FALSTAFF PART TWO

The death of Sidney came as a great shock to Matthew, who could never quite get over his fear of dead bodies. It seemed to him that the person might yet rise up and tell him that he had in some way failed them. Especially in the case of Sidney, who might blame Matthew for not being able to save him. Sophia had appeared and as usual was the practical one. She summoned the Paramedics after she had made sure there was nothing more that could be done by herself. Matthew stood by, watching his wife and wondering how she could become so decisive at times like this. Sid Bennet was informed of his Grandfathers’ death by the police. Sid was not heart broken. His Grandfather was not a mainstay of Sid’s life. In fact Sid had had little to do with Old Sidney. There was the little slightly tumbledown cottage that Sidney had lived in. It belonged to the estate that Sidney had worked for as a gamekeeper, a job that he took to get his family out of London. The estate had let Sidney stay in the cottage after he retired only a couple of years ago. The estate was not what it had once been. Much of the land had been sold to the developers, and to a holiday park at Feathery Heights. Some said that was a good thing, others that it marked the ruination of the countryside. Sid went to Sidney’s cottage that evening. He didn’t expect to find much of value. He needed to make sure that anything useful was removed smart quick before the villains knew the cottage would be standing empty. Sid gathered up all the papers he could find that might relate to Sidney’s life. He packed up a few items of ornaments and the like and took them to his own house. Then he made as sure as he could that the place was locked up.

 

Oliver and Henrietta sat amongst the left over chocolate Easter eggs glumly. “What do we so with these now?” asked Henrietta “Nobody wants chocolate eggs after the event.” “Of course they do” Oliver consoled her “we’ll unwrap them, break them up, put them in little bags and give them out to the playgroup and other kids – big and small.” The Great Easter Egg Hunt had fallen foul of the weather. The North Westerly wind had gusted through the village on Good Friday, throwing aside all in its path. The Avalone sister’s television aerial had fallen. The old tree on the village green had been pushed to it’s limit once too often, and was now at a angle, with a section of it’s roots visible. Like as not it would need to be felled. No one knew how old the tree was, they would have to wait to count its rings. The wind had dropped and it had snowed the previous evening, settling for a while, and although the snow was gone the morning had dawned cold with a harsh ground frost. Verity Avalone was seen out at first light, in her dressing gown tutting and clucking over the fate of her tender seedlings, brought on far too early by the mild weather in February. “Last year we were dogged by a dog, this year we were dogged by snow and wind.” Oliver had quipped. The children had obviously got enough eggs, and had had no inclination to be out and about in the bitter cold, not even with the promise of chocolate at the end of it. Nearly all the eggs were still intact, apart from one or two that had been chomped by Oliver when Hernrietta wasn’t looking. They had not even been able to hand eggs out in church, at St James de Falstaff stood forlornly alone and deserted, surrounded by scaffolding and ‘keep out’ notices. They had decided not to make the journey over the icy roads to the nearest alternative church in the area. “Everyone will understand” Oliver had reassured Hernietta, as they had settled down for a leisurely breakfast.

 

Sid’s Father, Miles, had just uttered a string of expletives that even for him was excessive. Miles had arrived at Sid’s house and begun to go through the papers that Sid had brought from Old Sidney’s cottage. “ The effing old devil. He never said a word!” “What ya on about?” asked Sid, pouring another glass of beer. “This here bank account is what I’m on about” Miles waved a piece of paper in the air, “just you look at this Sid.” It was Sid’s turn to render the air blue. “How much?” Sid finally gasped. Miles was sifting through other papers. “The Lottery! The old sod won the Lottery years ago. He left us lot scrimping and saving whilst he had all this dosh in the bank doing nothing. The miserable old…” “Is there a will?” broke in Sid “Who does the money go to now?” “A will. A will” Miles was searching with a frantic air, “There must be a will.”

 

“Sir Malcom Dunwiddy-Hoe has kindly come along to see your representations of history” Mr Crouch, the Head Teacher informed the gathered pupils. “Let us begin with Reception Year’s ‘Coronation of Queen Elizabeth the Second’” The mini plays moved along until it was Sedge’s year’s turn to present ‘The Battle of Hastings’, Malcom, parents and staff were entertained by a lively performance, which included much shouting and waving of cardboard weapons. Arrows even those made out of thin card had been banned by Mr Crouch. Sedge threw his heart and soul into his performance. He was sure that he was by far the best warrior. Afterwards, as the children were back in their classrooms changing to go home Sedge hung around the back of the hall whilst Malcom stood talking to Mr Crouch. As Malcom was preparing to leave Sedge sidled up to him. “I want to join the army when I grow up” Sedge told Malcom. “Good, good” muttered Malcom “admirable ambition. You stick to your guns and don’t be talked out of it.” With a hearty laugh Malcom walked away. “He could do well in the army” Mr Crouch commented. “Do well, or not, it doesn’t matter. The army always needs new blood. They may not be called it in these politically correct days, but they are just as much ‘cannon fodder’ as they were in the Great War.” Malcom said as he stepped into his car and drove away. Sedge walked tall and proud back to his classroom to change. He had spoken to a real live war hero. That would be him one day, he just knew it would.

 

Miles had found Old Sidney’s will and all hell had been let loose! He was calling his late Father every name under the sun, and a few from the leagues of darkness. Miles hoped that Old Sidney was even now feeling the heat. “The old so-and-so has left most of it to the frigging church” screamed Miles at full volume. Sid thought for a moment, “Is there anyone knows?” he asked ”Like can’t we just take it and say nothing?” “We need to produce a will so as the bank will let us have the money. If we produce this then the bank will know. If we don’t produce this then we can’t get at a penny of it, not even the next to nothing that he left his family.” Miles told Sid with venom in his voice. Sid scratched his head, “We need a new will, that’s what we need” he concluded. “How can we do that” asked Miles “we need a solicitor or some one.” “Did Grand-dad use a solicitor” asked Sid. “Messrs Plate, Plate & Rounder, it says here. But this was years ago they will have forgotten about it by now. It was drawn up by Mr Roland Rounder.” Miles told him. “We can’t go to a real solicitor, they’d only contact that Plate lot, but we can find someone who knows how to draw a will that looks real. How difficult can it be?” Sid had decided, there was no way the church was getting that money, no way.

 

The latest edition of the local paper had arrived at the Dunwiddy-Hoe residence. Malcom fell upon it in anticipation. This was the edition that should carry his interview. There it was on page four, with a photograph. “How dare she” stormed Malcom “that’s not what I said, not a word of it. That little madam!” According to the article Malcom was in favour of enforced labour for the unemployed, ‘make them earn their handouts’, thought that single mothers were a disgrace, ‘kept their legs together in my day or faced the consequences’, and social housing should be relegated to some far flung corner than no one else wanted, ‘they don’t need views, too stupid to appreciate anything other than brick walls and burned out cars’. Maude sighed, “Are you sure that you didn’t say those things, Malcom, it sounds just like you.” “I might have said somethinglike that, but not for publication, the silly hussy should have known that. I need to have a word with the editor, get the proper interview published next week with an apology. This could do damage to my campaign. There are layabouts in Chaplegate Ward just as there are anywhere these days. Much as it pains me, Maude, I need their votes the same as respectable people’s votes.” Malcom reached for the decanter, it might be a long time before he trusted a reporter again, even a pretty young lady reporter.

 

It had been arranged that Pix would live with her paternal grandparents from now on. Hooter had never met these people, although he had met Pix’s Father many times. Hooter hoped that they were nice people and Pix would be happy. He didn’t even know their address, and although his Gran did she would not tell him. “You don’t need to know. She will be all right. She has two other half-brothers to look after her” his Gran had snapped. Hooter sat sadly watching the condensation running down the window. Sedge was sitting on a bean bag and talking enthusiastically about Malcom. “He’s a hero.” Sedge told Hooter for the thousandth time, “Fought all over he has. He’s realy old now of course, but he was young once just like us. I’ve seen photos of him back then. Just think Hoots, one day we will be as old as that and kids will think we were always like that.” “We had a fighter pilot at my school once” replied Hooter “and he was using a zimmer frame ‘cos he was ancient, and one of the girls asked him that if the cockpit was so small, where did he keep his zimmer on bombing raids, ‘cos he’d need it if he was shot down.” “Only a girl would ask that!” said Sedge in disgust.

 

The funeral of Sidney Bennet was a low key affair with few attending. His five children travelled from around the UK and were surprised that Sidney had even left enough to need to write a will. The ‘will’ which was read out by Miles at the wake, held in the Bullock’s Nose, was of course not the real will, but a hastily drawn up replacement version. In it Sidney left only a few bits and pieces, and after the cost of the funeral had been met about two thousand pounds to be divided amongst his children (with fifty pound to the church restoration fund). His daughter Romana was muttering to her sister Venice, “I don’t like it that Miles got to the will first. If he’s admitting that the old man left two thousand you can bet your best hat that there was lots more than that.” Venice smiled a less than sisterly smile “Yeah, Miles is too sharp to miss a chance. He needs to be found out that’s all, an’ then we will all be after him”. The two of them downed another glass of port, “And that’s another thing” continued Venice “if there aint a lot more cash how come it’s drink and eat at no cost to us? Miles would never have put on a wake for our Dad if it was out of his own pocket”. Norman serving the drinks at a rapid pace was inclined to agree that there was more cash to this then met the eye. “’Ere “ broke in Norman, “What you gonna do with the old fella’s Clarice Cliff then? Very proud Sidney was to get that piece for so little from that car boot. And those other ornament things of his he was on about recently, they might be worth a bob or two if you believe what you see on the telly.” Miles glared at Norman. “I’ve not had time to get those things valued yet,” “ Bet you aint” muttered Venice. “When I have” continued Miles “then of course I will share the proceeds between us.” “Make sure you do, and no deducting for this do. You said today was on you and it will be” Venice had the bit between her teeth. “Funny how you only mentioned some old tatt in that ‘will’ you read out and nothing about any valuable ornaments.” Miles decided that the time had come to say nothing, and so he shut up and went to the Gents safe in the knowledge that not even his sister Venice would follow him in there.

 

“Sir Malcom Dunwiddy-Hoe is a nasty piece of work. He has the kind of opinions that should have dies out with the ark. Whatever you do don’t be tempted to vote for Dunwiddy-Hoe.” So spoke Cllr. Robin Dupon at a meeting in the bingo hall in Market Street. The bingo session was due to start at 7 pm and so most of those present were there to try their luck, not listen to a local politician spout his piece. But Robin had agreed a good fee to the owners of the bingo hall and so the gathered regulars were having to put up with him. They were not listening to him, a fact which had either escaped him or which he was simply ignoring. As he continued to run down every aspect of his opponent it became clear even to those only partly listening that Robin had singularly managed to avoid telling anyone what his achievements had been in the previous years, nor what he intended to do if re-elected. Before anyone could ask any questions, never mind awkward ones, Robin’s time was up and the people could get on with ‘eyes down’, much to their relief. The owner of the bingo hall was wondering how to get hold of the ‘phone number of Malcom so he could give him a ring and see if there was any chance of making some money out of the right to reply. The reporter from the Newtsbridge Argus walked out of the bingo hall with a smile on her face. She had a grudge with Malcom after his complaint about her article about him.

 

There had been another day of high winds and heavy rain and the gardens of Falstaff Vale were looking the worse for wear. Verity was lamenting the death of many of her young plants. Her shrubs looked bedraggled, and the grass was long but too wet to cut. Henrietta looked sadly at the daffodils blown flat, their pretty yellow faces splattered with mud, like a group of children who had been out to play. Oliver had promised to put up the hanging baskets soon and the pretty garden lights, but this didn’t make Henrietta feel better. Today was the day the clocks were put forward one hour. “spring forward, fall back” as the mnemonic has it. This meant one less hour in bed, but should be the day when all hope of the summer to come blossomed. Watching the man on the tv weather it didn’t sound very summery for the next couple of days. Why did summers always seem so much better in her younger days, Henrietta wondered. Was it true, or do we all remember the best of times. Unless one is a depressive, then perhaps one remembers the worst of times. Prudence, the cat, sat staring at an upturned flowerpot. “What have you found?” asked Henrietta, lifting the pot and finding a frog, who appeared to look up at her with a frown “sorry” she said, hastily replacing the pot. She was worried about Oliver. He seemed to have something on his mind. It was not like him to keep secrets from her, but she was sure he was. It couldn’t be that her husband had something to be ashamed of could it?

 

Matthew was sitting with his head in his hands. The study door was shut, which was unusual. Sophia was puzzled. What could be wrong with her husband? The children were in their rooms supposedly concentrating on their homework. The rapidly growing puppy, Mitzy, was in the kitchen gnawing on a bone, whilst Claude the cat watched with distain from the safety of the top of the fridge. Matthew had had the sort of news that is enough to make anyone feel like shutting the door and sitting with their head in their hands. It had been assessed that the repairs to St James de Falstaff would run into hundreds of thousands of pounds. The Diocese would be unable to find such a large sum, and the insurance would not pay more than part of it, due to the church being underinsured – an oversight that some one should have corrected, but hadn’t. Matthew had been told that baring a miracle the church would have to remain closed, and he would have to manage as best he could. There might even be the chance that the church would one day be sold to the highest bidder, time would tell.

 

The snow that fell on the first weekend in April made the village look like a Christmas card for a few hours. The wind thankfully not too strong, was none the less able to whip up mini snowdrifts. The children whooped their way out of bed and out of doors far earlier than they would usually did. Some gathered large amounts of snow and made a giant snowman on the village green. They named it Mucky and dressed it in some tatty old clothes one of them found in the garden shed – clothes that had been destined for a guy to be burnt on the bonfire in the November to come. The children spent many hours outside, finely going home tired and cold. By the next morning nearly all the snow had melted. That which was left had been topped in the night by a layer of crunchy frost. This morning the children’s delight was in jumping on the snow and hearing the sound it made. Oliver watching from his window in the warm thought how like the days of long ago when he and his friends would have done the same thing. Just went to prove that the children could still be children given the chance.

 

Henrietta had been watching Oliver. She was still convinced that there was something on his mind – or could it be some one? Surely after all these years Oliver had not found another woman. Henrietta would not let herself believe that. She had a mind full of other reasons for Oliver being preoccupied. Debt, gambling, the too awful thought that there was something wrong with his health that he didn’t want to worry her about, the list went on. Several times Henrietta had tried to find the courage to ask Oliver what was wrong, but each time she had stopped, dreading the answer. Oliver was so preoccupied that he had not noticed Henrietta’s lack of appetite and general air of being tired and run down. If he had he would have been worrying about her keeping something from him.

 

Malcom’s anger at the Newtsbridge Argus had not abated. The paper had not printed his ‘proper interview’. In fact the paper had not printed one single word about him at all. Malcom had ranted and raved to Maude, and to Suzanna. Neither of the women had been any help at all. Suzanna had said that frankly it served Malcom right for not taping the interview, which in her opinion he would have had every reason to do. She would never trust a reporter. Maude had pretended to be engrossed in coverage of the Olympic torch being run though the streets of London, until eventually Malcom had given up and stomped out of the room muttering about the Chinese.

 

Miles and Sid were in the throws of a plan. They still needed to find a solicitor who would be prepared to write a fake will for Old Sid’s fortune, and to help them get the money from the places where it currently was. Miles had asked around and had found George Alexis Marshall. A grand sounding name for a short rat featured man, with greasy hair that needed cutting and a squint. George had negotiated with Miles that in the event the plan worked George would take a commission of twenty per cent of the proceeds. In the event the plan came unstuck then George would blame it all on Miles, who would have to plead guilty. Miles had argued that twenty per cent would be too much. George had pointed out that Miles needed him more than George needed Miles, and a deal was struck. It seemed that the task would be completed ‘toot sweet’ as George put it. “Nothing to it old boy” said George who fancied himself as a public school boy type, far from the truth “leave everything to me. In a few weeks we shall both be in the Med’ wondering how we ever lived any other way.”

 

Fred Bloom, chair of the parish council could not believe what he was being told. When the notice had appeared on the tree near the Bullock’s Nose everyone had supposed it to be a hoax, not least because it appeared on April the first. It was a poster that told the villager’s to beware the plans of Bertrum Stamp, property developer, with regards the area known as Leafy Wood. It was suggested that Bertrum had already completed a deal to buy Leafy Wood from the once great local estate. Leafy Wood was next to the land upon which the Feathery Heights holiday park had been installed. Land that had been sold by the estate some years before. The poster had said that Bertrum had plans to create a nudist camp on the site of Leafy Woods. Some of the trees would be retained to screen the camp from outsiders, but most of the wood would be felled to make way for the buildings. It seemed that nudists should not be expected to rough it. The poster had now been proved to be the truth. Here in Fred’s hand was the copy of the application submitted to Newtsbridge Council for planning consent for a nudist camp at Leafy Wood. Fred knew that the plans would bring a storm of protest. On the one hand because the wood was popular with the locals – access had always been allowed, although poaching was stamped on – on the other hand because of what the proposed use should be. There would be many who would oppose the idea of naked hoards descending upon the area.

 

Monday the seventh of April saw the arrival of the first letter. It was received by Verity Avalone. The letter stated that Matthew Patching, local vicar, had a secret. The letter went on to say what the secret was, and Verity was shocked to the core. If this were true then Matthew was unfit for the post he held. What should Verity do about the letter, which was unsigned?

In the days that followed the first letter there were five more, all anonymous, all giving ‘details’ of the life of Matthew and his family. Verity had done nothing with her letter, not even telling Deidre. The second letter had been received by Henrietta. She had told Oliver, who said that they should ignore it, but to not throw it away as “you never know”. Two days later Norman found a letter in the post at the pub. He glanced at and tore it up. Suzanna McPiece read and reread the letter she received, then said “Nonsense!” and filed it in her desk. Then two letters were received on the same day, one by Lionel Gates and the other by Mavis Hedger. Both these residents did not hesitate to take action. Mavis phoned her son P.C. Sam, whilst Lionel contacted the local police station.

 

Hooter had tried to enjoy the Spring Holiday but couldn’t. He missed Pix. His Gran and Lulu were more concerned with visiting Dolly in prison than in how Pix might be. Hooter’s Gran had not been charged with anything in relation to the items that had been found in the car Dolly had driven. There was nothing to prove that either Julie, or Pru from next door, had been taken into Dolly’s confidence. Dolly remained on remand, having been interviewed in relation to crimes in various parts of the UK. It appeared that Dolly had developed into a serial criminal, something that did not seem to be a disappointment to her mother. Hooter had played out as much as he could. He had slid on the ice, thrown snowballs, played football in the sunshine and computer games when it had rained, but still he felt hollow. Pix had left a big hole in his life. He felt guilty that he had walked away from her that day, but what else could he have done. He knew that Pix had another family who she had visited regularly when she lived with his Gran. Hooter had no one that he knew apart from Gran and Lulu who would take him in and give him security. His father was a vague memory. His father’s family were never in touch. They had not approved of Dolly.

 

Sedge had come over all important since he had met Sir Malcom Dunwiddy-Hoe. To Sedge’s mind his ambition to become a soldier had been approved by a real life hero. The posters in Sedge’s bedroom had now all been replaced by army recruiting material. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be a Commando or something more showy. To be a Commando would be realy good, with lots of danger and girls thinking how wonderful he was. However, there were other options that would involve being part of the pomp and circumstance of the big parades. Sedge would like to be in those. His Mother was concerned that Sedge would end up in the war zones. Sedge didn’t say, but he thought his Mother was being silly. What was the point of being a soldier and sitting at home all the time.

 

Oliver was all of a twitter. Here it was nearly the end of April and he still hadn’t told Henrietta about his OBE. Oliver now wished he had told her when he first knew. How would he bring up the subject now? He imagined himself trying to find the words and getting it all wrong. The difficult bit was that he would have to show Henrietta the letter he had received and she would see the date and know how long he had known before telling her. Then he would have to confess that he had told William, their son. He lay at night trying to think of the best words. Beside him Henrietta pretended to be asleep as she worried about what it was that was worrying Oliver.

 

Miles and Sid were in the throws of writing another letter. They had hoped that there would be some sign that the first half dozen had had some effect, but so far nothing seemed to have changed at the Vicarage. This time they had decided to send one to the editor of the local paper. If that didn’t work they would have to rethink their strategy. Miles had started to worry that his father might have said something to the vicar or his wife about leaving money to the church. If so it must have seemed odd that when the ‘will’ was read not only did Sidney leave little, there was only fifty pound to the church. Miles decided that the best way out of this potential problem was to discredit the vicar so that he would have to leave the area. Neither Miles nor Sid were that bothered what the outcome would be for Matthew and his family, they had much more important things to worry about, umpteen thousand more important things.

 

Unbeknown to Miles and Sid the letters had caused a problem in another family. Unfortunately for Daisy she found the courage to tell Lionel that she was pregnant again only a few minutes after Lionel had finished phoning the police about the letter he had received. Lionel had no intention of telling Daisy about the letter or the allegations about Matthew that it contained. When she told him the news of the pregnancy even she did not expect the response the news got. “How could you!” Lionel had yelled before slamming out of the front door and storming to the car, leaving Daisy to cry as she watched him drive away.

 

Fred Bloom, chair of the parish council, was sick of the word nudist. He was also sick of the flippant way in which the news of the proposed nudist holiday camp at Leafy Wood was being reported in the local paper and on the local radio. Headlines such as “Would you Adam and Eve it?” “Locals think sight inappropriate” and “Barely anyone approves” in the Newtsbridge Argus, and silly jokes about leaves falling in autumn on the radio, were enough to make Fred’s blood pressure rise. It was all very well for people who lived miles away to make fun but to the people near by this was a real issue. And didn’t Fred know it! He couldn’t walk down the street without being stopped by the antis and the pros. Not that there were many of the latter. The final straw had been when the young lady reporter from the Argus had phoned and asked for his comments. She had asked if Fred were “thick skinned enough to try nudism,” at which point without thinking Fred had slammed the phone down. In the paper the reporter had referred to Fred as ‘petulant Fred Bloom’.

 

 

Malcom and Suzanna were plodding the streets of Chaplegate Ward knocking on hundreds of front doors. Those who answered were for the main polite. Most did not want to stand at the door letting the unseasonably cold wind into their homes. They said yes to the question of would they vote for Malcom, usually not meaning to. Both Malcom and Suzanna were getting downhearted. They sometimes saw the canvassers from other candidates, but never seemed to see the candidates themselves on the knocker. With polling day now so near the notice of candidates had been put on display, and ballot papers would be in the process of being printed. Malcom tried to feel excited.

 

Mavis Hedger was beside herself. Her son Sam had just told her that he was to marry the nurse Tansy, who he had known only a few weeks. Mavis couldn’t understand how Sam could be sure after so short a time. The couple were talking of an autumn wedding, possibly in September. They would set the date when they found which Saturdays were available at the nearest church. Sam would have like St James de Falstaff but there was no hope of that. They said they did not want a big do, but were determined to marry in church with as many of the trimmings as they could afford. Tansy’s parents lived in the north so Mavis had not met them. Sam had been up to visit them once and thought they were nice enough, but he wasn’t marrying them. It was not that Mavis didn’t like Tansy. She was a pleasant enough girl - to be her son’s girlfriend.

The days flew past. The postal votes had been sent out and, if people wanted to make sure the Royal Mail got those votes back to the election office in time to be counted, had been sent on their way. The local paper had stopped publishing reader’s letters on any subject that could be remotely said to concern politics – in the interest of fairness to all the candidates. The canvassers had for the most part given up on the doorsteps. Mainly because they had called at nearly all the homes and got the doors opened to them where they were likely to be, but also because they had become dispirited by the lack of positive response from the potential voters. Everyone it seemed had a grievance of one kind or another, for which the politicians were to blame, and so it mattered not who called to ask for their vote the voters expressed opinions – some forcefully. Hooter’s Gran had shouted at a canvassers to “bu***r off!” and brandished the bread knife which she had taken with her to the front door. She had thought it might be one of those “self-serving ********” and gone to answer the door prepared. She was annoyed that whilst her benefit had only increased by a few pounds everything was going up and up. She had not believed the price rises in the supermarket. It seemed as if the store was increasing prices everyday and no one was doing anything to stop it happening. “It can’t be right “ Julie had moaned to Pru “they can’t need to put up the prices like this. The supermarkets are taking the p***, they are like that lot in the war that were shot if they were caught. Trouble is these days the Police would defend the ******* if we did that tar and feathering” Julie was feeling the pressure of the last few weeks and it had not helped that she had had a phone call from Dolly’s boyfriend Shane Wentworth.

 

Verity had not had a good nights sleep since the day the anonymous letter had arrived. She knew she should have told someone, though not Deidre who would have made such a big deal out of it. Verity was sure that the allegation was untrue. But what if it was true and she had done nothing. She was not aware of anyone else having received a letter, though she rather supposed that someone must have, as it would be unlikely that she would be the only one to be given the ‘information’. She had read and reread the letter many times. It sounded so genuine not like someone being nasty. How could Matthew Patching still be a vicar if this were true. Verity weeding in the garden was in such a tizzy that she didn’t even notice that it was not only the weeds she was uprooting and depositing on the compost heap. Another lady with a letter who now thought she should have done more than file it away was Henrietta. It was all very well that Oliver had said there could not be any truth in it, but Oliver had also told Henrietta to keep the letter when she had suggested throwing it away, so did this mean he wasn’t as sure as he made out. At the Vicarage Matthew and Sophia were just sitting down to breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast when the doorbell rang. It was an Inspector and a Sergeant from the local Police station. Could they speak to Matthew in private they asked. Matthew took them into his study, curious as to whom they wished to see him about. He was used to having to provide character references for parishioners who had fallen foul of the law, especially since the social housing had been built near by– not that many of the residents there were personally known to him. It was therefore a shock to find that the Inspector was asking Matthew about his own background. Why did this police officer want such details, was Matthew being accused of something. Did he need to stop talking. The Inspector then asked Matthew about his life as a curate in another part of the country. Matthew did not like the way the questions were going. The Inspector seemed particularly interested as to Matthew’s dealings with young people.

 

The annual village fair was to be held on the second Saturday in June – as it had been for the last ninety-nine years. The fact that this would be number one hundred had lead to the plans for the event taking on a somewhat enlarged proportion to recent years. The event had been scaled down due to cost and the ever decreasing number of volunteers. This year would see the return of the Village Pageant, something popular for so long that had lost its charm for some reason. Fred Bloom, chair of the parish council, blamed television. Fred blamed lots of things on television. The fair had never missed a year since it began, wars had not dented the enthusiasm of the locals to carry on regardless. There would be the usual fruit and vegetable competition, although not many entered these days – Fred blamed the supermarkets for this decline. As Chairman of the Fair Committee it fell to Fred to make sure everything went according to plan. In pursuit of this perfection Fred would spare no one and accept no excuses. In fact Fred would be the one person everyone involved would be trying to avoid come the end of May.

A new tree was to be planted on the village green to replace the venerable oak lost in the gale in March. There was a debate underway as to which type of tree should be planted. The rings on the old tree had been counted and added up to an incredible two hundred and sixty seven. Some said it must be another oak tree. Others said that something more modern and less ‘British Empire’ should be planted. Fred favoured an Elm, which he said was just as English as the oak. The decision would have to be made soon.

 

There had been a break in at the village hall. Someone had broken into the kitchen and as well as taking packets of tea, coffee and biscuits, had stolen any electrical appliances and equipment that were small enough for one person to carry. No one had seen or heard anything even though there must have been a vehicle used. The most devastating lose was the two tea urns and the pots and pans. These would cost a pretty large amount to replace, even if second hand ones could be found. They had been the big old fashioned urns that boiled enough water to keep the whole village supplied with cups of tea, whilst the pots and pans were large and heavy, made to last a hundred years – and they might well have already done so. Now all that there was available were three domestic kettles borrowed from local households. It was taking an age to make all the teas and coffees required. The pots and pans that people brought along were of little use. They were far too small.

 

Polling day May 1^st had dawned and Malcom had escorted Maude to the Polling Station to cast their votes. Maude took her ballot paper and was heading for the voting booth when Malcom boomed “don’t forget my name – Dunwiddy-Hoe”. The official at the desk tutted, “you can’t stand there influencing the voters” she said crossly. “That’s the wife, if I can’t influence the wife then it’s a sorry state this country is in” snapped Malcom. In the privacy of the booth Maude picked up the pencil to make her cross on the ballot paper. The point of the pencil was almost on the square beside the name Dunwiddy-Hoe when Maude hesitated. She made her mark, and folded the ballot paper before taking it and dropping it into the box provided. “Job well done” enthused Malcom. Maude nodded.

 

Shane Wentworth had arrived at Julie’s house. The children were at home as their school was a polling station for the day. Hooter and Lulu looked in disgust when Shane walked into the living room. Neither of them had ever liked Shane, who was a show off and nasty with it. Hooter’s Gran was telling Shane all about what had happened to Dolly. When he heard how Pix had hidden the name and address in the lining of Dolly’s old jacket so the police had been able to find Dolly Shane actually spat onto the living room carpet. “Always knew that little **** was dulally” he snapped “should have been got rid of, and you two are not worth having either, why d’you think your precious mother left you behind” He raised his clenched fist and shook it at Hooter and Lulu. Lulu began to cry. Hooter felt sick. He was sure that Shane was here to cause trouble for all of them.

 

It was the evening and the count was taking place in Newtsbridge Town Hall. Malcom and Suzanna were in attendance. The counts of the various wards were not taking long as the turnout had not been high anywhere in Newtsbridge. Chaplegate Ward had gone to a recount. Two candidates were neck and neck, Robin Dupon sitting councillor seeking re-election and Malcom. If he were honest Malcom was amazed at the situation. He had given up any hope of being elected days ago. There had not seemed to be much in the way of promised votes coming his way on the doorsteps, but here he was a whisker away from success. There was a second recount. The other wards were finished and declared and all eyes were on Chapelgate Ward. The reporter from the local radio was from time to time in contact with the radio station and so Maude, sitting at home, was aware of the situation. She would have liked to go with Malcom to the count to see how it was done for herself, but he had made it clear that she was not needed. “And so finaly we have the result for Chaplegate Ward” the radio reporter informed his listeners “the candidate elected by a margin of only one vote is Robin Dupon, elected for his third term as councillor.” Sitting by the radio with a mug of cocoa Maude smiled.

The weather forecast had been wrong and the area had had a lovely Bank Holiday weekend. Oliver and Henrietta had visited the Newtsbridge Town Centre Spring Fair on the Saturday and enjoyed themselves. They had stayed for a while listening to a group of musicians playing assorted types of music in the town square. They were about the only ones who did stop, as the crowds of people walked past. Oliver commented that people just don’t know how to enjoy themselves these days, instead of sitting on one of the many benches enjoying live music the people were probably on their way home to listen to CDs. Eventually the sun grew too hot and leaving the band belting out “You Are My Sunshine” Oliver and Henrietta withdrew to a café for lunch. Oliver thought that this might be a good day to tell Henrietta about the award he would be receiving. It would be made public in only just over a month. But the day was full of sights and sounds and bargains, and Oliver didn’t say anything,

 

Shane Wentworth had found a friend in Norman Heap. The two of them stood either side of the bar at the Bullock’s Nose lamenting their lives. Shane had always felt that the world had done him down. His life had been one long round of unfairness. Norman felt much the same about his own life. Shane was very unhappy about Dolly being locked up, as if she had done anything to deserve that. It was probable that she would receive a custodial sentence when she came to trial. Shane depended on Dolly, she was the one with the brains and all the good ideas had been hers. Since she had been locked away Shane had not had a lot of cash to spend – a state of affairs that he did not like one jot. Norman was just then giving his opinion of the Government and its inability to do anything about the rise in the price of the all the essentials of living. Shane had no time for the Government, all he wanted was more money so that the price rises would not effect him. Norman had an idea to try to get his hands on cheap booze from the continent and sell it at the prices of the UK and he would pocket the ‘tax’. Shane was up for a trip across the channel, and was more than willing to come back with a van stuffed with as much drink and cigarettes as possible – providing Norman made it worth his while.

 

The Avalone sisters were working out their finances. When they had been employed they had thought that the amount they were putting away for their old age would see them through. Now they were equally sure that the money would not be anywhere near enough. They had never been tempted into investments that promised a large return at a large risk. Now they wondered if the risk might be worth taking. The sisters had received a phone call from a nice sounding young man who had talked to them about investing in shares in a company that whilst they had never heard of it sounded the sort of ethical investment they might consider. They had not committed to anything, but they had asked the young man to send more details, which he had done by e-mail the same day. The amount it was suggested that they invest was not over large, five thousand pounds, and was a sum they could find without too much trouble from their investment accounts. They were being offered an excellent rate of return, although the information made it clear that it may be a while for the shares to be worth the amount predicted, as the share price was depended on the economic upturn, when it came.

 

Sam Hedger and Tansy were looking at houses in the area, more in hope than expectation. It was unlikely they could afford to repay a mortgage of the size that would be needed, even if they could get one in the credit crunch. Almost certainly they would need to look in Newtsbridge at houses built for ‘key workers’ to buy at affordable prices. Sam’s Mother was still not at all sure about his rushing into marriage with Tansy. Why could they not live together as in her day, she asked Sam. But Sam would have none of that, Tansy was the one and he intended that the world would know that they would be together for life. To Mavis this sounded like a sentence. There was something she did not like about Tansy, and she thought a mother’s instinct could not be wrong.

 

Fred Bloom was getting more and more frustrated with the rest of the members of the Falstaff Vale village fair committee. It seemed to Fred that he as chair was the only one who took the organising seriously. It was a big day in the Falstaff Vale diary and needed to be well thought out. Planning was everything. Details needed to be gone over, several times. Everyone needed to commit to their job on the day, and do it without argument or excuse. Unfortunately for Fred his way of trying to do things was not popular. The other committee members tended to be of the “it’ll be all right on the day” frame of mind. Take the tree for instance. Would they make up their minds what type of tree should be planted? No, still they fussed and dithered. Fred had pointed out that trees don’t grow on, well, trees. They would need to order it soon if they were to have it ready for the planting ceremony on the day.

 

Sir Malcom Dunwiddy-Hoe was still fuming over losing the election by only one vote. “If I could find out who failed to turn out and vote for me I’ll have their guts for garters” he thundered to Maude over breakfast, just as he had over lunch and dinner the day before, and the day before that. Maude has stopped listening. She had plans of her own now that there would be nothing to keep them in Newtsbridge. All she had to do was to convince Malcom that is was all his idea and she as the ‘little woman’ had no choice but to go along with him. Maude had often thought how nice it would be to live in the countryside. She rather fancied Yorkshire, all those walks, but Norfolk was nice and the West Country, frankly anywhere where she could hear bird song instead of motorbikes at dawn would suit her. Now Maude needed to put her plan into action. It was best with Malcom in his present mood to start the process. She could not afford to wait until he found another cause to fight. Those allotments would be coming up for planning consent soon, and Malcom would be off again on a crusade.

 

Hooter and Lulu sat all agog listening to Pru Sikes. She had been selected to be a contestant on the TV game show “Mind Your Manners”, playing for a top prize of fifty thousand pounds. Pru had been to the production company offices for an audition but was disappointed that she had not met the host of the show Declan Maidment. The show was a variation on the proper use of the English language, and would involve spelling, grammar and the contestant’s descriptive abilities. Hooter thought that the way Pru used the English language he doubted that she would win anything, but it would be fun living next door to a ‘celeb’. Pru was all of a flutter trying to decide whether to have her hair cut short for dramatic effect. She had made an appointment to have her nails sculpted, and had already bought a new outfit to wear on her big day. In fact Pru had spent a lot more money than she could afford and had had to go to the local moneylender to finance her make over. She was sure that she would win enough to clear the debt, and the several hundred per cent interest.

 

 Fred Bloom was in a strop. He had thrown his clipboard to the grass, and then walked five times around the bench on the village green muttering to himself. Fred had then picked up his clipboard and stamped away across the grass in the direction of the Bullock’s Nose. Slamming his way through the door of the pub Fred glared at Norman standing behind the bar. “Think it’s all a big joke, don’t you?” Fred snapped, as Norman stared at him. “There are those in this village as should remember that there are traditions which are not to be taken likely.” “What’re you on about now you old duffer” Norman enquired, without much interest in the answer he might receive. “The summer fair, the pageant, everything that is Falstaff Vale at its best. How dare you say that you will not offer food to those who help at reduced prices. It’s the people who volunteer that make events like this. I won’t expect to see you refuse to take the money of any visitor who happens to feel like a pie and a pint on the day. Oh no, you will be stood there waiting to take them for every penny. Only too happy to be part of the community then!” Without a backward glance Fred slammed his way back out of the pub, still muttering to himself – the word “profiteer” being clearly audible. Norman sighed, there were times when being a pillar of the community had its drawbacks, and having to deal with Fred Bloom at this time of year was a king size drawback.

 

Fred walked at speed along the village’s main street, and was about to rush past Sunset Cottage when he heard a tapping on glass. Looking to his left he saw Verity Avalone at the cottage window. Verity waved and then gestured that she would like Fred to come to the cottage. With a feeling of annoyance Fred opened the gate and met Verity at the front door. “Fred” Verity began, sounding almost girlish “I know that you can help” “What now” thought Fred, who had things to do. “You can advise Deidre and me, I know you can. It’s about an investment opportunity that has come our way out of the blue. I think we should take more time to think about it, but you know what Deidre can be like.” Verity paused and Fred took his chance “Can’t stop. And anyway if it’s advice on money issues then I am not the right person. Why don’t you try that Stephen Merryman, he seems to think he knows about everything. I hear he is setting the quiz at the pub on Sunday so you might be able to catch him then. Must dash!” and with that Fred was gone leaving Verity to watch him into the distance. Verity had always liked Fred. He had been one class above her at school and every break time she had tried to find a reason to talk to him.

 

Pru was in such a state about her appearance as a contestant on “Mind Your Manners” that she became clumsy. In the supermarket she was almost caught by the security guard with a bottle of whiskey that she had not paid for, and then later it was a close thing at the chemist. The money Pru had borrowed from the money lender was all gone on an outfit and accessories, plus the amount put aside for the nail and hair appointments. There was none to spare for makeup and the like. She had managed to steal a lovely pair of sunglasses from a department store, along with some snazzy tights, but she had not stolen anything to sell. She needed to get herself back on track if she was to make the benefit last this week. Pru lived like this, stealing to make the money last. She would have liked a job she said but it wasn’t practical not with the kids. She had left school at fourteen to all intents, when she was pregnant for the first time. She never went back to classes, not properly. Her second baby was only eleven months after her first. How her mother had shouted! By then Pru was sixteen and left school with no qualifications of any kind. She had never felt the urge to try and get any. What good would it do her?

 

Malcom Dunwiddy-Hoe was puzzled. Every time he picked up a magazine or newspaper it seemed it had been turned to a page about the glories of the English countryside. Maude was constantly changing the TV channel to whichever other channel had a programme about moving to the country, living in the countryside, or country pastimes. ‘The woman is obsessed’ thought Malcom. He had nothing against the countryside, in moderation. It was a nice place to visit. What Malcom could not understand is why so many apparently sane people wanted to leave perfectly good towns to go and live miles from anywhere, with no amenities and lots of noises that to Malcom were disturbing. Although it was true traffic noise could be a nuisance at least it didn’t go on and on and on. Cows mooed incessantly in Malcom’s experience, just as sheep and the rest never knew when to keep the peace. As for the birds at the crack of dawn, it was bad enough in Newtsbridge. And don’t even mention Owls and the like hooting and hollering all night. No, for Malcom the country held no attraction as a place to live.

 

Sedge’s dad had sent a card for Sedge’s tenth birthday. The card had a big number on it and said “Now You Are 9”. “It’s the thought that counts” said Sedge’s Mum, Mandy. “It’s a shame your Dad can’t come and see you, but he has sent you a fiver so you can buy yourself something nice and then write and tell him.” Sedge nodded. He didn’t think it there had been much thought behind the card or else his dad would have counted the number of years since Sedge’s birth correctly. Sedge hadn’t seen his dad since his fifth birthday. His dad lived in the north of England with his wife and three children. Two of the children were older than Sedge, the third a baby born last autumn. Mandy had been a short-term fling. Sedge knew he had been a mistake – at least as far as his dad was concerned. Sedge wasn’t sure how his Mum had felt. He didn’t know what to buy with the five pounds. It ought to be an item on its own, not put the money toward something. It would sound better to be able to write that he had bought a ‘whatever’ it turned out to be. Sedge wondered what his half siblings got on their birthdays. He had never met them, or even seen a photo. Sedge was not sure that the other children knew he existed.

 

Lionel Gates had still not got used to the idea that Daisy was pregnant again. It could not have happened at a worse time. They had only just taken on the mortgage and now with the recession looming Lionel’s firm were hinting that there would have to be some ‘streamlining of the workforce’. Daisy was crying a lot these days. Lionel put it down to her hormones. He was too busy thinking about other problems to see that Daisy needed to be told that he didn’t blame her. Daisy had not made friends since the move to Flagon’s Valley. In fact Daisy didn’t have friends anywhere. She had been shy all her life and had acquaintances. She had met Lionel at work. They had worked together for six years before they got married. Since then Daisy had taken to leaving all decisions up to Lionel. She had stopped work as soon as she had found out that Poppy was on the way. Lionel had thought it best. He had just been promoted so money should not be a problem. After Poppy had been born Lionel had expected Daisy to stay at home, the full time Mum, and this was a relief for Daisy who no longer had to try and function in a world that did not seem to like anyone who didn’t have confidence.

 

At the Vicarage Matthew and Sophia were still in a state of shock. They could not believe that the Police had even thought the contents of the anonymous letters might be true. They had tried to rationalise it with the thought that the police had to take the letters seriously, but it was hard to be rational when they were the ones at the centre of the mess the letters were causing. Matthew had had a painful interview with the Bishop. It had been decided that Matthew should continue as if nothing was happening. The Bishop had every trust in Matthew and could see no reason why anything should change, or anyone be informed. Matthew hated the deceit that he was now forced to engage in. The letters existed – although as far as the police and Matthew knew there were only two of them – and things had been said about him. By not telling the congregation Matthew felt he was lying by omission. Telling them would be a risk, but he would hope that they knew him well enough to trust him as the Bishop did. If not then it would be clear that Matthew would need to leave the parish. This saying nothing was worse. It made it seem as if he might actually have something to hide about his past life. As far as Matthew and Sophia could tell the children did not suspect that anything was wrong in their parent’s life. Joseph thought that his parents seemed stressed because of the problems with the building at St James de Falstaff. Emily was worried that there might be something about her parent’s marriage that was not right, she prayed every night that they would soon sort out whatever was wrong. 

 

Matthew had an unsettling encounter on his walk with Mitzy in the woods. A feral pigeon had just flown over Matthew when it stalled in flight and plummeted lifeless to the ground. Matthew had heard of birds dying in mid-flight but had never witnessed it before. He was tempted to bury the bird but knew it would be a welcome meal for a fox. It was nothing more than natures’ way of things. Matthew wised he felt more in tune with nature. Calling Mitzy away from the fallen bird he walked on wondering if that had been some sort of omen or portent. Was Matthew going to ‘fall from the sky’ in the near future? He thought it would be almost better if whatever was going to happen would get on and happen.

 

Verity was tutting over the state of her roses. The sudden return from an unseasonal spell of high summer in early May to below average temperatures – even the threat of frost – had played havoc with her HybrId Teas. The lovely dark red blooms were already dropping their petals after only a short time. Her tulips had lasted a couple of days before they began to suffer in what had then been dry hot winds. Now they looked sad and ready to drop. How different from last year when their bright yellow had shone for days. Verity sometimes wondered why she gardened – it could be such a depressing occupation. She had always been the one who kept the cottage garden looking nice. She would rush home from school to ruthlessly pounce on any weed that had dared to show itself since the morning when she left home. Her parents had smiled fondly at her as she pruned and hoed. Gardening was the one thing that her parents thought she did better than Deidre.

 

Fred Bloom was hurrying past Sunset Cottage hoping that Verity would not turn and see him. She was a nice enough lady but she irritated Fred with her almost girlish way of talking to him, eyes lowered. He had found Verity a nuisance at school. She had followed him at break time until all the other boys had made such fun of him that Fred took to hiding behind the school boiler house to avoid her. These days he knew he should be flattered that Verity was still interested in him but he wasn’t. Fred had married Susan and they had had five children. Their marriage had lasted for nearly thirty five years before Susan had declared that she found Fred “boring” and she was moving out to be with her new man, Theodore Montrose. After the divorce Susan and Theodore had married and moved to live in northen France. Fred consoled himself with his community work. If he hadn’t the divorce and his enforced retirement from his job as a bank manager – when his branch had closed and become not a trendy wine bar but a cyber café – would have left him a sad old man with no interest. Fred’s children and grandchildren all lived far away. His eldest son was in Australia, his other son in New Zealand, his eldest daughter in Canada, his middle daughter in South Africa and his youngest daughter in Glasgow. He saw something of Christine and her family, but the cost of jetting around the world meant that his contact with the other four and their families was limited to e-mails and digital photos and videos. Hopefully his grandson, Ned, would soon be at Uni in the UK.

 

Suzanna McPiece was staring crossly at the roof of the village hall. Someone had been on the roof in the night and had managed to damage some of the tiles as they climbed about, who knew for what reason. The hall had been built in the early twentieth century and was of a sturdy construction meant to last longer than the lifetime of those building it. The damage would mean an insurance claim would have to be made. Suzanna feared that this would not be the last claim for damage to the building. It was all the same these days, those who probably didn’t use the building themselves thought nothing of trying to ruin it for those who did. It was a form of jealousy and selfishness. The philosophy of ‘if I don’t want it why should you have it’. In her lifetime Suzanna had seen many changes in society. She was not of the group than condemned every one out of hand just because they were of the younger generation. There was much to be said for young people who got on and made the best of their lives, but all too many grew up with no decent role models. She of ten saw the youth these days mooching around the village with nothing to do. In all probability they had everything at home to keep them amused, the parents always seemed to be buying yet another electronic device - the latest ‘must have’ - but still the ‘kids’ declared they had nothing to keep them interested. Suzanna would have given her eye teeth to have had the opportunities to learn that the children had these days. She would have been in her element with the Internet, and she certainly would not have used it just for ‘socialising’. No, she would have read and read and read all the fascinating articles and learnt so much. Not that Suzanna had not learnt lots, she had a degree to prove that, but she had had to search through library books on selves that stretched as far as her eye could see. It had taken so much more time than it did today to find the information that she needed, and that was time she could have spent learning.

 

Daisy Gates had dropped Poppy at Playgroup. She had come out of the village hall and seen Suzanna glaring at the roof. Daisy hoped Suzanna – who she was more than a little afraid of – would not notice her. She need not have worried. Daisy could be a nonentity without even trying. She drove to Newtsbridge to buy some things for the new baby. She wished that Lionel was with her to help her chose, but he was not showing any interest. It was unusual – Lionel would not let her make these decisions on her own as a rule, preferring to be on hand to ‘advise’. This would mean that whatever Daisy chose would be that which Lionel had ‘advised’ her to choose. Today however Daisy was on her own. She went into the department store feeling insecure. Without Lionel on her left – he always walked on her left – Daisy felt somehow exposed to danger. The assistants hardly glanced at her as she browsed the baby clothes. She now knew that she was expecting a boy. Daisy would have preferred to wait and be surprised on the day of delivery, but Lionel had insisted that she ask so they would know what colour to paint the bedroom that was to be the nursery. She wandered around, picking out this and that and putting the items in the basket. At the queue for the check out Daisy was behind happy couples, showing all the joy and anticipation that she and Lionel had shown when Poppy was on the way. Daisy felt more and more depressed until finally unable to help herself she burst into tears. Others in the queue turned and looked at Daisy, who was sobbing into an already saturated paper hanky. No one spoke to ask her what might be wrong. They looked embarrassed. One woman moved as if to talk to Daisy, but the man with her tightened his grip on the woman’s arm and she stayed where she was. The assistant pretended that Daisy wasn’t crying whilst serving her. ‘Perhaps they often have hormonal women sobbing in the queue’ thought Daisy later as she sat in the car to compose herself before driving back to Flagon’s Valley. She felt humiliated, even though it wasn’t her fault.

 

Sam and Tansy were viewing a property in Newtsbridge. Although prices had dropped in the last few months this house was at the top of their range, and it was nothing to write home about. Even the estate agent had described it as ‘in need of TLC’ and they could see why as soon as they walked though the front door. Tansy was looking despondently at the state of the living room which had obviously not been decorated since wood chip wallpaper was all the rage The red had once been several shades darker than it was now, as evidenced by the areas of wall that had been out of the light behind the furniture. The fireplace had an uninspiring mixed shades of brown tile surround. Sam gazed up at the swirling pattern made by the application of Artex, discoloured over the years by cigarette smoke. The woodwork was likewise discoloured from its original white. The kitchen had not been modernised. There was no sign of central heating and the bathroom was not to be viewed too closely. The couple could see that this would be ‘a project’ and a half. They thanked Miss Spalding who had taken them to view the empty property. The owner had been an elderly man who had passed away some time before and the house had been on the market ever since. The vendor, the man’s daughter, would be open to offers. Sam and Tansy said they would think about it and left. How much thinking was it worth they wondered. On the other hand it was a price that – just – came within their budget, and if they could have a lower offer accepted maybe they should consider the house.

 

Bertrum Stamp was happily surveying the latest plans for the area of the allotments in Newtsbridge, Mead’s Grove. His offer to the council for the right to develop the land had been accepted ‘in principle’ by the council’s officers. Of course it would need to be put to the elected representatives of the residents – the Councillors – but they would usually do what they were told by the Officers. It was lucky that old curmudgeon Dunwiddy-Hoe had not been elected or he would have had something to say at the Council meetings. After that all Bertrum would need was planning consent. That should not be difficult. Everyone would be only too happy for more dwellings to be built to count toward the number laid down by the Government for Newtsbrdge Council to find room for under the South East Area Development Plan. As for the allotment holders, well they could just pack up their assorted tools and push their wheelbarrows off into the sunset. Why they couldn’t just buy their vegetables at the supermarket like everyone else puzzled Bertrum. Allotments were a thing of the past, like soup kitchens and queuing round the block to collect your Co-op Divi.

 

Stephen Merryman having finished setting the latest quiz for the Bullock’s Nose quiz nights found himself at a loose end. This was unusual for Stephen, who had a myriad of interests. He was browsing the Internet not realy in search of anything specific when he had an idea – what the village needed was its own website. There was a site for the local area that was run as part of Newtsbridge Council website, but this could be an independent website for the village alone. Stephen began to plan. Verity could be the gardening columnist, Norman and Oliver were both good cooks, and for traditional fare there was Mavis. Matthew could write about the church and Sophia had a well-known interest in the local history, so she would be invaluable. There were many older local people who must have stories about the ‘old days’. Stephen would of course add the puzzle and quiz section that would make the site complete. He would need to consult with everyone before he went ahead. Stephen began to design a leaflet that would explain the idea. He felt a sense of anticipation as he imagined people around the world regularly hitting the site to keep up with life in a typical English village. He even had a name for the site “Falstaff Vale Diary”.

Verity, Deidre, Henrietta and Oliver had had a wonderful time at the Chelsea Flower Show. They went every year to see what the latest trends were in gardening. Not that they ever copied the trends, preferring the tried and trusted. Verity had spotted Alan Titchmarsh in the distance, and was beside herself with pleasure for the rest of the day. As the were taking a break for a cuppa Oliver noticed Stephen Merryman walking along with a rather charming looking elderly lady. Judging by her years she might well be Stephen’s mother or aunt. Oliver waved but although he was sure that Stephen had seen him there was no answering wave.

 

Fred Bloom was certain he had thought of everything that could possibly go wrong with the Village Fair. He had wracked his brains, sometimes long into the night, to make sure the list was complete. There was the danger that the ponies giving rides might be frisky, the danger that the there might be an electricity failure, the danger that somehow the keys to the village hall might all be lost by their various holders, and many other dangers that only Fred would think of. Fred then typed out the ‘what could go wrong’ list and distributed copies to all the main helpers, with instructions to pass the information to those they thought needed to know. That list was accompanied by another list of all the events for the day, a third list of who was responsible for what – the responsibilities not to be delegated without Fred’s permission – a map of the village with all the relevant information regarding what would go where, a long range weather forecast, a page of warnings with regard insurance claims that might ensue from any ‘ incidents’ and all Fred’s contact details. Most of the recipients of this bundle of documents were old hands at the running of the village fair and ‘filed’ the papers as they saw fit.

 

The late May Bank Holiday Monday was a complete wash out in Falstaff Vale, with lashing rain and strong winds. It was in short a typical English holiday for weather. The pub had been busy on the Saturday evening with its Eurovision Song Contest Party. The songs this year had been better than of late, and the drinkers sang along, nearly taking the roof off with their rendition of the Latvian entry that no one could remember the title of the following day. As usual the UK didn’t trouble the scoreboard more than a couple of times. The commentator was a bit of a pain with his incessant bitching, but otherwise the crowd had a good time, and more to the point for Norman drank whilst having it. There was much joking about the number of units in each drink. Nobody cared about that as the evening wore on and they had ‘just one more’. Sunday was nice in the afternoon, but Holiday Monday was a day that was so bad for takings that it almost cancelled out the profit from Saturday. People stayed at home and watched the usual drivel on the telly, with The Great Escape nowhere in the schedules. Norman and Shane were on their way to a booze cruise the next week, or so they hoped what with the French fishermen blockading the ports at the drop of a hat. Norman’s intention was to bring in as much as they could hide in the van, only showing the amount for ‘personal consumption’ if challenged. Shane said he had done this many times before and no one had ever asked to see inside the vehicle.

 

Kevin Hawkling was cutting the grass on the village green with a sit upon mower. Kevin had worked for Newtsbridge Council since leaving school in 1967 and was constantly talking about ‘the old days’. Trouble was that as Kevin viewed ‘the old days’ through rose coloured spectacles his views were often at odds with the recollections of whoever he was talking to. Kevin had been born in Falstaff Vale and grew up in the cottage nearest to the church, with his parents and two brothers. Today Kevin was accosted by Fred Bloom wanting to know if the grass would be cut again before the fair. It was always cut two days before the fair, but there was no way Fred would not keep on about it every time he saw Kevin, in or out of work hours. Not even listening to Fred Kevin had nodded and said “of course it will” and started the mower and glided away to the far end of the green. When he looked back Fred was stomping off into the distance in search of whichever unlucky person didn’t dodge around a corner fast enough. Kevin smiled to himself. He rather liked Fred with all his fussing and fretting. At least Fred tried to deliver a quality fair which is more than most of the others would bother to do. Fred had been a friend of Kevin’s parents and so had often been at The Gloaming, as the cottage was called. Young Kevin had been a bit of a rebel and prone to getting into fights. His Mum had been at her wits end many times, worrying about Kevin’s future. It had taken a big fright for Kevin to realise that he was heading for a life the like of which he did not want. One day in 1965 thirteen year old Kevin had taken his Dad’s shotgun and gone to Leafy Wood – then part of the big estate, and alive with game birds for the shoots that were held there. Kevin didn’t shoot for the pot, he shot to kill and kill and kill. Or at least to wound, which being not as good a shot as he liked to pretend to be was the more usual outcome. It was early in the morning and the birds were all waking to a new day. Kevin strode along feeling invincible. He liked the weight of the shotgun on his arm. His Dad had taught all the boys the basics of shooting as soon as they were big enough to hold a .22. Kevin was the one who had embraced shooting. Cans had flown left and right as Kevin used carton after carton of ammunition with his proud Dad standing by watching. On that morning Kevin was just taking pot shots at some pheasants when Old Sidney had come rushing through the trees to see who was shooting. Kevin had swung around with the gun still to his shoulder and ready to shoot and without realising he had pressed the trigger. The blast had sent Sidney backwards into the undergrowth. Luckily his aim had been to the left of Sidney and only a few pieces of shot had hit the unintended target. These lodged in Sidney’s upper arm, causing a fair amount of bleeding, and giving the fright of his life to Kevin who thought Sidney was dying. The incident had been kept between Sidney and Kevin’s parents. From then on Kevin had got on with his homework, doing well in school now he was concentrating. It was too late to catch up on all the lost time, and so he had left school at age fifteen with no qualification and secured a job at the council’s Parks and Gardens Dept. He was happy with a job that kept him outside most of the time, away from the supervisor. It gave Kevin great satisfaction to see the parks looking so nice and knowing it was down to his efforts. These days of course there was not so many who appreciated a nice display. Often the plants would be jumped upon or torn up and thrown around. It pained Kevin to see that. The plants were giving their all to look nice and didn’t deserve to be treated that way. It made Kevin’s blood boil and he wished he could get his hands on whoever did this.

 

Verity and Deidre had read the documents relating to the investment that the nice young man who had phoned out of the blue had told them about. The sisters had spoken to a few people asking advice. Those that offered any had told them to steer well clear, it could all be a scam. The documents were very convincing and the nice young man had phoned from time to time. He said that the best time for investing would soon be passed and although it would still be a good deal, the sisters might have missed out on the best deal. The young man saying that he realised how confusing all this must be for them had arranged for an advisor to phone. They were assured that the advisor was giving them independent advice, and would never suggest anything that was not to their advantage. Having talked it over with the advisor and each other the sisters had decided to invest not only the five thousand they had originally intended to invest but also an additional twenty thousand that they held in bonds. The return would be so good that it would be silly to miss out.

 

Sam and Tansy had decided that they would make an offer for the house in Newtsbridge even though it needed a lot of work. They had offered well below the asking price and were surprised when the offer was accepted by the vendor without protest. Now the couple were trying to obtain a mortgage. Their combined income was barely enough to convince the building society that they were a good risk. They would have to use the money they had intended to spend on their wedding reception as part payment toward the house. They were sad about this but they convinced themselves that they did not need a big ‘do’. The wedding was to take place at St Joseph of the Hills, in Overly Down in September. Tansy had already ordered her dress, which was to cost a lot, and the flowers were not cheap either. The couple had a long talk. It was decided that the rest of the wedding budget had to be cut to the bone. They cancelled the order for specially printed invitations. Tansy would run some off on the computer. It had been the idea to have five bridesmaids but even though the girls had already been asked this would be cut to two flower girls. These were two small cousins of Tansy who it was thought would cost the least to dress. When Sam’s Mother Mavis was told of the changes she was outraged. Her only son to be married ‘on the cheap’ she would not stand for that. Sam tried to explain that this was what he and Tansy had decided but Mavis would not be silenced. She still had doubts about Tansy. Mavis has met none of Tansy’s family and had no idea what sort they might be. She saw her son as a good catch with prospects.

 

The deal for Bertrum Stamp to build on Mead’s Grove, the allotments in Newtsbridge, was coming along apace. The allotment holders would receive letters telling them that their leases would be terminated at the end of the year. This was felt by the council to be enough time for them to harvest whatever crops they were growing at the moment. It was expected that there would be protests at the news, but in the long run there would be nothing the allotment holders could do about it. Bertrum had already secured a promise of funding from the council as their contribution to the cost of the building work. Now he was in the process of making applications to the Government funds. There was a housing association in the wings who would take on the running of the part of the development that would be social housing, whilst some of the properties would be sold at affordable prices by one of Berturm’s own companies. All in all the prospects for this development looked rosy.

 

Falstaff Vale and the surrounding villages had at one time all been part of the great estate. It had covered many square acres and had included not only the four villages that now still were villages but several others that had long since become part of the spreading town. There had been a great house way back in the fifteenth century. That house had been burnt down and demolished in the late seventeen hundreds. Some of the material had been used in the house that now stood on the site. It was in a sorry state with the lack of maintenance over recent years. Much of the estate had now been sold in parcels for developments and the holiday camp at Feathery Heights. Bertrum had bought Leafy Wood and was waiting for the planning application for a nudist hotel and camp to go before the council committee. What remained of the estate, beyond the gardens of the house, was open to offers. These days the villagers felt nothing for the estate. The cottages had been sold off over the years and very few still belonged to the estate. The public spaces and buildings such as the village hall were all in the control of Newtsbridge Council. It wan intended that the history of Falstaff Vale should be told in the pageant at the Village Fair. There had been lots of discussion as to which part of the history should be included. Some wanted the event to ignore the murder in eighteen twenty, whilst others thought that such an event –distasteful as it was – would be a crowd pleaser.

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Miles had been horrified to discover that if the plan to have a fake will proved for Old Sidney’s fortune the Government would take a bit fat slice of the proceeds. Miles was not about to finance the Government’s Gravy Train, and so had come up with a plan ‘b’. Sidney would have to stay alive. His bank would have no way of knowing he had died. His pension would continue to be paid into the account. At the moment the direct debits could continue to be paid but this could not go on for long. The cottage belonged to the Great Estate and had had to be vacated. It was already up for sale at a price the locals considered to be inflated given the current state of the property market. When the new owners moved in it would look odd if there were two people paying the television licence on the same property. Miles had seen the ad about the ‘data base’ held by the tv licensing authority. So Miles had decided that Sidney – poor old chap – would have to move into a care home. Faking a Power of Attorney had not proved difficult. Miles’s bent lawyer had that done in a jiffy. The real problem was finding a convincing ‘care home’ address. As there should not be the problem of mail for Sidney being delivered there - it would come to Miles to deal with - the address could be that of a real care home. Was it worth the risk was what Miles needed to decide. He didn’t know what sort of information the bank and others would hold on computer, and so the use of a real care home name might be safer – as long as none of the organisations made a mistake and sent mail to that address.

 

Verity Avalone was getting excited about the Village Fair. She was to be in the pageant, as Queen Mary who had once visited Falstaff Vale for a few hours. The locals of the day had turned out in number and cheered the Queen as she officially opened the new Village Hall in April 1912. The newspapers had been full of the sinking of the Titanic on her maiden voyage and it had made the residents feel better to see Her Majesty – a symbol of serenity and calm. This was the only recorded occasion on which royalty had visited Falstaff Vale, although there was some story of a Russian prince living in the village in disguise. No one felt that he would have counted even if true. The costume that Verity was to wear was hanging in her wardrobe at Sunset Cottage. Verity had taken it out several times to try it on and had walked out in the garden, to the amusement of many. Deidre was also in the pageant, as Mrs Snodder the long time headmistress of the village school. Mrs Snodder had ruled with a rod of iron – and a cane of birch. She was remembered with no great fondness. It was felt however that her contribution to the education of two generations of village children could not go unmarked.

 

Lionel Gates was not involved in the village fair at all. He had been asked if he would have time as chairman of the Flagon’s Valley residents to organise something, a stall maybe, but he had refused. It was all too likely that the ‘other lot’ would be there in number and Lionel had no intention of attending. Daisy had said that she would like to take Poppy along. Lionel although not keen on the idea had agreed as long as they only stayed a short time. He meanwhile would be getting on with decorating the room they were to use as a nursery.

 

The blockade of the Channel ports by the French fishermen had frustrated Norman and Shane. Every time it would have been possible for Norman to travel over to collect the drink it seemed the fishermen moved back into the way. With the fair only days away, and the hope of good weather leading to good drink sales, they decided that Shane would go with Sid. The pair set off in an old van that they had borrowed for the day. The trip over had been nice, with the weather calm, almost a mini cruise. They had sat on the deck in the sunshine and eyed the young girls on their way to holidays. By the time they reached France Shane had disappeared with a willing girl from Hull. He returned to sit next to Sid as the ferry docked, with a satisfied smile on his face. “Take care, did you?” asked Sid. “I certainly took care of her” Shane replied, with a smirk. They had no problem finding enough drink to buy. They loaded the van to the point where the tyres looked flatter than they actually were. Several thousands of cigarettes were hidden in compartments in the van – this was not the first time this van had made this journey for this purpose. Back on the dock in the UK the pair began to sweat a little. What if officials took it upon themselves to go over their van as one of the random vehicles to be inspected? Their luck was in. There was a commotion around a lorry and all the officials headed that way. “Illegals have their uses” Shane said as they drove away from the port.

 

The murder of eighteen twenty had been a gruesome affair. The victim had been the butler at the great house, Mr Cokham. One winter’s morning, just before Christmas, the under maid Elsie Nooman had risen as usual at five to begin her days labours. Entering the Library Elsie had found the remains of Mr Cokham in a sorry state. The butler had been killed with a lance that still protruded from his lifeless chest. Presumably to make sure his murderer had also used a bludgeon to batter the man’s head to a pulp, unrecognisable to the household. It was only by his clothes that he had been identified. The need to find the butler’s killer was not seen as as important as the preparations for the festive season, which would see the usual gathering of the family. The death of the servant was lamented by the family only in that it was such an inconvenience at this time of year to have to look for a replacement butler. It was unthinkable to have such an important party without an experienced butler at the helm. The staff were relieved to see the back of Mr Cokham, a despot if ever there was one. Still, propriety required that the murderer should at least be sought and if possible brought to justice. As it was obvious that the culprit could not be one of the family in residence, the staff and villagers must contain the person responsible. The finger of suspicion soon pointed towards churchwarden. Eden Hawkling. Protesting his innocence the unfortunate Hawkling was never the less handed over to the authorities for trial. There had been an argument between Cokham and Hawkling in front of witnesses at the pub and the landlord testified that he had heard Hawkling threaten Cokham. The outcome of the trial was a verdict of guilty. Hawkling was sentenced to death and hanged at Easter eighteen twenty-one. His descendants had always contested Hawkling’s innocence. More that one historian had written on the case over the years. All suspected that the murderer had been one of the family at the great house. The second son Hector who had later gone mad and been committed to an asylum being the most likely.

 

Flagon’s Valley Tenant’s Association had not been asked to part of the village fair. The tenants had none the less rented a stall at the event. Welcome or not it was their right to be there if they so chose. They had wanted to sell home-made cakes but had been told that unless the kitchen the cakes were made in had been inspected and certified, the person making the cakes had the relevant – and up to date – hygiene qualification, and the cakes all carried labelling stating contents this would not be allowed “by the committee”, for which you can read “by Fred” who did not want them involved. The tenants then thought of a tombola. This brought from Fred a list of items that were not to be offered as prizes. It also brought a letter from “the committee” stating that all games of chance must be honest and allow the chance of wining the best prizes. “The committee” would be monitoring the stall throughout the event and would order it to stop trading if there appeared to be any problems in “the committee’s” opinion.

 

Hooter and Sedge were kicking a ball on the village green. Kevin Hawkling came marching across the grass. “What d’you think you are playing at?” he demanded. “Football” replied Hooter without thinking. “Cheeky young sod. Your sort have no right to be on this green it belongs to the village, always has done.” Kevin snapped, glowering. “We live here now” protested Sedge. “and we have as much right to this piece of grass as everyone else, so you can keep your thoughts to yourself in future” Kevin’s face began to change to a bright red and he raised he hand as if to hit out at Sedge. At that moment Fred Bloom came rushing across the grass. Seemingly unaware of the boys and Kevin being in dispute Fred asked the question of the moment “The grass will be cut again before the day of the fair wont it Kevin?” Without a word Kevin turned and strode away. Hooter and Sedge looked at Fred, who ignored them and consulted his clipboard before heading off in the direction of the pub. “Is everyone in this village weird or is it we just don’t understand ‘em?” Sedge asked Hooter. “I hope we never do understand ‘em,” Hooter replied “’cos if we do we’ll be as nutty as they are!” It would be Hooter’s tenth birthday on Wednesday and he was hoping that his Gran would buy him something better than she usually did. He was hoping for a new football and an England strip, although with England not playing in Euro 2008 the strip would be hanging in the cupboard throughout the championships.

 

The local MP had called Fred to say that he was so sorry but he would have to pull out of opening the fair. The MP was always asked to open the fair as he didn’t charge a fee. Someone suggested asking the village’s oldest resident, which turned out to be Deidre Avalone and nobody dared. In the end Fred had phoned the leader of Newtsbridge Council, Cllr Robin Dupon. Cllr Dupon had responded with little enthusiasm to say he would be delighted. The fair would start at ten in the morning and last until five in the afternoon. The organisers would be out on the green at eight a.m. with the poop-scoops. They were expecting pooh to be more of a problem this year than ever. The ladies of the W.I. would be in the hall ready to run the Refreshment Café throughout the day. The programmes had been printed before the MP cried off and so Fred was up into the early hours amending the “to be opened by”. Each programme had a lucky number printed on it and for the price of one pound there was the chance to win one of Mavis’s fruit cakes, to be made whenever the winner would have the most use for it, and suitably iced if required – which Mavis always hoped it wouldn’t be. With only just over a week to go there was no reason to expect that the one hundredth Falstaff Vale Village Fair on June 14^th would not be a grand day.