by Ann Purser
Six blank faces stared at him. Then Gran spoke. “You mean he might take us on?” she said. “Always supposing he’s a churchy person.”
“Oh, yes, certainly one of us,” said the vicar. “I believe he will be a terrific asset. New broom, and all that!”
“We got one of those already,” said Gran. “My daughter runs a cleaning—”
“Of course!” interrupted the vicar. “She kindly came to see me. Charming person. Most helpful. Well, there you are then, that confirms it. Clearly God meant us to have young Sandy among us.”
Vicars have a direct line, of course, said Gran to herself. Ah well, should bring a bit of spice to choir practices, and God knows they’d been dreary enough before.
“By the way, Vicar,” she said. “What is your proper name? I’ve heard Robertson, Robinson, Roberson …?”
“Brian Oswald Rollinson,” said the vicar. “But we can forget the Oswald! We’ll all get to know each other so well that surnames won’t matter. And yours is …?” he asked Gran, smiling disarmingly at her.
“Mrs. Weedon,” said Gran firmly, with not a sniff of a Christian name. “Now, we’d better get on with the hymns. We’ve all got homes to go to and work to do. Nice to meet you, Reverend Rollinson,” she added politely, and the discomfited man retreated, feeling he had not handled his first foray into church duties all that well.
Mrs. T-J stepped forward and said that under the circumstances, for one practice only, she should perhaps take charge.
THREE
BY MONDAY, WHEN LOIS HAD HER WEEKLY MIDDAY meeting with the cleaning team, gossip had spread the news that Gladys had been supplanted by a young music teacher, new to the village, friend of the new vicar, with new plans for the choir. “New” had become a dirty word by the time Sheila and Bridie, Hazel, Enid and Bill assembled in Lois’s office for their meeting.
“He’ll be lucky to have any choir left, with all his new ideas,” said Hazel with a grin. “All them old tabs’ll be off like a shot.”
Hazel, daughter of Bridie Reading, pregnant and married to a young farmer, lived in a farm cottage on the Tollervey-Jones estate. Up the road, in Cathanger Mill, Enid Abraham lived alone, coming to terms with a period of relentless family tragedy. Enid had worked hard to smarten up the old mill house, now a listed building, and happily took in bed and breakfast visitors who appreciated the tranquillity of the shady spot, with the old mill wheel and Enid’s chickens clucking about in the yard.
Neither Hazel nor Enid had any real need to work for New Brooms, but the team had cemented over the years into a tight little group. There had been initial doubts about their one male cleaner. “That Bill Stockbridge won’t last for more than six months, him being a farmer’s son from Yorkshire,” Gran had said when Bill joined the team. But he had proved her wrong. Now he divided his time between cleaning for Lois, and helping out at Charrington’s veterinary practice, where his gentle hands and quiet manner were as useful calving cows as when dusting delicate porcelain in the Tollervey-Joneses’ drawing room.
“OK, Mum,” said Lois, coming into her office, where Gran had been enjoying a good chewing over the Gladys affair with Bridie and Sheila. Sheila Stratford was one of the original members of the team. Solidly rooted in the area by generations of forebears, she thrived on the circulation of local news. She knew Gladys, of course, and could not conceal her delight that the old bag had had something of a come-uppance at last. “She’s bin in the job far too long,” she said. “I know people who’d rather worship in Waltonby than put up with her dirges on the organ,” she pronounced.
“Right, Mum,” repeated Lois, sitting down at her desk. “Did you get that message for you to ring Oxfam in Tresham? I expect they want you to do extra hours. Better go and ring them.”
“I’m going,” said Gran. “And I was anyway, seeing as you’re here now to start the meeting.” There was more than a suggestion of flounce as she left the room.
“Morning, everybody,” Lois said, looking round at expectant faces. “Now, this new vicar.” They brightened. “No, I don’t want any more gossip about Gladys, or new young choir blokes. Just the cleaning schedules, if you don’t mind. I went to see the vicar, and we’ve agreed one afternoon a week.”
“I’ve got Wednesday afternoons free, now Mrs. Brown’s gone from Fletching,” said Hazel. She didn’t really fancy the new vicar job for itself, but it could be interesting with all the ructions there were bound to be in the village.
“Yep, I’d got you down to do it, Hazel.” Lois sifted through her papers. “And Bill, could you do a couple more hours this week at Farnden Hall. Mrs. T-J is having a party to introduce Rev. Rollinson to the nobs, and wants extra help.”
“Fine,” said Bill. He didn’t mention that he and Rebecca, his long-time partner, had received an invitation. Rebecca taught in nearby Waltonby village school, and was known to be a favourite with Mrs. T-J, who was, of course, on the board of governors of the Church of England school. Some disapproval had been expressed by conservative board members when it became clear that there was no prospect of marriage in the offing for Rebecca and Bill. Acknowledging the fact that many young people lived together before getting wed, they had appointed Rebecca straight from college, certain that all would be regularized shortly. But it wasn’t, and one or two had said she was setting a bad example to the children.
Bill had said he was more than ready to take Rebecca to the altar, but she had dug in her toes. “The more I’m shoved, the more I stick,” she’d said succinctly. And so, because she was an excellent teacher, the situation had been accepted and no more was said.
The sun shone temptingly through the window of Lois’s office, and Enid Abraham shifted in her seat. “Excuse me, Mrs. M,” she said, this being the title for Lois tacitly agreed by the team, “there was something I would like to mention, if we have finished our business.”
Lois looked at the small, insignificant figure, sitting so neatly on her chair, scarcely disturbing the air around her. She might look like a mouse, she reflected, but she’d proved to have the guts of a terrier. “Go on, then, Enid,” she said. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
Enid smiled. “Oh, I don’t think it’s that exciting … it’s to do with the choir.”
“Ah,” said Sheila with satisfaction. “Somethin’ to do with that new young chap?”
“Well, yes … um, you know I sing with them … not very well, of course, but … anyway … Mr. Mackerras, our new choirmaster, hopes to enlarge the choir, and we’re asked to spread the word. It’s all going to be much more fun … he says … jollier music and …” Her voice tailed away as always, and she looked tentatively round the room. Her appeal was met with total silence at first. Sheila, at least, had been hoping for something a bit juicier.
Then Bill cleared his throat. “I could ask Rebecca,” he said. “She’s always warbling about the place. And—maybe I shouldn’t admit this—I was a boy chorister in our church at home. Up North, that is. Suppose I could give it a go.”
Enid’s face lit up. “That would be marvellous,” she said. “Thank you, Bill.”
But he’d not finished, and with a sly grin turned to Lois. “How about you, Mrs. M? A little bird told me you used to sing with a band in Tresham in your misspent youth.”
“Me?” said Lois in astonishment. “I sing like a cracked kettle. You ask Derek!”
But Lois’s traitorous husband Derek, when he met Bill in the pub that evening, said that Lois could sing very nicely when she tried. The difficulty would be getting her to have a try, they agreed, and had another pint to give themselves the strength to persuade her.
FOUR
CHIEF DETECTIVE INSPECTOR HUNTER COWGILL SAT at his desk, eyes closed, apparently asleep.
“Your usual, sir?” said the tea lady, coming in with a rattle of crockery.
Cowgill opened his eyes and stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. “Sorry? What did you say?” he said. He had been dozing in another, alarming world, where crime
had been eradicated, and all around were good, law-abiding citizens.
“Coffee and shortbread?” said the tea lady indulgently. Inspector Cowgill was one of her favourites. Always the gentleman, she told her friends. Her days were numbered, her job to be taken over by an anonymous machine in the corridor, and she’d miss Cowgill especially.
“So sorry,” he apologized. “Miles away … er, no, no shortbread this morning, thanks. Too much flab, my wife tells me. She’s given me orders to avoid all sweet things.”
He looked so sad that the woman tried a joke. “Right,” she said, “you’d better give me a wide berth, with or with-out me trolley.” He smiled dutifully, and took his coffee, waving a denying hand at the sugar.
After she’d gone, he stood up and went to the window, where he looked down at the busy Tresham High Street, thoughtfully sipping his coffee. Perhaps he should start thinking about early retirement. His wife reminded him repeatedly that it was time they did more things together, went on more holidays, had a social life like other people. But the truth was that he hated holidays, disliked his neighbours and was only really happy when on the trail of a wrongdoer, the more slippery and potentially evil the better.
The market day crowds thinned out for a moment, and his attention was caught by a tall, immediately noticeable young woman, her dark hair swinging as she walked. Was it …? Then she turned and glanced up at his window, quite obviously seeking it out from the forbidding stone face of the police station. Then she grinned, and waved. Yes, it was Lois Meade. His pulse quickened, and he did not notice the coffee dribbling over on to the floor. Lois. He waved and smiled his chilly smile, then turned away and returned to his chair, setting down his coffee mug with shaking hands.
Well, that’s the first time I’ve seen her since … He tried to clear his mind, but the image of her walking out of sight along the High Street would not go away. He groaned. No fool like an old fool, he told himself, unconsciously echoing old Cyril in Farnden graveyard, though the circumstances could not have been more different.
LOIS WALKED ON AROUND THE CORNER INTO THE MAR-ket Place, thinking how much she missed her old ding-dongs with Cowgill. He’d valued her help, but could never drop his official approach, finding it difficult to appreciate that she pursued her amateur detection like a serious hobby, wanting no reward but appreciation of her part in tracking down the guilty. Sometimes the hobby had turned into a crusade, like the case where drugs had been involved, and young people she knew had almost had lives wrecked by uncaring dealers.
One such young person had been her own team member, Hazel. Also recruited by Cowgill, she had had her own experience of addiction and a difficult retreat from certain death. This had given her ammunition to help the police in their never-ending battle, though with impending motherhood, she’d given up all of that.
“Two pounds of tomatoes,” Lois said, refusing to have anything to do with kilos, and handing over the exact money to the market trader. She walked on, buying Derek’s favourite matured cheddar from the cheese stall, and a bunch of sweet williams for Gran. Errands done, she realized that she still had Cowgill’s coolly smiling face in front of her inner eye, and sighed.
“Mrs. M?” It was Rebecca, trailing a small group of six-year-olds behind her. Lois greeted her with pleasure, and they fell into happy conversation about school and the fortunate approach of the end of term. “We’re doing some practical arithmetic, going shopping,” said Rebecca. “At least, that’s the intention. Most of this lot think we’re on an outing, and just want ice-creams and the toilet. Everything OK with you, Mrs. M?”
Watching the effortlessly capable Rebecca manoeuvre the children like sheep through the market crowds, Lois thought how lucky Bill was, and what a pity they didn’t settle down and start a family of their own. Hunter Cowgill was forgotten, for the moment.
On the way home, Lois thought again about Enid’s appeal for new choir members. After the team meeting, Derek had said again that she should join. “You don’t do nothing much for pleasure. Just for you.” He’d gone on about how hard she worked, looking after a family and running a business. They’d both ignored Gran’s muttered comments that Lois would have to work a lot harder if she wasn’t there, cooking and cleaning, washing and ironing, being there when needed. All three knew that the arrangement suited them well. Lois was able to concentrate on New Brooms, and when the kids had all been at school, she’d had no worries about them coming back to an empty house. For Gran, it was a home. Once her husband had died, the bungalow had been no home at all, and she’d been relieved and grateful to be part of her daughter’s lively lot. And for Derek, anything that made life easier for Lois, and therefore for him, was a bonus.
Approaching the entrance to the vicarage Lois stopped the car. She would just drop in to confirm a few points about Hazel starting work there. She was about to knock on the door, when she hesitated. Voices were in heated conversation, and she drew back. Then a face appeared at the window, and it was too late to retreat. The tall figure of the vicar appeared at the door, smiling in welcome, and asked her in.
“Have you met Sandy?” he said, waving a hand towards a young man with curly, reddish hair. “Mrs. Meade—Lois, if I may?—this is Sandy Mackerras, who is our new choirmaster. He’s staying here with me until he can find a suitable place to live in the village. I am delighted, of course, to have his company. We were just discussing hymns for Sunday, weren’t we, Sandy?”
Sandy seemed to be having trouble smiling, but eventually made it, and put out a hand to Lois. “Hello, Lois,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. Are you one of our singing ladies?”
Silly sod, thought Lois, who knew only too well when she was being patronized. “No, nor likely to be,” she said. “Croaking frogs sound better than me,” she added.
“Not at all!” said Brian Rollinson, “Sandy here believes everyone can sing in tune, given a little help.”
“Mostly a boost in confidence,” said Sandy. “People are nervous about singing in public, and then their voices don’t function. Particularly elderly people.”
“Rules me out, then,” said Lois, guessing that the knowledgeable Sandy was about twenty-five at the most.
The Rev. Rollinson touched her arm lightly—Oh God, thought Lois, a touchy-feely vicar—and said they’d give her time to think about it, but she would be most welcome to come along and try it out. “No obligation,” he said, laughing an unexpectedly booming guffaw. “Now, when is the lovely Hazel going to start cleaning me up?”
Well, reflected Lois, on returning to her car, the lovely Hazel is just the one to sort out that duo. Until the baby comes, anyway.
“What do you think, Mum, of our Sandy?” Lois said at lunchtime.
Gran shrugged, and began to clear away plates. “No, sit down, Derek,” she said, as he had pushed his chair back in a half-hearted attempt to help her. “There’s a choice of puddings,” she added. “Apple crumble or stewed apricots and custard.”
“Young Sandy, Mum?” repeated Lois patiently. “What d’you reckon? Will the old ducks stage a walk-out?”
“Doubt it,” said Gran. “He’s a bit of a change from old Gladys, but that’s a good thing. He made a good start. Mrs. T-J was eating out of his hand, and the others were warming towards him slowly. You know Farnden, Lois. Usually takes half a lifetime to be accepted here. Still, he’s got a nice way with him. Brings out the motherly in some of ‘em. Then, o’course, we’ve only got one young woman—that squint-eyed Sharon from the shop—but he’d got her offering to sing solos, play the organ while he conducted, take on the treasurer’s job—a doddle, that, since we ain’t got no money—and more besides. Reckon she’d have offered to let him wipe his muddy boots on her if we hadn’t started at a gallop on ‘Praise my Soul’.”
“What’d you think of him, Lois?” said Derek. He was still hoping to persuade Lois to join the choir, knowing that there was a small gap in her life, and preferring it to be filled by singing rather than sleuthing for Cowgill.
“Lois!” said her mother. “That’s not a nice way to talk.”
“Derek asked,” Lois said defensively. “That was my first impression, and I’m willing to be proved wrong.”
A swift glance of disbelief passed between Gran and Derek, and he smiled. “Well, anyway,” he said placatingly, “the new vicar’s a reliable client for New Brooms, and no doubt we’ll be hearing more about Brian and Sandy.”
“Blimey,” said Gran. “When you say it like that …”
FIVE
JAMIE MEADE SLOPED ALONG WITH A LONG STRIDE from the bus stop towards his house. He’d finished his A-levels, and had an offer of a place at York University. All summer he had taken temporary jobs, but had begun to think he might take a year off before going to York, if they’d hold his place. It would be nice to forget studying for a while, get out into the real world and earn some money. Live it up a bit. But music was his life as well as his subject and he would be looking for something connected to that.
Derek had offered to take him around on jobs and teach him some of the electrician’s trade, but Jamie had refused, reasonably politely, saying it would be a waste of Dad’s time, since he had no intention of following in his footsteps.
He found Gran in the kitchen, ironing shirts and grumbling gently. “Some men iron their own shirts,” she said, looking at him fondly as he folded himself into a chair. He’d been such a charmer at eleven years old, but teenagehood had moulded him into a lanky, casual young man. Cool, they called it, Gran knew, but it was all an act with Jamie. He was still her same sweet-natured boy at heart, and still passionate about his music. She remembered when he’d been encouraged to play the piano by Enid Abraham, one of Lois’s team and no mean pianist herself, and—contrary to his parents’ expectations—he had stuck to it, taking exam after exam and doing very well in them all. Now Gran approved of his intention to make his career in the musical world.
