garden first, and Standings' last, and the others in between.'
The gardens had been open since eleven o'clock in the morning, and cars were parked nose to nose around the Green. Local people mixed with visitors from Tresham and around, and there was a pleasant hum of conversation as the three women approached Fred Mills's house in Macmillan Gardens. Fred was in his element, his pipe tucked in the pocket of a grubby linen jacket that could have done with a visit to the cleaners. He lived with his old, bed-ridden sister, and they did well enough. But niceties like taking clothes to the cleaners had been given up long since.
Fred hadn't stopped talking since the first visitor arrived, and his rheumy eyes shone behind a pair of spectacles as he read aloud the details of his own garden from the dog-eared sheet he kept firmly clenched in his hand.
'Noted for a fine collection of brassicas,' he read, peering over the top of the sheet at Ivy, Ellen and Doris.
'Don't be such an old fool,' said Ivy, 'we know you've got some decent cabbages coming on. You don't have to put on a show for us.'
'Nasty Black Spot on them roses, Fred,' said Ellen, pulling off a disfigured leaf.
'It's everywhere this year,' said Fred defensively, leaving the trio to get on with it, and going back to the gate to welcome strangers who were hovering uncertainly on his concrete path, and could be trusted not to make snide remarks. 'It is nice and neat, though,' said Doris. 'Considering his age, old Fred does very well.'
'No better than mine,' said Ivy, 'and I've nobody to help with the heavy work.'
'Better ask your beloved Robert to do some digging this autumn,' said Ellen. 'If he can spare the time, that is, from courtin' his Mandy.'
A ripple of excitement passed through all three women as they approached Bill Turner's garden on the opposite side of Macmillan Gardens. It being Bill's first year, curiosity had drawn most of the village to file through the narrow passage by the house and marvel at the rich productiveness of Bill's garden. The shed, they noticed, was shut firmly, and its windows were whitewashed, blind and forbidding.
'That's where 'e kept them rabbits,' whispered Ellen, 'them what Joyce ... you know, Doris.'
'I do know,' said Doris, 'and so does everybody else. It's a wonder Bill didn't do for her right there and ...' Her voice tailed away as she turned to look back at the house, and at the same moment a silence fell on the sunlit garden.
At the front gate, Bill was trying to persuade a reluctant Peggy to come in.
'I'll pick you some parsley, gel,' he said, 'you said yours was no good.' She followed him nervously through the passage and round to the patch of lush green herbs by the water-butt, aware that nobody was talking and convinced that they were all looking at her. Bill bent down, and was beginning to pick the parsley when he heard Peggy gasp.
He straightened up and was rooted to the spot, staring with her and every other visitor at the bedroom window over looking the garden.
'Oh my God,' he said. 'Oh, dear God, she's done it now.' Joyce had drawn back the curtains, and those who saw her do it reported a mad theatricality in the act. There she stood, posed like Botticelli's vision of the birth of Venus, except that there were no long tresses to hide her nakedness, and confinement and lack of exercise had loosened her body so that it sagged and bulged in a way that would have disgraced the goddess of love.
She looked down at where Bill stood beside Peggy, and her face was full so full of hate that Peggy winced.
'Bill,' she said quietly, 'Bill, dear, you'd better go in and sort her out. I'll see you later.'
In the shocked stillness in the garden, Bill made his way to the back door, his head bent and his face scarlet. He disappeared inside, and seconds later could be seen pushing his way in front of Joyce and drawing the curtains once more.
'Show's over,' said Peggy in a cracked voice, and turned to leave. As she passed Ivy
The gardens had been open since eleven o'clock in the morning, and cars were parked nose to nose around the Green. Local people mixed with visitors from Tresham and around, and there was a pleasant hum of conversation as the three women approached Fred Mills's house in Macmillan Gardens. Fred was in his element, his pipe tucked in the pocket of a grubby linen jacket that could have done with a visit to the cleaners. He lived with his old, bed-ridden sister, and they did well enough. But niceties like taking clothes to the cleaners had been given up long since.
Fred hadn't stopped talking since the first visitor arrived, and his rheumy eyes shone behind a pair of spectacles as he read aloud the details of his own garden from the dog-eared sheet he kept firmly clenched in his hand.
'Noted for a fine collection of brassicas,' he read, peering over the top of the sheet at Ivy, Ellen and Doris.
'Don't be such an old fool,' said Ivy, 'we know you've got some decent cabbages coming on. You don't have to put on a show for us.'
'Nasty Black Spot on them roses, Fred,' said Ellen, pulling off a disfigured leaf.
'It's everywhere this year,' said Fred defensively, leaving the trio to get on with it, and going back to the gate to welcome strangers who were hovering uncertainly on his concrete path, and could be trusted not to make snide remarks. 'It is nice and neat, though,' said Doris. 'Considering his age, old Fred does very well.'
'No better than mine,' said Ivy, 'and I've nobody to help with the heavy work.'
'Better ask your beloved Robert to do some digging this autumn,' said Ellen. 'If he can spare the time, that is, from courtin' his Mandy.'
A ripple of excitement passed through all three women as they approached Bill Turner's garden on the opposite side of Macmillan Gardens. It being Bill's first year, curiosity had drawn most of the village to file through the narrow passage by the house and marvel at the rich productiveness of Bill's garden. The shed, they noticed, was shut firmly, and its windows were whitewashed, blind and forbidding.
'That's where 'e kept them rabbits,' whispered Ellen, 'them what Joyce ... you know, Doris.'
'I do know,' said Doris, 'and so does everybody else. It's a wonder Bill didn't do for her right there and ...' Her voice tailed away as she turned to look back at the house, and at the same moment a silence fell on the sunlit garden.
At the front gate, Bill was trying to persuade a reluctant Peggy to come in.
'I'll pick you some parsley, gel,' he said, 'you said yours was no good.' She followed him nervously through the passage and round to the patch of lush green herbs by the water-butt, aware that nobody was talking and convinced that they were all looking at her. Bill bent down, and was beginning to pick the parsley when he heard Peggy gasp.
He straightened up and was rooted to the spot, staring with her and every other visitor at the bedroom window over looking the garden.
'Oh my God,' he said. 'Oh, dear God, she's done it now.' Joyce had drawn back the curtains, and those who saw her do it reported a mad theatricality in the act. There she stood, posed like Botticelli's vision of the birth of Venus, except that there were no long tresses to hide her nakedness, and confinement and lack of exercise had loosened her body so that it sagged and bulged in a way that would have disgraced the goddess of love.
She looked down at where Bill stood beside Peggy, and her face was full so full of hate that Peggy winced.
'Bill,' she said quietly, 'Bill, dear, you'd better go in and sort her out. I'll see you later.'
In the shocked stillness in the garden, Bill made his way to the back door, his head bent and his face scarlet. He disappeared inside, and seconds later could be seen pushing his way in front of Joyce and drawing the curtains once more.
'Show's over,' said Peggy in a cracked voice, and turned to leave. As she passed Ivy
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