An Affair to Remember (29 page)

In the event it had continued for most of the night, and at its height there were moments when there actually seemed a possibility the vicarage roof might be blown off. At least there were no trees in the immediate vicinity or they surely would have come down and really caused some damage. Neither he nor Millie were afraid of thunder, but he had to admit, culminating in the mighty crash they later discovered brought down Tavey’s tree at Brown End, it did all begin to smack a bit of Armageddon. It wasn’t until around four o’clock that things had at last become a little quieter and they retired upstairs to bed, but although Millie dropped off pretty quickly, he had lain awake, too worried and wound up for sleep.

Anyway it was over now; there were things to do and he’d better get on and do them. Donning his dressing gown, he trod over to the window and with some trepidation, drew back the curtains. The garden looked battered but unbowed, surprisingly very little debris; even the pergola, already pretty rickety, was still up. Admittedly, there were a few tiles lying about, but apart from an upturned wheelbarrow, everything else was more or less intact. Now for the house. Still no electricity of course, and the phone wasn’t working, but otherwise, apart from some rain seeping in through his study window, and the dustbin blown off course and blocking the back door, all seemed well. They’d been lucky, but you don’t get a storm like the one they’d just experienced without damage, possibly even serious damage; so following his and Millie’s morning cuppa and a quick shave, his next port of call better be the church.

“Any substantial damage, dear?” Millie, bleary eyed, leans back against the pillows as he places the neatly arranged tray – two coronation mugs of tea and a plate of
petit beurre
biscuits, neither of them take sugar – on the bedside table.

“Nothing much at all actually, apart from a few tiles off the roof. Still no electricity of course and the phone’s out. I only hope the church has fared so well. With those gales last winter the repair bill’s already over the top.”

“I’ve just remembered,” Millie sips her tea and lights a cigarette; he’s tried over the years to induce her to break the habit but never, alas, succeeded. “I meant to get your best suit out last night and check for stains, with so much happening I forgot. It may need a sponge down, photos always seem to bring out any blemishes and you’ll need to look your best for the cameras. Did you remember to cancel the confirmation class?”

“Oh Lord, what with all this happening I’d forgotten about it. I’ll drop a note in at Miss Makepeace’s on my way to the church.” Finishing his tea, he returns his mug to the tray and, hands in the pockets of his gardening trousers, stands looking out of the window at the drowned and battered garden. There’s a rook, he notices, watching him from the crab apple tree on the lawn. The rook, though of course he couldn’t be, appears to be accusing him of something. Rain water drips from a crack in the gutter above his head, and in the distance the church clock strikes eight. It’s odd, he doesn’t quite know what he feels, but in an extraordinary way he thinks he might be glad of what’s happened.

“I wouldn’t bother about the suit,” he says, turning away from the window to look at his wife who, unusually for her, is looking rather worried, “they’ll probably have to cancel the press conference at Brown End anyway. To be honest, I shan’t be too upset if they do.”

The rain has ceased altogether; the wind just a small breath compared to what it had been a few hours earlier; even a glint of sun here and there in the rapidly clearing sky by the time he’s washed up their mugs. Just to be on the safe side he dons a mackintosh, fixes on his bicycle clips; and sets off for the church. He always cycled to the church for morning prayers. It kept him fit, as Millie frequently tells him, and it really was much simpler to pop on his bicycle than waste time trying to coax life out of his far from reliable second hand Ford Fiesta first thing in the morning.

Not many people about, but signs of storm damage everywhere, as he pedals along the main street of the village – the church, inconveniently, being sited at the other end from the vicarage. Outside the Mallory’s shop he encounters Karen Warren’s father.

“Morning, Vicar. Some night, eh? They’re saying a thunder bolt came down over Brown End way. Road blocked so no one can get through.” He’s tempted to ask if that’s the case, how does anyone know about the thunder bolt, but refrains. Simply smiles, shakes his head, and agrees about the awfulness of the night. “They’ll have to cancel that fancy press conference up at Browns now, I reckon,” Mr Warren continues, plainly prepared for a lengthy chat, “telly people were coming and all, but with no electric and all them trees down, not much they can do. That Mr Woodhead must be hopping mad. My daughter says it were a proper old jamboree up there yesterday what with all them skeletons. Who’d have thought it, eh?”

Who indeed? Not wanting to get involved; when dealing with any member of the Warren family speculation could turn into fact with the speed of summer lightning; he hastily re-mounts his bicycle, and muttering an excuse of having to check the church for storm damage, pedals away before he’s jumped into saying something he shouldn’t. Mr Warren eyes him speculatively as his tall, lanky figure, topped by a woolly hat, disappears round a bend in the street. What’s he hiding, he wonders, a pleasant thrill of excitement running through him. Knows a lot more than he’s letting on, that’s for sure.

On arrival at the church the vicar, meanwhile, after carefully padlocking his bicycle to the railings by the lych-gate – his last one was pinched a couple of years back and he’s no desire for a repeat performance – and making a somewhat cursory inspection of the outside of the church which, to his considerable relief, superficially at least, shows little sign of damage; hurries up the path to the south porch to check the inside. He no longer uses the vestry door, keeping it bolted since the time a few months ago when he’d arrived at the church one morning to find several empty beer cans and an unopened packet of contraceptives in one of the front pews. The porch itself appears mercifully intact. No leaks or broken tiles; there’s water gushing from the mouths of the two gargoyles above the lintel; lots of leaves and twigs about, and a branch from the tulip tree has fallen on old Colonel Digby’s newly erected gravestone, but apart from a screwed up handkerchief left on the stone seat inside the porch, nothing untoward. Offering up a small prayer of relief, and after the usual struggle with the key – he must remember to bring some oil for the lock – the door, creaking on its ancient hinges, reluctantly swings open and he steps inside. As he does so a bird flies out over his head; he looks up at it in surprise. Must have got trapped when Millie came to do the flowers yesterday.

Then he sees.

Afterwards, he never could say how long it was he stood there. Could have been a minute, could have been an hour; he doesn’t know. In truth probably only few seconds. Amazement, awe and a ridiculous desire to burst into tears, are what he chiefly remembers feeling, as he tries to take in the scene before him. The guttering candles on the altar and choir stalls; the sunlight glinting through the east window lighting up the silver crucifix and the tiny open casket on the altar beneath; the smell of incense and melting wax, and above all the two sleeping figures, arms entwined, by the altar rail. Undisturbed by the opening of the door, or anything else for that matter, Beatrice and Sam sleep on as he slowly walks up the aisle and kneels down beside them.

“Oh Lord, I have sinned. Look upon these children here present with kindliness and mercy…”

Fifteen minutes later he’s in the phone box outside Mrs Bush’s Bakery, dialling the number of The Trojan Horse. Thank heaven the phone lines this end of the village seem to be functioning, although when he eventually gets through he has to wait an awful long time for anyone to answer. At last.

“Yes?”

“Is that The Trojan Horse public house?”

“Yes.” Whoever it is sounds both exhausted and fed up. Plainly they too had experienced a rough night. He presses on, however; this is, after all, an emergency.

“I wonder if I could possibly speak to Father O’Hara.”

“Father who?”

“Father Joseph O’Hara. He’s staying in your hotel, I believe – he and a Mrs Campbell?”

“Hang on.” Another long wait. The pips go and he uses up the last of his change. Oh do hurry up please…

“Father O’Hara here. Who –?”

“Good morning, Father. So sorry to bother you at this unearthly hour. Richard Bolton speaking, Vicar of St Mary’s. We met yesterday at Brown End. I know this seems a rather odd request, but I wonder if you could possibly meet me at the church as soon as possible? I realise you may have a problem getting to the village – possible trees down from the storm, but if you can make it, I should be most eternally grateful. You see there’s been a frankly quite remarkable development in the situation in regard to our two young friends, and in the light of future ecumenical relations between our respective Churches, I think you ought to be in on it…”

Chapter 17

“I’ve just had a word with Josh. He says no electricity or phone up at the farm either, also the road to the village is blocked by a fallen tree just beyond the Grove, but he and Kevin think it won’t take too long to clear it. They’ve gone up there in the tractor. Meanwhile –”

“Meanwhile, what? Look, Sel, I don’t think you realise how serious the situation is. Beatrice in her present state could well be a danger not only to herself but to others –”

“And whose fault is that, Dr Moss?”

“You are not, I hope, Mrs Woodhead, implying that it is mine?”

Tempers are frayed round the breakfast table at Brown End this morning. If you could call it breakfast, that is. The toast, made over the sitting room fire, tastes of soot and smoke, the tea – Juan claims that under the circumstances coffee’s out of the question and refuses to demean himself by using instant – half cold. There being no available transport, the morning’s mammoth food shop planned by Clarrie has had to be cancelled and they’re running short of everything, including milk.

“Perhaps if you would stop arguing for a minute,” Sel looks round the table at his so-called helpers with a sinking heart; and they say the British are at their best in a crisis, “it might just be possible to work out a plan of campaign.” No one takes up the challenge, so he continues. “I’ve had a word with Josh, who I must say has been an absolute rock, and he –”

“Bully for Josh,” interrupts Pippa, who appears to be trying to be deliberately provocative.

“…he says that as soon as he and Kev have managed to clear the lane, he’ll come back here and give me a lift to somewhere where there’s a working phone, and I can ring the police and arrange to have a description of Beatrice and Sam circulated. Also get in touch with that guy at the local rag, whose name I’ve forgotten, and ask him to let the rest of the media concerned know that the press conference has been cancelled for the time being: we’ll issue a bulletin later on when we know more. That at least will be a start. After that we’ll just have to play it by ear. What I’m really worried about is what those two have done with the casket. In their present state anything could have happened to it –”

“And naturally the whereabouts of a few bones in a box is of far greater importance than that of a thoroughly mentally disturbed young woman, doped and brain-washed past the point of endurance, and a dear, sweet man pushed beyond the bounds of what any normal person should have to expect to cope with. Really, Sel, I’m ashamed of you – I’m ashamed of you all.” And Clarrie, pushing back her chair with such force it tips over, storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

“Oh dear,” Pippa says, looking after her, “one of our Clarrie’s tantrums. One could perhaps have wished for better timing.”

“But she’s right of course, she always is,” Sel says, trying the teapot and finding it empty, “that’s one of the many reasons why I married her. Anyway, I’d better make my peace before leaving for the village, she seems in quite a state, poor darling, what with one thing and another. Can someone keep an eye out for Josh, I don’t want to miss him.” Giving up on the tea, he too hurries from the room.

“So,” says Philippa in the silence following his departure, “what do we do now; I mean in the intervals of trying to cope with bouts of temperament from our host and hostess?” No one bothers to answer. Izzy Moss is scribbling into a notebook, and Ron, a mug of tea in one hand, a cigarette in the other, is looking out of the window with a dreamy expression on his face. Philippa, exasperated, pushes her plate of burned toast away and lights a cigarette, “Well?”

“It’s an extraordinary thing,” Ron says to no one in particular, “how those rooks have disappeared. I know a lot died in the storm, but there were plenty about first thing. Now they’ve gone. Where?” The others look at him with distaste; he’s been like this ever since the storm, and Philippa, for one, has had enough.

“Look, Ron,” she says, her voice taking on a shrill quality, familiar to her work mates, but quite unlike her usual honeyed drawl, “don’t you think it’s time you pulled yourself together, stopped drivelling on about rooks, and came up with a few ideas as to how we’re going to play this. If things come out in the wrong way it could seriously harm our careers. You may not be worried; I am and –”

“May I remind you, Pippa, that it was your idea to rope in Izzy here, not mine,” Ron, back in the present, turns away from the window to face her, “I simply carried out my brief within the parameters laid down. Namely to do a preliminary dig under Tavey’s tree using any local assistance that was available. This task, I may add, was successfully accomplished without the aid of hypnosis, drugs, mumbo jumbo or the unfortunate couple who, through no fault of their own, found themselves involved. In other words, my nose is clean. Is yours?”

Philippa is pale with anger now, her eyes two slits of venom. “I have never in my life,” she hisses, “had reason to question the probity of my motives career-wise. I do not do so in this instance. And let me tell you, Ron Head, that if you imply or suggest otherwise now or in the future, I’ll make damned sure you and your bloody pots are drummed off the screen. This is no idle threat, I can assure you. I am, as you are, I’m sure, only too aware – you’ve used me often enough in the past – not without influence in certain quarters.”