rear entrance, she heard Mrs Wilding’s voice raised and emotional, mingling with Patrick’s quieter more placatory tones.
He must have told her about us, was her first thought, the second being a cowardly desire to leave before anyone knew she was there. To jump before she was pushed.
‘Oh, don’t be such a fool,’ Mrs Wilding was raging. ‘Don’t you understand this could finish us? Once word gets out, the parents will be up in arms, and who can blame them?’
A reaction that could hardly be triggered by her relationship with Patrick, Tavy decided.
As she appeared hesitantly in the sitting room doorway, Patrick swung round looking relieved. ‘Tavy, make my mother some tea, will you? She’s—rather upset.’
‘Upset?’ Mrs Wilding repeated. ‘What else do you expect? Who in their right mind would want their innocent, impressionable child to be exposed to the influence of a drug-addled degenerate?’
Tavy, head reeling, escaped to the kitchen to boil the kettle, and measure Earl Grey into Mrs Wilding’s favourite teapot with the bamboo handle. This was clearly an emergency and the everyday builder’s blend would not do.
‘What’s happened?’ she whispered when Patrick arrived for the tray.
‘I ran into Chris Abbot last night, and we went for a drink. He was celebrating big time.’ Patrick drew a deep breath. ‘Believe it or not, he’s actually sold the Manor at last.’
‘But that’s good, surely.’ Tavy filled the teapot. She found one of her employer’s special porcelain cups and saucers, and the silver strainer. ‘It needs to be occupied before thieves start stripping it.’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Not when the buyer is Jago Marsh.’
He saw her look of bewilderment and sighed. ‘God, Tavy, even you must have heard of him. Multimillionaire rock star. Lead guitarist with Descent until they split up after some monumental row.’
Something stirred in her memory, left over from her brief time at university. A group of girls on her landing talking about a gig they’d been to, discussing with explicit detail the sexual attraction of the various band members.
One of them saying, ‘Jago Marsh—I have an orgasm just thinking about him.’
Suppressing an instinctive quiver of distaste, she said slowly, ‘Why on earth would someone like that want to live in a backwater like this?’
He shrugged, then picked up the tray. ‘Maybe backwaters are the new big thing, and everyone wants some.
‘According to Chris, he was at a party in Spain and met Sir George’s cousin moaning he had a country pile he couldn’t sell, no reasonable offer refused.’
‘He’s changed his tune.’ Tavy followed him down the passage to the sitting room.
‘Seriously strapped for cash, according to Chris. So Jago Marsh came down a while back, liked what he saw, and did the deal.’ He sighed. ‘And we have to live with it.’
Mrs Wilding was sitting in a corner of the sofa, tearing a tissue to shreds between her fingers. She said, ‘I would have bought the place myself when it first came on the market. After all, I’ve been looking to expand for some time, but my offer was turned down flat. And now it’s gone for a song.’
‘But still more than you could afford,’ Patrick pointed out.
‘There were other offers,’ his mother said. ‘Why doesn’t Christopher Abbot check to see if any of them are still interested? That way the Manor could be sold for some decent purpose. Something that might bring credit to the area.’
‘I think contracts have already been exchanged.’
‘Oh, I can’t bear to think about it.’ Mrs Wilding took the tea that Tavy had poured for her. ‘This man Marsh is the last type of person we want living here. He’ll destroy the village. We’ll have the tabloid newspapers setting up camp here. Disgusting parties keeping us all awake. The police around all the time investigating drugs and vice.’ She shook her head. ‘Our livelihood will be ruined.’
She turned to Tavy. ‘What is your father going to do about this?’
Tavy was taken aback. ‘Well, he certainly can’t stop the sale. And I don’t think he’d want to make any pre-judgements,’ she added carefully.
Mrs Wilding snorted. ‘In other words, he won’t lift a finger to protect moral standards. Whatever happened to the Church Militant?’
She put down her cup. ‘Anyway, it’s time you made a start, Octavia.
‘You’ll find yesterday’s correspondence waiting on your desk. When you’ve dealt with that, Matron needs a hand in the linen room. Also we need a new vegetable supplier, so you can start ringing round, asking for quotes.’
From doom and disaster to business as usual, thought Tavy as she went to her office. But to be fair, Mrs Wilding probably had every right to be concerned now that this bombshell had exploded more or less on her doorstep.
She found herself wondering if the unpleasant tough at the lake was the shape of things to come. Security perhaps, she thought. And I rambled on about CCTV. No wonder he was amused.
Let’s hope he advises his boss to increase the height of the perimeter wall, and then they both stay well behind it.
* * *
It was a busy morning, and Mrs Wilding’s temper was not improved when Tavy gave her the list of bedding, towels and table linen that Matron considered should be replaced as a matter of urgency before the start of the new school year in September, and told her that no one seemed able to provide vegetables more cheaply or of a better quality than the present supplier.
‘Perhaps I should wait and see if we still have any pupils by the autumn,’ Mrs Wilding said tight-lipped, and told Tavy she could go.
Tavy’s own spirits had not been lightened by Patrick whispering apologetically that he wouldn’t be able to see her that evening after all.
‘Mother wants a strategy meeting over dinner, and under the circumstances, I could hardly refuse.’ He gave her a swift kiss, one eye on the door. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
As she cycled home, Tavy reflected that for once she was wholly on the side of her employer. Because the advent of Jago Marsh could well be the worst thing to hit the village since the Black Death, and, even if he didn’t stay for very long, the damage would probably be done and quiet, sleepy Hazelton Magna would never be the same again.
Pity he didn’t stay in Spain, she thought, as she parked her bike at the back of the house and walked into the kitchen.
Where she stopped abruptly, her green eyes widening in horror as she saw who was sitting at the scrubbed pine table with her father, and now rising politely to greet her.
‘Ah, here you are, darling,’ the Vicar said fondly. ‘As you can see, a new neighbour, Jago Marsh, has very kindly come to introduce himself.
‘Jago—this is my daughter Octavia.’
‘Miss
