by Lis Howell
Then, one evening in the Plough, he had seen Jane behind the bar. She had just left school and was barmaiding there for the summer before going to Carlisle to work in a small clothes shop. She had white-blonde hair, which framed her face in a perfect Mary Quant bob, a flat chest with tiny pointed breasts, slim hips and incredibly long legs right up to a perfect little bum. She wore the shortest skirts Tarnfield had ever seen, pop-art tops, and eyes made up like a panda. But she wasn’t tarty. Even then, she affected a ‘far back’ accent and upper class style, along with the doll-like behaviour of a mannequin. Her with-it image was the vehicle for a girl who wanted to be conventionally successful. If Susan George could date Prince Charles, then Jane Strickland could catch Jeff Simpson.
Jeff sensed all that, and he had to have her.
It had taken him five years to persuade his mother, shake off Phyllis and get Jane up the aisle, by which time he was over thirty and his new fiancée had become twice as snooty as he was. She’d moved on to Jaeger and Country Casuals, and was thinking of herself as the local aristocracy. Jeff bought Tarnfield House outright, and looked forward to having a brood of successful children and a lovely lady wife who was an ornament to local society.
But ornaments are costly. And when a son finally did arrive there was a lot to pay for. Russell had been born when money was already tight, but Jane had wanted the best for him. He’d been a bottomless pit as far as funds were concerned, with boarding school fees and all the extras. When Russ left school at eighteen with no qualifications, things didn’t improve. Now his friendship with Frank Bell’s ne’er-do-well son made matters worse. Matthew Bell had money to burn.
Jeffrey was jealous of the Bells’ success. Frank and Monica were years younger than the Simpsons, and Jeff thought of them as Tarnfield’s nouveau riche with their smart new four-bedroom house. How had they got planning permission? Jeffrey wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Frank was involved in some sort of financial funny business — he’d had his fingers burnt by Frank in the past. Of course Monica tried to keep Frank straight. She wasn’t an ornament to anything, and she certainly looked her age, but she was a big help to Frank. Jane, on the other hand, knew nothing about business, cared less, and spent too much on appearances. You couldn’t win with women, Jeff thought.
But he knew he had to carry the can for their money problems. He’d always overspent on things that didn’t last — flashy meals out, cruises, dodgy investments, cars, big holidays. He’d assumed the family business would last forever and he hadn’t really been interested in modernizing. And he’d always been susceptible to women. His affair with Yvonne Wait had been the last of his many ill-judged sexual adventures. He wasn’t sure whether or not Jane had ever guessed. Of course it was all over now. Yvonne had made it clear he was too old and she had other fish to fry, but, even so, she never quite let go, as his bank statements testified.
‘I’m off for a pint,’ he said, pushing his plate away with the oven chips untouched.
‘All right, darling, I’ll see you later.’ Jane stood up to collect the dishes. One of her gripes was that they couldn’t afford a dishwasher. It wasn’t so much the machine, as getting in a builder to adapt some part of Tarnfield House’s kitchen, which had been untouched for twenty years. She sighed elaborately as a shorthand way of conveying this to Jeff, who ignored it as he always did. Then she shivered. Jeff was mean about the heating, but then of course, she thought irritably, he would be warm as toast in the fug of the pub. As usual in the evening, Jane would huddle in the living room in front of the electric fire and watch TV.
But at least tonight, she could call Nick Melling and Robert Clark to find out what was happening at All Saints. It was Phyllis’s funeral on Monday, and she wanted to know how they were handling it. Now she was older and grander, part of Jane’s role as a Simpson of Tarnfield House was to take an essential part in the life of the local church. There, at least, she felt important.
Jeff left her surrounded by the debris of his dinner and grabbed his jacket. It hadn’t mattered when they married that Jane was a real dumb blonde, whereas Phyllis had just played at it. But the genes came out in the children, he reflected. Russell had inherited his mother’s brains and materialism, sadly. For the last ten years it had been one wrecked piece of equipment after another. Bikes, computers, cars. And there had been the fines too; parking tickets, clamps, non-payment of fares, you name it. Jeff was pretty sure his son took recreational drugs, and he thought grimly that the constant demands for money, which got up Jeff’s nose, went up his son’s too. Of course his mother had spoilt him. Jane still believed that her sweet little boy, darling of the church choir, was inside him somewhere. But Jeff actually disliked his son now. Life was pretty grim, he reflected. If only Yvonne would lessen her grip, that would be something. But she never would.
He sighed. Why did he never have any luck? He should pull himself together to tackle Yvonne Wait. He wasn’t too old yet to muster a bit of strength and deal with her. All he needed was the chance and a bit of Dutch courage. He slammed the door behind him and tramped across the Green towards the Plough.
12
The Friday in Easter Week, continued
That it may please thee to strengthen such as do stand; and to comfort and help the weak-hearted.
From the Litany
All day Friday, Suzy had been on edge without really knowing why. Jake, still high from his success at the music day, had been infuriating, teasing Molly until she had hysterics because he had hidden her doll in the shed. Flowerbabe the kitten needed to be renamed, but not without more tears from Molly who wanted both the doll and the kitten to be called Flowerbabe because it was her ‘all-time favourite name’.
‘It’s too confusing, sweet pea. And anyway, Flowerbabe isn’t really a sensible name for a cat.’
‘What about Flowerbabe One and Flowerbabe Two,’ Jake had suggested helpfully. ‘You know, like Spiderman One and Spiderman Two. Or better still,’ he was on a movie theme now, ‘what about calling that doll Golum? If we cut its hair off it would be Golum’s body double. My precious, my . . .’ He advanced on Molly doing the sinister voice from the Lord of the Rings classic until Molly screamed and Suzy had to intervene.
‘Be quiet, both of you! Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jake, are you still on the internet? I’ve told you a million times not to use it before six o’clock. And you should turn it off when you’ve finished and not waste electricity.’
‘That’s not logical. Either I shouldn’t use the internet, or I should switch off when I do. Now, decide which you mean.’
‘Jake, you’re trying my patience.’
‘Well, I’m just wondering why you’re so keen to get on the computer, Mum. You’ve been on your email three times already today. Are we expecting a message?’
‘It’s none of your business!’
‘Oooh, Moll, look at Mum! She’s gone all pink. What’s going on here?’
Nothing, thought Suzy, nothing at all, as she logged on. Well, to be honest, she was hoping to hear from Robert Clark. It was pure curiosity, of course. Was she right about the Bible references? After confiding in him the day before, she had felt embarrassed by the time she got home. Had she overreacted?
But that night she had been unable to sleep. Surely, she thought, I’m just using too much imagination? But Phyllis and Mary had been so careful with their flower-arranging implements that the idea of Phyllis having a stupid accident just didn’t wash — not with an out-of-season decoration, in the wrong hand, in the wrong part of the church.
‘Let’s have a funeral for Flowerbabe,’ Jake was yelping at his sister. ‘Let’s bury her in the garden. Then we can pretend she’s a zombie and she can rise from the grave to suck our blood. Like this . . .’ He picked up the doll and pretended to sink his teeth into the plastic neck. Molly started screaming again.
‘OK.’ Suzy got up from the computer. ‘We’re all going out in the car. I need to go and see the old vicar. You can come for the ride, and on th
e way back we’ll get a film for tonight. Something for us all, Jake.’ The last time Jake had chosen a movie it had starred zombies and had not been family viewing.
‘Yeah! I’m in the front, you’re in the back, little baby Moll,’ Jake yelled, getting Molly worked up again, but at least he agreed to come.
In the car, Suzy put on one of their comedy CDs and they all laughed their way through Tarnfield, out into the open country. It was a high grey afternoon, with a cool wind butting the daffodils planted on the outskirts of the village, and new lambs huddling for shelter like scraps of dirty washing blown onto the sage green fell sides. George Pattinson’s new address had been printed on the back of an old All Saints Parish Newsletter, wishing him well. Rereading it, Suzy had thought how perfunctory it sounded after his years of service.
Joan Pattinson looked grey when she opened the door, but managed an impression of her former warmth. She was a quiet, unassuming woman, Suzy recalled. It had been her husband who got all the attention.
‘Hi, Mrs Pattinson, I’m Suzy Spencer, from Tarn Acres in Tarnfield. Your husband asked me to call and let him know about Phyllis Drysdale’s funeral.’
‘Oh yes. You’d better come in.’
‘Thanks, but I can’t stop. I’ve got the kids with me. It’s the Easter holidays.’
At the mention of the children Joan Pattinson’s face brightened. ‘Well, why don’t they come in too? I’ve got some orange squash, and some home-made chocolate cake. I baked it for George but he wasn’t very interested. You go in to see him. I’ll call the children.’ She let Suzy pass, down the dark hallway.
In the small sitting room cramped with furniture from a much bigger and more elegant home, George Pattinson sat staring into space. Next to him was a huge desk crowded with books and papers. The Pattinsons had left half their stuff in the vicarage, but here there was hardly room to turn round. Why such a come-down? Suzy thought. Surely somebody like George Pattinson would be better prepared for his retirement?
‘Hello, Mr Pattinson. It’s Suzy Spencer. We talked on the phone on Sunday. I suppose you already know, but Phyllis Drysdale’s funeral is next Monday. It’s at two o’clock.’
‘Ah, thank you. Sit down, Mrs Spencer. I wanted to speak to someone who knew Phyllis.’ His voice retained some of its warmth and authority, but his right hand twitched and scrabbled at the desk as if he was searching for something.
Suzy said, ‘I wouldn’t say I knew Phyllis that well. Not like you did. And Mrs Clark too; you were all friends, weren’t you?’
George Pattinson trembled, as if cold. ‘Yes, yes, we were all friends. Great friends. But I hadn’t seen Phyllis for months. I don’t keep in touch with many people from the parish. It’s always difficult with a new man, and the Bishop specifically asked me not to get involved.’
‘But Phyllis wanted to speak to you, didn’t she? We found a note pinned to her noticeboard saying she was hoping to meet you last Sunday.’
George Pattinson started to grope again among the mess on his desk, his right hand working away amongst his papers while he looked straight ahead at Suzy. Suddenly, jerkily, he pushed a note at her.
‘I want you to take this away.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s the letter Phyllis wrote to me. I’m too ill to deal with it. She knew I really couldn’t do anything about All Saints. It’s not my church any more. I lost it.’
Strange terminology, Suzy thought, taking the piece of paper. She unfolded and read it, and felt disturbed. ‘But this sounds like she was really worried about something. Did she give you a clue about what it was?’
‘No.’ Suddenly George Pattinson sat up in his chair. ‘But Phyllis wasn’t as silly as some people thought. If she was worried about something, then it would have been worth it.’ He slumped again. ‘I can’t deal with it. You’d better pass it on to Nick Melling.’
‘But she asks you not to do that in this note. What about Robert Clark? He’s dealing with her effects.’
George Pattinson turned to stare out of the window. ‘Or Robert. Yes.’ He shut his eyes and his head drooped.
I’d better go, Suzy thought. She stood up, but he didn’t react, so she tiptoed out.
The whole thing was odd, Suzy thought as she started the car with the kids back on board. Why did nobody else from All Saints keep in contact with the man who had been their much-loved vicar? She headed for Asda on the edge of Carlisle. The children seemed happy enough after their cake and juice, and she had time to think.
Was the strange letter Phyllis had written to George linked to her death?
As soon as they got home, she logged on and went into her Hotmail account again. There was one new message, and it was from [email protected]. It was titled Bible References. Suzy hit the key and waited to see whether or not she had been right about the reed.
* * *
Robert had slept badly again on Thursday night. At seven o’clock in the morning there was no point in trying to get back to sleep, so he got up, brewed himself a pot of tea, and went into the spare bedroom which he and Mary had made into his study.
He’d been thinking about Suzy Spencer’s theory. Initially he’d been shocked; then, as the evening had gone on, he’d been more inclined to dismiss her ideas. After all, Mary frequently said Suzy was unreliable. But that hadn’t been Robert’s impression. Suzy might be harassed, stressed and inclined to drive into other people’s fences, but she was also bright and capable. Just because she affected a self-deprecating manner and clearly didn’t care what Tarnfield thought of her, didn’t mean she was imperceptive. By morning he was feeling very concerned about what she had said.
His study was a large, bright room with a bay window and lined with bookshelves. The obvious place to look was Cruden’s Concordance, the traditional index to words in the Authorized Version of the Bible. He took the concordance down from the shelf, along with his old Bible, and started to flick through it. There was a reference to a ‘bruised’ reed. In fact, there were two. Robert took a deep breath, and read both passages, slowly and carefully.
They were in the second book of Kings and in the book of Isaiah, and referred to the same event. Judah was being attacked by the Assyrians from the north. The King of Judah, Hezekiah, had paid them off with all the treasure in his possession, but they were still taking his kingdom bit by bit, and in 701 BC they were camped at a town called Lachish. Like all small countries, Judah needed an ally. With any luck, the Pharaoh of Egypt would come to their rescue.
Of course, thought Robert. My enemy’s enemy is my friend. But the Assyrians sent the Rabshakeh, an Assyrian envoy, to undermine the King of Judah with some scary propaganda. You can’t rely on the Pharaoh, the Rabshakeh said. He’s just like a reed, which you lean on like a stick, but it breaks and cuts your hand.
To make certain, Robert found his copy of the Revised Standard Version. At 2 Kings 18:21, he read, Egypt, that broken reed. So that was the version Suzy had remembered. He took another Bible from the shelf. This was the New International Version, a more modern translation. This version said, Look now, you are depending on Egypt, that splintered reed of a staff, which pierces a man’s hand and wounds him if he leans on it!
Robert needed to think this through. He’d often found that by doing mundane things he freed his brain to roam, and answers came. He went downstairs and made more tea, even though the pot was still warm. Then he put some washing in the machine. He got dressed, and, as he’d planned, drove to the supermarket, which took a couple of hours. He came home later, unpacked the car and heated up some soup for lunch. He listened to the news. But Phyllis’s injury was always in his mind, and he couldn’t work it out.
Had someone mutilated Phyllis to show that, like Pharaoh, she had proved untrustworthy? But it didn’t ring true. Phyllis didn’t let people down. She annoyed them, nagged them, frustrated them, but she was never untrustworthy. He looked at the passage again in the RSV. You are now relying on Egypt, that broken reed of a staff, which will pierc
e the hand of any man who leans on it.
So Phyllis was the leaner. But whom had she been relying on? Who was the ‘broken reed’? And who would want to send her that message in such a horrible way? It didn’t make sense. The perpetrator was certainly saying something. But what?
He drank yet more tea. Then he sat down at the computer and composed a long email. Dear Suzy, he began, It looks as though you were right . . .
* * *
After the children had gone to bed, Suzy read Robert’s email again, with the Bible references itemized. But Robert hadn’t seen Phyllis’s letter to George Pattinson. It gave her the creeps to look at it, but she took it out of her shoulder bag and unfolded it.
An old colleague has some very disturbing information about someone. I can’t go to Nick Melling about it . . .
When Suzy researched guests for TV shows, she sometimes needed to go over and over their stories, cutting through the skin of self-justification and supposition which had grown over the truth. So what did they really have here? Phyllis had been alone in the church. Someone had inserted a broken reed in her hand. In the Bible, as Robert had pointed out, the reed symbolized a false friend. So Phyllis, like King Hezekiah, had relied on someone untrustworthy.
Perhaps the person who hurt her had been saying, ‘You’re wrong. Your informant is unreliable.’ Perhaps a vicious way of ramming this home would be to force a reed through Phyllis’s hand and say, ‘Look, that’s what your information is worth.’ Perhaps that person had then left her, bleeding, but with no idea that she would die.
Suzy looked at the keyboard and pressed Reply.
Dear Robert,
Do you remember how I found those scissors in church, with that rusty stain on? I think that was blood. I think someone jabbed them through Phyllis’s skin, then stuck the reed in. There’s no way this was opportunism. You know what Mary and Phyllis were like. Dangerous objects had to be put away in the toolbox. And those reeds were sharp. Mary insisted that they had to be safely stored in a plastic bag on the shelf. Whoever did this knew how Phyllis and Mary operated . . .