by Ann Purser
Sharon nodded. “Maybe,” she said. “But he weren’t complaining of stomach ache then, as far as I know.”
“He was prone to indigestion,” said Mrs. Carr. “I do know that. Used to come in here for milk of magnesia and tablets. A martyr to his stomach, he used to say.”
Sharon laughed, and then put a hand to her mouth. “Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, should we,” she said anxiously. “But he was a crotchety old man sometimes. He got quite cross with me one day when I couldn’t find the thing he wanted. Can’t remember what it was, now, but he had me nearly in tears.”
“Ah well, he’s gone now. We’ll miss him, plodding up and down to the church. The Reverend will have to find someone else to open up, and generally look after the place. Not so easy these days. Folk aren’t much interested in religion.”
“There’s other things going on up there,” said Sharon. “Not exactly religion, either! Last night, when we arrived for choir—”
The door bell jangled, and Derek Meade came in. “Morning,” he said.
Sharon blushed. She remembered Mrs. M’s strictures about gossiping and hoped Derek hadn’t heard her beginning an account of the fiery cross. Anyway, she reassured herself, she wasn’t on New Brooms’ duty, so that wouldn’t count.
“All sorted out over there?” Mrs. Carr was casual, distantly interested as was her usual tone. She had long ago discovered that she elicited more information that way. Never appear too keen.
“No good asking me,” said Derek shortly. “Nothing to do with me. Just sorry for the poor old sod, that’s all. I liked him. One of the old villagers. He had a good memory, and I reckon knew more about Farnden than anybody.”
Mrs. Carr inclined her head gently. “God rest his soul,” she said. “He’ll be up there with all his relations soon. Generations of them, Sharon. That was the way in the old days. Families stuck together, went on living in the same place, helped each other through good times and bad. There was a time when the whole village was like one family.” She perched her ample behind on a stool and sighed.
Oh no, here we go, tales of the good old days, thought Sharon, and looked at her watch. Soon be time to go home, thank goodness.
“Them days is gone,” said Derek, pocketing his Polo mints. “But I reckon someone should’ve made notes of Cyril’s stories. It was a world away from nowadays.” Mrs. Carr chuckled. “Probably some things he knew were not fit to print!” she said. “Some of our respected parishioners might not have wanted old Cyril speaking out …” She tailed off, and in the silence that followed, both she and Derek reflected with alarm on what that could mean. But before more could be said, Sharon had looked at her watch again and went off to get her coat.
Derek walked briskly to the door. “Thanks,” he said. “It’ll all come out in the wash, Mrs. Carr. Best not to go makin’ too many guesses.” He shut the door and was gone, well aware that nothing he said would stop the speculation rife in the village by midday.
LOIS WAS FINDING IT DIFFICULT TO CONCENTRATE. SHE sat in her office after a scratch lunch—Gran was too upset to cook—and stared at a printed leaflet from the tax office. More changes. Why couldn’t they leave anything alone? Didn’t she have enough to do, organizing her cleaners and keeping them happy, not to mention the clients, some of whom could be extremely hard to please? She stared at the small print, but all she could see was old Cyril, smiling up at her before she left him last night, assuring her he would be right as rain in the morning. “We got to find out about that cross, Mrs. M,” he had said. “Could lead to worse.” She had made him a cup of tea, and he’d told her that this was not the first sign of something nasty going on. “I was up there late one night, in summer, but nearly dark, and heard voices. They was chantin’. Couldn’t make out the words, but it was comin’ from the back of the church. Round where we found the cross. By the time I got round there with me little dog—barkin’ her ‘ead off, she was—they’d scarpered.”
Lois closed her eyes, and a tear ran down her cheek. If she’d taken him in to casualty last night, had them look at his ankle and check him over, he might be alive now.
She opened her eyes and shook her head. Might, might, if, if. She didn’t, and that was that. She got up and looked out of the window. A small Jack Russell terrier trotted quickly by on the opposite side of the road. Oh no! Wasn’t that Cyril’s little dog? She rushed out and caught up with it. It stopped and looked at her enquiringly. Lois was sure it was Cyril’s, and looked at the nameplate on its collar. “Betsy,” clearly visible. Yep, it was Cyril’s. Probably been out all night, and now on her way home, looking for her master.
Lois picked her up, and buried her face in the wiry coat. “Come on, Betsy,” she whispered, “come home with me. We’ll look after you.” She ran back across the road and into the big kitchen, where Gran sat at the table, staring into space. “Here, Mum,” Lois said. “Here’s somethin’ you can do for Cyril. He loved this dog.”
“Are you mad, Lois?” Gran said in a flat voice. “What about Melvyn?”
Lois looked at the large cat fast asleep and totally indifferent to the snuffling terrier padding about the kitchen. “They’ve met,” she said, grinning now. “Betsy knows who’s boss, and keeps well away from Mel. No, it’ll be Derek we have to worry about.”
She was right. When Derek came home later, he exploded. “You’re crazy, Lois!” he said. She thought it best to agree, and said it had been an impulse and she’d take Betsy to Tresham dogs’ home in the morning. This had the effect she hoped for. Gran said there was no need to decide right now, and Derek nodded. “Best take her for a bit of a walk, anyway,” he said, reaching for a ball of string to make a temporary lead. “Old Cyril always took her out beginning and end of the day. Up to the churchyard, eh, gel?” he added, and patted her on her small, warm head.
TWENTY-TWO
SHARON MILLER LOOKED AT HERSELF IN THE MIRROR, and wondered for the first time for years whether it would, after all, be a good thing to have her eye fixed. She did not know if it was even possible. In her imagination, she saw masked faces in the clinical glare of the operating theatre. Her own body lay supine on the table, swathed in dark green wrappings. The surgeon, lawny brown eyes showing above his mask, peered down at her lovely face.
“I can’t do it, Jim,” he said, turning to his assistant. “This girl is perfect as she is. God has made her to His own design, and who am I to interfere with such loveliness?”
Sharon laughed out loud. I reckon I could write one of them books, she thought. I’m wasted doin’ cleaning for the vicar. Still, she reflected, applying makeup and brushing her long, wavy blonde hair, at least it’ll give me a chance to see what Sandy’s up to.
She had finally convinced herself that her glimpse of Sandy and Rebecca kissing had been an affectionate greeting. Everybody kissed everybody these days. Especially the nobs. Mwa mwa! And all of them being careful not actually to make contact. “At least with us lot,” she muttered as she went downstairs, “a kiss means something. Like love. Or lust!” She laughed again delightedly, and shouted goodbye to her mother. “See you later,” she called. Then she ran back into the kitchen and planted a smacking kiss on her mother’s cheek. “There,” she said, and grinned at her expression of alarm. “Don’t worry,” she added. “Just because I felt like it.”
BRIAN ROLLINSON ANTICIPATED SHARON’S ARRIVAL WITH something like dread. He had a lot to think about. An old sister of Cyril had surfaced in Tresham, and she and her unmarried daughter would be handling all the arrangements for the funeral. But it was not at all clear when that could be. The police were being very cagey, talking about an autopsy and coroner’s verdict, all in a vague kind of way that left him unable to offer the usual comforting platitudes to reassure the bereaved. Once the sadness of the funeral was over, he would say, God and time would begin to heal the wounds of loss. It was actually not true. Most people found that the arrangements and excitement of the funeral—yes, excitement—and seeing friends and relations they’d not
seen for years, buoyed them up until their loved one had been satisfactorily despatched. And afterwards, when there was nothing but emptiness where once someone familiar had been, they often felt the real pain of bereavement. But at least it gave him something to say in difficult circumstances.
This time, though, the old sister had never troubled about Cyril in life, and might not be so struck down by his death. She hadn’t been in Farnden for years, it was said. There had probably been a feud. Yes, that would be it. Villages were full of feuds. The old thing would not be in the least distressed, and her daughter had more than likely been conditioned to believe Cyril was the devil incarnate.
“Devil incarnate!” Brian stood up suddenly, and put his hands to his head. Sometimes he felt that he was being pursued by the anti-Christ, and now here were rumours of him in Farnden’s own churchyard.
“Sharon?” Brian opened the door and strode into the kitchen. She wasn’t there, and he could hear the cleaner humming away upstairs. He’d surprise her with a cup of coffee on her first morning. Get the conversation round to the disturbance in the churchyard last night. Sharon was a friendly soul. He had to admit he was not sorry to lose Hazel Thornbull, née Reading. She was abrasive and suspicious, and though her work could not be faulted, she was a constant thorn in his flesh. Thorn … in the flesh … yes, well. It was very difficult being a vicar, Brian Rollinson decided. Words were against you. The parish was largely against you. And, sometimes, privately, he wondered if God was against him.
He called again, but the vacuum was still going and she did not hear. He walked upstairs, his footsteps cushioned by carpet, and saw to his surprise that the machine stood by itself, anchored to the banister by its flex, and through the open door to Sandy’s room he could see Sharon lying on her back on Sandy’s bed, eyes closed and a seraphic smile on her face.
At the same moment he heard the front door open and Sandy’s voice calling him. Why was he home in the middle of the morning? What on earth was going on? He swiftly turned off the cleaner, noted Sharon rise up in alarm, and ran back downstairs to prevent Sandy from rushing up to find a blonde stretched out on his bed.
“Hi,” said Sandy. “Left some papers behind—here, excuse me!” he added, as Brian stood firmly at the bottom of the stairs, preventing him from going up. “I left them in my room! Please, let me by … you got a woman up there or something?” His smile was mocking.
Brian forced a laugh. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,” he said, noting with relief that the vacuum cleaner had started up again. “And of course you can go up. It’s only Sharon, cleaning upstairs. I’m afraid I was miles away, Sandy. Not all of us move at the speed you do, you know.”
He stood aside, and watched as Sandy ran up the stairs, two at a time. “Morning, Sharon,” he heard, and then, without a doubt, the sound of a panting kiss. Oh God, prayed Brian, please don’t let him seduce the servants! He relaxed, however, and with a small smile went off to his study.
Sharon operated her machine in long sweeps along the landing, and trembled. Passing and repassing his door, she watched as Sandy systematically undid all the tidying she had done in his room. A rush of desire had driven her to lie down on his bed, surrounded by the smell of him. Now she saw him toss aside piles of papers, swearing under his breath.
“Can I help?” she said, pausing for a moment.
“Did you see a folder with a red cover? Picture of a grand house on the front?” He would have to tell Sharon not to tidy up. Good God, he might never find it again! And the client waited outside in his car, on the way to clinch one of the biggest sales Sandy had had so far.
“Yes,” she said in a shaky voice. She could still taste him on her tongue. “Here, look, you just missed it in this pile.” She leaned in front of him and pulled the folder out. He put his arm around her and squeezed. “Good girl,” he whispered, and nuzzled the back of her neck. Then he was off downstairs at the double, and out of the front door before she could breathe again.
Downstairs later for her coffee, Sharon perched on the edge of a kitchen chair and sipped elegantly from the thick china mug. “Nice of you to make coffee,” she said. “But Mrs. M tells us we should do that as part of our duty. A little extra, to make people feel we care, she says.”
“A bright woman, your Mrs. M,” said the vicar. “It was she who found that burning cross in the churchyard, wasn’t it?” He knew it wasn’t, but thought it would get the subject going.
“No, no. It was Cyril, and Mrs. M heard him call out. She was the one to find him, poor old man. He was in a poor way by the time the rest of us got round there. Nearly crying, he was, with the pain of his ankle. I think,” she said, warming to her story, “that he was in shock.” People were always in shock in her library books. They said and did things, and had things done to them, whilst they were in shock.
“Did he say anything about the cross? Had he seen anybody who might have left it there?”
Sharon shook her head. “Not that I heard,” she said. “But I reckon I know who did it,” she added confidingly, lowering her voice.
Brian raised his eyebrows. “You do?” he said.
“Yep.” Sharon leaned back in her chair with an oracular nod. “There’s a nasty lot started comin’ round here,” she said. “They get in the pub sometimes. I was in there havin’ a drink with your Sandy. He knew one or two of them.” She watched the vicar carefully, waiting for his reaction.
“Oh, yes? Who are they?”
Sharon shrugged. “I don’t know anything much more about them,” she said.
Brian’s heart sank. He wondered if these were the socially acceptable friends Sandy had talked about. Surely not! He had heard about racism and associated violence in Tresham. But that had been thugs. Neo-fascism, Nazism, any ism that caught the fancy of ignorant bigots. He sighed. “Well, we must keep our ears to the ground, Sharon,” he said gently. “These things are best nipped in the bud. If you hear or see anything that bothers you, please don’t hesitate to come to me.”
She smiled happily. It had been a good morning so far. Kissed by Sandy, encouraged by the vicar. Even so, she thought, if she heard anything more, she wouldn’t tell the vicar. No, it would need to be someone tough. Like Mrs. M. Yes, she’d tell Mrs. M if there was anything really bad to tell. Just like she’d said.
TWENTY-THREE
GRAN HAD PUT A BLUE AND WHITE CHECKED CLOTH over the kitchen table, deciding that the scarred and stained top—especially the clear outline of a red-hot iron left by Josie in her teens—would not do. It wasn’t every day that Jamie brought a girlfriend home for tea. In fact she couldn’t remember a single time. He’d had loads of girlfriends, of course. First the pairing-off that goes with gangs at school. Then the dating, and fallings-out and jealousies and hopeless yearnings. All part of growing up. Gran smiled. Some things didn’t change all that much. She remembered her own romance with Lois’s dad. Alf Weedon had been a catch. All the girls lusted after him, but she had kept her distance, reeling him in like a fish on the hook. And then Lois, treating Derek with casual carelessness, but planning her campaign like a seasoned politician. Poor old Derek! He never knew what hit him when he first saw Lois in Woolworths in her mini-skirt and eyelashes!
Now it was Jamie. Her lovely boy, the baby of the family. But of course he wasn’t a baby any more. He was a young man, tall, dark and handsome, gentle in his manners, but tough when he set his heart on something. Like the piano! Goodness, that had been a battle, with Derek scathing about his son poncing about on the piano keys. Jamie had taken no notice, and now here he was, on the verge of a career in music. Had he set his heart on Annabelle? That might be even more of a battle.
Gran filled the kettle, put milk in a seldom used jug, and looked happily at the table set with the best china, and in the centre a perfect Dundee cake, covered in almonds and baked to perfection.
The back door opened, and Cyril’s dog rushed in, followed by Derek. “Brr! Brass monkeys out there, Gran!” he said. He handed her a bag of
shopping from the village shop. “They hadn’t got no lump sugar,” he said. “No call for it, they said. So I reckon Annabelle will have to spoon it out like the rest of us.” He smiled as he said it, not wishing to hurt Gran’s feelings. She had gone to a lot of trouble to make a nice tea for Jamie and his girl, and though he knew Lois would tease her, he was touched.
“Here, what’s this?” said Gran, delving into the shopping bag. She pulled out a packet of doggy choc drops.
“Ah, yes, I got those,” Derek said defiantly. “Look, Betsy! Look what Derek’s got for you.” The little dog sat on its hind legs and begged. Gran and Derek both laughed delightedly.
“So she’s staying, is she, Derek?” said Lois acidly, coming in and catching them red-handed. “No need for me to go to the dogs’ home?”
Derek’s reply was drowned by the roar of Jamie’s motorbike appearing in the yard, with Annabelle clinging close behind.
“Lucky for you,” repeated Derek, giving Lois a peck on the cheek. “Can’t let Annabelle see me beating up the wife. Mmmm!” he added, sniffing behind her ear. “Your new scent? Blimey, perhaps I’d better put me best suit on.” But he made do with swilling his hands under the tap and drying them on the tea cloth. He turned to his smiling son as he came through the door, with Annabelle behind him. “Come on in, then,” he said. “Too cold to hang about in the yard!” And he walked forward and planted a firm kiss on Annabelle’s cheek. She beamed, took hold of Jamie’s hand and walked confidently into the warm kitchen.
WHEN THE SALMON AND CUCUMBER SANDWICHES, homemade shortbread and Dundee cake had been demolished, Gran relaxed. Everything seemed to have gone very well, apart from Annabelle refusing milk in her tea. Gran had sniffed the milk, but it was fresh. Now, she reckoned her spread had been much appreciated. There was still an hour to go before the young ones needed to leave for the cinema, and Lois suggested they might move to the sitting room.
