by Rosie James
He made his way along the passage until he reached the kitchen – the nearest room to the back entrance of the building, which he always used. He went in quickly, shut the door, and stood with his back against it for a moment, waiting for his increased heart rate to settle down. Easy does it, he told himself.
The priest loved this kitchen. Loved it. If one could choose the place on earth where you would finally end your days, the orphanage kitchen would be his first choice.
It was a rectangular, high-ceilinged room with wide cupboards flanking every side, and with a huge, scrubbed wooden table in the centre where all the chopping and beating and mincing went on, and under which were a couple of stools. The two ovens were at the end, close to the deep sinks, and in the corner was the stove, its fire never allowed to go out. It was the original, trusty old stove which not only helped to heat all the water, but bathed the kitchen in a permanent and gentle warmth. And in front of the stove was Mrs Haines’s own basket chair where, when time allowed, she would sit and relax.
But to Laurence Dunn, what gave this room its distinctive allure was the smell … the permanent lingering aroma of food recently prepared, the intoxicating perfume of baking bread, the mouthwatering scent of onions, or apples, or tomatoes marinating in some kind of potion which he could never give a name to. Taken altogether, the room personified a simple vision of heaven.
Happy that all was still and that his presence had not been discovered, he moved across to the longest cupboard above him on the wall and carefully slid the door across until all the contents were revealed.
And there they were. Rows and rows of jars holding preserved fruits and pickles, all neatly labelled. In the very front were the objects of the priest’s desire – Mrs Haines’s green tomato chutney. The queen of accompaniments to any meal! But the priest did not need a meal with which to enjoy the chutney – he only wanted to eat it all by itself! And that is what he would do in a few minutes when he returned to the privacy of his room. Sitting on the edge of his bed in perfect solitude, with no fear of interruption, he would revel in his shameful gluttony.
If he could wait that long.
Reaching up, he selected a jar right in the middle of the row, moving the rest together again to close the gap. He clutched the jar to his chest possessively, then carefully slid the cupboard door back into place.
‘Good evening, Father Laurence.’
The cook’s even voice from the sanctity of her wicker chair – its high back hiding her from view – broke the silence and nearly gave the priest a heart attack.
‘Joseph, Mary and all the saints!’ Laurence yelped, shock causing him to lose his grip on the chutney so that as his arm jerked, the jar flew high into the air in front of him. Then, galvanised, he sprang forward and caught it just before it reached the floor.
‘Oh dear me, I’ve obviously surprised you, Father Laurence,’ Mrs Haines said, her voice taking on a slightly sinister tone. She stood up and turned to face him. ‘Can I help you with something?’
Now, the priest knew he must use all his acting powers to get himself out of this situation and he drew himself up to his full height, staring down at the cook and trying to stop his knees from shaking.
‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you, Mrs Haines,’ he said, ‘but I happened to be passing and I thought I heard a noise … here in the kitchen, so I decided I had better glance in to make sure there was no intruder.’
He knew he was babbling nonsense, and he knew he would never pull the wool over the cook’s eyes – she was far too canny for that. But what else could he say? How else could he explain his presence? Especially as he had a jar of her chutney clutched to his heart. Swallowing hard, he waited for some divine assistance … but then, wait a minute – the room was quite dark, with barely any light at all. Oerhaps she hadn’t noticed anything and couldn’t even see what he was holding. Her eyes had never been that good.
Mrs Haines pursed her lips. ‘Well, I have been sitting here for the last forty minutes,’ she said, ‘and I can assure you that I’ve heard no noise at all, absolutely none, Father Laurence. No intruder has darkened my doorstep. So – obviously you must have been very mistaken.’
The cook was a short, very stout lady, never without a small pair of rimless glasses on the end of her nose, and had a somewhat fiery reputation. As she moved over to stare up at the priest, a very satisfying gleam of triumph shone from her shrewd blue eyes. Got him! Now just let him get himself out of this! She’d known what he’d been up to all these years. Of course she had! And it had usually been on Fridays. Now at last he had some explaining to do.
But then, something in his expression caught her unawares, and she stepped back.
Father Laurence suddenly looked so … so crestfallen … so defenceless … so ridiculously childish, reminding the cook of one of her own sons, the naughty one who they could never do anything with. The man standing in front of her, looking like a whipped dog, could have been her own boy. Her own silly, wayward boy.
She waited for a moment. ‘Um … now let’s see, would you like a strong paper bag to take that back with you, Father Laurence?’ she asked patiently. ‘If you drop it again, it will have more chance of survival, if it’s in a bag.’
And the priest, knowing that the game was up, breathed a long sigh. For surely this was the moment to admit his sin.
‘Well, thank you, Mrs Haines … for the offer of a bag,’ he said. T’I must ask you to forgive me for … for daring to, um, help myself to one of your jars of chutney.’ She interrupted, pulling the two stools from beneath the table so that they could both sit down opposite each other for a moment.
‘You need only have asked, Father Laurence,’ she said quietly, ‘and I would happily have given you a jar of our chutney.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘But the bigger problem I have is that I am now very short of jars because this … practice … has been going on for some time, hasn’t it? And you have failed to return even one of them.’
The priest’s shoulders drooped miserably as he sat looking at his accuser. It had always seemed easier to wash out each stolen jar after he had scraped it clean with his spoon, and then dispose of it in the nearest town rubbish bin, rather than trying to return it without being seen. Avoiding detection had always been the name of the game. He found his voice at last.
‘I can only deeply apologise for my behaviour, Mrs Haines,’ he said humbly, trying to think of any line in one of Shakespeare’s plays that might help him out. His mind flitted desperately through his repertoire … but then he had a brain wave!
‘I am afraid that my only defence has to be that it’s because of you … because of you and your expertise, Mrs Haines,’ he said slowly. ‘And your own, individual, truly magnificent way of producing food which is completely irresistible! Never before have I experienced such delights at table!’ He paused for breath. ‘Put quite simply Mrs Haines, I believe you were given a gift by God. And that is why I have been led astray.’
Looking across at her, something in her expression told him that he had won a point and he decided to push on. ‘I must tell you something else, Mrs Haines,’ he said. ‘A long time ago, accepting that my sinful behaviour must top, I purchased a jar of green tomato chutney from the grocer’s shop and was so terribly disappointed in it, I nearly spat it out! Really! It was quite disgusting, not a bit like yours! You could have shown them a thing or two! And then, just to make sure, I tried another brand, a really famous brand, which had exactly the same effect!’ He shook his head sadly. ‘So you see, Mrs Haines, I am lost. I have been lost for a long time, as you already know, and it’s all because of you. But I beg you to forgive me. To forgive me, Mrs Haines, so that I may go in peace. And sin no more,’ he added, darting her a quick glance.
This was almost too much for Mrs Haines and she dabbed a hanky to her nose. ‘There, there,’ she said. ‘Of course I forgive you, Father Laurence. None of us is perfect.’ She looked across at him and smiled quite a sweet smile. ‘But – would y
ou be so kind as to provide me with a supply of new jars? You obviously know the ones I use – not that I shall need them just yet of course, because I shan’t be making more chutney until the autumn. But, you know, next time you’re in the market – the jars are cheapest in the market – a couple of dozen would be fine, to be going on with.’
‘I shall let you have them without delay, Mrs Haines,’ Laurence Dunn said.
She stood up and went over to the cupboard which had a deep drawer beneath it and from which she selected a small, strong, brown paper bag. Then she turned to the priest, who was standing awkwardly as he waited for the final screw of his humiliation to be turned.
‘Let me have the chutney,’ Mrs Haines purred, ‘and I will put that heavy little jar safely inside this bag, Father Laurence. That’s it. That’s the way.’
They stood without speaking for a few moments, then he turned to go, pausing at the door.
‘Thank you, Mrs Haines,’ he said quietly. ‘Thank you for …’
‘Goodnight, Father Laurence,’ the cook said. ‘Sleep well.’
Chapter 23
Sitting at her dressing table, Elizabeth Mason leaned forward to examine her appearance more closely. She smiled a trifle ruefully. These days, there was no doubt that she was looking less and less like her beautiful daughter and more and more like her mother, who had died at the age of sixty.
Elizabeth carefully removed her diamante earrings and returned them to their rightful place among her other pairs, of which she had too many too count. But the ones she had worn tonight at dinner had always been her favourite, though they pinched unmercifully, which was why she had slipped upstairs for a few moments to take them off.
Her expression clouded as she thought about Honora, their one and only child. For several months Honora had not been her usual happy self. Something was wrong, Elizabeth was sure of it, although when she’d very lightly broached the subject, Honora had brushed off her mother’s anxieties with a rather irritable – ‘Oh, don’t fuss, Mother. Of course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be?’
And that was the question Elizabeth would like answered. Why shouldn’t their daughter be content? She had been given everything in life that one could possibly want and had never been denied a single thing. Just listen to her now, playing those Chopin pieces on her beautiful white baby grand piano – her tenth birthday present – in the drawing room! She had always had the best music teachers, and had achieved a professional standard. Everyone said so, always so complimentary when they listened to her perform for them after one of the Mason’s dinner parties. Not only that, she had had good private schooling, from an early age had been taken to countless concerts and theatre productions, and her spectacular birthday parties were the main topic of conversation for many days afterwards between those lucky enough to have been invited. To receive an invitation to one of Honora Mason’s celebrations had been considered a great privilege, especially as each guest had always been presented with an expensive present to take home with them later.
Elizabeth heaved a sigh as her thoughts ran on. So why wasn’t their daughter full of the joys of life as she should be? Because whatever Honora said to the contrary, for the last few months she had not been herself.
Elizabeth got up and went towards the door. She had better go back downstairs to rejoin Jacob and Honora or they would be wondering if she was all right. They had just enjoyed a wonderful dinner of roast Welsh lamb with all the trimmings, followed by their cook’s very rich and creamy bread and butter pudding – of which, rather unwisely, Elizabeth had had two helpings. She had always had a somewhat unpredictable tummy.
As she went past the long picture window looking over the extensive garden, she stopped briefly to gaze out. It was a perfect summer evening – light and balmy – and the fragrance of the newly mown lawn was almost intoxicating as it reached her nostrils.
Elizabeth sighed again. Why couldn’t everything in life be perfect like this? Why was there always something to fret about, to worry about?
Then suddenly realization hit her. Of course! She knew now! Honora was being kept waiting too long for her wedding day. She and Alexander had been engaged for more than eighteen months – far too long when you thought about it – and the poor girl must be wondering what on earth was the matter because the actual date for the nuptials still hadn’t been mentioned.
Elizabeth’s mouth hardened. It was all very well for Alexander to have changed course in his ambitions, but hadn’t he thought about how his fiancée might feel about that? To train to be a doctor was a very lengthy process, demanding endless time, endless study, leaving little room for personal relationships, which was probably why Alexander appeared to be holding back. But in Elizabeth’s opinion that was extremely selfish. Every young woman dreamed of her own special day and, after all, Honora was almost 24. How much longer did he expect her to wait for him? No wonder the poor girl had been down in the mouth lately!
Elizabeth left her bedroom and went down the stairs, her mind made up. She was going to do something about this. It was time for Alexander Garfield to be given a little shove in the right direction so that wedding plans could start going ahead. Didn’t he realise just what it took to arrange a big wedding – a big society wedding? The heir to Mason’s Steel marrying the heir to the Garfield Tobacco empire – two immensely successful businesses of very long standing – would be of huge local, if not national, interest. Elizabeth Mason was going to make sure that no stone was left unturned. Over the past weeks and months she and Honora had looked in all the shops, perused all the glossy magazines showing wedding dresses, colour schemes, flower arrangements, venues for post ceremony banquets – the list was endless. All you needed was the money, and there would never be any shortage of that. Jacob Mason would see that his beloved daughter was the centre of attention at the wedding of the century. And his wife would certainly share the glory. Elizabeth had already chosen her own outfit – well, she had marked out two possibilities for her final decision, one to be worn if it was cold and one for a summer event.
She gritted her teeth. It was so aggravating not to know when it was going to be!
Downstairs, she went to open the drawing room door but paused for a moment to collect herself. All those thoughts about the reticence of her prospective son in law had made her quite hot and bothered. Then, taking a deep breath, she entered, smiling brightly.
‘Oh, don’t stop playing, Honora!’ Elizabeth exclaimed, ‘I was really enjoying those pieces, and you have such a lovely touch!’
But Honora took her hands from the keys, closed the lid of the piano, and went across to sit on the long sofa opposite her father. Jacob, fully replete after his dinner, was half asleep, but as Elizabeth came in, he roused himself, patting the seat beside him for her to sit down.
‘Yes, very nice, Honora,’ he said. ‘I love all those songs.’
‘They are not songs, Father,’ Honora said. ‘They are Chopin’s famous nocturnes – music of the night for when the clamour of the day is done.’ She smiled across. ‘But I’m glad you like them.’
Elizabeth sat forward, clearing her throat. ‘Honora – I really think we should have a chat about things. I mean, time is going on my dear, and we need to start making plans.’
There was a brief silence, then Honora said, ‘You mean about the wedding?’
‘Well, of course I mean the wedding!’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘Haven’t you and Alexander been discussing it? After all, you’ve been engaged for well over a year – people will begin to think that there’s something amiss!’
‘Well – as a matter of fact there is something amiss,’ Honora began, and Elizabeth almost exploded.
‘I knew it!’ she exclaimed. ‘Alexander is so wrapped up in his own life, in his wretched career plans, that he has no time for anything or anyone else! Well, I’m not having it! He must make up his mind – you must insist on it, Honora!’
‘Calm down, dear,’ Jacob said anxiously. He hadn’t seen his wife het up
like this for ages. ‘I’m sure Honora and Alexander have been discussing everything together, and in due course we shall all be informed when the happy date is to be.’ He patted his wife’s knee. ‘Everyone knows that weddings, and all that goes with them, are often the cause of family upset and arguments but don’t let’s go down that road before the journey has even begun, Elizabeth. It will all turn out as you wish it to, my dear. I’m sure of it.’
Honora decided that this was her moment. The moment she’d been dreading for months, and she straightened up.
‘I rather doubt that things are going to turn out as you both wish,’ she said slowly. ‘In fact, I know they aren’t. But I’m afraid my mind is made up and nothing is going to change it.’
‘What … whatever are you talking about, Honora,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Please – what is it?’
‘I have asked Alexander to release me from our engagement, and he has agreed,’ Honora said simply. ‘In fact, he fully understands my position, and has given me his blessing.’
The atmosphere in the room was electric at this information. Jacob seemed unable to utter a word, while Elizabeth had visibly blanched. Then she said faintly, ‘Don’t you love Alexander anymore, Honora? But why not? What has changed? You have always been everything to each other, you’ve been a pigeon pair almost from birth, haven’t you?’ Then Elizabeth’s yes glinted angrily. ‘But of course, I know what’s changed your mind, Honora! You are fed up at playing second fiddle to Alexander’s career prospects, and who can blame you! Good heavens, you hardly see anything of him these days! It was bad enough when he was away at college, but this medical ambition of his has put quite a different twist on things, hasn’t it? He’s engaged to his career, not to you, and I can understand why you—’
Elizabeth got no further before Honora rose from her seat and went over to kneel on the floor in front of her parents.
‘No, Mother. You do not understand it, you do not understand anything,’ she said quietly. ‘I have been trying to find the courage to tell you all this, but you may as well hear it now.’ Honora drew a deep breath. ‘I have not stopped loving Alexander, and I will always love him with all my heart. But I realise now, that I do not want to be married to him, and maybe not to any man, ever.’ she said. ‘I want something much, much, more than being a wife and mother. I want to do something, anything, of some value.’
