Anna smiled at Rhett and asked what instrument he played.
‘Big drum, given the chance.’
‘And you, Dean, what do you play?’
‘I don’t. Like I said, I’m not involved.’
Dean felt his isolation again, but before he could do anything about it, Rhett was asking Anna if he could buy her another drink.
‘Thank you, yes, I’d like that. Mine’s a gin and orange.’
Rhett asked Dean if he wanted another and got out his wallet ready to pay, but Dean pushed him away. ‘It’s my round.’
As Dean passed Anna’s drink to her there was something in his manner, a kind of reverence that was disconcerting. But then he deliberately turned his back and engaged himself in a conversation with Rhett and she decided she’d been mistaken.
She turned to survey the bar. So, here apparently was a cross-section of her flock for the next twelve months. What a mixture! What a challenge! From sons-of-the-soil to sons-of-the-soil elevated out of their true element by education.
Anna knew from Peter’s notes that there were those with whom she’d have to tread very carefully. She’d noted the looks of disapproval on some of their faces when they’d sung the first hymn to The Beatles’ tune. But in her opinion they needed shaking up. Peter’s rather orthodox, old-fashioned way of doing things was all right in its way but how could they expect young people like these two beside her to respond to such outdated ways? Gloriously dignified and solemnly reverent, and certainly no less devout, but not for the twenty-first century. Oh no. What would they say when she introduced some of the old slave hymns that she learned when she was in Alabama? She smiled to herself, not realizing that Dean was looking at her and was clearly mistaking her smile as being personal to him. He flushed and returned her smile.
Anna said, ‘Must be going. Work to do. Nice to have met you, Rhett. See you again no doubt?’
‘It’s Dean.’
‘Sorry, yes, of course, Dean. Bye, Rhett, looking forward to seeing you on the big drum.’
As Anna reached the door, knowing they were all watching her, she raised both her arms without turning round and waved, calling out loudly. ‘Bye, everyone. Be seeing you.’
Her reply was a general chorus of ‘goodbyes’ and a silence fell until they thought she was out of earshot. Then a babel of talk broke out, which she could hear as she passed the side window of the bar on her way home. Mentally she shrugged. Only what could be expected: lots to say when she’d gone, but very little to say to her face.
The rectory still smelled of Peter and Caroline. It was there in every cushion, every plate, every chair, the angle of every picture, the colour of the tablecloth, the newness of Peter’s state-of-the-art computer, the sweep of the pelmet in the sitting room, even the sheets on her bed, which had been Beth’s. Her pictures and maps and posters still adorned the walls. It would never be hers, but it was better than that dreadful flat in the Abbey precincts, which had been her home for two years. The tiny kitchen scarcely bigger than a cupboard, the dreary living room with its tiny windows, no space for a washing machine, no wiring for a TV. It was a living hell and she spent as little time there as she could.
Here at least she had space, all Peter’s books to go at and, best of all, a woodburning stove in the sitting room, which, in the oncoming winter, would be sheer bliss. A washing machine, an Aga, a microwave – more bliss. She was back in the twenty-first century with every amenity for modern living.
Was she though? Anna settled herself at the kitchen table with her lunch. This village was so ancient she could feel history constantly dogging her footsteps as she walked about. The plague pit, the oak tree on the green, that tomb in the church, haunted or so they said. People from generations back seemed never to have left the village, because she felt that their presence still filled the streets.
As she bit into her Scotch egg, Anna decided to read Peter’s ‘Parish Notes’. She put down the egg and went to the study, picked up the file from his desk and carried it back into the kitchen. She wouldn’t read straight through from the very beginning right now; she’d open it up at random and find an interesting piece.
The piece she found was about the discovery of the church silver hidden at the Big House in 1940 because of the fear of invasion. Peter had recorded how outraged the villagers were and of their hate campaign when they realized that Mr Fitch, having bought the estate, considered that everything in it was his to dispose of as he chose. Hate campaign? An organized hate campaign? It was positively medieval. Hanging an effigy from a tree on his drive? Cutting off the heating at the Big House? That they succeeded in getting the silver back in the church where it belonged amazed Anna. She shuddered. The whole episode felt to have a hint of evil about it, which she didn’t care for at all. Was it all these ancestors she was so acutely aware of who had motivated the campaign? Now she really was being ridiculous.
A good walk in the autumn air to prepare herself for evensong would be much better than sitting here getting all goosepimpled. Having made the decision, she quickly cleared away her lunch, found a sweater, checked she had her keys, closed the front door and stood out in Church Lane, deciding which way to go. She caught sight of huge trees behind the roof of the Village Store and headed for them.
A breeze had got up and Anna revelled in it. She loved the wind. It stirred her emotions in a way that a hot summer day could never do. She’d been born during a gale and her mother had always said she’d loved the wind from her first day. Being Sunday, her hair was in a French pleat, but in moments she had released it, stuffed the hairpins in her pocket and shaken her hair free to blow in the wind. She paused to admire the display in the window of the Store and then she arrived at the wood, huge beech trees guarding the narrow entrance. Then, suddenly, there she was standing beside Turnham Beck. The water was gurgling along at a good pace, and briefly she spotted a kingfisher flitting along above the surface of the water. Anna chose to cross the little bridge and then strode off along the footpath towards the woods.
She heard their voices long before she saw them. Twinkling, happy sounds interrupted by the deeper, well-rounded voice of a man.
Anna came upon the voices in a clearing. It was Gilbert Johns, the choirmaster, and four children. ‘Hi, Gilbert.’ She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘Are all of these yours?’
Gilbert had been brushing someone down who’d obviously taken a fall on the wettest part of the ground. He looked up. ‘Hello there. Yes, I lay claim to them all.’
Standing in the clearing, with the sun finding its way between the branches, Gilbert smiled. He wasn’t dressed as choirmasters ought to be. He wore navy shorts with a turquoise short-sleeved shirt open, displaying his manly hairy chest. His brown hair, suddenly teased by a gust of wind, blew over his eyes and he had to push it away with his spare hand, the other still holding the boy who’d fallen in the mud. His brown eyes looked amused. ‘More washing!’
‘You must have mountains of washing.’
‘Thank heavens that’s Louise’s domain. She’s gone home with the baby and I’m keeping them healthy and busy while she sees to lunch. Music OK this morning? Mrs Peel told me she enjoyed “Yellow Submarine”.’
‘Oh! Fine, absolutely fine. How are you with “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot?”’
Gilbert looked startled. ‘OK. Are you thinking of trying it?’
‘Why not?’
‘No reason at all.’ Gilbert kept his own feelings under wraps. He was a great believer in ‘let’s wait and see’. ‘If you keep going on this path you eventually come out into Shepherd’s Hill and opposite you is the stile to Sykes Wood. Go through there and you come out in a while into Church Lane; turn left and you’ll soon be back in the village.’
‘Thanks. Is that where you’re going?’
‘No. Too far. We’ve already been a long way. We’re on our way back to the car. Enjoy.’ Gilbert gathered his four children together, waved cheerfully, told the children to say bye-bye to the rect
or and went on his way. She watched them disappear through the wood. He was a giant of a man, not because of his height, though he was tall, but because of his aura. There was something very attractive about him. Earthy, kind of. Right down to his manly sandals.
Anna carried on walking, crossed the lane and then climbed over the ancient style and into Sykes Wood. Here the trees were different, closer and more huddled, with none of the sunlit openness of the first wood where she’d enjoyed lingering. She heard rustling in the trees, sounds of animals moving about, but what would they be? Not rabbits, nor badgers, nor foxes, not in the daytime; maybe squirrels, but there were none to be seen. It was the wind, she decided, which didn’t just ruffle the twigs but tossed them about so they thrashed against each other. The path wound on and on, and she wished it went straight as an arrow to the other side of the wood. Then she came to a clearing, a big clearing, with the remains of old fires here and there, and logs laid as though they’d been used for sitting round the fires.
Anna wasn’t a person who believed in ghosts but briefly she did wonder again about ancestors and it caused her to hasten along. Before she knew it she was jogging and then running along the path. She tripped on a tree root, fell, picked herself up and ran on.
Then, wham! She was out in the road, the sun on her face at last.
She panted with relief, hands on thighs, pulling in the fresh, unthreatening air as rapidly as she could.
A car pulled up. ‘Anna! Want a lift?’
It was someone from church but she couldn’t recollect the name. She’d seen him only this morning.
‘Thanks, but no. I’m fine.’
‘Been in Sykes Wood?’
‘Yes. Found it a bit oppressive.’
‘Well, that’s one way to describe it. Most of us avoid it completely. If I can’t give you a lift I’ll be on my way. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
The Rolls purred away. Now who was that? Not Sir Ralph. As she set off for home, Gilbert’s navy shorts and turquoise shirt kept filtering into her mind.
On the mat she found a note inviting her for coffee the following morning, and mentioning there were a few things that needed to be discussed. It was signed Ralph Templeton and put all thoughts of Gilbert Johns out of her mind. She’d seen Sir Ralph’s pursed lips and his refusal to sing in the morning service and guessed trouble was brewing.
Chapter 3
‘I will not put up with it! I simply will not and don’t think I’m the only one in the village to object.’ Ralph wagged his finger at her to emphasize his point.
Anna answered quietly; nevertheless, she sounded adamant. ‘It’s not a matter of “putting up with it”, it’s a matter of embracing it with open arms and welcoming change. This is the way I want things to go.’
‘You are undoing, what, thirteen, fourteen years and more of Peter’s work. He’s built this parish from virtually nothing and I will not stand by and see it demolished brick by brick.’
‘No one is asking you to. But he’s gone for a whole year and I’m standing in for him and this is how I want things to be. You wait and see, we’ll have more young people coming to the services than ever before. I know. It’s worked for me in Culworth and it’ll work here.’
‘You’ll be having us dancing in the aisles soon.’
‘It’s funny you should say that. I had been wondering about removing some of the pews so we have room to move about or sit in a circle when there’s only a few of us.’
Ralph went white with shock. He gripped the edge of his desk to steady himself. ‘Remove some of the pews! We definitely cannot, most definitely not. Those pews are antiques.’
‘Exactly. Just because they’ve been there hundreds of years does not mean to say they can’t be moved, now does it? Added to which, they are blasted uncomfortable, as you must know. A few less will not be a matter for international consternation.’
Ralph took in a deep breath and endeavoured to control his temper. This damned upstart! He’d die first before allowing this happy-clappy modern young thing to ruin his village. Yes, he would. Then he caught Muriel’s eye and knew he’d gone a step too far for her liking. He heard the tremble in her voice as she said, ‘Would you care for a cup of tea, Anna?’
‘Thank you, Lady Templeton, but no. I’m more a mineral water person. Thanks all the same.’
‘Mineral water! I have some. Sit down and I’ll bring it for you. Still or bubbly?’
‘Bubbly, please!’
Muriel rushed off into the kitchen, delighted to have struck the right note with her.
Another damned modern innovation, thought Ralph. Next she’ll be going round with a bottle of the stuff hooked on the belt of her cassock. That was another thing. Why couldn’t she wear ordinary clothes and a clerical collar instead of this dove-grey cassock thing. It was ridiculous. He saw her as someone masquerading in fancy dress.
Anna saw an elderly man holding back the march of time as long as he could, but a very elegant elderly man, with his silver, well-groomed hair, his sparkling blue eyes and his very noble, distinguished nose. He had that aristocratic bearing, which, so far as he was concerned, meant he always got his own way.
Well, matey, that isn’t going to happen, not to this smart cookie. Anna graciously thanked Muriel for her glass of water and, after drinking it all down in one go, set about cooling the atmosphere as only she could.
‘I love the hanging baskets at your door, Lady Templeton. I think hanging lobelia looks so good and seems to get better and better as the summer goes by. The rectory garden is absolutely to my taste, I’m positively revelling in it. Caroline obviously has a real gardener’s touch.’
‘Oh, she has! She and I have such interesting talks. She didn’t know one flower from another when she first came, but before they left she was winning prizes at the village show. We swapped cuttings, you know.’
‘Do you do your own garden then?’
‘Well, mostly. But Willie Biggs, the old verger, gives me a hand from time to time. He’s got green fingers, too. But then you can see that for yourself from looking at the churchyard. The new chap … whatsisname, Ralph? I can never remember.’
Ralph muttered, ‘Zack.’
‘That’s it, Zack. He’s green-fingered as well. Except he’s gone modern and all his colours clash. It makes Willie Biggs wince. He puts bright orange with dark purple and it looks quite nauseating.’
‘What’s wrong with going modern? They’re still flowers, modern or not, and really, nothing in nature clashes, does it? At least they do make people look at the church, even if they don’t come in.’
‘But it’s the colour schemes he uses.’ Muriel’s still-attractive face screwed up with disdain. ‘I used to think—’
Ralph groaned inside. If Muriel got on about flowers he’d never get his view across. He interrupted her rather forcefully. ‘More to the point, what on earth is Peter going to say when he gets back from Africa? Tambourines and castanets and guitars in his church, is that what’s coming next?’
‘Sir Ralph! It isn’t his, it belongs to us all. But perhaps Peter might see the broader picture, like more young people in the church? Had you thought of it that way? What’s wrong with that?’
‘But all they’d be coming for is the music. If it can be called that. I thought you positively murdered that first hymn on Sunday. Murdered it. I’ve never sung it to “Yellow Submarine” before. Couldn’t get the hang of it at all, so I stopped singing.’
‘I noticed.’
Ralph’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Ah! Right.’
Muriel threw an anxious glance at him. ‘Ralph, dear …’
The gentle remonstration in Muriel’s voice set Ralph boiling with temper all over again. ‘It was disgraceful, Anna, absolutely disgraceful.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir Ralph, but that’s how it’s going to be. Now, I must leave. It’s the Penny Fawcett mini-market on Monday morning. A chance to off-load what they didn’t sell in Culworth Market on Saturday, but there we are.’ With a w
icked grin, Anna handed back her glass to Muriel. ‘Most kind. Now, where did I put my car keys?’
Ralph picked them up from his desk and handed them to her. She took the opportunity to capture his hand and hold on to it. ‘Please, Sir Ralph, please understand what I’m trying to do. With you on my side miracles could occur. All I ask is the chance to achieve it. I’ll say good morning and God bless. I’ll let myself out.’
As she left the study she smiled at them both and Muriel responded but Ralph had nothing to say.
‘Ralph, how could you? To the rector. It really was not right, my dear.’
‘She’s going to ruin everything. When I said about dancing in the aisles I was joking but she meant it. Remove the pews? Absolutely not. I won’t have it.’
He stormed about his study, his face growing redder by the minute, and Muriel feared for his heart. He wouldn’t withstand another attack like the last one.
‘Muriel, I’m going out.’
‘Very well, dear, a walk might be soothing. Give you time to think.’
‘I may not be back for lunch.’
Muriel knew this wasn’t the moment for questioning him about where he was going; it would only wind him up even more. But in minutes she heard his car starting up. Muriel raced to see if he’d taken his tablets this morning, but when she looked in the box she couldn’t decide if he had or he hadn’t. If he was taking the car, that most likely meant Culworth and the Abbey and more aggravation. She must remain calm. As he’d said when he’d had his first heart attack, he couldn’t live the rest of his life wrapped in cotton wool.
Milk. That’s right, she needed some milk. Since the milkman had given up his round, Jimbo had stocked every possible kind of milk anyone could ask for. How he’d found space for it all she couldn’t imagine; the Store was already so full of tempting goodies. She set off to walk round the Green, purse in hand, pushing all thought of Ralph and his heart right out of her mind.
She thought about the service and about the singing of that first hymn, how people had enjoyed it, and how much she’d thrown herself into singing it. Anna was right; you couldn’t hold back the centuries. One had to move forward and take hold of the future.
Whispers in the Village Page 3
