The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew

by Milly Johnson

  Sophie could empathise with that.

  ‘Yes. That’s true.’

  ‘If anyone had told me when I first went into that gym that within two years I’d have a waist, my own business and a decree absolute, I’d have laughed them out of town.’

  ‘And where is your husband?’

  ‘Ex-husband if you don’t mind. He’s still in Whitby, he’ll be there till he dies. In the same house, stuck in the same routine, getting even more boring with every day that passes. But not me, I want more. I want to make up for lost time. I love having my own business. It’s not exactly a Hilton but it’s mine and I want to grow it and do it up. I’ve got loads of plans. So what about you, Pom? Do you want to talk about anything?’

  No. Even if she did want to, she wouldn’t know where to begin. How could you find a starting point in that big ball of mess?

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tracey, answering her silence. ‘I didn’t come here to pry. I really didn’t.’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Sophie, handing her a cup of tea – black because she didn’t have any milk or sugar to offer.

  ‘I think I’d have left Barry a lot sooner if he’d been unfaithful. I almost wanted him to be unfaithful so it would galvanise me into action, because I couldn’t have forgiven that. But he was too bloody lazy,’ Tracey went on. ‘I wasn’t “me” with Barry. I was . . . an add-on, someone in the background who oiled his wheels. Okay, so I might run the smallest inn on the planet now but it’s all mine. I’m independent and free and in control, even if you do need a magnifying glass to see my profits, but what I have now is worth all the money in the world. I tell you, I wouldn’t change places with that poor cow married to that Tory minister in the papers, for all her fancy house and fortune.’

  Sophie went cold and hoped the alarm didn’t show on her face. She tried to look blank, hoping Tracey hadn’t seen her involuntary gulp.

  ‘I don’t know her,’ she said, hoping to shut that subject down, but the opposite happened as Tracey started to fill her in on the details.

  ‘Sophie Mayhew, she’s married to that slimy git politician John Mayhew, who’s just been caught with his trousers down. It’s massive news, you’d recognise them if you saw a picture. Anyway, on Thursday, they’re outside their big posh house and he’s making one of those statements trying to undo all the damage – fat chance – and she ends up calling him a shit. On live TV. Go on, girl. She . . . Pom, are you okay?’

  Tracey thought Pom was about to faint. She seemed to slump forward, her eyes fluttered, then her spine snapped straight again, as if an emergency reboot had been triggered.

  ‘I . . . yes. I’m fine.’

  ‘As I was saying . . .’ Inside Tracey’s head was a clear picture of Sophie Mayhew and as her eyes settled on Pom’s face, she quickly became aware of an odd congruence between the two.

  ‘That’s weird, Pom, you look like . . .’ She laughed at the absurdity of what she was about to say because it was madness, but . . . ‘You look like her – Mrs Mayhew.’

  It was said half-jokingly, but Pom’s reaction turned any attempt at humour onto its head. Sophie stood up, panicked. ‘I have to go,’ she said, dropping the French accent abruptly.

  ‘Whoa.’ Tracey leapt to her feet, put her hands on Sophie’s arms, held her steady. ‘You absolutely do not have to go anywhere.’

  ‘If you guessed, others will . . .’

  ‘Please, Mrs . . . Pom . . . sit, please.’ Tracey pushed her back down. ‘Flipping heck. Look, I have excellent facial mapping skills, no idea why God gave me that as a gift because it only ever comes in handy when I’m watching films and trying to work out where I’ve seen actors before . . .’ She was waffling; she took a deep breath to stop herself. ‘I’m really good at remembering faces is what I’m trying to say. I know it’s weird. But please don’t worry, Pom, this house is a sanctuary and what sort of person would I be if I gave you up after what I’ve just told you about crap husbands? And trust me, you haven’t heard the half of what I went through. You’re safe, I promise. I’ll stick with calling you Pom for consistency. You are totally and utterly in the best place here with us.’

  Sophie’s heart was racing like Red Rum closing in on the Aintree finishing line. ‘Blimey,’ Tracey said. ‘I didn’t expect this when I brought the fish and chips. You’re supposed to be resting in a hospital, aren’t you?’

  ‘I would have been if I hadn’t run away,’ said Sophie. ‘My husband was going to have me sectioned.’

  ‘You’re joking?’ gasped Tracey. ‘No, you aren’t joking, are you?’ That much was obvious from Sophie’s expression. ‘Sod the tea.’ She poured out two more glasses of wine. Sophie lifted hers with a shaking hand.

  ‘You poor thing. Well, that’s settled. You are staying in the almshouse for as long as you need it. And for the record, that French look really works for you. You’d have anyone else fooled. I suppose you can speak French?’

  ‘Yes, fluently. I lived there for a year and studied it at university.’

  ‘How many people know where you are?’

  ‘Just you,’ replied Sophie. ‘I have a friend who lent me some money to get away but she doesn’t know where I am.’

  ‘Right, right,’ said Tracey. ‘Oh my. Think, Tracey, think. Now, I’ll have to tell Ells Bells, but he’s a man of God. He is incapable of spilling a secret.’ Then Tracey answered Sophie’s horrified look. ‘Really, if he knows and there’s any problem, he’d be able to throw people off the scent. I can’t lie to him. You’ll be fine. Blimey, this is bonkers.’

  ‘I know. I feel as if I’m in a bad dream with no chance of waking up.’

  ‘You say your husband was going to have you put away? For saying that he was a shit and you wouldn’t stand by him?’ Tracey huffed. ‘I think you should have been put away if you had stayed with him after what he did.’

  ‘I don’t know why I said it. I’ve never believed in washing dirty linen in public.’

  Tracey let loose a dry laugh. ‘I imagine it was dying to come out of you and you couldn’t stop it, that’s why you said it.’

  Sophie covered her face with her hands and winced. If only she could have turned the clock back. Her life would have been so much less complicated now.

  Tracey clicked her fingers as she remembered something. ‘Hang on, Sophie Mayhew went to St Bathsheba’s didn’t she . . . you?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That’s why you’ve come back here?’

  ‘Yes. Because I hated it so much. I don’t think anyone would guess this is where I would hole up.’

  ‘I went to Liverpool uni with a girl who went there, Magdalena Oakes. She’d be one or two years younger than you though so I don’t suppose—’

  ‘Magda Oakes?’ Sophie’s head lifted.

  ‘Yes, Lena Sowerby as she is now.’

  Sophie was gobsmacked. ‘Lena Sowerby is Magda

  Oakes?’

  ‘Did you know Magdalena then?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did know her. And I liked her very much.’

  She didn’t have to ask what Magda was doing these days if Magda Oakes and Lena Sowerby were one and the same person. Lena Sowerby was the Shadow Secretary of State for Family Matters, a very big thorn in her husband’s side. But Lena Sowerby was an Amazon: tall, stately, formidable, glamorous, eloquent, nothing like the pudgy, plain, stammering Magda.

  ‘I haven’t seen her for years but we keep in contact by email every so often. Ages ago it cropped up in a conversation that she knew you from school,’ Tracey went on. ‘Told me you once saved her from drowning. That true?’

  ‘Well, I tackled some bullies that were giving her a hard time,’ said Sophie.

  ‘She said you taught her how to style herself and stand up to people. The school might have done nothing for her but you certainly did.’

  ‘Me?’ Sophie found that hard to believe.

  ‘Yep. She wanted to get back in touch with you and say as much but she didn’t think it appropriate. Not with her being s
o anti your husband.’

  Sophie wanted to laugh. How ironic that she’d been partly responsible for the rise of Lena Sowerby. As if her life couldn’t get any more insane.

  ‘You will be okay here, I promise,’ said Tracey. ‘If anyone needs the sanctuary of this almshouse, it’s you. Only Ells Bells, you and I will know about this.’

  ‘Thank you. I really appreciate it.’

  The fire in the grate had taken hold and was already warming the room.

  ‘I wish I were staying in here instead of going out there,’ smiled Tracey, nodding towards the window whilst she drank the rest of her wine. ‘But I have a bar to open. I’ve always loved this house. It’s got a wonderfully cosy feel to it, hasn’t it, for such a big place.’

  ‘I think I might have had a visit from Kitty yesterday,’ said Sophie. ‘Some of my things had been moved.’

  ‘She likes to tidy up, so I’ve been told. I think if she’s listening to this she’d tell you that she won’t blab your secret either,’ said Tracey, blowing out the full capacity of her lungs. ‘Wow, just wow.’

  Chapter 22

  The next day was Sunday and Sophie was duty-bound to go to church. She didn’t want to arouse any suspicion by not going, as it was a condition of staying at the almshouse, although she didn’t have any smart clothes other than a Versace silk shirt and Louboutin shoes, which could possibly draw unwanted attention and even her jeans were a bit posh, so she went in tracksuit bottoms and a sweatshirt. No one would have ever guessed they had the infamous Sophie Mayhew in their midst. Village gossip circulated that a French woman had moved in, but nothing more. No one had any reason to think she was other than someone at rock bottom who needed sanctuary, and they would have been right in that.

  Sophie walked into St George’s church and shuddered. The spirit of the building would be able to see into her heart and how much she instinctively hated everything about it, even a church as beautiful as this one with its fabulous stained-glass window of the saint himself, sword pressed against the breast of the dragon. It couldn’t have been more indicative of what the church had done to Sophie, mortally wounding her and then passing it off as a holy act. She knew how that poor dragon felt.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she detected a rapid movement: Tracey waving her over. Sophie walked down the central aisle, aware of how very underdressed she was because all the women over fifty were wearing hats and anyone under fifty was wearing a lot of make-up. She wondered how many women were here for the sermon and how many were here to flutter their eyelashes at the Reverend Elliott Bellringer.

  Even Sophie had to admit that ‘Ells Bells’ could rock a cassock and surplice. He was possibly the most handsome man in the British clergy. He had large blue eyes and a strong jaw and, as he was welcoming them all, she found herself wondering why Mrs Bellringer had abandoned him. Then again, John Mayhew was the most handsome man in politics, proving that looks weren’t everything. She wouldn’t immediately load all the blame onto Mrs Bellringer for the failure of her marriage, as many would load it onto Sophie for hers.

  He was very different from the school chaplain at St Bathsheba’s, who smelled of snuff and had a monotonous delivery of uninspiring preachy sermons, plus he had been a little too touchy-feely for her liking. Sophie attended church nowadays when she had to, when duty called: Remembrance Sunday, Easter, funerals, weddings. Christmas services were the worst of all. Hearing carols tore her heart to pieces; watching a nativity was torturous. People mistook her unsmiling demeanour for lack of interest and it did her no favours, especially when her husband was smiling at baby kings and angels, but they could not know what it did to her to think that her child should be amongst them: an inn-keeper, a donkey with wonky ears, a shepherd with a tea-towel on his head.

  Elliott Bellringer spoke from the pulpit the way that John did in the House: passionately, convincingly, entreating people to believe what he said. Sophie didn’t actually want to believe the Reverend Bellringer on this occasion because he was retelling the parable of the lost sheep. She had a vision of John, holding a crook, tenaciously tearing Britain apart to find her and bring her home so he could lock her up in a padded cell. It all felt too close for comfort and if she could have left without drawing attention to herself she might have.

  ‘Got any plans for lunch?’ asked Tracey at the end of the service. ‘Fancy joining my brother and my brat of a nephew for a Sunday roast? He’s a great cook. Okay, good, that’s settled.’ She didn’t leave any space for an answer. Sophie just wanted to get out of church as quickly as possible because people were glancing at her, the stranger in their midst. Smart old couples were smiling at her, younger women giving her the once-over as a possible rival for the reverend’s affections – even in tracksuit bottoms and hacked-off hair. The only person who had totally ignored her presence was an auburn-haired teenage girl with a moody pout. An outer petulance masking something troubling her within; Sophie recognised that look.

  The reverend was shaking everyone’s hands at the door. Sophie hoped he wouldn’t blow her cover when it was her turn.

  ‘Ah, Pom, enchantée. I hope I’ve said it right,’ said Elliott.

  ‘Oui,’ answered Sophie, keeping it brief because she felt a bit of a fraud now. Acting French in front of someone who knew she was from the Home Counties.

  ‘Pom’s joining us for lunch,’ Tracey told her brother.

  ‘You won’t be sorry,’ said Elliott. ‘I’m a brilliant cook.’

  ‘Pride is a sin, Ells Bells.’ Tracey winked then turned to Sophie. ‘I need to pick up Luke from the Sunday school. Come with me if you like.’

  They walked round to the back of the church and Sophie waited outside whilst Tracey went in through a heavy arched door, returning a minute later with her nephew. A plump woman with too-dark eyebrows scuttled out behind them, smiling at Sophie whilst sweeping her eyes up and down her at the same time. Just like Dena Stockdale, was Sophie’s immediate thought, because that smile didn’t reach her eyes. She stood there angling for an introduction, which Tracey felt obliged to make.

  ‘Pom, this is Miriam, Luke’s Sunday School teacher.’

  ‘’Allo,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Settling in?’ asked Miriam.

  ‘Yes, merci.’

  The young woman’s eyes didn’t stop raking over Sophie; she really was going to town with her scrutiny.

  ‘Hello, Pom,’ said Luke, with a grin on his face that did light up his eyes.

  ‘Ah, you remembered my name,’ said Sophie, rolling her ‘r’s for all they were worth.

  ‘Look what I made.’ He held up a twist of brown pipe-cleaners.

  ‘Give me a clue what it is, Luke,’ said Tracey, squinting at it as if that might help.

  ‘It begins with li-o,’ replied Luke.

  Not even that helped.

  ‘It’s a lion,’ said Miriam. ‘We’ve been discussing Daniel in the lion’s den today.’

  ‘Is it a lion from Chernobyl?’ asked Tracey, taking it from her nephew and examining it. She had thought it might just be a little squashed, but that would not explain its eight legs and no head. Sophie might hardly know Tracey at all, but she suspected she enjoyed winding up Miriam.

  ‘Do you like him, Auntie Tracey?’ asked Luke.

  ‘He’s fantastic. He’s my favourite surrealist lion of all time. Let’s call him Salvador. Anyway, come on Luke, we have work to do. Pom’s coming to have lunch with us, so we need to get out another knife and fork,’ said Tracey and Sophie wondered if that was for Dena Mark II’s benefit. If so, and the aim was to make Miriam’s lips contract over her teeth, then she’d certainly achieved it.

  ‘Yesss,’ said Luke with a fist-pump.

  ‘Are you sure this is okay?’ asked Sophie, as they walked towards the vicarage, Luke running on ahead.

  ‘’Course. Ells makes far too much every week. His quantity control isn’t honed. Plus we like to drag someone else along.’ Then Tracey lowered her voice. ‘Miss Bird has been angling for an i
nvite for months.’

  ‘Miss Bird?’

  ‘Miriam Bird, the Sunday School teacher. The one who was away on the days they did art lessons at school.’ She thumbed behind her. ‘The one who’s just been analysing your every feature. I have to whisper, because Luke has ears like a bat. Miriam considers Ells her own personal property. She’d be in like Flynn if she knew that he was in the process of getting a divorce.’

  Tracey unlocked the vicarage and the smell of roast beef greeted them as warmly as an old friend. A gentleman’s residence is how an estate agent might have described the house. There was lots of dark wood on the walls, thick blue carpeting and cast-iron radiators pumping out heat. The ceilings were high with period coving and an impressive staircase with a chunky wooden bannister led up to the next floor. This was the sort of house where you kicked your shoes off at the door and were instantly at home, thought Sophie.

  ‘Come through,’ said Tracey, leading Sophie into a kitchen which was large, square and light. Whoever had made the curtains at the windows had attempted elaborate swags and tails and shouldn’t have, Sophie noticed. A well-meaning or keen-to-impress parishioner, she guessed.

  ‘Ells likes to cook. This is his kingdom – Ells’ kitchen,’ said Tracey, hooting at her own joke as she switched on the heat under various pans. ‘He prepares everything before the sermon. I’m only allowed to turn on knobs. He goes ape if I do anything else. He’s a total control freak in here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sophie was suddenly moved to say. ‘For this, for the use of the almshouse. It’s so very kind of you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ said Tracey. ‘We’d be shit Christians if we didn’t help people who needed it. I wish we had the money to do something with the almshouse. Or, plan B, we could sell it to someone who did, then we could do something useful with the cash for the community.’