Synopsis
An amusing story about the adventures of three retired women, living in a small town in North Yorkshire. The trio embark on a series of practical jokes aimed at the local Parish council, in particular, the dour chairperson, Abigail Porter. When the women discover Abigail is attempting to evict the Nursery Group from the Beeches Centre, the trio put their special talents to good use.
A Particular Subject
Abigail Porter tapped her freshly sharpened pencil on the desk impatiently and glanced at the clock for the umpteenth time that morning.
“It’s now ten past nine and you know how I abhor unpunctuality! This is an extremely bad start for a newly appointed council member!”
Miss Abigail Porter, retired Headmistress of Farringdale School and now the chairperson of the Parish Council , was not happy.
“Sh- she had to take her children to school first,” said Dora, timidly.
“That’s still no excuse. Why couldn’t she have had someone else take them? This is simply not good enough!” Abigail repeated.
“Couldn’t we just start without her and I’ll fill her in when she arrives?” asked Reverend Sidwell.
“I suppose so,” said Abigail impatiently, “ but I really wanted her here to discuss a particular subject.” She looked at the vicar knowingly, who nodded with understanding.
“I’m sure she will have arrived by the time we get to the, er- particular subject.” he said, biting his lip as the sides of his mouth twitched.
Taking a deep breath as the button on her tweed jacket took the strain, Abigail let out an exaggerated sigh. “Very well, Vicar. Dora, the minutes of the last meeting please.”
Dora scrambled to her feet, perched her glasses on the end of her nose and, with trembling fingers, picked up her papers and began.
“ Minutes of the Farringdale Parish Council, 15th May. Present at the meeting: Miss Abigail Porter, chairperson; Dora Clarke, secretary; Major Ronald Oldham, treasurer; The Reverend Paul Sidwell, Mr. Timothy Clarke, Mr. Robert Dean and Mr. Andrew Hewson. Miss Porter opened the meeting and the minutes were read by Dora Clarke which-um-was” Dora paused to search through her papers.
“Dora, what are you doing?” asked Abigail with another sigh.
“I-er-I-I was going to read the minutes from the previous meeting to this one, since I read them at the last one.”
“Dora, you can’t read the minutes from two months ago, because then you would have to read the minutes of the meeting before that one, and we’d be here all day listening to all the minutes of the meetings dating back to the war!” A large, purple vein on her temple was beginning to pulse. She shook her head impatiently. “Just read the agenda for today.”
“Yes, of course, I-I m very sorry,” mumbled Dora, turning red as she dropped a number of her sheets on the floor. She stooped down to pick up her minutes, glanced apologetically around the oblong table at the council members and continued, reading slowly.
“On the 2nd of June, Mr Warren of Nuthill farm is to drive his bollocks through Farring”
“ Bullocks! Dora, Bullocks!” shouted Abigail as she rose from her seat, leaning her fists on the table. As she drew breath to continue her tirade, the button, unable to take the strain any further, shot from its hole towards Major Oldham, ricocheted from his spectacles and landed in the Vicar’s glass of water.
“Sorry I’m late everyone. Did I miss much?” Julie Kendal walked slowly to her seat, taking in the various expressions of the council members. Tim Clarke was on his knees with Dora, helping her to pick up her notes that she had flung into the air at the outset of Abigail’s outburst. Dora appeared to be on the point of tears and the Reverend was avoiding Abigail’s eyes as he was fishing, what looked like a button, out of his glass. There was an awkward silence for a moment before Tim popped his head up.
“Excellent shot there, Miss Porter,” he grinned.
Abigail said nothing and scowled back at him.
“Oh Tim,” whispered Dora.
“Tea,” said the Reverend Sidwell, “Why don’t I go and ask Mrs Cragg to bring us some tea?” he suggested tactfully.
“Yes, thank you Vicar,” sighed Miss Porter. If one had to deal with the lesser individuals of the world, one had to have plentiful supplies of tea and digestive biscuits.
The Vicar bolted for the door, relieved to be out of Abigail’s presence for a few moments.
After tea, and when Dora had sufficiently recovered from her ordeal, the meeting continued in relative peace. As they arrived at the last item of business, Miss Porter paused to give emphasis to the most important issue on the agenda.
“Now, this final issue is something that is extremely disturbing to me and of particular concern.” She glanced briefly at the Reverend and continued. “It concerns the matter of the sabotage of the Parish Newsletter. Reverend Sidwell, please read some of the excerpts from the latest issue.”
The vicar nodded and began reading. “This is taken from the May Newsletter, of which I am sure most of you are familiar with.” He paused briefly while Tim Clarke attempted to cover another smirk. “I quote, After the Easter hymn was sung by Mrs I M Nowarbler, Mrs Hensome stepped up to the altar and laid three eggs upon it.” The Reverend waited again while one or two council members attempted to control giggles.
“I hope they were free range!” spluttered Tim.
“Oh Tim!” said Dora as she glanced at Miss Porter who was frowning grimly. Her hair was pulled tightly into a neat bun, which made her large face look even more fierce and the vein on her temple more visible.
“The original copy of the newsletter,” continued Reverend Sidwell, “read that the hymn was sung by Mrs I M Forbes, and Mrs Hansom stepped up to place three eggs upon the altar.” The vicar continued, “The following article which should have read, the Tuesday night food tasting session will be followed by silent meditation, actually read, the Tuesday night food tasting session will be followed by strong medication. Finally, the article that should have read that my Sunday sermon was entitled, And God made man, had an extension, and then he made improvements and created woman, so as you can see... “
“that we have someone in our community who has a complete disregard for the hard work that this council performs on behalf of this town.” Abigail paused, looking deeply into the eyes of the council members. “This is clearly unacceptable and the perpetrator must be sought out, brought to justice and punished!”
Dora, still quivering from her earlier brush with The Great Porter began to tremble and had to be taken out to Mrs Cragg for more tea and gentle counselling.
“The problem is,” continued the Major after Dora had left, “is that it’s very difficult to see where and when it occurred. Who has access to your study Reverend?”
“Well, I-I m not really sure”
“Let me be more direct,” cut in Abigail. “Did Ruby Kendal clean for you at any time during the last month?”
“Ruby Kendal?” The vicar glanced at Julie, Ruby’s daughter in law, “Er, I’m not sure, she may have, she does help from time to time - why her? “
“I am sorry to bring it up in front of Mrs Kendal,” Abigail said, sounding not in the least bit penitent, “but, Ruby Kendal is well known in the town for her pranks.”
“Been a thorn in our flesh for years,” said the Major, running his fingers over his balding head. “ I used to go to school with her and she was always doing practical jokes then,” he moaned. “She once put a mouse down my back in a history class. The teacher caned me for causing a disruption in class. As if I would ever do such a thing,” he said, mournfully looking around the table at the council members. “I was ribbed about it for years afterwards. They called it the battle of Rataloo. It’s appalling to think she is still the same; she once sewed up the sleeves of my jacket when I put it in to be dry-cleaned at her shop! Dashed childish behaviour if you ask me and it’s time we put a stop to it.”
