Open Writing

Word got round Clinton Abbot that Julia Sims had come back. She had been away in London for six years, having left as a twenty-two year old after the death of both parents in a car crash.

The house, which had passed to her, had been left empty and at the time everyone thought that she would put it on the market and sever her connection with the village where she had been born and raised. But she hadn’t. Nor had she kept contact with any of the villagers.

On her first day back she called in at The Gardener’s Arms for lunch and it was not long before everyone knew that she had made a successful career in the big city and intended to renovate the family home and garden and live there. People who remembered her parents called on her, bringing little presents. They offered her advice, put her in touch with reliable builders, decorators, house furnishers, gardeners and so on. She even took on a cleaning lady. She didn’t seem to have any money problems and gave no indication that she was looking for work. Occasionally she had friends down from London to stay for short periods, but she never introduced them to anyone and eventually they stopped coming.

It became noticeable, however, that she had a gift for making friends, particularly with the men of the village. And men from neighbouring villages were seen entering and leaving her little house, which was by now one of the most attractive and comfortable in Clinton Abbot.

A few of the ladies of the village had a quiet word with the vicar, who found the situation they described to him rather embarrassing.

“What do you expect me to do?” he asked. “She doesn’t seem to have done anything wrong. You can hardly expect me to take notice of what is, after all, no more than rumour, gossip, tittle-tattle.”

“Have you called on her yet ? That’s what you usually do with newcomers, isn’t it?”

“Well, my wife’s been round. She was quite well received. but gathered that Julia wasn’t a churchgoer and liked things to stay that way. As you know, I never push. Miriam made it clear to her that we would be delighted to help settle her in.”
“She’s managed that quite well on her own.”

About six months after Julia, Jason Paxton arrived in the village. He was a bachelor in his forties and found the place ideal as a home base from which he could make regular business trips abroad. He could get to the airport in forty minutes. He bought a cottage not far from Julia’s and started to visit her regularly. He also became friendly with the sub-postmaster’s son Alan, who let it be known in The Gardener’s Arms that the couple were to be married.

The landlord made a face.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Alan. “You don’t have to say anything. What I can tell you is this: all this ” - he gestured and grimaced - “is going to stop. He’s insisted on that and she’s agreed. He’s going to take control of the money, too. So they’ll just be like the rest of us here: respectable, boring, ordinary.”

The landlord said nothing.

The villagers, overcoming whatever misgivings they might have expressed amongst themselves, turned out for the wedding. Bells were rung, confetti thrown, photographs taken. It was noticed that afterwards Julia did not throw herself into village life. Jason spent most of each week abroad, returning home on Friday and sometimes Saturday morning for no more than two or three days.

The friendship between Jason and Alan developed to the extent that Jason asked Alan to keep an eye on Julia whilst he was away and let him know of any problems she might not wish to burden him with as he recharged his batteries at the weekend. Alan agreed. Jason explained that Julia might find it difficult after so many years to adjust to the routine of life as an ordinary village housewife.

“She’s a beautiful and intelligent woman, Alan, but the stability of her life was shattered when her parents died. All these years later she is still suffering.”

“Right,” said Alan. “You can rely on me.”

Alan was genuinely shocked, however, to discover that Julia seemed to find it impossible to rid herself of old habits. At several of the meetings he had with Jason he strongly recommended that he should try to spend more time at home.
“Why? Do you think she misses me all that much? I don’t want to crowd her. She needs space to breathe, to enjoy the freedom to do her own thing. This is the Twenty-First century, you know.”

“I know. Look, talk things over with her and cut down your absences, if you possibly can.”

On one occasion Jason finished his business ahead of schedule and arrived back in the village a day early. The house was empty. He dropped his bags and walked the short distance to The Gardener’s Arms.

“Good evening, sir. The usual?”

“Yes, please. Seen Alan?”

“Not since he was last in here with you, sir.”

“Ill, d’you think?”

“No idea, sir.”

“Look, hold my order. I’ll pop round and see him.”

The only people who could have said what happened at Alan’s home that evening are Alan himself, Jason and Julia. But Julia is dead, stabbed with a kitchen knife in the bedroom. Which leaves only Alan and Jason. The police are holding both at the moment and reliable information is difficult to come by, even in The Gardener’s Arms.

“I reckon Jason caught them at it and stabbed her. It’s as simple as that.”

“It could be that Alan stabbed her just before Jason arrived. Because she laughed at him. Women like that begin to despise men after a time. So I’m told.”

“Suppose they both had a go at her. Them being friends and ashamed of themselves for not seeing her for what she was. Whoever did it, she had it coming to her.”

“So the village might have a couple of houses on the market again? She had a lovely place. I understand.”