The Reaper (11 page)
"Stumps. His name was Stumps."
"I thought it was Root. Well, I told them it was, and it seemed hilarious when we were half-pissed, as we were. Then one of these Canadians said he once knew a guy called Otis Joy who was training to be a priest. He went through school with him."
She was amazed. "You're kidding."
"Straight up. Otis Joy."
"It can't be our rector. He's not Canadian."
"Didn't say he was. It's just coincidence, the name."
"What age would he have been?"
"How would I know?"
"The man who spoke to you. If he went to school with this Otis Joy they must have been about the same age."
Gary thought for a moment. "Younger than me. More like your age. Pushing thirty."
"That's another coincidence, then, the age. Otis can't be any older than I am. A Canadian, you say?"
"If they were at school together in Toronto he must have been."
"Did you tell him you knew a priest with the same name?"
"No, it would have spoilt his story, wouldn't it? I mentioned it to the lads later on. They;reckoned Otis is a more common name over there."
"Is it?"
"No idea. There was Otis Redding, the soul singer."
"I've heard of him."
"You have? Big deal. He only sold about a billion records."
She was silent, pained by his sarcasm.
He said presently, "Are you going to tell your precious rector?"
"I don't know."
"I might, when I see him next," he said. "Just because he wears his collar round the wrong way people don't like to go up to him in the street. I don't bloody mind. I'd like to see his face when I tell him. Probably thinks he's unique."
She called his bluff: said he was welcome to come and talk to the rector at the harvest supper on Saturday. "There won't be black-eyed beans, but it should be warm food. I offered to help with the cooking."
"You're going overboard on the good works, aren't you?" he said. "What is it with this vicar? Don't tell me you've got the hots for him."
She said, with a force that gave too much away, "It's nothing to do with him. The WI organise it."
"You're not WI."
"I was asked to help."
"And he'll be there. You said he would."
"Of course, but only as a guest."
"Admit it. You fancy him."
"That's absurd, Gary. I'll be working in the kitchen, preparing the food. I won't even see him."
He stepped towards her and pressed the flat of his hand against her chest. The push was a light one, but frightening. "Lying cow."
"Don't do that."
"I'll do as I like. You'll feel the back of my hand if you've been up to anything, you slag." He pushed her again, harder. "Getting in wine like that. It's bloody obvious what you had in mind."
"No, Gary."
"It's a come-on, isn't it? The old man's in America, so come and screw the arse off me. I tell you, Rachel, if that randy preacher got inside your knickers while I was away, I'll give him such a hiding he won't be able to hobble into his pulpit again. Ever. And after I finish with him, I'll sort you out."
Her voice shook. "Will you listen to me, Gary? You couldn't be more wrong."
"No? You want to see your face when you say that." He stabbed his finger towards her several times. "You're lying, woman, and it shows. 1 said I'd beat the shit out of Otis sodding Joy, and your red face just bought him a month's worth of hospital food."
"Don't. Don't be so stupid."
He leered at her. "We'll see if his reverence tells the truth or not. You're really wetting yourself now, aren't you?"
"Please, Gary."
He mimicked her. "Please, Gary."
"What can I say? If you don't want me to go to the harvest supper, I won't."
"Do what you bloody like."
"Please don't talk to the rector. It's going to make fools of us. It's so humiliating."
He walked away from her. "And you can fix me some supper the night you go out. A curry," he said. "And I mean a curry worthy of the name, with some flavour to it. After what I had in New Orleans, the shit that passes for food in this country is bloody tasteless."
She had one ready in the freezer, thank the Lord. And if he wanted extra flavour, he could have it.
SHE DIDN'T bring up the subject of Otis again, hoping Gary would reflect on the stupidity of accusing a clergyman of immorality. She wasn't all that confident. His time in America had made him even more confrontational. He swore at the paper boy when he left the gate unlatched. And late on Friday evening he opened the bedroom window to shout at some youths who were making a noise in the street.
On Saturday, he went up the street to the village shop to pay the paper bill. Rachel watched him from the front garden, where she had gone to prune some of the roses. He was in what he called his weekend togs, a disgusting old green pullover and jeans, and of course the greasy flat cap that disguised his baldness.
Then, to her horror, she spotted Otis striding towards the shop from the other end of the village. Please God, no, she thought.
Was it her imagination, or was there a sudden change in Gary's style of walking? He put one foot in front of the other in a more sinister, purposeful way, and she knew, just knew, he fancied himself as a gun-slinger in a western. He'd taken his hands from his pockets and was swinging his arms in a pathetic parody of John Wayne.
She watched in torment, gripping the pruning shears, openly staring, willing Otis to stop and talk to someone else, or call at one of the cottages, or think of something he'd forgotten and turn back.
But Gary marched right up and confronted him near the door of the shop, and Rachel's stomach clenched and her mouth went dry. The two men talked earnestly, it seemed to her, and for longer than a polite exchange. She wasn't close enough to see Otis's reaction, and didn't really wish to. In despair, she turned away and deadheaded more of the roses.
GARY LOOKED smug when he returned. He'd treated himself to a bottle of whisky and he opened it straight away and slumped in front of the television with his feet over the arms of her favourite chair. He said nothing to Rachel about what had passed between Otis and himself and she was too afraid to enquire, in case it started a fight.
She made ham sandwiches for his lunch. She didn't want to eat. Trying to sound normal, she reminded him that she had to go early in the afternoon to help cook the harvest supper. She told him she'd defrosted the curry and put it in the oven on the timer, to be ready whenever he wanted it during the evening. He didn't thank her.
"I'll have it when I get back."
"You're going out?"
"Only up to the rectory. Unfinished business." He hadn't looked away from the TV screen.
Rachel froze.
A
CASSEROLE —OR BEEF stew—was the traditional meal for the harvest supper. Traditional since the WI had been in charge, anyway. Probably in the days of Waldo Wallace's tithe dinners, more ambitious dishes were served. The advantage of a casserole was that it could be cooked hours ahead of time and kept simmering in a large stewpot that had once been used for the school dinners. The team of Daphne, Dot and Joan, with help from Rachel, worked through Saturday afternoon. Into that pot went diced beef, floured and lightly fried, then a real harvest crop of vegetables: onions, carrots, turnips, parsnips, peppers, aubergines, chopped celery and potatoes. Pearl barley was tossed in with favourite flavourings from bayleaves to garlic. And of course beer and water. No other cooking was required. Bread rolls were put out on the tables with jugs of cider and lemonade and there were packets of crisps for the children.
It might seem from this that Foxford's entire harvest went into the pot, but no. The hall was decorated with produce from the fields and gardens: some old-fashioned sheaves of corn made up for the occasion; overgrown marrows and pumpkins nobody would eat; baskets laden high with apples and pears; tomatoes, eggs and the harvest loaves with their plaited designs. All this would be moved to the church at the end of the evening and rearranged for the Sunday morning's Harvest Festival service, along with the tins of grapefruit and baked beans that were always donated, reminders that "all good gifts around us" were sent from heaven above, even if some were packaged by Tesco's.
Rachel busied herself cutting vegetables, saying little, wondering if Otis would have changed his mind about coming.
THE EVENING was supposed to start at seven, but most of the tables were full a quarter of an hour before. The appetising smell drifting downwind from the church hall must have had something to do with it.
A cynical observer might have said that tonight was the pagan part of the harvest celebration, reaching right back to pre-Christian feasts. No hymns or prayers. No reminder of the holy, aweful Reaper with the fan of judgement winnowing "the chaff into the furnace that flameth evermore." Just the Warminster Folk Group with country songs and dances. The local cider ensured a boisterous atmosphere.
Cynthia came into the kitchen like the lady of the manor visiting the skivvies. She'd squeezed herself into a black glittery dress with thin shoulderstraps and a rollercoaster of a plunge.
"The casserole smells divine, darlings. You've done brilliantly, as I knew you would. I can't wait to try it, but I'll have to be patient, for Otis's sake. He's a little late. Unusual for him." She came over to Rachel. "You look pale, dear. If you want to sit down, the others will understand." In a lower voice, she added, "You
did
say I could partner him this evening. I'll behave myself. Promise."
Cynthia's intentions were the least of Rachel's worries. She hoped Otis would stay away, but not to thwart her friend. She hadn't spoken to him since that blighted evening in her cottage, and now she wondered when she ever would. In church she'd twice managed to slip past him after morning service while he was in conversation with someone else. The fiasco on the sofa and the spilt wine had been galling enough and now Gary playing the jealous husband was just tod much.
The truth of it was that Otis still obsessed her. She knew he had been aroused by her and they had been tantalisingly close to making love. The possibility was there, and she desired it, dreamed of it, wicked as it was. Now Gary was back from America and breathing fire, she ought to dismiss Otis from her thoughts. She couldn't, and she wouldn't, so she had to suffer mental torment.
Cynthia went off to look for him.
"I think we should start serving," suggested Dot. "We can't keep everybody waiting for the rector's sake."
Thankful for something to do, Rachel ladled the steaming casserole into bowls and handed them across. In her apron and with her hair wrapped in a scarf, she was clearly not there to socialise. There were several mentions of her arm being freshly out of plaster, and she smiled and nodded, but it was obvious to anyone that she didn't have time to talk.
Then, God help her, Otis arrived in the hall. Cynthia pounced, leading him by the elbow to a reserved seat at the far end of the room where the folk musicians were playing. When he was settled, she put her handbag on the seat beside him and went off to collect his food as well as her own. Mercifully Rachel was spared having to speak to him.
In his cream-coloured summer jacket, he was looking relaxed and attractive and evidently telling more of his jokes, because every so often the whole table burst into laughter.
Rachel ladled a spoonful for herself and went into the poky kitchen to eat with the other helpers. One of them advised her to sit down. There was still the washing-up to come and it all had to be done by hand.
She was feeling relieved. She said, half-joking, there ought to be another team for the wash-up. Some men, for a change.
"Some hope," said Daphne Beaton. "They're all in their glad-rags, aren't they? We made the mistake of bringing our aprons."
"I'd lend mine to anyone," said Rachel.
"Even the rector?" said Daphne—and it wasn't meant to make Rachel blush, but it brought to mind that evening she'd called at the rectory and found Otis wearing nothing but an apron.
She managed to say in a calm voice, "Him included. Specially him. No, to be fair, he washed up after the fete."
"He's a sport," said Daphne.
One of the others said, "Wasted, isn't he, handsome young fellow like him, living alone in that rectory?"
"You want to help him out, Dot?"
"I wouldn't mind," said little Dot, all of seventy-five, and toothless.
"More cider, love?" said Daphne, laughing.
From the hall came a timely chorus:
"Then fill up the jug boys, and let it go round,
Of drinks not the equal in England is found.
So pass round the jug, boys, and pull at it free,
There's nothing like cider, rough cider, for me."
With the singing under way, it was time to start on the dishes. Some had already been stacked on the serving table. The four women set about collecting the rest and bringing them into the kitchen for the wash-up.
Rachel was running the water, wondering if it would get hot enough, when a voice at her shoulder said, "I'll do that."
A man.
She turned to see. That strange young man Burton Sands already had his jacket off and was rolling Up his sleeves. Now that there actually was a man on hand to help, Rachel wasn't sure if she wanted one there. Not this one, anyway.
She said, "You'll miss all the fun."
Nice try, but there was no stopping him. "It's no fun watching people you know make fools of themselves."
"Your clothes will be ruined."
Daphne, returning with a stack of dishes, said, "Don't turn the man away, for God's sake. We'll find you an apron, Burton."
So he was kitted out for washing-up duties and took over at the sink, with two of the four women wiping up and the others tidying. He worked solemnly and thoroughly, saying little, while the others chatted as freely as before, or almost.
The stacks of dishes were steadily reduced and in a surprisingly short time the kettle was on for tea. Burton said he didn't want one, yet showed no inclination to leave. Only when Rachel got up and rinsed her cup did the young man roll down his sleeves and reach for his jacket.
"Are you going back in there?" he asked her.
"No, I thought I'd slip away now. I didn't come for the party."
"I'll go with you."
Daphne, not missing anything, said, "Ay-up."
Solemn as ever, Burton said, "What's that?"
"Now we know why you volunteered—so you could walk Rachel home."
It was meant as part of the banter that had been going on for the last hour, but Burton's response made it seem intrusive. "I want to ask her something. Do you mind?"
"No prizes for guessing what," said Daphne, to hoots of laughter.
Rachel kept quiet. When the sexual innuendos start, you're better off saying nothing.
"He was only the washer-up, but he went home with the best dish."
Then Daphne's friend Dot said, "Leave off, Daph. We'd still be washing up if it wasn't for the help Burton and Rachel gave us."
It all turned into a chorus of thanks.
And Rachel, much against her inclination, found herself walking up the street with Burton at her side.
He came to the point at once. Small-talk wasn't his style. "How much experience of book-keeping have you got?"
This night, of all nights, she could do without being quizzed about the job she hadn't wanted in the first place. Not wanting an argument, she said, "Enough—if you're talking about the church."
"You've done it before?"
"A certain amount." Not quite a lie. She'd learned the basics at school.
He said, "I was wondering why you put up for treasurer."
There was an easy answer. "I think we all ought to help where we can, don't you?"
"I could have done it."
"So I heard," she answered. "At the time, I didn't know you were interested."
"It was your decision, was it? Nobody asked you."
"The rector asked me. I don't expect he knew you were a candidate." Why don't you let go? she thought.. What's the point in pursuing this?
"He knew I wanted it. I told him myself. He said he'd already spoken to someone else—obviously you. He must think a lot of you."
"That doesn't follow," she said. "He thought I could do the job, that's all."
"If it were me, I'd do it on computer."
"I'm sure you'd do it brilliantly, Burton, and I expect your turn will come."
"Have you got a computer?"
"No."
"The rector has. I've seen one in his study up at the rectory. He could let you use it."
"Maybe, but I'd rather work from home."
"It's easier on the computer."
"It's easy, anyway, or I wouldn't have taken it on," she said, irritated by his manner.
"Have you met the bank manager yet?"
"Look, I don't need you to tell me how to do the job, Burton. I'm sure it's kindly meant, but I happen to believe the most important part of being a treasurer isn't knowing how to add up columns or use a computer or talking to bank managers. It's to be independent of everyone, whether it's the rector or the other members of the PCC or someone like yourself with a professional training in accounts."
They'd reached her cottage. She added, "Thanks for your help with the washing up." Then she put her key in the lock and went inside without looking back.