by Lis Howell
It was the worst night of Monica Bell’s life. How could Frank screw everything up like this? The man’s vanity was unbelievable, virtually confessing to Jeff Simpson like that, because he felt flattered. Jeff might be a crap businessman but he was a manipulative bastard. It would suit him to divert suspicion onto Frank.
At six o’clock in the morning she crept downstairs, and slipped outside.
Frank heard the door close in his sleep. He woke suddenly and pounded downstairs after her, his feet still in their socks from the night before, slipping on the wood flooring in the hallway. ‘Monica!’ he shouted. But she had gone.
Frank didn’t know what to do. What had happened? Had someone told Monica about his one bonk with Yvonne Wait? But who? There was nobody who knew for certain — though some people like Babs Pie-face had guessed. Anyway, he would just deny it again. Why was Monica so worked up? He knew his wife would have taken her mobile, and he guessed she was on her way to their daughter’s. Monica was a good old stick, but she did go over the top sometimes. It was stupid, her getting so aerated. Yvonne Wait was dead and it looked like an accident. So they were all in the clear. That was all that mattered.
I’ll call her when she’s had time to calm down, he thought. In the meantime I’ll have a fry-up.
An hour later, he wondered why Matthew hadn’t come downstairs. It was very early, but the smell of bacon usually got him out of his pit. He went upstairs, and knocked on his son’s door. There was no reply. He gingerly put his head round. There was never any knowing what Matthew might be up to in his bedroom. But instead of the orgiastic scenes he expected, Matthew’s room was empty and his bed undisturbed. Oh well, Frank, thought. His son was out on the razz again. He was probably at the Simpsons’, with Russell.
He knew he should call Monica but he put it off. Women! He smiled as he pottered around the house till midday, when he went to the Plough for a pint. Jeff Simpson greeted him like a long-lost friend and immediately ordered a malt whisky for him. Frank smirked back. But then he noticed that the barman seemed less friendly than usual. A couple from Manchester who came up at weekends waved to him enthusiastically as they always did, but the real locals couldn’t meet his eye. Frank was aware that people edged away from him at the bar. What’s Jeff been hinting? he thought.
And for the first time the reality of his situation hit him. Thanks to Jeff’s big mouth, his friends and neighbours suspected that he had killed Yvonne. They might all have wanted to be rid of her, but they stopped short of congratulating him. Not everyone thought he was a hero. And killing her was a damn sight worse than screwing her.
He thought of Monica’s white, terrified face. That explained it. She wasn’t outraged, she was scared. This wasn’t jealousy; it was fear. A bit of boasting had put him in the frame in the eyes of the whole of Tarnfield. Bloody Nora! He knocked back the scotch. Then he strode out to his car, revved it like a boy racer, and set off towards Carlisle in search of his wife.
He put his foot down on the accelerator and left Tarnfield Scar behind him, its outcrop of granite cutting the blue sky like a hunchback.
* * *
Nick Melling faced his small congregation. He thought the fact that so few regulars had turned up was a sign things were moving in the right direction. Monica Bell wasn’t there, nor Alan Robie and his little friend. Tom Strickland was in hospital reaping the consequences of his Saturday night drinking. Jane Simpson had been roped in to face her Strickland family responsibilities — a well-deserved smack in the face! There was no Daisy because she was still recovering. No Yvonne, because she was dead!
But there was an encouraging sprinkling of young couples who wanted to ensure their children got into the Church of England school in Norbridge. Nick never questioned their commitment, because they were just the sort of people the church needed, he told himself. And of course there were a few elderly people who came to church once in a while and who wanted to see the scene of the drama, but they were of no consequence.
But unfortunately there was also Robert Clark, with Suzy Spencer. Seeing them sitting there, together, reinforced Nick’s determination. They weren’t the sort of people he wanted at All Saints. They weren’t committed to his Vision and they weren’t young enough, or sexy enough, for the image of his parish. They would have to go. He would alienate them so much they would have no option. It was easy, really. It wouldn’t be his fault.
Nick kept his sermon to a minimum. A tragedy had occurred, he told them, the day before the traditional date when the Church remembered the arrival of God’s Holy Spirit. But that was just a tradition. The Holy Spirit was always with us, in ways we least expected. A death, however tragic and surprising, didn’t alter that. He would lead prayers for Yvonne Wait, he announced, and people should try to remember her good points, but God’s witness came to us through good times and bad, in happiness and in tragedy, in good people and bad people. His message was coming to us now. This death meant change.
Suzy tried not to look at Robert, but she knew him well enough now to realize that he was appalled by the way Nick was using Yvonne’s death. She felt his body shifting in the pew, and he folded his arms and stared ahead. After they prayed for Yvonne, Nick asked them to pray for the future of the parish, and for the strength to see what might be needed to revitalize the place. This might be an opportunity, he said, to discover where All Saints really should be in the modern world.
Robert exhaled noticeably, and somewhere at the back of the church Kevin Jones said a loud and triumphant ‘Amen’. When they stood up to go, Robert whispered to Suzy: ‘I’m sorry we came. This isn’t good.’
Kevin was standing at the door as they filed out. ‘Have one of these,’ he said, pushing a piece of paper at them. He was giving them out to everyone who was leaving. Suzy looked down at hers.
Dear Parishioner, she read: There is never a good moment to bring in changes which may upset people, but perhaps Pentecost is as good a time as any, whatever personal tragedy, we may have witnessed this week . . . She looked up at Kevin, who was grinning.
‘Things have to move on, y’know,’ he gloated. ‘There’ll be a PCC meeting, but I reckon Nick’s pretty set on this . . .’
Robert had taken the paper and walked out. Suzy followed him. It didn’t seem worth arguing with Kevin, who looked sleek with success. They said nothing until they were in the car; then Suzy asked: ‘Have you read this? He’s getting rid of the choir. And the Bible study group. What’s going on?’
‘Well, after a year of not knowing what sort of Anglican he is, he’s finally decided. Kevin Jones has won, we’ve lost.’
‘But can he do this?’
‘Well, in theory we could fight him on the PCC. But I don’t know, Suzy.’ Robert put his head down on the steering wheel. Then he looked up. ‘It’s all a bit too much. I suppose we could try and persuade him not to be so extreme. And we can write to the Bishop. But this hardly seems the moment to start a battle.’ He sounded weary.
They said nothing on the short drive to Tarn Acres. Suzy felt slightly sick as she got out of the car. I really can’t take much more of this, she thought. I don’t need to be here in this awful place, where everything that should be normal, sane and comforting is slightly mad. She had considered inviting Robert for lunch, but now she changed her mind. She wanted to cuddle the kids, hug Jake’s big gangly limbs and feel Molly’s squirmy little body clinging to her legs. She would ring her mum in Manchester and tell her they were coming down next week for the half-term holiday.
Outside the car, the North Country sky looked huge and mottled. It was clouding over. Tarnfield was cold and hostile. And Robert with his strange secret seemed like a lost soul, too far away for her to reach. Perhaps she should get away from the place altogether.
‘I’ve left my mac on your banisters,’ Robert said bleakly.
‘Oh. You’d better come and get it.’
Well, she thought, he could go home as soon as he’d picked up his coat. And she would decide about whether t
o jettison all her plans and get herself and her children out of the village for good. She felt that Tarnfield was, literally, God-forsaken. She could go to her mum’s, to Rachel’s, anywhere. But she didn’t want to stay here.
28
Whit Sunday, continued
O Merciful God, grant that the old Adam in this child may be so buried . . .
From the Public Baptism of Infants
Suzy’s key in the door met no resistance. Barbara Piefield, who was wearing a smug look, opened it for her on the other side.
‘Hello! You’re back. Your son knocked on my door and asked me to babysit Molly till you came back.’
‘What?’
‘Jake. Your son. He’s gone out. He left you a note.’
Suzy brushed past her into the dining area. On the table was a note in Jake’s messy handwriting.
Dear Mum,
Have done my homework. I thought you wouldn’t mind. Back at 5 o’clock Jake.
What was going on? Suzy took a deep breath, and tried to steady her voice. ‘That’s really kind of you, Babs. But we mustn’t keep you any longer.’
‘No?’ Babs was looking Robert up and down.
‘Really. Thank you. I’ll see you out. It’s been very kind of you, especially at lunchtime.’
Babs smiled appraisingly at Robert, who smiled back but said nothing.
‘Well, I’ll be off then. Bye-bye, Molly.’
Molly looked up from her crayons and gave Babs Piefield an insecure smile. When the front door shut behind her, Molly ran and buried her head in Suzy’s stomach.
‘Are you all right, Molly?’ Suzy asked.
‘Yes, Mummy, but I don’t feel hungry.’
‘Where did Jake go?’
‘That big boy came for him. Matthew Bell.’
‘I thought so. Oh no!’ Suzy whispered. Then she made an effort to sound breezy. ‘Come on, Molly, you can have some chocolate biscuits before lunch just for once. I’m sure you’re hungry enough for them.’
Molly looked as if she might cry. Suzy checked herself. She mustn’t leave Molly straight away, though she was desperate to run to Jake’s bedroom to see if his mobile phone was there. As soon as her daughter was munching her biscuit, Suzy pounded upstairs. The phone was on the charger beside her son’s unmade bed. She felt an upsurge of fury and helplessness. Jake was out of contact. How could he do this to her?
And where was Nigel when she needed him? Then she steadied herself and sat on the bed. Jake had behaved stupidly but by and large he was good. He would be back at five o’clock and she would give him the bollocking of his life. But there was absolutely nothing she could do till he came home. And she had Molly to consider. She had to stay here and wait.
She looked at Jake’s radio alarm clock. It was ten past one. He would be back in three hours and fifty minutes. Panic rose in her throat again, but she swallowed it, stood up, and started to go downstairs. As she stood on the landing, she stopped. She could hear the sound of giggling from the kitchen. She listened. Robert was talking to Molly, doing something that was making her shriek with laughter, all her insecurity gone. Suzy hurried down to join them, worried for a minute if Robert was tickling her or doing something unsuitable. He was a childless middle-aged man, after all. But he had been drawing in Molly’s colouring book and she saw a caricature of herself — spiky yellow hair and baggy trousers, coat and scarf flailing.
‘It’s you, Mummy,’ Molly yelped delightedly. Robert smiled at her, his face clear and open after all the tension of the morning. Suzy smiled back. She was glad now that he was here. Unlike Babs, there was no sign of judgement in Robert’s look.
‘Jake will be fine,’ he said.
She glanced towards Molly. ‘I’m sure he will.’ There was no point in upsetting her.
‘I mean it, Suzy. Once Jake’s done this once, he won’t want to do it again. Matthew Bell is a bit brainless. That’s why he courts all these younger boys. He needs hero worship, and from what I’ve seen of Jake he’s too independent to go along with that.’
‘God, I hope you’re right. Thanks for saying it, anyway, Robert. And there’s nothing I can do except stay here in case Jake comes back. Would you like lunch with us? I’ve got a nut roast in the freezer. Not very Tarnfield, I know, but it’s the best I can do.’
‘That would be great.’
‘You know, I was wondering on the way back from church about just getting the kids, throwing some clothes in a case, and getting out of here. I could go to Mum’s. Or Rachel’s . . .’
‘No!’ Robert made Molly jump and look up at him. He softened his tone. He was surprised himself at the strength of his voice, and his feeling of sudden anxiety. In the warmth of Suzy’s brightly coloured kitchen, with Molly’s paints and crayons all over the counter, and the untidy heaps of utensils and books and magazines, he felt that the unpredictable coldness of late spring in Tarnfield had been kept at bay. With Mary, Tarnfield had always dictated their moods and Mary had called the tune. But in Suzy’s house it was different.
They both worked hard on restoring a normal atmosphere, for Molly’s sake. There was little he or Suzy could say in front of her about the Tarnfield deaths, or even Nick Melling’s sudden extremism. Instead, they talked about what she was doing at school, and her friends in the village, and how the kitten was getting on. After lunch, Molly sleepily watched one of her DVDs while he and Suzy sat at the table over their coffee.
‘I’m glad you didn’t decamp to your mum’s.’ Robert felt his heart beating uncomfortably. He wanted to say this, but he was unsure why.
Suzy raised her eyebrow. ‘But I have no feelings for Tarnfield, except fear now. I think I’d rather get away than stay here in the hope of finding out who’s behind these deaths. I’m not like Mary, with a vested interest in the place.’
‘You’re not like Mary at all,’ he said. The remark hung in the air like the steam from the mugs. Then it disappeared. Suzy hadn’t responded, and he was glad.
‘Are you completely unconcerned about the person who did it? The flower arranger?’ he asked.
‘Well . . .’ Suzy wasn’t sure. She had put Yvonne’s death to the back of her mind since Jake’s disappearance, but suddenly her dead face appeared in front of Suzy’s eyes. She shook her head, but it wouldn’t go away. And what about the Bible message in the leaves? They had both seen it.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘let’s give it one last try. Who do you think killed Yvonne? And what do you think the hellebore message was really about?’
Robert said softly: ‘It has to be someone who knows about the flowers.’
‘But that could be anyone. Even Stevie.’
‘Or someone like Frank who isn’t a churchgoer but who knows where everything is kept. He must have gone to the church yesterday to deliver the ladder. People of his age used to learn passages from Isaiah by heart at school. You know, the bit about “He was despised and rejected of men.” It was supposed to be a foretelling of the coming of Jesus.’
‘And was it?’
‘Well, some people say it’s about Isaiah himself. And the virgin bearing a child — well, that could be about Isaiah’s own young wife. People think he had three sons. Believe it or not, one was called Immanuel — “God with us”!’
‘But I thought Immanuel was the name for Jesus!’
‘It depends on whether you think Isaiah was referring to his own eldest son, or to the Son of God to come. That’s why Isaiah is so important to Christians, particularly as a justification for Jews to be converted — you know, it can be read as their own prophet foretelling the coming of Jesus. Matthew’s gospel is particularly good at making Jesus sound like the Messiah the Jews had been waiting for. He refers back to Isaiah a lot.’
‘So there’s one example of a prophet with honour in his own country!’
‘Yes.’ Robert smiled. ‘At least three prophets, actually. But it’s the first Isaiah we all know best, Isaiah of Jerusalem. As distinct from Isaiah of Babylon, in the exile, and the other Isaiah
after their return.’
It was surprisingly interesting, Suzy thought. ‘So why did you get into all this?’
‘I wanted to be a writer originally. I think Mary wanted to be a writer’s wife. But we had rather a rocky patch early on, and I never really got started. A little later on, Mary and I were estranged for a short while. I started reading about the Church, and about theology, and it went from there.’
Suzy looked into her empty cup. So Mr and Mrs Perfect had had their problems, even if she hadn’t been screwing George Pattinson. This was a turn-up. It would teach her to pigeonhole people. It had even taken her mind off Jake for a few minutes. She looked at the kitchen clock. Half past three. Another hour and a half to wait till the time he said he’d be home. It was too long for a boy of thirteen to be out in a car. Or was she being over-protective? Then she thought of the pile-up on the motorway at Easter, and jumped up, wanting to do something, anything, rather than sit.
‘I’m just going to put a load of washing in. It’s great now the machine’s fixed.’
Robert smiled. He recognized her need for sudden bustle. Waiting for the results of Mary’s cancer tests, he had decorated the spare room in a frenzy.
‘Make yourself some more coffee,’ she added.
She needs someone to be here, he thought. And I’m glad it’s me. He got up to put the kettle on, feeling strange but not uncomfortable about doing things in Suzy’s kitchen. He heard her upstairs, every move audible in the modern house with its wooden floors. Odd, he thought, that there was so much parquet in Tarn Acres.
Then the telephone bell shrieked through the house. Suzy was on the landing with the washing basket, but she threw it down and hurtled into her bedroom, picking up the phone after the third ring. Robert could hear her through the open door.
‘Hello . . . hello . . .’
The silence seemed to last forever. Then Suzy said, ‘But how did you find him? Yes. Yes please. Oh, but should you be driving?’
There was another pause; then he heard Suzy say, in a purposefully calm voice, ‘I’m sorry, of course. That’s great. Thank you so much.’ Then she came scrambling down the stairs, the washing forgotten, and stood in front of Robert, torturing one of her longer lengths of hair distractedly, grinning at the same time.
