He hugs himself in his excitement. It will be his way of dedicating himself as a priest in her honour. Not that she would know. Not yet. But one day.
* * *
Feeling decidedly more cheerful than she had in months, Sylvie fished the keys from her coat pocket. Naturally she would have to see how this new guy shaped up, but it would be great to have a man in her life again.
‘That you, love?’ Margaret Kilpatrick was in the hallway before Sylvie had closed the door. ‘I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to. It’s gone half past.’
‘The bus was late and then we got held up at the road works by the new hospital.’
A frown still creased the older woman’s forehead. ‘I don’t know why you don’t get a taxi. It would be so much safer.’
‘All the way from Swindon! It would cost a bomb and it’s not as though I come back alone. It would be different if Cheryl wasn’t with me.’
‘But you still have to walk all that way up from the main road by yourself.’
‘I keep telling you, Mum, this is sleepy Winton, not the wicked city. We don’t have muggers and rapists lurking round every corner.’
Her mother refused to be mollified. ‘At least when you were going out with that Paul, he saw you to the door.’
‘But you didn’t like him,’ Sylvie accused.
‘That’s not true. I never said that. He’s a nice enough boy even if his dad was a waster. I just thought he was getting much too serious, that’s all. Anyway, you lock up and I’ll put the kettle on and you can tell me all about your evening.’
Behind her mother’s fast retreating back, Sylvie pulled a face.
‘By the way,’ came the distant voice from the kitchen as Sylvie slipped the safety chain into place, ‘talking of Paul, I saw Mrs Atkinson in the butcher’s this morning and she said that he’s just got engaged to that girl from Crowthorpe but she doesn’t know what her name is. You haven’t heard, have you?’
‘I didn’t even know he was seeing anyone.’
As Sylvie tried to find a spare peg on the overcrowded coat rack at the bottom of the stairs, she caught her scowling reflection in the hall mirror. For goodness’ sake, she told herself sharply, why shouldn’t Paul find someone else? It was about time and, as she was the one who had decided to end their relationship, she should be pleased.
When Sylvie wandered into the kitchen, her mother’s smile quickly turned to a frown.
‘You’ll catch your death in that skimpy top. Go and get yourself a jumper.’
‘I’m fine. Honest.’
‘The heating went off half an hour ago.’
‘I’m a big girl now, Mum.’
‘Then you ought to have more sense.’
It really wasn’t worth upsetting her. With a resigned sigh, Sylvie made her way back into the hall.
‘And take care on the stairs in those heels,’ came the raised voice.
‘I’m twenty, not twelve,’ Sylvie muttered under her breath but nonetheless she slipped out of her shoes.
By the time she got back to the kitchen, the teapot sat on the table next to two china mugs and the Tower Of London biscuit tin.
‘Did you have a nice time?’
‘Yes thanks. The film wasn’t bad.’
‘And what about Jason’s friend? What was he like?’
‘Trevor? Seemed quite nice.’ Best to play it cool.
‘So are you going to see him again?’
‘Some of their college mates are in a band that’s doing a gig at one of the pubs in Old Town tomorrow night. Cheryl suggested we all go along and support them.’
‘That’s nice.’ A contented smile spread across her mother’s face.
‘It’s just an evening out, Mum. Don’t start getting ideas.’
‘Well it’s high time you had a proper boyfriend again.’ As a steely look flashed in Sylvie’s eyes, her mother hurried on, ‘Still, it’s probably a good idea going in a group like that. Safety in numbers.’ Sylvie suppressed the urge to say that Cheryl was only trying to keep her own dad sweet. Like many of the village parents, her father had some very old-fashioned views about what was proper for his daughter. Not that Sylvie objected to being used as a chaperone on this occasion. Trevor certainly had possibilities.
‘Swindon’s not really the evil place you seem to think it is. Just because they’re not local boys, Cheryl and I aren’t suddenly going to get swept into a den of drugs and vice. We’re not kids any more. We can look after ourselves.’
Her mother gave a defensive shrug. ‘But you read such stories in the papers. And remember Cheryl is a year younger than you so you should keep an eye out for her. I suppose that means you’d like an early tea.’
‘Don’t bother for me, Mum. We’re going to grab something there.’
A pained expression came over the older woman’s face. ‘I got a couple of nice pork chops this morning, but I suppose they’ll keep till Monday.’
‘There’s nothing to stop you having yours.’
‘No problem. I’ll be happy with an omelette or something.’
Though she knew her mother wasn’t trying to play the martyr, it didn’t stop Sylvie from feeling guilty. That was the trouble with being the only child of a widowed mother.
Ten minutes later, Sylvie kissed Margaret on the cheek and made her way up to bed. Her mother always insisted on doing the small amount of washing up and Sylvie knew there was no point in offering to help. Besides, she was keen to get into her own room where she could be alone with her thoughts. With Cheryl going on about Jason all the way home, Sylvie hadn’t had a chance to think. She wanted to replay the high spots of her evening, try to remember exactly what he had said. Trevor might not be a hunk but he was fanciable. He’d seemed quite keen about tomorrow. With any luck, this could be the start of something a bit special.
Strange how in the eighteen months since the split with Paul, none of her other relationships had come to anything. She’d met several nice blokes at the club and the first few times they’d been out together everything was fine. But as soon as they started bringing her home, they seemed to lose interest. Heaven only knew what she was doing to put them off. Had she played it too casual in an effort not to appear overly keen? It didn’t do one’s ego any good to keep getting dumped. Still, with luck, this one might be different. She’d just have to see how it turned out.
‘So where’s your Trevor taking you this evening? Somewhere really special I bet. It wouldn’t surprise me if the two of you didn’t end up in that new classy Italian restaurant in Old Town.’
As the rest of the queue shuffled forward, Sylvie turned to stare at Cheryl. Before she could say anything, her friend gave a wink and continued in a voice loud enough for the whole shop to hear, ‘Some men know how to treat a girl properly.’
‘What the hell are you going on about,’ hissed Sylvie. ‘And keep your voice down for goodness’ sake. Everyone’s listening.’
Sylvie could feel the colour rising in her cheeks. It was bad enough having Daft Willie grinning at her from ear to ear from the far side of the shop while he was supposed to be stacking the shelves without Cheryl suddenly sounding off with a load of rubbish, especially on a busy Saturday morning in front of half the village.
Ahead of her, at the Post Office counter, Tom Mapleton collected his change. Before moving off, he threw a critical stare in Sylvie’s direction, turning it into a weak grin when he caught her eye. Pretending she hadn’t noticed, Sylvie hurried forward and dropped the padded envelope on the scales. With an attempt at a winning smile at the solemn-faced man behind the metal grille she said, ‘Second class, please, Mr Crabtree.’
Ignoring the queue building up behind her, the postmaster took his time turning the pages of his book to find the requisite stamps. He carefully folded each one back along the lines of perforations on the sheet before tearing it out. With agonizing slowness, he picked up the three small squares of paper, put them one on top of the other and placed them by the grille before ponderou
sly pushing them under. Sylvie waited until the bony finger that held them trapped had been removed before snatching them up. Almost careless in her haste, Sylvie licked the stamps and stuck them on. She avoided the postmaster’s watery-eyed stare as he lifted the flap to accept the package, though he still managed to brush against her hand as he took it from her.
Seizing Cheryl by the arm, Sylvie marched out of the post-office-cum-general-store so quickly that Cheryl had to break into a fast trot to keep up.
‘What on earth was that all about? You know damn well we’re only going to the cinema with you and Jason,’ Sylvie rounded on her friend once they were out in the deserted street. ‘What were you thinking of, making an exhibition of me like that in front of everyone?’
‘Didn’t you see? Paul was standing in the queue behind us.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘So it won’t do any harm for him to see he’s not the only one living it up. Let him know that you’re out there having a great time without him,’ Cheryl explained reasonably, surprised at her friend’s anger.
‘It’s bad enough Willie trying to chat me up every time I go in and Old Crabby giving me the creeps, staring like he’s undressing me with his eyes, without you letting the whole village know my private business.’
‘I’m sorry, okay? Look slow down will you? I can’t keep up with your long legs especially in these shoes. I don’t understand why you want to keep Trevor a secret. He’s a nice guy. You’re not ashamed of him are you?’
‘Of course not. It’s nothing to do with Trevor. It’s just that I don’t fancy the likes of Tom Mapleton and Denis Crabtree tittle-tattling about what I’m getting up to.’
‘Don’t be daft. Old Crabby never says more than three words at a time to anyone, and why on earth should Tom say anything?’
‘Didn’t you see that leer he gave me? He’ll be leaning across that bar tonight telling all his customers about me being a scarlet woman. You know darned well nothing ever happens in this place. He’ll make a scandal out of anything just for something to talk about. That’s just the way this village is. Full of bloody weirdoes.’
If she heard the muttered, ‘You’re mad, you are,’ Sylvie gave no sign and stormed off at a fast trot. As she reached the corner, a breathless, but by no means contrite, Cheryl caught her up and slipped an arm through Sylvie’s to slow her down.
‘I’m sorry, okay?’ Sylvie resolutely kept up the pace, ignoring her friend’s effort to heal the breach. ‘This is about Paul, isn’t it? You don’t still feel guilty about dumping him do you?’
‘It wasn’t like that so why on earth should I? You know how everyone round here kept asking when we were going to announce the big day. Before you know it, I’d be stuck here for ever living in some rabbit hutch of a council house, harassed by a couple of small kids. Well no thanks. I want a bit of life and the sooner I can get out of Winton the better. There’s damn all to do and it’s full of small- minded people. It’s the absolute pits.’
‘If you hate it so much, why don’t you leave? Get a job in London or somewhere?’
Sylvie sighed. ‘You know damned well why. I can’t walk out on Mum. Ever since dad died, I’m more or less all she’s got. Give it another eight months, as soon as I’m twenty one, I’ll look for a flat in Swindon.’
‘Really hit the big time!’
‘Okay, so it’s not exactly where it’s all happening, but it has got a bit of life after nine o’clock at night. I can’t up sticks altogether because of Mum, but even Swindon’s got to be better than this place.’
They reached the village pond and Sylvie flung herself down on the bench. Cheryl was only too pleased to sink down beside her. She undid the ankle straps of the clumpy high-heels, built for fashion not fast walking, slipped them off and massaged her feet. The two of them sat silently for a few moments, pretending to watch a pair of mallards upending in the shallows, but when Sylvie eventually turned to Cheryl she found her friend staring at her with a concerned look on her face.
‘Whatever you say,’ Cheryl said with a stubborn edge to her voice, ‘you still fancy Paul. You’ve not had a proper boyfriend since.’
‘Don’t talk rot. It’s just that. I’ve no intention of getting pinned down. I’m much happier playing the field.’
There was no way she was going to let Cheryl know she wanted nothing more than to have a normal relationship.
‘I was just pissed off because I can’t bear the thought of the whole village gossiping about me again. Just because we’d been best buddies since starting school everyone thought the two of us were joined at the hip. You don’t know what I had to put up with after the two of us broke up. Ida Bragg almost refused to serve me when I went in the baker’s. She couldn’t bring herself to speak to me for ages and she wasn’t the only one. Several of the other old biddies made it very clear they thought I’d treated him shabbily. It wouldn’t take much for them to start believing the worst of me all over again.’
‘That’s only because they missed out on what they’d decided was going to be a good old knees-up, what with a village wedding and all.’
Sylvie gave a rueful grin. ‘You could be right at that.’
‘They’d probably already sorted out who was going to do the flowers and the catering and picked out all the hymns for the service.’ Cheryl started to giggle. ‘If you and Paul had got married, you’d have had no say in the arrangements, not with both of you being from the village. Bet old Ma Bragg had already started on the cake. That’s why she gave you such a hard time. She probably had to whisk the bride and groom off the top and stick a robin on to get rid of it last Christmas.’
Cheryl’s laughter was infectious and it wasn’t long before even Sylvie began to chuckle.
‘Tom Mapleton would have got in cases of sparkling wine and what’s the betting old Arthur made a special journey into Swindon to buy some white ribbon to stick on his taxi ready for the big day? There’d have been so much fuss the two of you would’ve had to elope to escape.’
‘Then they’d never have let us back into the village.’ Sylvie sat up, mock horror all over her face. ‘We’d have been exiled for ever.’
The rickety old bench began to creak alarming as Cheryl rocked backwards and forwards, helpless with laughter. Two coots nosing amongst the weed a few feet away took fright and scuttled across to far side of the water with indignant squawks.
Sylvie joined in, but she couldn’t shake off the uneasy feeling deep down inside. Something was wrong; something she couldn’t explain.
Chapter 2
There is a deep furrow across his brow as he stares down into the deserted street. She should have been back ten minutes ago. The bus is sometimes late but it never takes this long. He stands at the window, twisting his fingers in the edge of the curtain in his agitation. Could she have missed the bus?
An agonizing half hour ticks by. No sign of a taxi. Surely she isn’t spending the night away from home? Not with some man!
He is bathed in a cold sweat. His knees feel weak and his throat is suddenly dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. Not his Sylvie. She is still much too young to get up to such tricks. Too good, too innocent. Pure.
Besides, her mother would never allow it. City girls with no morals grow up fast but not his precious Sylvie. In his panic he turns and snatches up the glove from the small table. Her glove; scooped up from outside the newsagent’s where she’d dropped it last winter. He lifts it to his face and rubs it gently on his cheek. The soft wool soothes his fever and his racing heart gradually returns to normal. He closes his eyes, buries his nose and mouth in its healing warmth, taking long slow breaths as though he could still drink in her scent.
There is a noise out there. He snaps off the table-lamp, leans out into the bay to peer through the curtains as it comes around the corner. A motorbike. Not one of those powerful souped-up models, just a small 50cc job. It has a passenger. Even with the borrowed helmet covering her head he recognize
s his Sylvie in the leather jacket. The tight skirt, already much too short, has inched up to the top of her long, pale thighs as she sits astride the cursed machine. And she has her arms around the rider. Around him! Holding him close, her body nestled against his back.
There is a terrible pain in his head. A pounding across his temples. All is black. As he slumps back against the table, he puts out a hand to steady himself. His fingers brush against loose sheets of paper. Without thinking, he scrunches them in his clenched fist. The wringing of his hands echoes the dreadful churning throughout his whole body until the sound of tearing paper cuts into his consciousness. His breath comes in short angry pants as he rips the sheets into ever-smaller scraps. When the pieces are reduced to fragments he flings them away with a desperate groan and watches as they flutter harmlessly around him, mocking his anguish.
His fists bang on the windowsill in his frustration. He wants to strike out, to smash everything in sight.
He will have his revenge.
* * *
Sylvie was idly flicking through the pages of a magazine when the door opened.
‘I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to.’
‘I told you I was going to do a bit of baking while the oven was still hot. We can have something nice with our tea.’ Was it just her imagination or was her mother deliberately avoiding looking her in the eye?
‘But I heard you go upstairs ages ago.’
‘I only popped up to take off my pinny and run a comb through my hair.’
And change into your best cardigan and put on some lipstick, Sylvie thought. When her mother bent to pick up the magazines scattered on the floor and stack them neatly on the far side of the table, Sylvie’s suspicions were confirmed.
‘You expecting someone?’
The older woman settled herself in an easy chair and said airily, ‘No. Not specially.’
All in the Mind Page 27
