by Peter Laws
‘Well, isn’t that fascinating?’ said one-time vegetarian Wren, as if dead animals and crucifixes were suddenly ‘quaint’. Evidently Hobbs Hill could do no wrong.
‘How can you have a Christian butcher?’ Amelia said. ‘I thought Jesus was a herbivore.’
‘He ate a lot of fish,’ Matt said. ‘Big fan of fish.’
‘Urgh,’ Amelia stuck out her tongue. ‘Disgusting Jesus!’
That made him laugh.
‘There’s another one.’ Lucy jabbed her finger at the chemist’s. A cross, similar in size, hung on the door.
‘Shoe shop’s got one!’ Amelia was upright now. ‘And the bookshop. That’s two, which means I win!’
Wren set her camera down for a moment. ‘Maybe it’s got something to do with Easter?’
‘What?’ He laughed. ‘In July? It’ll be vampires. You get a lot of them in Oxfordshire cos the blood here’s good. It’s like their version of Waitrose.’
‘How about this for a theory.’ Lucy’s tone was droll, with a dash of patronising. ‘Maybe they just go to church and hang their crosses because they aren’t all screwed up about faith like you are.’ She started to laugh. ‘Aren’t you worried you’ll burn up in a place like this, Reverend? Being a heretic?’
‘I’ll get sun cream.’
The crosses weren’t everywhere. Every three or four shops, maybe. But there were certainly enough of them to notice. Enough to feel like the place was … odd.
With an elbow out of the open window he started tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel while he glanced around the street, at the crosses and the people milling about beneath them. People must just be big into God here. A few faces looked over at him and seemed to linger their gaze.
He stopped tapping.
For a second, just a split moment in time, it felt like everyone out here in Churchville was about to stare at him. Eyes turning with a squeak. They’d stop talking into their phones, place their knives and forks neatly on their plate. Maybe the butcher would pause with a meat cleaver hovering above a rabbit’s fluffy neck so they could all point at Matt Hunter, the ex-reverend, and whisper to each other.
Unbeliever! Backslider!
He sniffed and pulled his elbow back into the car.
The only other odd thing that he spotted was a group of animal protesters in the square. They were holding up banners saying Stop the Helston Horror! One of them had a picture of five extremely depressed-looking pigs on it. Suicidal, in fact.
One of the protesters shouted, ‘Hobbs Hill is a place of beauty. Don’t let it be ugly under the surface! Stop the Helston Horror!’
‘Uh-oh,’ he said. ‘There be trouble in paradise.’
The protesters might as well have been invisible because the locals walked right past them, probably through them if they could. No matter, the traffic started moving, and soon they were heading out of the village centre, with the protesters fading in the rear-view mirror.
Wren grabbed the handwritten map she’d printed from her email and guided him up the other side of the hill. They turned right into a new corridor of trees. Then swung into another, skinnier, leafy road lined with huge oaks that blocked out the sun.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘We should be staying along here.’
‘How come we can stay for so long?’ Lucy said. ‘It’s just a job interview.’
‘Guess they’re just generous. They want me to get a feel for the place.’
The road was very long with no tarmac, just packed in dirt. Weeds and nettles grew up from the cracks and brushed the underside of the car. It took a good few minutes to reach the end, the road getting bumpier as they went, their heads jerking from side to side in unison as he navigated the dips. Then a cottage appeared behind a weeping willow.
The cottage.
It was glowing under the sun, sitting for them in a little clearing. The closer they got the nearer Wren’s hand got to her mouth, and he almost crashed into a tree.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
‘We get to stay there?’ Lucy gawped at the thatched roof, the criss-cross windows, the stunning splash of a garden. ‘It’s Little Red Riding Hood’s house.’
Amelia raised both hands and hooked them into claws. ‘All the better to eat your brains with, my dear.’ She howled and scratched the air.
Lucy clucked her tongue. ‘Psycho.’
A Land Rover was parked in the drive. Matt pulled in to park and noticed the stable door of the cottage swing wide open. A guy, who looked like he was in his late teens, stepped out, followed by an older man with a neat white moustache.
‘Okay, the older one’s Seth Cardle,’ Wren said. ‘He’s my contact.’
Matt turned in his seat and caught everyone’s gaze with military precision, ‘And we’re a wonderful, well-adjusted family, alright?’
‘And the other one?’ Lucy asked.
‘That’s Ben, the pastor’s son, apparently. Seth said he’d come to welcome us because the main guy can’t make it.’
Seth was in his early sixties and wore green wellies and a brown padded body-warmer over a checked short-sleeved shirt. He had most of his hair or at least most of someone’s hair. He was smiling wide and clapping his hands together with delight. Ben hovered behind him, pushing his trainer in the dirt and making a mark.
Wren apologised for being late as she climbed out of the car, but Seth was standing on the driver’s side. ‘And you must be Matthew,’ he said, smiling.
‘I am. Magnificent place you have here.’ Matt stood and put out his hand. ‘Pleasure to meet—’
Seth swatted his hand away with an amused chuckle. ‘We’ll have none of that round here!’ Then he threw both his arms around Matt, squeezing him in a bear hug and sickly sweet-smelling aftershave, saying, ‘Welcome, friends. Welcome to the promised land.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was without a doubt the most idyllic place Matt had ever seen. Even better than the university dean’s uber-house, which was lorded over him every summer at the staff barbecue. But this place, while much smaller, had the edge. He’d call it good feng shui if he actually believed in that stuff.
The roof was topped with the heaviest-looking thatch, and if a fire was ever lit in the hearth he could bet the chimney up there would wisp out the perfect child’s-drawing curl into the heavens. Inside, it was classic farmhouse chic but with lots of contemporary touches. The ceilings were low with huge black beams running like veins through the white walls. Every room had halogen spotlights sunk into the ceiling, firing down on solid oak floors. Victorian-style teddy bears sat on the many armchairs, scattered through the place. The only drawback? A big old cross hanging on the door. To keep the evil wood sprites out, presumably. Or the Jehovah’s Witnesses.
Here and there Matt saw framed pictures of the family that normally lived here. The pastor’s son Ben explained that they were called the Shores – members of the church who were in Hong Kong on business for the summer, hence it being available. There were pictures of the Shores everywhere. Mum, dad, son, daughter. The full set. Impossibly nice-looking, posing in all manner of exotic locales, white teeth bared. The daughter’s smiling head was almost constantly resting happily against the dad’s shoulder. They were the sort of perfect family who went on rollercoasters, and at the end everyone wanted to buy their photo.
Wren audibly yelped when she saw their bedroom. The four-poster bed frame was made from actual tree trunks, a foot thick. And beyond it, an en suite wet room sparkled like a blinged-up spaceship. A white porcelain jug and washbasin sat by the side of the bed, just in case they fancied wiping their arse in the night, Victorian-style.
Seth suggested Ben show Amelia and Lucy the garden. Ben nodded, albeit with an awkward scrawl of fingers through his floppy hipster hair.
‘It’s this way,’ Ben said. ‘There’s a pretty cool tree house. If you like that sort of thing … so er … do you?’
‘I do,’ Lucy said and she and Ben wandered out together, Amelia following quickly be
hind.
Now, with the kids gone, Seth walked them into the study (in his socks. His green Hunter wellies sat in the sun on the porch outside). The room was lined with old leather books and a wide window overlooked the garden. ‘Wren, you can set up your office wherever you like. Even up at the church, if you prefer. But the last company who tried out for this had their man use this room. Seemed to work for him.’
For the first time since walking in here, Wren’s smile faltered as she was reminded that, after all, she was only entering a competition. A talent contest. An elongated job interview.
Matt knew Wren would be itching to ask questions. Ones that might initially make her appear neurotic or nosy, so he asked one instead. ‘Can you tell us about the other companies that pitched for the job, Seth?’
‘Well, we’ve just had one so far. A single man from Oxford who stayed here last week. Came up with some good plans, we thought. But I think the cottage was rather wasted on him. I’m glad you decided to bring your family.’ Seth looked at Matt. ‘This is a village for families, don’t you think?’
‘Rich families,’ Matt said, smiling.
Seth chuckled, ‘And rich in all the right things.’
Matt ran his fingers across the spines of the books on the shelves.
Wren looked up at Seth. ‘Is it cheeky to ask how many more firms you have lined up?’
‘Not at all.’ Seth leant against the window sill, white moustache curling up over a kind smile. Matt was suddenly reminded of the grandfather from those Werther’s Original adverts, who gave the little boy a toffee on his knee. Back in the day when that wasn’t the international code for imminent sex abuse. The light from the window picked out his wrinkles more than ever. ‘We’ve only got one other firm lined up after you. Another London fella. Coming up on his own the day after you leave. Once he gets his pitch in we’ll have a good old pray and make a choice. So three firms in all. It’s rather exciting, really.’
Wren smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ll make the right choice for your needs.’
‘And you’ve studied the church plans, I take it?’
‘Seth. I’ve lived in every room of your church for the past month and I haven’t even seen the place yet.’
‘Oooh,’ Seth said. ‘I like that.’ His moustache swooped up at the edges, almost a full V. Then he closed his eyes. Kept them closed, actually, for about ten whole seconds. When he finally opened them he just said, ‘Splendid.’
They had tea and Battenburg cake on the patio, while Ben and the girls played Frisbee on the lawn. Birds chirped in the trees and swooped over their heads while Seth talked a little about his farming business and about the famous Hobbs Hill waterfall, ‘Which you can hear from just about everywhere! You’ve just got to see it.’
Matt pressed his ear to the sky and there it was. A very low, distant hiss.
But Seth’s favourite subject was Kingdom Come Church, and the planned renovation.
‘Our new pastor’s done wonders since he came.’ Seth dabbed his napkin at the sugar on his mouth. ‘He only joined us four years ago, when we had forty members in the congregation. All of them pensioners. Church had about ten years of life left in it. But wait till you see us now! Congregation’s around three hundred, and growing. Young families, students. Lots of children. Which means lots of future.’
‘Forty to three hundred?’ Matt said. ‘That’s quite an increase.’
‘He’s quite a pastor.’ Seth reached into his canvas bag and pulled out some leaflets. ‘You can meet him tonight at the Purging. He asked if you might come along.’
‘We’d love to,’ Wren said.
Seth laughed. ‘Do you even know what a Purging is?’
‘Nope.’ Wren glanced at Matt, more for the appearance of consultation than for anything else. ‘But we’re coming.’
‘Ha! I like your enthusiasm, my dear. I like it a lot. The Purging is a party. We have some folks getting baptised next Sunday and Pastor Chris likes to throw them a celebration leading up to it. Give them a good send-off.’
Matt laughed. ‘They’re getting baptised, not leaving the country.’
‘Oh come now, Matthew. Spiritually speaking they’re leaving the planet, aren’t they? From the Kingdom of Darkness into the Kingdom of Light. The Purging’s just a fun night when they get to say farewell to their old selves.’
‘Ah,’ Matt said, fighting the roll in his eyes. ‘Got it.’
‘Don’t worry if you’ve never heard of it. It’s a Kingdom Come exclusive. Just something we came up with a few years back. Symbolic, you understand. Oh and there’ll be Mexican food. It’s at 7:30 p.m., at the church.’
‘We’ll look forward to it,’ Wren said.
‘Seth. I have to ask,’ Matt set his cup on the table, ‘why did you pick Wren’s firm? Out of all the architects around?’
Seth glanced over at Wren, almost protectively, as if Matt’s question was basically: why the hell would anyone want to hire my wife? But Wren wasn’t offended at all. She’d asked that exact thing out loud back in London, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, discussing all of this. Why’d they pick us? Especially when word was already out they were crumbling.
Seth paused, pushed his lips in and out. ‘It was Chris, our pastor. He’s very in tune with God. Prophetic, I’d say. He prayed and fasted for days. Days! And then came up with a shortlist of just three architects. And there was your name. Wren Hunter.’
‘You mean, Chase, Penn and Mason,’ Wren said. ‘He called the firm.’
‘No. You misunderstand. He wanted you, Wren. Specifically you.’
She stopped chewing her Battenburg, ‘Really?’
‘Mr Mason never mentioned that to you?’
She shook her head. ‘Maybe Pastor Chris saw my work somewhere. I did help design an office block in Oxford a while back. What’s his second name?’
Seth pushed his cup and plate away. ‘Kelly. Chris Kelly.’
Matt’s eyes flicked up. ‘Pardon me?’
‘Chris Kelly …’ Seth opened up a leaflet on the table and prodded a finger at the photograph on it. ‘The man himself …’
Matt stared at the picture and didn’t speak for a moment.
‘You look surprised,’ Seth said. ‘You’ve heard of him, then?’
‘Er … yes. I have,’ said Matt.
Wren glanced at him, and started slowly chewing again.
‘Well, I’m not surprised you’ve heard of him. He’s quite a pastor. And do you know what? When he prayed, Wren, your name just appeared. Ta-da!’
Matt looked down at the photograph, turning the information over in his head. Marzipan lodged in his throat.
‘Well.’ Wren pulled her gaze from Matt and put a flattered hand on her chest. ‘You can’t get a better reference than the Almighty can you?’
Seth laughed loudly. It was an odd sound. Everything about him seemed gentle and quiet except that laugh of his, which was sharp and hacking. Wide-mouthed. He went to stand. ‘Well how about young Ben and I leave you good people to settle in. Get your feet under the table, so to speak. And eat what you like, the fridge is stocked. Hope you like black pudding!’
Wren stood up too. ‘Seth, it’s been a pleasure. Really.’
Seth called out a goodbye to the kids and they waved at him, Lucy missing a Frisbee in the process. Ben laughed and headed over too. Matt tried hard not to look too obvious when he was looking over Ben’s face, scanning it for familiar lines and features from his dad, Chris Kelly. He found some. The eyes, the high cheekbones. Wow, this was odd.
Then Matt and Wren walked them both to the door. Seth held onto Matt’s shoulder as he pulled on his wellies.
‘Off to the farm?’ Matt said.
‘Yes. Sad work today. Got a cow with breast cancer,’ he shook his head. ‘I mean can you imagine!’
‘Oh, how awful.’ Wren went to shake Seth’s hand but he leant in and planted a soft but hairy-lipped kiss on her cheek.
When he pulled back he took her hand in his but looke
d over at Matt. Gazing at him, he said, ‘And what do you do for a living, Matt? Or are you a kept man?’
‘I wish. I’m a university professor.’
Seth gave an impressed whistle. ‘And what do you … profess?’
‘The sociology of religion.’
Seth’s eyebrows sprang up.
‘It’s a mix really. Theology, sociology, philosophy. Dash of psychology. I study why people believe what they do, basically.’
‘Sociology of religion …’ Seth rolled the words around his tongue, like an exotic meal that had bad fish in it. ‘What do you make of that, Ben?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Sounds clever.’
‘Matt’s actually on a three-month sabbatical at the moment,’ Wren added. ‘He’s working on a book. Aren’t you, Matt? He’s going to write while he’s here.’
Shit, Wren. Don’t tell them the title, Matt thought frantically. In Our Image: The Gods We Tend to Invent would probably go down like scurvy here.
‘I see,’ Seth waited for a moment then looked over at Ben. ‘Little favour, ma’ boy? Would you mind nipping to my car and getting the engine running? You know how, don’t you?’
Ben laughed. ‘Seth. I’m twenty-two. I know how to start a car.’
‘Sorry. ’Course you do.’ He held up an apologetic hand and tossed him the keys with the other. ‘The air conditioner takes a while to warm up and it is a rather hot one today. So I’d like to get it going.’
Either Ben was oblivious or just being polite. But he made himself scarce as instructed without complaint. Once he was gone Seth turned back to Matt. ‘Just a question, then. An obvious one I suppose. Do you believe in God?’ He looked over at Wren. ‘Do either of you?’
Matt spotted Wren’s discomfort instantly. The shift in her shoulders. The fixed little smile. The glance down at the strange farmer’s calloused hand still holding hers. And he could almost hear the gears in her brain clicking. What if this was the only question that truly mattered? The clincher for this contract.
Do you believe in God?
Wren wasn’t the lying type. Never really had been. But her pause surprised him and he wondered if the desperation to keep her job might have her flinging her knees to the floor, one hand waving in the air, the other with crossed fingers behind her back: Hallelujah, Seth Brother, I do. I do, I loves the Lord!
