by C. J. Tudor
Flo sits back on her heels. “Mum?”
“I…erm…couldn’t sleep. I came down for a cigarette and saw a light in the chapel. So, I went to take a look—
“You went out on your own in the middle of the night?” Flo stands and glares at me, hands on hips. “Mum, that is so stupid. You could have been attacked, killed.”
“Okay, okay. There was no one there.”
“What about the light?”
“I don’t know. A dodgy bulb. My imagination.”
“And that’s all?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you sleeping on the sofa? You stink of cigarettes.”
“I suppose I must have lain down here for a bit and then nodded off.”
She continues to regard me suspiciously. Then she sighs and shakes her head. “Fine. Want some coffee?”
“Yeah, thanks….Actually, what time is it?”
“Almost nine o’clock.”
Nine o’clock. Nine a.m. Monday morning. Meeting time. Damn.
* * *
—
“Good morning, everyone. Apologies for being a bit late.”
I smile at the small group in front of me, trying for my own version of Durkin’s benevolent beam. I’m not quite sure it’s cutting it. The fact that I’m panting, red-faced and still fumbling to do up my clerical collar probably isn’t helping.
Reverend Rushton stands. “Shall I do the introductions?”
“Thank you,” I say gratefully. Damn collar.
We’re crammed into a tiny office off the main chapel, which seemed cramped when devoid of people and now, with the whole parish team gathered in it, seems Hobbit-like.
Paperwork is piled everywhere. A cork board overflows with safety notices, parish newsletters and orders of service. Even the walls are cluttered, with historical photos of the chapel and its previous clergy: a much younger Rushton; a severe-looking man with a shock of dark hair (“Reverend Marsh,” a label underneath reads) and Reverend Fletcher—a good-looking man in his fifties with grey hair and a neat beard. Next to Fletcher, there’s a lighter square patch where a picture seems to have been removed. I wonder why.
There is barely enough room for a desk and two chairs. Probably just as well that our “team” consists of just five people, of whom only four are here this morning.
“This is Malcolm, our lay reader,” Rushton says.
An angular bespectacled man nods and smiles.
“Aaron, you know.”
We nod at each other briskly.
“Our administrator, June Watkins, sadly, has become too ill to keep up with the work. Fortunately, we have someone to fill in temporarily—”
Right on cue, the door opens and a tall, striking woman in a flowing dress, with a mane of white hair piled messily into a bun, walks in, holding a flask and a stack of plastic cups.
“Hello, everyone. I left the coffee in the car.”
I stare at her as she puts the flask and cups down on the desk.
“Most of you know Clara,” Rushton says. “She’ll be helping on a voluntary basis, an angel sent from the heavens.”
Clara looks around and smiles. “He has to say that—I’m his wife!”
Her eyes fall on me. She holds out a hand. “Jack? Nice to meet you. What’s that short for?”
“Err…Jacqueline.”
Her grey eyes gleam. “A lovely name. Both of them.”
“Thank you.”
“So, a small team, as you see,” Rushton finishes.
A very small team. But then, these days, there is simply not enough demand for every rural church to have its own vicar, let alone a dedicated warden or staff. In addition to Chapel Croft and Warblers Green, Rushton and I will oversee two other small churches in the parish—Burford and Netherton—dividing our time between them as best we can.
“It’s good to meet you all,” I say, trying to compose myself. “As I’m sure you know by now, my name is Jack Brooks and I’ll be working as the interim priest here until a new long-term incumbent is found.”
“Do you know when that might be?” Malcolm asks, perhaps a little hastily.
“Afraid not,” I say. “So, best to presume you’ll be stuck with me for a while.”
“No ‘stuck’ about it,” Rushton interjects. “We’re delighted to have you. And anything we can do to help you settle in, just ask.”
“Yes, of course.” Clara nods. “I think we’re ready for a fresh start, after…well, you know.”
I was wondering who would be first to bring it up.
“I was very sorry to hear about Reverend Fletcher.”
“We just wish we had known what he was going through,” Malcolm adds. “I mean, we knew he was under stress, but to take his own life…”
“Those intent upon taking their own lives are good at hiding it from their closest friends and family,” I say. “Suicide is a tragedy for everyone.”
“And a sin.”
I stare at Aaron. “I’m sorry?”
“Life is a gift from God. Only he has the power to take it away.” His eyes meet mine, defiant.
I keep my voice calm. “That has not been the view of the Church of England for a long time, Aaron.”
“So, we choose to ignore the word of the Bible?”
“There is no explicit condemnation of suicide in the Bible and, while I’m the vicar here, I’d prefer not to hear such talk in this chapel.”
I hold Aaron’s gaze and I’m pleased when he drops his eyes.
“So…anyway”—Rushton clears his throat—“life, as they say, must go on. Shall we proceed with the business of the coming week?”
We do. I’m relieved to find myself falling back into the normal routine, not too dissimilar from my previous parish. Coffee mornings, a village fete, a youth group, three upcoming weddings and four funerals. Although I’m not officially on duty for another two weeks, it’s agreed that I should start to make myself known at a few church events.
“Oh, and of course there’s still the matter of the repairs to the chapel floor.”
“I saw some of the flagstones were broken. What happened?”
“Oh, just wear and tear. We’ll be getting someone to take a look soon. In the meantime, Jack, please make sure no one goes near the area. The last thing we need is someone suing us for a broken ankle.”
“Right.”
“Good. Well, I think we’re done. Anything else you want to add?”
Rushton turns his ruddy face toward me. I consider. Obviously, asking who might be leaving me strange, creepy messages is up there. But until I know more, I don’t think it would be wise to say anything. Yet.
“Erm, no. I think we’ve covered everything.”
“Excellent. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to have you on board to share the load.”
“I’m glad to help.”
Everyone starts to move, gathering their things. Malcolm clasps my hand in his bony one as he leaves. “Lovely to have you here, my dear.”
Aaron pointedly ignores me, busying himself shuffling his notes.
I really want to get away myself, but I sense Clara watching me as she shrugs her arms into a long, multicolored cardigan. “I hear you have a daughter, Jack?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Fifteen.”
“A difficult age.”
“Well, I’ve been lucky so far. Do you have children?”
“We were never blessed,” Rushton says. “But we seem to have acquired many godchildren over the years. And Clara used to teach, so we’ve always had young people in our lives.”
I nod, politely, thinking, A teacher. Of course.
“How long have you been married?”
“We recently celebrated our twenty-eighth anniversary.”
<
br /> They’re an odd match. Tall, elegant Clara and short, dumpy Brian. Not that I want to be judgmental.
“Congratulations.”
“You’re a widow?” Clara says, reminding me how much I hate that word.
“My husband died, yes.”
“You’ve raised Flo all alone.”
“Like I said, I’ve been lucky. She’s a good girl.”
“And how is she settling in?” Rushton asks. “I’m afraid there’s not a lot to do in the village for the youngsters.”
“Well, she likes photography. We were actually thinking of turning the cellar into a darkroom.”
“Ah.”
“Is there a problem with the cellar?”
“No. It’s just there are still quite a few of Reverend Fletcher’s things down there,” Clara says. “I sorted through as much as I could—”
“He didn’t have any family?”
“Sadly not. He bequeathed everything to the Church and the items we could donate, such as furniture, clothes, his laptop, we did. But there was a lot of—”
“Junk,” Rushton says, less tactfully. “To be fair, it’s not all Reverend Fletcher’s. A lot is general church stuff. We didn’t know what to do with it, so it’s still in the cellar.”
“Well, looks like I shall have plenty to keep me busy over the coming weeks.”
Something else occurs to me.
“Is Reverend Fletcher buried here? I feel I should pay my respects.”
“Actually, no,” Rushton says. “He’s buried in Tunbridge Wells. Near his mother.”
“He didn’t want to be buried here,” Aaron suddenly chips in from behind me.
I turn. “Oh. Why?”
“He said that the chapel had become corrupted.”
“Corrupted?”
“As Malcolm mentioned,” Clara interjects, “Reverend Fletcher had been under a lot of stress.”
“He wanted it exorcized,” Aaron continues. “That was just before—”
“Aaron!” Rushton says sharply.
Aaron shoots him a strange look. “She should know.”
“Know what?”
Rushton sighs. “Shortly before his death, Reverend Fletcher tried to burn the chapel down.”
“Not the first time someone has tried that, of course.” Rushton sips his latte.
We’re sitting at a table in a corner of the village hall, which, according to a bright, handwritten sign on the door, is: “Open for coffee Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays 10–12.” Clara has joined us. Aaron, unsurprisingly, has not.
I’m surprised how busy it is. In Nottingham, the coffee mornings were generally only attended by the truly faithful or the homeless. I suppose most other people feared they would get a religious lecturing or, worse, crap coffee.
The patrons here are older but well dressed. There are a couple of mums with babies. Even the coffee is half decent. I’m pleasantly surprised. Which is the first pleasant surprise I’ve had since I came here.
“So, what happened?” I ask.
“Catholic separatists. Descendants of Queen Mary’s Marian persecutors. They burned the old chapel to the ground in the seventeenth century. Destroyed everything, including most of the parish records. The current chapel was rebuilt by Baptists some years later.”
“Sorry, I meant what happened with Reverend Fletcher?”
“Oh. Well, fortunately, he didn’t get that far. Aaron found him before the fire could really catch hold.”
“What was Aaron doing there?”
“It was late at night. Aaron happened to be passing and saw a light in the chapel. He found Reverend Fletcher standing over a pile of lit pew cushions.”
“He said someone had broken into the chapel,” Clara says, shaking a second packet of sugar and emptying it into her coffee. Obviously, her figure isn’t maintained by dieting.
“Could they have?” I say, thinking about the unlocked door and the light I saw last night.
“No sign of a break-in. Aaron and I are the only other people with keys to the chapel,” Rushton replies.
“Right.” I make a mental note of this. “Could it have been left unlocked?”
Rushton sighs. “Matthew—Reverend Fletcher—had been behaving oddly for a while.”
“In what way?”
“He claimed to have seen apparitions,” Clara says.
I tense. “What sort of apparitions?”
“Burning girls.”
Icy fingers grip my scalp.
“They’re something of a local legend,” Clara says, a glint in her eye. “Two young girls, Abigail and Maggie, burned at the stake along with six other martyrs in the sixteenth century.”
“I know,” I say. “At least, some of it.”
“Jack has been doing her homework,” Rushton says. “She even knew about the dolls.”
“Really?” Clara’s eyebrows rise. “Where did you hear about those?”
There’s something about her searching gaze that makes me feel uncomfortable.
“Oh, online.”
“A lot of people find them a bit ghoulish.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
She smiles. “Small villages have their ways.”
“I wouldn’t really know.”
“You grew up in Nottingham?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have much of an accent, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Well, my mum was from the south.”
“Ah, that explains those soft vowels.” She sips her coffee casually, but I don’t think anything about her questions is casual.
I turn back to Rushton. “Just because Reverend Fletcher thought the chapel was haunted, it doesn’t necessarily make him unstable. I’ve known a few priests who believe in apparitions.”
“It wasn’t just that,” Rushton says. “He’d become increasingly paranoid. Obsessive. He believed that someone was out to get him. That he was being threatened. He claimed that Burning Girls had been left in the chapel and pinned to the door of the cottage.”
“Did he go to the police?”
“Yes. But he had no proof.”
“Did anyone have any reason to threaten him?”
“No,” Clara says. “Matthew had been the vicar here for almost three years. He was well liked.”
“But in the last year, he had lost his father and mother,” Rushton says. “A close friend had been diagnosed with cancer. He was wrestling with many personal issues. He handed in his resignation shortly after the fire in the chapel. I think he accepted things were getting on top of him.”
I consider. The Church is still a long way behind other institutions in recognizing mental illness. We’re not encouraged to talk about it and, possibly because the majority of priests are male, it’s seen as some kind of failing.
Prayer is a useful medium for focusing the mind. But it is not a magic cure-all. God is not a therapist or a psychiatrist. We still need the support of other people and sometimes those people are professionals. I often wonder, if my husband had sought help sooner, if things might have been different.
I reach for my coffee and take a gulp. It doesn’t seem to taste quite as good now.
I choose my next words carefully. “Did anyone suspect that Reverend Fletcher’s death might not have been suicide?”
“No. Of course not. Who would say that?”
“One of the parishioners mentioned something—”
Rushton rolls his eyes. “Joan Hartman.” He waves his hand, indicating I don’t need to deny or confirm. “Joan is quite a character, but I wouldn’t take what she says too seriously.”
“Because she’s old?”
“No. Because she’s isolated, imaginative and reads far too many crime novels.” Rushton leans forward. “Jack, can I offer a bit o
f advice?”
I want to say no. Generally, when people ask if they can offer advice, it’s as welcome as a pile of horse shit. But I smile and say: “Of course.”
“Don’t get bogged down with the past. Your arrival is a fresh start. A chance to put the tragic circumstances of Reverend Fletcher’s death behind us. And, as you can see, there is plenty here to keep you busy.”
I keep the smile glued in place. “I’m sure you’re right.”
He places his chubby hand over mine and gives it a squeeze. “Talking of which, we should get back. I have to meet with the Bakers to talk about their father’s funeral.”
He gets up from the table. Clara follows.
“See you later. And remember what I said.”
“I will. Bye.”
I watch them walk from the hall, exchanging goodbyes with a few of the other patrons. I think about getting another coffee, then glance at my watch. Nope. I should really go and do some shopping. Woman and daughter cannot live on pizza alone.
I’m just standing up when I hear the crash. I turn. An elderly lady at another table lies on the floor, surrounded by broken crockery and dregs of coffee. A few people glance over and a couple start to rise, but I’m closest. I hurry over and kneel down, taking her hand.
“Are you okay? Have you hurt yourself?”
She seems a little dazed. I wonder if she’s hit her head.
“It’s all right. Take a moment,” I say.
She stares at me. Her eyes focus.
“Is that you?”
I try to pull my hand away, but she digs her fingers in.
“Where is she? Tell me.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t—”
And then a warm, soothing voice says:
“It’s okay. She gets confused sometimes.”
A young woman with short hair, dressed in dungarees and a T-shirt, crouches down next to me and speaks gently to the elderly lady.
“Doreen? You had a bit of a fall. You’re in the village hall. Are you okay?”
“Village hall?” The old lady’s grip slackens. The woman eases her hand away from mine.
