The Villagers E-Book

A.J. Griffiths-Jones

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Nothing can prepare you for the secrets of The Villagers.

Olive and Geoffrey are happier than ever. After moving to the countryside to bring up their three young children, they are welcomed with open arms by the friendly residents of the chocolate box village.

But beyond the veil of rhododendrons and net curtains, there is something more. Just as Olive is settling in and starting to integrate with the community, she finds out that all is not as it first seemed.

As her discoveries become more and more sinister, Olive begins to fear for her own sanity, and has to make choices that will decide the fate of her family.

The Villagers paints an intriguing picture of a 1950s English country village, where not everyone is who they first appear to be.

Leseprobe

The Villagers

Skeletons in the Cupboard Series Book 1

A.J. Griffiths - Jones

Copyright (C) 2016 A.J. Griffiths - Jones

Layout Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art base image by Sylvia Caswell

Cover design by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Olive

Author's Note

The events, characters and places portrayed in this novel are loosely based upon the real lives of people who resided in and around a small village in England in the 1950's. However, I have used some imagination in recreating the series of events and have changed the names of those involved.

The main character is my beloved grandmother who, at ninety-six years old, has spent many an afternoon retelling to me the story of her time in an idyllic cottage in that hamlet. We have laughed until we cried and when the time came for me to put pen to paper to create this piece of fiction, many memories, both good and bad, were stirred up in the process. Unfortunately, my grandfather Geoff is no longer with us but I'm sure that he is looking down now and having a good old chuckle about the place that he used to call home.

As you follow 'The Villagers' through their individual journeys, remember that truth is very often stranger than fiction and, although this is a novel and the story created for your entertainment, there is an element of truth in each of these lives. Olive herself would tell you that.

In creating this book, I owe thanks to several people without whom I would have struggled to accurately portray the story that will gradually unfold before you. Firstly, I send my love to my grandmother, and hope that she will have as much pleasure reading this story as we did creating it, she is truly wonderful and I hope that when I'm old and grey I will be just as enthusiastic about life as she has always been.

For the second time in my writing career, I am indebted to Sylvia and Antony Caswell. Sylvia spent many hours creating a superb oil painting from which Antony has been able to create the cover of 'The Villagers', from very little more than an inspired idea. You are both so immensely talented.

To Lesley Mitchell and Ashley Scott, without the two of you Chapter Seven wouldn't exist.

Recognition to Phil Carter in Norway for his constructive criticism, honest review & ongoing support.

I would also like to thank my dear friend Sarah Locker, who not only read the whole manuscript and provided much needed feedback, but also endured me reading out passages to her while we lounged on sunbeds in Turkey, just so that I could gage her reaction. Your support is much appreciated.

Finally, to my husband Dave, who is always there to provide both physical and emotional support, says nothing when I get up in the middle of the night to scribble down ideas and every now and again comes up with a genius idea, words will never be enough to tell you how very much you mean to me.

Prologue

With every cherished memory, there is a beautiful, tranquil, idealistic place that, when recalled to mind, can transport you back to the innocence of your childhood. These were the towns and hamlets where dreams were made, friendships moulded, hearts broken and personalities forged.

Everyone has one of these places, no matter how long ago or how short the stay, a place that makes them warm inside and brings a momentary tug at their heartstrings. Somewhere safe that creates a sensual feeling and brings tears to our eyes when those long forgotten heroes are once again replayed in our fading recollections.

The characters we met, some long gone to their graves, many of them old and grey, and some who simply disappeared without a trace, these are the people that made growing up such fun. There are always the amusing ones whose names we can never recall and the grumpy ones whose names trip off our tongues so easily, right up until our senior years. Take a moment to reflect upon these people. The kind but strict schoolmaster urging you to always do better, the crazed old lady who would wave a stick from inside her cat-ridden house when she caught you trying to scrump apples from her orchard, the cheerful postman who would willingly battle hail and snow to bring letters and cards from loved ones overseas and the portly shopkeeper who would always sneak a few extra toffees into the bag when you laid your last pennies on his counter.

In these wonderful places, it wasn't about the buildings. Concrete and stone had no part in making us the individuals that we would become. No, it was the flesh and blood, the friends, neighbours and casual passers-by with whom we would build forever friendships, acquaintances and fond, fond memories. In our childhood homes we were safe, protected and above all happy. We were cocooned from the outside world by a tight network of people, who seemed to want no more than to nurture our souls.

Places like these filled every corner of post-war Britain, beautiful communities with chocolate-box cottages and smiling children everywhere, a safe haven where doors were left unlocked and children rode their bicycles for miles without a care. Clusters of houses where people shared their troubles and rallied around to help a neighbour in need, baking pies for the elderly, concocting home remedies for the sick and pulling together to make the community function as a whole, wanting nothing in return.

And then there was 'The Village'.

Chapter One – Olive and Geoff

It was the summer of 1950 when Olive and Geoff moved to the village.

Neither of them could imagine a more picturesque and peaceful location in which to bring up their three young children, a haven of tranquility and calm, a place in which to nurture their family and grow old gracefully together. Surrounded by beautiful Shropshire countryside, with rolling hills on all directions, a better location would have been impossible to find. Parents had few worries about passing traffic in those quiet lanes and allowed their off-spring to play freely on the footpaths and fields nearby. The few vehicles that did pass through the village did so slowly and cautiously, their drivers as much on the lookout for roaming foxes crossing their pathways as children picking berries in the hedgerows. The houses were solid and well-made, the gardens obviously tended with loving care. Each frontage had a little latched gate and each doorway was surrounded by a cascade of fragrant roses. Retired folk sat chatting on the benches of the village green, tractors hummed busily in the surrounding fields and sparkling white linens blew merrily in the wind on the washing-lines of every household.

The other people in the village seemed to be decent, friendly and respectable. Every Sunday as the church bell tolled, a steady stream of parishioners made their way up the long and winding pathway that led to the grand Norman church at the end of the thoroughfare. Ancient tombstones lined the grass verges on all sides, some erect as steel, some tipping sideways with age and decay. These were the markers of many generations of villagers, some of them spanning half a millennium. To one side there stood a few grand tombs, obviously the final resting places of the more wealthy villagers from days gone by, but most of the markers were simple burial places inscribed with little more than names and dates. Despite the lapse of time, each and every one of them bore a small posy of flowers at its base, signifying that the long dead resident was very much alive in the heart of his or her descendants. This was a place where few people left and new residents only came after childless generations had passed away, leaving empty properties to be sold by the state. Olive knew that her friends would do anything to move to this village, but fate had smiled down on her, and her only. This was a golden opportunity.

Day to day life was comparable to that of any small community. The men of the village went off to work every morning, by bicycle, motorbike, bus and car, returning at dusk to a smiling wife and happy children. Their cottages were filled with the smells of freshly baked pies and homemade bread, with beautiful wild flowers adorning scrubbed kitchen tables and welcoming fires in the grates. To any onlooker passing through, the village was a hub of contentment and serenity, a place that city-dwellers could only dream of and a constant attraction for families seeking a place in which to enjoy a picnic in peaceful solitude.

Olive and Geoff's cottage was perfect. It looked out on to the rest of the properties from a prime location at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac and needed very little to be done before the family could move in their possessions. There were two good-sized bedrooms and a little box-room which would be ideal for baby Godfrey. The two girls would share and Geoff had spent the whole weekend, before the move, painting the walls an inviting shade of sunshine yellow to make it look bright and airy. The large sitting room had an open fireplace and plush sage green carpet, whilst the kitchen-diner was large enough for the family to sit comfortably over their evening meals. Geoff had already started planning all the things he was going to make in his new garage, there was even room for a wood-turning lathe which would be ideal for making some unique toys for the children. Olive had polished, scrubbed and buffed the cottage from top to bottom and, thanks to the generosity of her mother, brilliant white net curtains now hung from every window. She planned to grow herbs and a few vegetables in the rear garden, maybe even buy a few ducks or chickens, it just seemed the right thing to do in the countryside. Olive was more than content. This was going to be a wonderful place to live.

As Geoff brought in the last box of crockery from his little Austin car, Olive simultaneously busied herself with unpacking, making a pot of tea and rocking the baby in his pram. Today was the beginning of a long and happy life in the country, she could feel it in her bones. The two girls, Eileen and Barbara were already out exploring the village on their bicycles and at the ages of ten and eight respectively they were just as excited as their parents at the prospect of making new friends and putting down firm roots. Baby Godfrey was only a few months old but gurgled happily as Olive pushed him outside into the bright sunlight. Even he seemed delighted to be in the village,

That evening, as they sat down to tea, the little family raised their teacups in celebration of their new home. Olive and Geoff were quick to quiz their daughters on how they felt about the move, but any fears they might have had were ungrounded and both girls seemed to approve of their new home wholeheartedly. Apparently Eileen had already made a new friend and Barbara, a feisty bad-tempered child, had found an enemy in the delicate blonde girl two doors down. There would be plenty of scrapes and arguments with that one, mused Olive, Barbara really should have been born a boy. Eileen would cause little trouble, of that her mother had no doubt, but the other one would need watching like a hawk as mischief always followed her around like a hungry stray dog. Barbara had even argued with her elder sister over which bed she wanted to sleep in and had created such a fuss that eventually Geoff had rearranged the beds so that both of his daughters would be lying facing the window. Barbara was such a handful and her mother secretly longed for the summer holidays to end so that the teachers could take dual responsibility for disciplining her, but for now she would be allowed to run wild in the fields every day in the hope that by teatime her energy would be completely used up.

Later that night, as they lay in bed between fresh cotton sheets, Olive and Geoff reflected on the kindness of their neighbours. Throughout the day, a steady stream of faces had appeared at the kitchen window, all of them bearing gifts and none of them outstaying their welcome. There had been freshly baked bread from a rather red-faced lady in a flowered apron, a dozen fresh eggs from the young man next door, pots of jam and chutney from the vicar's wife and a large jug of warm milk, fresh from the cowshed, courtesy of the local farmer. Olive couldn't remember all of their names but vowed to get to know them and therefore become an integral part of village life.

The first few years of their married lives had been spent living in a rent-free two-bedroomed farm cottage owned by Geoff's parents, which had helped them to save enough money to put down the deposit on their own home, something for which the couple would be eternally grateful. Geoff had enjoyed being close to his family but as it became more and more apparent that he no longer wanted to follow in his father's footsteps and instead veered his mind towards the exciting world of invention and engineering, a break from the close-knit smallholding seemed inevitable.

“Who was the lady with the rosy cheeks and pink lipstick?” asked Geoff, turning to face Olive who was moisturising her face in the vanity mirror, “She makes a grand crusty loaf.”

“I think she lives next door but one. She was very friendly”, replied Olive, “Isn't it lovely when people rally round to make sure you've got something on the table for your first night's tea?”

“It certainly is, my dear.”

“Geoff, are you happy we've moved?” Olive asked cautiously, glancing at her husband's reflection behind her, “I mean, away from your family?”

“Don't ask daft questions”, tutted Geoff, “Now, get in to bed, and start dreaming about all those hours of gossiping and cups of tea you've got to get through as you come to know everyone.”

Olive put down the pot of cream and sauntered over to her side of the bed. She climbed in and sighed.

Geoff was right, as usual, and within minutes the couple had drifted off to sleep.

There would be plenty of time for reflection on their move later.

There was a market town about five or six miles away from their new location and Olive had seen the ladies of the village boarding the local bus to take them shopping on Thursdays and Saturdays. That would be an ideal way of getting to know her fellow inhabitants and perhaps, after filling her basket with local produce, she could sit with them over a pot of tea before boarding the bus back home. Olive had it all planned out, and looked forward to the day when she would be familiar with the cheerful faces living around her. She daydreamed of village fetes, coffee mornings and flower-arranging at the local church. Some of the ladies in the village had already perked Olive's interest, and she was sure that friends would be made by the dozen.

Olive and Geoff's first few weeks in the village were taken up with emptying boxes, settling the two girls in to their new school and finding out all the necessary information required to live in the countryside, such as delivery days for the greengrocer and bread van, church service times and the schedule of the local bus services to town. Of course Geoff also had his job at the foundry, where he worked as a patternmaker, so Olive dashed here and there making their new home a place to relax in. Relatives had been to visit in abundance, everyone wanting to know how life was treating them in the village, and Olive's two brothers had stayed for a few days to help paint doors and put up shelves. During that time the little cottage had been full of laughter, singing and continued bustle as the two men busied themselves from morning till night. They would do anything for Olive, their most amenable sister, and both had a lot of time for their brother-in-law too. As far as they were concerned, a few days off work spent helping Olive and Geoff to fix up their new home was well worth it just to see the smiles on their faces. Her three sisters had also paid a visit. Phoebe the eldest had been helpful and kind, bringing sweets for the children and taking care of baby Godfrey for a few hours so that Olive could continue to organise her new home. Next had come Dolly, the joker of the family, providing respite from her sister's busy day as she poured tea and told tales of the friends that Olive had left behind. The two sisters had laughed uncontrollably on many occasion and vowed to make sure that the distance in miles that now lay between them would do nothing to stop them from enjoying each other's company on a regular basis.

Lastly, Olive's youngest sister Minnie had alighted from the small green bus, resplendent in her new straw hat and impractical three inch heels. Olive laughed inwardly as Minnie manoeuvred her way along the dusty path, all the while trying desperately to look chic. Of all her sisters, Minnie was the most difficult to get along with and caused constant friction with her siblings, but even the three-hour long visit to her sister's new home, eyeing up every nook and looking for fault in every cranny, could do nothing to dampen Olive's high spirits. As she walked her sister to the bus-stop Olive took a deep breath and said thanks. Life in the village had calmed her beyond belief.

The hustle and bustle of settling in had left very little time to get acquainted with the neighbours but, slowly and surely, as the weeks passed, and as opportunity presented itself, Olive came to know the residents of the village.

Unfortunately she also found out their secrets.

Of course every family has secrets, but as the days, weeks and years passed by, Olive would gradually come to know every skeleton in every closet. Sometimes she dearly wished that things had remained hidden, that the occupants of the village had not openly revealed to her their sins and obsessions. Some things were best kept behind closed doors. It wasn't as if Olive actively sought to help or counsel the villagers around her, in fact she dearly wished that she could have continued her life of ignorance as far as their sordid conspiracies were concerned. It seemed that everyone knew and accepted the terrible deeds going on around them, a secret society where all were aware but nobody told. The village was shrouded in guilt, loathing and desire.

As any wife would do, as each secret revealed itself, Olive shared her newfound knowledge with her husband. Geoff merely laughed. Poor Olive must be bored out here in the country, he thought, too much fresh air is affecting her imagination. Of course when his dear wife started to lose sleep Geoff worried a little but put it down to the change in environment or the time of the month, sometimes he even blamed it on the full moon. Occasionally he would hear Olive put on her dressing-gown and creep downstairs to make a cup of tea, but Geoff had a hard day at work ahead and the temptation of a warm bed and soft pillow were enough to ease him back into slumber. At other times he would awake to hear his wife's shallow breathing and knew that she was laying still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, trying not to give any clues that she had been without sleep for hours. Naturally Geoff cared, but he knew full well how people's minds could play tricks on them. Geoff was certain that Olive would eventually settle down to her new life and stop fretting over the things she thought she'd witnessed. After all, he pondered, some of the things she had told him were almost impossible to believe, it was almost as if Olive were reliving some kind of nightmare from her childhood. It would pass, and soon she would come to her senses, he thought.

But there lay the problem. You see, the things that Olive saw and heard were all too real.

Chapter Two – Anna & Wolfgang Muller

Anna Muller was an elegant and bold woman, with strong equine features and an enviable wardrobe. She was proud of her Russian heritage but strove to improve her English in order to fit in with the little community in which she lived. It was important to Anna that the villagers accept her, especially as there had been a general distrust of all foreigners seeking refuge in England both during and after the war. Now in the third year of her residency in the village, Anna was still very much aware of the awe in which others looked at her every time she opened her mouth. But it wasn't just her strong St. Petersburg accent that drew their attention. If Anna had looked around her, she would have seen that it was her statuesque figure and sleek raven hair that caused people to stop and stare. The village women were envious of her high cheekbones and flawless complexion often stopping Anna, as she entered the village shop or made her way to church, for advice on everything from night creams to hair conditioners.

Her Polish husband was a much less memorable figure and rather reminded one of a shy dormouse just emerging from a long winter of hibernation. He wasn't a small man by any means but, being several inches shorter than his wife, Wolfgang Muller appeared to be of slight stature as he walked alongside the beautiful Anna. Nobody knew how long the Muller's had been married, but neighbours wondered if or when the couple would have children. Of course nobody ever asked, as the pair seemed to prefer to keep to themselves and besides, it wasn't the sort of question that you could ask in passing.

Despite their lack of day to day interaction with the other villagers, the Muller's were regular church-goers and never missed a Sunday service. They also attended the fund-raising activities in the local district, and could be relied upon to provide unwanted items for the 'White Elephant' stall at the fete or bottles of homemade wine to be sold for a good cause. Wolfgang Muller was becoming quite a well-known name when it came to festive tipples, with such creations as mulberry and cinnamon, elderflower and rosehip, and his most revered dandelion and juniper. The villagers always looked forward to purchasing his wonderful array of alcoholic beverages at Christmas, not in the least because Wolfgang offered a generous sample glass for every interested customer, which was always accompanied by one of his wife's exquisite ginger biscuits. Nobody seemed to mind that the couple had no interest in forging solid friendships, it was simply accepted that they both had a different social upbringing to the English folk around them and they were left to their own devices.

Of course, there were always the curious ones who would while away the hours in idle chatter, pondering how the meek little Polish man with his milk-bottle lenses had managed to snare the tall and refined Russian beauty, but nobody dared to pry. Besides, sometimes it was much more fun to let both the imagination and the gossip run wild. Nobody meant any harm, and the whole village was unanimous in their respect for the foreigners wanting to keep their married life private. It was with a mild curiosity that curtains twitched as Wolfgang Muller left his house at exactly the same hour every morning, come rain or shine. Nobody seemed to know his profession or why he was always seen wearing a pristine business suit, even at the weekends. He would trot down the path at a brisk pace with a brown paper bag containing his lunch gripped tightly in one hand and a long black gentleman's umbrella in the other. However, the villagers were even more interested in Anna Muller, who would appear an hour later, furtively glancing around her as she closed her front door, looking as beautiful and radiant as ever in her navy raincoat and red paisley silk headscarf. Monday to Friday, she would head off down the lane to the bus-stop and not return until an hour before her husband later in the day.

The Muller's front door was painted a deep shade of forest green, with the brass knocker and handles having been polished until you could quite clearly see your reflection in them. The front lawn was a decent but manageable size, with marigolds and dahlias planted neatly around the border, and a cascading rose bush taking pride of place in the very centre of the immaculately mown grass. Every window in the house was dressed in pure white plain net curtains, preventing passers-by from getting even the slightest glimpse inside, which only resulted in the people of the village becoming more inquisitive about their secretive neighbours. Even the postman had commented on the Muller's lack of letters from their relatives overseas, they were destined, so he thought, to be loners.

At the weekends, the Mullers conducted their household maintenance in much the same manner as every other couple in the village. Mr. Muller would pull his battered old manual lawnmower out of the shed and carefully stride up and down cutting the grass, after which he would tirelessly pull out any weeds which had found their way in to the borders and then take out a set of wooden ladders in order to give the front windows a good clean. Meanwhile, if you watched for long enough, slight glimpses of Anna could be seen hanging out washing, beating her intricately designed Persian rugs on the back doorstep and carefully setting out washed milk bottles ready for collection. However, unlike the carefree females who peered at her with intrigue from the confines of their own little cottages, not a hair could be found out of place on Anna's head, her white pinafore was crisp and starched and silk stockings adorned her slim, shapely legs as she worked. Many a conversation at the village shop had been centered upon the amount of time it must have taken the dignified Russian to get ready every morning, with figures ranging from two to six hours. The overall consensus was that such a well-manicured and groomed lady must either never sleep or she had a personal beautician on hand to preen her to perfection.

The Muller's neat little house was just two doors away from Olive and Geoff's and being in such close proximity, you would have expected the two couples to have become quite well acquainted but, as it was, a quick greeting at the gate and a wave from the garden were pretty much all that was exchanged. In such rural areas as the village it was common for people to borrow tools, exchange cake recipes and to offer their services to neighbours in need, but the Muller's kept their door closed, their garden gate shut and their personal business to themselves. All that the villagers had managed to glean from them in three years was Anna and Wolfgang's nationalities, despite their surname sounding very decidedly un-Polish, and the fact that they both enjoyed classical music. This was confirmed each and every Sunday afternoon, when the dulcet tones of Mozart and Beethoven could faintly be heard coming from the Muller's gramophone. It seemed that the couple were financially comfortable, but nobody had ever so much as peeked through their front door, so no-one actually knew in what style the Muller's lived. Olive thought it a pity that her closest neighbours weren't a little more sociable, especially as they were of a similar age to her and Geoff, but she was on friendly terms with plenty of others in the village and was happy to let it be.

However, all that changed one September when Olive's eldest daughter started senior school and needed to travel in to town on the local bus.

Eileen had always been a gifted child, therefore Olive and Geoff's decision to send her to an all-girls secondary school where she could focus on her studies without teenage boys to distract her was nothing of a surprise to their friends and family. They had high hopes for Eileen and wanted the very best education possible for her. A half hour journey each way on the local bus was a small sacrifice to make and, besides, Eileen was both sensible and mature enough to make the trip on her own. Also, the driver was a cheerful and conscientious local man and would ensure that Olive's daughter was safely delivered to her destination. Unfortunately the same could not be said of Barbara's academic status, and despite their other daughter still having two more years in junior school, it had already been decided that she would be enrolled in to the state comprehensive with the rest of the village children.

It was only after a couple of weeks of travelling back and forth to her new school that Eileen became aware of another regular passenger following the same route. Day after day, Anna Muller would be waiting at the bus-stop in her smart navy mackintosh and sensible shoes, clutching her handbag and a brown paper parcel. Every morning she would be looking eagerly up and down the lane, head held high and silk scarf tied neatly under her chin, awaiting transport to the market town. Eileen always politely said hello and Mrs. Muller always smiled back at her in response.