by Lis Howell
Suzy reread what she had written. But what comes next? she thought. What are we going to do about it?
She took a deep breath, and then she wrote, I went to see George Pattinson today. He showed me a note from Phyllis saying she’d found out something disturbing about someone at All Saints. George doesn’t want to deal with it. So that just leaves us. I think the letter and the mutilation may be connected. And it must be to do with someone in the parish . . .
13
The Monday after Low Sunday
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .
At the Burial of the Dead
‘Of course I wasn’t surprised.’ Babs Piefield took another sip of tea and looked over the cup at Nancy Arthur. ‘I mean, she goes to work, and has two children, and gets involved with all this church activity, so what do you expect? The repairman had come all the way from Newcastle, and she wasn’t in! Good job I spotted him!’
Poor Suzy Spencer, Nancy Arthur thought, shifting wearily in her chair. No wonder she’d forgotten about the washing machine engineer. That afternoon it was Phyllis Drysdale’s funeral and Suzy was there along with almost everyone in Tarnfield. Except Nancy Arthur and Babs Piefield.
Nancy thought, I may be housebound with ME, but I’m not an idiot. She was well aware that Babs was visiting because she didn’t want to be just an ‘extra’ at the funeral. Babs was always very keen to stress that she wasn’t a churchgoer. Her family was ‘chapel’ anyway. But that didn’t stop her wanting to come round and gossip; and at the Arthurs’ there was a chance of getting information from the horse’s mouth. But Babs must have realized by now that Daisy didn’t talk at home to her mother about church matters, even a dramatic death. Daisy suspected her mother disapproved of how much she was getting involved at All Saints.
And she was right, Nancy thought. I do.
Babs was still rattling on about Suzy Spencer. ‘I mean, it’s so difficult to get tradesmen out here. Of course I went straight over and said, “I’m sorry, she’s not there.”’
‘Did you tell him that Suzy was at a funeral?’
‘Oh no, I didn’t think it was my job to explain her whereabouts.’
Typical, Nancy thought. Far be it from Babs to get someone else out of a hole.
‘Talking of the church,’ Babs was saying, ‘Janice Jones told me that the good-looking young vicar chap is determined to push through a lot of new ideas. But he’s getting on people’s nerves. I don’t blame him, though. I mean, he’s got to modernize. It’s the only way to attract people.’
‘Is it? Would that attract you?’
‘Me? Oh no! I mean, you don’t have to go to church to be a Christian, do you?’
Nancy sighed. I don’t know what you have to do to be a Christian, she thought wearily, but she suspected that Babs had a long way to go. She found her eyes were closing. Nancy preferred to have visitors in the morning when she was more alert. She liked to have all the tea things prepared, and to have the energy to tidy up, herself. There was no way she wanted Babs prowling round her cupboards.
‘Shall I wash up, then?’ Babs said.
‘No, thanks. I may be an invalid but I can manage.’
Suit yourself, Babs Piefield thought. Nancy had always been fussy about her kitchen. Of course she had everything money could buy, including a big dishwasher and two refrigerators. Babs sniffed. The Arthurs had all sorts of equipment, some of it left over from when they’d run the village shop. Roger Arthur had come from Leeds, but his father had been an agricultural salesman who’d travelled in the Tarnfield area. When the shop had come up for sale, Roger had taken it on and developed it. But then he’d had a stroke, and died in his fifties a few years ago. Afterwards, Nancy had gone down with one ailment after another, and then she’d got this weird ME. Yuppie flu, they called it, but that was odd because Nancy wasn’t a yuppie. And this certainly wasn’t flu. Babs sometimes thought the ME was just an excuse for Nancy to sit at home in comfort. Not everyone could afford a leather chesterfield suite and parquet floors with Persian rugs on top.
Babs had never heard Nancy talk about her own family. There was some story about them cutting Nancy off when she married Roger, but they’d obviously not been short of a bob or two. There were some lovely old pieces in Nancy’s lounge, which Babs guessed were pretty expensive. Nancy’s eldest boy was some sort of accountant and the younger one was a lawyer. They’d done very well for themselves, Babs thought, despite losing their father, and their mother going down with this strange illness. Babs’s own son had left home and joined the navy. She rarely saw him.
‘Are you sure that you wouldn’t feel better if you just tried to make another pot of tea?’ Babs would have loved another cuppa, and she was convinced that if Nancy made a bit more effort generally, things would click back into place. She was always suggesting that Nancy ‘just try’ something else. Nancy passed her hand over her brow. It was pointless trying to explain myalgic encephalomyelitis to Babs. They’d been friendly for over twenty years, but Nancy had never held a serious conversation with her neighbour. There were so many things Nancy knew she couldn’t explain to Babs.
Nancy sighed. ‘I’m really feeling a bit weary. Perhaps it would be better if I had a lie-down.’ ME was awful, Nancy thought, but at least she had her family. She suspected that Babs needed the visits more than she did, but at this point she just wanted her to go home. Babs showed no sign of moving. She was still there ten minutes later when the car drew up outside and Daisy came bouncing down the path.
‘Hello, Mrs Piefield,’ Daisy said cheerily. ‘You OK, Mum?’ She was smiling, and her cheeks were pink. A flicker of anxiety passed over Nancy Arthur’s face. Her daughter’s determined brightness sometimes worried her.
‘I’m fine, love. How was the funeral?’
‘OK. The church was packed. Nick was very good. I didn’t stay long at the wake.’ There had been funeral baked meats at the Plough, organized by Robert Clark with Phyllis’s solicitor.
Nancy grimaced and heaved herself towards the door. ‘I really would like a rest now, Babs, especially as Daisy’s back.’ She laboriously turned and, using the wall to support herself, she walked into the hall and saw Babs out. It still took Babs five minutes of more chatting before she could detach herself from the doorstep. Then Nancy dragged herself back inside. At the door into the living room, she paused and watched her daughter. Daisy was sitting in the armchair, her head in her hands.
‘I did love Phyllis, Mum,’ she murmured. Nancy went over to her and stood beside her, cradling her head against her bosom.
‘I know you did, sweetie. After all, she taught you at Sunday School and gave you all that advice about university.’
Daisy had started to cry, big gasping sobs.
‘Keep calm, Daisy,’ Nancy said softly. ‘It’s all right.’
The doorbell rang. Daisy wiped her eyes on a tissue, and just as suddenly resumed her bright manner. She got up and looked through the window.
‘Oh, it’s Yvonne at the door. I’ll go. I’m sorry, Mum. I just lost it for a moment. I’ll be fine.’
I doubt it, if Yvonne Wait is calling on us, Nancy thought grimly.
* * *
It was funny, Suzy thought. Before moving to Tarnfield she had hardly been to a funeral in her life, but in the last eighteen months she had been to three. First had been Rachel Cohen’s father’s, an orthodox Jewish affair at the Burial Grounds in North London. It had been very moving, but very different from the next one, which was Mary’s Church of England service. That had begun with George Pattinson intoning the ringing words ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life.’ It had sent shivers up her spine.
Today had been Phyllis’s turn.
Nick Melling started off reasonably well, though he had none of the presence of George Pattinson, and his voice warbled and varied from deep and meaningful to light and over-familiar. Nick’s sermon was as uneven as his tone. He tried to say nice things about Phyllis but couldn’t resist referring to her as a
‘regular churchgoer’ and a ‘stalwart of All Saints’ as if these things were strange old-fashioned habits like using a tea cosy or a china po.
Suzy had felt very alone. She found herself wondering if anyone else had thought about the reed in Phyllis’s hand. She hadn’t wanted to talk to any of the All Saints regulars, so she sat at the back. She had seen Robert in the distance, but he had been far too involved to speak to her. It had all made her feel very uneasy and distracted.
Walking home down Tarn Acres, she saw Yvonne Wait pull up in her smart silver convertible and then stride ahead of her to the Arthurs’ house. Yvonne was wearing an extremely smart black trouser suit and crisp white blouse, which made Suzy feel hot and lumpy in her jumper, jacket, long skirt and boots.
She jumped when someone tapped her on her shoulder.
‘Mrs Spencer! You missed the washing machine man. I told him you weren’t in!’ Babs Piefield yelped triumphantly.
‘Oh no! Sod it!’ said Suzy.
While Babs’s mouth was still open, she managed to use the moment to say, ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ and escape. Inside the house Molly came running to meet her. Jake had agreed to mind his sister for once, and to Suzy’s delight they seemed to have got on well.
‘How’s Flowerbabe the kitten?’ Suzy asked. In the end she had given in, and the cat had retained its name.
‘She’s fine. Look, we’ve made her a house out of this cardboard box.’ Jake smiled sheepishly. ‘It’s quite good, isn’t it, Mum? Would you like a cup of tea?’
Suzy felt tears coming into her eyes. Poor Phyllis, she thought, how awful to think that she’s dead. And now the kitten she loved is here with us, people she didn’t really know. She went up to Jake and Molly and put her arms around them both and hugged them. Whatever ugliness was lurking in Tarnfield, Suzy had shut the door on it. For now.
* * *
In the Arthurs’ house, Nancy was staring Yvonne Wait squarely in the face.
‘We’re not selling the land behind the shop, Yvonne,’ Nancy said, ‘so just come to terms with it.’
Yvonne looked past her to Daisy. ‘We’ll see about that,’ she said.
14
The Tuesday after Low Sunday
Jesus came and stood in the midst, and saith unto them, Peace be unto you.
From the Gospel for Low Sunday, John 20:19
Why am I doing this? Suzy asked herself the next evening as she walked up the gravel path to the vicarage. It was dusk, and the house was in darkness. In the Pattinsons’ time there had always been a lamp on in the porch and the hint of buttery light behind the curtains, but Nick Melling had no idea of hospitality. The house was so clean and neat it seemed sterile, and overall it now gave the impression of being grey and cold.
Nick opened the door, and ahead, in the Pattinsons’ lounge, Suzy could see Monica Bell, Alan Robie and Tom Strickland. Yvonne hadn’t arrived yet and to Suzy’s surprise Kevin Jones was in the kitchen with Daisy, making the coffee.
‘I thought we’d start with a drink as Yvonne is going to be a bit late,’ Nick said. There was tension in the air, Suzy thought. Usually they started the meeting with a prayer, and had coffee at the end, but this evening everything was being done out of sequence.
Nick got up to answer the door again and Suzy sat down on the long sofa, by Monica. It was odd, she thought, how the same room with the same people could be comfortable and welcoming on one occasion and seem hostile the next. There was no fire in the raked grate, and the overhead bulb was bleak instead of the soft light of Joan Pattinson’s table lamps. Robert Clark was the next to arrive, and Suzy saw to her surprise that he was wearing jeans. Not such an old fart, she thought. He sat down next to her and smiled.
‘No sign of Yvonne?’ he said to Nick, who shook his head.
‘Not yet. She phoned to say she was going to be late.’
Nick Melling took the upright chair in the middle of the circle and Suzy realized that all the seats had been angled to face him. He coughed. ‘Daisy, Kevin, is the coffee ready?’ He had the air of someone about to make an important announcement.
‘Yes, here we are.’ Daisy put the tray on to the coffee table in the middle, and sat down on the floor at his feet. Nick shifted and looked embarrassed, but was clearly not going to be put off by her devoted upturned face.
‘Look, everyone.’ Nick addressed the group. ‘Welcome. But before we start, I think we really ought to take this opportunity to discuss just how we want All Saints to progress. Kevin has come to join us tonight because he and I have been talking and we think, er . . .’ His voice tailed off.
‘We think,’ Kevin continued gruffly, ‘that now Phyllis is dead and buried, we need to make changes. That’s right, isn’t it, Nick?’
‘It is indeed,’ Nick said, looking serious and failing to meet anyone’s eyes.
‘What changes?’ said Alan Robie, his voice even deeper with anxiety.
‘I think we need to, er, get real,’ said Nick. ‘You know, if the church is to survive we need new blood. There are families in Tarnfield who never come near us. We need to think of ways to bring them in. Perhaps the Bible study group and the other things we usually do aren’t, you know, the most attractive methods.’
‘But isn’t this a matter for the Parochial Church Council?’ queried Alan.
‘Well, of course, but so many of you sit on the PCC and also come to the Bible study group that Kevin and I thought this might be the time to, well, informally broach some new ideas.’
‘Like what?’ said Tom Strickland brusquely.
‘Like getting rid of the flowers. And the choir. And this group,’ said Kevin. ‘What we need is to scrap all this traditional stuff and go for a new approach. We need a home study group with music and modern prayers. I’ve got this CD with new choruses on it here. We should be playing it before we start. I’ve brought my portable disc player—’
‘Hang on . . .’ Tom Strickland started to bark. Monica Bell said loudly at the same time, ‘This is a bit sudden.’ And Alan Robie boomed, ‘But look here . . .’
The whole group seemed to erupt, and at that moment the doorbell rang again.
‘That will be Yvonne,’ Nick said, leaping to his feet and escaping. Kevin Jones had advanced to his ghetto blaster and the sound of loud rap-style music cut through the babbling. Suzy caught Robert’s eye and for a moment, to her amazement, she thought he was trying not to laugh.
Into the hubbub came Yvonne, looking even more glamorous than usual, her hair shining under the light. She was wearing a dressy outfit with a flouncing skirt and high-heeled shoes, with pointed toes and an ankle bracelet.
‘What on earth is going on?’ she demanded in her bossiest voice.
‘Do sit down, Yvonne,’ Nick shouted over the noise. ‘And perhaps we could turn that down for a moment, Kevin?’
Kevin shrugged and obliged, but the pulsating beat went on in the background. For a minute Suzy wondered how the words ‘bitch’ and ‘white trash’ could be incorporated into religious music, but the lyrics were being growled so she couldn’t hear them.
‘Are you really saying you want to get rid of the choir and the flower arranging?’ Monica said in a baffled voice.
‘You can’t be serious. This is a bad mistake,’ rumbled Alan Robie. There was sudden quiet except for the beat of strangled music. Nick Melling looked tortured. He glanced at Kevin for reassurance.
Then to Suzy’s astonishment Robert Clark said quietly, ‘I think you have a point, Nick. The church certainly has to move on.’ He stopped and waited, then added, ‘But let’s not be too hasty. Lots of people like the traditional things. Maybe we could compromise.’
‘Compromise?’ Kevin Jones looked as if he would like to vomit.
‘Yes, why not, Kevin? Let’s have a new, vibrant, unconventional service, say once a month to see how it goes. And let’s talk about ways to incorporate tradition and progress . . .’
Suzy glanced at Nick Melling. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m new
to All Saints, so it does attract some people. And I think I’m up to date, with a teenage son and a little girl. But there are some things about tradition that I like.’
‘So you’re in favour of compromise too?’ Robert suggested.
Suzy took her cue from him. ‘Absolutely. In fact I was going to suggest that Daisy and I got together. We could get the children to make some flower decorations for Whitsun. Doing Sunday School is such hard work for you by yourself, Daisy.’
Daisy Arthur’s face lit up. ‘Oh Nick, could we?’ she breathed. ‘A Whitsun Festival is just what I would like! It could be a real mission!’
Nick Melling looked confused. They had hijacked him. But he was the vicar! This was not on the agenda. He had psyched himself up for the moment when he would confront all these people with their fixed ideas and argumentative notions, but here they were, twisting his words and taking Daisy, his biggest supporter, with them. He felt outmanoeuvred by a bunch of country bumpkins. He could see that Kevin Jones was furious too. He’d been all geared up for battle and the wind had been taken out of his sails.
‘It’s not good enough, Daisy,’ Kevin said angrily. ‘You’re giving in. You talked about fellow travellers. That’s all these folk are!’ He made an expansive gesture with his right hand and unfortunately caught Yvonne Wait on the leg with his wrist.
‘How dare you!’ she squealed. ‘This is insulting.’
‘It’s only a discussion, Yvonne,’ Robert said mildly.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Suzy chimed in. ‘We’ve got to take everyone’s views into account, and Kevin has made some very good points.’ Kevin Jones shook his big, bullet head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’s disappointed, Suzy thought. He wanted a fight.
