Free A Passionate Man by Joanna Trollope Page A

deference she showed to senior Women’s Institute members, and her suitable, socially responsible job. Liza, in her turn, tried not to be put off by Mrs Betts’s refinement, bossiness and mauve mohair jerseys (today’s had a pie-frill collar and three glass buttons) and to remember that Mrs Betts encouraged the kind of village community rallying that Colin Jenkins’s wife declined to do.
    â€˜Now, Mrs Logan,’ Mrs Betts said with an arch smile. ‘I know you’re not going to fail me.’
    â€˜I hope not,’ Liza said.
    Mrs Betts made a flourishing movement towards her anti-mud notice, and her coloured glass bracelets chinked together playfully.
    â€˜Naughty Dr Logan wouldn’t sign this morning. Said he wasn’t upset by Mr Prior and he didn’t mind mud. All very well for you, I said, but what about poor Mrs Logan, visiting the old people down the lane that looks more like a field? To be perfectly honest, Mrs Logan, Mr Prior is taking more and more liberties with this village. I hear a nasty rumour that he wants to sell off the field next to your house for development. People like that have to be stopped early on, Mrs Logan. And that’s where my petition comes in.’
    Liza, who didn’t in the least mind about the mud, but was alarmed at the threat of development, said, ‘Are you sure about that? About the field next to us?’
    Mrs Betts leaned forward.
    â€˜Between you and me, I’ve a friend on the local planning committee and he,’ she paused so that Liza could draw interesting inference from the pronoun, inference flattering to Mrs Betts, ‘gave me to understand that an application has been submitted by Mr Prior. No more than a hint, mind you. Just giving me fair warning.’
    â€˜When did you hear this?’
    â€˜Saturday night.’
    Liza thought of Mrs Betts and her friend in the lounge bar of The Keeper’s Arms, the pub in King’s Stoke, their neighbouring village. It had wall-bracket lights, shaded in red imitation silk, and fake-tapestry cushions, and kept a range of country wines which proclaimed themselves to be made from elderflowers, and wheat and whortleberries. She could imagine Mrs Betts saying, ‘Mine’s a small port, please.’
    â€˜Oh dear,’ Liza said. ‘Have you told anyone?’
    â€˜Just yourself and Mrs Jago when she popped in for a “Get well” card. I would have mentioned it to Dr Logan but he was in such a rush—’
    â€˜Surgery,’ Liza said appeasingly.
    â€˜Of course, Mrs Logan.’
    Liza looked at the anti-mud petition. The Jagos hadn’t signed nor had old Mrs Mossop’s family, but everyone else down her lane had spelled themselves out in capital letters. Mrs Betts held out a menacing pen.
    â€˜Thank you, Mrs Logan. Such a help to have your support.’
    Uncertainly, Liza signed. Mrs Betts pushed the postal order across the counter.
    â€˜I don’t know who imagines we have a quiet life in the country, Mrs Logan. In my view, you can’t let up for a minute—’
    The door from the road opened and admitted a decisive-looking woman in a waxed cotton jacket and corduroy trousers tucked into shapely rubber riding boots. Mrs Betts smoothed her mohair bosom and braced herself.
    â€˜Good afternoon, Mrs Prior.’
    Liza gathered up her postal order in panic. Her signature on the petition seemed twice the size of anyone else’s.
    â€˜Hello, Susan. What a dreary day. Would you forgive me? I must dash. Imogen—’
    The door banged behind her. Susan Prior glanced after her, glanced back at the counter, took in the petition and moved to the far end of the shop to examine, apparently, a rack of birthday cards.
    â€˜It is quite beyond me,’ she said carelessly, her back to Mrs Betts, ‘why people with the mentality of garden gnomes ever want to live in villages in the first place.’
    At home, Sally was vacuuming the