Ann Purser - Threats At Three

“Morning, Gavin,” John said. He led the way into a small room where meetings were held, and asked what exactly he wanted to talk about. He explained that he had several cricket matters to attend to, and hadn’t much time to spare.

“Just wanted a few words about SOS,” Gavin said. “I felt a bit odd man out at the committee meeting, and had a sort of feeling you might be more in tune with me than the others.”

John frowned. He was a Farnden man, born and bred, and he had no wish to side with this unpopular incomer. It was true, however, that he privately thought the others had grouped themselves unfairly against Gavin’s ideas, and though they were much too ambitious as they stood, a lot of them could be adapted to widen the scope of the soap box grand prix. After all, the man was young and keen, and that was not easy to find in Long Farnden.

They talked for a while, and when Gavin left the hall and walked back up the muddy lane, he realised that he had gained nothing. John had been very polite, sympathetic, but in the end committed himself to nothing. Waste of time, then, Gavin decided. He could have been at home, playing with Cecilia.

“Morning, young man,” said a voice behind him. It was Tony Dibson with his wife, Irene. Gavin could see that pushing Irene’s wheelchair through the muck on the lane was heavy going.

“Here, let me have a push,” he said. “Been to church?”

Tony said they were on their way home, and had stupidly decided to come along the footpath and home by the longer route.

“The Thelwell girls have been along here,” Gavin said. “D’you remember those cartoons, Tony?”

“O’ course I do,” the old man said firmly. “Long before you were born. Wicked little girls on small fat ponies. D’you want me to take over?”

Gavin said he was fine, and added that his mother had loved the Thelwell brats on ponies and had kept books of them.

Glad to talk about something other than SOS, Gavin chatted to Irene, asking her questions about her disability without reserve or false sympathy. Tony could tell she was warming to another side of Gavin Adstone. When they reached the Dibson’s gate, Gavin insisted on pushing the chair right into the house, and accepted an offer of coffee with what seemed to be genuine pleasure.

But what is he up to? thought Tony suspiciously. Wouldn’t trust the bugger as far as I could throw him.

“What a nice young man,” Irene said, after they had drunk coffee, chatted of this and that, and Gavin had left, promising to bring Cecilia and Kate to meet Irene.

“GUESS WHO WAS IN CHURCH THIS MORNING,” GRAN SAID, TAKING off her summer hat and donning her apron in the kitchen.

“President Obama?” said Derek.

“How did you guess?” said Gran. “We had a lovely chat, but he had to get back to saving the world.”

“And apart from him?” Lois said, laughing at the pair of them.

“The Hickson woman. Paula, did you say, Lois? There she was, her tribe all washed and brushed and fidgeting in the pew at the back.”

“Including Jack Jr.?” Lois said.

“If you mean that unprepossessing teenager with a hood permanently over his spotty face, yes, he was there, too. Sat staring at his feet most of the time.”

“How could you see them, Mum?” Lois said. “If they were at the back, and you were in usual place up front, you must’ve been screwing your head round most of the service.” And I bet you weren’t the only one, she added to herself.

Gran ignored the question, and went on to say how Father Rodney was all over them in the church porch. “Poor woman looked really uncomfortable. That’s the trouble with modern vicars. They try too hard. Puts people off, you know. Now, Lois, get me the milk from the fridge. Time I made the Yorkshire batter. Josie’s coming up for dinner, isn’t she?”

“Yep,” Lois said. “And she’s bringing a policeman with her.” Derek said, tongue in cheek, that the police had heard that a certain Mrs. Weedon had been seen with petrol can and matches having a go at the village hall, and were wanting to talk to her.

Gran, who was also Mrs. Weedon, menaced him with a dripping spoon. “That’s enough of that, Derek Meade,” she said. “Quite enough. I know perfectly well that Josie’s policeman is Matthew Vickers, an’ he’ll be off duty, bless him. We must make him really welcome,” she added, and then, remembering her strictures about vicars trying too hard, she resolved not to do the same with a possible grandson-in-law.

THE SCHOOL BUS STOPPED OUTSIDE THE SHOP, AND JOSIE watched as the little crowd of variously clad pupils climbed aboard. Jack Hickson was still hovering over the magazines, and Josie walked over to him.

“The bus won’t wait, Jack,” she said. “Go on, run for it.”

He stared at her, and the lack of expression in his almost black eyes made her feel uncomfortable. “Mind yer own business,” he said insolently. She opened her mouth to tell him he would not be welcome in the shop anymore. She had had enough of his cheek. But he was out of the door and into the bus like a scared rabbit. Except that he was not scared.

Josie turned back to the counter. Should she report him to his mother? But the poor woman had enough to worry about, and in any case, knew all about her firstborn. No doubt child experts would say he was a casualty of a violent father and a broken home. But the other children were perfectly polite, and certainly Mum seemed to think Paula was making a good job of bringing up a family on her own.

Jack Jr. made his way to the rear of the bus, where his second-best mate, Jonathan, greeted him with a friendly shove. “Did you get it?” he said, and Jack shook his head. “Silly cow was watching too close,” he said. “I’ll have another go this afternoon, when we get off the bus. Works best if you wait till the shop’s full of kids, then she don’t know which way to look.”

He pulled a dog-eared magazine out of his school bag and they both huddled over it, chortling at the lovely busty girls. “Why don’t she get tits like these?” Jack said, nodding his head towards a hollow-cheeked fourteen-year-old girl halfway down the bus. He hadn’t admitted it to his sophisticated friend, but he felt drawn to the girl, perhaps because she looked so unhappy.

“Andorexia,” Jonathan said knowledgeably. “Don’t eat much. Can’t expect big tits without a few cream buns!” And they were off again into husky sniggers.

As they stopped outside the school gates, Jack stuffed the magazine back into his bag and left the bus. A man stood by the gate, and Jack stopped abruptly, causing Jonathan to crash into him with loud expletives.

“Hi, boy,” said the man. “Wanna come for a walk?”

Jack shook his head, his face deathly white. “Sod off,” he said. “I’m goin’ to school.”

“Never used to be s”keen on school,” the man said. “Got some sweets here. Cheer you up, they will. Sure you don’t wanna come?”

Jack hesitated, and Jonathan gave him a push from behind. “Get into the playground,” he hissed. “He won’t dare follow. He’s big trouble. You oughta know that. Go on, for God’s sake.”

Another push got Jack Jr. through the gates. He ran into school without a backwards glance. The man shrugged, put the packet back into his pocket and walked away. “Always another day,” he muttered to himself.

LOIS CAME INTO THE SHOP SMILING BROADLY. “MORNING, LOVE,” she said. “Lovely weather for ducks.”