“When exactly?”
“Now you’re asking.”
“Carrying anything?”
“Not that I noticed.”
22. NICHOLAS.
Monday 14th November 1988. 5.45 p.m.
It’s always been important to me in times of adversity, to cling to domestic rituals, which was why, even though I couldn’t really face supper, I nevertheless began setting the table for one, with everything in its proper place.
First the salt and pepper cruet, then a linen napkin folded into a triangle, followed by cutlery for fish, and a solitary table mat featuring Edinburgh’s forbidding Arthur’s Seat. This last item drew me back to life a month before last Christmas Eve when Vivienne’s mother had just been diagnosed with early onset dementia and her husband suffered a fatal stroke while driving to the supermarket. I often wonder if such afflictions aren’t God’s way of teaching us a lesson. To be blunt, Jim and Mary McCardle would never have passed muster as Good Samaritans, especially when Vivienne had fallen on hard times as a student up there, living with five others in a basement hovel. Or when her first job as a Primary School teacher was suddenly ended due to cut-backs and she scraped by on the dole for a year in a part of the city taken over by proprietorial immigrants.
It was to Vivienne’s credit she’d even prepared to spend the train fare to see both her parents. As for mine - long gone, and rotting nicely near Berwick-Upon-Tweed, justice had been done there as well.
The phone.
Leslie Horncastle perhaps? Offering his apologies…
I snatched up the receiver only to feel a sting of disappointment.
“Nicholas? Is that you?” The Scottish accent stronger than ever.
Fuck.
“Yes.”
“You sound odd,” said eighty-three-year-old Mary McArdle as if she’d been reading my mind.
Not as odd as you.
“I had to tell you I suffered a TIA last night,” she went on.” And you know what they can lead to?”
I did and smiled at the prospect.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mary. Have you had a check-up?”
“Straight away, of course.” Her voice became accusatory. “You don’t sound very worried.”
“I am, and hope you’ll soon be on the mend.”
“Vivienne would already be on a train…”
“I am not Vivienne. I’ve three parishes to run and an important meeting coming up…” Here I tailed off. Tomorrow’s postponed lunch with the Bishop would be a disaster. I had a month in which to turn my congregation numbers around. To hype up my popularity using every media hook and bribe I could, each time giving a distorted forecast of my chances…
He couldn’t face me, could he? Coward.
“Nicholas?”
“That’s me.” I felt like St Peter with the last fish after a long day at sea.
“This call’s not cheap, you know.”
“Sorry.” Yet I hoped this wheedling, demanding piece of meat and electricity would soon die. And to that end too, I’d pray as hard as I could.
“By the way, how’s that Polish man you’ve got? What’s his name? Patr…?”
“Piotr.”
“Are you keeping him busy?”
Think on your feet…
“I am, and he’s fine. Christmas shopping, like all good Catholics. But far too early.”
“Vivienne liked foreigners. Especially eastern Europeans. Not me. They’re taking over up here in Edinburgh. Everywhere you look. I can say it now, Nicholas, but I was never happy about your taking him on. And I do sometimes wonder if it wasn’t strange that she died so suddenly after he’d arrived.”
“She had a heart attack. In her sleep. There was an Inquest, remember? Accidental death.”
“I’m still not happy.”
Whenever were you?
I visualised the spacious, well-appointed flat in the best part of the city. Mary McArdle had no other living relatives, and Vivienne, who’d left me her small car and a comfortable sum of money, had been her sole beneficiary. This is what still rankled the old woman, so I really should find out if she’d already scuppered any of my future claims. A mortgage-free, high-end Edinburgh apartment was not to be sniffed at.
God and Mammon. Another dilemma for the conscience. Best to be pleasant, I told myself. Say what she wants to hear. After all, she couldn’t see my face.
“I’ll come up as soon as I can,” I lied. “And meanwhile, may God keep you safe.” I felt my neck begin to burn at such blasphemy. I wanted Him to make her unsafe. To bring a bigger stroke. More brain loss. More dementia. And then a further thought occurred to me. “By the way, has Piotr been in touch at all? He often speaks about you.”
“Why would he?”
Damn.
The street lights beyond my driveway flickered into life, blurred by drizzle. ‘Smirr’ she called it. The one Scottish word actually fit for purpose.
“Nothing. It’s just that…”
“I have to go now. The doorbell’s just rung.”
After that came nothing. Just the hollow thrum of my beating heart.
*
My eyes strayed to my wedding photograph. Full colour of course, on a perfect June day nine years ago. The Bishop prominent alongside my mother-in-law, and Vivienne leaning in towards me as if anticipating the night ahead. Her red lips parted provocatively. Her lace bodice clinging to her breasts. I could still recall the scent she’d worn. How even after forty years of spinsterhood, she’d proved expert between the sheets. But not quite expert enough, and sadly I’d found her other scents less alluring. Also, the crude biology that delivered them, but the marriage was a planned means to a useful end. A vicar, and more importantly, a bishop, must have a wife.
All gone. Not a good move. And since then, I’d kept up the pretence of looking for a replacement. The Bishop himself had mentioned a few female names to attract my interest, but they’d faded like candles in the wind. “One day, Nicholas,” he’d said last Michaelmas. “You’ll find another Vivienne. Be patient.”
I was. Until welcoming a tight-trousered stranger into my house. But where the Hell had he got to? Still Christmas shopping? At least he could have kept in touch. I was just about to check on my very useful reserve car, when for the second time in an hour, my desk phone’s raucous ring, broke the silence.
*
Mary McArdle again? Piotr? Even the Other One - my sister who, from the moment she’d been born, had stolen my place in Mother’s affections.
But no. I picked up the receiver and listened.
“Reverend Beecham? Is that you?”
That same Midlands accent, brimming with over-confidence.
“You know it is. Why bother me a second time? I’m busy.”
“Not too busy I hope to give me some assistance. This is important.”
So is my career.
“May I come over? Just for a short while?”
I stared again at the wedding photograph. Bishop Horncastle’s face seemed to rise up like an ever-growing moon. No longer the man who’d conducted that ceremony with commendable sincerity, but an enemy denying me my rightful reward for years of devout service.
“Mr. Lyon,” I began reasonably. “You seem to be under the impression I spend my days leisurely drinking cups of tea and perusing the broadsheets. I’ve work to do for the week ahead. Work which…”
“Your sister is still missing and unless she comes home and makes contact within the next hour, I’ll have to report her as such.”
“Wait.” I saw her smaller, monochrome photograph further along the marble mantlepiece, almost concealed by various invitations to church events and the like. Her gaze never failed to to make me catch my breath. A self-righteous, almost belligerent glare from those pale, unsisterly eyes.
“Perhaps I can squeeze you in before supper,” I said, hoping this might put him off.
“When’s that?”
“Eight tonight. Although I’ve no idea what I can possibly tell you.
”
“You’re in Snodbury, right? The Vicarage? Vicarage Road?”
“If you say so.”
Let’s make it seven. If I’m lost, I’ll call you.”
Jesus.
I had fifty minutes in which to gather my churning thoughts and make serious preparation. My salmon en croute, courtesy of Birds Eye, would have to wait.
*
The Fiesta was still well-covered from view, and for good measure, I added another padlock to the old barn door and with a coarse broom, ruffled up the surrounding wet grass. I’d thought of a re-spray to another colour, but that would have involved others. I could have removed the number plates and dumped it along one of the many out-of-the way tracks linking East Suffolk’s hamlets, but how to access an escape route for myself?
No, secreting it away was the simplest solution.
I then went indoors to check Piotr’s room which overlooked my back garden and the considerable former paddock I’d bought in 1978 for added privacy. Overgrown, yes, but helpfully so. One quick glance at the smoothed down bed, the open, empty wardrobe would show my Polish plaything had gone for good, so best if the bed linen bed was rumpled and the wardrobe re-stocked with some of my clothes kept from the sixties.
It didn’t take me long to alter that impression that he’d gone for good, and, resisting the temptation to sniff his pillow, felt a growing fear. My recent mission involving him had been a risk for us both, but where would I ever find such careful hands or a thick, keen cock like his? Or someone else who could prolong pleasure to the very last whimper?
I also added a toothbrush and toothpaste to his small, ensuite bathroom, leaving the lavatory paper hanging off its roll and the seat up.
Annoying things which I’d had to overlook, but which nevertheless brought a lump to my throat.
*
6.55p.m. Five minutes to go. The Midlander clearly hadn’t lost his way or would have pestered me by now, and I wondered what else I could do to create the right impression.
My study.
Most likely my unwanted visitor’s first port of call. My Bible took pride of place on my desk while the tricky material I’ve already referred to, was stored in a John Lewis bag secreted behind my more sholarly works, such as Bonhoeffer, Blaise Pascal and the lives of saints.
I peered through the thick, velvet curtains then retreated; my pulse gathering speed. Dipped headlights were approaching sideways on. A left indicator flashing for too long, in time to my heart. More a warning, it seemed, before a new, silver Citroën swung on to my drive. Should I keep him waiting or appear keen and welcoming? I was suddenly confused. Afraid even, and before I could sort myself out, the front door bell rang long and hard. Another warning that drove me towards it with a dry mouth and bad breath, while yesterday morning’s events suddenly grew all too vivid. All too dangerous for a man like me, on the cusp of success.
23. STANLEY.
Wednesday 28th July 1920. 12.25 a.m.
Although the moon seemed to big for the sky, the ground under me feet were still hot even in the copse further along the Howse opposite from where I’d hidden The Monkey
on Lord Helvin’s side. Where our shorthorns used to lie when the sun burned their backs.
In them days, they could just step down into the river and drink. We gave up doing that once he said they was fouling the water. But I got me revenge in a roundabout way, ‘cos his son and heir snuffed it at somewhere called Mons. A bayonet in his back.
Serve him right, the nonce.
And shud The Monkey’s other bits and pieces come to light, that wud give his father more of a problem. He hated foreigners, carrying a loaded rifle at all times, just in case.
From where I lay, I heard our pigs rooting about in their yard. With being shut in the barn all day, Pa thought cooler air were a good idea, but it meant two places to clear up, and he were on his own.
Serve him right too, I thought. Gave ‘em more consideration than me, that were for sure. As for Ma, she’d had a funny turn finding I’d gone. I heard him by the back door moaning she were still stopped in bed when she shud have bin making hersen useful. How, on account of me, the police wud be calling Agin.
I’d helped mesen to enough food and milk to keep me going till it turned to butter, but thinking about police dogs, like there’d bin after that Dawkins bitch on heat went missing, made me consider a different place to hide. After all, this weren’t so far from where the rest of The Monkey and Pa’s spade was still buried.
Thinking of them dogs decided it. Once the moon went down, I’d be off.
*
4 a.m. For the first time in me life, I felt as if God were helping me out. Although me mind were a hot mess, I cud crawl to where I wanted and drag me food along too. I followed inside our hedge along the Longstanton Road and over to land the other side of the track to the farm. Fifty acres, so Pa had once said. Why he’d let The Monkey stay on and shown him how to use the tractor and the plough on it. Big plans for everyone but me.
Stones and weeds and earth so hard it felt like crossing the surface of that moon
slipping away behind far-off trees. I knew where I were going. Done it often enough while minding the cows. A hollow, deep enough to hide me till me final move. To change me rotten life for ever. And I were just slithering downwards feet first when I heard the click of our big gate being opened. Then heavy breathing and determined footsteps along the track towards the farm.
I found a foothold, and though me legs were still paining, stretched up to see a tall man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. Bent at the shoulders, he seemed to know his way. But why so early in the morning?
I eased mesen up even further. The not knowing made me heart flutter like a moth in me chest. Suppose he’d found summat along by the Howse? Suppose - and this weren’t such a mad notion - he were a copper out of uniform? Because here was where I’d brought that young bitch on heat who’d winked at me. Lifted her skirt then, without much encouragement, opened her young, smooth legs.
*
From me new and better position behind the pig yard where the excited grunts had become almost too loud to hear anything else, the man banged the knocker down not once but three times. Harder and harder…
They won’t come from their beds for strangers, I told mesen. But then they might just think it were me…
“Anyone in?” Came a voice not from these parts. “I won’t be keeping you long, but I need help.”
What kind of help I couldn’t imagine, but to witness such a big, grown man plead like a bor, seemed strange to me ears. Not like The Monkey at all, who’d called me all the foul names he’d picked up since being here. Names I’m still trying to forget.
Then I heard bolts being drawn back. Pa muttering about who the Devil was it stealing his sleep? He’d have his old rifle handy too. Ready cocked. Like when The Monkey had showed up. Once the door opened, the stranger asked him calmly to put it down. “I’m a family man from the New Forest,” he then said. “Experienced with all kinds of livestock and I’ve served king and country with distinction.”
“Name?”
“Will Parminter, sir. From Swayhurst, near Emery Down…”
“Never heard of ‘em, nor the New Forest. Yer not makin’ things up are ye?”
“Course not. I could show you on any map…”
“What family did you mean? Not sure about that.”
The stranger hesitated as if wishing he’d not mentioned it.
“A wife? A gal? A bor?” Said Pa.
“Yes, Sarah, my wife. Now, she’ll roll up her sleeves.”
“And?”
I listened as hard as could be.
“A girl aged twelve, and a boy of ten.”
A girl… And the best age, too…
The stars above seemed to be twinkling even more brightly after that, as if the possibilities filling me head made me soldier down below begin to move and straighen up.
“They’ll want schoolin’ mind you. Our Stanley never…”
“Bulling. Walter.”
“We’ve nowhere else to go. I’ve been searching this neighbourhood since yesterday afternoon, after we were robbed of all our money near Upper Town. Our horse shot dead and…”
His words faded and before Pa could reply, I shouted out. “Take them! How else will ye manage? The pigs’ll die. The land’ll die and besides, who’ll keep digging the Pit?”
Both turned in my direction.
“Who’s that?” Barked the incomer, surprised. I heard Pa’s rifle click.
Jesus Christ.
“Stop, or I shoot, he said.”
“I’m yer son. Stan Bulling.” I crawled towards them, me legs this time, taking more of me weight. Mollie Parminter already workin’ her spell. Doing me the world of good. “Let me speak.”
Pa sighed and set his rifle aside. “Ye gave us a shock, Stanley. Be gone with ye. You’ve had yer chances.”
The visitor took off his hat and held out his hand to me. Starlight showed a strong jaw, strong everything ‘cept his wet eyes. “You’re hurt,” he said. “What happened?”
But Pa cut in. Deliberately ignoring me. “Where are you stayin’, Mr Parminter?”
“Wombwell Villa. With Mrs. Myers.”
That nosy bitch…
“I know her. Meddler Myers we call her. Never a good word to say for no-one. Not our fault she lost her son like she did…”
“So when can we start? Tomorrow?”
I listened harder than ever ‘cos my future depended on it. I cud almost hear Pa thinking.
“Good day as any,” he said at last. “Ma won’t mind four more places at the table if there’s extra help. She’ll drive the Crossley into Diss and fetch a few things.”
So, Ma were better, I thought, then of the big, shiny 25/30 bought from the shorthorns’ sale, and only used on rare occasions. Part of the military surplus made towards the end of the war. Not that I’d ever bin allowed near it.
“How’ll you get over here?” Pa asked.
“We’ll manage. We have so far.”
“Say nine o’clock?”
They shook hands and the hatted man turned away, still thanking hiim while Ma’s worried face vanished from the front parlour window.
Ghosts from the Past Page 86
