GOSSIP

Katie Melhua is playing on the sound system as Jo enters the pub followed by Mouse, her grey whippet. She pulls her cardigan tight, feeling chilled in the dim coolness of the bar.

There are few people in The Clipper early on a summer evening. She nods a greeting to Emily and Arthur who sit together in the corner. Emily is an old friend of Jo’s father Edward, and Arthur was Master of Ceremonies at the village fair. They meet in the pub every Sunday to finish the crossword over a glass of wine before returning to their respective homes for dinner and Countryfile.

Geoffrey is sitting at the bar with a gin and tonic, paunch straining against his pink polo shirt as he describes the minutiae of his day on the golf course to Keith the landlord.

Keith looks relieved to see Jo and reaches for a pewter tankard hanging amongst others above the bar.

‘The usual, Jo?’

She nods, sits on the bar stool next to Geoffrey, and takes a long drink from the pint of ice-cold cider that Keith places in front of her. She puts the tankard back on the bar. ‘I needed that.’

‘Tragic news about Sheila and Treve.’ Keith looks up to the row of tankards. ‘I can’t believe I won’t be serving him a pint of bitter shandy on euchre night.’

‘Yes,’ says Geoffrey, ‘my wife says it’s a double murder. She wants me to fit extra locks.’

‘I can’t believe the people in this village,’ Jo says, rubbing her face with her hands. ‘All the gossips going into overdrive!’

‘I heard on the radio that the police aren’t looking for anyone else,’ Keith comments, polishing the bar.

‘Murder – suicide most likely then,’ says Geoff, folding his arms. ‘Trust Sylvia to get it wrong.’

‘He must have been at the end of his tether.’ Keith looks at Jo with kindly concern. ‘I’m sorry for your loss Jo. I remember you and Roly practically grew up on Home Farm during the school holidays.’

Jo flushes and reaches up her sleeve for a man’s handkerchief. She blows her nose. ‘Sorry.’

Both men are silent as she wipes her eyes and collects herself.  Her voice breaks when she speaks. ‘We had so many happy times on the farm. Sheila taught me how to bake, and no one made scones like hers. I remember once Treve let me drive the Land Rover around the yard and Sheila got cross. Roly and me always played with Paul and Stephen, they were a lovely family – all so kind.’ She sighs and her shoulders slump. Mouse noses softly at her hand.

‘Your mother will have her work cut out finding someone to run Home Farm at short notice,’ says Keith.

Jo frowns, ‘Don’t mention my mother to me. She has a lot to answer for.’ She twists furiously at the ring on her finger.

‘Oh love,’ Keith says gently, ‘you can’t blame your mother for this. It’s a tragedy, not Mrs Clemens’ fault.’

‘My mother put Treve under pressure when he was already on the edge. What was she thinking?’

Geoffrey sits nursing his gin and tonic, aware that Sylvia will be eager to get up to speed with all the latest when he gets home. ‘What sort of pressure?’ he asks.

‘If you must know, my mother plans a music festival at Tregethlan and on the fields around Home Farm. It’s just a crazy idea – and it’ll be a disaster for the land.’ She pushes her tankard over to Keith for a refill.

Geoffrey sits up straight on his bar stool. ‘A festival will take a lot of organising. I’ve done plenty of project management in my time. I was in pharmaceuticals you know.’

‘You’ve mentioned that before’ says Keith.

‘According to John she’s got some help already. He was showing someone around the estate earlier on. Some chap called Luke,’ says Jo.

Keith rubs his chin thoughtfully, ‘a festival might be good for business. We could lay on breakfasts if people are staying on site. We could even run minibuses up to Tregethlan….’

Emily has crossed the bar to join the group. ‘Isn’t this a bit premature?’ Her tone commands respect, and the trio fall silent. ‘I was so sorry to hear of Treve and Sheila’s passing. The best thing we can do is respect everyone’s privacy.’ She touches Jo’s arm as she speaks. ‘Come and sit with us dear, Arthur and I would appreciate your company.’

Geoffrey turns back to Keith. ‘If there’s to be a music festival people have a right to know. Think of the traffic, and the noise til’ all hours.’

‘I could open up the annex,’ muses Keith, ‘lay on extra B and B.’

*

Up in Parc Clemo, Sylvia switches off the television as she hears her husband Geoff’s key in the front door. She jumps up from the settee and goes into the hall.

‘Any news? What’s the latest?’

‘Put the kettle on love,’ says Geoffrey, following her into the kitchen. ‘Seems you were wrong about the double murder at any rate. Keith heard on the radio that the police aren’t looking for anyone else.’

‘So Treve must have killed poor Sheila and then himself,’ Sylvia says, bringing two coffee mugs over to the table. ‘How dreadful! At least there isn’t some maniac about.’

‘You don’t need to worry about extra locks.’ Geoffrey grins and opens a packet of biscuits, helping himself to a couple. “That’s one less job for me.” He sips his coffee and then adds ‘It’s a funny thing though…’

‘What is?’ asks Sylvia. 

Just then, Sylvia’s son, Lawrence, comes into the room. He is pale and pasty and looks younger than 17 despite the long, greasy hair and faint shadow on his upper lip.  He peers into the fridge.

‘According to Jo Clemens, her mother is to blame,’ Geoffrey says.

Lawrence is about to reach for something but at the mention of Jo, his hand stills.

‘For God’s sake, shut that fridge,’ says his step-dad as a high-pitched whine begins to reverberate around the room. The boy grabs a carton of orange juice from the door and slams the fridge shut. Opening the carton, he starts to drink.

‘Get a glass can’t you, like any civilised person?’ says Geoffrey.

‘You’re not my dad,’ Lawrence glowers at him.

‘Don’t be rude,’ says his mother, her mind focussed on the news from Home Farm.

Lawrence scowls and continues to drink from the carton. Geoffrey sighs heavily but says nothing more as Sylvia brings the conversation back to Margaret Clemens.

‘But how on earth can she be responsible?’

‘Jo wasn’t very coherent. Kept saying something about a pop festival that Margaret’s planning. Reckons that’s what tipped Treve over the edge.’

‘Pop festival!’ says Sylvia, her eyes widening. ‘Here in Trevow?’

‘Up at Tregethlan,’ he says. ‘Doesn’t sound very likely to me, frankly.’

‘Well!’ says his wife, the death of her neighbours temporarily forgotten, ‘Just wait ‘til I tell Jan. Our very own Glastonbury here in Trevow.’

‘I hope it wouldn’t be anything on that scale.’ Geoffrey pales. ‘Think of all the mess and noise and disruption.’

‘But think of all the extra business it would bring into the village. Mind you,’ she adds, ‘some of the WI won’t be happy. Imagine their faces when they hear.’ She giggles at the thought.

Lawrence rinses his empty juice carton and opens the recycling bin.

‘Not again,’ he mutters and starts to pull out tea bags and crisp packets, egg shells and cling film which he dumps on the work surface.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Geoffrey looks up at the noise.

‘I’ve told you before: half this stuff shouldn’t even be in the recycling,’ says Lawrence.

‘For goodness sake, does it really matter?’ Geoffrey asks.

‘Of course it matters. It’s people like you who are destroying our planet…’ Lawrence’s voice starts to rise but he breaks off and walks out to the hall.

‘Don’t you want a hot drink before bed?’ Sylvia calls after him.

‘Nah.’

Lawrence closes his bedroom door, sits back at the computer and begins to type.

Chapter 6