Karen Freethy had been a teacher at Port Wenn Primary School for just over five years. She'd moved from Portsmouth when her marriage had crumbled. At first, she'd been considering a career overseas, a teaching adventure somewhere warmer and drier; she'd wondered if perhaps it was a sign to completely disrupt her safe existence and get out and see the world. But, in the end, she simply wasn't brave enough for such drastic action and, when the position came up in Port Wenn, she'd leapt at it. It was just far enough away from Pompey, and a perfect stop-gap until she was back on her feet.
Karen had taken out a lease on a charming and, by Port Wenn standards, spacious two bedroom cottage; semi-furnished, with a lovely balcony facing the sea. Initially, she didn't know anyone but she was a voracious reader, loved crosswords and jigsaws, and enjoyed an evening of quality television, so she kept herself entertained. When she had a weekend free of school commitments, she would visit friends and family in her home city or, occasionally, an ex-lover in Bude. But, mostly, her time was occupied entirely by her lesson preparation, administration, extra curricular activities and meetings and, for the most part, she was quite content.
However, there had been a couple of niggling incidents of late that had bothered her somewhat. Firstly, the lease on her home had just come up for renewal and she realised that, after five years of telling herself so, Port Wenn Primary School was really no longer a temporary position until something better came along. Then, she'd bumped into an old acquaintance in Delabole and they'd mentioned, casually, that her ex-husband was about to re-marry. While she no longer had any feelings for him, Karen felt that perhaps she'd been treading water too long and life was passing her by. The last straw was her recent birthday, spent at her parent's home with her family, where her brothers had imbibed freely, the conversation had drifted to politics, become rowdy and a bit combative, and things had rather come apart at the seams. The evening had ended uncomfortably when her nearest brother, Alan, had accused of her of becoming an uncompromising old maid. She'd thrown a drink in his face and stormed off to bed, leaving her poor mother to sort everything out. And, when she'd arrived back in Port Wenn the next day, her comfortable, welcoming cottage felt somehow empty, and full of echoes and shadowy corners. Worse still, content and independent Karen Freethy felt a little bit disconcerted and quite a lot alone.
She soon settled back into her normal routine and, gradually, she felt her mood elevate and her disconcerting thoughts about objectives and direction abate. That is, until she heard the shocking news about Louisa Glasson and, all of a sudden, it was if the murky waters were settling, the clouds were parting and, most invigoratingly, she could start to discern her future purpose.
She hadn't wanted to disturb Joan Norton last night so she'd rung Lester Tregurtha and told him what she was prepared to do. He'd been initially surprised and then quite touched, inviting her to the 10.30am meeting at Muriel Steele's home. He then explained that they wanted to talk about Louisa's situation away from the village so there would be no gatecrashers, busybodies or eavesdroppers able to just barge in. Karen found herself nodding in agreement. After telling him that she'd see him in the morning, she rang off.
After the children had finally gone to bed on Friday night, Tamzin Curnow had scribbled some numbers down on some scrap paper and shown it to Jago. He'd studied it for a few minutes, rubbing his earlobe thoughtfully, before announcing that it seemed very fair and reasonable to him. She'd smiled at him in relief, even though she known all along he'd agree to whatever she suggested. Jago avoided conflict and was very much committed to the marriage guideline: Happy Wife, Happy Life. Sometimes he wondered how the two of them, with their mild, undemonstrative temperaments, had managed to produce such a budding she-devil as their Caroline appeared to be. He never could really quite fathom genetics. Jago often thought about how, when he was a boy, his father had bred the litter of gun dog puppies, and amongst the evenly-sized yellow pups was one enormous black one. In the end they'd kept it and it had turned out to be a first rate duck retriever. Ugly as sin, and impossible to keep at home unless you chained it to a kennel but a useful dog nevertheless. He felt that there was an analogy in there somewhere but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Like genetics, philosophy wasn't a strength either. Wandering over to his desk, he rummaged around in the top drawer and finally located his chequebook. Peeling off the top one, he signed his illegible signature with a flourish, and passed it to his wife.
It was Muriel Steele's idea to have the crucial meeting at her own home. Knowing that any objections were futile, and dissenters would be publicly skewered by her dry, caustic wit, there was unanimous agreement amongst the group of villagers who had taken up Louisa's cause. Besides, Muriel's house was spacious and warm, with a choice of a reception rooms that could comfortably seat all of the attendees, and it fitted the requirement for privacy and distance from the village.
On Friday night, Muriel had sent her husband to collect their son from the train station while she had busied herself in the kitchen preparing two of her famous chocolate sponge cakes; one for morning tea tomorrow, and one, as usual, for Joan to take home with her in exchange for the dozen duck eggs she'd supplied earlier in the week. Muriel did not know Louisa well and she had become involved principally to support Joan, whom she considered a dear friend. She remembered that Louisa had been friends with her son at primary school, around the time when the child's wretched mother had disappeared, and she always found her to be a bright and engaging child. The Women's Institute, of which Muriel was the long-standing Secretary, had kept a watchful eye on Louisa over the years and, after receiving Joan's call for help earlier that morning, the committee had immediately resolved to assist however possible.
She scraped the sponge mixture into the tins and placed them in the oven carefully. Then she poured out a large glass of milk and took three biscuits out of the tin, placing them neatly on to a small plate. She peeled an orange and broke it neatly into segments, placing them symmetrically alongside the biscuits. Finally, she sliced off a slim wedge from the large wheel of orange cheese that sat in the glass container on the bench, and added that to the plate as well. Danny was always so hungry when he arrived home from school and she was anxious that he ate as much as he wanted. She was starting to become a little concerned about him; fourteen years old and still so small for his age.
Susan, Lady Brading, did not attend quite as many WI meetings as she told her husband, Sir John, she did. She wasn't proud of that fact button a while she'd begun to wonder whether it were possible for a girl to shrivel up and die from sheer monotony. Why she'd ever agreed to move to the country was now beyond her; she was absolutely bored rigid. When she and Sir John had lived in Plymouth, at least there'd been parties and concerts and shopping; their titles fast tracking them to the top of any guest list. But now, living in the gloomy manor house and waiting at home while her husband shot at any poor creature that dared to raise its head and, even worse, called it sport, she'd become acutely aware of the loneliness and incompatibility of her marriage. That is, until she met Gilbert.
Colonel Gilbert Spencer was a retired army officer and confirmed bachelor, living alone in his substantial home, The Applegarth, on the outskirts of the village. She'd visited him with Sir John when they'd first moved down, and they'd had tea together. Her husband and the Colonel had some tenuous connection that she'd taken no interest in and, for her, the visit had been yet another tedious afternoon in Port Wenn. She'd stared at the wall, adorned with dreary military prints, feeling listless and overlooked, desperate for some sort of signal that the visit would end. When Sir John had finally stood up to leave, she was beyond relieved and she took little interest in the formalities of their departure. That is, until Gilbert had taken her hand in his, and she had looked at him, only to meet what she could describe later as an intense and smouldering gaze. She caught her breath as their eyes locked and she felt him caress her hand as it slipped through his. Susan had thought of nothing else for days and she wracked her brain for some opportunity for them to meet again. Then, Joan Norton had mentioned that Gilbert was a bird watcher and frequented the cliffs to the north of the town. Armed with binoculars, she set off along the coastal path on a warm sunny Tuesday morning, and she was thrilled to see that Joan had been correct; his tall, proud military bearing was distinguishable from quite a distance. When she got closer, and he'd noticed her, he walked towards her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. She was instantly smitten. After they'd made love in a quiet cove, hidden by scrubby weeds, she felt suddenly alive again. Now she just had to think of an excuse to get out of the house every day. As if by magic, fate had presented her with a cast iron justification; the desperate situation of Louisa Glasson, and the resultant emergency sub committee of the Women's Institute. Sir John was about to be flabbergasted at how diligently his wife was to throw herself into her new cause.
Joan had partaken of an indifferent shower and now her mood was a little strained. The far-reaching implications of today's discussions had begun to cause her considerable dismay. Would the village be able to pull together or was Louisa to be lost to them? Anxious to expound her thoughts, and use Martin as a sounding board, she'd come downstairs only to discover that he was absorbed in dissecting one of his old toys on the kitchen table. He had a collection of delicate instruments, in a neat leather case, arranged precisely to his right and he appeared to have seconded one of her jelly moulds as an integral part of the process. As she entered the room, he dropped something into it with an audible clink. She scowled at him.
"Marty, what are you doing?" She snapped.
He looked up at her blankly, and then back down at the toy motor boat in front of him.
"It appears to have seized up Auntie Joan. I'm sure that I can remedy that though. It will just take a little time."
Joan stared at him incredulously.
"But you promised to look after Louisa this morning and take her to town!" She said in a very heated tone. "Really Martin, it's going to be a stressful day for everyone, especially Louisa, and you think this is a priority?"
She waved her hand airily over his collection of instruments and the dismembered boat, and glared at him.
"I'm in the room, ya know." A peeved voice came from behind Joan and she turned to see Louisa stretched out on the couch, staring back at her coolly from over the top of what appeared to be some sort of prospectus.
"Anyway, we're ready, aren't we Martin?" She continued. "We've just been waiting for you actually, so we could say goodbye."
Martin glanced over in her direction briefly. "Mmm, yes." He replied, distractedly, before dropping another screw gently into the jelly mould.
Somewhat reluctantly, Louisa clambered lazily up from her reclining position. She'd been successfully distracting herself all morning with the pamphlets she'd been given by the careers advisor but now she was going to have to face up to some unhappy truths.
"See you at lunch then Mrs. Norton." She said and flashed Joan a nervous smile. "And, ummm, thank you."
Louisa stood next to the table uneasily and watched Martin as he focussed on manipulating a tiny spring on the winding mechanism of his toy. He was so intent on what he was doing that he didn't notice her remove a handful of whole walnuts from the fruit bowl. After holding them above the jelly mould for a few seconds, and clearing her throat, she gave an exasperated sigh and dropped them, and they clattered loudly into the tin below. Martin winced and glared up at her, his eyes narrowing menacingly.
Louisa responded with a triumphant laugh, turning her back on him and sauntering toward the door, pausing as she opened it.
"Come on then, Mr Chatterbox," she called to him. "Let's be having you. I've got things to do."