘lower class’ area to the last. The people there were unlikely to vote at all. All went well when they started to knock on doors in Willson’s Drive. There were a good number of doors open to them, and they were able to expound on the reason for Sir Malcom standing as an Independent. Each doorstep took longer than they had anticipated. The people being of good manners were not inclined to shut the door in their faces, although many were pushed to the limit of their manners. For some reason the further the duo progressed along Willson’s Drive the fewer people seemed to be at home. By the time they reached the end of the road they were getting no answers to their knocking at all. “Strange that,” commented Malcom.
Deidre Avalone was at her wits end over her Irish theme night. At this rate of ticket sales she would not even cover the cost of the hall and the band. She now had Suzanne McPiece on to her to make the next theme night Scottish. If Irish wouldn’t sell, Scottish certainly wouldn’t! She even had the thought that Norman might withdraw from running the bar, and that would be more money down. Deidre was not one to give up on an idea likely. There would be no cancelling and returning money. What she needed was an idea for a draw that would bring people in whether they liked Irish music or not.
Lionel Gates had delivered all the leaflets for the meeting to establish a resident’s association for the homeowners in Flagon’s Valley. He had also obtained use of the Bullock’s Nose, though the bar would not be closed to anyone else, so there was no telling if any ‘of them’ would be there to make nasty comments. (So Lionel imagined). This was the evening. At seven Lionel arrived in the Bullock’s Nose trying not to have to make small talk with the scruffy landlord of the pub, and waited for the meeting start time of seven thirty. Three people turned up for the meeting. Lionel could not believe it! How could ‘those people’ have so many when he could only attract three? However much he tried Lionel found he could not get anything that could be called ‘a meeting’ out of the gathering. As there were only four of them they sat at one table. They decided, one of them half-heartedly, that they should call themselves the committee for the time being, and make it their priority to attract more to the next meeting.
At the hospital Pix was soon sorted out by the doctors and nurses. Her nose was not broken and the nose bleed had stopped in the ambulance. Everyone fussed over the little girl. Hooter sat by her side and tried to imagine what in the world he could do next. If he sided with Pix he might lose his Mum, his Gran and Lulu, but if he sided with the rest of his family he left Pix with no one. A social worker had been called. She said that as Pix’s gran was her guardian and had said she would not look after Pix at the moment it was the only option that somewhere be found for the girl to go until things calmed down. The social worker tried to sound as if she thought things would calm down soon, and Gran would take Pix back, but she didn’t sound very convincing to Hooter. This left Hooter. What was he going to do, go home? Hooter nodded sadly. He told Pix that if he went home he could try and convince Gran to have Pix home, but he knew Pix thought that he was deserting her as well. And he knew that realy he was.
Daisy Gates should have been over the moon, but she wasn’t. She was pregnant again. The first time, she and Lionel had been living in a rented flat and it had all seemed so magical. They would have preferred to have waited until they could afford a place of their own, but that was the way of things. This time it should be even better, here in their own home at last. Instead Daisy felt dread of telling Lionel. He had taken such a stance against the social housing being so close by. Of course they had known before they bought, but being as neither of them had ever lived anywhere near social housing tenants, nor to their knowledge had anything to do with any, it had come as a culture shock to have them just down the road. He was always going on about it. Daisy herself wanted desperately to move from the area that she had so looked forward to moving into. The thought that she would have to give up her part-time job frightened her. There was only just enough money coming in as it was. They couldn’t sell, not in the market as it was. They had even talked about moving into rented accommodation themselves, whilst renting out the Flagon’s Valley house. That is how badly they had been affected mentally.
The police in Newtsbridge had been busy putting together a list of charges. Dolly not only stood to be charged with assaulting her six year old daughter, hitting PC Wendy Clark as she was being restrained and stealing several items from Quality Time, she also had other charges to face. The car Dolly had been driving turned out to be stolen. When the police searched the car they had found a packet hidden in the boot that contained several credit cards in various names, two passports that did not belong to her, a quantity of white powder now being analysed and two thousand pounds in used banknotes. There was also the matter that a search of the computer files had shown that Dolly had been banned from driving, which ban was still in force, that she owed fifty pound in an unpaid fine from a court in London and that she was wanted for questioning in South Wales about a robbery. The state of the car was not what it could be, being defective in several ways, and it was also uninsured and untaxed. Just to round things off the MOT had run out. Both Julie and Pru had been questioned as to why they had run from the store with Dolly if they had done nothing wrong. They both refused to say why, mainly because they could not think of a reason that sounded feasible. Even the duty solicitor could not think of an explanation for their behaviour that would make sense in court. On his advice the pair accepted a caution for them being accomplices, even though they weren’t, because they had had no idea what Dolly had been about to do. They had run from habit. (Not something they could use as a defence). Although neither Julie nor Pru had been angels, they had both managed to remain without records, until now. Something else to blame little Pix for. As for the items found in the boot of Dolly’s car the Police were keeping an open mind about Pru, who Dolly had only known a short time, but they were not too sure that Julie would have not been aware of their existence. She would need to answer more questions.
Oliver was happy in the knowledge that he was about to be honoured. He felt a bit guilty about not telling Henrietta the news. Maybe he should trust her. How would she feel if she found out at the last that she had been kept out of the secret? Oliver still thought it would be a risk to tell her. What if she did talk and he lost his chance of an OBE? It might never come again. So he stayed quiet about it, except to William. Henrietta, his wife of forty-three years, soon noticed ‘something’ but couldn’t say what. She would have to keep an eye on Oliver to see if she could work out what ‘it’ was.
Deidre had had an idea. She had thought of it whilst reading a starting to read book with the young daughter of a neighbour. The story in the book had featured two lady wrestlers. Why not? Surely a bout of female wrestling would fit into the theme of an Irish night. Deidre decided not to tell Verity until the event was already booked and paid for. Deidre had the ‘phone book in front of her trying to find a category that would contain lady wrestlers. She was not having any luck. Then she thought, Mucky Norman! If anyone in Falstaff Vale would know the whereabouts of lady wrestlers, Norman would. And she was right. Norman put Deidre in touch with the right people and before she had the chance for second thoughts it was all settled, mobile ring and all. The ladies in question would be named Fearsome Fanny and Loveable Lucy. It was at this point second thoughts did creep in. Too late, the contract had been signed. Norman’s friends did not hang about when it came to business. Verity hit the roof with such force Deidre doubted even Fearsome Fanny would have stood a chance. “How could you” shrieked a normally mild mannered Verity, “The shame of it. Women fighting in the Falstaff Vale Village Hall. And all because of my sister!” With that Verity stormed out of the cottage and along the street and gave Norman a piece of her mind. Not that that made any difference to Norman, who was already making sure everyone knew that two women would be fighting for their entertainment in the village hall on Irish night. Tickets began to sell like the hot cakes at the Community Café run by the WI on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
What Deidre had not taken into account was the facts that to hold a wrestling bout she would need the permission of the committee that ran the village hall, that she would no doubt need some sort of insurance against spectators being injured and that she would be up against rampant feminist Suzanna McPiece. Oh, and the small fact that the mobile ring would take up so much space in the village hall that there would be no room for spectators anyway. So much for this big idea! But the contract existed. Deidre had signed without telling anyone for fear they would try to block her idea. Now she wished that someone had. All the people who had bought tickets since the bout was known about would want their money back, and she couldn’t say no. Those who had bought before the bout was known about, those few, might also want their money back. This was turning into a humiliating disaster. Deidre would be lots of money out of pocket, which would be her own fault. The church fund would gain no money at all. And everyone would have a good laugh at silly old Deidre.
Fred Bloom, chair of the parish council, had heard all about the proposed female wrestling. To his lady wife and her friends he was suitably indignant, calling it an outrage. In private Fred thought he would rather have enjoyed watching two comely girls grappling. One of the pitfalls of being a man in this age was that he always had to think twice before commenting on anything to his wife. The first thought was what he realy thought, and then the second thought was the one he thought he should think to be on the safe side, and if he wanted his dinner to still be hot by the time he ate it. Fred had so much on his mind that the female wrestling would have been a welcome diversion. It seemed that all anyone wanted to talk to him about these days was Flagon’s Valley. Or, to be more precise, the social housing part of it. Fred could be as open minded as the next man, but there was something not quite right about that estate being foisted on a lovely country area like this. The four villages had for hundreds of years stood amongst the fields and green hills, home to the men who worked the soil, providing the food for the people in the cities. Fred could be very sentimental about the ‘good old days’, before the middle class invasion. First it was those older people retiring to a new life in the country. Then it was the yuppie types looking for second homes. Now it was the younger folk moving out of the towns and cities, then commuting back to work. All of these people had taken the homes from the locals, who could not afford the prices the cottages now commanded. Now a different kind of invasion had taken place. This time the invaders were of the lower class, but they had no intention of being an asset to the area, not them.
PC Sam Hedger returned, on crutches! On a walk he had tried to show off by jumping athletically over a style. His graceful jump had not been landed as it should, and he had broken his ankle. Fortunately the young lady for whom Sam was showing off was a nurse that he had met whilst recovering in Newtsbridge hospital. Unbeknown to anyone, including Sam’s Mother Mavis, Tansy had travelled to meet up with Sam for part of his break. When Mavis saw her son come hobbling through the door, with a young lady she vaguely recognised walking behind him carrying his bag, she didn’t know whether to be cross or not. “What have you done” was all she could think of to say. Having been introduced to Tansy, Mavis felt let down that Sam had not introduced them before, at the hospital. Why had her son hidden this girl from his mother?
At the Bullock’s Nose Norman and his staff were miserably contemplating another evening in which they outnumbered the customers. At this rate Norman could run the pub all by himself. The weather had been atrocious all day. Yet another of those ‘once every two hundred year’ storms that happened at six month intervals. The fence of the pub’s garden lay in tatters on the grass patch Norman referred to as the lawn. Even the wheelie bins had been blown over and were half way along the road to the neighbouring village before being stopped and brought back. After such a mild February the people were thinking how cold it was, when in fact it was still a little above average for March. This cold was keeping them firmly indoors. “What we need is a pub quiz” suggested Flora, “at my last pub the quizzes were so popular they packed the place out.” “What would we do about a prize?” Norman enquired. “They wont mind if it’s only small, not for the first time anyway. People will understand these things take time to get going. We could start a league so that the same people come back in the same teams each time. We could ask that ex-teacher man who had so much to say the other night if he would set some questions. Strikes me he likes to be the centre of attention, so I doubt that he’ll say no.” Flora finished wiping the few glasses that had been used in the last half hour. Norman looked across at her and wondered why he had never asked her for ideas before. He had hired her as an asset of a different kind. She was a nice looking girl, someone to make the male customers smile.
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Sidney Bennet had lived in Falstaff Vale since he moved from London in the early nineteen fifties, to get his young family away from the still recovering capital. Now in his eighties he was the sometime gardener around the vicarage and churchyard. His children had all moved away to live in Newtsbridge and beyond, but his grandson, Sid, had recently moved into the social housing at Flagon’s Valley. This should have made Sidney feel better having family near by, but Sid was a sight too shifty for his Grandfather’s liking. Sidney was a rare person, he was happy with his lot. Some people even thought that Sidney was a bit on the daft side the way he saw good in everything. In the war Sidney had been a firefighter in the London of the Blitz. What he saw was not something that he wanted to discuss with anyone who had not been there. Trouble was that the number of people who were old enough to remember the war, let alone to have been an adult at the time, was dropping almost daily. Many nights Sidney would wake and think that he was still in the nineteen forties. He would lay in the darkness waiting for the sound of the sirens, dreading the moment he would need to leap out of bed and start his duties. Since his wife died, Sidney had lived alone with not even a pet for company. He said he liked it that way. He viewed every day as a new day, which of course it literally was, but what Sidney meant that this was an untouched twenty four hours just waiting to be made the best of. How people lived their lives always thinking about tomorrow he could not understand. “Don’t they know tomorrow never comes?” he would ask out loud to no one, as there was no one there.
Following the disaster of the non-event that had been meant to be the Irish theme night Deidre was keeping a low profile. She felt a total failure. This was not helped by the attitude of Verity. “Serves you right!” Verity had said “You always think you know everything. Every since we were children you have thought you knew everything. It was you that Mum and Dad favoured, and don’t you deny it. Little miss perfect. Passed all your exams, got into Grammar School. And how you swanked in your nice uniform, up and down the village street like it was a catwalk. Well, look at you now. Old, can’t even carry out a simple task. Where have all your brains and good education got you this time, may I ask?” With that Verity had slammed out of the cottage and up the street to sit on the village green for five minutes to cool off.
At the Bullock’s Nose Norman was feeling as elated as a man could be. In the wake of there being no event at the village hall he had taken the chance to stage the first quiz night on the pub. The turn out had been even better than Flora had predicted. Quizzing was on the up again. Stephen Merryman had set the questions and acted as quiz master. There had been those who found Stephen’s manner a little much to take, but all in all in had been a good start for what it was hoped would become a regular event. The only problem was that Stephen had said that although he would set a quiz now and then he could not do so too often. This left Norman with a gap in his plan. Which of the men could he persuade to set the next quiz? Flora pointed out that women can set quizzes just as well as men. Norman pondered. Suzanna, no, she would likely bring in two hundred questions on Mrs Pankhurst. Verity, no, not with her passion for growing petunias and pansies, he could imagine the questions she would produce. Henrietta, no, any questions would almost certainly be overseen by Oliver, and who wanted that old windbag to set the questions. There was no chance he would ask the Vicar’s wife for a set of questions on hymns, nor Mavis for questions on the correct way to fling a highland. There was Deidre, but after the recent non-event he wasn’t sure that he wanted her. Then Norman had an idea, “Flora, how about you giving it a try?” “Oh well, I suppose I could!” replied a ‘reluctant’ Flora.
Easter eggs, Easter eggs, nothing but Easter eggs. Bagley Cottage was awash with the chocolate confections. It was the job of Henrietta to make sure that there were enough chocolate eggs for the annual children’s Easter egg hunt on the village green. This year as there would no doubt be extra children who wished to take part, the village committee had increased the number of eggs that Henrietta had needed to purchase. Now, overseen by Oliver, Henrietta was working out a plan as to where the treats were to be hidden, so that they were spread as far around as possible. Last year the event had been marred by a lone dog, sans owner, which had ended up a very sick animal indeed. What it hadn’t eaten it had cocked its leg over. “That dog must have a reserve tank!” Oliver had observed at the time, as they tried to chase the dog away, “Its got more pee in it than the pub regulars at chucking out time.” There was nothing for it, this year they could not hide the eggs, but would have to hide tokens instead that the children could exchange for the eggs. “It will take the fun out of it “ sighed Henrietta, “but we have no choice.”
At the vicarage Sophia was busy with the preparations. She had made sure to buy all the ingredients in good time. Sophia always baked her own Easter buns, full of fruit and spices. She also produced the Simnel Cake. Matthew was busy writing his sermon. His theme would be “Good out of all things”. He had been unconsciously influenced by Old Sidney. The children were cross that this year they were only getting a long weekend for Easter, and would have to wait until April for the two-week break from school. The Spring Holiday as it was being called. They said it would not be the same. Matthew agreed, that now that the holiday would be nothing to do with Easter it would devalue Easter itself in the eyes of school children. Most of the children knew nothing about the Christian side of Easter anyway, seeing it only as a chocolate eggfest.
In the churchyard Sidney was tending to the grass between the graves. For the time of year it was growing fast. Having completed the cutting he was raking. Sidney had had a lot of nasty dreams the last few nights. He had woken in a state of fear, sweating and trying to breath calmly to stop the rapid beat of his heart. He had relived the sight of the aftermath of bombing, when the ambulances had been round on their three journeys. The first to collect the living and take them to the hospitals, the second to collect the dead bodies, and the third to collect any limbs and the like that had no obvious former owner. Bombing did not result in neat corpses the way it was often made to look in films. This morning Sidney had relived the moment when he had pulled at a small hand under a pile of rubble, only to discover that the hand is all there was. He awoke, and for several seconds after switching the light on could still see the small hand in his. As he raked Sidney began to feel the beat of his heart, it seemed to be getting louder. He felt breathless. Looking out of his study window Matthew suddenly leapt to his feet, ran out of the study door, along the hallway and out of the front door into the churchyard. Sidney, whose story now could never be told, slumped to the ground as Matthew reached him.
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