Ann Purser - Threats At Three

THE VILLAGE CHURCH CHOIR WAS NOW REDUCED TO THREE sopranos, one alto, two tenors and a bass who could not read music and made it up as he went along. Their robes were assorted shades of red, resulting in uncomfortable clashes, and their singing was much along the same lines. The popular singing teacher who had been their director of music had left a year ago, and things had gone downhill ever since.

Father Rodney was tone deaf, fortunately, and so continued to congratulate them on their rendering of four-part discord, and the few who remained were intensely loyal to him and to each other. Every so often, they tried a recruiting campaign, and occasionally a couple of new people would try it out. But they faded away quickly, and the small band of pilgrims remained.

“I wonder if young Jack Hickson would be interested in joining us?” said Tony Dibson, the improvising bass choir member. He had been impressed by efforts made by several villagers to get the lad to join in, and now he thought how good it would be to have a treble voice amongst them.

“No harm in trying, Tony,” said Father Rodney, as he prepared the bread and wine. He insisted on having small pieces of real bread and not the usual papery wafers that were impossible to swallow before the wine came along the row of communicants. “Why don’t you have a word with his mother?” How extraordinary, he thought, that this new family in the village should have come up twice in one morning! But perhaps not so extraordinary. Life in this small community was often nothing like the tranquil existence some incomers seemed to expect, but when presented with a problem, or somebody genuinely needing help, many of the real villagers rallied round, as it seemed they had done for the Hicksons. Derek Meade, he had heard, was offering young Jack some work in the school holidays, and the church should certainly not be the last to stretch out a welcoming hand.

“So can I leave it to you?” he said, smiling at old Tony. “And how is Irene? I see she is with us as usual, and looking very pretty, if I may say so.”

She’d be a lot happier if she could be ugly and on her feet, Tony said to himself, but nodded and said how much she had enjoyed last week’s sermon.

THE CHANCE CAME TO SPEAK TO JACK JR. AS TONY PUSHED IRENE back home after the service. The boy was kicking a football up and down the lane that led to the village hall, and as Tony passed by, the ball came fast directly towards Irene in her chair.

Jack had chased it desperately, but not fast enough, and Tony caught it with a nifty sidestep and grab. He held on to it and frowned sternly as Jack stood looking fixedly at the ground. “So what d’you say?” Tony growled at him.

“Sorry,” muttered Jack.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, boy!” said an exasperated Tony. “That was a very stupid and dangerous thing to do. The playing field is the place for football. So how’s about making amends?”

Jack frowned and looked up at him. “Making what?” he said.

“Amends,” repeated Tony. “Showing just how sorry you are. You could have injured my wife, and she’s got enough to put up with without that.”

“What do you want me to do?” said Jack, now seeing a possible escape from yet another lecture from his mother.

“You can put your back behind pushing this wheelchair to our house,” said Tony. “But only if Irene allows it.”

Irene was looking distinctly alarmed, but took a deep breath and said that was fine, so long as Jack was really careful and made sure they were at the dropped curb before crossing the road. They set off, and when Tony said that they were safely home, Irene said, “Thanks, lad. D’you fancy a smoothie? Hard work pushing the chair, I know. Come on in, we don’t bite.”

By the time Jack said it was time he went, he had reluctantly agreed to give the choir a go, but only to see if he liked it, and only if the Dibsons agreed not to tell anybody. “The kids on the bus would give me hell if they knew I was a choirboy,” Jack said, and one of his rare grins crossed his face.

“See you next Tuesday, then, for practise in the church, seven o’clock sharp,” Tony said, and watched as Jack walked off home. “I doubt he’ll be there,” he said to Irene, as he set the potatoes on the stove, “but at least we’ve tried.”

WHAT ABOUT TRAFFIC IN AND OUT OF THE VILLAGE?” SAID Gavin. “Shouldn’t we be in trouble if we don’t tell the police.” The subcommittee had met for an extra session as the date was suddenly nearly upon them and there were a number of urgent matters to resolve.

“No need,” said Derek. “John, you’ve thought of a solution. Would you like to explain?”

“Simple really,” John Thornbull said. “We have a responsible person each end of the course, in communication by mobile phone, and when there’s two or three cars waiting to get through the village either way, we hold up the next race until they’re through. After all, there’s not a lot of cars using our road since they built the bypass.

“How long on average will it take to run each race?” Gavin asked.

“We need to do a trial run,” John said. “I thought you and me could do that,” he added, smiling at Gavin. “Relive our boyhood and all that.”

“I’m game,” said Gavin. “But it’ll have to be last minute, maybe the night before, when the ramp’s up.”

John nodded. “Good thinking. It’ll be a chance to try out the soap boxes. But it’ll have to be just you and me, otherwise things’ll get out of hand.”

“So that’s you in the Youth Club’s Rebellion , and which entry for you, Gav?” said Tony.

“I’ll ask the pub lot. I’m giving them a hand building it, anyway. So that’s fixed then. Trial run on the Friday night. Who shall we ask for the two responsible men at each end on the day?”

“How about Douglas Meade?” said Hazel. “He’s giving the WI a lot of help, and he’s a big lad. Authoritative, like. Get’s it from his mother,” she added, with a sly look at Derek.

“Fine,” said Derek blandly. “I’ll ask Douglas. Who else?”

“I would like to volunteer,” said Father Rodney. “I don’t mind not being the target for a wet sponge!”

There was a small silence, as a picture formed in their minds of the vicar in his black shirt and dog collar stopping the traffic with one hand, and then waving it on again at the right time, mobile phone glued to his ear.

Douglas cleared his throat. “Excellent,” he said. “Can’t get more authoratatiwhatsit than the vicar. Double authority, eh?”

Father Rodney got the reference and smiled. “I’m sure He’ll be with us on the day,” he said quietly.

“Any other points we’ve missed?” Derek said.

“Yes, there is one question. Is there an age limit on the drivers? Minimum or maximum?” John Thornbull had nearly forgotten Jack Jr.’s ambition to drive Rebellion . It could be important, not just for Jack, but for any other minors or old idiots who thought they could do it.

“If you’re thinking of me,” Tony Dibson said firmly, “I have no intention of driving. It’s taking me all my time to stop Irene entering herself and her wheelchair!”

“Had you got anyone in mind, John?” Derek said, though he had a good idea who it might be.

“Well, yes and no. Young Hickson mentioned it, and then some of the other kids wanted to be in on it. We shall have to give ’em all a go down on the playing field, and see who’s fastest.”

“I votes anyone over fifteen,” said Hazel.

Tony Dibson shook his head. “Why don’t we leave it open to all, provided they can reach the brake? We could have the starter checking them over before they start. I don’t think anybody would be stupid enough to drive without a brake.” Tony knew Jack Jr. was thirteen, desperate to drive, and undoubtedly capable of doing so. “After all,” he added, “I remember lads of all ages having soap boxes, and none of us ever got hurt.”