The waitress came for Peggy's order. She asked if the scone could be warmed.
"I feel like a traitor when I use the supermarket instead of the village shop," Peggy said, to be conversational. "I suppose we're all guilty of that, and one of these days we'll lose our shop."
"Why wasn't I chosen?"
He wasn't willing to talk about the village shop. "That's not for me to say," Peggy guardedly said.
"I was better qualified."
"In book-keeping, you mean? True, but there are other considerations."
"Such as?"
The intensity of the young man put Peggy off her stroke. Before she knew it, she was giving him the inside information she had meant to keep to herself. "Mrs. Jansen was the rector's candidate. That has to count for something. After all, he has to work with her."
"She's treasurer to the parish, not to him," Sands pointed out.
"Yes, but in practice …"
"You don't want someone who's in the rector's pocket. You want an independent treasurer."
"I'm sure she isn't in his pocket, as you put it." In his trousers, maybe, Peggy thought in passing. "And I'm confident she'll do the job conscientiously."
Burton Sands took a sip of coffee and flicked his tongue around his lips. "Someone hinted to me that she got the job because the rector fancies her."
Peggy laughed as if she hadn't heard a whisper of the rumour. She believed it, but she had to be discreet. "Even if it was true, which I doubt, it wouldn't be the first time a woman got the job for her good looks. How can anyone tell?"
"He's a man of God. He's not supposed to look at women in that way."
"Oh, come on, Burton," said Peggy impulsively. "Lighten up. Vicars are only human."
"If she was given the job because the rector lusts after her, then it's little short of deplorable."
"You sound like the Old Testament. I didn't say that was why she got the job. Don't put words in my mouth."
"Especially as she's married."
"You'd better watch what you say."
"1 don't mind speaking out if it's the truth."
"But is it?"
He looked into the dark dregs of his coffee as if the answer was there. "I'll find out. When I start on something I always see it through. Always."
She could believe him. He looked obsessive. If by some mischance this man got together with Owen Cumberbatch, the result would be explosive.
He pushed the cup to one side and said, "I'm going back to the office now."
She made some polite and untrue remark about the pleasure of being with him. He didn't reply.
After he'd gone she had some anxious moments going over what she'd said and wondering if he would spread it around. When her coffee and scone were served, she finished them and hardly noticed.
When Gary finally discovered the stain on the carpet and said, "What happened here, for Christ's sake?" Rachel gave him most of the truth, explaining about her new responsibility as treasurer to the PCC and how the rector had wanted to show her the account books and she had felt obliged to offer refreshment in the shape of wine and finger food.
"You what?" he said with a glare. America hadn't mellowed him at all.
"He wanted to go over the figures. You can't do that in ten minutes. I had to offer something and it was a choice of coffee or wine. I decided wine was easier. Coffee's such a performance and you can't serve instant to a guest."
"So you bought a posh Wine and knocked the bottle over. Clumsy cow."
Blocking out the insult, she went into her prepared bit. "That's it. So embarrassing, too. I could have died! Most of the stain has gone as you see. There's just this tidemark at the edge. We can buy a small rug and cover it."
"Not out of my money, we won't."
"Have you got another suggestion?"
"Work some bloody overtime and pay for a new carpet. How come you got lumbered as treasurer anyway, dozy bitch? You're crap with figures-you know you are."
Let it pass, she told herself, though she felt the crude words like a series of body blows. He wants me to react. "I don't do much for the church. It was hard to say no. He took so much trouble when I broke my arm, driving me to hospital and everything."
"Don't do much for the church? You're there every Sunday putting our hard-earned in the plate. Isn't that enough?"
"Most of them do a lot more. The choir, the flower rota, bell-ringing, helping with Sunday school. I've never done any of that."
"You rattle a box for Christian Aid."
"That's nothing. Some people have prayer meetings in their homes every week."
His eyebrows shot up. "Don't even think about it, right?"
She could have mentioned that his jazz friends came and played their music when she was trying to watch the gardening programmes, but she didn't want a row. He was working up to something and he could get violent. She'd been pushed around before; not blows, exactly, but strong, frightening pushes.
He actually started a new conversation. "Speaking of the vicar-"
"Rector."
"His name is Otis Joy, right?"
"So?"
"Bloody stupid name."
"If you say so."
"But memorable. There can't be more than one pillock with a name like that-or so I thought. Now listen to this. There were these Canadians staying in our hotel. Good blokes. Three of them, from Toronto. We had a few Buds with them, got talking, as you do. I don't know how we got around to funny names, but we did. My old doctor, Screech, and that dentist of yours called Root."
"Stumps. His name was Stumps."
"I thought it was Root. Well, I told them it was, and it seemed hilarious when we were half-pissed, as we were. Then one of these Canadians said he once knew a guy called Otis Joy who was training to be a priest. He went through school with him."
She was amazed. "You're kidding."
"Straight up. Otis Joy."
"It can't be our rector. He's not Canadian."
"Didn't say he was. It's just coincidence, the name."
"What age would he have been?"
"How would I know?"
"The man who spoke to you. If he went to school with this Otis Joy they must have been about the same age."
Gary thought for a moment. "Younger than me. More like your age. Pushing thirty."
"That's another coincidence, then, the age. Otis can't be any older than I am. A Canadian, you say?"
"If they were at school together in Toronto he must have been."
"Did you tell him you knew a priest with the same name?"
"No, it would have spoilt his story, wouldn't it? I mentioned it to the lads later on. They;reckoned Otis is a more common name over there."
"Is it?"
"No idea. There was Otis Redding, the soul singer."
"I've heard of him."
"You have? Big deal. He only sold about a billion records."
She was silent, pained by his sarcasm.
He said presently, "Are you going to tell your precious rector?"
"I don't know."
"I might, when I see him next," he said. "Just because he wears his collar round the wrong way people don't like to go up to him in the street. I don't bloody mind. I'd like to see his face when I tell him. Probably thinks he's unique."
She called his bluff: said he was welcome to come and talk to the rector at the harvest supper on Saturday. "There won't be black-eyed beans, but it should be warm food. I offered to help with the cooking."
"You're going overboard on the good works, aren't you?" he said. "What is it with this vicar? Don't tell me you've got the hots for him."
She said, with a force that gave too much away, "It's nothing to do with him. The WI organise it."
"You're not WI."
"I was asked to help."
"And he'll be there. You said he would."
"Of course, but only as a guest."
"Admit it. You fancy him."
"That's absurd, Gary. I'll be working in the kitchen, pr
eparing the food. I won't even see him."
He stepped towards her and pressed the flat of his hand against her chest. The push was a light one, but frightening. "Lying cow."
"Don't do that."
"I'll do as I like. You'll feel the back of my hand if you've been up to anything, you slag." He pushed her again, harder. "Getting in wine like that. It's bloody obvious what you had in mind."
"No, Gary."
"It's a come-on, isn't it? The old man's in America, so come and screw the arse off me. I tell you, Rachel, if that randy preacher got inside your knickers while I was away, I'll give him such a hiding he won't be able to hobble into his pulpit again. Ever. And after I finish with him, I'll sort you out."
Her voice shook. "Will you listen to me, Gary? You couldn't be more wrong."
"No? You want to see your face when you say that." He stabbed his finger towards her several times. "You're lying, woman, and it shows. 1 said I'd beat the shit out of Otis sodding Joy, and your red face just bought him a month's worth of hospital food."
"Don't. Don't be so stupid."
He leered at her. "We'll see if his reverence tells the truth or not. You're really wetting yourself now, aren't you?"
"Please, Gary."
He mimicked her. "Please, Gary."
"What can I say? If you don't want me to go to the harvest supper, I won't."
"Do what you bloody like."
"Please don't talk to the rector. It's going to make fools of us. It's so humiliating."
He walked away from her. "And you can fix me some supper the night you go out. A curry," he said. "And I mean a curry worthy of the name, with some flavour to it. After what I had in New Orleans, the shit that passes for food in this country is bloody tasteless."
She had one ready in the freezer, thank the Lord. And if he wanted extra flavour, he could have it.
She didn't bring up the subject of Otis again, hoping Gary would reflect on the stupidity of accusing a clergyman of immorality. She wasn't all that confident. His time in America had made him even more confrontational. He swore at the paper boy when he left the gate unlatched. And late on Friday evening he opened the bedroom window to shout at some youths who were making a noise in the street.
On Saturday, he went up the street to the village shop to pay the paper bill. Rachel watched him from the front garden, where she had gone to prune some of the roses. He was in what he called his weekend togs, a disgusting old green pullover and jeans, and of course the greasy flat cap that disguised his baldness.
Then, to her horror, she spotted Otis striding towards the shop from the other end of the village. Please God, no, she thought.
Was it her imagination, or was there a sudden change in Gary's style of walking? He put one foot in front of the other in a more sinister, purposeful way, and she knew, just knew, he fancied himself as a gun-slinger in a western. He'd taken his hands from his pockets and was swinging his arms in a pathetic parody of John Wayne.
She watched in torment, gripping the pruning shears, openly staring, willing Otis to stop and talk to someone else, or call at one of the cottages, or think of something he'd forgotten and turn back.
But Gary marched right up and confronted him near the door of the shop, and Rachel's stomach clenched and her mouth went dry. The two men talked earnestly, it seemed to her, and for longer than a polite exchange. She wasn't close enough to see Otis's reaction, and didn't really wish to. In despair, she turned away and deadheaded more of the roses.
Gary looked smug when he returned. He'd treated himself to a bottle of whisky and he opened it straight away and slumped in front of the television with his feet over the arms of her favourite chair. He said nothing to Rachel about what had passed between Otis and himself and she was too afraid to enquire, in case it started a fight.
She made ham sandwiches for his lunch. She didn't want to eat. Trying to sound normal, she reminded him that she had to go early in the afternoon to help cook the harvest supper. She told him she'd defrosted the curry and put it in the oven on the timer, to be ready whenever he wanted it during the evening. He didn't thank her.
"I'll have it when I get back."
"You're going out?"
"Only up to the rectory. Unfinished business." He hadn't looked away from the TV screen.
Rachel froze.
Eleven
A casserole — or beef stew-was the traditional meal for the harvest supper. Traditional since the WI had been in charge, anyway. Probably in the days of Waldo Wallace's tithe dinners, more ambitious dishes were served. The advantage of a casserole was that it could be cooked hours ahead of time and kept simmering in a large stewpot that had once been used for the school dinners. The team of Daphne, Dot and Joan, with help from Rachel, worked through Saturday afternoon. Into that pot went diced beef, floured and lightly fried, then a real harvest crop of vegetables: onions, carrots, turnips, parsnips, peppers, aubergines, chopped celery and potatoes. Pearl barley was tossed in with favourite flavourings from bayleaves to garlic. And of course beer and water. No other cooking was required. Bread rolls were put out on the tables with jugs of cider and lemonade and there were packets of crisps for the children.
It might seem from this that Foxford's entire harvest went into the pot, but no. The hall was decorated with produce from the fields and gardens: some old-fashioned sheaves of corn made up for the occasion; overgrown marrows and pumpkins nobody would eat; baskets laden high with apples and pears; tomatoes, eggs and the harvest loaves with their plaited designs. All this would be moved to the church at the end of the evening and rearranged for the Sunday morning's Harvest Festival service, along with the tins of grapefruit and baked beans that were always donated, reminders that "all good gifts around us" were sent from heaven above, even if some were packaged by Tesco's.
Rachel busied herself cutting vegetables, saying little, wondering if Otis would have changed his mind about coming.
The evening was supposed to start at seven, but most of the tables were full a quarter of an hour before. The appetising smell drifting downwind from the church hall must have had something to do with it.
A cynical observer might have said that tonight was the pagan part of the harvest celebration, reaching right back to pre-Christian feasts. No hymns or prayers. No reminder of the holy, aweful Reaper with the fan of judgement winnowing "the chaff into the furnace that flameth evermore." Just the Warminster Folk Group with country songs and dances. The local cider ensured a boisterous atmosphere.
Cynthia came into the kitchen like the lady of the manor visiting the skivvies. She'd squeezed herself into a black glittery dress with thin shoulderstraps and a rollercoaster of a plunge.
"The casserole smells divine, darlings. You've done brilliantly, as I knew you would. I can't wait to try it, but I'll have to be patient, for Otis's sake. He's a little late. Unusual for him." She came over to Rachel. "You look pale, dear. If you want to sit down, the others will understand." In a lower voice, she added, "You did say I could partner him this evening. I'll behave myself. Promise."
Cynthia's intentions were the least of Rachel's worries. She hoped Otis would stay away, but not to thwart her friend. She hadn't spoken to him since that blighted evening in her cottage, and now she wondered when she ever would. In church she'd twice managed to slip past him after morning service while he was in conversation with someone else. The fiasco on the sofa and the spilt wine had been galling enough and now Gary playing the jealous husband was just tod much.
The truth of it was that Otis still obsessed her. She knew he had been aroused by her and they had been tantalisingly close to making love. The possibility was there, and she desired it, dreamed of it, wicked as it was. Now Gary was back from America and breathing fire, she ought to dismiss Otis from her thoughts. She couldn't, and she wouldn't, so she had to suffer mental torment.
Cynthia went off to look for him.
"I think we should start serving," suggested Dot. "We can't keep everybody waiting for the rector'
s sake."
Thankful for something to do, Rachel ladled the steaming casserole into bowls and handed them across. In her apron and with her hair wrapped in a scarf, she was clearly not there to socialise. There were several mentions of her arm being freshly out of plaster, and she smiled and nodded, but it was obvious to anyone that she didn't have time to talk.
Then, God help her, Otis arrived in the hall. Cynthia pounced, leading him by the elbow to a reserved seat at the far end of the room where the folk musicians were playing. When he was settled, she put her handbag on the seat beside him and went off to collect his food as well as her own. Mercifully Rachel was spared having to speak to him.
In his cream-coloured summer jacket, he was looking relaxed and attractive and evidently telling more of his jokes, because every so often the whole table burst into laughter.
Rachel ladled a spoonful for herself and went into the poky kitchen to eat with the other helpers. One of them advised her to sit down. There was still the washing-up to come and it all had to be done by hand.
She was feeling relieved. She said, half-joking, there ought to be another team for the wash-up. Some men, for a change.
"Some hope," said Daphne Beaton. "They're all in their glad-rags, aren't they? We made the mistake of bringing our aprons."
"I'd lend mine to anyone," said Rachel.
"Even the rector?" said Daphne-and it wasn't meant to make Rachel blush, but it brought to mind that evening she'd called at the rectory and found Otis wearing nothing but an apron.
She managed to say in a calm voice, "Him included. Specially him. No, to be fair, he washed up after the fete."
"He's a sport," said Daphne.
One of the others said, "Wasted, isn't he, handsome young fellow like him, living alone in that rectory?"
"You want to help him out, Dot?"
"I wouldn't mind," said little Dot, all of seventy-five, and toothless.
"More cider, love?" said Daphne, laughing.
From the hall came a timely chorus:
"Then fill up the jug boys, and let it go round,
Of drinks not the equal in England is found.
The Reaper Page 11
