by McNeir, Leo
“Hm, hard to tell, really. Something could be in the air. That’s the trouble with newspapers. They tend to print only what they think they can report. I sometimes think I only understand what’s going on when I’ve had dinner with a minister the night before.”
“Anne, you’ll catch flies if you sit with your mouth open like that,” said Marnie. She felt completely out of her depth and rather depressed at the thought.
“Do you really have dinner with ministers?” said Anne.
“Sometimes, or shadow ministers. We get quite a few at All Saints.” He returned to the paper and Anne looked over at Marnie. Ralph turned the paper down. “Sorry. I shouldn’t do that. It’s like name-dropping. It’s just that I’m in that line of business in a way, on the sidelines, of course.”
“Paul mentioned you’d been offered a chair in the States,” said Marnie. She felt deflated, as if she was groping to try to keep up with the conversation and she knew Ralph was sensitive enough to realise how little she understood of his world. Strangely, it was Ralph who looked uncomfortable.
“Yes, at Yale, actually.”
“Oh,” said Anne disappointed. “Does that mean you’ll be going away?” It was inconceivable to her that anyone could refuse a good job when it was offered.
“Well, not necessarily. They’ve asked me to consider it and I am.”
“Are you tempted?” said Marnie.
“The terms are very generous: good facilities, research staff, beautiful house.”
“It sounds too good to miss,” said Marnie. “Yale is one of the Ivy League, of course, though it’s not the same as Oxford, I suppose.”
“That’s right. It all depends on what one has to sacrifice. I like to think life is more than just a large research budget and a well-stocked library.” He smiled across at Anne. “There are certain things I would be loath to give up.”
“What’s going on over there?” said Anne suddenly standing up. On the opposite bank a commotion had broken out. There was a blur of white, the sound of splashing and raised voices. Marnie and Ralph leapt to their feet in time to see a man run off down the towpath, leaving behind another man who appeared to be wrestling with a swan.
“It’s Frank, Frank Day,” said Marnie. She called across the canal. “Frank! What’s happened?” The reply came in gasps as he fought to gain control of the bird, battling against the beating wings. Marnie recalled reading somewhere that a swan’s wings could break a person’s arm.
“Bloody fool with a fishing rod!” he cried. He and the swan fell to the ground still writhing. It was hard to tell who was winning the struggle.
“Can we get across?” said Ralph. Without replying, Marnie leapt to the hatchway and switched on Sally’s engine. Ralph ran to cast off at the bows and Anne followed his example, pulling the stern rope free from the mooring ring. Ralph pushed Sally out into the channel and stepped onto the gunwale. In a few seconds they had reversed across the canal and found Frank securely grasping the swan around the body, both wings pinioned to its sides. He struggled to his feet as they approached and Marnie pushed the lever into forward gear to avoid ramming the bank. Frank grinned at them.
“Good morning. Nice day,” he said in the most casual of tones, his clothes dusty and dishevelled. The swan now appeared completely relaxed and made no effort to struggle free.
“What was all that about?” said Marnie over the noise of the engine. She pulled the lever into neutral and looked quickly up and down the canal. Sally Ann was blocking the whole channel.
“Damn fool of an angler got his line caught round the swan. It would have torn itself to pieces, and he just stood there gawping.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“It seems all right now,” said Marnie.
“Oh yes, for the moment. I need to cut her free. Do you have a sharp knife on board?”
“In the galley,” said Anne and turned to go into the cabin.
“It’ll have to be good. This line is really strong stuff.”
“In the locker,” said Marnie. “You know the one. It has a handle with rope bound round it.” Anne nodded and disappeared.
“You had quite a battle just then,” said Marnie.
“You’ve got to treat these things with caution.”
Anne bounded up from the cabin holding the knife carefully away from her. In her haste she caught her shoe on the top step and pitched forward. She tried to steady herself against the side of the boat, but lost her grip on the handle and groaned as the knife bounced on the gunwale and dropped into the water. Ralph caught her from falling, but the knife was lost.
“Are you okay?” said Marnie.
Anne pulled a face. “I’m sorry. How stupid!”
“Don’t worry. It could’ve been worse.” She turned to Frank. “Will a kitchen knife do?”
“I’ve got a better idea. There’s a knife in my car. It’s just parked under the trees over there.”
“I’ll get it for you,” said Anne. They all looked at her, including the swan. “To redeem myself.” She jumped from the stern to the bank, retrieved the car keys from Frank’s jacket pocket and jogged towards the car. This time she made no mistake.
“Here, Anne. Cut the line by her feet.” Anne sawed carefully and the line came loose. “Can you pull it gently free? That’s it. Good. Well done!” He set the swan down at the edge of the canal and she shook herself, standing upright to flap her wings. They watched as she settled herself in the water and slid away from the bank without looking back.
“I’m sorry,” said Marnie. “I haven’t introduced you. Ralph, this is Frank Day. His firm handled my move from London. Frank, this is Ralph Lombard, a friend from Oxford.” The men raised their hands in greeting. “Can you join us for coffee, Frank?”
“It’s kind of you, but I’ve got the dogs here somewhere.” He dusted himself down. “I ought to try and find them. Perhaps another time?”
“Of course. You’ll have to tell me about handling swans in case I need to learn the trick.”
“There’s nothing to it. It’s just a case of being determined. You can have them eating out of your hand. No problem.”
After Frank had gone on his way, they guided Sally back to her mooring. Anne promised to rescue the knife and made careful note of where it had fallen into the water. As soon as they docked she went below to find the magnet and spent some minutes rummaging in lockers and crates. Marnie and Ralph resumed their places.
“You know, Marnie, when I’m with you I often have the strangest feeling.”
Marnie laughed involuntarily. “Sorry. You make me sound like indigestion!” To her surprise, Ralph snorted.
“Yes. I could have chosen my words better. What I meant was, well, you often make me feel … inadequate. And at the risk of sounding like an echo, you’ll catch flies if you sit with your mouth open like that.”
“Inadequate?” said Marnie, closing her mouth firmly.
“Yes. You’re very decisive. You always seem to know what to do in any situation. You must think me very pedestrian.”
“I’m sure the ministers who dine with you don’t find you pedestrian, Ralph.”
“Anyone who reads the newspapers can have ideas. You make things happen. You’re a very special person, Marnie. Well, I never thought I’d ever see you blush!”
“It’s the sunshine,” said Marnie, feeling the glow spread from her cheeks. Just then Anne came up on deck, shaking her head.
“It’s no use. I can’t find it anywhere.”
“What?” said Marnie.
“The magnet. I need it to get the knife back.”
“Don’t worry for now. We ought to be setting off. We don’t want to be late for lunch.”
“I’ll change, then,” said Anne. “Won’t be a minute.” She hesitated before going down the cabin steps. “Marnie, you ought to put some cream on your face. You look as if you’ve caught the sun.”
“Get a move on!” said Marnie. “We’ve got to go and eat.” Anne grinned as she went below and
Ralph went over to Thyrsis, promising to be ready in five minutes.
“… eating out of your hand …” Twice she had heard that expression in as many days. All a question of being determined, she recalled. No. That was not her style. Even so, she would set off for lunch with a spring in her step. Inadequate. Amazing!
*
The Range Rover pulled up in the yard of Rooks Farm and George Stubbs climbed out. He walked over to the kitchen door, the top half of which was open, and stuck his head inside.
“Good morning!” Across the tiled floor he saw Maureen Fletcher kneeling in front of the dark blue Aga, basting a joint that half protruded from the top roasting oven. He breathed in the aroma of the joint of beef and freshly cut vegetables on the chopping board. Maureen slid the tray back into the depths of the oven and came over to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “That’s what I like to see,” said George, “a fine piece of sirloin with roast potatoes. It’s what Sunday morning is all about … and church, of course.”
“Some of us have to dash back to see to the joint in the oven, while others can call in somewhere for a swift half,” Maureen said with a smile.
“Well, there you’d be mistaken, my dear. I went home to take Sheila back. Then I just thought I’d nip round to see how Albert was. I didn’t get a chance to see him in church this morning.”
Maureen looked down and smoothed her apron. “And you’ll not get a chance to see him here, either. He’s gone out.”
“Gone out? On a Sunday morning?”
“That’s right. Took himself off early. Said he wanted some air. Had his boots on.” She invested the statement with symbolic meaning.
“Do you know where he went?”
Maureen shrugged. “Over the fields, I suppose. No doubt he’ll be back for lunch. I’ll tell him you called.”
George climbed back into the Range Rover and started the engine. He had his boots on. And on Sunday morning, too.
*
The vicar of Knightly St John dropped a note in through the letterbox of the vicarage to let Randall Hughes know that his suggested arrangements for moving out were quite satisfactory. She had added a scribbled postscript asking him to let her know the name of the removal company for her own use. For some seconds she stood with her back to the front door and listened. There was a heavy droning from the bees in the honeysuckle and the sound of birds singing all around. Toni Petrie wanted to join in with her own chorus, just as she had done on the day she received the phone call from the Bishop’s office. Randall Hughes seemed to be adopting a low profile, giving her scope to move into the village without his shadow hanging over her.
From the doorway she could not see the road because of the bend in the drive. She waited, wishing that she could go in and take possession of the vicarage there and then. But she had no key and no desire to go and ask Randall’s cleaner for it. She would not impose herself on the village, would not come unbidden like an intruder. She would be patient, even though that was not her style. In time they would get to know her and want her as their vicar. She was certain of it. But for now, she would hold back. She turned to look up at the eighteenth century facade of the house. The kitchen and the rooms above it were said to be fifteenth century and the cellars even older. What a difference from the modest semi she shared with two other women curates in Wellingborough!
The warmth, the humming and the birdsong made her drowsy. She walked slowly round the house. Randall Hughes was no gardener! The lawn was neat enough, but the flowerbeds were unkempt with weeds sprouting everywhere and branches tangled together. Toni began pulling up the nearest groundsel, leaving small piles at the edge of the grass. She sat down on a bench in the sunshine and planned how the garden would take shape under her care, overwhelmed at the thought that all this was her domain, all this and the parish of Knightly St John!
*
“I don’t think they taught us this kind of French at school,” said Anne.
“You’d have enjoyed the coursework, though,” said Marnie, whose French was above average, honed by practice on numerous holidays.
“I’d have gone all out for an ‘A’ in the practical.”
“What practical?”
“Eating,” said Anne. Ralph chuckled without taking his eyes from the menu. They sat at a table near the window overlooking the gardens, with white cloth, a bowl of roses and silver candlestick. The restaurant was all restrained elegance, an English country house transformed into a small chateau set down in the countryside outside Oxford.
The head waiter approached across the room, a discreet smile at the corner of his mouth, as if in anticipation of pleasure. Marnie was not ready to order and was surprised that they had been given so little time to study the menu. In her experience of French restaurants they took food seriously and always allowed the customer to choose at leisure. The waiter stopped beside Ralph and bowed.
“Monsieur Lombard .” He pronounced the name in the French way, the ‘o’ long, the ‘r’ rolled and the ‘d’ mute. Ralph made to rise from his seat but was restrained by the offer of an outstretched hand from the waiter. “It is such a pleasure to see you again. And it is the first time you have come with your charming family.” He shook hands with Marnie. “Madame Lombard, enchanté.” Marnie murmured “Monsieur,” in a very passable accent. “Et mademoiselle.”
“Monsieur.” Anne smiled charmingly and the waiter was delighted. He turned to Ralph.
“Mes compliments, monsieur. Elles sont ravissantes!” At that point it was clear that any explanation would be embarrassing. Before Ralph could speak, the waiter continued. “Excuse my interruption. I will leave you in peace to choose. But I am sure the patron will want to see you later.” With a bow he departed as quickly as he had come.
“Madame Lombard,” said Anne in an exaggerated stage French accent. “Oh, Ralph, I could get used to this. I like being mademoiselle.”
“I’m so glad,” said Ralph. He turned to Marnie. “I might ask if you liked being madame, but I might get a shirty answer.”
“You might, if you come between me and the menu.”
“Fair enough,” said Ralph. “It’s not easy to choose. I warn you, everything they do here is very good.”
“Do they have restaurants like this in Yale?” said Anne.
“Well, Yale is in New Haven, that’s Connecticut on the eastern seaboard. There’s a restaurant I know just along the coast heading towards Cape Cod where they do the most superb clam bake, served with a dry white wine from a family-run vineyard in California that you never see outside the States.”
“Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind,” said Anne.
“Yes, I rather think I have.”
*
That night, on board Sally Ann, Dolly jumped down from Marnie’s bed and wandered over to her basket in the saloon. It was her custom at the end of every day to sit on the bed while Marnie sat up reading, until it was time to turn off the light. She curled round and round in the basket and settled into the hollow she had formed in her blanket.
“Okay if I put the light out?” said Marnie.
“Fine by me,” said Anne from her camp bed in the saloon. “And I don’t think Dolly will object.”
“No. She seems to have adjusted very well to the country life. I’m sure she prefers it to living in a flat.” Marnie reached up and pressed the light switch.
“I hear her purring every night when I’m dropping off to sleep,” said Anne. “It’s very soothing. In fact, I feel like purring myself tonight.”
“You’ve enjoyed today?”
“I enjoy every day,” said Anne. “But today was really special. I loved the restaurant. It was marvellous.”
“Yes, it was,” said Marnie.
“Is Ralph really going to go?”
“Tomorrow morning,” said Marnie.
“No, I mean to America, to Yale.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d miss Ralph,” said Anne. “So would you.” There was no reply,
only the faint sound of Dolly, softly purring in her basket. “The best part was when the owner came out of the kitchen to see Ralph just before we left. Please come back soon, monsieur,” Anne grossly exaggerated the owner’s French accent. “Your colleagues are very nice but they are not as charming as your beautiful ladies!” Anne and Marnie laughed together in the darkness.
“Bonne nuit, mademoiselle,” said Marnie.
“Bonne nuit, madame.”
*
The vicar’s first full week in office was not marked by disasters, natural or manmade. No bolt of lightning struck the church. No plague of locusts descended on the ripening crops. No-one became deranged and ran round the village attacking the inhabitants with a chain-saw. Everyone went about their usual business and, while there was much talk about the woman vicar in the shop, outside the school and on street corners, comment was mainly favourable or at least open-minded.
Ralph set off towards the south on the next leg of his journey aboard Thyrsis, promising to keep in touch when he could. Building works continued to make good progress at Glebe Farm and Marnie’s designs for Willards grew apace.
Toni Petrie began her rounds of the village without delay, clutching a large blue notebook and a Filofax, causing some to note the similarity with Marnie. Someone commented that the village was being taken over by yuppie women, but it was said without malice. She arrived at the school by appointment on Tuesday morning and was shown into the Head’s office by Valerie Paxton, who for some days had become withdrawn, camouflaging her silence by immersing herself in assessments and reports, the countless jobs to be done before the end of the school year. While the head and the vicar drank coffee and talked about the monthly service held in the school hall, confirmation classes and the board of governors, Valerie sat at her desk opening the post, pondering the changes that had happened in her world, absent-mindedly fingering her dagger. After the first few letters, she forgot about the rest and sank into her thoughts. Time passed. A child came into the office and put a class register on her desk, but she did not look up. Change, change, change.
The blast of laughter as the head’s office door opened nearly rocked Valerie from her seat. To cover her surprise she turned quickly back to the post, but her co-ordination slipped and as she reached for the letters she jerked the hand holding the dagger and dug the point into the side of her thumb. The sharp pain rushed like lightning to her head, making her feel sick and draining all colour from her face. The head and the vicar stood silenced in the doorway before reacting. Blood ran down Valerie’s wrist and dripped onto her skirt. The head rushed forward, producing a paper tissue from her sleeve.