by Amy Cross
“I thought I'd rearrange the hymn books first,” I tell him. “I'm afraid people just don't treat them with the proper respect, and some are rather dog-eared. If I put the dog-eared copies toward the back, people will -”
“That sounds very good, Judith,” Father Perkins replies, interrupting me and sounding rather as if he is once again preoccupied with his writing. “Whatever floats your boat.”
Before I can reply, I spot the latest newspaper on his desk. I try not to read the news very much at the moment, on account of all the terrible stories about the war. I prefer to content myself with the hope – no, the belief – that the Lord will see us through these dark days and that eventually we shall triumph. How could we not? And we must maintain our way of life, as best we can, while we wait for the darkness to pass.
“I would really like to order some new books,” I say, “with a few more rigorous hymns included. As I have suggested before, Father, the current books contains a few frivolous texts that I do not believe are really suitable for our work here at the church.”
“People don't seem to mind too much, Judith,” he murmurs.
“It's still important,” I remind him, and I must admit that I'm a little shocked by his nonchalance. “I know the budget is rather over-stretched,” I add, hoping to strike a conciliatory tone. “I'm sure we can make do with what we have, once the covers have been suitably cleaned. And glued in places. And cut in others, to get rid of crude annotations. And had their spines repaired.”
I wait for him to reply, but instead he simply turns to another page and continues with his work. I know he's not being rude, of course; he's simply a very focused man, and I respect that quality tremendously. With a faint smile, I turn and head back out into the corridor and then I make my way toward the shelf where the hymn books are kept. I am greatly looking forward to another quiet day of hard work.
“David, are you here?” a shrill voice calls out, and I flinch as I hear footsteps hurrying into the church.
Even before I turn to look, I know that Violet Durridge is here for another of her increasingly frequent meetings. Tottering into the church on high heels, and with make-up plastered all over her face, she looks – as usual – like the most deplorable sort of irreligious wastrel. It's a wonder she has managed to tear herself away from her favorite bar stool in the local pub. She even has a cigarette in one hand, and she has not extinguished the tip before coming into the church. Some people simply have no decorum whatsoever.
“Hello Judith,” she says, glancing briefly at me before heading through to Father Perkins' office. “Nice day, isn't it?”
“It was,” I reply, although I quickly admonish myself.
I should be more charitable. Violet Durridge has faced challenges in her life and she is a human being, like the rest of us. It is not my place to judge. I shall leave that to a higher power.
“Violet,” I hear Father Perkins say warmly, followed by the sound of his chair-legs scraping as he gets to his feet. “What a lovely surprise. I wasn't expecting you to come back so soon.”
Nor was I.
Her visits are becoming irritatingly frequent.
“You know I can't stay away for long,” she says with her typical bubbly glee. “I just wanted to make sure that you haven't forgotten our tombola plans. You'll be pleased to know that several ladies have already confirmed their interest.”
“That's wonderful,” Father Perkins replies. “Your tombolas always bring the church to life in the most magnificent manner. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that they're an integral part of the fabric of Briarwych village life.”
“As are you, Father,” she says. “By the way, I hope you've had time to think about my offer. You know I'd be only too happy to do some light cleaning for you. A woman without a husband is, of course, always hoping to help others, and I wouldn't like there to be too much strain on poor Ms. Prendergast's shoulders. Not when she already has a daughter to look after. As an unwed mother, of course, she surely has far too much on her plate.”
Fighting against my dislike for the woman, I pick up some hymn books and carry them through the arched doorway, hoping to find a quiet spot where Violet's voice won't seem so loud and penetrating.
“Not all of us single ladies are like that dusty old Judith Prendergast,” Violet adds, a little more quietly now. “I saw her as I came in. My word, the woman's a prude, isn't she?”
Stopping, I feel a slow, seething anger start to rise through my body, although I quickly remind myself once again that I must rise above such things.
“I don't know how she can act all holier-than-thou all the time,” she continues. “I mean, the woman had a child out of wedlock! That's not exactly respectable behavior, is it?”
Closing my eyes, I find myself having to try harder and harder to stay calm. There is – I must confess – a part of me that wants to go through and give Violet Durridge a piece of my mind.
“Judith Prendergast is an asset to this church,” Father Perkins explains.
That's better.
“And you enjoy her company, do you?” Violet asks.
“So tell me some more about this month's tombola,” Father Perkins replies, conspicuously failing to defend me. “Will you be using the same arrangements as before, or are you planning on trying those new elements that you mentioned to me last time?”
“You know me, Father. I always like to mix things up.”
“That is an admirable quality,” he says, sounding genuinely enthused. “In these times, we must remember to keep our minds working.”
Preferring to not hear any of this inane chatter, I carry the hymn books to the front pew and set them down, and then I kneel to pray. Any time I feel myself losing control, I turn to the Lord so that I can receive some guidance. I know that there is wickedness within my soul, but I also know that I can control this wickedness through prayer and contemplation.
“Dear Lord,” I whisper as I put my hands together, close my eyes and bow my head, “give me the strength to not look down upon others. I should be more compassionate and less vain. Give me the strength to love all people and to never judge them. Not even Violet Durridge.”
I wait, hoping that the Lord will have heard me.
“I am sorry,” I continue finally. “Sometimes my thoughts overtake me. I try so hard to follow your teachings, but there are times when some inner part of my soul seems to reach up and...”
I pause as I try to work out exactly how to describe the sensation.
“I am sure that you understand,” I say after a few seconds. “You understand all. Amen.”
I make the sign of the cross against my chest.
“Would you like me to do something about that woman?” a female voice asks suddenly.
Startled, I open my eyes and look around, but there is no sign of anybody nearby. I can just about hear Father Perkins and Violet still talking in the office, yet there is quite clearly nobody close to me. Nevertheless, as I get to my feet, I am quite certain that the voice was real. I take a look along the nearest pews, and then I head up the steps and look behind the altar, but I am absolutely alone.
Yet that voice seemed so real.
“Hello?” I say cautiously, although I feel rather foolish as I continue to look around.
Turning, I half expect someone to leap out and admit that they have played a cruel trick on me, but there really is nobody around. How I heard that voice, I cannot begin to imagine, but I must assume that my ears deceived me. Perhaps I suffered a momentary lapse that allowed me to conjure up that voice. In fact, that is the only reasonable explanation.
I must admit, I feel a little flustered as I sit down and start sorting out the hymn books. Meanwhile, in the distance, Father Perkins and Violet Durridge are laughing about something.
Chapter Three
“Do I have to go to school tomorrow?” Elizabeth asks as she continues to dry the dishes from dinner. “I'd much rather stay at home and help you.”
“Your education is
important,” I tell her.
“It doesn't seem important,” she replies. “Why do I need to know about history, or about mathematics? Why do I need to be able to multiply seven by eight? What good will that ever do me?”
“No man wants a simpleton for a wife,” I explain. “You never know when these things will come in handy.”
“And who says that I want to be a wife?”
“What exactly is your alternative proposition?”
“I don't know, but I'd like to keep my options open.”
Glancing at her, I see that she's serious. I can't help smiling at her determination.
“You'll see as you get older,” I tell her. “Your priorities will change and you'll come to value the love of a good man. I suppose in the future women will want everything to be equal. Myself, I'm not sure how that will work. It is better in this life to have a place, and to know that place, and to occupy that place fully. A life spent constantly in search of a place would seem, to me, to be absolute torture.”
I wait for her to admit that I'm right. After finishing scrubbing the saucepan, however, I turn and see that Elizabeth looks rather upset. Indeed, I rather fear that there are tears in her eyes.
“Did it happen again?” I ask, as I feel a flicker of cold anger in my chest.
“It's nothing,” she replies, sniffing back more tears. “I shouldn't let it bother me.”
“I thought this was resolved,” I say with a sigh. “Elizabeth, this has been going on for so long now. I shall have to speak again to your headmaster and -”
“No, don't do that!” she blurts out. “That only made it worse last time!”
“Those girls are little monsters,” I continue. “How dare they mock you, just because...”
My voice trails off for a moment as I see a single tear trickle down Elizabeth's face. She wipes it away quickly enough, but then another falls and she turns away so that I can't see the rest.
“Your father was a good man,” I tell her, as I have told her on countless occasions before. “Yes, you were born out of wedlock, and that is a sin. It is one of only two times in my life when I have gone against my better judgment. We were young and foolish, and we couldn't help ourselves.” I pause, before stepping up behind her and putting a hand on her shoulder. “But I wouldn't change anything,” I continue, “and I wouldn't apologize to anyone, because without that night I would not be blessed with you, my darling. And I promise that if your father hadn't been killed in that car accident, he would have married me before the bump even began to show.”
I wait, but I can hear her still sniffling.
“Nobody has the right to mock you for any of this,” I add, “and it breaks my heart to see you like this. I know I have a reputation as a rather prim woman, and people like to knock others off their pedestals. But next time somebody makes fun of you, tell them to come and see me instead, and I shall give them a piece of my mind. Before you complain, I might remind you that I am your mother and that it is my duty to worry about you.”
“Might I be excused?” she asks.
“Are you going to go and cry in your room?”
“I have some homework that I must do.”
“Let me see your face first.”
She hesitates, and then she turns to me, and I immediately see the tears shimmering in her reddened eyes. Her bottom lip is trembling, and I can tell that she is struggling to keep from sobbing.
“Elizabeth,” I say with a sigh, “let me -”
“I'm sorry!” she gasps, and then she turns and hurries away.
Left standing alone in the kitchen, I flinch as I hear her bedroom door swing shut. I want to wring the necks of those stupid schoolgirls who taunt my daughter, but I know I shall have to simply go and speak to the headmaster again. This terrible behavior must stop. Of course, deep down I know that none of this is Elizabeth's fault. It is my fault. Elizabeth suffers because I am her mother. She has always suffered from that association. The entire village looks down on us, even if they are usually friendly to our faces.
Suddenly I hear her door open again, and she hurries back through.
“Mother, have you seen outside?” she asks, her eyes now filled with shock. “I think a cottage is on fire down the road!”
***
“Get out of the way!” a man shouts at the end of the lane, as Elizabeth and I hurry along to join the group that has gathered to watch. “Move on!”
Elizabeth was right. Flames are roaring from the upper level of one of the cottages. Set against the night sky, the flames seem particularly bright, and I can hear the roar of the fire as it tears through the building. And as men rush back and forth with buckets, I suddenly realize that the cottage on the end of the row is the one that Muriel Agerton used to own, and which was sold just a year ago to...
“Violet Durridge,” I whisper, watching as the flames leap high into the darkness.
“That's Violet's house, isn't it?” Elizabeth says. “Mother, she'll be alright, won't she?”
“Has anyone seen Violet?” a man calls out nearby. “When was the last time she was out?”
“She was in the pub earlier,” another man says, “but she said she was going home about two hours ago!”
“This is dreadful,” Elizabeth continues, and I turn to see light from the flames flickering against her face. “Mother, Ms. Durridge wouldn't still be in there, would she? She'd have left as soon as she noticed the flames!”
“She was pretty drunk when she left,” one of the men mutters nearby. “I saw her stumbling out of the pub, barely able to stand. She had a cigarette in her mouth, too. I almost offered to walk her home but, well, we all tend to avoid that on account of how our wives don't like it. Violet can get a little overbearing sometimes, if you know what I mean.”
“But she can't actually be in there, can she?” Elizabeth asks, as if the thought is too horrific to comprehend. “It's just not possible.”
I want to reassure her but, as I continue to watch the flames, I can't help thinking back to the voice I heard earlier in the church. The voice can't have been real, of course, yet it's certainly a coincidence that I would have imagined such a thing just a few short hours before Violet's house went up in flames.
I can only hope that somehow, by some miracle, she is not in those flames right now.
Chapter Four
Stepping out of the gate, I look along the lane and immediately see that several vehicles are parked outside the remains of Violet's house. The fire was eventually put out during the night, but now – as I make my way along the lane – I'm shocked to see the sheer ferocity of the damage that has left Violet's home almost completely destroyed. The lower floor seems relatively intact, but the upper floor has been wrecked.
Hearing voices nearby, I turn just in time to see two men carrying a stretcher out of the building. There's a white sheet covering something on the stretcher, and somehow I immediately understand that this is a human body.
“Is it her?” a woman whispers nearby, and I turn to see the fear in her eyes. “Oh, poor Violet. They say she was smoking in bed, and that she was drunk so she fell asleep. It's just awful to think about!”
“Indeed,” I reply, before looking back toward the stretcher as the men start to load it into the back of an ambulance. “One can only hope that she -”
Suddenly a strong gust of wind blows along the lane, and the white sheet is ripped away from the stretcher. In that instant, I am horrified to see Violet Durridge's body. Or rather, what is left of the body. Her flesh has been almost entirely burned away, and my eyes are instantly drawn to her skull, which is turned slightly to one side with the mouth partially open. Her hands, meanwhile, are held up close to her face, as if she was trying to get away from the flames when she died. She certainly does not appear to be in the position of a woman in her sleep.
The men quickly recover the body and finish loading it into the ambulance, and then they slam the door shut.
***
“It is quite awful,
” Father Perkins says as we sit in his office, each with a cup of tea. “To think that this time yesterday she was in here, laughing and joking, and now she's...”
His voice trails off, and it's clear that he's in shock.
“I warned her about the drink,” I say after a moment. “Many people did. I hear she was at the public house last night and, well, apparently she was not entirely sober by the time she left.”
“She certainly lived life to the full.”
“Perhaps she went a little too far,” I suggest. “A sip of port or brandy at Christmas is one thing. Perpetual licentiousness is quite another.”
“One should not speak ill of the dead, Judith.”
“But one should learn from their mistakes,” I point out.
“I know, I know,” he replies, interrupting me. “At least she was probably asleep when it happened. She probably didn't feel anything.”
“Actually,” I say, “I saw the -”
I stop myself just in time. One does not need to always be too open about these things, and I suppose I should not force Father Perkins to consider the unsavory truth. Looking down at my cup of tea, I try to think of something more appropriate that I might say, but then I glance at the doorway and spot the altar at the other end of the church. For a few seconds, I think back to the voice that I heard yesterday, and I feel a flicker of unease as I remember its very specific comment about poor Violet Durridge.
“Have you ever heard anything in here?” I ask, turning back to Father Perkins.
“Such as?”
“I hesitate to even say,” I continue, worried that I shall sound like a lunatic. I pause, and then I smile and shake my head. “Never mind. The mind can play such dreadful tricks on one, can it not?”
“I suppose so,” he replies with a sigh. “I shall have to start work on what I'm to say at Violet's funeral. The poor woman didn't have any family, you know. Not anyone close, at least. Of course, I'll take on the responsibility of arranging everything. She'll be given a spot in the cemetery and I shall personally arrange for a headstone to be erected. She might have been a rather controversial figure in the village, but Violet was a well-known member of the community and we have a duty to take care of our own.”
