by Lis Howell
From the Epistle for the Sunday after Ascension Day, 1 Peter 4:7
‘I’ve been waiting for you for over an hour.’ Monica Bell was sitting in the living room when Frank came home on Saturday evening. ‘Why didn’t you phone?’
‘’Cos I took the old truck, and you know there’s no hands-free phone in there. Keep your hair on!’
‘Oh God!’ Monica was thinking of Yvonne Wait. Despite police discretion, most of the village knew by now that she had been found dead with her hair cropped.
‘What’s wrong?’ Frank advanced on his wife, who had collapsed on to the sofa and was holding her head in her hands. This wasn’t like Monica. He was used to a bit of shrewish telling-off, but he had rarely seen her look despairing.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ she mumbled.
‘Heard what?’ But Monica didn’t answer. Instead, she looked up at him, her face white and her eyes red-rimmed. Her happiness and security depended on what Frank would say next. If he knew nothing about Yvonne’s death, he would go on quizzing her and it would be clear to anyone that he was innocent. But if he didn’t . . .
Frank looked at his wife, and tried to read what was in her face. This strained, silent woman wasn’t his Monica.
‘Is this about Yvonne Wait?’ he said forcefully. ‘Because she’s not going to be a threat to us anymore!’
Instead of his words reassuring her, he saw his wife open her mouth in a soundless scream. Then she gagged, and recovered herself to say, ‘How did you know Yvonne Wait was dead?’
‘Good God. I didn’t. What happened?’
‘You know fine well, Frank Bell.’ Monica groaned. It seemed like the end of the world for her. She stood up sharply and pushed past him out of the living room. He heard her feet pounding up the stairs, then the slam of the bedroom door.
* * *
At the same time, Jane Simpson felt that the atmosphere in Tarnfield House had changed for the better. Jeff had been out playing golf, and when he came home at four o’clock, feeling rather mellow after a good lunch at the nineteenth hole, she rushed into the hall where he was hanging up his Barbour in the dark cupboard under the stairs, and told him all about Yvonne’s death.
‘. . . and the ambulance has only just gone,’ she panted. ‘I could see it out of the window. The police are there and they’ve been questioning Suzy Spencer and Robert Clark, and little Daisy Arthur. But no one’s said anything about Frank.’
‘Frank?’ Jeff had driven home automatically, enjoying a cigar in the car where Jane couldn’t complain about the smell, listening to his Sinatra CD. As he slewed the Volvo round the country roads, he knew that things were taking a turn for the better. True, Russell was still a nightmare, but it had been at least three months since any major problem, and Jeff felt he could cope with being ignored by his son, as long as he didn’t have to dole out any more money.
He had been thinking about Frank Bell, too. He had come to feel a grudging admiration for him since their summit lunch meeting. Perhaps it had been some sort of fellow feeling, but he had sensed that Frank had ‘poked’ Yvonne too, as he put it to himself. Ten years ago he’d have been mad with jealousy, but now it made Jeff feel tougher all round. Frank wasn’t the only one with new resolve.
So, when he heard the news from his breathless wife, for at least two minutes he kept his head in the cupboard before backing out into the hall and facing her.
‘You mean people think Yvonne fell?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve spoken to Monica . . .’
‘What did she say?’ Jeff asked sharply.
‘Well . . .’ Jane looked thoughtful. ‘She didn’t say anything really. I said I didn’t think that had been the plan.’
‘What hadn’t been the plan?’
‘To get rid of Yvonne by pushing her off a ladder.’
‘For God’s sake, woman! D’you know what you’re saying?’
But as he shouted at her, Jeff was thinking, perhaps the silly cow is right. Perhaps everyone really does think Frank did it. He straightened up, and as he stood there he felt a wave of what he could only describe as peace. Yvonne was dead, and he wasn’t in the frame.
‘Frank must be braver than we thought,’ he said reflectively.
There was a long silence while Jane waited for him to speak. It had always been Jeff who decided on Simpson family policy, and Jane who implemented it. Then his wife saw something she hadn’t seen for weeks, not since lunch at the Bells’. Jeff was smiling. And not the usual sneer but a real grin. For someone whose idea of affection was ‘pulling your leg’, a sort of teasing abusive banter, a proper smile from Jeff was a rare and welcome thing.
‘I think this calls for a celebration,’ he said. ‘There’s a bottle of bubbly in the cellar, Janey. You go and get it while I visit the little boys’ room, and then I’ll get the glasses.’
Jane could hear him whistling ‘My Way’ as he went up the stairs. I think I’ll do Chicken Supreme and defrost some Black Forest cheesecake, she thought. And tonight, we’ll eat in the dining room.
She went into the kitchen and took a recipe book off the shelf. It was sticky with dust and grease. I should try harder, she thought. She’d forgotten how nice it was to see Jeff smile. She put the book down on the table and pushed all the usual rubbish to one side — the circulars, the free newspaper and some junk mail. And then she remembered that a letter had come for Russell that morning, with rather girlie writing. Perhaps things were changing there too, she wondered. Life would certainly be improving if Jeff was cheering up and Russell getting himself a girlfriend!
Jane started humming like her husband as she read over her favourite recipe, only her tune wasn’t ‘My Way’: it was something by Dusty Springfield, half forgotten. After a minute, she thought she had better put Russell’s letter somewhere he’d be bound to see it.
Such a pretty colour, she had murmured happily to herself as she propped the lilac envelope on the dresser.
* * *
It was later that night that Robert Clark found himself in Church Cottage, a glass of whisky in his hand. In front of him, Alan Robie was at his theatrical best, oozing bonhomie, leaning forward from time to time to rearrange the artificial logs in his gas flame-effect fire, which was surrounded by marble gleaming so white that it could never have been within yards of any real smoke.
‘So you’re saying that you think Yvonne’s death might not have been an accident? Oh really, old boy . . .’
‘I know it sounds ridiculous, Alan. But you and I both know that someone had been tampering with the body. Yvonne Wait would never have had her hair cut down to the roots at the front like that. Look, I might as well be honest with you. Stevie was seen coming out of the church this morning.’
‘By whom?’
‘Never mind who saw him—’
‘It was Suzy Spencer, wasn’t it?’
‘It doesn’t matter, Alan. Look, I like Stevie and I respect you. But you should know that the police will be investigating this death properly. They aren’t going to believe this was an accident too.’
‘What do you mean, “too”?’
‘Oh, come on, Alan. Don’t you think it’s weird that Phyllis and Yvonne have both died in the church?’
‘You think the two deaths are linked?’ Suddenly Alan leant forward, and his voice sounded low, sensible and natural. ‘You think that if Yvonne was attacked, then Phyllis might have been attacked as well? By the same person?’
‘That’s exactly what I think.’
Alan leant back in his Liberty chintz winged chair. This changed everything. Stevie was certainly a suspect when it came to Yvonne, but there was no way he could be implicated in Phyllis’s death. He hardly knew the woman.
‘All right,’ he said quietly, all hint of drama gone from his voice. ‘I’ll tell you the truth. Yvonne was blackmailing Stevie. And Stevie did go into the church this morning. But it was purely coincidental. And he had nothing to do with Phyllis Drysdale.’
‘But you would say that, w
ouldn’t you?’
‘Because Stevie’s my partner? I know Stevie like the back of my hand. I know he’s flighty and unfaithful and camp and sometimes a bit ridiculous. And of course I can’t be sure. But I don’t think he attacked Yvonne. Even though he can be a fool at times.’
There was a yelp from the doorway. Alan leapt to his feet. Stevie was standing there, fully dressed. He turned into the little porch, and grabbed his Barbour from the peg. Alan was after him in seconds. He grabbed his own anorak and followed Stevie outside.
‘Stevie!’ he shouted. ‘Come back . . .’ But the heavy rain which had been rehearsing all day was now coming down in sheets. Alan’s cry was lost in the wind and wetness. ‘Wait for me!’ he shouted over his shoulder to Robert. He sounded more exasperated than worried. ‘I’ll bring him back.’
Robert heard the sound of a car starting up. He had the feeling that these flounce-outs were a familiar part of the Church Cottage routine. He settled into the sofa, and waited for a while, confident that Alan would be back with Stevie in tow. All that would be needed was a grovelling apology.
But after fifteen minutes, nobody had returned to Church Cottage. It was nearly midnight. This is ridiculous, Robert thought, I want to go and tell Suzy what’s happened. Alan couldn’t expect him to wait forever.
He slammed the front door shut behind him and walked into the wind and rain up the hill, past the church, and round the corner to the dark half-moon of houses which was Tarn Acres. There was still a light on in Suzy’s hall. He knocked softly on the glass panel of her door. She came running from the kitchen, in a pair of pyjamas and a bulky dressing gown. He felt a sudden delight at her enthusiasm and a need to be with her, inside in the warmth, away from the stinging rain and the darkness. ‘It’s me, Rob,’ he said when the door opened a crack. It was years since he’d called himself that.
‘Oh, thank goodness. I was worried about you. Coffee? Whisky? Tea?’
‘Tea,’ he said, sitting down and feeling suddenly tired. The thought of hot, comforting tea was just right.
‘What did Alan say?’
He told her, in between sipping the welcome drink. Suzy sat opposite him, leaning forward, her eyes on him. When he’d finished, she said, ‘I think you’re right. I don’t think Stevie did it either.’
She was interrupted by a hollow banging sound. Suzy jumped up and ran into the hallway. Robert followed her. The peremptory pounding on the front door was punctuated by the doorbell ringing two or three times.
‘Bloody hell, that’ll wake the kids,’ Suzy hissed. She opened the door. Alan stood on the doorstep, hatless and soaked to the skin. She stood back to let him in, then pushed him into the living room where she could close the door and keep the sound in. He was already talking.
‘You locked me out, Clark! I’ve been looking everywhere for Stevie and I can’t find him.’
‘I thought you had your keys with you because you took the car!’
‘I didn’t take the car, you fool. Stevie did. I’ve been running around the village like a madman trying to find him, but he’s gone.’
Robert said quietly, ‘But surely he’ll come back when he’s calmed down? What you said wasn’t so bad. He’ll see that. He’s got a brain.’
‘He might have a brain,’ Alan shook his head and slumped on to Suzy’s sofa like a big wet dog, ‘but he hasn’t got a driving licence.’
25
Whit Sunday
Grant us by the same Spirit to have a right judgement in all things.
From the Collect for Whit Sunday
There had been a light on all night at All Saints vicarage. Nick Melling had been pacing the floors with a growing sense of excitement. At seven o’clock in the morning — taut with tiredness, his heart skipping into his mouth every time he heard a noise, adrenalin racing — he marched briskly out of the house. In one hand was a flapping poster, in the other a box of drawing pins. He hardly noticed how fresh and clean everywhere looked after the lashing rain of the night before. The sky was already porcelain blue, with that sense of fragility that comes with the perfect English spring dawn. The churchyard was lush and green with spots of colour from the aubretia and the late tulips, and in the distance the dark fells were clearly drawn against the bowl of the sky like dramatic slashes from a charcoal pencil. Nick marched to the door of the church and, feeling like Martin Luther, he pinned his notice at eye level. Whitsun services are cancelled owing to an accident in the church. Nick Melling will lead a short service of prayers for Pentecost at noon.
And that was it. No more compromise, no more committees, no more conciliation. There would be a proper spiritual leader in the community for the first time in generations. He had the Bishop’s backing and that was all he needed, plus of course his God-given Vision. Keyed up by action, Nick felt he could cope with the final task he had to perform before the revitalization of All Saints would be properly under way — the announcement of his new executive role to his flock.
Of course, technically, the Parochial Church Council could vote against his initiatives, and these days no vicar was supposed to be in total control. But Nick suspected that nobody at All Saints knew enough about church law to stand in his way, except perhaps Robert Clark. And as far as Nick was concerned, Robert Clark was one of the big-headed obstructive people who had to go. So a confrontation would be no bad thing, now he was strong enough to survive it. If God had dispensed with Mary and George, and Phyllis and Yvonne, there were no limits to what He would do to see Tarnfield transformed.
It wasn’t too early, he thought, to pop in on the Jones family for breakfast. They’d probably be delighted to see him. Then he could hop over to the Arthurs’ to find out how Daisy was and make up for the rather messy way he’d left things yesterday, which already seemed light-years away. That was in the past. The old, muddled, unfocused Nick Melling had been replaced overnight by this new man.
Janice Jones was astonished to hear her doorbell at seven thirty on Whit Sunday morning, and even more surprised to find the vicar on her doorstep. He looked alarmingly bright and cheerful, pink-faced and scrubbed. She was still in her dressing gown.
‘Oh hello . . . we’re just having breakfast.’
She was aware that Kevin was standing on the landing in his vest and boxer shorts. She couldn’t call him down until he’d had a chance to get dressed. There was nothing for it but to ask Nick into the kitchen-diner, where the baby was splattering mush all over the high chair, and three-year-old Zoe was watching lurid TV cartoons at a high decibel level.
‘Coffee would be wonderful, thank you, Janice — instant is fine.’
What else does he think we have? Janice thought. She put the kettle on and waited for Kevin to burst into the room. He’d be desperate to know why Nick was here. Nick started an attempt to talk playfully to Zoe, who didn’t turn her eyes from the screen. Janice watched him. Nick had never shown the children any attention before. He seemed to find it hard to make jokes or light conversation. He wasn’t good at it, she thought, for all his plans to turn All Saints into a vibrant church full of young couples and bright healthy kids. It went against the grain with Janice, but since Nick had chosen to ignore Rogation, there were times when she thought Kevin had got it wrong. He shouldn’t have insisted that Nick clear the church of the over-fifties who had kept it going so long. At least they could tickle a baby under the chin, or push a buggy for you without looking as if they were committing a style crime.
‘Nick!’ Kevin came thundering downstairs in his tracksuit. ‘Great to see you! I take it you’ve abandoned the eight o’clock communion service because of Yvonne? Good thing too. There’s really no point just for a group of old farts. This could be a turning point, you know.’
‘Absolutely!’ Nick leant over his steaming mug of dark grey coffee, trying to ignore the fact that it smelt metallic, the cheapest brand the supermarket had to offer. It was remarkable that Kevin had hit exactly on the point. He told himself to overcome any snobbish feelings. They were hangov
ers from his past. Jesus had chosen dim-witted fishermen and venal tax collectors. None of them were any better than Kevin Jones, IT expert and blunt Yorkshireman.
‘Kevin, today is the start of a new era. You were right all along. We must revitalize All Saints and turn it into a strong, vibrant, young parish. And the greatest of these is young! We have the Bishop’s blessing and all that remains now is to get out there and do it.’
Janice was reminded of when the baby caught a nasty cold last winter. She’d been pink, flushed and overactive for a few hours, so Janice hadn’t realized that it was feverishness — and not rude health! Into her mind came an old phrase of her mother’s about things ending in tears. Far be it from her to interrupt two knowledgeable men like Nick and Kevin while they were discussing church matters, but then she thought of her mum again, and wondered where all this would leave the regular Tarnfield churchgoers.
‘So what will you do?’ she asked.
‘Do?’ Her husband looked at her with a mixture of astonishment and irritation. ‘You know, love. We’ve talked about it. First thing, Nick’s got to send a note round telling people that changes are afoot. He’s got to tell them directly that there’ll be no more flowers, no more stupid “holier than thou” people in choir robes, no more old-fashioned hymns, just one big, happy family service at ten o’clock every Sunday. Right, Nick?’
‘Absolutely!’ Nick repeated, even more emphatically. It would be a lot easier to have just one service. For a start, he would only have to prepare one sermon, and he could abandon the lectionary and the readings if he wanted to. In fact the whole style of the service would be up to him. It wouldn’t be Anglicanism as everyone knew it, but it would be better, simpler, more meaningful, more focused on a real leader.
There was only one flaw in Kevin’s proposal and that was the idea of sending a note round to people. That would mean more work, and Nick really didn’t have time for that.
‘I’ll make a notice sheet and you can give it to people at the back of the church,’ he said. ‘I think that will be enough. There’s a PCC meeting the week after next and they can discuss it there. I know a lot of people will think I’m a bastard,’ he said joyously, ‘but I don’t care what they think. We need a Vision.’
