by Hilary Boyd
Karen sighed. “Look, just put it up. It’ll fit. And if it doesn’t, I’ll take the blame.”
Tent man frowned, clearly finding Karen not fit for purpose on the tent-erecting front. But he was stumped for further argument, so the pair of them slouched off, muttering, to their van.
Karen vaguely remembered a similar scenario a few years back. Roll on Sunday, she thought, knowing this was only the first of many such glitches she would have to address in the next forty-eight hours.
*
William dropped by with Jennifer after lunch. He had a clipboard in his hand and was looking every inch the helpful vicar, his hand under Jennifer’s arm to steady her as they walked across the lawn to inspect the tent.
Karen could hardly look at him.
“Trevor says it’s solid, though you should have heard the fuss they made doing it,” she told them, as they walked through the open side of the canvas structure.
Although providing shade from the hot sun, it wasn’t exactly cool inside.
“The cream in the scones and cakes is going to melt instantly if it’s hot like this. We’ll have to bring them out in relays,” Jennifer said.
“We could use fans,” William suggested, not looking at Karen either.
“No electricity,” Karen reminded him, then turned to find Janey standing in the doorway of the tent. She froze.
“Hi, guys, how’s it all going?” Janey’s voice held its usual pitch of slightly strangled niceness. “I was passing and I thought I’d check when was best to drop in the teapots.” She looked to Karen for a response.
But Karen was finding it hard to speak, the images from her night with William—the crumpled shorts on the floor, the sight of his fingers around her nipple—flashing like a silent film before her eyes.
“Janey, you’re such a darling.” Jennifer unwittingly came to the rescue. “How kind you are to give us your precious teapots. Tea tastes so much nicer from a pretty pot.”
“Oh, they aren’t precious, Jennifer,” Janey said. “I just collect the ones I like, but they’re often just a couple of quid in a charity shop.”
“But they’re your collection . . . I only hope nothing terrible happens and one gets broken.”
Karen glanced quickly at William and saw he was sweating and flushed in his black suit.
“Please don’t worry about that for a single second,” Janey was saying, “it will just give me a good excuse for buying some more.” She grinned at William. “Which won’t please my dear husband one bit.”
They were all smiling at this as they trooped outside again and stood in the middle of the lawn, Jennifer leaning on Karen this time, while William prepared to point out the final position of the various stalls from the diagram on his clipboard.
“Is it OK if I drop them round this evening?” Janey was at Karen’s side.
“Umm . . . yes, fine. I’ll be here. Thanks.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Janey said, and with a wave was gone.
Karen finally let out her breath, and watched William do the same.
“What a marvelous wife you have, William,” Jennifer said.
William just nodded dumbly.
Oh, how kind and dear and simply splendid, Karen muttered silently to herself as the other two droned on still more about the general marvelousness of Janey and her bloody teapot collection. Typical that the woman would collect teapots, she thought, although she wasn’t quite sure why teapots, specifically, made her so annoyed.
When next she looked at William, the expression in his eyes was flat with resignation.
Jennifer and William said their goodbyes. In the past Karen would have wanted—and possibly engineered—some excuse for Will to stay behind and allow them a precious moment alone. But today she just wanted shot of them both and all reminders of the Reverend Haskell’s incredible wife.
However, the vicar was of another mind. He walked Jennifer to her car, then came back and knocked timidly on the door. Karen was already halfway upstairs, hoping to talk to Sophie, who had appeared briefly round about midday and then shut herself up in her room again.
“Hi, did you forget something?”
“Just wanted to see how you were.”
Karen stared at him. “We’ve just spent the last hour together, William.”
“I know, but . . . listen, I’m sorry about Janey coming round and stuff, but I suppose we knew this would happen.”
True, she thought, but the fact that they were aware of the problem didn’t make it alright, in her opinion.
“I’m fine, William. I have no problem with Janey dropping off her teapots.” She struggled to sound genuine, not wanting him to know how much it hurt. And obviously she succeeded, because Will’s face cleared and his previously hang-dog demeanor lifted, which in turn infuriated her.
“I’m so sorry . . .” he said, shifting uncomfortably on the doormat. Then added, “This is sheer hell,” under his breath.
Her heart softened. “Yeah, isn’t it?”
“I’d better go.”
“Yes . . .”
He reached forward to lay his hand on her arm for a second, then quickly turned and hurried off across the gravel.
*
Janey drove into the driveway, parking behind Karen and Sophie’s cars. Karen, steeling herself, went out to meet her as she began unloading the boot. Janey’s greeting was friendly, Karen couldn’t detect a single hint of suspicion or animosity.
“Let me help you with that,” she said, holding her hands out to take the first cardboard box.
“Thanks. There’s three more to come. I wasn’t sure how many pots you’d need, so I brought twenty. You don’t have to use them all, of course.”
Janey had changed from the jeans she’d been wearing that morning. She was dressed in a knee-length denim skirt, lace-trimmed flesh-pink vest top and decorated leather flip-flops that looked as if they’d been bought in a Moroccan bazaar. She looked pretty, a row of silver bracelets showing off her slim, tanned arms. Karen wondered if she and William were going out for the evening. The stabbing in her gut that accompanied this thought made her twitch violently as she took the first box from the vicar’s wife.
“Wonderful. It’s so kind of you. I hope none of them get damaged.” Karen conveniently parroted Jennifer as she carried the box through to the kitchen and put it on the table, Janey following close behind.
When all four boxes were unloaded, Janey hovered with her slightly unnerving book-balanced-on-the-head poise. “So, how was your holiday?”
“Lovely, thanks. I was lucky with the weather.”
“Yes, hasn’t it been gorgeous.”
“I hope it stays fine for tomorrow. I haven’t checked the forecast.”
They continued in this vein—saying pretty much what you might to the newsagent or postman—while Karen waited for her to go. But Janey seemed fixed to the spot.
Does she want to say something to me? Karen wondered nervously. Or does she want to be friends, perhaps?
Into this awkward exchange, Sophie suddenly emerged, still in the same grubby tracksuit bottoms and old T-shirt. Karen silently prayed her stepdaughter wouldn’t let her down.
“How are you doing, Sophie? Haven’t seen you around much recently.” Janey gave the girl a smile of welcome.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“OK . . . well, I’d better get going.” She turned to Karen. “Please don’t worry if there are any accidents. As I said this morning, it’s just a silly obsession I’ve had for years, and half of them aren’t worth anything much.”
“We’ll be careful, anyway. And thanks, it’ll make a big difference to the tea.”
Karen felt an agonizing shaft of guilt as she showed the woman out. She was a genuinely good person, Janey. And one, in different circumstances, with whom Karen might have been friends.
“God, mental,” said Sophie when she went back into the kitchen. “Bet you wish you’d stayed on the beach.”
Karen sighed, letting out a short la
ugh. “It’ll all be over by Sunday.”
Chapter Twelve
It rained, of course. Not storms, but a glowering, persistent and chilly drizzle that started around eleven o’clock and had not let up when the fête opened at two. So instead of people taking a leisurely wander around the stalls, licking ice cream and sitting on the grass with their friends and families, they were trudging round in boots and waterproofs, buying a few pots of marmalade or a second-hand children’s book, a tombola ticket, then heading for the shelter of the Pimm’s or tea tent. From early on both tents were crammed to capacity with damp people, gratefully sipping hot tea from one of Janey’s pretty pots or knocking back iced fruit cup.
Karen spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen, helping put out the sandwiches, whipping cream for the scones, cutting up the homemade cakes, boiling the kettle, washing the used tea things to send out again. Sophie pitched in sporadically, then just wandered off without saying where she was going. Karen was very happy to be so busy with the teas, she was deliberately staying out of the vicar’s way. She’d barely seen William, except to watch him open the fête and make another one of his speeches about the importance of family and community—which was looking a bit bedraggled in the afternoon rain. Sheila, a wizard with the church flowers, stalwart of the village—a woman many, including William, relied upon—had chosen to ferry the trays of food and drink to and fro from the kitchen to the tent.
“Such a shame,” she said to Karen, not for the first time, as she dumped another tray of dirty cups and plates on the draining board. Her gray-brown bob was lank with moisture, her spectacles misting up.
“No sign of it improving?”
“Nah, it’s set in, this is.” She sat down heavily on one of the chairs with a tired sigh, wiping her face and then her glasses with a cotton hanky she pulled from her sleeve. “And you mark my words, tomorrow we’ll be back to blue sky and twenty-five degrees.”
“Are there many people still out there?”
“Some. Folk’ll hang around as long as there’s things to do. And they’ve not drawn the raffle or finished the duck races yet.”
“We’ve pretty much run out of food,” Karen said, casting an eye over the table. “Only one chocolate cake and a few biscuits left.” She grinned at Sheila. “Shall we have a bit of cake and a cuppa, let them fend for themselves for a while?”
Sheila nodded enthusiastically and got up to wash a couple of plates and cups. “That cake’s Mrs. Chowney’s, so we know she bought it somewhere posh.”
Karen and Sheila were just tucking into the cake—boozy and rich and totally unsuitable for a village fête, but delicious nonetheless—when Janey walked in. She pulled the hood of her red anorak back and shook out her dark shiny hair.
“Hi, Janey. Come and join us. Have a piece of cake,” Karen said, indicating a chair.
But the vicar’s wife was biting her lip, her expression tense.
“I’ll get you a cup,” Sheila said.
Janey shook her head. “Thank you, Sheila, but I had some tea in the tent.” She fiddled with the zip on her jacket, tugging the join at the bottom until she finally managed to release it, and said, “Umm . . . Karen . . . could I have a word, please?”
Karen felt a sickening lurch in her stomach. “Of course.”
Sheila, her gaze flicking between the two women, must have sensed the tension, because she got up, leaving her cake half finished on the plate. “I’ll just pop over to the tent, see how they’re getting on.” And she was gone.
Janey didn’t make any move to sit down, just stood there like a statue, hands now pushed into the pockets of her anorak, making her look very childlike.
She’s much younger than Will, Karen thought.
“This is really awkward, but it needs to be said . . .” She paused, maybe thinking out exactly how to phrase her next words. “I know that there’s something going on between you and William.”
“Janey—”
“No, hear me out.” The woman’s famous steeliness now came into play, previous hesitation banished. “There’s no point in denying it. I know. But you need to know some things too.”
Karen thought she might be sick, a mouthful of chocolate cake stuck somewhere too near to her throat.
Janey moved to sit down, her eyes now on a level with Karen’s opposite, her hands clasped together, white-knuckled, on the table. “William is vulnerable. He’s done this before . . .” She paused, pretending to calculate. “You’ll be the fourth. You see, he tries to make everything alright for everyone, and often his efforts are misconstrued. Then he can’t resist.” Her tone was almost matter-of-fact.
The woman didn’t give much away on a good day, but now Karen marveled at her sangfroid. She sat up straighter. “Janey, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but you’ve got it wrong.” She didn’t see she had any choice but to call her bluff, not believing that Janey had been told anything by anyone, but rather was on a fishing trip, operating solely on a wife’s instinct.
A small smile crossed Janey’s face. “Please, don’t insult me. William wouldn’t tell me, but someone else has.”
“Who? Who’s told you what?” No one knew, no one except Sophie, and surely she would never betray her.
“It doesn’t matter. And I understand that you’ve been going through a difficult time yourself. So I honestly don’t blame you—Will’s a very good listener. But he’s being considered for promotion to bishop, so whatever’s been happening between you has got to stop. Right now. Otherwise you will ruin his life.”
A silence descended on the room.
A bishop? Karen was shocked. Why hadn’t he told her?
“You look surprised.”
“I would never ruin William’s life.”
Janey’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “No . . . no, I’m sure you wouldn’t, Karen. Not intentionally . . .” Another pause. “As I say, I don’t blame you.”
Karen wanted to smack her for being so smugly forgiving. She’s only fighting for her marriage, she reminded herself. Why wouldn’t she use every tool at her disposal? She watched Janey get to her feet.
“So we understand each other?”
Karen nodded dumbly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sophie drift into view in the doorway to the hall, then quickly disappear again. She wondered how much the girl had heard.
“This goes no further,” Janey was saying as she turned to go. “And I would rather you didn’t tell William we’ve had this conversation.”
Karen didn’t reply, just got up and began to clear the tea things from the table. She had no appetite for any more cake.
As Janey got to the door, she swung round. “I hope we can let this all blow over without any more unpleasantness. It’s a small community.” Her words were accompanied by a brittle smile and she was obviously waiting for a reply, but Karen felt paralyzed, unable to think straight. And Janey didn’t push it as she muttered a soft goodbye and left.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Karen was shaken. How did Janey know about her and William? And how much did she know? If Will hadn’t told her, and Sophie wouldn’t have, it must have been someone who’d seen them together somewhere—either at the theater or on the beach—and mentioned it to Janey.
But worse by far was the implication that William was a serial offender, that Karen was the last in a long line of dalliances. That cut Karen to the core.
It’s just Janey’s way of seeing me off, she told herself. She couldn’t believe it of William.
*
The dismantling of the fête took forever, made more difficult by the continuing rain. Everyone was tired and dispirited as they bundled damp things into damp boxes. The tent would stay till Monday, but the trestle tables and canopies, the left-over merchandise and endless black bags full of rubbish were all packed up and carried away.
It was nearly nine by the time Karen was alone with Sophie. Although she had promised herself she wouldn’t accuse her stepdaughter of anything before finding
out what had really happened, she felt wound up, slightly mad. She couldn’t banish a lurking suspicion that Sophie had had something to do with it. Karen found her curled up in her father’s red leather recliner in the den with a mug of tea, watching a rerun of Made in Chelsea, Largo snoring peacefully at her feet. She acknowledged Karen with a brief smile as she sat herself down on the sofa. For a minute or two they both stared at the screen, where a twenty-something girl with glossed, pouting lips and lots of dark hair was delivering an indignant monologue to a louche youth slouching on a sofa.
Karen took a deep breath. “Did you say anything to Janey about me and William?”
Sophie turned, her expression bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
“You saw Janey in the kitchen earlier. Well, she wasn’t just shooting the breeze, as I’m sure you gathered. She said ‘someone’ had told her about us.”
“And you think I’d do that?” said Sophie, frowning. Uncurling her feet from the chair and swinging it round to face Karen, she muted the television. “You honestly think I’d dob you in to the vicar’s wife? That’s a horrible thing to say.”
Seeing the hurt in her eyes, Karen was stricken. “No . . . God, no, Sophie, of course I don’t.” She sighed. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me . . . I can’t think straight.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“I know it wasn’t.”
The girl was watching her quietly. “Are you still in love with him, then? I thought you said you were over it.”
“Did I?” she gave a rueful smile. “I lied.”
With no returning smile, her face still stiff with umbrage, Sophie said, “Do you even think of Daddy anymore?”
Karen froze. Because, yes, she did think of Harry sometimes, quite a lot in fact. He had, after all, been her focus for nearly two decades. But she hadn’t been able to move backward in time and forget the period of hell when Harry was drinking, properly recapturing the fun they’d shared before the alcohol had taken over. People often said they managed this, managed to remember a person as healthy and happy, eschewing the time when they descended into a painful illness and death. But Karen’s mind refused to do it, the nightmare of the last years still uncomfortably fresh in her memory.