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 among 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 the Byghans.’ 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 – so kind.’ She sighs and her shoulders slump. Mouse noses softly at her hand.

‘Your mother’ll 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.

‘Eh 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 a crazy idea. 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’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. Keith heard on the radio – 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 his 17 years 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 pulls 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 a civilised person?’ says Geoffrey.

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

‘Don’t be rude,’ says his mother, her mind still 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 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.

‘Half this stuff shouldn’t even be in the recycling,’ says Lawrence.

‘For goodness sake, does it really matter?’

‘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.’

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

                                                                        * 

After the events of the weekend, Anneke is reluctant at first to leave the shelter of the house. But when Margaret asks her to post an urgent letter, ‘Next-day delivery, make sure,’ the opportunity to get a change of scene is welcome. It is a fine morning and she inhales the clean air of the countryside as she walks down the tree-lined lane to the village. By the time she has reached the Post Office, her spirits are somewhat restored. 

The Post Office is busy this Monday morning, and there is a buzz of conversation.  

‘You mean Sheila’s died?’

‘Sounds like a merciful release.’ 

‘Yes, and Treve too.’

‘That’s awful.’  

Behind the counter, Sylvia pauses between customers and says, ‘And they’re going to have a festival up there next year. Geoff heard all about it in The Clipper last night.’ She breaks off to attend to the next customer. Between the racks of magazines, greetings cards and brightly coloured buckets and spades, others take up the theme. 

‘Like Glastonbury…’

‘Could be a big blight on the village…

‘Might be fun.’

‘I’ll go.’

‘What about all the traffic?’

‘The roads are bad enough…

‘There’ll be drugs…’

‘Litter…’

‘What about the farm?’

‘Now Treve’s gone…’ 

The door jangles as Anneke enters and for a moment the shop goes quiet, but not before Sylvia says, too loudly, ‘Oh yes, Jo Clemens was full of it.’   

A woman pays for a newspaper, turns to leave and gives Anneke a knowing smile: ‘Hallo dear, all right?’ she says, without waiting for a reply.

While Anneke waits her turn, fragments reach her from across the shop.

‘We don’t want something like that here…’

‘You’d think Mrs Clemens wouldn’t want that kind of thing in her garden…’

‘People should be consulted…’

‘We don’t know what’s going on.’ 

Anneke gives the important packet to Sylvia, who notes the London address and says, ‘Morning love, will that be first or second class?’

Anneke says, ‘First class, guaranteed delivery tomorrow, please.’

Sylvia places the stamps on the package and says, ‘I’m so sorry to hear the news. Poor Mrs Clemens will miss them. I wonder if she will be able to get on with her plans now? 

Anneke just manages to say, ‘I don’t know about any plans.’  

‘It sounds very exciting,’ pursues Sylvia. ‘That will be six pounds sixty.’  

Anneke is waiting for the receipt when she hears the doorbell jangle again, and a man’s voice behind her says, ‘Morning all, how are we today? Heard the news? We’re having a pop festival. Be good for your business.’

‘Yes, begins Sylvia, ‘won’t it – ‘but then Jan calls from the back room, ‘Now Sylvia, we don’t do gossip here, do we?’ 

Sylvia starts to say, ‘Well, Geoff heard all about it,’ but breaks off when she sees the expression on Anneke’s face. Anneke leaves without saying goodbye.

Across the road, outside Pascoe’s Store, John is parking the Land Rover. He sees Anneke and comes over to her.  

‘Are you all right?’ he says.

‘Yes, well, no. They are all talking in there.’ She nods towards the Post Office. 

‘What, about Treve and Sheila?’ 

‘Yes. And they are saying there is going to be a festival. I didn’t know what to say.’ 

John looks annoyed. ‘I’ll better speak to Mrs C. Hop in, I’ll drive you back up the hill.’   

Anneke nods and climbs into the Land Rover. John revs up the engine and says ‘There may be something in what they’re saying but they’re probably getting it all wrong. I’ll have a word.’              

Anneke feels calmer as they drive back to Tregethlan together in silence.