by Lis Howell
But it occurred to her that perhaps she and Daisy could get together and do something with flowers that involved the kids. Maybe the children could make great big paper flames to represent the Holy Spirit burning on the heads of the disciples at Pentecost, and they could build easily obtainable bright commercial flowers into it — sunflowers perhaps, or gerberas. It would look amazingly dramatic, and get the kids’ work into the main church. Molly would love messing around with orange paper and gold and silver foil. She would suggest it at the Bible study group. And there were the children who sang in the choir. They could help too. She would ask Robert Clark about that; he was a chorister.
Yet again she wondered what was happening to her. This wasn’t in the script. She had talked about it to her friend Rachel on Saturday night, after she had demolished Robert’s fence. It seemed light-years away now.
Rachel had made her feel better. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t do these churchy things. It’s about the community, isn’t it? I don’t suppose my mum asks herself detailed questions about the relevance of the Torah when she goes to play bridge at the Schul.’
‘But Judaism’s different, Rache. You get born into it once. You don’t have to get born again. I find all this upfront evangelical stuff embarrassing.’
‘Well, are you a Christian or not?’
‘I don’t really know. In fact I don’t think I believe much at all. I just like going to church. I like the singing and the building and the sense of peace.’
‘Well, shouldn’t that be enough?’
‘No, not according to some of the people round here.’ She thought of Kevin Jones lurking around the dustbins, waiting to pounce and test her on her faith when she put out the rubbish.
‘Oh, they’re just the extremists,’ Rachel said. ‘I think you should go for it! You chose to go and live in some Cumbrian Clochemerle, so you might as well make the most of it. You either need to get involved in this church or to get back into full-time work. You know you’re missing it.’
‘Yes and no. I’m not really missing being a line producer on Living Lies.’
Suzy’s final assignment in London had been working on a programme where people revealed that they had been living in a parallel universe, usually to the horror of their nearest and dearest. For a while Rachel had worked there too, as a researcher. Rachel liked to make serious documentaries about social issues, but when times were tough she would freelance anywhere. She and Suzy had been friends for years, since they started as Granada trainees. They were both from Greater Manchester, though Rachel was from a wealthy Jewish family in Didsbury while Suzy had been brought up in Broadheath.
‘So tell me about these village people,’ Rachel had demanded.
‘Well, there’s Phyllis Drysdale. She was best pals with Mary Clark who died of cancer and who ran the show. It was Mary who roped me in. I went to see the church, and she and the vicar were there.’
Looking back, Suzy felt uncomfortable about her first visit to All Saints. She was sure Mary had been there with George Pattinson, but he had melted away. Now that she knew about the routine at the church, she had wondered several times what they had actually been doing there on a Thursday afternoon. She hadn’t noticed them at first, and suddenly Mary had loomed at the end of her pew.
Suzy shook her head to clear it, and continued, ‘Then there’s Yvonne Wait who works at the hospital; very smart and brisk. Jane Simpson is a duchess type from Tarnfield House, and the Bells are local business people; they’re all right.’
‘Any men?’ Rachel asked.
‘Not in the sense you mean. But there’s Tom Strickland, who’s a gruff ex-squaddie in his sixties, and there are two gay guys. One’s so “out” it’s not true and the other’s a pipe-smoking closet queen. They’re a scream. Then there’s Daisy, our token young person . . .’
She stopped suddenly. There was another man, of course. ‘And there’s also Robert Clark. Mary’s widower.’
‘Uho . . . come on, Suzy! What’s the subtext here?’
‘There isn’t one. I told you about him earlier. He’s the one whose fence I ran into.’
‘You said nothing about him! Why did you leave mentioning him till last?’
‘No reason.’
‘Oh yes? You usually wreck people’s property and then stop thinking about them?’
‘Oh Rache, get lost! You are so annoying. I swear to you that he’s just an old fart. He wears hats and teaches poetry. And sings in the church choir. Give me a break.’
‘OK . . . though the words “protest” and “too much” spring to mind, methinks.’
‘Go to hell. Or better, come up here for a weekend! I’ll go mad if I don’t see you soon. I must be halfway there already, if I’m doing flower arranging and chatting up widowers.’
Rachel had laughed. Now, though, Suzy felt more unsettled. Everything had changed so much since Saturday. Phyllis would be cremated the following Monday. Daisy had told her that there’d been a post mortem, which had confirmed that she had suffered a massive heart attack. Poor Phyllis, Suzy thought.
* * *
She sat in the car park outside Norbridge Community College and waited. Jake had forbidden her to listen to his contribution, and anyway the woodwind session was running late because one of the other kids had split the reed on his sax. Jake had been unpleasantly triumphalist.
‘He’s a plonker anyway,’ he said to Suzy. ‘My teacher says he’s really disorganized. No wonder he’s got a broken reed!’
‘Don’t be nasty, Jake. There’s no guarantee you’re going to do so well yourself.’
‘Oh no? The teacher says I’m really good. You watch this space, Mum.’
She was delighted for him really. Neither Jake nor Molly was a neat or tidy kid. But when it came to taking care of the saxophone Jake really tried hard. There’d be no chance of him having a broken reed.
Broken reed. The phrase seemed familiar, like something from the Bible. She had the idea it was a byword for unreliability — wasn’t that what Jake’s teacher was getting at?
Suzy sat bolt upright in the driver’s seat. She had suddenly realized what had been worrying her about Phyllis’s accident. Yet again, the scenario everyone else had so glibly accepted just wouldn’t work in Suzy’s head.
How come a decoration had cut Phyllis’s left hand? And what sort of fake flower would do that? There was only one thing that fitted the bill. But why would Phyllis have been using that? It made no sense. And not only would it have been totally uncharacteristic for Phyllis to cut herself — it was physically impossible.
But shouldn’t the experts have spotted this? Wouldn’t the police have seen it? Or Phyllis’s doctor? Wouldn’t the pathologist have come up with a sensible explanation? So what was the official line?
Robert Clark was arranging the funeral. He would know.
It would be at least half an hour before Jake would be finished at the workshop. Suzy locked the car and walked quickly over to the college’s reception before she could change her mind.
‘I know it’s the holidays, but is Mr Clark in?’
‘Yes. He does evening class on Thursdays. Creative Writing. Who shall I say it is?’
‘Oh . . . just say Suzy Spencer. About the church.’ She felt stupid, and turned to read some leaflets about further education.
‘He’s coming down,’ the woman said.
Suzy felt her stomach turn over. Am I being ridiculous? she thought. Probably, but what’s new! She turned to see Robert walking down the corridor. He looked taller and more casually dressed, more at home. This is Robert’s world, she thought. Tarnfield was Mary’s. He’s different here.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Good to see you. What’s this about? Problems with the kitten?’
‘No. The kitten’s fine. Look, Robert, you’ll probably think I’m mad but is there somewhere we can sit?’
‘Just here in reception if you like. In a minute it will probably fill up with Spanish for Beginners, but it’s free for the moment.’
He ushered her to a bench just around the corner from the receptionist. I must put this calmly and sensibly, Suzy thought, or he’ll think I’m crazy. After all, his wife gave me a pretty bad press. Why should he trust me? Just because we’ve had one or two decent conversations doesn’t mean we’re bosom buddies. But if I can’t talk to Robert, who can I talk to in Tarnfield? And I have to talk to someone.
She took a deep breath.
‘I’m here because it’s Jake’s music day — one of those holiday workshops. He plays the sax. But something he said made me think. That flower-arranging decoration Tom found through Phyllis’s hand — what did it look like?’
‘He said it was long and wiry. And green.’
‘I knew it! It was a fake reed, wasn’t it? Mary bought them for the Harvest display the year before last. And where was Phyllis cut?’
‘Through the skin between her thumb and forefinger.’
‘Which hand?’
‘Her left.’
Suzy gave a little cry, part horror, part satisfaction. ‘Exactly! It just doesn’t add up. For a start, Phyllis wasn’t going to use the reeds. There was no reason for her to get them out.’
‘She may have had some reason which we don’t know about—’
‘No! She always planned everything thoroughly, just like Mary. But even if she changed her mind, she couldn’t have done it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she had terrible arthritis in her right hand. She couldn’t use it. And her left hand couldn’t injure itself!’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Don’t you see? Someone else must have done it. Those reeds were tough and spiky, but not tough enough to pierce a hand by accident. What did the police say? Or the coroner?’
Robert was silent. Then he said, ‘The pathologist didn’t see the reed, Suzy. Neither did the police. At the time it didn’t seem important, but Tom pulled it out.’
‘Oh no! Why did he do that?’
‘I don’t know. Nick was in a state, and I was trying to deal with him at the time. Tom said something about not wanting a fuss about health and safety in the church. So all the pathologist saw was a cut to Phyllis’s hand.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He was harassed and didn’t chat for long. There’d been that accident on the motorway over the weekend where four people were killed. He said there was no doubt Phyllis died of a heart attack and I could apply for the death certificate.’
‘Did you mention the reed?’
‘I didn’t have to. He said it was crystal clear that Phyllis had cut herself on something and had a coronary. The cut itself wasn’t the cause of death, though it might have brought it on.’
They sat there in silence.
Then Suzy said, ‘I think someone else cut her deliberately. But why do it? And why choose a reed? I think it’s a symbolic thing. You know a lot about the Bible, Robert. Doesn’t it ring a bell with you?’
‘Perhaps. There’s something about broken reeds. In Isaiah, I think. I don’t know off the top of my head. I’ll have to look it up.’
‘You don’t think I’m being stupid?’
He was silent, thinking. Then he said, ‘No.’ He paused. ‘I knew it was odd. I should have realized at the time. But I just wanted as little trouble as possible.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s always been my mistake.’
‘I tried to ignore it too. But it’s the only explanation.’
‘You may be right. I’m sorry I snapped at you in the church.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad that you understand now.’ She looked at her watch and jumped up. ‘Look, I’ll have to go and get Jake. If you find that Bible reference will you email me? I’ve got a sick feeling about this. There’s one thing daytime TV has in common with Christianity . . .’
‘What?’
‘You learn how evil people can be.’
* * *
Later that evening, the Reverend George Pattinson sat by the window of the bleak box of a bungalow where he now lived, and shuffled some papers in his hand. One of them was a handwritten note from Phyllis Drysdale.
Dear George, it said. Forgive me for bothering you when I know all you want is peace and calm after the misery of the last year. But I need your help. An old colleague has some very disturbing information about someone. I can’t go to Nick Melling about it. I need to talk to you. Sunday night perhaps? Yours, Phyllis.
But she was dead now. George Pattinson was an experienced clergyman. He realized that Phyllis Drysdale had been scared. And he hadn’t been able to do anything to help her. His hands shook. He knew about wickedness. And he knew there was something deeply disturbing going on in Tarnfield.
But he was out of it now. He took Phyllis’s note, and pushed it under the Bible on his desk. Out of sight, out of mind.
11
The Friday in Easter Week
We commend to thy fatherly goodness all those, who are any ways afflicted or distressed in mind, body, or estate.
From the Prayer for all Sorts and Conditions of Men
Friday evening was always a crabby time at Tarnfield House because Russell Simpson never came home for the start of the weekend. He usually arrived at midday on Saturday when he would be hung over.
When her son had been born, Jane Simpson thought her life was complete. She had hated pregnancy and in fairness it hadn’t been easy, the sickness and the later toxaemia adding to her sense of being bloated and cow-like, hardly the slim Twiggy type who had caught Jeffrey’s eye. But she had longed for a child after nearly two decades of marriage. The treatment she’d gone for, discreetly, in Carlisle and Newcastle, revealed no reason for her infertility. Jeff of course wouldn’t consider any tests. On top of that, there had been the pressure from Jeff’s mother who subjected her to verbal and visual examination every other Sunday. After a few years, Mrs Simpson senior resigned herself to not being a grandmother, but the resentment was always there.
Then, six months before Jane’s forty-third birthday, Russell’s astonishing arrival had put them all in their place and silenced twenty years of remarks about Jane not being quite good enough. Russell had been a handsome baby and a lovable little boy. He was adored by his mother and his grandmother, putting his father’s nose slightly out of joint.
The Friday after Easter, Jeff said, ‘Where’s Russ?’ grumpily, looking down at his dinner plate where two dry lamb chops nestled against some chips and frozen peas. And of course there was the fancy tomato and bit of lettuce Jane put on all their meals. Garnish, she called it.
‘He called from work, darling. He’s staying in Newcastle tonight.’
‘How’s he coping without a car?’ Russell’s motor was in the garage again, after yet another ‘bump’. ‘Couldn’t you go and pick him up?’
‘Oh Jeff, he doesn’t want to be tied to our apron strings at his age.’
‘He doesn’t mind being tied to our wallets though, does he? Correction. I mean my wallet.’
Jane sighed. Until this exchange, she and Jeffrey had sat in silence, as usual, at the kitchen table. Recently she had become less and less interested in preparing meals as she had once done, getting out the best china and lighting the candles in the dining room. Her roasts, steak and kidney puddings, interesting pastas and occasional forays into oriental cuisine had become rare events. Jeff was always grumbling about indigestion, and his weight. Over the last six months he seemed to have become an old man. Of course he was over seventy now. And he was angrier than ever with his son who wasn’t here — yet again.
Russell was nearly twenty now, and supposedly working. He certainly had a job in some sort of agency in Newcastle. But he was part of a gang of young people intent on drinking their way through as much fun as possible. When Jane asked him where he had been he would say, ‘Oh, I dossed down at Marcus’s place,’ or Jed’s place. Or at Louise’s. Or Charlotte’s. Gender didn’t seem to matter in Russell’s world where male and female alike hung out in pubs and clubs any day of the week, ta
king a ‘disco nap’ sometimes before clubbing until dawn. Newcastle upon Tyne wasn’t famous for its extensive upper-middle class. But there was a small, tight group of young people from the outer suburbs and the Northumberland gentry, who stormed the city nightly from their jobs in ad agencies, PR companies, solicitors’ offices and media, and joined the students having a great time in the new Northern metroland. It was all totally alien to his father.
Jeff Simpson was ten years older than Jane. He’d put his youth behind him swiftly when his own father died, and he inherited the ownership of the cattle market. The Simpsons had been agricultural brokers of some sort since the eighteenth century and Jeff had been brought up to think of himself as wealthy and established. He liked life’s luxuries, and thought of them as his due. In return, he knew he would settle down and become a mainstay of the rural hierarchy.
But he had seen things change massively during his middle age. The auction mart had slowly run down, until he had sold off the land to a wholesale supermarket chain. He had retired to live on the proceeds. But after the shareholders and other family members were paid off, he and Jane were left with a finite sum of money, which was being whittled down much more quickly than he’d anticipated.
Though there was a reason for that, which Jane knew nothing about.
He looked at her across the kitchen table, in her new cashmere cardigan and her silly shoes designed for a woman half her age, and felt both disgusted and ashamed.
Dressed up like a dog’s dinner, he thought to himself. She must think I’m made of money.
But he knew in his heart that was unfair. Jane had always felt under pressure to live up to the Simpson image. Waiting for the pain to start, the moment he swallowed a mouthful of his over-grilled lamb chop, he wondered what would have happened if he had married Phyllis Drysdale. Now she was gone, he let himself indulge in regret, though he hadn’t thought much about her for the last thirty-five years.
Jeff had met Phyllis at a family wedding, and she had seemed like the ideal wife for a young county chap. She was soft and curvy and sweet. He was attracted to her fragility and he encouraged her to be fluffy and scatter-brained. She accepted his teasing bantering and played down the fact she had trained as a teacher. Sometimes they’d gone out with Mary Pattinson and other boys in a foursome, but Mary definitely wasn’t Jeffrey’s type. He liked his women to know their place. His engagement to Phyllis had lasted two years.
