Mr Parsnip had found Clare’s unexpected arrival at the vicarage
inconvenient for reasons he preferred not to delve into. He had always found
Clare’s visits inconvenient and confusing and did not even dare to consider
whether he was sexually attracted to the vastly experienced Clare. Edith was in
contrast to her sister tame and uninteresting and in his view only interested
in the act of procreation. Edith had, in his priestly mind, now assumed the
role of housekeeper. Her days of being a wife had ceased with the birth of the
twins he had not wanted and, in his own words, ‘been tricked into fathering’.
Dorothy’s first consideration was the location of the
competition. First thing on Monday morning, she made her way to the old school
hall, a sizeable building that did not belong to the church, but had once been
part of a grammar school that had since been made superfluous and knocked down.
The hall had been used as a gym in the grammar school era and was still a
relatively well-visited venue for all sorts of events, from boxing matches to
disco evenings.
Dorothy asked if she could hire it for a big event, not
revealing that it was to be a talent contest in case someone else took up the
idea before her. A trip to Middlethumpton town hall sealed her arrangements.
She had only told one small story about why she needed the hall. White lies or
subtle omissions were sometimes unavoidable, she told herself.
As far as setting a date was concerned, Dorothy was in luck. A
scheduled itinerant theatre group had cancelled their performance and the hall
was free on the second Saturday in November unless there was snow. When she had
done her shopping, she would phone the vicar and inform him of the fait
accompli and he would not be able to argue about it. She knew Mr Parsnip would
be disappointed, but the old school hall had a proper stage with red velvet
drapes and dressing- rooms. It was the only excuse for a theatre that
Middlethumpton had.
If it was made clear that the event was being sponsored by St
Peter’s for the glorification of Upper Grumpsfield, some of the proceeds could
go to the organ and roof funds, the rest could be donated to the Mayor’s
entertainment fund and everyone would be happy. What is more, if dancers,
comedians and acrobats wanted to compete, the church hall, which only had a
very small stage, would hardly be a suitable place for them to do so. The old
school hall was the perfect place to hold the event.
Dorothy had avoided consultation with the talent show committee
before making that important decision because she knew that there would be
heated discussion about it, mainly because Laura had not stopped being
resentful about Dorothy doing her own thing. Frederick Parsnip would be
manipulated enough by Laura’s charms to supporting whatever she decided. He was
infatuated by her, Dorothy suspected.
Dorothy did not expect Laura to make a fuss about her
decision, but she did.
Laura Finch never minced her words. It would be more correct
to define the relationship between her and Dorothy as a truce rather than a
peace. Winning the Duggy competition together, arriving at the bus station to
embark on that ill-fated tour of the universe that never actually happened even
in its truncated form because they had walked out in disgust had forged a bond
between them, but it was more like children ganging up together than genuine
friendship. It was only a matter of time until the old rivalry broke out anew.
A brief call to the vicar had secured his approval of that
decision and any others she would wisely make, but not only had Dorothy omitted
to tell her church hall idea, she was against Laura making any decisions at all,
and that was more than Laura could bear.
Dorothy knew of old that Laura liked to get mixed up in
arguments and hamper progress, and found that taking an active interest in an
organization was tiresome. The practical effort should be made by others. But
she liked to be asked about everything. Dorothy was walking a tightrope when
she set herself up against Laura. Mr Parsnip had taken it upon himself to phone
her and intimate that Dorothy was doing everything to make the talent show a
success. That was a red rag to a bull.
Laura took a taxi to Upper Grumpsfield to confront Dorothy
Price with her one-woman-band tactics. She had a good excuse for her dramatic
move. The new shopping mall in Middlethumpton was so impersonal that you always
felt you were there incognito. In the hope that Dorothy would eventually turn
up at Verdi’s emporium, where Mr Bontemps would later be allowed to show his
admiration for her, Laura treated herself to a cup of tea at the cafe opposite
and sat at the window table to keep an eye open for the moment Dorothy
appeared.
If Dorothy did not turn up within a reasonable space of time,
Laura would buy some of fawning Mr Bontemps best cheese before going to
Dorothy’s cottage to confront her there. She would not go home until her
mission was accomplished, though she was no longer entirely sure what that was.
Laura was, however, in luck. She had barely drunk her tea when
Dorothy appeared and presently the two ladies were standing in the queue, Dorothy
near the front and Laura at the back. Had Dorothy looked around she would probably
have spotted her, but she had her eye on a nice little slab of crumbly Cheshire
cheese and was hoping against hope that Mr Bontemps, Dorothy’s declared enemy,
would not force it on someone else just to spite her.
When her turn came to be served, she pointed at the cheese and
asked him to check its weight for her. To her surprise, Mr Bontemps told her
that that particular piece of cheese was reserved. He did not appreciate being
asked if his weighing was accurate, but there was more to it than that. Out of
the corner of his eye, he could see Laura Finch.
“Who for?” said Dorothy.
“Mrs Finch. She phoned me earlier on and she’s standing behind
you in the queue.” He told that lie without batting an eyelid. Laura Finch
grinned like a Cheshire cat.
Dorothy swung round to see Laura nodding approvingly at Mr
Bontemps, with whom she seemed to have struck up a kind of kinship.
“Oh,” Dorothy retorted. “Well actually, I was only thinking
aloud. I’d rather have a chunk of Double Gloucester.”
“Can you see well enough to slice it yourself, Mrs Price, or
shall I slice it for you?” Mr Bontemps asked cattily. Baiting elderly ladies
was his favourite sport. He privately thought Laura was also an old crow, but
at least she never pocketed her small change and he was not one to look a
gift-horse in the mouth.
“I expect I can, and it’s Miss, if you don’t mind!” Dorothy
snapped, handing him her shopping list. While he busied himself putting the
products together, Dorothy enquired over the heads of the other customers what
Laura was doing in Upper Grumpsfield when there was a perfectly good
supermarket in Middlethumpton and much better customer service. Then,
remembering the need to keep the peace, Dorothy invited Laura to accompany her
to her cottage for a cup of tea so that she could explain the talent contest
situation at length.
“You haven’t told me anything yet,” said Laura. “But
fortunately Mr Parsnip phoned and said you were making decisions over his
head.”
Dorothy knew that Frederick would never say such a thing,
since he was only too glad when someone else made decisions for him, but she
did not comment. A public argument with Laura was something she would rather
avoid.
Since all the other customers were now looking curious and
listening, Dorothy finished her shopping and waited outside the shop for Laura.
Sometimes a decision has to be made urgently, like this
morning. The old school hall in Middlethumpton just happened to be available because of a
cancellation.”
“I doubt if you’ll be able to manage without me, so you’d
better keep me posted in future,” said Laura.
‘You could have said something yesterday, if you had had any
ideas,” Dorothy pointed out.
“I think we all took it for granted that the competition would
be held in Saint Peter’s church hall.”
“But no one actually said anything, Laura.”
“So why didn’t you say something?”
Laura had a point there. Dorothy hastened to justify her
decision.
“I couldn’t suggest that venue because I didn’t know it would
be available, Laura.”
“Well, next time I shall be a lot more vocal at the meetings.
We can’t have people overriding united agreements.”
Being called ‘people’ maddened Dorothy.
“No decision was made, and certainly no united one. You were
as silent as the grave, Laura.”
That was true. Laura had been pondering over a family issue
rather than getting involved in the discussion, but she could hardly confide in
Dorothy with the atmosphere between them suddenly as frigid as it ever had
been.
“We’ll go round to the bakery for some of those nice custard
tarts to take home,” Dorothy suggested in a conciliatory tone.
“I haven’t got time for a house visit,” said Laura. “Let’s
just have a cup of tea in the little cafe over the road and you can tell me the
details.”
Soon after, they were ordering tea and cakes, all of which Dorothy
found herself paying for.
***
Laura Finch had spent what she liked to think of as her best
years aboard cruise ships entertaining the guests with her vocal prowess. There
had never actually been a husband named Mr Finch, but she was sure no one had
an inkling of this. Jason Finch, whom she always gave out as her nephew, was in
fact her son, born of a short, torrid episode in the Caribbean and raised by
foster parents, since cruise-ship entertainers could not take their offspring
along. Not that Laura had wanted to be bothered with an infant who had only
occurred by accident with any one of four fathers.
On returning to the UK alone having left Jason with his foster
parents, Laura became respectable. She had inherited the family home in Lower
Grumpsfield and was soon regarded as a valuable member of the community. The
skeleton in Laura’s cupboard had inherited his mother’s vocal talent. In her
view, the talent contest would be the ideal opportunity to introduce him (as
her nephew) to his ancestral home and score valuable points in her striving for
fame.
With Jason in mind, it was sure to be for the best that the
much larger old school hall was going to be the home to the talent contest,
though she would not say so as that would have been good for Dorothy’s
standing, which Laura had no wish to enhance.
Since the adjudication of the competition had not been
discussed at the meeting either, Laura decided she would take the initiative
there.
“Of course, I’m the only person qualified to judge the
singing,” she said.
Dorothy told her it was all very well except that all the
judges would judge all the competitors and the competition was open to all, not
just singers, so it was quite possible that a conjurer or acrobat would win.
Laura let it go at that. She was sure she was holding the
trump card, but she was not going to confide in anyone.
Dorothy arrived back at her cottage wondering what had got
into Laura, putting her sudden compliancy down to her penchant for alcoholic
beverages, a small bottle of which she always carried around and, Dorothy
suspected, had emptied while she was officially visiting the café’s toilet.
Laura was very fond of alcohol. Aboard cruise ships the liquor
had flowed freely, and she had never kicked the habit, though she was sure that
her ladylike conduct would not give away her passion for tipple. No amount of speculation could, however, reveal
to Dorothy the truth about Laura’s sudden compliance.
Back at her cottage, Dorothy’s own speculations about Laura’s
sudden meekness were cut short by involuntary involvement in a trio of crises
involving other members of the community. The first involved the vicar
***.
“Dorothy, I’ve got a serious problem,” he told her over the
phone.
“I hope it isn’t one of the boys.”
“‘Not this time. They’re as fit as fiddles. It’s the roof.”
“The roof?”
“The church roof. The police have been here.”
“Oh dear!”
“They caught two individuals prising lead off the church roof.”
“That is serious, but the police will deal with them,
Frederick.”
“You see, the roof has been leaking for some time, and now the
police say it’s because the lead has been systematically removed. I did not
even notice it had gone, which is to say that I did not realize that was the
cause of the leaks.”
“That is serious,” said Dorothy.
“‘You spend your whole life trying to save souls and that’s
all the thanks you get for it.”
Mr Parsnip seemed to be seeking absolution, so Dorothy decided
he must have it, but not before she had told him to hang on while she looked
out of the window to check whose car was being parked with some difficulty and
a lot of noise in front of the cottage.
“You mustn’t blame yourself, Frederick,” she told him. “They
will have stolen the lead at dead of night, so you couldn’t possibly have
caught them yourself.”
“But I’ve been appealing for money to mend the church roof and
all the time these criminals have been dismantling it. Now no one will believe
me. They will think it’s a ruse to make money and believe I organized the theft
myself.”
“Nonsense, Frederick.”
“I don’t want the bishop to think….”
“Never mind the bishop, Frederick. He isn’t interested in St
Peter’s.”
“But what if he finds out about the lead? It would be a good
excuse to close Saint Peter’s down.”
“He can’t close the church down all by himself, Frederick.”
“I’m not so sure, Dorothy. Without wanting to appear
disrespectful, I often think he’s up to something.”
“Surely not!”
“‘Since he’s been our bishop, things have been going steadily
downhill in the whole diocese.”
“For now, just concentrate on the roof, Frederick. You must
get it mended as soon as possible.”
“But thieves took the lead. It didn’t just walk away.”
“All the more reason for investing in synthetic roofing that
cannot be taken away and sold.”
“I expect you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right, Frederick. It’s common sense. The lead
off the roof can be sold to pay for some of the repairs now the criminals have
been caught.”
Mr Parsnip was much cheered by this idea. He would go to the main
police station in Middlethumpton, where the two thieves were being held, and
demand that what was left of the lead be released so that he could organize its
sale. After all, St Peter’s urgently needed a waterproof roof before the winter
set in.
“And talk to the bishop before someone else does.”
“Must I…?”
“Do it, Frederick, just do it, but make sure he knows you’re
in full control.”
Neither of them believed that, but the bishop might.
Dorothy was glad when the vicar rang off. He was much cheered
by his talk with Dorothy. She had not mentioned the old church hall to him.
That would not have poured oil on trouble waters, since Frederick wanted the
talent show to be his and his alone.
***
The second crisis in which Dorothy was forced to be involved
was of a more delicate nature and involved the lovesick Mr Morgan, who in the
meantime had more or less aligned his noisy old car with the kerb and beaten a
track to the front door. Dorothy let him in out of the rain, which was now
pouring down with a vengeance, and sat him in the kitchen to dry off.
“I’m sorry you had to wait, Mr Morgan. I had Mr Parsnip on the
phone about the church roof.”
Mr Morgan wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the roof. The
whole church might fall about his ears and he would not notice, so involved was
he with his own confused emotions.
“What can I do for you? Would you like a cup of tea?”
Mr Morgan would have preferred something stronger, but he knew
that Dorothy was unlikely to offer him anything, so he accepted the tea
gratefully.
Since he didn’t know where to begin, he thought a little
flattery might not go amiss.
“I know you have great experience of human nature...”
“If you want me to play the organ while you visit your family
in Wales, I’ll do it, but only for a week.”
Dorothy could not work the pedals properly, but otherwise she
was quite good at playing hymns and enjoyed performing slow bits of piano music
to fill in any gaps.
“Thank you, Dorothy, but no, it’s something else. Something
quite different.”
Dorothy noted that he sounded even more emotional than when he
talked about the Welsh hills. Was he sickening for something?
“Well, spit it out, young man!”
Mr Morgan swallowed hard.
“The fact is that I’m in love!” he blurted out to Dorothy’s
astonishment.
“In love?”
“And there’s two of them, you see.”
“Two of them?”
“First it was the one and I think she felt the same and now
it’s the other and I feel terrible about switching my affections.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if you talked to the ladies in
question?” Dorothy advised. “I can’t help you with your romantic problems.”
“No, no, no. I couldn’t do that!”
“Why ever not?”
“The first one is married, Dorothy, and the second one is much
too close to her.”
Dorothy realised that Mr Morgan was talking about Edith
Parsnip and her sister, but she didn’t want to jump the guns. He would be sure
to reveal their identity if she waited long enough.
“Isn’t the other one married too, Gareth?”
Mr Morgan was much too involved in his emotions to answer.
“One of them has such beautiful eyes and I think she likes my
music,” Mr Morgan soliloquized. “But then I looked into the other one’s eyes
and they are just as beautiful, but with an extra sparkle.”
“If you want my advice, you’ll put both ladies right out of
your mind.”
“I can’t do that. They are both too perfect.”
“Well, you’d better. Nobody’s perfect and Mrs Clare von
Klippen is still married and has seen more of life than you ever will, Gareth
Morgan.”
Mr Morgan’s sharp intake of breath confirmed that Dorothy had
hit the nail on the head.
“So you know who I’m talking about?” Mr Morgan was quite
deflated now his secret was out. Not only that. He was also having to face the
fact that Clare was not free either, despite the absence of a Mr von Klippen.
“It was impossible not to notice how you behaved yesterday. You
were fawning round Mrs von Klippen all the time. I didn’t know you had it in
you.”
That comment disconcerted Mr Morgan. How could an old spinster
like her know what passion was like? Before he could say something to that
effect, Dorothy added
“I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”
Mr Morgan came out in a cold sweat as he tried to imagine Dorothy
being passionate.
“Look for someone unattached, such as Delilah Browne,” Dorothy
recommended, ignoring Mr Morgan’s reveries. “I’m sure she would be delighted to
have a young man admiring her and buying her presents.”
Gareth Morgan did not think having a girlfriend necessarily
involved buying her presents. Dorothy was quite struck with the idea of getting
Delilah to show Gareth the romantic ropes she was sure he was oblivious of.
“I don’t think Delilah is attached to anyone,” said Dorothy.
Clearly, Mr Morgan could expect no sympathy from Dorothy. She
had given him some sound advice, but although he knew deep down that she was
right, he could not imagine switching his affections from Clare to Delilah, of
all people. It would be quite impossible to get involved with someone at least
double his girth and more overpowering than anyone else he knew, except for Laura,
who was as old as his mother, and Cleo, who was a bit too canny for his liking.
Mr Morgan would go home, write a poem and set it to music.
Then he would send a copy to Clare and hope it struck the right chord with her.
Mr Morgan’s ideas on courtship belonged firmly in the Victorian era. He thanked
Dorothy hastily and left without even drinking his tea.
Sitting stiffly in his little black car with its crocheted curtains,
bowling along the road home, Mr Morgan tried to compose some romantic verse for
the object of his affections. It wasn’t going to be easy. But then, love never
is, and there were a number of poets who had already done the hard work. He
would copy a Shakespearian sonnet and change a word or two.
***
As if Dorothy’s day had not been tedious enough, Mr Morgan had
not been gone more than half an hour when the doorbell rang again. Dorothy
pretended she was out.
Presently a face was pressed up to her kitchen window, making
her jump out of her skin. It was Robert. What on earth did he want?
“Dorothy, Dorothy, you forgot your chops.”
Dorothy opened the back door and let him in out of the rain.
In her haste to get to the cafe with Laura Finch, she had quite forgotten to
collect her order. She was touched that he had taken the time to deliver it in
person.
But Robert had an ulterior motive, as she was soon to find
out.
“Well, Dorothy,” Robert Jones began when he had removed his
dripping wet raincoat and at Dorothy’s behest managed to compress his generous
frame enough to squeeze himself onto the bank behind the little kitchen table, “The
fact is that I need a little help – matrimonial assistance.”
Though Dorothy got on well with Robert on a superficial level,
she did not exchange confidences with him and was not sure that she wanted to.
He lowered his voice to conspiratorial level.
“I’m desperate,” he moaned.
“I’ll help you if I can, though I can’t imagine how,” said
Dorothy.
“I want you to put in a good word for me.”
“Me?”
“I can’t think of anyone better suited.”
Dorothy bustled around getting some fresh tea made. Robert was
now raving about the qualities of the lady of his choice, but she didn’t want
to jump to a hasty conclusion about her identity.
“Who are we talking about, Robert? I don’t really know many of
the young ladies around here.”
“She isn’t exactly young, Dorothy.”
An uncomfortable thought shot through her mind. What if Robert
had set his sights on Laura Finch? That would be the last straw. Laura would
never let her live it down. Anyway, she was much too old to indulge in such
nonsense.
“She is a woman after my own heart and she’s almost your
neighbour, Dorothy.”
So it couldn’t be Laura, but it might be Delilah Browne.
“You‘ll have to stop beating about the bush, Robert.”
Robert’s choice might even have fallen on Clare von Klippen.
She hoped not. She could only think of one person who would be right for Robert.
“When she comes into the shop and orders her T-bone steaks it
makes my heart sing.”
“T-bone?” puzzled Dorothy briefly. “Ah, so you are you talking
about Cleo Hartley. I did have my suspicions, Robert. I’ve got eyes in my head!”
“You have? Did I give myself away?”
“Frequently.”
Dorothy nodded knowingly and Robert leapt out of his seat and
paraded round the kitchen extolling more of Cleo’s many virtues and declaring
that she was quite the most ravishing creature he had ever set eyes on.
The second Welsh Romeo to wax lyrical about a woman in my
kitchen, and on the same day, Dorothy said to herself, smiling to herself.
“What shall I do, Dorothy? What shall I do?”
“Why don’t you tell her everything you’ve just told me?”
“I thought you could tell her a bit about me first. Recommend
me to her, isn’t it?”
Now Robert was standing at the window like a frustrated poet.
“I’m not good with words, you see,” he explained
self-effacingly.
Judging from the poetic blarney he had uttered just now, that
was simply not true.
“Why don’t you sing something to her?” suggested Dorothy as a
thought shot through her head. “How about competing in the talent contest?”
“Talent contest?”
“Yes, we’re having one at the old school hall in November.”
“I can’t wait till November to tell Cleo how I feel about her.”
“You won’t have to, Robert, as you will have to enrol for the
contest. But that would be the icing on the cake, wouldn’t it? An aria sung
just for her!’
What a stroke of luck that Dorothy had forgotten the chops,
both were thinking.
“Why don’t you just give her a ring – on the phone, I mean?”
Robert was too beside himself with joy to notice the pun. What
a brilliant idea. He thanked Dorothy profusely for putting him on the right track,
drank his tea ex, ate a huge piece or maybe two of bara brith smothered in
butter and hurried back to his flat over the shop, his heart singing in the
rain. He resolved to phone Cleo Hartley right away.
Dorothy’s phone rang again, but she didn’t answer it. She had
had enough of tact and diplomacy for one day.
