Freddie had not minded his wife and his son monopolising each other, she knew that. He was so proud of both her and of William and he always remarked on how well they danced together and how splendid they looked. They did too, Constance was well aware.
She had been, however, more distressed than she admitted to either her son or her husband when she spotted the look in Marcia Spry’s eye as the notoriously malicious old woman studied her having such a wonderful time with her only son.
God, that woman is disgusting, Constance had thought, but she said nothing aloud. She had been aware that her body had tensed involuntarily and William, holding her lightly in his arms, noticed at once.
‘What’s wrong, mother?’ he asked.
She had made a physical effort to shake off the tension. ‘Nothing, darling,’ she replied. ‘It’s just that there are some really quite monstrous people living in this village, that’s all.’
William had shrieked with laughter, causing even Freddie, standing on the edge of the dance floor talking to the vicar, to look mildly askance.
‘You mean it’s taken you all these years to realise that, mother,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you were so innocent.’
And, outrageously, he had swung her across the dance floor towards the table Marcia Spry was sharing with the vicar’s wife — a sweet woman although without a brain in her head in Constance’s opinion — and called to the old gossip over Constance’s shoulder. ‘Don’t forget I must have a dance with you before the night is out, Miss Spry,’ he said, and Constance knew his features would be composed into the most charming of expressions.
She had heard Marcia Spry mutter something stiffly and could imagine how set her face would now be, flushed slightly probably, having been confronted so blatantly.
Constance had not dared turned around. Secretly revelling in her son’s behaviour, she had difficulty in preventing herself from laughing out loud. Only now did she wonder if William’s sparkling high spirits had been artificially induced — and perhaps even by something more potent than alcohol. She shuddered at the thought. Then she had had no such doubts.
‘You are appalling, William,’ she had whispered in his ear, in such a way that he was made well aware that his mother was actually quite delighted with him.
‘Maybe,’ he had responded. ‘But I’ll have a long way to go before I’m as appalling as that twisted old bat. I don’t know why you and dad ever have anything to do with her.’
But he did know, of course. William was steeped in village life, like all of them. Marcia came from a family established in the village for almost as long as the Langes. Whatever you thought of her, she was a force to be reckoned with in Chalmpton Peverill. And it was an absolute certainty that within minutes of William arriving home so early in the term the dreadful Marcia would be sure to know that he was back — and God knows what she would make of that.
Constance knew she shouldn’t care. And in her heart she didn’t. She also know that the main cause of Marcia Spry’s behaviour was envy, because her own life was such an empty one.
But Constance’s family and the part it played in the village were at the very core of her existence — she had somehow slipped on that mantle as naturally as Freddie had been born to it. And if you accepted that kind of place in village life, you also had to accept that appearances mattered. They mattered terribly. If you wanted the uncaring anonymity of city life, which provided in many ways so much more freedom, then you should go to live in London. Even Bristol was big enough to give you a slice of that.
Here in Chalmpton Peverill everyone knew everyone else’s business. The other slant to it was that if you needed help, in times of sickness or any kind of trouble, it was always there. You were never lonely in a village. Even those living without any near neighbours in cottages and on farms in the more remote parts of the parish, miles away from the village itself, experienced none of the isolation endured by so many living alone in a city tenement.
There was good and bad about village life and, perhaps because she had not been born to it, by and large Constance knew and had learned to live with both sides of that. She was quite realistic about it, and now dreaded not only having to cope with what looked like being a considerable family crisis but also having to deal with the reaction of a load of interfering busy-bodies. It was one of those times when, fleetingly, she was in fact finding it hard to remember the good things about village life.
Then she glimpsed movement out of the kitchen window. Dawn had arrived with yet more rain, but this had ceased at last, and she looked up and out into what was swiftly becoming a glorious morning, the sun rising spectacularly above the Quantock Hills in the distance. And in the foreground, silhouetted against an orange and crimson background, bustled Harley Phillips’ mother.
The woman’s plump face was an animated picture. She was excited, happy, couldn’t stop herself hurrying. Her anxiety about her son’s injury still showed, but the woman was bursting with good news. You could see it written all over her. Constance smiled easily through the window, slightly cheered already. She couldn’t help it. She liked Iris Phillips every bit as much as she liked Iris’s husband Norton. Iris was exactly the way village people were supposed to be, warm-hearted, kindly, the best of neighbours, a truly good sort. If only they were all like her, Constance thought wearily as she pulled open the kitchen door.
‘’E’s ’ome, ’e’s ’ome and ’e’s that grateful to you, Missus Lange.’
Iris’s voice was a sing-song. Her chestnut-brown hair, permed tightly, framed rosy cheeks. She wore a floral-patterned crossover overall which did not entirely conceal a contrasting floral-patterned dress beneath. No stockings. Lace-up shoes. No coat or jacket either. But if she was cold running around the village like that so early on a still chilly morning, she gave no sign of it. Constance always thought Iris looked just the way farmers’ wives do in children’s books.
‘’E wants to see ’ee. Says ’e was too dopey to thank ’ee properly when ’ee came to thigee hospital. I said you’d sure to be over. You will, won’t ’ee?’
There was just a tinge of uncertainty in the last questioning sentence.
‘Of course I will, Iris, of course. Tell him, later this morning. I do hope he gets well soon.’
‘Oh ’e’s on mend all right. Daft bugger. Talking ’bout going out shooting with ’is dad this very weekend — just for the walk, ’e says. I told ’im what for, don’t you worry.’
Iris stepped forward and thrust the basket she was carrying into Constance’s hands. It contained six perfect goose eggs nestling in tissue paper.
‘My Gert’s laying a treat,’ said Irish. ‘There’s nought like a goose egg, flavour all of its own I always says...’
She was beaming. A woman who accepted all that life threw at her and just got on with it. She had so much less than Constance and yet no aspirations for more, let alone any envy, would ever enter her head. There was such splendid simplicity in her.
Constance rather wished she could be more like Iris Phillips.
William arrived in his little Renault, a present from his father, naturally, soon after 5.00 p.m.
Constance, although she would never admit it, had been waiting by the upstairs window which gave the best view of the yard. As always now when she saw him after they had been apart she was struck all over again by his resemblance to his father. She watched him slam shut the door of his car and walk quite jauntily towards the house.