The Chorister at the Abbey

by Lis Howell

  ‘Well, I know you’re not, not any more, but what I mean is – it’s the girls! Me, Pat Johnstone, Millie Dixon and a few more people. I know Millie’s rather posh but she can be good fun. We do it every so often and we’re getting together because poor Pat needs a break.’

  ‘Pat Johnstone? Why?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Alex, you must have heard. Or has your head been in the clouds because of that Waterstone’s promotion?’

  ‘You promised me you wouldn’t mention it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, little sister, your secret is safe with me. Anyway, didn’t you know about David Johnstone? He had a terrible car accident not far from where you live! Wrapped himself round a tree.’

  ‘Oh, that’s awful! Will he be all right?’

  ‘Oh yes. But he’s hospitalized for quite a while. Pat needs taking out of herself.’

  ‘Well, in the circumstances I don’t see how I can refuse. Where are you meeting?’

  ‘At the Workhaven Motel, on the road from Fellside. They do a lovely weekday pasta night with two for the price of one.’

  So here Alex was in a Burns’ taxi, going for a good old-fashioned female night out. It took her mind off Edwin. The Workhaven Motel was a long, low building converted from a 1940s airbase, now painted bright pink and resplendent with fairy lights. Pat Johnstone and Millie Dixon seemed already quite plastered and had their arms round each other. Alex and her sister joined them at the bar, and then they all weaved their way on to what could only be described as a dance floor though it was crowded with tables. They plonked themselves at a long, thin trestle affair covered with a thin pink cloth and alive with jangling cutlery.

  ‘Poor Pat,’ Christine whispered.

  ‘She doesn’t look poor to me. She looks pissed!’

  Christine sipped her gin and tonic genteelly. ‘Oh no, Alex, that’s unkind. Pat’s had a terrible few days. She’s been over to the hospital every day. David is quite out of it. Saying all sorts of things.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Reg told me. He went to see him straight away after the accident. I don’t know why, but anyway he felt he had to go. David was rambling. He seems to have been completely confused and to think the accident happened at the convent!’

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘Yes; strange isn’t it?’

  Pat Johnstone came tottering towards them. She was wearing very high heels and a low-cut silky dress which revealed a pancake-flat chest.

  ‘Chris and her sister. The odd one. How luvverly to see you. Have you heard about poor David? Bet this’ll put a stop to his shenanigans in Fellside.’ She laughed her trademark cackling laugh. ‘He’ll have plenty of time to look at old books now!’

  ‘Sorry?’ Alex felt her ears twitch. ‘What do you mean, old books?’

  ‘Oh, it’s garbage, you know. He was looking at some old book he’d come across. A photocopy, anyway. But that’s over now. And I’ll tell you what . . .’ She leant across to Alex, who could smell the drink on her breath. ‘. . . I’ll be paying that other woman a visit. I’ll soon find out who she is! I’ve got her scarf!’

  29

  Be still then, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the heathen, and I will be exalted in the earth. Psalm 46:10

  Wanda Wisley sat at the end of Freddie’s bed and wondered why hospitals always made her feel so nauseous. A volunteer went past with a cup of coffee and she thought she might gag there and then. Well, at least that would punctuate the boredom. Freddie was as restless as it was possible for a big man in a small bed to be.

  ‘I want to go hoooome,’ he whined like an irritable child. ‘Let me oooout!’

  ‘They say you can go home tomorrow. The consultant wants one last look at you this afternoon.’

  ‘Ach, Wanda, you’re so strict. Discipline! It would be nice if you could be like that at home sometimes! In black leather!’ He leered and made as much of a lunge at her as he could.

  ‘Gerroff! This is a hospital, for God’s sake, not a bear garden.’

  ‘A bare garden. What a sexy idea, Wanda! I can see you now, like a little gnome with no knickers on. How cute. But we need a bigger garden.’

  ‘Oh yes? Like at that stupid convent place where you nearly got killed? If you think that after this whole business I’m going to live anywhere other than the middle of town you’re mad. I want to get rid of that cottage, Freddie, and move to one of those new refurbished lofts above the shopping mall. Or if they’re too boring we’ll go to Carlisle or Newcastle and commute. No more rural idyll crap!’

  ‘But Wanda, I love the country!’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t love you. Look at the state you’re in!’

  ‘You don’t understand, Liebchen. What happened to me was nothing to do with the country. Real country people don’t let their cattle out to roam over the mountains in the winter! The animals are snug inside.’

  ‘So what do you think happened, Mr Lonely Goatherd?’

  ‘Don’t mock, Wanda. What happened to me was deliberate and whoever did it did not care whether or I lived or died. I think they made a hole in the wall for the animals to go through.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve had time to read the Psalms since I was here. Listen to this, Psalm 22 verse 12 – Many oxen are come about me; fat bulls of Basan close me in on every side. They gape upon me with their mouths, as it were a ramping and roaring lion. I am poured out like water and all my bones are out of joint. And Wanda, it goes on to talk about dogs being set on me! I guess that would have been next!’

  ‘But you managed to survive . . .’

  ‘It was a guardian angel, Wanda, you bet! But I tell you there are some strange things happening around here. But I won’t let it put me off. That house of the sisters is a lovely place. Someone wants to stop us having it, but it’s a special place that needs special people. Psalm 147 verse 13: For he hath made fast the bars of thy gates and hath made blessed thy children within thee.’

  ‘Yeah, right. All your children are down the loo with the Durex.’

  ‘That may be. But there’s another psalm which says: I will sing a new song unto thee O God. And sing praises unto thee upon a ten stringed lute. The bass guitar, Wanda! Maybe that is what we are here to do!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! It must be years of drug abuse. You’re over the top. You make me want to vomit!’ And Wanda lurched towards the nurses’ station, calling for something to be sick in.

  Poppy and Tom stood some distance away from the bus station in the middle of Norbridge.

  ‘I don’t really like doing this,’ said Tom.

  ‘Well, you’ve no choice.’

  ‘But it’s spying on her, isn’t it? I mean she’s got a right to go wherever she wants to go, hasn’t she? It’s not our business.’

  He was cold. He’d left his squashy hat at home in recognition of a burst of soft sunlight, and also because of Poppy’s disgust as he’d reached for it, but now the wind was coming down from the fells, where it was still winter, and his ears hurt. It wasn’t helped by the fact that Poppy had made him get his hair cut. ‘God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,’ the barber had said, laughing at the old saying. It was bollocks, Tom thought; his neck was bloody freezing.

  ‘There she is,’ whispered Poppy. They were looking intently into the window of a games shop and the plate glass gave them a clear reflection of the scene opposite. ‘God, what does she look like!’

  ‘Yukky.’

  Chloe was wearing an old tweed coat of Lynn’s, thick stockings and flat heavy trainers. This time she didn’t have the red velvet scarf round her head, but a handkerchief was tied behind her ears. Her hair was tucked back.

  ‘Which bus is she getting, Tom?’

  ‘The one back to Uplands. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it? After getting her mum to drop her off in Norbridge, now she looks as if she’s going straight back home.’

  It was the Saturday morning of the most momentous week of Tom’s life. Poppy was
now officially his girlfriend in every possible way and he was still reeling from the effect of her awesome persuasive powers. Here he was, scrubbed up, hair like some sort of smoothie, on a mission impossible which would have seemed madness only a fortnight earlier.

  The day before, Poppy had suddenly announced: ‘Chloe needs to know about this!’

  ‘Does she?’ They had been lying in Poppy’s bed again, watching old episodes of the Torchwood series.

  ‘Yes, she does. She might have ideas about you herself. Anyway it’s my time for showing off!’

  ‘Don’t tell her everything.’

  ‘I’m not some sort of perv! I just want her to know that we’re an item. And anyway we used to text every day.’ Poppy frowned; Tom watched as her thumbs tap-danced over the mobile keys. Then they had watched more TV, but there had been no response from Chloe. Poppy tried again and a few minutes later the noise of a message arriving pinged through the sound of video gunfire.

  ‘Yes, it’s her,’ Poppy had said, and concentrated deeply on the message. ‘But she doesn’t want to meet. I’m not important enough for her, it seems. Well, I’m not going to let her get away with just saying No, I’ve got plans. What about tomorrow then?’ Poppy’s thumbs had clacked like lobster claws.

  ‘Look, this is better,’ she’d said when the replying message pinged back. No. Going t Nbridge w mum. Busy after.

  Poppy texted, C u Figs? 1030?

  The message replied, Can’t. Mum at hairdrs 10. Then have plans.

  ‘Cow!’ Poppy had said angrily. ‘I’ve been back all this week and she hasn’t wanted to see me once. She’s either jealous or stuck up worse than ever. Or . . .’ She’d chewed her hair and crossed her eyes reflectively. The eye-crossing was her favourite trick.

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or there’s something going on that she doesn’t want me in on.’

  That was when Poppy had formulated her plan. There was one multi-storey car park in Norbridge, serving the shopping mall. They would wait there between nine twenty and ten to see where Chloe went. ‘I know which hairdresser her mum goes to. It’s Sessions in the mall. They wouldn’t park anywhere else but the multi-storey. Anyway it’s worth a try. Something to do.’

  Tom had acquiesced without saying anything. He was completely uninterested in Chloe’s secret lover and he suspected there wasn’t anyone at all. But he liked Poppy’s style. She was becoming quite forceful; he thought that coming out from under Chloe’s shadow was the best thing that had happened to her. He’d completely recovered from his crush on Chloe and thought she had lost the plot since Christmas, but he liked the way Poppy still cared about her, even if she had a funny way of showing it!

  So here they were, following her. That made him uncomfortable, of course; but there was no way he was going to argue with Poppy over it.

  ‘Shit,’ Poppy whispered. ‘What shall we do? The bus will be leaving in a minute. And if we get on she’ll see us.’

  ‘Her bus is going to Uplands, isn’t it? It’s not far. We can get a taxi.’

  ‘Can we? Where from?’

  ‘The rank by the shopping precinct main entrance. Come on, Poppy. I’ve got some money.’ He was starting to enjoy this. He felt like a secret agent and Poppy was clearly impressed. She followed the newly authoritative Tom to the taxi rank and was bowled over when she heard him say, in rather a deep and decisive voice to the driver: ‘Follow that bus!’

  In Tarnfield, Robert held the telephone away from his ear as Edwin Armstrong shouted at him.

  ‘So you’re telling me that Sandy McFay is Alex Gibson. But why didn’t she tell me?’

  Yet even as Edwin said it, he thought of Marilyn and his own mystery. We’re older, he thought. Life is full of baggage. I haven’t exactly come clean. The thought calmed him.

  It was later on Saturday afternoon. Robert had made his call straight after arriving home from his meeting with Sandy, before he could bottle out.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Alex Gibson is Sandy McFay,’ he said again.

  Robert understood why his friend sounded outraged and confused. But he had promised Alex that he would tell Edwin what had happened. It seemed a fair exchange for leaving her sobbing in their bed in London all those years ago. She had insisted that he told Edwin everything, however embarrassing. Edwin would either accept it or not. So Robert took a deep breath and went on . . .

  ‘There’s something more. Sandy and I know each other because we met eight years ago at a conference and fell for each other. I never followed it up because Mary . . . well, we were married and there was no way I would leave her. And soon afterwards Mary became very ill. But you should know that Sandy – sorry, I mean Alex – and I were very close. Just for a few days.’

  Robert listened to the other man’s breathing. He had given Edwin a lot to take in. Finally Edwin said, ‘And now?’

  ‘What do you mean, “and now”?’

  ‘So is there anything between you and Alex now?’

  ‘She’s a very attractive woman, Edwin. But I’ve met Suzy. And Suzy is the one for me.’ Even if she doesn’t think so herself, Robert thought.

  Edwin took a long time breathing in and out. ‘Does Suzy know about Alex?’

  ‘Not yet. Suzy’s away in London. She’s back tomorrow night. I’ll tell her as soon as she gets off the train.’

  And that might be the end of everything, Robert thought. So much for the Perfect Husband. Once Suzy finds out how good a husband I really was, she’ll either laugh and never take me seriously again, or send me packing as a charlatan. But that isn’t Edwin’s problem. Edwin was obviously thinking of something else.

  ‘So there’s absolutely no chance of you taking up with Alex again?’

  How odd, and how significant, that that should be his first concern.

  ‘Absolutely none. In fact, when Suzy comes home we’ll invite you both round to dinner.’

  If we’re still together, he thought dourly. But it was a good idea, strange and impetuous though it seemed. In a small place like Norbridge so many people had been involved with each other that if dinner parties excluded former lovers, there would be no entertaining. The great thing about social life in a small country town was that there was no escape – you were one society, and once the gossip died down, all you could do was face the facts and get on with it. Life went on with the same people. There was no alternative.

  Edwin said, ‘I’m seeing Alex next week. We’re going to The Dream of Gerontius in Newcastle.’

  ‘Rather you than me. It’s not my favourite piece.’

  ‘But the point is, it will give me a chance to talk to her about all this. It’s a lot to take in. Unbelievable.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Edwin. Surely you sensed there was more to Alex than a deeply depressed and bad-tempered finance clerk? Alex is a formidable woman who even managed to make her mental breakdown very thorough. But at Wanda Wisley’s party she was starting to look her old self again. You could tell she had something about her.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I did sense there was more to her than met the eye.’

  ‘And you’re similar people, Edwin. Both creative.’

  That was a point, Edwin thought, surprised at Robert’s remark. Maybe that was one of the many things that appealed to him, intuitively, about Alex Gibson. He had been pottering around looking at the Psalms again, but nothing had yet inspired him. Maybe talking to Alex would help.

  ‘Thanks for telling me, Robert. It can’t have been easy.’

  ‘And it won’t make any difference?’

  ‘Of course it will! But it might be for the better! The truth’s always best, you know.’

  Robert winced, and thought: We’ll see about that. And at the same time Edwin was thinking: Yes. But I’m not telling the truth myself. Not yet. At least Alex had made sure he knew everything now. Could he do the same?

  In The Briars, Robert put the phone down with relief. Now the only thing left was to tell Suzy. How would she react? Jealousy? Contempt? Disg
ust? Fury at his hypocrisy?

  The one reaction he did not expect was the one he got on Sunday night.

  30

  The Lord is nigh unto them that are of contrite heart, and will save such as be of an humble spirit. Psalm 34:18

  Norbridge bus station was not a pleasant sight on a Sunday evening. The passengers were largely grey-faced pensioners and students, the latter exhausted by a weekend of partying and the former just exhausted. The prospect of a long bus journey in the dark was not the warmest and most welcoming thought at this time of year. There was a smattering of tourists, some in walking gear and some in smart bulky coats or macs. But most people were dressed in dreary layers, trailing all sorts of mismatched luggage and occasionally strewing sweet papers, magazine pages and flyers to be mashed on the dirty concrete floor by hundreds of feet. The platforms had a down-at-heel feel. And it was cold.

  Poppy and Tom sat close together on a bench waiting for the bus to Newcastle. You could see their breath in the air.

  ‘It’s been a good week,’ Tom said again. The best thing was he was absolutely sure that Poppy agreed. And she was reliable. The knowledge that there would be no more pounding hearts over emails, or terrifying insecurity, like the sort that had taken him to the Gents during that power cut at the college, made him feel more truly grown up than their sexual initiation. Manly, even.

  ‘Yeah. Good. Really good,’ said Poppy, and then she did her now familiar cross-eyed frown. ‘What did you make of that business with Chloe yesterday?’

  ‘Dunno. Weird.’

  ‘You can’t just keep saying “weird” as if that explains it.’

  ‘Well, it does explain it. Weird behaviour.’

  ‘But why, thickhead?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  They both sat thinking about their spying activities the day before. The taxi ride had been hairy, partly because the bus driver knew his route like the back of his hand and rode his suspension with a panache which the minicab couldn’t emulate, and partly because it was just such a crazy thing to be doing.

  The local bus to Uplands had pulled up to a screeching halt outside Little’s store. There were cars parked outside and Saturday shoppers milling round. Tom asked the taxi to pull up behind it. While Tom paid the fare, Poppy had watched Chloe get off the bus, cross the road and walk up the hill for a few yards to get another bus.