by Liz Trenow
For his kind invitation for Tuesday 15th August
And have pleasure in accepting.
Later that morning, Blackman called for Pa in his bright-red sports car and they drove to Sudbury for the meeting with the bank manager. When he got home, Pa rushed through his lunch, barely eating a thing or speaking a word, then closeted himself in his study till mid-afternoon.
I couldn’t bear to wait any longer. ‘Please, Pa. Please tell me what happened?’
A muffled ‘Come in’.
‘How did it go – your trip to the bank?’
‘It’s fine, sweetheart,’ he said. Sheaves of paper surrounded him on the desk, all covered in figures. ‘It’ll be sorted out soon enough.’ The drained look on his face told me he was lying.
‘You don’t have to pretend, Pa.’ He looked at me for a long moment. ‘You have to trust me. I’m old enough to share things with, you know.’
He gave a great sigh and gesticulated to the papers on his desk.
‘I barely know where to start, my darling. Henry’s right: there is a third bank account, which up until December was showing a sum of around five thousand pounds. But over a period of a month, starting from when I first became a signatory to the account, that money has been withdrawn, and now it’s nearly all gone.’
‘But who’s taken it?’
He shook his head. ‘The bank says it could only have been Henry or me.’ Miss Calver’s words resounded in my head: Tell your pa to take care around that man. ‘Henry claims it couldn’t have been him, because any transactions he makes are supposed to be approved by me.’
It didn’t make any sense. ‘I assume you . . .?’ I couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘You don’t think I . . .?’ Pa’s face seemed to collapse, and I feared he might be close to tears. ‘Look, my darling, I know I’m not the most organised person in the world, but I might have noticed if I’d taken all that money out of a bank account, don’t you think? Five thousand pounds. What on earth would I spend that sort of money on?’
He dropped his head into his hands. He seemed so brittle, as though he might fall into pieces right there in his study. A heavy dread slithered into my stomach. ‘What’s going to happen now?’ I whispered.
‘We’ve agreed to keep it between us, while the bank makes further enquiries,’ Pa said. ‘But after that, Henry says, we have to call in the diocesan auditors. Hence, all of this,’ and he gestured to the papers again. ‘I need to get my head round who was doing what before I got here, so I’m ready.’
On Saturday our turn on the church rota came round again.
I never minded. It always reminded me of Mum, who would, I hoped, be looking down on us approvingly from her cloud. And I’d heard from Mrs D that our helpfulness had been commented on in the village. ‘Earning all kind of Brownie points for your pa,’ she said drily. I could never tell whether she was being funny or serious.
The ladies doted on Jimmy, bringing him biscuits, and he glowed in their attention.
Work was in full swing when we arrived, and I asked what needed doing. ‘Prayer books for young Jim, please,’ one said. ‘And you were so good at the ironing last time. I’m sorry it’s a steamy sort of job on a day like this.’ I didn’t mind at all; in this weather the church was one of the coolest places to be.
I was alone in the vestry, spraying and ironing surplices while listening with half an ear to the gossip being exchanged between the ladies who were sweeping, dusting and arranging flowers in the main church, when my ears suddenly tuned into their conversation.
‘Shocking, ain’t it? Turfing him out of that hut, after all these years?’
‘But he’s an old boy now. Losing it a bit, they say.’
‘Wouldn’t he be better off in a nice warm council house with all mod cons?’
‘It ain’t right, letting him live in the woods at his age.’
‘What harm’s he doing to anyone? Live and let live, I says.’
I felt an urge to rush out and ask everyone to step in and support Eli. Many of their families had lived here for generations. They knew him better than any incomers, like Blackman or Pa. But as I dithered, the first speaker lowered her voice to a whisper, so that I had to strain to hear.
‘But who’s going to stand up for him?’
‘It’s a ruddy scandal, if you ask me.’
‘It’s you-know-who, of course.’
‘Wants to get his mitts on that land himself, I’ll be bound.’
‘And what’s the vicar doing about it then?’ My heart seemed to stop. I heard the others shushing her, imagining nudges and fingers to lips as they pointed in the direction of the vestry – and me.
How easily this kind of rumour could get out of hand, and Pa’s reputation called into doubt. Surely the information should be out in the open, not being whispered behind backs? I continued ironing until the job was done, but my head was filled with so many questions it was a miracle nothing got scorched again.
There was a meeting of the Church Management Committee at the vicarage on Monday, and Pa was fidgety, unable to settle to anything. Mrs D had laid out a cold supper that evening, and he pushed the food around his plate like chess pieces, barely eating a thing. There was some leftover blancmange to finish up too, usually a favourite, but Pa excused himself from the table saying he needed to tidy the dining room, even though Mrs D had already hoovered and dusted, leaving it spotless.
Mr Blackman was first to arrive. He greeted me like a long-lost friend, even though we’d met in church only the day before, patting me on the shoulder and declaring that I was looking well. He thanked me loudly several times for bringing in the tea and cold drinks, exclaiming, ‘What a charming daughter you have, John, and growing into a lovely young woman before our very eyes. You must be very proud.’
Why did his presence always make my skin crawl? His appearance was perfectly ordinary. Eli said Blackman had used his fortune to move to the village that he’d felt deprived of, as a child. We should have felt sorry for him. But how can you summon any sympathy for someone so determined to oust an old man from his home and sell off a piece of beautiful woodland?
I was taking the pot of tea, jug of milk, cups and saucers and a plate of biscuits into the dining room when Pa came out to ask whether I would mind taking the minutes. ‘It seems Miss Calver is indisposed,’ he said. I didn’t protest too much, and was genuinely flattered to be asked. Apart from Blackman, the other committee members were generally a cheerful lot, always ready with a kindly word to me and Jimmy. They included the curate, Alistair Thornberry, the twins’ mother Mrs Timpson and a couple of other friendly souls.
‘It’s only a matter of taking notes. I’ll help with the writing up, later,’ Pa said, lowering his voice. ‘You don’t get to contribute or vote, of course.’ He gave me a warning look.
After agreeing the minutes and ‘matters arising’, Pa announced, ‘Item one. Stained glass. Of course, we are most grateful to Mr and Mrs Waddington for their generosity, and to Mrs Blackman for her charming design. You’ve all had a chance to view it, I hope?’
‘Forgive me if this sounds ungrateful.’ This was Mr Abbott, an elderly, pious man who attended every church service and had apparently been on the committee forever. ‘But is it right to celebrate what is essentially a heathen legend as part of the fabric of the house of our Lord?’
‘Have you seen the dragon on the wall of Wiston Church?’ Mrs Timpson piped up. ‘Let’s not allow them sole ownership of this important medieval legend, part of the wonderful history of our village.’ This was met with mutters of ‘Hear, hear’.
‘Shall we vote?’ Pa asked, after the debate had ranged around the table for a few minutes. ‘All those in favour.’ Five hands went up, including his. ‘Those against.’ Only Mr Abbott raised his arm.
‘Thank you. We have shown the design to the diocese and we are confident they will approve it. We will keep you updated,’ Pa said. ‘Let’s move on to item two: use of church land.’
My ears pricked up and I concentrated on capturing every word as accurately as possible. ‘As you know, we are concerned about an elderly gentleman who is frail in both body and mind . . .’ Blackman began. Was he really suggesting Eli was going doolally? He seemed to me the sanest person in the village. I tried to catch Pa’s eye, but he looked away quickly and by the time I tuned in again, Blackman was saying, ‘. . . a nice warm council house with running water and electricity.’
Heads around the table were nodding. I felt my cheeks flushing with fury.
‘In addition, there are planning laws to consider. It would be a dereliction of our duty if we simply allowed anyone to camp on church land.’
Pa’s curate, Alistair Thornberry, piped up, ‘Mr Chadwick has been living in this hut for ten years or more. Who are we to tell him he must leave?’
‘It is not us, Mr Thornberry. It is the regulations. That hut contravenes planning laws.’
Pa spoke now. ‘I have been to visit Mr Chadwick, and he showed me a sheaf of letters he’s received over two years, including a threat to bring in bailiffs. Surely it is all wrong, hounding an old man like this? It is his life, after all, and he should be given the choice.’
Blackman was as cool as a cucumber. ‘You are right, Vicar. We have been trying to resolve this problem for the past eighteen months. But with respect, colleagues, we have no choice. We have an obligation to obey the law.’
‘But why? He has been living there happily, bothering no one, for a decade or more. Why is it suddenly so important to evict him?’
‘Because it was brought to our attention, about two years ago, that he has no lease. As a committee, we are duty-bound to make the best use of church land, especially when our finances are in such a parlous state. This irregular situation has been going on far too long.’
As the debate continued, it seemed that only Pa and Alistair – both relative newcomers to the committee – were prepared to stand up to Blackman, and I feared they were losing the battle. If only Miss Calver had been there to back them up. I listened with growing despair: what a spineless lot they were. Eventually Pa invited a show of hands.
‘All those in favour?’ I held my breath. Four hands went up. ‘All those against?’ Only two were left. Pa’s voice cracked. ‘The motion is passed. But if we are determined to move Mr Chadwick, we must do it through persuasion and kindness, not threatening letters.’
‘Hear, hear, Vicar.’
Blackman was determined to have the last word. ‘I must point out that by allowing this situation to persist for so many years the church has been in breach of the law. In light of this, it is my strong recommendation that this issue should remain confidential to this committee.’
The air felt close, hard to breathe. I longed to say something, but the meeting was already moving on. Pa announced item three, the annual financial report.
Blackman spoke for what seemed like an eternity about what he called ‘estimates for upcoming needs’: the familiar list of flagstones, organ bellows and vestry roof. An extended debate followed about which of these was the most pressing – of course, it was the roof, but this was also estimated at tens of thousands of pounds, and they would have to launch a special appeal.
‘There is another option,’ Blackman said. ‘We could consider divesting some of the church’s assets.’
‘Sell off the family silver? I don’t think so,’ Mr Abbott said.
‘There is a piece of land,’ Blackman went on, ‘on which the aforementioned illegal encampment currently sits . . .’
‘Surely, you’re not talking about the woodland, Henry? That’s a village asset. We couldn’t sell that,’ Alistair Thornberry said. ‘Anyway, why would anyone want to buy it?’
But Blackman answered, smooth as silk, ‘Of course, of course. It was only a passing suggestion, in case we should find ourselves in very serious financial difficulties in future.’ That threat again. Pa seemed to be studying the papers on the table in front of him.
Mr Abbott piped up again, ‘Whatever happened to that matter of the missing money, Mr Treasurer? Weren’t you supposed to report back to us on that?’
Blackman responded without a flicker of hesitation, ‘I’m glad you asked, Charlie. We have been working very hard to try untangle it, haven’t we, Vicar?’
‘The previous incumbent obviously got everything into a right muddle,’ Mr Abbott grumbled. ‘I hope you can get it sorted out, sharpish.’
‘We went to the bank last week,’ Blackman said. ‘So we’re nearly there, and you will be the first to know what’s been going on.’
At the end of the meeting I stomped off upstairs, bursting with fury, unable to face the goodbyes and other pleasantries. After the anger had turned to tears, I felt overwhelmed with a heavy sense of inevitability. My father was defeated. It was no use haranguing him. If I wanted something to happen, it would be up to me.
14
There were other pressing concerns in my life: what to take as a birthday present for Kit. But what does a seventeen-year-old boy want? Especially a wealthy boy who already seemed to have everything? I consulted Mrs D.
‘What does he like to do?’
‘I don’t really know him that well. He likes swimming and being out on the lake.’
‘How’s about a book?’
‘I really don’t think he’s the reading type.’
‘How’s about making him something yourselves? Hand-made things always mean more. Some fancy biscuits, say? We’ve got some sugar coupons, so that shouldn’t be a problem.’
I dismissed the idea at first. He’d think it childish, and there would be plenty of food at the party anyway. But then I had an idea. We could turn it into a joke, decorating the biscuits with pictures of boats and . . . pirates, perhaps. Yes, pirate-themed biscuits. Just a bit of fun. And Jimmy would enjoy it, too.
We made gingerbread biscuits, which gave a good flat surface for the icing, and Mrs D suggested that I should draw the images to size beforehand to create a template, as she called it. I drew a boat – modelled on the Mary Jane – a pair of crossed oars, a skull and crossbones, a pirate’s face with a bandana, and a parrot. Jimmy wanted one of a dragon, too, to continue the lake theme, and went on about it so much that I gave in, deciding to go with the crocodile shape, as the more traditional dragon was more complicated. After the dough shapes were cut out and baking in the oven, Mrs D made me practise with the icing bag until the outlines looked like they were supposed to.
An hour later, and with only three wasted (though not wasted, as we ate them there and then), we had fifteen perfectly iced biscuits laid out to dry in the pantry. We made up a box and covered it with stripy coloured paper that Mrs D found in the bottom of a drawer, and tied it with a piece of white bias binding, as we hadn’t any ribbon. The gift looked better than I could ever have hoped.
There were ten of us altogether, including Kit: me and Jimmy, Rob and the other boys from the village, Ashley, Brian and Peter, and three posh friends from his boarding school, who seemed to be so much older and more sophisticated than the rest of us. I was the only girl, which felt strange at first – where were the twins? I supposed they must be away on one of their holidays, or at Pony Club camp. But it also made me feel rather special.
We all arrived at about the same time and went into the drawing room. Kit opened each parcel – they contained boyish things like pens and scarves – said a cursory thank you and got on with the next one, so you couldn’t tell whether he was pleased or not.
By the time it came to our little box I was in a fever of embarrassment. How stupid I’d been to imagine Kit would appreciate home-made biscuits! How humiliating it would be when he opened them. But to my surprise, he actually showed a little more interest than he had in the other gifts; and his mother, watching over his shoulder, commented that the decoration was very artistic. She asked whether they might put them out on a plate to serve them for tea and, of course, we agreed. Jimmy looked especially pleased.
At the meal eve
ryone took a biscuit, and Robert ended up with a crocodile. ‘What’s a crocodile got to do with the pirate theme?’ he asked.
‘There’s a crocodile who menaces the pirates in Peter Pan,’ I said, catching Kit’s eye. He was smiling. ‘And there’s one living in the lake.’
‘But isn’t it a dragon in your lake?’ someone asked. ‘Not a crocodile?’
‘It depends on which legend you read,’ I said. ‘Some say the Wormley Dragon was actually a crocodile.’
Mrs Waddington offered the plate to Jimmy. He’d been at my side all the time, behaving beautifully, perhaps overawed in the company of so many older children, who had mostly been ignoring him. ‘Look, there’s just one dragon left,’ she said. ‘I think you should have it.’
The conversation was interrupted by Mr Waddington. Tapping a glass with a spoon to bring us to silence, he announced that a surprise would be revealed at the boathouse, and we should take our swimming things and make our way there as soon as we’d finished our tea.
The ‘surprise’ turned out to be a new boat for the lake: the most curious kind I’d ever seen, with highly varnished wooden sides and a base of bright-red coated canvas stretched tightly over a wooden frame. It had two seats, two oars and two rowlocks, and didn’t look particularly safe. Mr Waddington produced a bottle of champagne. ‘What shall we name her?’ he asked, glancing around for suggestions.
‘Victory,’ someone suggested. ‘The Beagle,’ another said. These boarding-school boys were well versed in their history, right enough. Various other suggestions followed, most of them silly and unsuitable.
‘Tell you what,’ Kit said eventually. ‘Jimmy is such a good rower, I’m going to let him name her.’ He gave my brother the sweetest smile. ‘Think of a nice name for the canvas boat, Jim-boy,’ he said. ‘Maybe something that’s red?’
It came out almost at once, as though the word had been in his head all along. ‘Rob . . . Robin,’ he said, pronouncing it almost perfectly. ‘Molly likes robins.’
Mr Waddington popped the cork – it bounced into the lake and floated there – before pouring the fizzy wine over the prow of the boat and announcing in a very pompous voice, ‘I name this ship Robin.’ We all laughed and cheered, especially Jimmy, who clapped his hands and tried to climb into it immediately.