The Village Newcomers by Rebecca Shaw Page B

with money to spare for the youth club was more than welcome. Venetia closed her mobile, swung her long, slender legs off the lounger and stood up. Mercedes almost fainted when she saw her figure full-length. She admired the devotion needed to maintain a figure like that, taut and neat-bottomed. She’d need to watch Ford; he was passionate about neat bottoms.
     
    They reached the main hall of the Big House with its original Tudor panelling, exquisite flower arrangements, and beautiful banisters, along which Mercedes trailed her fingers in delicious enjoyment of the old wood. She was overwhelmed. Her mouth was dry and her legs were shaky; she wouldn’t speak, that was the easiest. Not a word. She’d leave it all to Ford.
     
    The luxuriousness of the furnishings and the hangings in the sitting room in this Mr Fitch’s flat alarmed Mercedes. Such taste! It was straight out of one of those smart magazines that Ford kept buying her in the hope that some of the style would rub off on them both. Mercedes shook the hand he offered her and trembled all over. He frightened her. But Kate was an entirely different matter. Obviously she must have misheard; she must be his daughter, not his wife. She was much more down-to-earth.
     
    Mr Fitch served drinks from a thing like a cocktail cabinet, except it was too old to be called that, and finally, when they were all seated, drink in hand, Ford launched into his ideas.
     
    ‘I was thinking about perking up the lunch club for the old folk but instead someone mentioned that the youth of the villages were in need of some excitement, so I’ve changed my mind. What ages do you cover, Kate?’
     
    ‘Thirteen to eighteen.’
     
    ‘Right. They’ll need something exciting, won’t they? Weekends away, camping or in hostels, trips to Go Ape - expect there’ll be one somewhere within reasonable distance - their own gigs, sport of some kind. The list is endless. Brighten everything up, we shall. How about it, Venice? Are we on the right lines?’
     
    Venetia appeared extraordinarily at home in this room, and Mercedes wondered why that should be because she was common, no doubt about that, and didn’t really fit in. She waited to hear what she had to say to Ford’s proposals.
     
    Venetia unravelled her gorgeous legs, fluffed her hair and said, glancing coyly at Mr Fitch, whose cold eyes didn’t appear to be the least bit impressed, ‘It all sounds brilliant, doesn’t it, Craddock?’
     
    That she should feel free to use his first name surprised Mercedes; it didn’t ring quite true somehow.
     
    Mr Fitch froze her with a steely look and addressed Ford. ‘Sounds to me just right for these young people.’ He turned to Kate. ‘What do you think, darling?’
     
    Mercedes thought, darling? To his daughter? Well, she couldn’t be his wife. Heavens above, he was old enough to be her father.
     
    ‘Well, we have about sixteen regulars, more occasionally, but with activities like you’ve mentioned I’m sure there’ll definitely be sixteen, and that means an awful lot of money.’
     
    ‘Well, I was thinking about that on the way up here. If it was a big project like a four-day trip somewhere after GCSEs or A-levels then they’d have to match me pound for pound. Say it cost a hundred pounds for four days in a hostel, I’d offer fifty pounds and they’d have to find fifty plus their spending money. Would that be any good? Can’t always hand it to them on a plate, can we?’
     
    ‘For some of them that’s a lot of money,’ said Kate. ‘Believe me it is. Hardly any of them are earning, you see. And there’s transport, too, isn’t there? That’s expensive nowadays.’
     
    ‘I would pay the transport costs,’ Mr Fitch suggested.
     
    But Ford positively disagreed. ‘No, no. It’s my project. I’ll pay for the transport.’
     
    This well-intentioned offer was made kindly enough but Mr Fitch was having none of it.
     
    ‘Absolutely not. I’m the benefactor round here