LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER FIVE

      The Reverend Bill Clempson, Fittlescombe’s new vicar, looked out through the double-glazed windows of his ugly modern bungalow at the gardens of what used to be the vicarage. The stately Victorian red-brick house, covered in wisteria and surrounded by glorious formal grounds, was now owned by an investment banker named Chipchase. The Church had sold it years ago to raise some cash.

      Fair enough, thought Bill. The Old Vicarage was enormous, big enough for two or three families. As a single man, Bill Clempson would have rattled around in it like a pebble in a shoe. Still, there had been no need for the bungalow replacing it to be quite so hideous and soulless; it was unquestionably the ugliest structure in the entire village. Not even the Reverend Clempson’s beloved red Mini Cooper, gleaming proudly outside like a newly polished snooker ball, could lend his grotty little home much cheer.

      The bungalow did, however, afford marvellous views, not only of the vicarage gardens but of St Hilda’s Church and Fittlescombe village green beyond. It was mid-May now, and the entire Swell Valley was a riot of blossoming fruit trees. The pretty front gardens of the cottages along the High Street overflowed with colour and scent, the hollyhocks and rose bushes and foxgloves and jasmine all heralding the close of spring and the imminent approach of summer.

      It’s such a stunning place, thought Bill. So unspoiled. Then he thought about this evening’s parish meeting and his resolved hardened. It was his job to ensure that Fittlescombe remained unspoiled, and preserved for everyone to enjoy. This awful reality television show that Gabe and Laura Baxter were proposing to start filming must not be allowed to get off the ground.

      Of course, there were those in the parish who questioned his motives. The verger, Nigel Dacre, had as good as accused him of opposing the television show solely because Gabe was behind it. Everybody knew that Gabriel Baxter and the Reverend Clempson didn’t exactly see eye to eye. ‘Rambler-Gate’ was generally considered to be fifteen-love to Gabe. This was Bill’s chance to even the score.

      ‘It’s not about point-scoring, Nigel,’ the vicar insisted. ‘It’s about what’s best for our community.’

      ‘But you don’t know anything about it,’ the verger protested. ‘None of us does yet.’

      ‘I know enough,’ said Bill.

      The show was to be called Valley Farm, and had been commissioned by Channel 5 (never a good omen). It centred around Wraggsbottom Farm, but would also take an interest in ‘village life’, whatever that meant. Intrusion, most likely. As far as the vicar was concerned, that was more than enough. It must be stopped, at all costs.

      Bill’s predecessor, the Reverend Slaughter, had studiously avoided village politics. Beyond Sunday services, Fittlescombe’s former vicar had limited his pastoral work to visiting the sick, giving the occasional speech at primary school assemblies, and judging the cake competition at the annual village fete.

      Perhaps, Bill thought, it was part of the Lord’s plan that he, Bill Clempson, should have taken over the reins at Fittlescombe just as the threat of this television show became real? Half the village – the same half that thought Gabe an ogre for refusing to let his neighbours walk on his land – were up in arms about the idea of having a television crew permanently based there, poking their cameras and microphones in where they weren’t wanted and turning the village into a glorified theme park. Bill would be their voice, their leader. He would shepherd his flock through the danger posed by Gabe Baxter’s rampant selfishness. A Channel 5 film crew in the village didn’t quite constitute the valley of death, perhaps, but one fought one’s battles where one found them.

      Walking away from the window, Bill looked at his watch. Five o’clock. The meeting would start at seven, in the village hall. Although it had not exactly been kept secret, neither the Baxters nor Eddie Wellesley had been informed or invited. The village needed a battle plan, and you could hardly hope to formulate that with your enemy in the seat next to you, dunking Hobnobs into his tea.

      The hall was already packed when Santiago de la Cruz walked in. Despite having lived in the valley for years, the Sussex cricketing hero still turned female heads. His arrival tonight was especially exciting as he’d brought an extremely attractive blond friend with him. In jeans and open-necked shirts, and smelling of cologne, the two of them looked more like rock stars than locals as they made their way towards the front of the room, where Santiago’s wife, Penny, was saving them seats. Only when the blond removed his sunglasses did people realize that it was James Craven, England’s most talented and charismatic all-rounder since Botham.

      ‘You’re late,’ Penny whispered crossly as they sat down. ‘It’s about to start.’

      ‘That’s not late,’ Santiago whispered back, kissing her on the cheek. ‘That’s on time. You remember James?’

      ‘Of

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