by Lis Howell
‘We don’t need an extension to Church Cottage,’ he said. ‘It was just casual chat, that’s all.’
But there was no such thing as casual conversation with Yvonne Wait, he reminded himself, and he was furious that he had given her a chance to approach them both together, with her seductive offer. Only a few weeks earlier, she’d cornered them after one of Phyllis’s Bible study groups and mentioned buying the orchard. She’d been crafty, of course. She could see Steve’s delight at the idea. And she’d had the cheek to suggest that they could extend their cottage with the money, as if it was any of her business what they would do! But she was pretty shrewd about property and she could see another bedroom would make all the difference to Church Cottage. Stevie’s face had lit up at her words.
Alan was wary of Yvonne, as he was of most women. An eligible bachelor, he had frequently been approached by middle-aged women when he was practising as a small-town solicitor with a secret life. They were the biggest threat to his safety. If he rebuffed them too brusquely they might start spreading rumours. If he encouraged them, he was promising them something he couldn’t deliver. It was best to avoid women, unless they were safely married like Monica Bell. In the amateur dramatic society he had hinted at a sad ongoing affair to keep them at bay, but he had never been sure how convinced people had been.
He had first fallen foul of Yvonne five years earlier. She’d had her eyes on Auntie May’s place. She’d got the wrong end of the stick, though, when she’d hailed Alan in the Plough. He’d been having a drink, mulling over what to do. Yvonne had sidled up to him at the bar, all glossy hair and perfume, perfect make-up over yellowing skin, Alan’s worst nightmare. She’d introduced herself.
‘Your aunt was one of my father’s patients. Fascinating old lady! I hear the place is on the market. Private sale, is it?’
‘Yes. The farmer next door wants to buy it.’
She had put her manicured hand on his arm. ‘I might be able to rustle up an extra grand or two, and outbid him. And it would give us a chance to get to know each other better.’
Ugh, Alan had thought. He’d offered the property to his neighbours in good faith and he wasn’t going to let them down. He’d ignored her approach, but at his peril. For the last five years, he’d felt she was out to get the better of him, somehow or other.
And he was right, of course. Now, only a few minutes after getting home from lunch at the Bells’, on a day when someone had tragically died, all Stevie wanted to talk about was selling the orchard! Yvonne Wait had been getting at him again. Why wouldn’t the woman let go?
‘But Alan, you said that the orchard was just a load of extra work. You know you did. And Yvonne says she only wants to build a small bungalow on it, something for when she retires.’
Alan had a disturbing thought. ‘What’s she been saying to you, Stevie?’
‘Nothing!’ Steve jumped up from the sofa where they’d been sitting with Alan’s boringly predictable G&Ts. It would be fab, Stevie thought, if they could have a cocktail or an alcopop or something different. I get tired of living like an extra in Salad Days, he grumbled to himself. Of course, that wasn’t entirely fair. Alan wasn’t really living in the past; there was the state-of-the-art home entertainment system and the new Apple Mac to disprove that. But just sometimes Stevie felt his partner needed shaking up.
He went to the window and looked out at the Tuscan patio. He had to admit it was really lovely. How else would he ever get the chance to live in such luxury? He could get irritated with Alan on occasions, but without him he would be in a bedsit in Brixton, pretending to be part of the London gay scene while getting older and more raddled every year. It still tempted him of course . . . and that was the cause of all his problems.
Oh, that ghastly woman, he thought. Why did she have to find him in the sitting room at the Bells’? He’d been trying to avoid Tom Strickland, who was prowling round looking for more drink, and she’d pinned him to the sofa. He’d agreed to help her, of course. He’d been sure Alan would want to sell, once they’d talked about it again. He could usually persuade Alan to do anything. But this time he was being so stubborn.
Alan said, ‘Has Yvonne Wait been bullying you?’
‘No!’
For the first time since coming home, Stevie suddenly felt really frightened. If he couldn’t persuade Alan, then perhaps Yvonne would really do what she had threatened. It didn’t bear thinking about. The bitch! The cow!
‘Alan, I really want you to do this,’ Stevie said. ‘Please. For me! That money would sooo come in handy. And we could have such a wonderful life here. The only thing I’ve ever wanted, you know, is just a tiny bit more company.’ He sidled to Alan’s side, perched down beside him and put his hand on his partner’s thigh. ‘Please, Alan,’ he whispered.
‘It’s not what I want to do, Stevie.’ Alan felt a frisson of sexual arousal. He adored Stevie but sometimes the boy had to be checked. The idea that there was endless money, that the orchard could be sold and the house extended just like that, had to be nipped in the bud. Stevie had to come to terms with Tarnfield life as it was. Alan was the boss. He braced himself for the inevitable but exciting tantrum.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Stevie wailed, standing up again. ‘You say you love me and you want to make my life happy after all the horrors of the past. But you won’t even do this one little thing for me.’
‘Selling the orchard is hardly one little thing. And even if I did there’s no guarantee that I’d use the money to extend the house. So calm down.’
‘I can’t calm down. You don’t love me at all. And you don’t understand.’ Stevie began to cry, huge sobs making his neat body shudder.
‘Oh, pull yourself together.’ Alan got up masterfully and put his hands on his partner’s shoulders. ‘Sometimes, Stevie, you just have to do things my way.’
‘No, I don’t!’ Stevie screamed.
‘This is ridiculous! Don’t get hysterical. You know you just have to ask me and we can go and see your friends anywhere! We don’t need the gay scene descending on Tarnfield all the time. This isn’t Camden Town. It’s quiet, and conventional. And because we live a quiet life, people here like and respect us.’
‘They don’t like you. They sneer at you. And they hate me!’ Stevie yelled. ‘You’re so cruel to me. I’m caged up here!’
‘Stevie! That’s not fair.’
‘Fair? I’ll tell you what’s not fair. Treating me like a slave isn’t fair.’ Stevie picked up Alan’s drink and threw it on to the pale beige carpet. It was a calculated gesture. His rages in the past had usually led to delicious making-up sessions when Alan became much more malleable.
But this was much more extreme than Alan had expected and Stevie suddenly knew he had overstepped the mark. Alan withdrew his hands and stared at him coldly.
‘That’s an awful thing to do, Stephen. Pick that glass up now!’
There was only one other way to get Alan eating out of the palm of his hand, Stevie thought. ‘I hate this place!’ he screamed. ‘There’s only one person here who understands me. And it isn’t you!’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
Stevie shook Alan away. ‘I need someone who really cares. I’m going to talk to Nick Melling.’
8
Easter Sunday afternoon
Not with the old leaven, nor with the leaven of malice and wickedness, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.
From the Easter Anthem
In Phyllis’s bungalow, Suzy followed Robert into the cool dark kitchen at the back. She scooped some special kitten food out of a tin left on the counter, and ran some fresh water for Flowerbabe.
‘Everything’s in reasonable order,’ Robert said.
Suzy shuddered. ‘It feels very odd,’ she said, ‘being here without Phyllis.’
‘Yes. And the whole place is so reminiscent of her, isn’t it?’ Phyllis’s dark crowded kitchen was cluttered. There was a teapot and tea cosy, and a few jars of tired past
a on the work surfaces. And everywhere there were little piles of mixed paperclips, elastic bands, very old coupons and pencil stubs.
Robert said, ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t kinder to Phyllis after Mary died.’ The thought had been on his mind all day, but he felt better now he had said it out loud, and safe saying it to Suzy. He perched at the kitchen table and watched the kitten wolfing its food.
‘I don’t think you can blame yourself,’ said Suzy. ‘You must have been pretty devastated.’
‘Well, that’s true. But I knew it was coming. The trouble was, you know, that Mary and I were too wrapped up in each other. I couldn’t see beyond my own pain, so I couldn’t accept that other people were in pain too. If I had, Phyllis might have confided in me more, and I could have helped her.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, I’m sure her heart condition was made worse by all this stress at the church. If I hadn’t just gone on, doing my own thing and letting the church politics wash over me, maybe I could have given her more support.’
It was funny, Suzy thought, how Robert was circumspect when it came to All Saints. He was very knowledgeable and very involved, but he was clearly wary of a conflict with Nick Melling. He had offered no opinions, nor had he said anything about the former vicar George Pattinson, though Mary had been such a pillar of the parish.
‘So what really is happening at All Saints?’ Suzy asked. ‘I can see that Nick has new ideas. But that’s inevitable, isn’t it?’
‘Yes and no.’ Robert sighed. ‘No one minds new things. It’s just that no one really knows what Nick wants or how far he’ll go to get it. Kevin Jones is trying to steer him into evangelicalism and probably succeeding. But Steve Nesbit and Alan Robie think he’s a repressed gay and would like to see him as one of those Anglo-Catholic types.’
‘All dressed up in a lacy surplice. He’d look really cute!’
‘But that would horrify Tom Strickland who can’t stand him anyway because he’s young and posh. Talking of which, Jane Simpson just dislikes anything to do with Phyllis, so she supports anything new that Nick brings in. Overall it’s uncomfortable and messy. And on top of all that, Nick’s awful at dealing with people. I found that out when Mary died.’
‘Why did Jane Simpson dislike Phyllis?’
‘Oh, years ago Phyllis was engaged to Jeffrey and he dumped her for Jane. Jane feels guilty, I suppose. Or perhaps she feels jealous in some obscure way. That would be more like Jane.’
Suzy laughed ‘You’ve got them all off to a T,’ she said. And I wonder what he really thinks of me? she thought. She said nothing, and the silence was surprisingly companionable. The kitten seemed to be intent on eating five times its own weight. There was time to carry on talking.
‘Was Phyllis attractive?’
‘Oh, yes, in a fluffy sort of way. Of course she was a few years older than Mary. But she was nice-looking. Old-fashioned but sweet.’
‘Why were she and Mary such good friends?’
‘They were brought up together, practically. And later, Mary went to secretarial college when Phyllis was doing her teacher training. Then Phyllis came back to Tarnfield to care for her mother.’
‘Funny . . .’ said Suzy, and stopped. Robert looked at her. It was one of those moments, she thought, when she could either be honest about what she was thinking, or she could fudge.
‘What were you going to say?’
‘I was thinking that of the two of them Mary seemed much more like a teacher, much more authoritative. I was always surprised that Mary only worked part-time at Bell’s. She was such a capable woman, with no children, and she was a brilliant organizer. So why didn’t she . . . well . . . do more?’
It occurred to him that it didn’t matter what he said to Suzy Spencer. He hadn’t realized how much dissimulation he had been going through, with everyone watching him and dissecting his grief, monitoring his recovery, waiting to pounce on symptoms of disloyalty, keeping Mary’s memory going. But none of them had really understood his wife. She had been marvellous in many ways, but not in everything, and he was tired, now, of the hagiography.
Suzy said, ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking?’
‘No, I don’t.’ To my own surprise, thought Robert. He paused, and said, ‘My wife was an outstanding woman. She was really clever and an amazing motivator. But she never achieved her true potential.’ He paused again.
‘What held her back?’
‘She had a very bad experience in her teens and in some ways she never got over it. I always felt that I helped and encouraged her. But she was handicapped by her past. No one here would ever know how insecure Mary could be.’
He turned away and fussed with the tin of cat food. He could hardly believe he was confiding in this unlikely woman. But telling the truth didn’t make him love his wife less. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that Mary had been bossy and judgemental sometimes. But that made no difference to his devotion. And unlike everybody else, he knew the real reason why Mary was like that.
I see, Suzy was thinking. So mild, unassuming ‘backroom boy’ Robert Clark was the strong one in the Robert and Mary story. Like everyone in Tarnfield she had assumed that he and his wife lived this perfect life, with every pillowcase ironed and fish knife polished. But she had always thought that Robert was just Mary’s sidekick in this ideal home experience.
But they’d all been wrong. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what awful thing had happened to Mary, but she could see that would be going too far. Anyway, the kitten was reeling slightly, its tummy practically on the floor and its legs splaying out.
‘I’d better take Flowerbabe home,’ she said. ‘Would you give me another lift back? There’ll be a lot to take, as well as the kitten.’
Robert smiled. ‘Of course. Let’s get the stuff together.’
He started to collect up the tins of food, and Suzy turned to rinse the cat’s dishes in Phyllis’s sink. Her eye caught the cork noticeboard above the draining board.
Robert came over to stand beside her. In very large letters on a piece of paper which Phyllis had pinned to the board, they read: Must ring Geo re meeting Sun night.
‘I wonder what that’s about?’ Suzy said. ‘Looks like she was leaving herself a really urgent note! Who’s Geo?’
Robert was silent for a moment, looking at the paper.
‘George Pattinson maybe? He’d disappeared from Tarnfield but they’d known each other for years.’
‘Well, she won’t be making any meeting with him tonight, if that’s what she meant. Will anyone have told him what’s happened?’
‘Probably not,’ said Robert quietly. ‘George Pattinson has kept himself pretty much to himself since he left All Saints.’
He had gone cold again. He was staring past her, out of Phyllis’s kitchen window and into her cottage garden where the winter flowering jasmine looked like scrambled egg thrown along the leafless hedge. Suzy looked over his shoulder. From Phyllis’s kitchen, you could see The Briars on the crest of the hill. The bungalow was practically at the bottom of his garden. If Yvonne inherited this, Suzy thought, she’d probably build it into three storeys and block his view, just out of spite.
‘I think you need to call him,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he’ll be waiting to see Phyllis tonight.’
Robert pulled himself back from the bare branches of the laburnum.
‘Would you mind doing it?’ he asked. ‘I’ll give you George’s number.’
She was about to ask why, but Robert avoided her eyes. His face looked closed and hard, just as it had in the church when she asked about Phyllis’s belongings.
‘OK,’ she said, filling the silence. ‘But we’d better get this kitten back to my house. I’ve got to pick my kids up at Tarnfield Junction. Not to mention a load of hand washing I’ve got to do, because my machine’s buggered. If you take me back now, I’ll call George Pattinson on my mobile while you drive . . .’
In the car, Robert put on the radio and the local traffic news reported ye
t another motorway accident, with four people dead. It was a bank holiday phenomenon.
‘That’s just the sort of thing that terrifies me about Jake,’ Suzy said. ‘He wanted to go paint-balling in Preston tomorrow with some local lads. I think one of them was Matthew Bell. Anyway I said no. It’s a long journey and I’m terrified of an accident.’
‘You’re right. Matthew Bell drives like a maniac. And he’s encouraged by Russell Simpson. Russell used to be a nice lad till he hit puberty. But from what I’ve seen of Jake, he’d be bored sick with that mob after an hour in a car with them.’
Suzy felt relieved. She had worried about depriving Jake of fun, or having him appeal to his father who might take his side. Nigel tended to opt in and out of childcare, and to want to be popular. But Robert is a teacher, she told herself, so he must have some knowledge of young people. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She’d imagined him teaching Jane Austen and Matthew Arnold to ladies at evening class, but that was just his Tarnfield persona. He probably taught science fiction to iconoclastic adolescents. She should have learnt by now that not everyone from the village was like Phyllis.
‘I suppose there’ll be an inquest into Phyllis’s death?’ she asked.
‘Yes, but it will be straightforward. Poor Phyllis had a heart attack in the church.’
Suzy frowned, but this time she said nothing. She didn’t want to disagree, but straightforward wasn’t the right word, she thought. She couldn’t pin it down, but there was something wrong about the picture. Suzy had a very visual imagination. She tried to see in her mind’s eye how Phyllis could have stabbed herself with a flower-arranging decoration. It just didn’t look right.