by Lis Howell
‘I like the idea of the Whitsun flowers,’ said the ever pragmatic Monica Bell. ‘I could get Frank to put some trellising up against the pillars and you could do something really effective, Daisy. Remember when you did “All Things Bright and Beautiful”? That was lovely!’
‘It’s a wonderful idea,’ said Daisy breathlessly. ‘Just what you want, Nick. Something contemporary and exciting, with families involved instead of a load of middle-aged worthies!’
‘Steady on,’ said Robert good-humouredly, and he caught Suzy’s eye. He knows what I used to think of him, she thought. She smiled back.
Yvonne exploded. ‘I’m not a middle-aged worthy! I think these are bullying tactics!’
‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ Kevin Jones murmured under his breath. He looked up like a rogue elephant assessing the chances of a charge. Here at last was someone to attack. His big head swayed from side to side and his little eyes glinted.
‘I beg your pardon!’ Yvonne tossed her beautifully coiffured head and crossed her long elegant legs with a tinkle of anklet as it slipped over her silky stockings. ‘What did you say? I heard you saying something?’
‘I said, that’s rich coming from you,’ Kevin growled.
‘What on earth do you mean?’
There was an aching silence in the group. Suzy fought to stop glancing at Robert. No one wanted to support Kevin’s rudeness, but no one wanted to back Yvonne either.
‘You don’t give a toss about real faith.’ Kevin said. ‘You only want to organize the Bible study group so you can be Lady Muck and find out what’s going on. Flowers! Organ music! It’s all just superficial.’
‘That’s outrageous!’ Yvonne had a high colour. In her way she looked rather magnificent, Suzy thought. She dominated the floor. ‘I took on Bible study and flower arranging in good faith. I have the interests of All Saints at heart. Just because I like the lovely things in the church and want to save them from the philistines . . .’
‘Now, now, people . . .’ thundered Alan Robie, looking desperate.
‘Please . . .’ Nick Melling’s voice was squeaky and plaintive. ‘Please, Kevin, Yvonne, calm down. Daisy, do stop crying.’
‘Calm down! You say calm down!’ Kevin was shouting now. ‘You’ve got to sort this lot out, Nick. I thought you had Vision. I thought you were really going to get rid of the sort of sad people who just come to church because they’ve nowhere else to go. You’ve got to get your act together, mate. And as for you . . .’ He turned to face Yvonne. ‘You’re just the sort of person who’s keeping the church in the past. I don’t know why you’re involved but I’m willing to bet you’ve got your own motives. And the rest of you aren’t much better. Snobs!’
He lurched past her to grab his CD player, and bowled out of the room on his short legs. Nick Melling went after him calling, ‘Kevin, just wait a moment . . .’
Then the ring of the doorbell cut the air. Kevin waited, his chest heaving with anger, while Nick let in the latecomer.
‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry I’m late,’ twittered Jane Simpson. ‘Russell came home unexpectedly and I needed to get him something out of the freezer. Have we started? I’ve prepared a reading, like you suggested, Yvonne. Consider the lilies of the field. Such a pretty story, don’t you think? Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’ She beamed graciously at the mesmerized group.
The door slammed. Kevin Jones had left in disgust.
* * *
When Suzy got home at ten o’clock she was drained. The group had settled down after the row, as if embarrassed with itself, and, after some desultory discussion of the parables, Monica had very practically turned the subject back to the idea of a Whitsun Flower Festival. There had been gentle progress towards accepting Suzy’s proposal, and even Yvonne, grudgingly, had been brought round, especially when it was suggested that she could have a starring role as organizer. Nick had been quietly acquiescent as long as he hadn’t been asked to do anything. Nobody had mentioned Kevin Jones again.
Suzy made herself a cup of tea and opened a packet of chocolate digestives. Then she walked over to the computer and turned it on. She went upstairs and changed into her pyjamas and fleecy dressing gown, came down and poured more tea, and sat at the keyboard. There was no harm in seeing if there were any emails. She logged on and waited for the screen to resolve.
And there it was. Her heart did a little dance and she took a deep breath. It wasn’t really significant — was it? — that Robert Clark had gone straight home from the Bible study group and emailed her? She clicked on ‘Message from [email protected]’ and read:
Dear Suzy,
Thank you for your support tonight. I think the Whitsun Flower Festival by the children of Tarnfield is a wonderful idea.
Of course we still need to talk about what happened to Phyllis. It’s even more sinister now, isn’t it, when you realize what a rift has been brewing in the church!
Are you around tomorrow night? I remember you said your washing machine was broken. Why not bring a load over to my house? Molly and Jake can come too and I can help Jake with his poetry module. You said he was having trouble with it.
Robert.
Without waiting to think about it, Suzy wrote, Thanks. We’ll be there . . .
Then she formed a new message. Dear Rachel, she wrote. You won’t believe what’s happening to me . . .
15
The Tuesday into the Wednesday after Low Sunday
That it may please thee to forgive our enemies, persecutors and slanderers.
From the Litany
When she left the vicarage after the Bible study group, Yvonne Wait was still fuming. She didn’t really give a toss about a Whitsun Flower Festival and she was furious on two counts. First, Kevin Jones had rumbled her. It was true that she’d had her own reasons for keeping the Bible study group going. People tended to give themselves away when they prayed and discussed the Bible!
But secondly, she was even more enraged by his allegation that she was sad and middle-aged. Yvonne prided herself on her sleek looks and smart clothes. She liked to sit near Monica who wore frumpy cardigans and crimplene trousers. It was even more fun to show up Jane Simpson with her pathetic attempts to combine some faded designer rag with the latest M&S classic. I despise them all, Yvonne thought. But I loathe Kevin Jones most of all. He mustn’t think he can get away with this. She smiled grimly. I can make life pretty uncomfortable for Mr Bullet Head and his mumsy little wife.
And she had other fish to fry, too . . .
‘Alan!’ she called loudly as he tried to sneak past her to his car. ‘I need to have a word.’
Alan Robie sidled up to her, wearing his ‘I’m really too important’ face. ‘Yes, Yvonne? Can I help?’
‘I don’t know about that. I just wanted to find out where you were with that orchard sale.’
‘Orchard sale? Oh, I don’t think that’s on the cards. Must dash . . .’
‘Hasn’t your little playmate talked to you about it?’
‘If you mean Stevie, yes, he has. But there’s nothing doing, Yvonne.’
‘Oh, isn’t there? I must talk to Stevie again. I thought he was rather keen . . .’
‘What the devil has it got to do with you, Yvonne?’
‘Oh, stop talking to me like something out of Oscar Wilde. I can see right through your act. You’d better go home and have a heart-to-heart with your boyfriend. Call me, but it had better be soon . . .’
She didn’t wait for more. Monica Bell was saying goodbye to Nick at the vicarage door, which meant that she would have to walk past Yvonne’s car.
‘Goodnight, Monica,’ Yvonne called gaily.
‘Goodnight, Yvonne.’ Monica sounded wary.
‘And give my love to Frank, won’t you? I was at the Arthurs’ the other day, by the way, admiring their parquet. Nice job! In every sense.’
Yvonne’s tinkly laugh met with a blank stare from Monica, who turned and plodded away, looking older and frumpier
than ever.
‘Nighty-night, Jane,’ called Yvonne to the last person to leave the vicarage. ‘Remember me to Jeff. Oh, and how’s Russell? He’s the image of you, isn’t he?’
She was starting to feel better. But there was still the most important thing left to do. She just had to work out which bit of the information in her head to use. When she got home she poured herself a small glass of Grand Marnier, added tinkling ice, and curled up on her new cream sofa. She kicked her shoes off and they skittered across the beautiful blond ash floorboards. It wasn’t going to take much to get her own back. She just had to think of something . . .
* * *
Early the next morning she drove her convertible down Tarn Acres and stopped to deliver a pretty lilac-coloured envelope to the Joneses’ house. Yvonne liked lilac stationery. It was her trademark, she thought. It fell on to the mat as Janice and Kevin were having their Crunchy Wheat Nuts and Janice was trying to feed the baby, who was making a real mess.
‘What was that?’ she said.
‘Post,’ Kevin mumbled. He was in a bad mood this morning because of the debacle at the Bible study group. He hadn’t slept. It had taken him ages to get Nick Melling on side and now things were falling apart. But at least he’d put the wind up Yvonne Wait. If she abandoned her stupid idea about organizing the boring Bible study group it would soon collapse. None of the other old fogeys wanted to do it, lazy sods. He grunted. If Janice wanted to fetch the post she could do it herself.
Janice wiped the rim of the spoon over the excess on the baby’s face and fed it back in. ‘All right, I’ll go,’ she said. She put the dish of baby food on the table and went into the hall.
‘Oh, how nice,’ she said. ‘It’s a hand-delivered card!’ She was rather excited. The Joneses didn’t get many invitations or notes. She ripped it open and read it eagerly. Then she sat down heavily at the kitchen table, and pushed it silently at her husband.
Kevin stopped eating and picked up the card. He read:
Dear Janice and Kevin,
Just to say I’m sorry for getting so cross at the Bible study group last night. I’d had a very tiring day at the hospital. I’m sure we all said things we didn’t mean.
I think the idea about the Whitsun Flower Festival is a really lovely one and I am sure, Kevin, that you and Daisy will continue to co-operate really well together, but this time alongside the rest of us rather than the two of you on your own. I do realize that you and Daisy have been getting together in the evenings to talk about changes at All Saints but I just want you to know that I do believe we can work together.
You and Janice must bring your little family to tea with me one day soon.
All the best, Yvonne xx
Kevin Jones got up from the kitchen table and crumpled the note in his big fist. Then he stuffed it in the rubbish bin under the sink. Janice said nothing. When he’d gone to work, she got the note out, smoothed off the bits of Crunchy Nut and read it again. Daisy Arthur, she thought. It wasn’t a complete surprise.
That night, for the first time ever, she turned away from Kevin when he put his arm around her. Kevin rolled over and tried to let thoughts of Daisy console him. But it didn’t work. In the dark, he could hear his wife’s miserable little sobs.
So how did Yvonne know? he thought to himself. Then he remembered. On Easter Saturday night he’d gone up to the supermarket to get some baby shampoo. He’d hoped to see Daisy. He’d hung around inside until the last person in the queue had been served, then he realized Daisy wasn’t at her till. He’d been so disappointed he’d forgotten about the shampoo and mooched off. The light had been on in All Saints because Phyllis Drysdale had been in there, arranging the flowers. Silly old bag . . . but of course she was dead now. Kevin didn’t want to think about that.
Then he’d met Daisy in the darkening village street, just past Lo-cost. It had been a piece of luck. She’d been outside checking the lemonade delivery. He remembered, now, that Yvonne’s shiny grey car had bounced past them, over the cobbles but with hardly a sound, as he and Daisy had been talking. Perhaps he’d even put his hand on her arm. That’s what Yvonne had seen. Alan Robie strode past too and raised his walking stick, like the local squire. But he wasn’t the sort to gossip. Not like Yvonne Wait, who’s a world class bitch, Kevin thought to himself in the dark.
* * *
Suzy sorted out the more disgusting items of washing, like Jake’s socks and underpants, and left them in the basket, then she rammed the respectable stuff in a plastic bag. She didn’t want Mr Perfect seeing the stains and skidmarks, but she was grateful to him for taking on the rest. Molly’s school tracksuit was practically walking to the machine by itself and she was short of jumpers.
To her surprise, Jake was quite keen to go to The Briars. ‘Mr Clark might have some new software,’ he said. ‘That’ll be great. Much quicker.’
They set off after dark, which made Molly quite excitable. Robert was surprisingly relaxed and easy-going with the children. He had some juice and biscuits available, and suggested that Jake sit at the computer with a list of websites that were used at the college. Suzy heard Jake chortle. Robert had probably had the sense to find him something mildly vulgar. Molly settled down on the sofa with some valuable-looking children’s books which had belonged to Mary. Suzy had worried that there would be nothing in the staid ‘solicitor Regency’ style of The Briars that might appeal to a six-year-old. But the books went down well.
It was the first time Suzy had been anywhere but the kitchen and hallway. Robert’s front room was decorated in blue, with some pretty watercolours, and a big old-fashioned three-piece suite around the original fireplace. What an ordered life the Clarks had lived, Suzy thought, though her eye was caught by a jug of Mary’s variegated holly, dried and forgotten since some Christmas past. Robert was living in a time warp.
He showed her the washing machine in a utility room off the big, farmhouse-style kitchen. When she’d loaded it, she joined him at the table. He had laid out some papers and a couple of heavy books, and looked absorbed.
‘I’ve been doing some work on the reference to the broken reed,’ he said. ‘It’s in Kings, and Isaiah. There were several Isaiahs, you know. The one who was writing about the reed story was the first one, Isaiah of Jerusalem.’
‘How many were there?’
‘At least three. All their wit and wisdom was collected in the book of Isaiah. They were the political advisers of their time. But the first one was probably the most significant.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, he was one of the first prophets to write about political morality. Isaiah believed the Assyrians threatened Jerusalem because the Jews hadn’t been living decent lives. The Assyrians had already beaten Pharaoh, though the Jews didn’t know that then.’
‘The Assyrians sound like tough nuts.’
‘Oh, they were. Look at this book. It shows the siege of Lachish. That’s where the Assyrians were camped at the time the bruised reed propaganda was being used. It must be the first example of PR spin, mustn’t it? There are really elaborate carvings of the whole thing. It was a huge event at the time.’
‘Lachish! Oh, I’ve heard of that. It’s a frieze in the British Museum, isn’t it, some sort of stone bas-relief. I’ve been there with my Jewish friend . . .’
‘It looks amazing.’ Robert pushed an illustration towards her.
‘That’s it! It’s quite significant in Hebrew history. You should see the frieze. It’s a pity you couldn’t come with me and Rachel.’
‘That would be nice,’ Robert said.
Suzy felt the blush creeping up her neck. Shit, she thought, what have I said? Pull yourself together, she told herself, and get back on the subject. ‘So the person who attacked Phyllis would need to know this Bible reference and also to know that we had the reed decorations in the vestry?’
‘Yes. That really does narrow it down, doesn’t it? Monica, Yvonne, Daisy, Jane, Tom, Alan, Kevin and Nick. Oh, and Stevie, I suppose.’
‘But why would she do it?’
‘To make sure she got her hands on the bungalow? Or . . .’ Suzy groped in her bag for the letter Phyllis had written to George Pattinson and handed it to Robert. ‘Perhaps it was something to do with this, like I said?’
Robert read the note silently, then got up and put the kettle on.
‘It’s plausible, given Yvonne’s character,’ he said. ‘Phyllis might have found out something damaging about her. But would Yvonne have cared? You know, I can’t understand why she’d go to these lengths. She was all too likely to try and intimidate Phyllis. But why stick a decoration through her hand?’
‘Yes, Yvonne isn’t the sort to go in for ironic messages, is she? When I heard her at the Bells’, quizzing you about Phyllis’s will, she was being pretty direct. Though there was another thing, wasn’t there . . . ?’ Suzy looked quizzically at Robert. There was still something about that conversation which wasn’t properly explained . . . ‘Oh yes, it was about Mary insisting on something . . .’
Robert was pouring out the coffee. ‘I told you, it was about Phyllis making a will. Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, thanks. So if we agree that sticking a reed in someone’s hand is too subtle for Yvonne, who did it?’
‘Well, Alan and Stevie both have colourful pasts,’ Robert said, coming back to the table. ‘Perhaps Phyllis had learnt something about them. Or maybe she’d found out about some suspect deal Frank Bell was involved in. Or discovered something about the Simpsons. Jeff has always been a hopeless businessman.’
‘But it sounds as if the information came from someone who wasn’t local.’
‘Well, everyone’s been out of Tarnfield at some point.’
