by Liz Trenow
In the churchyard stood a group of villagers, their faces tilted upwards, arms pointed to the sky. I followed their gaze. High up in the tower a small figure was just visible, yet unmistakeable: it was my father.
‘What’s happening?’ I shouted.
‘He won’t come down,’ someone said. ‘He’s gone and locked the door at the top of the stairs, so we can’t get to him.’
In a brief flare of optimism I thought Pa might have gone up there to find Jimmy. Or to scan the countryside, using the advantage of height? I remembered how, when we’d first arrived in the village, he’d taken us both up the narrow winding staircase to the top of the tower. And what he’d said: ‘Makes you feel closer to God, being up here.’
Around me, people were talking all at once. ‘Get her to try calling him down,’ someone suggested, and it was a moment before I realised they were talking about me.
‘Perhaps if you could call to him, Miss Goddard? Ask him to come down. Tell him we’re concerned for his welfare.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said, feeling strangely calm. ‘He’s just gone up there to be closer to God.’
The villagers went silent. Some of them looked at me as though I was mad. Pa disappeared for a few moments, but then reappeared again. He was climbing the spire now, using the metal ladder fixed there for inspecting the lead roofing and the weathervane, a single arrow set on a swivel above a fixed horizontal cast-iron cross with the letters N, E, S and W. He looked like an ant, dwarfed by the height of the tower and the scale of the spire above him. There was a collective holding of breath. Someone swore: ‘What the . . .?’
‘We have to stop him.’
‘Miss Molly, please. Call up to him. Tell him to come down.’
I took a few steps forward. ‘Be careful, Pa. Please.’ My voice was carried away by the wind. I tried again, louder this time. ‘Pa, it’s me, Molly. You must come down. It’s not safe up there.’
This time he must have heard me, because he peered down and waved. I could see his face clearly now, and it filled me with fear. It didn’t look like Pa at all, but like someone possessed: grinning wildly, the features distorted into a grotesque mask. His mouth opened wide and he emitted a terrible, blood-curdling howl.
I burst into tears. Arms were around me, holding me, passing handkerchiefs. Someone put a jacket over my shoulders; another was laid onto a gravestone, on which I was urged to sit. When we looked up again, Pa was no longer climbing the spire, but had climbed back to the roof of the tower and was now peering down at us from the parapet wall.
‘Is that you, my dearest?’ he shouted, sounding almost sane.
I sprang to my feet. ‘Yes, it’s me, Molly. Whatever are you doing up there? Come down, please. You’re scaring me.’
To my horror, he began to climb onto the narrow section between two corners of the wall, grasping the spindly flagpole with one hand, the other waving freely. Around me, people gasped.
‘Look at me, Molly. I can fly,’ my father shouted. ‘Take me, God, I’m coming.’
‘No, stop. Get down!’
‘Don’t you worry about me. I’m going to find Jimmy, my darling. And Sarah. We can all be together again.’
My blood ran cold. Sarah – my mother.
‘You have to stop him,’ I pleaded, desperate now. ‘He’s going to kill himself.’
At that moment there was a mighty crash and George Diamond’s face appeared at the top of the tower. He lunged towards Pa and then both of them disappeared below the parapet.
‘He’s got him,’ someone said.
‘Good old George. Must’ve broken down the door.’
‘Someone call an ambulance.’
The world went dark and that was the last thing I heard.
PART THREE:
SPRING 2019
24
Molly is exhausted but feels curiously elated, energised even, by her journey back into the past, and presses Bella to stay for a cup of tea before she leaves.
Bella hesitates. Lewis and his dad will be sitting in front of the television eating pizza by now, the house will be in chaos, and her work blouse is still waiting to be ironed. But after such a momentous day it’s too soon to rush away.
‘I’ll put the kettle on then,’ she says. ‘Are you okay, Mum?’
‘Fine, dear. Just fine, thank you.’
Bella returns from the kitchen and sits down again. ‘I can’t help thinking about it. What terrible things you had to deal with, as a young girl.’
Molly shrugs. ‘You just have to get on with it, I suppose. Face each day as it comes.’
When Pa was sent off to hospital Mrs D took charge, looking after everything until Aunt Mary arrived. The police continued their search for Jimmy, but they seemed convinced Eli was the most likely suspect, and after his suicide all they would say was that they were ‘pursuing a specific line of enquiry’. Whether they’d told her aunt, or anyone else, what that line of enquiry consisted of, Molly never discovered, but they didn’t interview her again, or consult her. And they never found Jimmy.
When she tries to remember what she felt, those following days and weeks, her mind goes into a blur. Dr Mortimer prescribed more pills and made Aunt Mary promise to make sure that Molly took them. She’d slept like the dead, and one day followed another in a haze, as though the feelings of utter misery and despair belonged to someone else, not her. Looking back, she recalls it as a dark tunnel, knowing that you have no choice but to move forward, even though there is no reassuring light in the distance to draw you on.
She remembers being told that Sarge had been found, and being ridiculously pleased at this small piece of good news. The dog was half-starved and dehydrated, refusing to leave the woodland glade and growling at anyone who came near, and they’d had to call in a vet to tranquillise him before he could be retrieved. George Diamond told them that Eli’s friends ‘down Bures way’ had taken Sarge in.
Each week she and her aunt would take the bus to visit Pa in a vast, gloomy Victorian mental hospital on the outskirts of Colchester. The first time was a ghastly shock: he looked about a hundred years old and barely recognised them. But as the weeks went by, he regained something of his old personality and at last, after about two months, he was discharged. They took the train to Buckinghamshire and stayed with Aunt Mary for the rest of the year. Mrs D had cried, her husband by her side, when they left. What good people they were. They’d exchanged letters at first, but it tailed off after a while.
‘Those first few months were very hard,’ Molly admits to Bella. Auntie Mary had reminded her so much of Mum, like her sister both in looks and gestures, which served as a constant reminder: a phrase, a tone of voice, a tilt of the head. Molly went to the local school for the autumn term and hated having to be the new girl all over again.
‘Poor you. Such a lot of tragedy in your short life.’
‘At least Pa recovered. Some don’t, you know?’ Although he’d never been strong enough to take on another parish, the church was always kind; after Christmas they’d found him a curacy back at St Martin’s, where he could be supported by a big team. They were given a new flat and Molly went back to her old school, which made everything feel a little more normal, although, of course, it was like her old life but without Jimmy or Mum.
‘Whatever happened about that missing money from the church funds?’
Molly smiles. ‘That was the one bit of good that came out of our time at Wormley. Blackman got his just deserts.’
‘How? Oh, do tell.’ Bella sits forward.
It was some months later, when they were already back in London, that Miss Calver’s letter arrived, having been forwarded by Aunt Mary from Buckinghamshire. It was long, two full pages of close typescript, and it enclosed a newspaper cutting:
VICAR AND CHURCH TREASURER CHARGED
The Reverend Michael Morton, former vicar of Wormley near Colchester, and church treasurer Henry Blackman have been jointly charged with the theft of nearly £5,000 from church funds.
>
Both deny the charges, and the case will be heard at Chelmsford Crown Court in June. A church spokesman said: ‘This is a significant amount of money and we have been aware of its loss for some time, so we are pleased that at last it is being properly investigated.’
If found guilty, the men could face prison sentences.
Miss Calver wrote:
You may be interested to hear what’s been happening here in Wormley since you left. It’s been quite the scandal. It turns out that before he killed himself, Eli Chadwick sent a letter to the newspaper with all kinds of accusations against Mr Blackman. The paper passed it to the police. Of course, none of us knew about this, and it took the police a long time to get round to dealing with it, but it transpires that Eli had evidence that Blackman had already been blackmailing Morton, the former incumbent, threatening to expose the fact that he’d been siphoning off church funds to cover his gambling debts, and trying to get his hands on that piece of woodland. Yes, even back then.
The police forced the bank to give them access to their records. Guess what? It turns out that not only was the vicar siphoning off funds, but some of them were also being diverted to Blackman’s account. No wonder Blackman was trying to blame your poor father. Both he and Morton have been charged with theft, and neither Blackman nor the sainted Melissa have been seen since. Too ashamed, I suppose. I hope they stay away forever. The village already feels like a happier place. The trial is in a few months’ time. I’ll keep you posted.
‘So Mr Evil got his come-uppance. Did he go to gaol in the end?’ Bella asks now.
‘Yes. They were both found guilty of theft and attempted fraud and sentenced to six months. Not long enough, of course, but the real punishment for Blackman was the disgrace. He sold his cottage in Wormley and they were never seen again.’
Bella raises a triumphant fist. ‘You must have been pleased.’
‘Not pleased, no. Saddened that what could have been a new start for Pa turned into such a nightmare. Saddened that we never found Jimmy,’ Molly says, swallowing down the lump in her throat. ‘Saddened that an individual could bring such terrible evil to a small community – all down to one man and his desperate need to prove himself as Mr Wormley.’
‘You did the best you could, Mum,’ Bella says. After a while she starts to gather her things. ‘I’d better be off. See you on Friday, for the DNA result?’
‘You’ll be here?’
‘Of course. It’s really important. I’ll take the day off, and Lewis can go to a friend’s house after school.’
‘Can’t you bring him with you?’
‘It’s a school day, Mum.’
‘I never see enough of my grandson these days.’
‘I’ll bring him at half-term. That’s only a few weeks away.’ Bella pauses. ‘Will you be all right, Mum?’
‘All right? Of course I’m all right.’
‘I mean, discovering whether they’ve found Jimmy.’
Molly takes a deep breath and thinks for a moment. ‘To be honest, I’d be relieved. At least we’ll know for certain what we always expected, after all these years. I’m only sorry my poor old pa isn’t here. It ate him up for the rest of his life, not knowing, always wondering whether it was something he had done, or left undone. He suffered terrible guilt and would spend hours on his knees, asking for forgiveness, so in a strange kind of way it brought him closer to his God, which he was grateful for – so he told me at the end.’
‘Well, that’s some kind of blessing, I suppose,’ Bella says. ‘Now, can I make you a sandwich or something before I leave?’
‘No, I’m fine, love, thank you. That pub lunch will keep me going for days.’
‘Well, I hope you get a good night, and that you can relax a bit this week.’
She kisses her mother on the forehead, pats her gently on the shoulder. Lately, each time she leaves, Bella finds herself wondering whether this could be the last time. Now she knows it is not: her mother won’t allow herself to die before finding out about Jimmy. Not after all these years.
A few days later Bella is back again, arriving at the same time as the police car, with the same socially awkward man and smiley woman emerging from it. They exchange welcomes and walk up the path to Molly’s bungalow. Once again the little room seems overfilled until they all sit down.
‘So, have you got the results?’ Bella asks.
‘We have,’ the man says. ‘And I’m not sure whether you will be pleased or disappointed.’
‘Tell us then,’ Molly snaps. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense any longer.’
‘I’m afraid your DNA shows no match with the bones that were found at the lake, Ms Goddard. This makes it very unlikely they are your brother’s. They are human bones, though, but it is possible they could be very much older, perhaps dating back a century or so.’
No match. The news is dizzying and for a few seconds Molly finds it hard to breathe. She was so sure it would be him. If it wasn’t Jimmy in the lake, then all of the imaginings that have been running through her head, keeping her awake throughout the night, were for nothing. Perhaps, after all, he did not take out Robin and capsize her, or try to swim back from the island after getting marooned when the little dinghy was blown away by the rising winds. He did not drown, nor was he attacked by a vengeful dragon.
‘Mum?’
She drags herself back to the present. ‘What does this mean, Officer? If the bones are not his, then where is he?’
Beard-man shakes his head, slowly. ‘I’m sorry . . .’
If there is no body, then perhaps Jimmy did not die, Molly thinks to herself. She has always cherished this slight glimmer of hope, although she knows it is absurd. The doctors predicted that, with his heart condition, her brother might not even make it to twenty, let alone nearly eighty, as he would be now.
‘And the piece of red fabric?’ she asks. ‘Did they analyse that?’
‘Yes, it is just a piece of ordinary plastic. Probably a fertiliser bag, they said.’
‘Just what I suggested, if you remember,’ she says, enjoying a crumb of comfort from this little victory. Nothing to do with Robin, then. Or even Jimmy’s raincoat.
‘Are there any grounds for reopening the case?’ Bella has been silent up until now.
‘We’ve checked back in the files and we are satisfied the police at the time carried out every possible line of enquiry. They found no evidence of foul play, nor did they find a body. There are no grounds to reopen the case, unless we find new evidence. Unfortunately, these DNA test results mean there is no further evidence. We will be in touch, of course, if anything else comes up,’ he says, and they gather up their things.
‘We understand you will have been hoping for some kind of closure about your brother, Miss Goddard,’ the policewoman says. ‘And I’m sorry we couldn’t bring you more positive news.’ She stands up, and her colleague stands with her. The room feels strangely empty and hollow, once they have left.
‘What the hell is “closure” when it’s at home?’ Molly grumbles.
‘They mean an answer. So you can grieve properly and move on with your life,’ Bella tells her. ‘They use it all the time these days.’
‘Well, I don’t have closure, or anything like it,’ Molly mutters. ‘In fact, they’ve made it worse, now.’ She feels deflated, like a birthday balloon left forgotten in a corner.
Bella knows that she cannot let it rest there. This business of the bones has started something, opened Pandora’s box. She cannot let her mother go to her grave without knowing what happened that terrible evening in Wormley.
That night she searches the internet for Kit Waddington and finds nothing helpful, until she remembers that at one point in her mother’s story someone referred to him as Christopher. She searches again, and finds someone with that name who founded an apparently successful vineyard in Dorset, producing wines called, she notices with a jolt, ‘Dragon Valley’.
The website has a photo of the managing director, a Mr Chris Marsha
ll. He is good-looking, dark-haired, with high colour to his cheeks, just as Molly described Kit. Apart from apparently having the same first name, what relationship – if any – does he have to Kit Waddington? The old man must be in his late eighties by now, if he’s even still alive. But there is no harm in trying, and no time to waste.
She emails the vineyard, marked ‘for the attention of Mr Christopher Waddington’:
Dear Mr Waddington,
I am the daughter of Miss Molly Goddard, whom I believe you may have known when you were both youngsters, living in Wormley, Suffolk. She and I recently revisited the village and she spoke about the wonderful times you had on the lake at Wormley Hall, as well as the sudden tragedy of her brother’s disappearance. If you feel able to reply to this email, she would love to make contact again.
With best wishes,
Bella Browning, née Goddard
A standard acknowledgement from Dragon Valley Wines arrives almost by return – ‘Thank you for your enquiry, which has been passed on to the relevant team’ – but then nothing. She calls and speaks to a pleasant woman who says she will chase it up, but then hears no more. A week passes, then ten days, and Bella begins to give up hope.
But who else is there to try? All the others who might have known anything – the Waddington parents, Mr and Mrs Diamond, the Blackmans and Aunt Mary – will all be long gone. In an idle moment she googles Jane and Juliet Timpson, but the search reveals no likely leads.
Then, quite out of the blue:
Dear Ms Browning,
Thank you for your email addressed to my uncle, Kit Waddington. He is an elderly man now, but his mind is still strong and he is thrilled to hear that your mother, Molly, is alive and well. He has many happy memories of the family’s time in Wormley and would be pleased to be in contact again.
Shall we speak on the phone? This is my number.
Best wishes,
Chris Marshall
CEO, Dragon Valley Wines
