by Liz Trenow
Around thirty members of the congregation took up our invitation and came back for the promised glasses of sherry. I did my dutiful-daughter bit, taking people’s coats, circulating with the heavy sherry decanter – ‘Only an inch,’ Mrs D had instructed me, ‘or they’ll never go home.’ Jimmy passed around bowls of peanuts and potato crisps until he got bored and disappeared upstairs.
One face I hoped not to see on our doorstep was the man to whom I’d taken an immediate dislike at my father’s first-ever service in the village a few Sundays before. It was such a minor thing, but it irritated me, and you get a sort of sixth sense about some people. It was Advent, and Pa had asked me to help Jimmy light the symbolic candles on the wreath. It was a responsible job, lighting the taper and making sure you didn’t drip too much wax onto the white linen runner, and we practised the little ritual over and over, using sticks as pretend candles. They were to be lit in the same order each Sunday, so that by Christmas they would, in theory, have burned down by different amounts. By tradition, the special pink candle was left unlit until the third Sunday – Gaudete Sunday.
As we returned to our pew, a man whispered from the seat behind, ‘You missed one.’ I felt a pang of panic. Pa was standing in front of the wreath now, so I couldn’t exactly see right away, but when he moved, it was clear that all the candles were burning perfectly. Apart, obviously, from the pink one. What an idiot, I thought. I learned later that the man was the church treasurer and a successful property developer. With his obvious business acumen, he would definitely be an asset, Pa said. You would have thought he’d have known about the pink candle.
But now here he was on our doorstep: a man in his middle years, about the same age as Pa or perhaps a little younger, well-fed and beaming, with an air of prosperity about him. You could tell, somehow, those people who hadn’t suffered too much deprivation during the war years. Even though only of average height and build, he had a very powerful presence, with a thick thatch of dark hair growing low over his brow, which reminded me of the Neanderthal man illustration in our encyclopaedia. He was dressed to the nines in a three-piece suit with a red-and-blue paisley-patterned cravat.
‘Miss Goddard, I presume.’ He had a rather too-posh voice, the accent of someone who probably hadn’t been to public school but wanted to convey the impression that he had. His handshake went on for longer than strictly necessary and was slightly sweaty, so that afterwards I felt a great urge to wipe my hand on my skirt. Something about him made my skin crawl even then, although I couldn’t put my finger on it.
‘I’m Henry Blackman, and this is my wife, Melissa.’
She was a glamorous woman with bright-red lipstick and a helmet of permed blonde hair immobilised with lacquer. ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ she purred. ‘May we call you Molly?’
I took their coats and offered a glass of sherry.
‘So you are the young lady of the house? Welcome to Wormley. I’m sure you will all be very happy here. We’re certainly delighted to have a new vicar. It’s been too long since the last one left,’ he said.
No one seemed keen to talk about the ‘previous incumbent’ – the phrase Pa used – but Mrs D told us that the poor man had gone slowly mad and started selling off the church silver. I’d found the tale utterly thrilling and even began to write a story about it. My first line was: The goblet glittered in the firelight, luring him into its secrets. I got stuck on whether or not ‘its’ should have an apostrophe, and never carried on.
‘What are your favourite subjects at school, Miss Goddard?’ Mrs Blackman asked. Despite the strangely fixed hairdo she seemed pleasant enough, so I decided to oblige, rather exaggerating my love of literature and history, particularly medieval myths and legends.
‘Then we simply must get you an invitation to Wormley Hall,’ her husband interrupted. ‘It has such a splendid history: Queen Elizabeth stayed there at least a couple of times. We’re such good friends of the Waddingtons, aren’t we, my dear?’ His eyes darted past me, scanning the room. ‘In fact, I’m rather surprised they aren’t here today.’
‘That would be lovely,’ I said, trying to edge away. He had a tendency to stand closer than felt entirely comfortable, and even the sherry fumes could not conceal the sourness of his breath.
‘And where is that little brother of yours?’
‘Probably upstairs. He’s not fond of large gatherings.’
‘Is there something . . .’ He paused. ‘Erm, not quite right with him?’
‘He is perfectly well, thank you,’ I snapped. Surely he knew it was rude to draw attention to people’s differences?
He held up a hand. ‘Oh dear. I seem to have struck a nerve.’
‘Not at all, Mr Blackman,’ I said. ‘But if you will forgive me, I’d better carry on with my rounds.’ Before turning on my heel, I whispered, ‘And by the way, you’ll have noticed that we don’t light the pink candle till the week before Christmas.’
It was a petty little victory, barely worth a second’s thought but, as we were to learn, Mr Blackman hated to be wrong-footed. And he could hold a grudge for years.
On the other side of the room, near the window, ladies in Sunday hats encircled Pa with upturned faces, apparently hanging on his every word. He must have said something amusing that made them chortle, and perhaps for the first time I saw my father as they did: a tall, slim man with dark-blond hair thinning only slightly at the crown, a broad smile, crinkly blue eyes and a strong chin. He was, I realised now, actually rather handsome for an old man of forty-something. Quite a catch. Hence the girlish giggles.
I was distracted by the arrival of the Waddingtons: mother, father and son. I’d seen the boy in church and couldn’t help glancing in his direction slightly more often than necessary. He was about the same age as me or perhaps a year or two older and, while not classically handsome, he was quite striking, with high cheekbones, a ruddy, healthy complexion and an expressive face that seemed to switch from sulk to smile in an instant.
‘Good morning, I’m Captain Waddington,’ the father said. ‘This is my wife, Janey, and my son, Christopher.’ The captain had the demeanour of an Air Force hero; the moustache clipped within an inch of its life, the upright bearing and his precise manner of speaking were impressive, even terrifying, and I would later come to understand how difficult it must have been for Kit to have such a father, or for Mrs Waddington to have such a husband. She was pretty, with a sweet, apologetic smile, but paper-pale, and looked as though she might blow away in the slightest breeze.
‘Call me Kit. Everyone else does, except my father,’ the boy said, with that teasing grin I would come to know so well. Dark hair flopped over his face, except when he flicked it back, which was often. I longed to have more time to talk to him, but almost immediately after that more people arrived and I was called away on coats duty.
Later, I saw Kit chatting to some older ladies who seemed utterly charmed, hanging on his every word, mesmerised by the way he spoke with such animation, his hands flying to illustrate every point, his face mobile and expressive, his eyes wide and alert. As the party drew to a close I saw him join a group of younger people, the Timpson twins and another boy of the same sort of age, who had been introduced as Robert. They were sharing a joke and seemed to be having so much fun that now, for perhaps the first time since arriving in the village, I began to think living here wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Just as other people were beginning to drift away home, Miss Calver appeared, late as always. She must have been in her seventies but seemed ageless; a small, wiry person, bursting with energy, oblivious to the niceties of fashion or what they used to call ‘polite society’. I never saw her in a dress or skirt. Trousers and a well-worn tweed jacket were her preferred garb for all occasions, and this one was no exception, although she did remove the denim cap as she entered the doorway, folding it in two and stuffing it into one of her plentiful pockets.
Mrs D had already told us about Miss Calver. Apparently she’d enjoyed a distinguis
hed career as a newspaper journalist, even having reported from the field hospitals in France during the First World War. What she didn’t tell us, but was common knowledge around the village, was that Miss Calver sought to drown her wartime horrors in a glass of whisky, or three. Despite this, she bustled about the village with the air of someone always late for a deadline, and drove her little Austin Seven along the country lanes at such a lick that people had to leap into ditches to avoid being run over.
‘Your father tells me you’re a writer,’ she said, downing her glass of sherry in a single sip and taking another from my tray without a hint of hesitation.
I stuttered something about liking to write stories.
‘You must keep it up – keep it up, my girl,’ she said, downing the second glass before taking out a cigarillo and lighting it with a large tin-metal lighter. ‘That’s the only way to get better at writing.’
I was about to ask about her experiences in journalism when Pa appeared and whisked her away. He’d already told me he wanted to buttonhole her about becoming editor of the parish newsletter, which he was determined to revive. I’d already offered to help with it, and the prospect of getting to know Miss Calver better made the thought even more appealing.
When they came to leave, Mrs Waddington took my hand. Her hold was so limp it was like tangling with a piece of wet seaweed. ‘It was charming to meet you, my dear Molly,’ she said. ‘You simply must come to the Hall and we can tell you all about its history – won’t we, Kit?’ She turned to her son, beside her. ‘You can take her on the lake, perhaps? Show her the islands?’
A lake? With islands? It sounded so impossibly like Swallows and Amazons that my imagination took hold in an instant. Could it really be true? ‘That sounds wonderful,’ I managed to gasp.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ Kit said. It was such a quaint, old-fashioned phrase, and as he said it he dipped his head in a very slight bow, as though he was in a period play. A curious character, I thought, unlike any boy I’d ever met before.
Afterwards, as we were washing up, I asked Mrs D about the Waddingtons. ‘What do they do, to live in such a grand house?’
‘Inherited money, of course.’ She tapped the side of her nose, confidentially. ‘Her brother was heir to the estate but he died in the war so it came to her and, ever since that, her husband’s been lording it about like he owns the place. Not that he’s here much – spends most of his time in London, they say. Stockbroker or something.’
‘They’re friendly with the Blackmans, aren’t they?’ I’d seen the two couples chatting animatedly towards the end of the party.
‘Thick as thieves, that Jane Waddington and Melissa Blackman.’ Mrs D might be a mine of intriguing snippets of information, but she rarely elaborated.
‘It’s all clear, Jimmy, you can come out now. Lunch is on the table,’ I shouted up the stairs.
‘That went very well, don’t you think?’ Pa said. ‘You were wonderful, my darling. The perfect hostess.’
‘And your sermon was better than usual.’
‘You think so?’ His face brightened. Sermons were a persistent source of anxiety for him, and writing them seemed to take forever.
‘Put it this way, I listened most of the time.’
He laughed. ‘I couldn’t do this without you, my sweetheart. But it’s not going to be easy.’
‘What do you mean? They all thought you were charming – certainly the ladies. They were hanging on your every word.’
He shook his head. ‘The bishop warned me that you get a honeymoon period for the first few weeks or months, when everyone is kind and all seems smooth and easy. But I sense undercurrents in this village. I get the feeling it’s not all going to be plain sailing.’
I wanted to ask him what he meant. What undercurrents? And how did he know, after such a short time? But my stomach was rumbling and Jimmy was banging his spoon impatiently on the table, so this was not the time.
Starting at a new school is never easy. Pa and I had been to visit shortly after our arrival. The girls’ grammar sat in wide acres of playing fields in the leafiest part of the town, and the headmistress, although severe-looking and rather brusque, turned out to be quite pleasant after all.
‘The dog collar always helps,’ Pa whispered as we waited for her. She certainly seemed to relish addressing him as ‘Reverend’ as she showed us around the school. We were invited for coffee in her study, during which she asked about what I’d been doing in mathematics, English and science at my previous school, as well as a few easy general-knowledge questions. She seemed pleased with my responses.
‘Well, Molly, I am delighted to welcome you to the school,’ she said, reaching into a drawer. ‘Here’s a list of our uniform requirements and where you can buy them. And here is our school calendar. We look forward to seeing you at the start of the spring term.’
Naturally I was nervous on my first day, but it turned out so much easier than I’d feared. The bus stop was on the main road at the top of our street and, as Jimmy and I walked up there that first day, I heard a voice from behind. ‘Molly Goddard? Are you going for the bus?’
It was the Timpson twins, a pair of indistinguishable sisters about a year younger than me, whom I’d met briefly at the Christmas Day party.
We waited for them to catch up.
‘What school are you going to?’ asked Jane, or was it Juliet?
‘The Girls’ High. It’s my first day.’
‘We go there too. We’re in the upper fourth. What about you?’
‘Lower fifth.’
‘Ooh, that’s when it gets serious, isn’t it? Lots of homework.’
‘I expect I’ll find out.’
They chattered non-stop on the bus and the short walk to the school about the various rules, the foibles of different teachers – strict, kind, mean, inspiring, dull – the cleanest toilets, the most generous dinner ladies and the best buys at the school tuck shop. By the time we got there the place felt almost familiar.
We met again at the end of the day. ‘How did it go?’ Jane/Juliet asked.
‘Brilliant.’ It had been easy enough to get my bearings, the girls in my class were friendly, I hadn’t been late for a single lesson and had earned praise from the hockey teacher for my passing skills. A good day, all round. Hopefully it wasn’t some kind of honeymoon period, like the one Pa talked about.
On the homeward bus I learned more about the twins. I knew that their mother ran the church choir, because she’d been pestering me to join it ever since that very first service. Besides the twins, the choir consisted of six older women and a couple of men.
‘You should come,’ they chorused. ‘It’d be fun.’ I protested that I couldn’t read music but they insisted it was only a matter of learning the tunes, and I promised to think about it. Before arriving in Wormley I had no idea that girls could sing in a church choir. At St Martin’s they had a proper choir, all men, who sang in four-part harmony with choirboys and male altos.
The twins lived in one of the thatched cottages further down the street from the vicarage, while their father, who was something rather important in the Civil Service, had a flat in London and came home at weekends. The twins’ mother was friendly with Jane Waddington and Melissa Blackman, and Melissa gave them lifts in her red sports car to the life classes they attended. Life classes? I didn’t like to ask.
‘Did you talk to Kit Waddington?’ Jane – or was it Juliet? – asked. ‘He was at your party on Christmas Day. Isn’t he dishy?’
‘Yes, we said a few words,’ I said, trying to sound casual, even though I’d thought about him almost every day. ‘Have they really got a lake? With islands?’
‘Ooh, yes. Get yourself invited if you can. It’s amazing.’
‘But I haven’t seen him since,’ I said.
‘He’s away at some posh boarding school,’ they replied. ‘But he’ll be back at Easter, if not for half-term.’ A pause and then, ‘Oooh, you’re blushing, Molly Goddard. You fancy him,
don’t you?’ The twins giggled.
‘I barely know him, for heaven’s sake,’ I said, my cheeks growing hotter.
5
Jimmy and I adapted slowly to country life. The weather that January and February was so cold and wet that, when we weren’t at school, we spent much of our time indoors, helping Mrs D or, in my case, doing homework and trying to write my stories, most of which I tore up in despair. Jimmy was often bored.
‘Keep an eye on your brother for me,’ Pa would say, dashing out of the door, late as usual. That phrase again: Keep an eye on Jimmy. I’d come to dread it.
I missed Mum every day, so much that it actually hurt, a physical pain inside my chest like the stitch you get after running too far. How different it would have been if she’d been here. We would have sorted out the house, baked together, mended old clothes and sewn new ones. Or we’d have taken long walks together, the three of us, learning all about the new sights of the countryside, the wild flowers just starting to bloom in frothy white blossom like bridal veils in the hedgerows, the trees tinged with green as they burst into leaf and the birds that were already chorusing noisily from dawn to dusk.
Now she’d gone and left me to look after Jimmy on my own. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him – perhaps I loved him too much – but he was a big responsibility and I really wasn’t ready for that.
My brother was born right in the middle of the war and, even from his early days, it was clear that he was different from other babies, although no one explained anything at the time. He had funny eyes and a flat head, found it difficult to suckle and cried a lot.
When his call-up papers arrived, Pa felt he could not, in all conscience, stay at home when so many of his congregation were fighting. He was appointed army chaplain, and it was left to me and Mum to look after Jimmy, who seemed to be taking his time about everything: smiling, rolling over, crawling, taking solid food. It felt as though he would be a helpless baby forever. He also suffered permanent colds and coughs, which Mum put down to the poor London air. During one particularly difficult period I overheard Pa saying, ‘Perhaps he would be better off in a home, my darling?’ and my mother shouting back, ‘If you ever dare to say that again, I’ll . . .’ I never heard what she would do, because after that, I heard muffled weeping and Pa apologising: ‘I’m so sorry, my darling, so sorry.’
