More Cats In The Belfry

  Surprised in the middle of her ironing, appalled at having made such a mistake, Poppy had switched off the iron, put on her coat and gone with him at once. She hadn't thought to phone her sister – it had all been such a frantic rush anyway. All this she explained to Miss Wellington, who was only too relieved to find her intact. One heard such awful things nowadays, said Miss W. And how kind of Mr Tooting to bring her back afterwards. It was indeed. There was only one thing. That flush on Poppy's face. It made me wonder.

TWELVE

It made Mrs Binney wonder, too. The news that Poppy Richards had been seen riding in Mr Tooting's car reached her practically at the speed of sound. Fred Ferry saw them going past the Rose and Crown; he told his father who lived two doors away from Mrs B, and Sam Ferry, in pursuance of the feud that had started on the Friendly Hands holiday, made it his business to pass it on to her the same evening.

  Sam, also as a result of the feud, had taken to dressing much more smartly of late. Where he would once upon a time have gone along to the pub in his shirt-sleeves for his mid-day pint and stayed like that for the rest of the day, he now wore smartly pressed trousers, collar and tie and a mustard and brown checked jacket when he went out – presumably to show he was as good as Mr Tooting, though he stopped short of wearing a pork-pie hat. Sam's wiry thatch reared itself around the village as rampant as, and forcefully remindful of, an outsize shaving brush – which was more, I gathered from Mrs Adams, than could be said when Mr Tooting took his hat off at the Social Club. Sam, in fact, was looking a sight more presentable than his son Fred these days. Even the walking stick necessitated by his arthritis didn't detract from the image. If anything it added a touch of elder-statesman distinction that must have had an effect on Mrs Binney because she came down next day to tell me what Sam had said and to find out, by circuitous questioning, what I knew about the matter. I allayed her suspicions by telling her about the forgotten committee meeting and she said, with a superior sniff, 'Some people takes on more than they can manage just for the show of it,' and started back up the hill obviously mollified by what she'd heard.

  Hardly had she left when I had another visitor leaning on the gate – this time Will Woodrow, an elderly retired farmer from over the hill who occasionally walked down through the valley with his old dog and, if I was about, liked to stop and reminisce about the countryside in his young days, knowing I always enjoyed his stories.

  'Thass Maude Binney, innit? Maude Miles as was?' he said, peering interestedly up the hillside after her. Mrs Binney, flaunting her violet curls and wearing an emerald green autumn coat obviously chosen with the help of Shirl, looked more like a hyacinth than ever, and to old Mr Woodrow she was evidently well worth peering after.

  'Han't seen she in years,' he remarked. 'Wears purty well, don't she? Might call on her one day and see how she's doin'.' There was a gleam in his eye as he said it. Mr Woodrow was himself a widower.

  'D'ust remember her uncle, old Walt Miles?' he went on. I said firmly that he was before my time in the village. 'Ah,' he nodded. 'Suppose he would be. But he were a card, I can tell thee. Used to be odd-job man at Downton Farm, up t'other end of the valley, back in the days when workin' men wore bowler hats and red hankerchers round their necks. He were a good worker and Farmer thought a lot of 'n – but there come a time when pats of butter started disappearin' from the dairy, and Farmer were sure that Walt were takin' 'em. He didn't want to upset th'apple cart by tacklin' 'n about it straight out, though, so he and his wife put their heads together and one day they invited 'n in for a glass of cider. They sat 'n on the settle in front of the fire, which they'd stoked up high. Walt always kept his bowler on, whatever he were doin', and he did then too, in spite of their invitin' 'n to take it off. After a bit, sure enough, butter started to run down his face. Walt mopped it with his red hankercher. It went on runnin'. Farmer and his wife took no notice – just went on talkin' as if nuthin' had happened. In th'end Walt excused hisself and near fell over the settle gettin' to the door, his face swimmin' in butter. Nobody said a word about it – but no butter pats ever went missin' after that.'

  I laughed a lot about Uncle Walt and, encouraged, Mr Woodrow started off again.