She could tell none of this to Emma. Her role was to be the voice of common sense, to repeat over and over again that Emma must extricate herself from this situation before she made herself any more miserable. Then something unexpected happened. Emma was left some money. She arrived one afternoon, breathless and with cheeks flushed, waving a letter in her hand. She’d been left the enormous sum of £10,000 by a great-aunt whom she had never met. Her sister Laura had been left the same. She was almost hysterical with joy, smiling as she had not done for weeks, but Mrs Hibbert glared at her and was immediately at her most formidably stem. ‘Emma!’ she said. ‘Emma, I hope you are not going to be foolish. I hope your father has spoken to you, I hope he has told you to bank that money in a deposit account while you take advice on how to invest it.’ Emma laughed. She said he had. ‘And Emma,’ went on Mrs Hibbert, ‘I trust you will not tell Luke.’ Emma looked shocked, but before she could speak Mrs Hibbert added that it would be most unwise because Luke was a spendthrift and would encourage her to waste it. ‘But I can’t keep secrets from Luke,’ Emma said, eyes wide with innocence. ‘We share everything.’ ‘As far as I am aware,’ said Mrs Hibbert, ‘he has nothing to share. You earn the money and you do the only sharing.’ Emma was silent, and stopped smiling, but she looked mutinous. ‘I want to tell Luke,’ she said. ‘It will relieve him. It will mean we can rent a flat and maybe buy a second-hand car, and . . .’ ‘A car!’ shouted Mrs Hibbert. ‘Are you quite mad, Emma? The money will run out in no time if you buy a car, second-hand cars eat money. This is your insurance, it’s your rainy-day money, you must not squander it, you must listen to your father. And what does your mother say? You haven’t mentioned her.’ ‘She says I should give it to charity,’ Emma said, ‘to a Jewish charity. Or else to Cancer Research.’
This did stop Mrs Hibbert’s ranting. She was completely taken aback. Emma couldn’t help being pleased. She watched Mrs Hibbert struggle to decide what she thought about this, and then she said, ‘I’m not going to, of course. I don’t see why I should. Aunt Marlene could have left it to charity if she’d wanted to, but she didn’t. She left it to me and Laura, and I’m sure she wanted us to enjoy it. Dad says she had a terrible childhood, she was in some awful camp, and then afterwards she was ill. She never had any fun. I’m sure she would have wanted Laura and me to have fun.’ Mrs Hibbert groaned. ‘You having fun is one thing, Emma, but Luke having it at your expense is another. Be sensible. At least bank half.’ Emma nodded. She said that was what she would do. But she refused to promise not to tell Luke the whole truth. She said she trusted him, even if no one else did, and she wanted no secrets from him. Mrs Hibbert had to be content with that. For a while, all went well. Emma turned up nicely dressed in a new bright red shirt and black cotton shorts and her hair was always washed, with no need of Mrs Hibbert’s shampoo. She and Luke had moved into a rented flat which had a proper bathroom and a washing machine. ‘Bliss!’ said Emma. The only problem now was Charlie’s dog (known simply as ‘Dog’). Pets were not allowed in the flat, but Luke had been unable to find anyone to take the dog until Charlie returned from the oil rig, and so they were trying to keep it hidden, which was difficult. Emma admired Luke for keeping his word to Charlie and was hurt when Mrs Hibbert said that there was nothing to admire in someone flouting rules. ‘Luke is loyal,’ she said. ‘He’s like that, he’s that sort of person.’ Privately, Mrs Hibbert thought, he was quite a different sort of person, but she managed to say no more.
But then, a couple of weeks later, on a Wednesday, ‘Sluke turned up to collect Emma in a car. He sounded the horn, and both Emma and Mrs Hibbert jumped, it was so very loud. ‘That’ll be Luke,’ Emma said, putting her trowel down and preparing to leave the greenhouse. She was blushing. Mrs Hibbert followed her. ‘Sluke hadn’t parked in the drive, he’d just pulled up in the road, half on the pavement. She saw Emma lean into the car and say something and then hurry back up the path. ‘A car, Emma?’ Mrs Hibbert said, before the girl could say anything. ‘It’s only second-hand,’ Emma murmured, ‘it was cheap.’ ‘I can recognise a cheap, clapped-out old car when I see one, thank you very much, Emma. It will, I assure you, turn out not to have been cheap, whatever foolish sum you paid for it. It will end up costing you a fortune.’ Emma tried to smile. ‘Can I go?’ she said. ‘If you make up the two hours next time,’ Mrs Hibbert said. She watched the car roar off and went slowly back up the path to tidy the greenhouse. All the little methodical tasks she carried out soothed her, but by the time she was in her kitchen drinking tea she was feeling depressed. She said it to herself – ‘I am feeling depressed’ – and then decided she was being silly. She had nothing to be depressed about. Besides, the next day was a hospital day and she couldn’t carry out her duties as a Friend of St Mary’s in a depressed state of mind.
She set off for St Mary’s worrying about Emma, but after her day at the hospital, thoughts of the girl were wiped out of her mind, because she came home far more concerned about Chrissie, Francis’s niece. She never listened to gossip, or indulged in it, but nevertheless she had ears and her ears could not but help hear what was being said in the Friends room and on the reception desk. It seemed a young woman, one of Mr Wallis’s patients, had committed suicide straight after a visit to his clinic, and Chrissie had been the doctor in charge that day. There was to be an inquest and Dr Harrison would have to appear, or so it was said. All this, it emerged, had been in the local newspaper ages ago, but Mrs Hibbert thought it a rag and never read it. Hearing all this information distressed her – any mention of suicide made her heart pound alarmingly – but she forced herself to look through a stack of old papers and magazines in the Friends room. She couldn’t find any newspaper for the date mentioned. She was certain that Chrissie could not possibly be in any way to blame – she had total faith in her – but she also knew that whatever the truth of what had happened, Chrissie’s reputation would be smeared. Wanting to show support, she went downstairs to the clinic but was told that Dr Harrison was not on duty, so before she left the hospital she wrote a note and gave it to Rita to pass on.
Poor Chrissie. How worrying all this would be for her. She wished she knew her better but, once Francis had died, the links with his family, never strong, had faded. She’d only known Chrissie as a child, and otherwise as a vague acquaintance to whom she occasionally said hello in the hospital. She was deep in thought about Chrissie – turning over and over in her mind what would be the right thing to do, should she telephone? – when Emma next came, and Mrs Hibbert did not at first notice the change in the girl. It was only when she had to tell her twice that she was spreading fertiliser in the wrong place that she realised Emma was red-eyed and distraught-looking. Mrs Hibbert wondered if perhaps her A-level results had just come and they were poor, but no, the results were not due for another week. ‘Then it’s that car,’ Mrs Hibbert said. It was not the car. Emma would not say what was causing her obvious misery. She drooped round the garden listlessly, doing nothing properly, and Mrs Hibbert decided to let her be. She had deduced that it must be ‘Sluke trouble of some sort. Was ‘Sluke going off Emma? Could that be it? She jolly well hoped so. Heaven knew, she’d tried to make the girl see how utterly useless that boy was. He hadn’t ever been able to look her in the eye, because he probably knew she had him worked out. It could only be good news if, no matter for what reason, he and Emma were splitting up.
But she tried to be kind. Later, when she was so furious with what had happened, it pained her to think of how kind she’d been, leaving the gardening and going into her kitchen to make Emma a batch of the cheese scones she so adored. She’d paid her extra money too, by not asking for change from the £20 note. Emma had thanked her, but without much enthusiasm. ‘Sluke hadn’t picked her up. Off she’d gone, promising to come early next time, to sweep up while Martin cut the big hedges so that he could do them all in one session. Mrs Hibbert had watched her go and found herself humming, not quite knowing why. It was wrong to take pleasure in someone else’s
unhappiness, but with her intuition that out of Emma’s present distress would come liberation from ‘Sluke, she couldn’t help it. She felt she had had an influence, after all.
And then Emma hadn’t turned up. Martin had, but not Emma, and consequently only three-quarters of the hedge-cutting was done, because Martin had to clear up himself and didn’t have time to complete the whole job. Mrs Hibbert was irritated. The following week, she was even more irritated by the girl’s non-appearance. There was no phone call to explain. Mrs Hibbert didn’t want to phone Emma’s parents, but she had no alternative, never having had a number for the flat Emma had rented with ‘Sluke. Mrs Green answered, which was unfortunate – she had hoped to get the father, whom she liked the sound of. Mrs Green was abrupt. ‘All we know is that she’s gone travelling with her boyfriend, we don’t know where. She’s left a note, promising to ring us regularly, but she hasn’t rung yet.’ Mrs Hibbert felt stupefied. ‘But she said nothing to me, not a word, and she promised to come early next time. She has let me down badly.’ Mrs Green didn’t even attempt to apologise on her daughter’s behalf. Instead, she said, her tone weary, ‘She’s young, it’s natural she wants to travel. Who knows what will happen, it’s best to take one’s opportunities while one can.’ This was far too lenient and philosophical for Mrs Hibbert. ‘I’m afraid I can’t agree,’ she said, stiffly, ‘especially knowing her boyfriend as I do, and in view of the vast sum of money Emma told me she had inherited. I think this absconding will prove disastrous. And if I were Emma’s mother I would not be taking this news so calmly.’ There was a pause, long enough for Mrs Hibbert to regret being so outspoken, but just as she began to say she was sorry if she’d been rude, Mrs Green said, ‘I think we’ve met, at the hospital, at St Mary’s. You’re one of the Friends, aren’t you?’ Surprised, Mrs Hibbert said that yes, she was, and then Mrs Green, sounding shaky but determined, said, ‘Well, you should know, there are worse things than going off travelling and having fun with your boyfriend, much worse things, things to get really worried about. I’m sorry, but you of all people ought to have a sense of proportion. But thank you for calling.’
Whatever had the woman meant? Feeling that she had somehow been outflanked, Mrs Hibbert wondered if Emma’s mother, who sounded a cold woman, quite unlike her daughter, had been right and that she had indeed lost sight of what was important and what was not. Her head ached unbearably and went on aching in spite of her taking two aspirins. She kept going over that last afternoon with Emma, trying to find clues as to why the girl had said nothing about leaving and going off with ‘Sluke. What hurt, she well knew, was that Emma had not chosen to confide in her. She’d thought that, in spite of the age discrepancy, they had become friends. She’d even thought of herself at one point as being a substitute mother (or did she mean surrogate, she wasn’t sure) since in so many ways Emma’s own mother appeared to have little interest in, or influence over her. But Emma had not asked her for advice (though, since she would have known what it would be, perhaps that was not surprising). Mrs Hibbert vividly recalled how miserable Emma had seemed on that last visit, how red-rimmed her pretty eyes, a sure sign that she’d been crying. Did this mean she hadn’t really wanted to go travelling with ‘Sluke? Or did it mean her conscience was bothering her?
She had nurtured her relationship with Emma only to have it exposed as a sham. It was the lesson of her life, but one she kept having to relearn. She lay in bed, head still throbbing, pondering over Mrs Green’s words. Surely she had got it wrong, surely the logic of what she had said was faulty. Why, because there were much worse things to worry about – with the reference to St Mary’s, she must mean illness – should one stop worrying about lesser things? It simply provided an excuse for not acting. She was right to worry about Emma, and to feel something should be done. Maybe Emma had counted on her doing it and she had failed her, a thought so alarming she promptly tried to take evasive mental action by forcing herself to think about the next committee meeting of the Friends of St Mary’s. There was going to be trouble, arguments about how a legacy left to them should be spent. And the new vicar of St James’s, not yet arrived, was to be there. She fell asleep, wondering if her own opinion would prevail and she would carry the committee with her.
PART II
6
Mysterious Ways
IT HAD BEEN a long, wearying drive and all the time he had been worried that his old car would conk out. But now he was almost there, at the top of the pass, the town no more than ten miles away. He stopped the car and got out. Below him, the valley, clearly visible, was every bit as beautiful as the bishop had said. A river ran through it with hardly a twist or a curve, and on a day such as this it shone silver, a flat, narrow band of silver shooting towards the sea. On the far side were dense woods, of fir trees, he thought, a plantation of some sort. The sun touched the tops of the trees but the massed bulk of the forest remained dark, almost black. On the near side there were fields stretching down to the river, with tawny-coloured cattle grazing. As yet the town was not visible. It was hidden, he supposed, by the hill to the east. He could see a few scattered buildings, that was all, a few whitewashed cottages, a stone farmhouse, some barns. He smoked a cigarette and went on studying the landscape. He watched the wind stroke a puddle on the road, ruffling its surface over and over again. Everything so still. The stillness, the beauty, ought to calm and reassure him. The bishop had said it would. He had said this peaceful place would mend his sickness – ‘It is a sickness, it is curable’ – and soon he would no longer want to spend his days lying in a darkened room, weeping.
He crushed the cigarette in the puddle, firmly stamping it down with the heel of his shoe. He didn’t feel in the least calm. He felt more agitated than ever. He dreaded reaching the town, finding the church and the vicarage, dreaded meeting his parishioners, the people, dreaded the strangeness of it all. It took courage not to turn the car round and flee back to where he had come from. But I will manage, he told himself, and got back in the car.
*
They had some difficulty opening the vicarage door. It had been shut and locked for so long that the keyhole seemed to have got bunged up, but eventually Ida managed to force the key in and turn it. The door creaked dramatically as she pushed it open. Tongs,’ said Ida. Dot didn’t say anything. It seemed obvious to her that a building shut up for very nearly three months would smell fusty. Nothing a few open windows wouldn’t deal with. She followed Ida in, wishing she was with anyone else. She hated it when the church cleaning rota threw her together with Ida Yates, though it wasn’t the rota that was responsible for her being with Ida today. This was a special job. They were to give the vicarage a thorough cleaning, make it spick and span for the new vicar. Since it was an extra job, every lady on the regular church cleaning rota had been asked if she wanted to volunteer. They had all volunteered and so their names had been put on bits of paper in the collection pouch, and then Joe had been called in from tending the churchyard to pull out two names. He’d made a performance of it, teasing them, jiggling the pouch around on the end of its stick.
Dot’s name was the first to be picked out. She beamed. There was a stiffening of backs all round her. Mrs Harris said, ‘Are you sure you want to do it, Dot? Are you sure you’re up to it? I mean, with Adam . . .’ Dot had said she was quite up to a bit of extra cleaning, thank you, but she did not add what was really in her mind, which was that this would give her the perfect excuse to get out of the house – anything to do with the church Adam allowed. She felt delighted to have been chosen. But then the second name to come out of the pouch was Ida Yates’s. Mrs Harris hadn’t bothered asking her if she was up to it. Ida moaned and groaned her way through her stints of cleaning the church, and constantly emphasised her poor state of health, but everyone knew she would never pass up the chance to have a good snoop round the vicarage. So Dot was stuck with Ida.
‘Too big for one man,’ Ida was saying, as she peered around the draughty hall. It was a large, square area, wit
h a patterned, tiled floor giving way to a dark brown carpet near the foot of the stairs and continuing up them. The general impression was of dinginess and shabbiness. All the doors opening off this dreary hall were painted dark brown and the glass bowl round the overhead light was a murky beige. Dot coughed. ‘Dust,’ said Ida. Dot nodded. She could actually see the layers of dust and didn’t need Ida to draw a finger along the window ledge beside the front door to prove it. ‘Too big,’ Ida repeated. ‘Don’t know why they’ve chosen a bachelor.’ ‘They all used to be bachelors,’ Dot murmured. ‘What?’ said Ida. ‘They all used to be bachelors,’ repeated Dot. ‘All the vicars, once upon a time.’ ‘That’s not the point,’ Ida said, ‘it’s now I was talking about. This is a family house. One man will rattle around in it, ridiculous. You take upstairs, Dot. I’ll take downstairs.’
Dot didn’t argue. She didn’t argue with anyone, didn’t see what was gained by argument. Sometimes it seemed to her that she was surrounded by strong-minded people and that she was the only one who kept her own counsel and avoided disputes. It meant, of course, that she could be taken advantage of, but that, in her opinion, was a small price to pay for avoiding unpleasantness. She was relieved that the unpleasantness with Mary was now over (she’d rung up and apologised for Adam, explaining he had misunderstood her, though that wasn’t strictly true). She toiled up the stairs, encumbered with her basket of cleaning materials, knowing full well that Ida would start by having a rest. She would have found her way to the kitchen and be putting her feet up whereas Dot would be hard at it, which she soon was. She wished she had a hoover, but there didn’t appear to be one in the house and she had to make do with a stiff hand-brush and pan. But she soon saw that there was no engrained dirt – it was all just dust and responded well to a dusting and careful sweeping. Three bedrooms upstairs and a bathroom. Nothing had been said about making the beds up, but she thought she ought to make up the double bed in the main bedroom. First she opened both windows there (which was almost as much of a struggle as opening the front door had been). A breeze blew through the room and she could smell the scent of the honeysuckle growing up the wall outside. She leaned out of the window for a moment, enjoying the sight of the garden below, a leafy, flowerless garden, overgrown and wild now, but pretty all the same. She liked it. Mary Hibbert’s garden was reckoned to be a showpiece, but Dot preferred this neglected garden.
Is There Anything You Want? Page 12
