The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew

by Milly Johnson

  Tracey sipped on her beetroot wine. She was standing at a safe distance so she couldn’t possibly spill anything on the lovely green cloth.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this for me.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure. I love sewing, I’m looking forward to making it.’

  ‘Jade will never believe I’ve done it. And I don’t feel comfortable about lying.’

  Sophie grinned at her. ‘Let yourself off the hook this once and don’t beat yourself up about bending the truth.’

  ‘Bending it? Not so much bending it as smashing it to bits and cremating it.’

  ‘I feel at peace when I’m sewing. I think I would have gone mad sometimes if I hadn’t been able to shut myself away in my own room and make things. John thinks it’s just a “little hobby” but it’s much more than that to me. I feel as happy surrounded by cottons and materials as he does in his arena. Not that he’d equate them as having the same importance.’

  ‘You ever thought about leading classes or becoming a designer?’ asked Tracey.

  Sophie laughed. ‘Who, me?’

  ‘Yes, you. Why not?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Sophie considered her answer. ‘Because I don’t have the time for a start. I already have a job.’

  ‘Being John’s assistant?’ Do you enjoy that?’

  Sophie opened up her mouth to say that she did – stock answer. Tweaked it to the truth.

  ‘It’s what I do.’

  How weak does that sound, she thought then. She was hardly a shining example of the modern world, thanks to the indoctrinations of St Bathsheba’s. Her sisters were more like women in a Jane Austen book whose sole purpose was to snare a husband before they withered on the vine, and they’d just managed it, but what a pair of cold, arrogant plonkers Giles and Pearson were. Her mother Alice had gone there too, any warmth pressed out of her out by the strict Bathsheban practices, then she’d gone on to hook a rich duck in Angus Calladine. Thinking about it, she’d never witnessed any tenderness between her parents either, other than a dry kiss on the cheek on birthdays and anniversaries. She’d never known them not to have their own bedroom each.

  ‘What a shame that you have this talent and don’t capitalise on it. Sorry, ignore me, I’m lecturing, change the subject. It’s been lovely having you here, Pom,’ said Tracey, sitting down on the chair at the other side of the desk. ‘I know that when you go back, you won’t keep in touch so I’m not even going to pressure you by asking, but I will miss you.’

  ‘I’ll miss you too, Tracey,’ smiled Sophie. ‘It’s been wonderful to talk and have lunch and shop and not have to worry about anything I say. I do have a friend at home – Elise, but her husband and John have a rivalry and our friendship doesn’t run very deep.’

  ‘I had a really good friend,’ said Tracey. ‘Jess wanted to be an artist. She always had a dream to open up a studio and she could have, she was really good at watercolours. And I mean really good.’

  ‘What stopped her?’ asked Sophie, interested.

  ‘She killed herself last year. No one had a clue how depressed she was, not even me, not until I read the letter she left for me. It took me a long time to forgive myself for not having spotted it. I really miss her, it was such a waste of life. She should have thrown herself at her dream instead of being so scared of failing that she never tried and ended up that unhappy. Life’s too short for not taking chances. I did.’

  ‘People can be expert at hiding inside themselves,’ said Sophie, who knew. She’d struggled after Henry had died because she was expected to carry on as normal and not mope but sometimes she’d felt as if she couldn’t go on, didn’t want to go on. She’d stood on a clifftop once watching the Red Arrows at a memorial service and thought about kicking off her shoes, running forwards and jumping off, hoping the rocks below would smash her to a blessed final unconsciousness. The newspapers had printed a photo of her the next day berating her lack of emotion when meeting the veterans. She wished they could have seen inside her head.

  ‘Elliott will miss you too. It’s been good for him to speak to another woman who doesn’t have a vested interest in getting into his vestments or isn’t his stroppy sister. I can be a bit too opinionated where Joy is concerned and so he won’t talk to me about her. I do worry about him and Luke, only because I want the best for them.’

  ‘That’s totally understandable. He’s a good man. I’m sure that someone will come along who is perfect for them both.’

  Tracey yawned, stretched, apologised. ‘You’re not boring me, honest. I’ve been worrying about this dress so much I didn’t sleep well last night.’

  ‘Go and get yourself some rest,’ said Sophie. ‘You don’t have to stay here with me. I’m just making a start and then I’ll be back in the morning. Once I get stuck into a project, I’m like a machine.’

  Tracey nodded. ‘I think I will. Thanks again, Pom. I’ll say my goodbyes and see you tomorrow, most likely.’

  After she had gone, Sophie played back part of their conversation. She should have thrown herself at her dream instead of being so scared of failing that she never tried and ended up that unhappy. Tracey might as well have been talking about her as her friend Jess. It’s a shame you have this talent and don’t capitalise on it. Sophie treated her ability to sew like an embarrassing ailment. John also scoffed at his brother Edward’s secret ambition to open up his own estate agency. He’d wanted to do it since he’d been a boy apparently, yet they were both destined to be planets who rotated around the sun that was John F. Mayhew rather than occupy their own solar systems. That was their place in this universe.

  Life’s too short for not taking chances.

  As she carried on cutting, she started to think what it would be like to be able to sew all day, every day. To own the shop that she’d built in her imagination, the one with the huge bowed front window and racks and racks of dresses inside all with her trademark accoutrement which was . . . well, she didn’t know, but something that was her signature. Every dress would fit perfectly because she could nip and tuck at will to make sure that it did. Someone would saunter in with a picture and say, ‘Can you make this?’ and with absolute certainty, Sophie Mayhew would answer, ‘Of course.’ She wanted it all so much. There had to be a way of getting it: she had the money, the skill . . . what was really stopping her, other than herself ?

  Later, as she was folding away the dress pieces, the door flew open and Luke barrelled forward in his dressing gown.

  ‘Pom, will you read me a story before I go to bed,’ he pleaded. In close pursuit behind him was Elliott.

  ‘You cheeky thing, Luke Bellringer. What did I tell you about disturbing Pom’s concentration?’

  ‘Oh, it’s okay,’ said Sophie, stretching a creak out of her back. ‘I’m packing away for the evening. I don’t mind meeting Scary Edwin again.’

  ‘Yaaayyy,’ said Luke, bouncing up and down and Sophie smiled, knowing that there was no artifice with the little boy; he really was that pleased that she had agreed to read him a story. What he wanted from her was out there and obvious, no hidden agenda.

  ‘Come on, then.’ She held out her hand and he took it and something kissed her heart when his small, soft fingers closed around hers.

  Sophie was aware of how intently Luke was looking at her as she read to him. At the end of the story he snuggled into her and she savoured the scent of his freshly washed still-damp hair and it brought a sensation to her chest that felt sharp and deep and she wasn’t sure if it was painful or pleasant because it felt like revisiting a memory she had never had.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she gave herself a mental shake before going into the kitchen for her key. There was a smell of chocolate in the air and Elliott was stirring two mugs. ‘Non-alcoholic nightcap,’ he offered. She couldn’t refuse. She didn’t want to refuse.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sophie, sitting wearily down at the table.

  ‘You can go through into the lounge if you’d rather?’

  Not a
chance, she thought. And fall asleep on that sofa again? Be observed dribbling and snoring?

  ‘I’m good here.’

  ‘Once again, thank you,’ said Elliott. She wasn’t sure if he meant for lending his sister a hand or reading his son a story, so she gave a one-size-fits-all answer.

  ‘Happy to help.’

  ‘So you’ll be back in the morning, I presume?’ She read the hopeful note in his voice and it both concerned her and thrilled her a little.

  ‘If I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘Of course not. No point in trying to drag Mum’s sewing machine over to the almshouse. I’ll be out from nine but I’m sure you won’t mind being here by yourself.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Sophie. ‘The sooner I get the dress finished the sooner your sister will be able to sleep properly.’

  ‘Are you sleeping all right over there?’ asked Elliott. ‘Not too cold is it? I have a portable heater . . .’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t need it.’

  ‘I know it’s a bit basic. It was only meant as a place for the desperate, really.’

  ‘I was desperate, so it’s a perfect fit. It was very odd early yesterday morning. I felt as if someone was in the room watching me,’ said Sophie, remembering that strange sensation. ‘Not unpleasant; caring. if anything. It only lasted a second or two and it could have been the fallout from a dream but . . . I don’t think so.’

  ‘A few people who’ve stayed in the almshouse have reported similar. I knew Kitty Henshaw who owned the house and she didn’t entertain fools gladly, but when she liked someone she was very kind and she loved young people especially. She was certainly very gracious in leaving the house to the church, although it had fallen into a lot of disrepair by then.’

  ‘Well, it’s been a sanctuary for me,’ said Sophie.

  ‘You must be missing your home comforts, though,’ said Elliott, leaning forward. His large hand circling the mug made it look small.

  ‘Not as much as you’d think. I sleep so much better here. Okay, I miss the shower, I admit that, but even the food is tastier. Oh my, those bread rolls from the shop down the hill! And I love running on the beach; the air feels so bracing and cleaner somehow.’

  He was clearly amused by the passion in her voice.

  ‘Honestly, Elliott, I’ve adored being here. It’s changed me. I don’t quite know what I mean by that really, but I feel different.’

  ‘You’ll be missed when you leave,’ he said.

  ‘Not by Miriam Bird, I bet,’ she chuckled.

  ‘Maybe not, but Tracey will miss you, Luke certainly will and . . . so will I.’

  Silence hung between them like a thick, warm cloud. Neither breathed for a long moment.

  ‘I’ll miss you as well.’ It sounded too heavy, she scrabbled around for something to whisk into the conversation to lighten it. ‘I’ve never spoken so much to a vicar before. I used to think they were quite intimidating.’

  ‘I hope I’m not,’ said Elliott. ‘When I was in the police, people – even innocent ones – were quite scared of me sometimes, of the authority. And now I’m a vicar, a lot still can’t be themselves with me because they think I’ll disapprove of them, which I don’t.’

  ‘For the record, I’m neither nervous nor wary of you.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled.

  ‘There should be more vicars like you.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment,’ said Elliott. ‘I do the best I can and I hope I’m good at it. It can be challenging sometimes, it’s not all judging jam at the summer fair. I’m nothing special, though; just a normal man who happens to wear a selection of fancy vestments for his job, a job he loves very much.’

  ‘It’s quite obvious to me that you’re a normal man under your clothes,’ said Sophie. Then she realised what she’d said as Elliott’s eyebrows raised, and she tried to amend her words. ‘I do apologise, that came out totally wrong. Life should have a rewind button, shouldn’t it?’

  Elliott laughed. ‘I know what you meant, so don’t take it back. Yes, I’m an earthly creature. I have been known to drink too much at weddings and hit the dance floor – I do a great Night Fever. I love listening to rock music and watching box sets. I love my God, who made this life possible, and I love to be in love. Luke is the result of a sexual relationship; vicars have sex. I miss sex. I miss the intimacy, being part of a couple, of having someone to come home to and cook with or for – and although I always seem to have Tracey on my doorstep to do some of those things with – not the sex that would be weird – yes, I am a normal man, with likes and dislikes, faults and needs.’

  Sophie tried not to think about Elliott Bellringer having sexual needs but it was difficult because the air between them was charged with a dangerous energy.

  ‘You’re very easy to talk to, Pom. Too easy.’ Elliott took a deep breath. ‘I think maybe we should call it a night before I say something I regret.’

  ‘Yep,’ said Sophie, standing quickly. ‘I totally get it. We are both vulnerable people and because of that, the membrane between sense and foolishness is very thin.’ She pinched her finger and thumb to demonstrate, held them up.

  ‘Even thinner than that. And we are good people who like each other, I think. Friends.’

  ‘Yes friends.’ Like Jesus and Mary Magdalene. They could only ever be friends.

  ‘Goodnight, Sophie. Back door?’

  ‘To avoid the curtain twitchers, of course.’ She smiled at him and he smiled back and she thought she really ought to get out of the vicarage and away from him as soon as was humanly possible.

  Friends or not, she was going to find it especially difficult to get to sleep tonight.

  Chapter 38

  ‘Hmm, I think it’s time we tried to smoke Sophie out,’ said Len Spinks the next morning. Which of her family is she closest to?’ he asked.

  ‘Er . . .’ John thought. It certainly wasn’t her sisters, that pair of hideous gargoyles. Angus had been the least critical of her absconding, which wasn’t quite the same thing, but in the absence of any other suitable criteria, probably he’d be the one. ‘Her father, I’d say.’

  ‘We’ll have to clear it with him, of course, but a rumour pushed out there that he isn’t in the best of health . . . possible stress-related chest pains. Nothing too dramatic. Nothing in the newspapers either. I think that if we beat a quiet drum in our court, the sound will be picked up and carried on the wind somehow to Sophie. Going to the press might make her suspicious that it’s artful manipulation. I’m sure she’s poring over every article, hence why she’s staying away in a grand huff, so it needs to be subtle, a puff of Pied Piper juice in her general direction. I am not convinced that she is an island, there is an open channel somewhere that we don’t know about, so you can start by saying something to Gerald Penn-Davies and Christopher Stockdale.’

  ‘Not the Stockdales,’ said John quickly. ‘Dena and Sophie are definitely not in contact.’

  Len’s radar swept over the words and left him with an unpleasant tickle.

  ‘Something you haven’t told me?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Question answered far too fast, John F. I can’t help you if you don’t help me.’ He smiled a smile that was oily and fixed and impatient. ‘Let’s not have another Rebecca Robinson debacle, shall we. I. Need. To. Know.’

  John opened his mouth to issue a further denial, then shut it again. He sighed resignedly, and then said:

  ‘All right, I admit, there was a . . . an incident. With a female. Not Dena Stockdale, I hasten to add.’ He shuddered. ‘Big mistake. It was nothing. A silly, impulsive episode.’

  Len didn’t react. He sat there in silence and waited for the rest of the story to roll from John’s tongue.

  ‘A one-off. And it wasn’t penetrative.’

  Len closed his eyes. ‘Are we possibly looking at a stored item of clothing with a splash of indisputable evidence?’

  ‘Ugh. Well . . . I shouldn’t think so. It
was all over very quickly.’

  ‘All over what? Her skirt? Top?’ asked Len, dryly, without humour.

  ‘She made all the moves,’ said John. ‘She would not want this known. I feel secure in that. A brief erroneous encounter. She won’t say anything. She has as much to lose as I do; more, in fact.’

  ‘Once?’

  ‘I absolutely swear.’

  Len nodded. He had no choice but to take John at his word but knew he was an extremely practised liar. ‘Swear’ was nothing more than five letters of the alphabet: John was the master and truth merely a slave that he bent to serve him. ‘Where the hell is Edward, by the way? I’ve been ringing him all morning.’

  ‘Sulking because he doesn’t feel loved by Mummy and Daddy,’ said John, his nose crinkled in disdain. ‘I don’t know why that should come as a surprise to him. None of us were. I’m not sure my father loved anything that didn’t have a front sight and a recoil pad.’

  Len’s shaggy eyebrows dipped half in disbelief, half in sympathy which made John hoot.

  ‘Don’t look like that, it didn’t do us any harm, Len. Prepared us for this tough world. Attention was given to us in relation to our accomplishments rather than personality when we were growing up. Attention which we mistook for affection, seeing as it was the closest we ever got to any. Robert did quite well on the leadership board, although I obviously headed it. Poor old Eddie . . . an also-ran. Had he been a racehorse, they’d probably have had him gelded and put him out to grass. Quite the sensitive one, my big brother. He told us yesterday at lunch that he’d started up an estate agency and I really didn’t believe him but . . . it’s all true and he seems to be doing very well. I shan’t hold him to his notice period. Maybe we could give him some advertising? One brother helping out another.’

  ‘How very philanthropic,’ burred Len. He admired the Machiavellian Mayhew as a statesman, an orator, a leviathan but he didn’t like him very much as a person. Len saw things as they were, he had to in his job. He saw the stick, not the candy floss spun around it. He saw John F. Mayhew for the cold-blooded, calculating self-serving lizard that he was. Definitely on the psychopathic spectrum. There were plenty of those in high-powered jobs, they didn’t all go out and murder people, at least not physically, but they had no compunction or conscience about figuratively taking out the opposition, locking their jaws down onto the jugulars of people like Malandra Moxon. Rebecca Robinson thought she had been victorious, but the spotlight was fading on her fifteen minutes of fame, maybe twenty given an appearance on a reality TV series where she would be feted as the tramp she was. She’d been a fool playing the short game and would now never realise her ambition to work in a fast-tracked position connected to the government because she was totally blacklisted. No one could trust her. She was already reduced to a hissing, toothless grass-snake who contradicted herself more and more in her pursuit of publicity, casting doubts on everything she had revealed to the media and exposing herself to litigation. John’s lawyers were going to have a field day crucifying her; he could more than afford to attack her, she couldn’t afford to defend herself. Money paid for the best barristers, the best barristers won. Stupid girl, she’d have been better doing a Malandra and taking a pay-off. John would come out on top, if he held firm. And he would.