by Kate Hewitt
“Anna? Darling? I’ve brought you a cup of tea.”
Anna scooted up in bed, her head pounding with the effort of moving. Goodness, but she was a lightweight. Two glasses of cider and she’d practically passed out. She was still wearing most of her clothes from last night; all she’d managed to do before falling asleep was wriggle out of her jeans.
Ruth peeked around the door, holding a tray with a mug of tea and two pieces of toast slathered with marmalade and butter, her favourite.
Anna blinked back the sting of tears. “Thanks, Mum. You’re amazing.”
“I didn’t even realize you’d gone out last night,” Ruth said, and Anna could tell her mum was trying to keep both the worry and censure from her voice. “I was so busy with all the choir... they can be a noisy lot, can’t they?”
“Yes, they can.” Anna took the mug from her mother with murmured thanks, curling her fingers gratefully around its warmth.
“Were you meeting someone?” Ruth asked as she picked up Anna’s crumpled jeans from the floor and folded them. Her mother always tidied when she was feeling nervous or unsettled.
“Yes, a friend.” She supposed she could sort of call Simon that, and she didn’t want her mother to know she’d stormed out of here without a plan, or that she was sad enough to drink in The Bell by herself.
“From school?” Ruth said hopefully, and Anna just shrugged.
She didn’t want to lie outright, and she’d lost touch with most of her school friends. Her best friend from secondary, Josie, had moved away after uni and now lived in Portsmouth, working at the university there. Although they kept in touch via social media and email, Anna hadn’t seen her in years.
“Well,” Ruth said when she realized Anna wasn’t going to answer. “We’ve got a big day planned. Esther and Rachel are coming over with Will and Dan, and the new curate is already downstairs, meeting with Dad. I thought we’d invite him too, to decorate the tree. He doesn’t know a soul here yet, poor chap.”
Anna nodded, steeling herself for a day of chitchat and pleasantries with her family and this unnamed curate. Her father had had a procession of curates through the years, and, depending on Anna’s age, they’d either been big brothers, unrequited crushes, or gangly youngsters. Absently she wondered what this one would be like.
“I thought I might take Charlie for a walk,” she said. Preferably along the fells, where she wouldn’t run into a single well-meaning soul.
“Oh, but you’ll be here for lunch, won’t you? And the tree?”
Anna knew she couldn’t avoid these kinds of interactions forever. It wasn’t fair to her parents or her sisters. She’d come home because her parents wanted her there, to decorate the tree and go to the Christingle service and hang up the stockings on Christmas Eve. Even if Anna found all those things both bittersweet and hard.
“Yes, I’ll be here for the tree,” she promised her mother. “When is it, exactly?”
“I thought after lunch. I’m doing a roast.”
Her mother’s roasts were wonderful. That, at least, was something Anna could look forward to without reservation.
“Can I help?” Anna asked, taking a sip of sweet, milky tea.
“You’re always brilliant at the Yorkshire puddings,” Ruth said with a smile. “You have the magic touch.”
Anna smiled back, remembering how as a teenager the Yorkshire puds had been her provenance. Almost every Sunday growing up, they’d had people from church over for dinner, and Ruth had assigned each of the children a job to do, giving them more responsibility as they’d grown older. Anna had started by laying forks when her head barely cleared the table, and gradually moved up to the Yorkshires. Jamie’s last job, she remembered with a pang, had been laying fires in the dining room and sitting room fireplaces. Right before he’d died he’d been given the great responsibility of lighting them.
“Sure, I’ll do the Yorkshires,” she said now, trying to hold on to her smile.
Her mother smiled back, looking pleased, and Anna wondered if Ruth was as tormented by the past as she was. She knew her mother was still sad about Jamie; she saw it sometimes, in the faraway look she’d get in her eyes, the slight slump in her shoulders. But did she torture herself the way Anna did, remembering those poignant little details, each like a stab to the heart? Did her sisters? Her dad? No one ever said anything. No one ever talked about the accident, and whose fault it had been.
“I’ll leave you to get ready, then,” Ruth said as she laid Anna’s folded jeans on the end of the bed. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
Alone in her bedroom again, Anna sipped her tea and nibbled the toast, even though her stomach rebelled against both. She leaned her head against the pillow and closed her eyes, fragmentary memories of last night drifting through her mind, puzzle pieces that slowly slotted together to form a whole, unappealing picture.
She hadn’t done anything really stupid, at least. She was glad of that. She remembered saying goodbye to Simon and walking down the lane towards the vicarage. She also remembered blurting some things out in the pub... about her family and feeling lost, and how she stammered. Why on earth had she told a stranger that? Even her family didn’t know or, if they did, they didn’t acknowledge it. Anna didn’t know which prospect hurt more.
With a sigh, she put aside her tea and toast and rose from the bed. From downstairs, she could hear the happy clatter of a busy home—pots and pan, Charlie’s lethargic bark, as if he couldn’t be bothered, and her father’s low voice and someone’s answering reply, presumably the new curate.
Soon Rachel and Esther would be coming over, and Dan and Will, and the house would feel full and happy... to everyone but Anna. Was she the only one who felt adrift, lost amidst the happy chaos? Was she the only one who kept remembering, who kept wishing things were different?
Anna closed her eyes briefly, trying to banish the painful questions she didn’t want to ask, much less answer. It was so hard coming back here after so many years away. So, hard when every corner of the house, every tradition or joke or throwaway remark, seemed to hold a memory.
She took a shower and dressed quickly in jeans and a fleece, standard Cumbrian wear. Outside the sun was, rather amazingly, shining, and, from her window, she saw the churchyard with its ancient, lopsided headstones, every blade of the tussocky grass glittering with frost.
There was no real reason to stay upstairs any longer, and so, after a moment’s hesitation, Anna made her way downstairs. Although it was barely nine o’clock in the morning, lovely roasty smells were emanating from the kitchen. Anna made her way to the back of the house and the comforting warmth of the room that had always felt like the heart of the home.
To her surprise, her mother wasn’t bustling around, making three dishes at once; rather she was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea forgotten by her elbow, her head in her hands.
“Mum...” Anna called softly, her heart lurching.
Ruth looked up, startled, and then quickly smiling. “Anna. You look much better. Do you want anything else? A scrambled egg, or some bacon?”
“I think you’ve got your hands full here, Mum.” Anna took a step closer; Charlie’s tail thumped against the ground at her approach and she leaned down to fondle his ears. “I’m fine. Can I help? What’s the roast?”
“Pork. I just put it in so it should be ready by one, when we’re eating. But if you want to help, why don’t you ask your father if he’d like a cup of tea? The curate’s just arrived and I haven’t had time to get him a cuppa.”
Even though she’d got Anna one. Anna suspected her mother might be doing a spot of not-so-subtle matchmaking, and once again Anna wondered about the curate, picturing someone kindly but just as or even more socially awkward than she was.
“Sure, Mum,” she said, and went to knock on her father’s study door.
It was mostly closed but not shut; there had always been a rule in the vicarage that if her father’s study door was completely closed, no one was even to knock. If it was mostly
closed, then knocking was allowed. Roger said this was to keep private pastoral situations confidential, but Anna suspected he just wanted some guaranteed peace and quiet.
Now she knocked lightly and was rewarded by her father’s affable, “Come in, come in!”
Anna pushed the door open, blinking in the wintry sunlight streaming through the gabled windows. Her father’s old mahogany desk, passed down from his own father, was piled with papers and books and vacated at the moment. Roger and his most recent curate were sitting in the worn leather armchairs in front of the fireplace, feet stretched out to the flames.
“Anna, my dear,” Roger said, and Anna smiled at him.
“Mum wanted to know if you’d like a cup of tea or coffee. The kettle has just boiled.” She turned to the curate sitting in the chair opposite, and then the smile froze on her face.
It was Simon.
Simon saw the stricken look flash across Anna’s face and wished he could have spared her this moment. Perhaps he should have told her who he was last night, at least after he’d begun to guess who she was, but, by that time, she’d been two if not three sheets to the wind, and Simon hadn’t felt he could.
“Anna, meet Simon Truesdell, my newest curate, just come up from London.”
Anna’s horrified gaze was fixed on him as she opened her mouth. No words came out. Simon remembered what she’d said about stammering and he hurried to fill in the silence.
“Nice to meet you, Anna. A cup of tea would be lovely. Shall I come and help?” At least then he’d be able to explain.
She nodded wordlessly, and Roger looked on, benevolent and oblivious. Anna turned on her heel and Simon followed her out into the draughty entrance hall which was, thankfully, empty.
“Anna—”
She shook her head. “D-d-d-don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Simon persisted in a low voice. “Perhaps I should have said something last night, but there didn’t seem to be a good opportunity—”
“D-d-d-did you know who I was?” she asked without looking at him. “The whole time?”
“No, I didn’t know at all. I started to wonder, perhaps, at the end, when you mentioned Rachel and Dan, because your father had said something about them, but I promise you, I didn’t chat you up knowing who you were.”
“Is that what you were doing?” She turned to him with a scathing look. “Chatting me up?”
“No.” Horrified, Simon shook his head with force. “I meant, I wasn’t doing that. I didn’t know who you were until the end of the evening, and then it was only a guess.” At that moment, Simon doubted the wisdom of just about everything he’d done—coming to Thornthwaite, going into ministry, certainly talking to Anna last night and buying her a drink.
Anna just shook her head and walked swiftly to the kitchen. Feeling entirely out of his depth, Simon followed her.
“Oh, Simon, you didn’t have to help,” Ruth exclaimed as Anna switched on the kettle and grabbed the tin of teabags.
“I don’t mind,” Simon said rather miserably.
Anna refused to look at him, and it hurt him more than he’d expected. Naturally, he didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with his boss’ daughter, but it was more than that. He didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Anna because he liked her. He wanted to count her as a friend, and, right now, he suspected she saw him as an arch enemy. And all because he’d let her say too much last night. Should he have stopped her? Could he have?
“Here you are,” Ruth said cheerfully, and put a couple of shortbread biscuits on a plate to take in with their tea. “You will stay for lunch and decorating the tree, won’t you, Simon?”
“I...” He glanced at Anna, who was purposefully not looking at him. To refuse for Anna’s sake would seem rude to Ruth. And, really, although she might want him to, he couldn’t avoid Anna forever. He didn’t want to. “Yes, thank you. That will be lovely.”
Without a word Anna took the mugs of tea back towards the study. With a last smile for Ruth, Simon followed her.
“Anna.” He tried once more, as they were at the study door. “Please...”
She just shook her head, her lips pressed together. Simon realized she wasn’t giving him the silent treatment; she was just surviving, and his heart ached for her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and she thrust the mugs at him without another word.
Torture. That was what this was. Pure, sheer torture. Anna got through the next few hours by simply blanking her mind. She helped her mum with the dinner, laying the table and whisking up the batter for the Yorkshire puddings, managing to keep up somewhat of a conversation with Ruth so her mother didn’t suspect anything.
Every once in a while, a stray memory would slip in, and inwardly she would cringe and squirm. She’d told him about her crush on Dan, and that she’d never had a proper boyfriend and barely been kissed. Mortification didn’t begin to cover it. What on earth had possessed her to spill all her tightly-held secrets to a stranger who now, unfortunately, wasn’t a stranger?
Just before lunch, Rachel and Dan came in on a gust of cold air, followed by Will and Esther. Esther seemed even more tightly wound than usual, but Will was his usual taciturn self, although Anna noticed he seemed to take special care of Esther, fetching her a drink, resting his hand on her waist when they were the anti-PDA couple if there ever was one. What was going on there?
She didn’t have too much time to think about it because then her father and Simon were emerging from the study, with introductions all around, and then they were all retiring to the sitting room with thimblefuls of sherry. Anna tried to stay in the kitchen helping her mum with dinner preparation, but she shooed Anna out so she had no choice but to join the others, sitting tensely on the edge of her seat and enduring. She couldn’t look at Simon, couldn’t bear to see the pity written on his face.
The conversation swirled around her as it so often did, and thankfully Anna didn’t have to make much contribution at all, which was par for the course. She could feel Simon looking at her, imagined him trying to assess her family’s dynamics based on what she’d said last night. It’s as if we’ve papered over this huge, gaping crack and no one is ever going to acknowledge it. She felt miserably disloyal to her family for saying such a thing, even if it felt true. And she hated Simon knowing it, along with everything else.
Her mother finally called them all into dinner, and then she assigned seats to everyone as she always did, and of course she put Anna next to Simon. Her mother was definitely doing a spot of matchmaking, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time.
The trouble was, Anna reflected as she passed the potatoes and poured the gravy, in different circumstances, back in the safety of the city perhaps, she might have fancied Simon. He was kind and interesting and she liked his warm eyes, the way they creased at the corners. She even liked his rather shaggy brown hair, and underneath his polo jumper and cords he looked to have a rangy, muscular body, no doubt from all that fell walking he did. But she couldn’t like him now, not when he knew so much about her. Not when the first emotion he’d ever experienced with her was awful, wretched pity. And certainly not when he was her father’s curate.
Chapter Five
Lunch felt interminable. The conversation swirled around her, mostly about village news and Christmas plans, as Anna picked at her food.
Simon turned to her once with a smile. “The Yorkshire puddings are delicious. Ruth said you made them?”
He was throwing her a bone, and she tossed it right back at him. “Yes.” End of conversation. If she had the emotional energy, she’d feel sorry for Simon; he so obviously wanted to make things right between them. But she felt far too raw for that, and eventually he turned to Rachel, on his other side, and chatted about her job as the year three teacher at Thornthwaite Primary. And somehow that bothered her too, even though Anna knew she was being unreasonable.
Simon probably thought she was having a childish stop, she reflected miserably as her mother served the
pudding, hot apple crumble with custard. Even she could see how seemingly petty she was being, and yet she couldn’t help it because having someone know everything she’d held hidden forever was the equivalent of peeling back her skin, nerve endings pulsing and raw. How else could she act in such a situation? She was just trying to protect herself as best as she could.
“What’s got you in such a funk?” Esther asked when they were in the kitchen scraping plates. Anna tossed a juicy sliver of pork fat into Charlie’s bowl.
“A funk? What do you mean?”
“You’re more silent and sulky than usual, and that’s saying something.”
Esther spoke in her usual, matter-of-fact way, not unkindly, but, stupidly, it still stung. Sulky? “I’m just tired.”
“And why did you storm out of the party last night?”
“I didn’t storm out.” Fled, was more like it. “I wasn’t up for facing the entire church choir the minute I got home. Surely you can understand that, Esther. You don’t like the choir at the best of times.” In part because her sister had quit the choir in secondary, and Nigel, the choir director, had never forgiven her.
“Whatever.” Esther shook her head. “Something’s going on with you, Anna.”
They moved into the sitting room for tea, coffee, and her mother’s delicious homemade petit fours while they decorated the tree. Roger put on some Christmas carols and when a few snowflakes drifted lazily down outside, it felt particularly festive, with the York Minster Choir belting out “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” from the CD player, and a fire crackling merrily in the grate.
“A white Christmas,” Dan said jokingly, and Anna watched as he slipped his arm around Rachel’s waist and kissed her cheek.
Watched also as her sister gave him a distracted smile and slipped out of his embrace to fetch another ornament, this one a Styrofoam ball enthusiastically sprayed with gold glitter that flaked off the second one touched it. Something seemed slightly amiss there, or was Anna just paranoid because she felt so out of sorts herself?
