Theft on Thursday

by Ann Purser

  A couple of minutes later, the telephone rang again, and Sandy listened intently. Not Sharon cancelling, he hoped. But no, Brian said in his jolly voice, “Hello, Rebecca! How nice of you to call … Yes, he’s doing very well … Difficult to keep him down, really!” Sandy’s spirits began to rise. Could be an interesting afternoon. “Of course you can, my dear,” continued Brian. “This afternoon? After school? Yes, I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you … No, he’s got everything he needs. Just bring yourself! Goodbye for now, then.”

  When Brian came in to tell him about the call, Sandy had already perked up. “Right,” he said. “No more of this invalid stuff. I’m going to take a shower and a shave. Then I’ll get dressed and—”

  “No, no, Sandy! You don’t realize how ill you’ve been. I promised to keep you quiet for several days yet. I shall put off Rebecca if you won’t listen to me. Your mother is coming tomorrow, and what will she say if you’re worse instead of better?”

  Sandy sighed. “Look, Brian.” He was patient, making an effort. “I know it was serious. Nearly snuffed it. But I’m fine now, just a bit weak.” He smiled his “this-is-your-dream-home” smile. It usually worked. “You know, surely,” he continued, “that a cheery patient will get better far quicker than a misery? Well, here I am, getting better and with a lovely visitor this afternoon. Do me a power of good. Please, Brian, give me a break.”

  BY THE TIME REBECCA KNOCKED AT THE DOOR, SANDY was smartened up, and apart from a pallor in his cheeks and a reluctance to stand up, he looked very much his old self. “Mmm, chocolates!” he said. “Not allowed them yet, but I’ll save them up to make a pig of myself later on.” He turned to look at the hovering Brian. “Why don’t you get on with that sermon?” he suggested. “A good opportunity, now Rebecca’s here to keep me company.”

  Oh dear, thought Brian, and left the room. He just hoped the excitement wouldn’t be too much for the lad. What excitement? he wondered. Rebecca was Bill’s girlfriend—almost wife—and Sandy knew that perfectly well. Sometimes Brian’s affection for the lad was mixed with a tinge of dislike. Sandy had his father’s looks, but not much of his character.

  In the sitting room brightened with flowers from well-wishers, Sandy looked across at Rebecca and liked what he saw. Now that she was on her own, and had no reason to challenge him, her expression was soft and concerned. Her eyes were warm, and her mouth generous and bright. He was absorbed in imagining how wonderful it would be to … Wow! His colour rose, and she asked anxiously if he was OK. “Oh, yes,” he said, “all the better for seeing you, my dear, as the old wolf said.”

  They talked desultorily about local people and the latest gossip at the pub, and how the choir was managing without him. He asked about Bill, and saw her face change. “He’s fine,” she said abruptly. She didn’t add that Bill had no idea she was visiting Sandy, and would be far from pleased if he knew. At the one choir practice they’d had since Sandy’s dramatic exit that chaotic night, Bill had been helpful, helping to choose suitable hymns and find alternative tunes. He’d located old choir robes in a dusty cupboard and pulled them out to be cleaned and used by new members. He had complimented a blushing Sharon on her organ playing, and handled Mrs. T-J with tact. Rebecca thought it best not to mention any of this, but said they’d all be really glad to see Sandy back.

  “Why don’t you take your coat off, Rebecca?” Sandy had had a tempting glimpse of a dress cut perhaps a little lower than was suitable for a schoolmistress. “It’s warm in here,” he added. “Brian’s turned the heating up … killing me with kindness, and all that!”

  Rebecca stood up and removed her coat. Sandy watched her, and said, “Oh, while you’re up, could you pick up a book I dropped down here somewhere? I still feel dizzy if I bend down.” It was a lie, of course. There was no book. But Rebecca obediently leaned over him and looked into the dark corner behind the chair.

  “Gotcha!” he said with a laugh, and put his hands gently round her face. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and kissed her on her shining mouth.

  Oh my God, what a plonker, Rebecca thought, but allowed herself to be kissed.

  At this inopportune moment, a figure passed close by the window, stopped and looked in, and then ran back down the path. Brian, standing at his bedroom window above, saw that it was Sharon Miller and that as she wrestled with the iron gate, she appeared to be in tears.

  WHEN BRIAN ROLLINSON’S CALL CAME THROUGH, LOIS was in the bath. After a long afternoon of visits, checking that clients were satisfied with New Brooms’ service, she had settled in to enjoy a soak before tea. Derek was home early, and when she heard the telephone ring, and then his footsteps on the stairs, she groaned. What now? Everything was in order, surely.

  “Cor, any hot water left for me?” said Derek, handing her the telephone. She nodded, and indicated he should wait. “Hello? Oh yes, vicar. Nothing wrong, I hope?” As Derek watched, he saw her frown, then an expression of irritation flicker across her face. “Leave it with me,” she said. “I’ll find out what happened and get back to you. It’s probably too late to send anyone else now, but you shall have an extra half hour tomorrow morning to make up for the inconvenience. So sorry. Bye.”

  Derek raised his eyebrows. “What’s up?”

  “That stupid girl! Her first job on her own, and she ducked out of it. Got as far as the vicarage, and then turned tail and ran! What on earth’s the matter with her? No, don’t answer that. You said I shouldn’t take her on. Well, you might be right. Anyway …” She stood up, foamy water streaming down over her wonderfully soapy body. It was too much for Derek, and as a result, by the time Lois made an angry call to the Miller home, Sharon had gone to bed, saying she had a migraine and must be left alone.

  “I’m going round there now,” Lois said, dressed and refreshed. “She’ll have more than a migraine when I’ve finished with her. Shan’t be long, Mum,” she added. “Back shortly with any luck.” Gran protested that surely it could wait until tomorrow, but her words fell on deaf ears.

  Walking quickly along the path to the Millers’ house, Lois saw a car pulling away from the vicarage. The light was going fast, but she could just see it was a girl driving. The girl waved, and Lois was almost sure it was Bill’s Rebecca. Yes, it was her car, no doubt about it. What had she been doing at the vicarage? Not too difficult, that one. Visiting the sick. Lois had not missed the signs at choir practice. Sandy looked very often at Rebecca, smiled especially for her, and complimented her on solos he’d asked her to sing. Lois had noticed Bill’s angry expression and wondered if trouble was brewing. Now it looked more than possible. Silly girl! Bill was worth six times that bouncy little … little … Lois waved back, and hurried on.

  EIGHTEEN

  IT WAS PAST MIDDAY WHEN MARION MACKERRAS’S neat little Peugeot drew up outside Long Farnden vicarage. Brian was standing by the window, concealed by a curtain, and saw with a sinking heart that it was a good five minutes before she opened the car door and got out. Priming her guns, no doubt.

  “Your mother’s here,” he said, turning to Sandy, who was lounging on the sofa reading the property pages of the local paper.

  “Do you think I should act pale and interesting, or big, strong and quite recovered?”

  Brian shook his head. “Try to be serious, Sandy,” he said. “Your mother has been extremely worried.”

  “Not enough to come and see me in hospital!”

  “For a very good reason,” Brian said sharply. “She has had a bad cold, and would not be allowed to carry infection. She relied on me to keep her informed.”

  “Huh!” Sandy clearly did not believe him, and the air was still full of tension when Brian opened the front door and stood aside for Marion to walk in.

  She nodded a brief greeting. “Brian,” she said. “How is he?”

  “Come through and see for yourself, Marion. He’s doing very well indeed.” Brian despised himself for his humble, apologetic tone. But Marion hardly looked at him, and passed on swiftly into
the sitting room.

  “Hi, Mother,” Sandy said, “how’s the cold?”

  Excusing himself tactfully, Brian retreated to his study to the impossible task of studying his text for next Sunday. It seemed hours before the sitting-room door opened again, and he rushed out into the hall to offer refreshment. Sandy was on his feet, unsmiling, and Brian quickly offered tea or coffee, followed by an “Or I could rustle up a glass of wine?”

  Marion shook her head, buttoning up her coat. “I have to get back,” she said. “Now I can see for myself that Sandy’s on the mend, I shall be able to sleep again.” She gave him a hug, and turned to Brian.

  “Please keep me informed,” she said coldly, “if there’s any cause for worry. Anything at all.”

  “I assure you, Marion,” Brian began, but was interrupted.

  “Never mind about all that,” she said. “All I care about now is that Sandy is safe and well, and settled in a job he enjoys.”

  Sandy muttered, “I am still here, you know. Not in a coma any more. And I’m quite capable of looking after myself and living my own life.” Marion’s persistent questions on Brian’s household were beginning to irritate him. He knew he had been planted by his mother on Brian Rollinson, and was fed up with reporting back on life at the vicarage. And now she had done all the talking, telling him things that had stunned him into silence.

  “Well, nice of you to come, Mum,” he said slowly. “I’ll try to visit soon. Maybe bring a friend …”

  Marion turned sharply. “What friend?” she said.

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be a girlfriend. One of many, naturally.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” she said, and drove off down Long Farnden main street on her way home.

  “She’s gone,” Sandy said flatly.

  Brian slumped down into the big chair and closed his eyes. “I wish she could have stayed,” he said. His voice was so low that Sandy could scarcely hear him.

  “What was that?” he said.

  “Nothing, nothing at all.” Brian straightened up with an effort. “And what’s the matter with you, anyway? You don’t look overjoyed at your mother’s visit.”

  Sandy shook his head. “I’m all right,” he said. “I think I’ll go down to the pub for a while. The walk’ll do me good. Sun’s shining. I’ll get something to eat.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Brian was shocked and anxious.

  “I’m serious,” said Sandy, and walked towards the door.

  “Then I’m coming with you,” said Brian, and followed behind a furious Sandy until they reached the pub.

  DEREK WATCHED THEM WALK IN FROM HIS STOOL AT THE bar. “Morning, Vicar,” he said. He looked curiously at the pair. It was the first time he’d seen them together, and in view of rumours still flying about, thought he would—without staring—see what he could pick up from how they were together. Might help Lois to get the right cleaner for them. That Sharon was obviously useless. What had reduced her to tears? The thought of working for a couple of blokes living together? But there’d been stories of Mackerras giving her lifts, having a date or two. Confusing. Well, he had warned Lois about the girl, and now she would have to sort it out.

  The landlord’s greeting was muted. He secretly wished this new vicar wouldn’t come in so often. It wasn’t that he minded him having only a half of shandy, or that he insisted on standing at the bar instead of going to sit decently in a corner. It was just that the purest white dog-collar was inhibiting to his other customers. “Difficult to have a good curse, with ‘im watching yer,” old Cyril had said, and his viewpoint was echoed by other regulars. “So what can I do?” said the landlord. “Ban him from the pub? I can just see the headlines: ‘Vicar banned from village pub—bad for trade, says landlord.’ No, we’ll just have to hope he gets fed up with it. He’s not a real drinker, anyone can see that.”

  Today Brian Rollinson surprised him. “A large whisky and water, please,” he said, “and what are you having, Sandy?”

  Sandy glared at him, then shrugged and said, “Oh, well, if we’re celebrating something, I’ll have a Bacardi Breezer.”

  “A what?” Brian raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s the latest, Vicar,” said the landlord, and gave them their drinks. They ordered food, and were told to sit at a table—the corner one—where the sandwiches would be brought to them.

  “Quite happy here, thanks,” said Brian, looking round. It was easier to be one of the crowd, sitting on a stool at the hub of the drinkers. Breaking down barriers, and all that.

  “Come on, Brian,” said Sandy, carrying their drinks to the corner table. “You’re better out of the way, wearing that badge of office. Instant blight on the conversation. Anyway, I’ve got something to tell you.” He had decided it was a good moment, and the sooner said the better. But here, in a public place, he was going to have to be tactful. Put on a good act.

  “It’s not that I’m not extremely grateful for what you’ve done for me,” he began, “but the truth is that we don’t hit it off too well together, do we?” He managed a rueful, self-blaming smile, and saw the dawning of a new anxiety in Brian’s face.

  “So I’ve done something about it, Brian,” he continued. “There’s this really promising flat in Tresham. A bit shabby, but in a good area. It’s all settled, and I can move in more or less straightaway. Or after I’ve done some refurbishing, anyway.” He took a deep breath and waited.

  Brian passed a hand across his eyes and took a gulp of whisky. “A fait accompli then?” he said after a long pause. He knew it was part of the plan, but hadn’t expected it so soon. “No consultation, no discussion, no request for guidance?”

  Sandy shook his head and frowned. “Brian,” he said firmly, “I am twenty-five years old, I have been working for my living for five years, and many of my friends are married with children. They make decisions on their own every day of the week. I have made some good friends around here. Some are even socially acceptable—entertained at the Hall—which should please you and Mother. As I said, I am more than grateful for your hospitality. I know what it has cost you, and I’m sorry for that. And,” he said, making a huge effort to suggest the last thing he wanted, “I hope you’ll give me a hand in choosing things for the flat … You’ve got really good taste ….”

  At this, Brian Rollinson stood up. He barked out a mirthless laugh that caused heads to turn. “Good taste?” he said loudly. “Good taste in what? Curtains? Furniture? Pretty things for the sitting room? Certainly not in friends, apparently. Not in companions to keep the lonely hours at bay. No, Sandy,” he continued, “I shall not help you choose. You can wash your hands of me, as has everyone else.”

  He shrugged on his coat, buttoned it up crookedly, and in total silence walked swiftly out of the pub.

  Derek, sitting quietly nearby, finished his ploughman’s and stood up. He walked over to a miserable-looking Sandy Mackerras and said, “Mind if I join you, lad?”

  Sandy shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. “I’m having another—what can I get you?” The pub returned to its hubbub of conversation, and Sandy made his way back from the bar with their drinks. Derek settled in his chair and prepared to listen.

  NINETEEN

  “SO WHAT DID YOU SAY?” LOIS HAD JUST GREETED Derek and heard some of what had gone on in the pub. She was still simmering about the Millers, and was only half listening. Sharon’s parents had refused to let her see Sharon the previous evening, saying she was in bed and poorly. The silly girl! Just because she had a wandering eye, they’d made a fool of her, spoilt her rotten. No sense of responsibility. How had she managed in the shop? But then, the old couple had no children of their own and had made things worse, making her think she was something special.

  “Say about what?” Derek was patient, waiting for Lois to come to the point.

  “You know, Derek. When Sandy told you about the vicar and his mother … about them not getting on and all that. What did you say?”

  “Oh, right, yeah. Well, I
said all families were difficult at times. Told him about Gran livin’ with us and it sometimes bein’ a bit tricky. Said we’d all got to try a bit harder when things got difficult. That kind of stuff.”

  “But did he tell you why they didn’t get on?” Lois wasn’t sure why she felt so curious. After all, it was someone else’s family business, nothing to do with her. And Sandy’s illness had nothing to do with witchcraft or poisoning. Well, nothing to do with witchcraft, anyway? It was just … it didn’t smell right. There was something about Brian Rollinson. He was outwardly friendly enough, but only up to a point. Then the shutters came down. Still, Lois reflected, all vicars were a bit like that. She supposed it was part of their training, like doctors and teachers, not to get too personally involved.

  “Nope, he didn’t say any more about them,” Derek replied. “Just said they hardly spoke when she came to see him. The lad was really upset about something. Course, we all heard what Rollinson said when he stalked out. About everybody bein’ against him. Anyway, me duck,” he added briskly, “I just thought it might be useful info for you, deciding who you’re goin’ to send in there.”

  “Very kind,” said Lois. “I might send Sheila in. Nice, motherly woman. And she’s a good listener.”

  Derek looked at her suspiciously. “What’re you up to?” he said. “Why d’you want a good listener at the vicarage?”

  “No reason,” Lois said hastily. “Just thought she might be a comfort to the vicar when Sandy moves out. You know, in case he feels lonely. He hasn’t really made any friends in the village, has he.”