One had to be careful of gossip. The thin wisps of idle chatter that quickly diffused throughout the neighbourhood were enticing indeed; but one never knew when those wisps would turn on them. When you are the victim of gossip, the tempting fronds of idle talk appear as poisonous vines, snaking salacious speculating lies around your reputation for years to come.
It took a good nine months before the Wright family could finally persuade the throngs of feverous gossipmongers that their unwed daughter was not with child, just a little rounder from good food and a lack of country walks. To this day she remains unmarried, though whether this is the fault of cruel rumours or merely a lack of willpower at afternoon tea remains to be seen. On another occasion, the rumour was that the elderly Vicar had passed away on the evening before service, and that a younger, much more becoming chap was coming in from town to replace him. When the octogenarian stepped up on the pulpit the next day, murmurs spread across the communion faster than the old man could clear his throat, and the sea of faces were mixed, to say the least; the more heartless of the ladies had disappointment etched right across their over-painted faces.
Gossip, however indecorous, remained the staple diet of the townsfolk, as entertainment in this part of the world was thin on the ground. Even the most God-fearing Victorian gentlemen and ladies succumbed to the most shocking piece of news yet to befall the town, which started to spread at approximately the moment the first person entered the church, and finished just as the elderly Vicar requested the congregation stand for the hymn, ‘Jerusalem’. The Ghest family felt out of sorts, owing to the fact that the low whispering had by-passed them completely. Edward Ghest, the patriarch of the family, leaned forward and tied his shoes in an attempt to hear the conversation from Betty Smythe in the pew in front, but her expertise in clandestine whispering meant that he could gather nothing from her flurried exchanges. Was the rumour about him? His family? Something to do with the- No, it couldn’t be, he was certain of it. Although...The niggling doubts could not be fought against for very long. Edward sunk back into the pew and sighed deeply, knowing that the Vicar’s sermon on the Paraclete could not distract him from his own muddled thoughts. It would be a long morning.
After the service, the churchgoers filed out into the street, the dirty watered-down sludge slippery underfoot. That morning, the village had been completely carpeted in a stunning layer of bright white snow; now, however, patches of road could be seen through the icy mush. Some of the children tried rolling a snowball, which just resulted in them getting their hands cold, wet and dirty: they grumbled quietly that the pure snow had been ruined by the adults’ clobbering feet. Other children yawned, gulping great lungfuls of crisp, wintry air, earning them a slap from their overbearing guardians. Unlike some of the more unrulier and - dare one say it? – less well-bred children, the Ghest offspring floated down the road in perfect unison, their perfect hats at a perfect angle, their perfectly spotless shoes touching only the cleanest patches of pavement, their perfectly innocent minds unaware of the bubbling gossip and following eyes. Mrs Ghest, a tall beauty, watched her son and daughter obediently follow their Nanny. Ordinarily she would be filled with a smug pride to see her wonderful children outshining the others, but this morning was different. She snuck a peak at her husband and caught the look of sheer panic in his eyes. So they knew. Her stomach constricted tightly with years of brain-gnawing anxiety and shame. She couldn’t breathe. They knew. It was all over, they knew. Everybody knew.
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