Mixed Messages

 

Tea and Opsimathy

 

Where life in modern cities surges like a swollen river, in Maudlingham it merely trickles.

Everywhere the village exudes well-ordered charm, from the freshly painted clock tower in the town centre, rising from plump, regimented flowerbeds, to orderly rows of picture book Elizabethan shop fronts, striped black and white, their upper storeys craning into the narrow road. Somehow Maudlingham has managed to deflect the speculative gaze of property developers and fast food franchises, and clings with matriarchal steadfastness to its anachronistic English green-belt heritage.

Somehow.

Except the people - or to be more precise, the ladies - of Maudlingham don't believe in leaving things to fate and like one of the black swans that glides gracefully across Maudlingham Park lake, somewhere hidden beneath the surface legs are pumping furiously to maintain the tranquil illusion.

*****

 

Early one Saturday morning thirteen days before Christmas, Eileen Applekitten pushed aside a bag of dried angelica nailed to the window frame in her spare bedroom and began wiping iced condensation from the glass panes. Outside, in the waking dawn, something glistened and caught her attention. She stopped and peered with pleasure at the sight of the village green veiled in a spectral sea of alabaster mist, blanketing both cricket pitch and duck pond.

Beyond, tracing the boundary, the Foxglove sisters' twin cottages, one painted lemon and the other orange, rose from the fog like Christmas cake decorations. Each one displayed white canopied windows and window boxes of evenly spaced scarlet poinsettias; a parade of pretty usherettes. Next along, more austere yet equally well-ordered, the thatched threshold to Adelaide Poppycotton's puce green cottage betrayed a simple yet tasteful wreath of fir and gold, arranged perfectly on the racing green front door. Burning still at the early hour, a bronze lantern fastened on the left of the door provided a welcoming glow.

Paradigms of the same followed until the Armstrong house at the far end of the field. There, shining between silhouetted oak trees, cheap Christmas lights drooped untidily along a broken wicker fence. Still twinkling in the early morning gloom, they transformed one edge of the powdery haze into multi-coloured candyfloss, a setting conjured by a sleight of hazy half-light, where shadowy indistinct lumps in the Armstrong front yard were just that and not the disarray of oily car parts and dismantled motorcycles that would melt into existence with the waking sun.

As Eileen sighed and began to scratch a spot on the window, a solitary shaded figure broke the stillness, shuffling along the boundary and collapsed onto one of the benches lining the field, sending wispy spectres slithering away into the darkness. Any other observer might have been shocked but not Eileen; she let out a simple sigh and shook her head. Unlike the Armstrong house, Sam Barnthistle was a familiar and acceptable taint to her otherwise idyllic view. Each day he loitered around the same spot in a ridiculously oversized overcoat belted at the waist with rope, like a sack of King Edwards. Eileen had been a frequent visitor to Sam's wife Eleanor up until the day the poor woman passed away, almost ten years ago, wizened and incognisant.

Satisfied with the window, she lowered herself to sitting on the edge of the bed. She folded the damp make-do cloth, a cotton handkerchief, into a neat square, her finger stroking the embroidered 'H' in one corner. 'Loneliness invades old age like damp on a wall' her mother had warned her almost fifty years ago. Barely thirty at the time, Eileen had been heavily pregnant with Jonathan and the words had meant little. Now widowed, barely a day went by when the lonely void left in place of Henry didn't threaten to overcome her.

Routines helped keep her going. Planned trips to the shops, meetings of the Maudlingham Women's Guild, radio programmes scheduled for particular times of the day, all helped to fill the silence. Of course, there were many other activities for people her age, but Eileen had a guilty secret. Apart from her friends at the MWG, she didn't really like old people.

Anyway, today was Saturday the thirteenth of December, which meant grocery shopping, the official posting of her Christmas cards and more importantly, a trip to the cemetery to commiserate the seventh anniversary of Henry's passing.

By nine thirty, washed and trussed up in a thick winter coat, she lowered her aluminium walker onto the front step of Belladonna Cottage and pulled the front door closed behind her. Already Jamie Armstrong, the youngest and rudest of the Armstrong boys, with his red woollen hat squeezed onto a mat of unruly raven coloured hair, played football on the cricket pitch with his gang from the estate. Doubtless, it wouldn't be long before old Bob the groundsman emerged from the warmth of the cricket club pavilion to shoo them away. It wouldn't be long either, before they returned from their hideout and resumed their game. Such was the weekend ritual until just before noon when the team players arrived, the boys scattered home for lunch and Bob drove out in his motorised cart with the heavy lawn roller resting in the back to flatten the grass around the wicket.

"Morning, Eileen," shouted Bob, over the hum of his motorised cart, bumping slowly across the field and sending the boys scrambling away. "You're up early."

"Coo-eee," she called back, steadying her balance on the frame with one gloved hand and waving with the other. "It's the twelfth. Off to pay my respects to Henry." She pointed to the boys. "Up to their old tricks again, I see."

He followed her gaze and when he turned back, slowly shook his head and looked heavenwards.

"You're out early yourself this morning?" called Eileen.

"Forecast said snow," he called back, a furtive look above. "So I'm getting the covers down. Just in case."

"Nonsense," she said, looking up into a clear sky. "Not cold enough for snow." Besides, she knew the Guild hadn't scheduled snow until well into the New Year. Of course, poor Bob wasn't to know that so she simply smiled back and hobbled on past the village hall.

"Still, can't be too careful." He revved the engine and waved, ending the conversation.

*****

Inside the village hall, an extraordinary meeting of the Maudlingham Women's Guild was reaching a frenzied climax. At the head of the group, the voice of Angelina Foxglove, one of the more outspoken members, soared above the rest.

"What we need is one of Clarissa's tea parties."

The hall took a sharp intake of breath and, apart from teacups clacking back into their saucers, became otherwise still. Angelina pushed a thick neck from her lawn green tweed suit, her glare as defiant as headlights on a juggernaut.

"Angelina!" breathed Mildred Purpleflower, lowering an uneaten digestive biscuit from her mouth. "Don't speak of such things."

It was an odd sight, ten aging dowagers sitting in a circle of plastic chairs, nervously staring out of windows or at their surgical stockinged feet, afraid to catch the other's eye. Eventually Adelaide Poppycotton broke the silence.

"Angelina is right," she whispered, staring down thick bifocal horn-rims into her teacup. "We all know nothing but wickedness comes out of the Armstrong house. Molly must be turning in her grave."

Everyone used the term 'the Armstrong house' now, even though the plaque over the door still bore the name 'Slippery Elm Cottage'. But the Armstrong family was an ill-fitting enigma in an otherwise close-knit community and a source of persistent irritation. The previous owner, Molly Sweetgrass, a private woman who spent her days tending the diminutive front garden or knitting peacefully in the bay window, died intestate and as far as her neighbours knew, had no surviving relatives.

Then one beautiful summer's day in June, a huge Pickfords removal van pulled up outside the cottage followed shortly by an estate car bursting with Armstrong's of all shapes and sizes. Horace Armstrong, it turned out, was related to Mildred somewhere down a convoluted family lineage, something which only came to light when his wife, Moon, a fortune teller from Basildon, signed up for a free trial of 'trace your ancestors' on the website of the same name and discovered Molly.

Horace, a struggling estate agent from the East End of London and the only surviving relative, struck gold. Not only did he get Molly's house but he also inherited her unexpected but substantial fortune. Molly, it transpired, had been one of three 'no publicity please' winners of the second largest lottery draw in British history.

"We are not having another tea party, ladies. Never again, we all agreed," emphasised Mildred, horrified, and finally, after bobbing between cup and mouth, placing her uneaten biscuit back into the saucer. "You know what nearly happened last time."

"That was a simple oversight, Mildred. It won't happen again." Angelina folded her arms beneath her lawnmower bust. "Or are you having second thoughts about how we helped Mr. Arlington on his way?"

"Of course not," Mildred looked indignant. "It was a unanimous committee decision. And the first time I've fully appreciated the expression about the ends justifying the means. Given the chance, Arlington would have turned Maudlingham into a seedy casino."

"That's cold-hearted American businessmen for you," said Adelaide.

"Yes, and weak-hearted too, poor thing," said Sarah Foxglove, with a sly glance at her sister. A couple of the women darted glances to the floor in an attempt to smother their giggles.

"It wasn't funny, Sarah. You weren't standing next to the girlfriend, or whatever you want to call her, Dolores, when she tried to drink his cup of Clarissa's special home blend by mistake," squealed nervous Emily Wildbucket, who had saved the day by pointing out an imaginary insect swimming in the cup. "I could have died."

"So could she," said Sarah. This time laughter broke free and gambolled around the hall.

"Ladies! Decorum please!" Angelina, fighting down her own mirth, rebuked her sister with a glower.

"All I am saying," continued Mildred, "is that tea parties should be our pis aller not something we throw around whenever somebody steps out of line. The Armstrong family doesn't pose the same sort of threat. Let's appeal again to their sense of --"

"We've already done that, Mildred. And more," barked Angelina. "I brought them dandelion wine and sesame cake, for goodness sake. And a fat lot of good that did!"

Through ignorance or spite, the Armstrongs paid no heed to the unspoken protohistorical commandments concerning acceptable etiquette for the thirty something homesteads hugging the cricket ground, decrees dropped jovially but firmly into the conversation during welcoming visits.

Instead, motorcycles began roaring up and down the small road circumnavigating the field, their gardens and window boxes trailed weeds or spiteful nettles, the front garden resembled an automobile autopsy and the Armstrong children brazenly flaunted local byelaws.

"I caught Bill the dustman tossing the peanut bread I baked them into his cart the morning after," pouted Irene Middletoad. "At least he had the good manners to look embarrassed. And I remember distinctly telling the Mr. Armstrong about our 'tasteful decorations only' agreement around the green throughout the yuletide season."

"Eileen heard the Armstrong woman in the post office gabbing about starting up her business again as soon as they find suitable premises," confided Kassandra Papadopoulos.

"I wouldn't worry about that, dear," scoffed Adelaide, swirling tea leaves at the bottom of her cup, a curious smile curling her lip. "Small fish. We'll soon put paid to that." A couple of the ladies nodded and chuckled softly.

"Where is Eileen anyway?" asked Mildred.

"It's the thirteenth, dear," said Angelina.

"Oh, yes. Of course." Mildred looked mildly embarrassed.

"But something has to be done about the 'you-know-who's'," squealed Emily, her teacup rattling in the saucer. "My Ben caught their eldest urinating in our fish pond Thursday evening."

"And the middle one fires airgun pellets at Snuggles from his bedroom window," snorted Madeleine Mangoplum, who up until that point had appeared more interested in the Maudlingham Gazette crossword puzzle. "I told her 'it's just young-blood spirits' but her tail's thumping like a judge's gavel. There's revenge in those eyes."

"The boy's delinquent. And if you ask me, a fool to get on the wrong side of your cat," said Mildred. "I think I'd rather --"

"They burnt down my rose arbour and trellis," blurted Rose Patel, her face crimpling into tears. "Last night. And trampled my herb garden, my pride and joy."

"That's it!" spat Angelina, standing with a flourish and a stamp of her galoshes. "I make a motion to approach Clarissa for a tea party! Who'll second?"

"I'll second," mumbled Madeleine, raising a pencil from twenty-seven across.

Only Mildred remained unmoved. "What on earth makes you think the Armstrong's would even consider coming to a tea party anyway? Seems to me beer and chips is more their style."

"Clarissa's Homebrew? So be it. We'll call it Clarissa's Knees-Up. That should appeal to their lack of imagination. Who's in favour?" Angelina glared around the room. Nine kidney spotted hands raised immediately. Only Mildred sat unmoving but where her eyes had glowed earlier with resolve they now held doubt. Finally, she raised a gloved hand.

"Oh, alright then. For Rose," she conceded. "But for goodness' sake, let's be careful this time."

"Unanimous then!" Angelina preened and sat back down. "Good. I'll consult Clarissa tomorrow. Now the final item on the agenda, the posting of the guild Christmas cards."

Madeleine pulled her bag up from the floor and patted it.

"All present and accounted for. I'll post them as soon as we've finished. Should I dispose of the one for the Armstrong family?"

"Of course not, dear," admonished Angelina. "They may be about to wish they'd never been born but we still have a responsibility to uphold the spirit of Christmas."