by Kate Charles
That was easy enough for Gabe to say. Gabe, who had an enviable present and a bright future. But David’s past was Gabe, and his present was . . . emptiness. His future? He didn’t even want to contemplate that. His impulse was to flee right now, back to Wymondham, back home. But was there any escape from the pain? Or, for that matter, from the love? Could he stop loving Gabe now, even if he wanted to?
He lost track of time as he stayed on his knees, trying to work out what to do. Did he owe it to Gabe to stay and help him, to make up for the way he’d failed him? Or did Gabe deserve to be abandoned to his fate? And what about Emily? She was truly the innocent party in all this – she must be protected. But Gabe had married her – let him deal with it. She was Gabe’s responsibility, not his.
A soft step on the stairs tore his eyes from the crucifix on the altar and he half rose, looking at the door, as Emily tentatively entered. ‘Oh, it is you, David,’ she greeted him. ‘Cecily said that a man had come down here, and I thought it might be you. I didn’t mean to disturb your prayers.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, Emily. I had finished.’ He smiled at her. ‘So you finally made it with your flowers? That woman wasn’t very happy with you.’
Emily looked embarrassed. ‘I was . . . delayed.’
‘I told her that probably something had come up at home.’
She bit her lip to suppress a smile. ‘Yes, you could say that. But I’ve made my apologies, and I think I’ve been forgiven. Cecily’s a bit intimidating, but I’m used to her. I hope she wasn’t too hard on you.’
‘Not at all. But that chap – I think he was the organist –’
She laughed. ‘Oh, no, Miles hasn’t been having a go at you, has he?’
‘He was trying to scrounge a cigarette. I thought he was a bit peculiar.’
Emily shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about Miles – he’s perfectly harmless. Just a bit obsessive, that’s all. And he smokes like a fiend.’
‘He’s a good organist.’
‘Yes, very good. He was the organist at Selby Cathedral, before he came to us.’ She made a comical face. ‘According to Miles, everything at Selby was absolute perfection. He almost expects you to genuflect when he mentions the sacred name of Selby.’
‘If it was so wonderful, why did he leave?’
Emily laughed again. ‘Oh, here he has so much more scope for complaint! And complaint is what he lives for.’
David marvelled at the sympathy that there was between them, as she sat down next to him. ‘Gabriel’s very lucky to have a wife who can share his work,’ he said impulsively.
She smiled and looked thoughtful. ‘But he doesn’t really have what I’d call friends. That’s why I’m so glad you’ve come. I think it will do him a world of good to have you to talk to.’
‘He talks to you.’
‘Yes, but that’s not quite the same. There are some things that I can only tell my friend Lucy, and I’m sure there are some things that he’d only tell another man. You’re good for him, David.’ She regarded him earnestly. ‘I can tell a difference in his mood already, since you’ve been here. He’s explained to me that you’re on a little private mission, and you don’t want people in the church to know that you’re friends. But I must tell you how grateful I am for your friendship, and how glad I am that you’re here.’
Although his better judgement told him to get in his car and drive away while there was still time, as he met her brown eyes, David knew that he had no choice but to stay.
CHAPTER 11
O remember not the sins and offences of my youth: but according to thy mercy think thou upon me, O Lord, for thy goodness.
Psalm 25.6
The remains of a veritable orgy of Sunday paper reading were strewn about the sitting room. Daphne, sated, looked over the tops of her half-moon reading glasses at David, nearly asleep in his chair. ‘Are you ready for some tea?’
‘Mm.’ He roused himself a bit when a fragrant mug of Earl Grey appeared in front of him several minutes later. ‘Sorry, Daphne. All of a sudden I just couldn’t keep my eyes open.’ He yawned. ‘It was that excellent lunch, I’m sure – I suppose I ate too much. And you shouldn’t be waiting on me like this, cooking for me, and bringing me tea. I’m perfectly capable of helping, you know.’
Daphne looked horrified. ‘But you’re my guest! I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to help! Anyway, it’s a pleasure to have someone to fuss over, for a change. I must admit, I don’t usually bother with a proper Sunday lunch, just for myself.’
‘But how can you manage for the rest of the week, without left-over joint? Not that you’ve got much left over this week! It’s a good thing we’re going to Lady Constance’s tomorrow.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re asked out every night,’ Daphne teased him. ‘There seems to be a great deal of interest in the parish in that handsome young man who’s come to take a look at the crypt chapel.’
David grimaced. ‘Not very handsome, and not very young, but thanks anyway, Daphne.’
‘Miles Taylor seems to look on you as almost a personal protégé. He was going round telling everyone this morning that he discovered you.’
David shook his head. ‘You certainly have a few odd characters at St Anne’s. The churchwardens, for instance – they’re a strange pair, aren’t they?’
‘Cyril is an old dear, but I’m afraid he’s a bit past it. He’s got more and more vague over the last few years, but he won’t even consider giving up the wardenship.’
‘Was it my imagination, or was he following Emily around the church hall after the service this morning?’
Daphne laughed indulgently. ‘That’s not exactly a well-kept secret. He’s adored her for years, or so I’ve heard. She’s very patient with him.’
‘Well, he seems a harmless sort, anyway. There’s something a bit terrifying about the woman.’
‘Mavis Conwell? Well, I’ll admit, she’s not exactly tact personified.’
‘I get the feeling that people don’t like her much.’
‘That’s probably a fair statement. She puts a lot of people’s backs up with her comments sometimes. She’s fairly renowned for her insensitivity.’
‘How on earth did she ever get elected churchwarden, then?’
‘It was a sympathy vote, I suppose. Her husband died about a year ago, and she was at a loose end and really wanted the job – something to keep her busy, or maybe it was the prestige, or the power, that she wanted. There’s certainly still a bit of both connected with being churchwarden, isn’t there? Anyway, when the Annual Parochial Meeting came round, I don’t think anybody else was that keen to do it, except perhaps Roger Dawson, and his wife is Mavis Conwell’s friend, so he stepped aside. But a few people have lived to regret it, I dare say. Anyway, I try my best to keep out of parish politics. I’m only the Sacristan.’
‘You don’t usually go to the eleven o’clock Mass, do you?’
‘Not generally.’ She grimaced guiltily. ‘I must admit, I usually stay home and listen to the Archers Omnibus on a Sunday morning! The Sacristan’s job is really a doddle, with Venerable Bead always around wanting to take over. I polish the silver and look after the other bits during the week, though he takes care of early Mass every day, so I don’t even have to deal with that. I usually go in on Saturday night and get things laid up for the eleven o’clock, and let Venerable have his fun clearing up afterwards. It all keeps him happy!’ She shook her head. ‘I prefer the seven forty-five low Mass in the evening, anyway. But I must admit I’m glad that I’ve got it over with this morning and don’t have to go out tonight.’
‘Then you’re not going to Solemn Evensong and Benediction?’ David asked.
Daphne raised her eyebrows. ‘You should know that SE and B has never been my style. I didn’t think it was yours, particularly.’
‘Oh, well,’ he said, slightly shamefaced, ‘it isn’t really, not in my own church anyway. But I think I’ll go along, just the same, to see what it’s all abo
ut.’
She laughed. ‘David, I do believe that you’re a spiritual thrill-seeker. Pass me your cup – it looks like you need more tea.’
Solemn Evensong and Benediction might not be his favourite, but David had to admit that it was done very well at St Anne’s. The music was superb, the serving was flawless and, of course, Gabriel handled the whole thing beautifully.
After the service, as he rose from his knees, David was approached by a young fair man dressed in a cassock. ‘Hello, we haven’t yet been introduced. I’m Tony Kent.’
‘David Middleton-Brown. You’re the head server, aren’t you? I must congratulate you on your team of servers – I think they’re the best I’ve ever seen.’
Tony beamed; he took great pride in his servers, and spent much time training and rehearsing them in the complex choreography of the Mass. ‘It’s very kind of you to say that. A lot of credit has to go to the Vicar – he sets very high standards. Fortunately, we’re not short of volunteers, so we can pick the best.’ He paused, then went on impulsively, ‘Listen, David, why don’t you join us at the pub? We usually have a pint down at the Rose and Crown after SE and B. How about it? I’ll buy you a drink.’
‘The magic words. Yes, why not?’
‘Terrific. I’ll be with you just as soon as I can get out of this gear.’
David wondered briefly about the wisdom of falling in with this high-spirited young crowd, as they chattered their way down the road to the Rose and Crown. But it was all in the interest of information-gathering, after all, and he felt that he could use a drink.
They quickly settled in the corner of the pub with their drinks. Most of the young men were drinking pints; his double whisky made David feel far removed from their generation. But they welcomed him readily.
‘Where are you from, David?’ the young ginger-haired chap asked.
‘Wymondham, near Norwich.’
‘The abbey?’ inquired Tony with interest. ‘I’ll bet the serving there is of a pretty high standard.’
‘Yes, it’s not bad.’
‘Were you ever a server there?’
David twisted his glass around on the table. ‘A long time ago,’ he admitted. ‘When I was in my teens – a little younger than most of you. And I served for a while at . . . a church in Brighton.’
‘Oh, our Vicar did a curacy in Brighton,’ interposed the dark-haired one called Chris (or was it Johnnie?). ‘At St Dunstan’s, I think.’
‘There are a lot of churches in Brighton,’ David said quickly – almost too quickly. ‘And I was there a very long time ago.’
‘You’re not that old! You talk like you’re about as old as Venerable Bead!’ said the ginger-haired one.
David welcomed the opportunity to change the subject. ‘Is he the old chap? Where is he now? Or does he stay away from these gatherings?’
‘He insists on doing the seven forty-five low Mass,’ Tony explained. ‘He’ll be along as soon as it’s finished. Gabriel never lingers long over the seven forty-five.’
‘Before he gets here, tell David the story of Venerable and the Bishop,’ urged one of the young servers who hadn’t spoken before.
Johnnie and Chris both leaned forward eagerly. ‘Yes, you must hear this one,’ the dark-haired one began.
The ginger-haired one continued, ‘It was a visit by the Area Bishop a few years ago.’
‘Not the one we’ve got now – he’s new.’
They tossed the narrative back and forth between them. ‘This one was a veritable Prot – a real Evangelical.’
‘He didn’t even like to wear a mitre . . .’
‘He wore a little, apologetic one – it looked more like a tea-cosy!’
‘Anyway, the Bishop pulls up in front of St Anne’s in his car.’
‘It was a really ordinary car, too – a Sierra or something.’
‘He gets out of his car. You can only just about tell that he’s the Bishop and not the chauffeur . . .’
‘Because he’s wearing a purple shirt with a dog collar.’
‘Not even a cassock!’
‘Well, Venerable’s been hanging around the west door, waiting for the Bishop.’
‘He’s all dressed up in a cassock and cotta . . .’
‘With a couple of feet of lace on it at least!’
‘Old Venerable goes dashing out . . .’
‘Just as the Bishop’s getting his case out of the boot.’
‘And right there in the middle of the road . . .’
‘He goes down on one knee!’ they both roared together.
‘And grabs the Bishop’s hand . . .’
‘And kisses his ring!’
‘You’ve never seen anything like the look on the Bishop’s face!’
‘Pure horror!’
‘Then Venerable says, “My Lord, let me take that,” and grabs for the Bishop’s case.’
‘But the Bishop won’t let go . . .’
‘And the case goes flying into the road!’
David joined in the contagious laughter. Tony shook his head at the two ebullient story-tellers. ‘Poor old Venerable, he’ll never live that one down.’
Presently, David looked around and said, ‘It looks like it’s time for another round. I’ll buy.’ His head full of drink orders, he made his way towards the bar.
Before he reached his goal, he encountered a most unlikely patron of the Rose and Crown – it was unmistakably Mavis Conwell, with her close-set sharp eyes, her inexpertly dyed rusty-black hair, and her rat-trap mouth. She was looking around with a furrowed brow, and didn’t see him at first. But just as he thought he might slip by unnoticed, she grabbed his arm. ‘Mr Middleton-Brown!’
‘Good evening, Mrs Conwell.’ He thought with a sinking heart that she was going to expect him to buy her a drink.
But his fears were unfounded. ‘I’m looking for my son – my boy Craig. He hasn’t been home this afternoon, and I thought maybe he’d come down to the local. But you don’t know my Craig, do you? So that’s no help. And I’m certainly not going to ask them if they’ve seen him,’ she added, with a malevolent look at the servers in their corner. She lowered her voice and looked earnestly at David. ‘Would you like a word of advice? Stay away from them. Everyone knows what they are, and if you’re seen with them, people might think you’re . . . well, like that.’ She bared her teeth in a smile. ‘And I know you’re not.’
David regarded her with bafflement; he didn’t have any idea what she was hinting at. ‘It’s very kind of you to take such an interest in my reputation, but . . .’
‘Even the Vicar knows better than to be seen with them, and no one would ever think of saying that the Vicar was . . . like that. He leaves it to his wife to counsel them. A very wise man, our Vicar.’
‘Well, it was nice seeing you, Mrs Conwell. I’m sorry I can’t help with your son. I hope you find him,’ he said, disengaging himself and continuing towards the bar, desperate by now for another drink. He found her attitude towards the servers inexplicable: they exhibited youthful high spirits, certainly, but nothing more sinister than that. What was the woman going on about?
The servers greeted his return with increased hilarity. ‘Trying to pick up women, are you, David?’ laughed the ginger-haired one.
‘Couldn’t you do any better than Mavis Conwell?’ the dark-haired one added.
‘She was looking for her son, she said.’
‘Oooh, the manly Craig,’ said the ginger-haired one.
‘What is this Craig like?’ David asked curiously.
‘He’s a very nasty piece of work,’ Tony replied. ‘She thinks that the sun rises and sets in him, as you might have guessed, but he’s a right little bastard.’
‘Who do you suppose I’ve just seen on my way in?’ interrupted Venerable Bead as he plodded up to the table, drink in hand. ‘Mavis Conwell! She was going on again about Norman Newsome. She thinks he ought to be kicked out of the Church. Imagine – a man with such a gift for liturgy!’
‘And
such an eye for choirboys,’ added Johnnie wickedly.
Tony looked stern. ‘Boys, this is all very funny, I’m sure, but we have a guest tonight. What will he think of us?’
‘Not at all,’ said David. ‘It’s all been most . . . illuminating.’
CHAPTER 12
Yea, because of the house of the Lord our God: I will seek to do thee good.
Psalm 122.9
Having resolved to spend the day on Monday on his ostensible mission of the crypt chapel, David found himself in an absurdly good mood. The servers’ high spirits of the previous evening had been contagious, and after all he was engaged in work in which he had a passionate interest. So he pottered about the chapel contentedly all morning, making notes on a pad of paper and whistling something that sounded curiously like Byrd’s ‘Ave Verum’ under his breath. Of Gabriel and his problem he thought not at all.
The only interruption to his concentration came when Percy Bead, hearing suspicious noises coming from the chapel, made his way down the stairs to investigate.
‘Oh, David, it’s you.’
‘Good morning, Mr Bead,’ David greeted him cheerily. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it? It actually looks as though we might get some sun.’
