by McNeir, Leo
“I can finish sorting through the papers, if you like. Then I can get the computer unpacked and try to get it working.” The programme was agreed and they settled down to their tasks. Soon, Marnie was startled by a loud crack as Anne cut open the packing to remove the computer from its box. She smiled as Anne shook her head at the sight of the spaghetti of wires and returned to her list of phone calls. The next surprise was to find a cup of steaming hot coffee on the desk beside her, as she was speaking to the Head of Marketing at Willards Brewery.
She tore from her pad the list of phone calls, now all completed, screwed the note into a ball and threw it onto the floor at the place where the bin had been standing before Anne had commandeered it. “How’s the computer coming on? Found the plug yet?” Anne slowly extended her left arm towards the table behind Marnie. Marnie turned to find the computer set up on the table ready for action, its screen glowing blue, a coloured line crawling across its surface.
“What’s that?” said Marnie, retrieving the paper from the floor.
“Screen saver. You can customise it to show any message.” Closer inspection revealed that the line was a short text. Marnie went over and read the message. “Walker and Withaney, Design Associates”. She laughed, threw the screwed up phone calls list at Anne and returned to her desk.
After coffee they walked up to the sub post office. The streets were deserted and it came as a surprise to find three or four customers standing in the shop. Marnie half expected people to stare at her and Anne, as strangers to the village. Instead, there was a glance and a polite half-smile from the two women chatting in the corner, a muttered ‘good morning’ from the man passing them on his way out and a welcoming nod from the woman at the counter. Marnie introduced herself and Anne.
“I’ve just moved in, we’ve just moved in, that is. We came yesterday evening. I’d like to check that I have the correct postcode. Also, you should be getting mail here redirected from London.”
“It’s Richard who’s the sub-postmaster.” The woman indicated her husband sitting in a small glazed booth at the end of the counter. He came out to meet the newcomers.
“We’d heard someone had bought the old place. Next thing we knew was the post arrived all in a batch, so we expected to see new faces.”
“I’m having another phone line put in any day now and various building jobs done over the next few weeks. No doubt people will be coming to ask directions. We’re not all that easy to find down there.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll point everyone in the right direction, won’t we, Molly?”
“Oh yes. We hope you’ll be very happy here, you and your … sister? You’re too young to have a daughter her age.”
“Actually, Anne’s a friend of mine and she’ll be staying with me for a while, helping me to get sorted out.”
“If there’s anything you need, just let me know,” said Molly. “We can deliver groceries if you’re out at work and don’t have time to shop.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that. As a matter of fact, I’ll be working from home, at Glebe Farm.”
Molly glanced at her husband. “But I thought it was derelict and you were just going to be renovating it. Surely there isn’t anywhere to live?”
Marnie gave the usual explanation. Anxious not to let the conversation develop into an interview, she enquired about facilities in the area and Molly was glad to advise. In the course of her speech she pointed towards the shop window. Outside, the man who had left the shop as they arrived could be seen in conversation with another man dressed entirely in black.
“If you want good meat, you won’t do better than Mr Stubbs. That’s him there talking to the vicar.” She picked up a poster lying on the counter. Reading it upside down, Marnie saw it was an announcement of a special meeting of the Parochial Church Council to be held that evening.
“He’s also a pillar of the church?” she suggested.
Molly looked at her husband before replying. “Doesn’t quite see eye-to-eye with the vicar on some matters. Likes things to stay as they are. You know, tradition, family values, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for Sunday dinner, one o’clock sharp.” She laughed.
“Oh dear,” said Marnie. “I tend to eat very little meat these days and red meat hardly ever.”
“I don’t eat meat at all,” said Anne.
“Well, you won’t be popular with Mr Stubbs then,” said Molly cheerfully. “He sells free range eggs from his own hens and he has contacts who do really good fish. Fresh wild salmon from Wales and all sorts of sea food. But he still says a meal isn’t a meal without meat. Never mind. He’s nice when you get to know him, but he does like to have opinions, if you know what I mean.”
Marnie had a fair idea. “So the meeting is to discuss a village event, perhaps?” she asked.
This time it was Richard who replied. “It’s to discuss the changes.” He nodded to emphasise the word. Anne turned sideways to watch the two men through the window. Mr Stubbs looked in his late fifties, as far as she could judge, about the same as her grandfather. He was of medium height, thickset and balding, with a bull neck that was wrinkled at the back. This was in marked contrast with the vicar who was about a head taller, with short dark wavy hair over a sharp profile. As he spoke, he leaned forward to give weight to the points he was making and Anne had the impression, though she could not hear a word of the conversation, that there was no great display of Christian brotherly love in their words. When her attention returned to the conversation at the shop counter, she found Marnie placing an order for daily delivery of the Guardian and a pint of milk.
“I’ll just take a few bits and pieces for the moment. Anne, is there anything you need while we’re here?” Anne shook her head and Molly smiled at her. Perhaps people really were more friendly in the country, or perhaps it was the correct behaviour for a girl of her age to say little in the company of adults.
Marnie gathered up the bag with her bits and pieces. Outside, Mr Stubbs was looking thoughtfully at the back of the vicar as he walked away. He was wearing a full length black cassock, such as that worn by priests long ago and the tall, thin figure seemed an odd sight in the modern world, like a glimpse back to another age. As they made to go past, Mr Stubbs turned and looked at them, almost as if he had been waiting for them to appear, almost as if he knew them already.
“Good morning again. Fine morning.” His voice was deep and pleasant, hinting at roast dinners and thick gravy. “May I ask are you new to the area, or just passing through?” Marnie explained briefly. As she spoke, Mr Stubbs had one eye on the retreating back of the vicar, as if keeping him under observation. They shook hands and Anne felt vulnerable as his broad, fleshy fingers enveloped her slim hand. She thought of thick-cut pork sausages and smiled at the idea. His face lit up.
“Did Molly tell you about my own business?” He beamed at them and Anne was sure he found Marnie very much to his liking. “For generations we used to slaughter in the outbuilding at the back of the house, but we stopped that in ‘69. Now I get all my meat from the abattoir. Towcester or Brackley. They’re very good, but it’s still important to know your source and the farmers. You have to be discriminating.”
“I’m sure we’ll be in touch with you,” said Marnie, hoping it did not sound too much like a commitment. She glanced round in the direction taken by the vicar, who was now crossing the road opposite the church. “It’s a lovely village,” she added, trying to steer the conversation away from meat.
“I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else,” said Mr Stubbs. “In fact I never have, except when I did my National Service. Even then, I only went as far as Weedon depot.”
“And a beautiful church,” added Marnie. At that, Mr Stubbs drew breath audibly.
“For the moment,” he said. “While it’s all in one piece.” His smile had gone. “You’ve not met our vicar I suppose?”
“That was him, presumably.” The black shape had now disappeared into the churchyard.
“One for cha
nges, all sorts of changes, our Reverend Hughes.” Marnie felt unable to back out of this.
“And not everyone likes changes,” she said in a neutral tone.
“It would not be the first time this village has taken action against its vicar.” Mr Stubbs pursed his lips and his thoughts were far away. Marnie was curious, but she had no wish to begin her residence of Knightly St John with a gossip in the street. It was time to move on.
“I believe you sell free range eggs and fish.”
“Fish to order, oh yes. I’ll let you have a list. Then you can drop it in any time you like and I’ll have it delivered within a day or two. My chap’s very reliable and good value.”
“Actually, we will be needing some eggs.” Marnie glanced at her watch.
“I could fetch them,” suggested Anne. “Tomorrow perhaps?”
“If there aren’t any at the shop we have them at the Old Farm House, straight up the road,” said Mr Stubbs pointing. “Side door. Come any time.” He nodded, turned and set off.
“Better get back and do some work,” said Marnie as they set off for home. “That was a good idea about the eggs. You can have a nice chat with Mr Stubbs. He’s probably never seen a vegetarian before, in the flesh. You’ll have lots to talk about.”
Anne winced. “Of course, but he’d prefer you to go. He liked you all right, Marnie. Couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Oh no. Not at all. I’m sure you’re wrong. Not enough meat on me for his liking!” Laughing, they almost collided with the tall black shape of the vicar as he stepped out from the churchyard gate. He took a few moments to compose himself.
“I’m, I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking. I didn’t see you coming along.” He smiled apologetically. At close quarters he looked not quite as youthful as from a distance. Marnie reckoned him to be in his late thirties or thereabouts, with dark hair and sharp features, a strong beak of a nose and a chin that was almost pointed, giving him a thrusting, inquisitive expression like a jackdaw. He had dark eyes, but grey rather than brown, and pronounced cheek bones. A fine, intelligent face made firm and uncompromising by the austere black cassock. For all the diffident manner and the courteous tone, Marnie judged that this was not a man to be flexible on matters of principle.
“No, no. It was my fault, really,” said Marnie, offering her hand. “I’m Marnie Walker. This is my friend Anne Price.”
“My name is Randall Hughes.” They shook hands in turn and this time Anne found the firm grip of the long, cool fingers more agreeable.
“We’ve just arrived,” said Marnie. “We’re at Glebe farm, or rather what remains of it.”
“Of course. Mr Fletcher mentioned he had finally sold it. Oh, sorry, I mean after it had been in his family for generations.”
“And it had been on the market for a long time too,” said Marnie.
“Quite.” The vicar hesitated for a second as if choosing his words with care. “Mrs Walker, I was wondering …”
“Yes?”
“Am I correct in understanding that you’re an architect or designer, something like that? You’re connected with buildings?”
“I’m an interior designer,” said Marnie. “We’ve been admiring the church. It’s a fine structure.”
“Well, you see, that’s just the point. It is a beautiful building, of course, but it has lots of problems and needs attention, serious attention.”
“Appeal for the church roof, that sort of thing?” Marnie could see the collection plate floating into the conversation.
“Actually the roof’s okay. It was redone about ten years ago. No, the real problem is the porch and also the tower, plus various internal things that can’t be ignored for much longer. I have a file two inches thick.”
“It sounds like maintenance work,” said Marnie.
“Look, I’m sorry to accost you in the street like this. You must think me rude and I’m sure you’re very busy.”
“That’s all right. I’ll be glad to help if I can. Perhaps we ought to have a talk and see what can be done.”
“Thank you. Shall I call by some time, perhaps after the weekend? Give you time to get your bearings?”
They went their separate ways and Marnie quickened her pace, anxious to return to work.
Lunch was casual. Marnie ate a sandwich at her desk, organising her workload for the first month, keeping a note of phone calls to make and people to see. The jobs list grew steadily. Between bites, Anne installed the remaining software onto the computer, tidied the collection of leads and wires out of sight and formatted a box of disks. Her list of jobs to do went into a second page on the pad.
“Marnie, I think we’re in business. We ought to talk about your system when you’ve got a moment.”
“System?”
“How you want your computer files organised, what directories you want setting up, how the diary’s to be kept, that sort of thing.” In her previous life Marnie had left all that for her secretaries to decide. She never gave a thought to how they ran her office. How were her computer files organised? What directories had been set up? Only the diary seemed obvious, but Marnie had the impression that Anne was referring to something electronic, not the trusty Filofax that went everywhere with her.
“I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about that.”
“Shall I put something together for you to look at?”
“Do you know how to go about it?”
“Sure. We did all that in Business Studies. I got an ‘A’ in my course work.”
“An ‘A’,” Marnie repeated. She felt uneasy about the future management structure of the Walker Design Conglomerate being set up by a sixteen year-old who had left school two days earlier. “Er well, that’s very good. Perhaps you could do that and we can talk about it later on.” What made her more uneasy was the knowledge that Anne had a better idea of what to do than she did. At least Marnie was confident that she had revealed nothing of her feelings and doubts.
“Did you bring any disks with you from the office in London?” said Anne. “I can use the same system. Then you won’t be so worried about me messing things up.” It was said without rancour or sarcasm and Marnie swallowed.
“I had no such thought,” she protested cheerfully. Anne met her gaze and held it unflinchingly.
“Fine. So where are the disks?”
Marnie looked up at the ceiling. “In the car, I think. Try the box of stationery in the boot. Or they might be in the large brown envelope on the back seat.” Anne took the keys and was gone for some minutes, eventually returning laden with the box and the envelope perched on the top of it.
“Any luck?” said Marnie.
“The disks were in a packet in the glove compartment. I thought I ought to deal with these, too.” She put the collection on the floor by her desk and spent the next hour sorting through the pile. By the time she reached the end of that job, Marnie was still on the phone and Anne had reached the point where she could make no further progress without a consultation. Marnie finished her call and turned to find Anne engrossed in reading a small booklet.
“Marnie, did you know the vicar was murdered?” Anne said without looking up. “This little book was in the glove box with the disks.”
“The vicar?”
“Yes. The vicar here in the Civil War, Joseph Goldsworthy. He was murdered in the church one night in 1645, killed in the tower.”
“Who by?” said Marnie. Anne quickly scanned the page.
“Nobody knows,” she said. “It says here: ‘The identity of the murderer is unknown to this day. It remains one of the great unsolved mysteries of those turbulent times.’ Do you remember what that Mr Stubbs said about it not being the first time the village had taken action against the vicar?”
“Yes, I remember,” said Marnie. Anne had a sudden vision of Mr Stubbs raising a butcher’s knife high above his head and bringing it down savagely to stab the vicar through the heart. She shuddered and gasped for breath. “Are you all right?” said Marnie. “You’ve g
one quite pale.” She pulled a bottle of mineral water from a cupboard and poured some into a glass. Anne sipped it and smiled self-consciously.
“Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” She took several deep breaths and began to feel better. She told Marnie what she had imagined and felt foolish.
“Is that how it happened?” said Marnie. “Dreadful. Even so, it can’t have been Mr Stubbs, not in 1645!” She took the church history booklet and put it on her desk. “Why don’t we go and get some fresh air? It’s a fine day. We can post our letters and do some more sorting out when we get back. Come on! It’ll do us good.”
On this second outing they found the village alive with activity. On their way back from the post-box the children were pouring out of school. Cars were parked at odd angles up and down the high street. Mothers waiting for their children were chatting in small groups. Several of them greeted Marnie and Anne as they passed and were slowed by the congestion on the pavement at the school gate. A cluster of the smallest children brought their progress to a halt like a car stopped on a country road by a flock of sheep. A woman stepped forward in the playground, stood in the gateway and urged the children to make space, smiling an apology at Marnie.
“They just aren’t aware at this age, I’m afraid.” She had a pleasant but firm manner, a woman of around forty, about Marnie’s height in a summer dress with a light cardigan draped casually over her shoulders. The image of a village school mistress.
“That’s okay,” said Marnie. “I didn’t expect such a small village to have so many children.”
“Not all from this village,” said the woman. “They come from two other villages, Yore and Hanford, as well.”
“How odd,” said Marnie. “I had the idea that Yore and Hanford were larger than Knightly St John. I’d have expected them to have their own schools.”
“Quite right,” said the woman. “But that’s another story. I don’t believe we’ve met, have we?”
“No. We’re new to the village. This is our first day here.” They introduced themselves and Marnie explained about living temporarily on Sally Ann. The woman was the head teacher, Margaret Giles.
