The Village Newcomers (28 page)
It was the words ‘deeply intense passion’ that burned into her heart. Those words destroyed the idea of a one-off happening that gave her, Caroline Elizabeth Harris, the children she could never have. Had she only forgiven Peter his treachery because she had got the children she longed for, the children she knew he longed for, too? The woman must have gone mad to accuse her of deliberately preventing the children from seeing her. Had she gone out of her way to encourage them not to go? She hesitated for a moment. Had she really? No. She’d deliberately left it to Peter, because it was his problem, not hers. And the twins had both been adamant about their decision.
Caroline unfolded the letter and read it once more. All the heartbreak flooded back and consumed her anew.
Dottie walked in. ‘Shall I make our coffee? It’s time.’
‘Yes. Of course. I’ll have mine in the sitting room if you don’t mind.’
‘I’ll bring it in when it’s ready.’
‘Thank you.’
Dottie always loved the mornings when they had coffee together. Anyone would think that the differences in their levels of education and their ages would make easy conversation impossible, but that wasn’t so. What worried Dottie was Caroline’s distress. What worried Caroline was how on earth she would find the right words to tell Peter. Did she in fact
need
to tell him?
need
to tell him?
Chapter 17
Ford prepared for his game of golf with Craddock with meticulous care, determined to be properly dressed when he appeared at Mr Fitch’s prestigious golf club. This was his confusion: one minute in his head he called him Mr Fitch, the next Craddock. Which should he use? He couldn’t really call a golfing chum by his formal name, now could he?
The second niggle he had was the other two making up the foursome. According to Craddock, he wasn’t much cop at golf. Ford grinned, thinking that neither was Ford Barclay. Craddock said the other two were businessmen he’d known for years, so maybe they weren’t much cop, either. Oh, what the hell! A game of golf was nothing in the scheme of things. He’d asked around if anyone knew Mr Fitch’s golf course but no one did, except to say it was ultra-posh.
He checked himself in the long mirror in their huge bedroom.
In a mad moment he’d once bought plus-fours but had decided not to go to such extremes. Instead he’d chosen a pair of quietly checked brown trousers, made to measure so the fit was excellent, until he saw himself sideways and knew his stomach was far too big. Bit late now to do something about that! His front view was better. He’d chosen a cream shirt, an Argyle-patterned cream tie with an identical matching sweater and a brown leather jacket to keep out the cold. Some golf courses had a hell of a wind blowing across them.
Ford went to ask Merc what she thought.
‘Well?’
‘You look splendid,’ she said. ‘Got money for the bar?’
Ford nodded.
‘Handkerchiefs?’
He showed her two sparkling clean ones, neatly pressed by her fair hand.
‘Clubs?’
‘In the car.’
‘Have a good time.’ Merc turned her back to him and carried on polishing the stainless-steel doors of the kitchen cupboards.
‘What’s up, Merc?’
‘Nothing.’
‘There is.’
She turned round and leaned against the worktop. ‘I’m bothered about this golf business. Just watch yourself. He’s not beyond getting you tipsy on purpose to . . .’
‘Eh? What do you mean for heaven’s sake?’
‘Find out things you don’t want him to know.’
Ford paused for a moment, rattling the change in his pocket. She had a point but . . . it was all nonsense, just Merc being over-cautious.
He flung back his shoulders, drew in his stomach and said confidently, ‘He isn’t like that. I shall watch my intake, don’t you worry. Bye, my love.’
‘You’re too trusting.’ Merc carried on with her cleaning, knowing full well she was right. Ford
was
far too trusting, that’s how it all got started in the first place; him trusting and finding out too late. Still, it had brought them more money than they had ever dreamed of in the end. But what about peace of mind? Which was of more value, money or contentment? She had a feeling it was contentment, but as she looked around her utterly splendid kitchen, thought about the garden, now not so stiff and starchy as it had been when they moved in, about their luxurious bedroom and the bathroom to die for, she decided that living in Glebe House was definitely a plus. She was getting accustomed to their lifestyle and, what was the best, becoming accepted by everyone in the village.
was
far too trusting, that’s how it all got started in the first place; him trusting and finding out too late. Still, it had brought them more money than they had ever dreamed of in the end. But what about peace of mind? Which was of more value, money or contentment? She had a feeling it was contentment, but as she looked around her utterly splendid kitchen, thought about the garden, now not so stiff and starchy as it had been when they moved in, about their luxurious bedroom and the bathroom to die for, she decided that living in Glebe House was definitely a plus. She was getting accustomed to their lifestyle and, what was the best, becoming accepted by everyone in the village.
She actually had real friends here now, especially at the embroidery group, helped along by Ford’s weekly racing tips. They all loved them and fingers crossed every week so far he’d been bang on the nail. She loved that, and what was a real plus her own embroidery had come on by leaps and bounds since Evie had taken her under her wing. Soon she’d have the blissful pleasure of going to the town hall in Culworth and seeing her jewel-like pieces of embroidery hanging in the exhibition with her name alongside them. She knew that the glorious colours and the gold and silver thread she made use of were a true expression of her soul, something which amazed her, as all her life she’d been limited by being comparatively uneducated by endlessly having to change schools. There seemed to be nothing in her grim childhood which had indicated that she might one day produce such fantastically vibrant work. Now, even longing for the children she and Ford had never had seemed not to figure so largely in her mind. Maybe the pictures she made were her children, was that it?
She wouldn’t tell Ford that; he’d think she’d gone crackers. And in any case, they never talked about not having children because it caused Ford such pain. She glanced at the clock. Half past nine. Her mind flitted to the golf course. He’d have had a bet as he always did. He couldn’t resist. But was he winning?
Ford began suffering the moment he met the other two golfers. First off, he’d overdone it on the outfit front. Craddock and both his business acquaintances were very expensively casual in classy baggy chinos, cashmere sweaters, scarves wrapped round their necks against the cold and shabby slip-on shoes, unlike Ford’s smart brown and white lace-ups. Their clubs were top of the range, however, far superior to Ford’s, and their accents were what he called true blue. Craddock winked at him when they met, and this made Ford feel more comfortable.
‘This is Marcus Phillips, and this chap here, with the whisky in his hand already, is Nigel Farrow. This is the Ford Barclay I told you about, a friend of mine from the village where I live.’
Nigel Farrow toasted Ford with his whisky. ‘What’s your handicap, Ford? Mine’s nine. Par for the course is seventy-four. ’
Ford shook in his shoes. ‘Twenty-one. I did say I wasn’t much good.’
Marcus tried hard to smother the sneer on his lips. ‘Mine’s eight. Craddock’s is eighteen. We’ll play you two, four balls. Two hundred pounds between us? How about that?’
Ford nodded. He couldn’t have answered to save his life. It struck him that running away might be the best bet. A hundred pounds to pay if he lost! Dear God! He prayed he’d win because he’d never bet so much on a game. Suddenly he sensed he was outclassed, in terms of clothes, money and golf.
And he was. Craddock, who’d admitted to not being very good at golf, proved to be above average, and the other two were nothing short of brilliant. It didn’t appear to bother Craddock that they were being beaten hands down by the other two, but it bothered Ford, because he was beginning to feel ridiculous. The more uncomfortable he became the worse he played, and the others were starting to laugh and slap him on the back rather too heartily, saying, ‘Hard luck, old chap.’
Then a miracle occurred. Ford holed in one! He’d never done it before in his life and never would again, but today he did. He was breathless with the thrill of it. He’d done nothing special, just whacked the ball as hard as he could clean over the hazard of a small lake, straight between two trees . . . a short hole, 175 yards and hey presto! the biggest stroke of luck he could possibly have hoped for. A million to one chance. He trembled with the shock of it. Nigel and Marcus were stunned but summoned up enough enthusiasm to give him loud praise. ‘Drinks all round!’ they shouted, almost visibly grinding their teeth at his success.
This silenced the laughter, and from that moment on Ford played the game of his life. Craddock, who’d never beaten the other two all the time they’d played together, was both elated and inspired, while Marcus and Nigel, angered by Ford’s success, couldn’t summon up their usual feisty play.
‘Well, done, Ford. Excellent! Oh! Well played!’ Craddock couldn’t hide his delight.
Marcus and Nigel played grimly on, facing defeat by two men they both considered absolute incompetents. When the game was finished they handed over their £100 each and went for their showers. They all met up again in the bar. It appeared that the two of them had decided to be gracious in defeat.
‘Well done, Ford, you certainly came up trumps. Where do you play?’
Quickly Ford declared he hadn’t played for years. ‘Just a one-off, that hole in one. Drinks on me.’
Something in the atmosphere changed during lunch, though. It was as if the other two had planned something together, and only they knew what it was all about.
The dining room was superb. Ford couldn’t begin to imagine what the membership fees might be. It was busy, and it would need to be to keep this kind of standard up, with waiters rushing about attending to their smallest requirements, silver service, fresh flowers and crisp, snow-white table linen.
Ford remembered Merc’s apprehension and twice managed to pour his drinks into a handy vase right by his place setting. His stomach rebelled by the time the dessert trolley came round. He waved it away with a casual hand. ‘Diabetic, sorry. Pity, they do look marvellous.’
He never touched the sweet wine meant to go with the dessert, nor the liqueur the others had to finish their meal. Out of the blue Craddock mentioned Ford had retired from owning his own metal company, carefully refraining from using the term ‘scrap metal’, but the other two were on to it immediately. Ford tried to turn them from talking about scrap metal to racing, which he claimed was his major interest now, but he was wasting his time. The two of them were determined to keep on and on about scrap metal, the one subject Ford hoped he’d left behind when he came to Turnham Malpas.
Nigel Farrow finished his liqueur, and then, looking very determinedly at Ford, he said, ‘Scrap metal! No wonder you’ve retired in your forties. Money, money, money in metal, especially if you know the trends.’ He knocked some ash from his cigar and winked. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? Come on, out with it.’
Poker-faced, Ford replied briefly. ‘There’s money in most things if you study the trends.’
A cloud of smoke from Nigel’s cigar drifted in his direction. Ford wafted it away impatiently. Merc was more astute than he’d realised; the two of them were obviously after his blood, just as she had warned. He noticed that Craddock Fitch was quietly smoking his cigar and looking anywhere but at him, dissociating himself from the concerted attack. Thank you kindly, Craddock. He’d remember this, he would, asking him out for a friendly game of golf with his business chums and encouraging them to winkle out of him all the underhand, borderline illegitimate deals he’d done. All the deliveries of roofing lead which, much too late, he’d realised were stolen goods, but which he never queried, the new copper piping he suspected had been lifted from building sites all over London, but had never rejected. All the secret brown envelopes he’d handed out to ne’er-do-wells driving battered old trucks and scraping a living from theft. God, what a fool he’d been not putting a stop to it. He’d have made an ample living just dealing with the honest ones, but somehow he’d been bullied into accepting stolen scrap and not daring to refuse. Foolishly, he’d imagined the law would never catch up with him. Then, sickened by the dodgy position he was in, he’d decided to sell out. It seemed to him to be the easiest way out rather than to allow the threats to get even more severe.
Marcus Phillips sneered at him now as he held the bottle of Cointreau in his hand, offering to fill his glass. ‘Taste the fruits of your labours, Ford. I remember when we were building our new office block we lost a thousand pounds-worth of copper piping in one night. Took days to find replacement piping.’ Marcus leaned confidentially across the table and, lowering his voice, said, ‘It wasn’t you was it, paying half its value, handing the cash over at midnight? Discreet paper parcels, no questions asked?’
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