by Lis Howell
For a moment Rachel’s words reminded Suzy of how she had invited Robert to come with them and see the Lachish frieze in the British Museum. That was a forlorn hope now.
She sighed. ‘That would be lovely, Rachel. I haven’t got a summer holiday sorted. I’m still waiting to find out what Nigel wants. How’s work?’
‘Slow. I’m back on Living Lies. Funnily enough, next week it’s people who have a secret religious faith. You know, like finding out your son’s a Scientologist or something. There’s more of it about than you’d think. Religion causes a lot of trouble, doesn’t it?’
Too right, Suzy thought. It could even be fatal.
18
Whitsuntide weekend
Give peace in our time, O Lord.
Because there is none other that fighteth for us, but only thou, O God.
Versicle and response at Morning and Evening Prayer
The best way to deal with spring in the North is to lower your expectations. It comes a lot later than you expect, but it does come — and it’s amazing. There’s nothing to excite and delight like the first, astonishingly reliable warmth after the endless wet blanket of winter. The tentative waking of the countryside, and the idea that cold shivers aren’t inevitable every time you open the door, start to suggest that summer might actually happen. In Tarnfield in May, the light speckles of stone-coloured blossom dotting the fields were slowly becoming full-blown lacy drifts, and the grass was coming through, lush and green.
Suzy started pegging the washing out for the first time that year. The wet sheets billowed against her in the wind and she felt like generations of women, fighting and using the breeze to get the clothes dry. It was seven weeks after Easter, the traditional Whit weekend.
This year the religious festival had fallen a week earlier than the official Spring Bank Holiday, and the half-term holiday for the schools. When Suzy was small the bank holiday in May had always been called Whitsun and was a church and state holiday — and a nightmare to plan for because it was such a movable feast. Now the state holiday was fixed, and more evangelical Christians called the religious festival Pentecost, but Suzy preferred the old name. As a child she’d been taken to see the Whit walks in the Lancashire cotton towns where all the children wore white.
‘Whit’ came from hwita, the old English for white, referring to the white garments worn by newly baptized church members. The festival commemorated the time that the disciples of Jesus had received the Holy Spirit in the form of flames. It was the way the early Church had come to terms with the fact that Jesus himself was gone, but his influence lingered, and even grew. It fascinated Suzy to think about the way the early Christians had been literally inflamed with the excitement of their new philosophy.
Pity Nick Melling wasn’t as inspiring. She found his sermons simplistic and patronizing. She thought about Nick’s rivalry with Robert Clark. It was over five weeks since she had spoken to Robert and she would have liked to laugh with him at some of Nick’s banality. And rather than forgetting Phyllis’s death, she had pushed it out of her mind only to find it came back to her while she slept. In one dream, she had found a note from Phyllis in her own kitchen, asking who had cut her hand. Suzy had woken, sweating and scared. She had been fond of Phyllis and she remembered what Robert had said about wishing he had been kinder to her. There had been real regret in his voice. Would a man who had bullied and mutilated an elderly woman say that?
When Suzy finished pegging out the clothes she decided to make an apple pie. She was going through a domestic phase. A few weeks earlier, the producer of the series she was working on had told her they’d be coming off the air from May to September because the network was doing a special series on the national scourge of obesity instead.
‘It’s a good time to do it. People might try and get fit for summer,’ she had said. ‘Some women can’t even see their bikini line!’
Suzy had laughed, hollowly. It had been months since she’d even bothered to shave her legs. But a hiatus in her job was a depressing thought. At least for the time being, though, money wasn’t too much of a crisis. Nigel had been paying the mortgage since the move to Tarnfield, and she could keep living expenses down. But it meant Suzy was relying on the village for interest. She had managed to compartmentalize the worry about Phyllis and to get caught up in the Whitsun Festival, to her own surprise. And she had already started to plan some half-term activities too, for next week. As long as Jake didn’t keep lobbying to go joyriding with Matthew Bell, and Molly stayed pally with her new best friend, there was a chance the half-term break might be bearable.
After sorting out the washing, and making the pastry, feeling like a good old-fashioned mum, she looked at her watch. It was five o’clock and there had been no message to say where Jake was. He should be home from school. With relief, she heard his key in the door.
‘What time do you call this to come home?’ Suzy said, half pleased, half annoyed. She could hear her mother’s voice, shrill with relief, coming out of her own mouth. Jake was usually good about getting home from school, especially when she was at work and Sharon Strickland was holding the fort. Suzy had been getting on well with her son lately.
‘I went to Mr Clark’s. I thought you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Robert Clark’s?’ Suzy was taken off guard. ‘Well, I don’t know whether I mind or not. The point is, you didn’t tell me. Why did you go there?’
‘I saw him when I got off the bus. Actually . . .’ Jake looked a little bit sheepish, ‘I asked him if I could go and use his computer, ’cos he’s got some good software. And I wanted to ask him about this stuff I’ve got to do on some poet. Yeah, Geoffrey Chaucer. It’s quite rude as a matter of fact.’ He guffawed in a particularly irritating way.
‘You asked him! Oh, Jake, I wish you hadn’t.’
‘Why not? A couple of weeks ago he was your new best mate!’
The pastry was sticking to the rolling pin. It was going to be a mess and already had a grey look. These bursts of domesticity usually coincided with some disappointment in her career, but this time that wasn’t all. She was unsure what had brought it on. She paused, her fingers coated with sticky mess.
‘You’d better get changed, Jake, and help me tidy the living room. Daisy’s coming over to discuss the finishing touches for Sunday’s decorations.’
The next day, Daisy and Suzy — and anyone else who wanted to help — would be dressing the church with the children’s efforts at paper flame making. They would add in the sunflowers, gerberas and thick bunches of anemones that Suzy and Monica had bought, for the swags down the big Gothic columns. They had worked well together recently, though Monica had seemed preoccupied. She was under some sort of family pressure, Suzy thought. The first time she called in at Suzy’s house to talk about the Whitsun decorations, she spent most of her time looking at the parquet floor. Then, quite suddenly, she had lightened up and now seemed almost her old self.
Suzy put her apology for a pie in the oven and shouted, ‘Supper’s at seven. Now, you two, get clearing up because Daisy will be here any minute.’
When Suzy opened the door, Molly ran to Daisy who picked her up and swung her round. Daisy was looking particularly attractive that evening. She had been over twice before to help with the decorations. Suzy liked Daisy and realized she was bright, though there was something febrile about her that was unsettling. Suzy put it down to religious fervour mixed with unrequited love. Whenever Nick Melling was mentioned Daisy would blush, and if Suzy ever mentioned church gossip she became defensive. She was a Melling loyalist, but her creed went deeper than a crush on the vicar. At one point, when they were cutting up huge swathes of orange wallpaper, Suzy had asked Daisy what she really believed.
‘It’s very simple,’ Daisy had said. ‘Jesus is the Way, the Truth and the Life. There’s no way to the Father but through him, and the Bible is his word.’
‘So do you believe everything in the Bible?’
‘Absolutely. Of course there are some
interpretations that vary. But if it’s the Word of God then it has to be accessible to everyone, doesn’t it? So it must mean what it says.’
‘But what about people who are born into Hindu or Muslim communities? Or Jews. Or African bush tribes. Aren’t they at a huge disadvantage? Why would God make it easy for someone in Tarnfield to believe and hard for someone in Africa?’
‘Africa has the fastest growing Christian population, Suzy. And knowing Jesus is so easy, being in another culture isn’t that much of a barrier. Haven’t you heard of those Chinese drug addicts who could be converted and speak in tongues within hours of hearing the Word?’
Drug addiction could do funny things to the brain, thought Suzy.
Daisy went on decisively, ‘I’m much more worried about people who have the chance to learn about Jesus, but go on to reject Him.’ She shuddered. I wonder if she thinks they’ll burn in hell? Suzy thought.
‘Where did you go to university, Daisy? And what did you do?’
‘I went to London. And I started reading English and then changed. It meant I was a bit older than the others.’
‘I did English too!’
The doorbell rang again, and Suzy heard Jake bounding downstairs. I hope it’s not Matthew Bell, she thought. Matthew’s influence over Jake was growing. Suzy thought it was pathetic, but Matthew seemed to take on all the pubescent males in Tarnfield to ensure a constant supply of admiring passengers in his boy racer car while Russell Simpson was in Newcastle. Suzy was on the verge of a downright ban on the Bellmobile, but so far circumstances had been in her favour and Jake hadn’t been able to join Matthew on his sprees.
She was relieved to hear Jake say, ‘Oh, please come in. It’s for you, Mum.’
It wasn’t Matthew Bell — but it was only marginally better. It was Yvonne Wait.
Yvonne smiled her Cheshire cat smile. ‘Hello, Suzy. Hello, Daisy! Nancy said I’d find you here. I want to talk to you about something. But it can wait a few minutes.’ She stood there, waiting to be invited to sit down, looking round with interest at Suzy’s furnishings.
Then her eye caught the Whitsun decorations. ‘Mmm. So is this what you’re doing for Sunday? Oh well. How’s it going?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ Suzy resented Yvonne’s superior managerial air. Daisy tried to hold up the yards of orange wallpaper.
Yvonne looked unimpressed. ‘Very loud, isn’t it! Last year I did something rather smart with clivia and witch hazel and a few sprays of pussy willow. Still, I suppose for children . . .’
She sighed, flopped on to Suzy’s sofa, then extricated Flowerbabe’s catnip toy from under her bottom and chucked it on the floor. Suzy thought, she’s settling in. I’d better offer her something.
‘Since it’s getting on for supper time, how about a drink?’ she suggested. ‘White wine?’
‘I don’t mind if I do,’ Yvonne smirked. ‘I don’t suppose you have Sancerre, do you?’
‘Just Pinot Grigio.’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Daisy, surprisingly. ‘What a great idea!’
Suzy hoped the wine would give Daisy a bit more confidence. She poured three generous glasses. It was a few days since she’d had a drink herself, and it went straight to her head. She wondered why Yvonne had turned up. Perhaps she thinks she’s got something on me now, like she has on Robert Clark, and on Stevie Nesbit too, she thought. Suzy remembered how Stevie had been pinned to the couch in the Bells’ living room with Yvonne hovering over him. Yuk.
But what could Yvonne possibly have on her? One of the advantages of telling everybody all your shortcomings, Suzy thought, was that you had no reputation to protect. Unlike poor Mary Clark, Mrs Perfect.
Then it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps Yvonne’s power over Robert wasn’t to do with him, but to do with Mary. For nearly two months, Suzy had let herself suspect that Robert had been having an affair with Yvonne after all. But looking at the woman as she sat there, sipping wine and sneering at the efforts she and Daisy were making, Suzy felt that couldn’t be true. The man who had talked so frankly about his love for his wife was hardly likely to be having a relationship with the village witch. Not every man was like Nigel.
Suzy thought for a moment and then said casually, ‘It must have been very different at All Saints when Mary Clark was alive?’
‘Too right,’ Yvonne said languidly.
‘More wine?’ Suzy offered.
‘Oh, why not,’ said Yvonne graciously. ‘This isn’t too bad for plonk.’ Suzy bit her tongue and offered Yvonne a generous top-up. Yvonne knocked a good half of it back.
‘How did you get things done with Mary in charge?’
‘Oh, with difficulty!’ Yvonne purred happily. It was always fun to indulge in a little character assassination before supper. ‘No one else got a look-in. Mary Clark had the whole parish sewn up. Flowers, Bible study, choir . . . She was Superwoman. Looked like the back of a bus of course, though I have to say she did have the occasional smart outfit, not like poor Monica, or Jane with her glad rags. Or should I say, sad rags!’ Yvonne laughed like sandpaper on glass. It put Suzy’s teeth on edge.
‘I thought Mary was very kind,’ Daisy said breathily. ‘She and Phyllis used to run the Sunday School when I was little.’
‘Oh God, yes. Mary would love brainwashing the kiddies. They couldn’t answer back!’ Yvonne laughed again.
‘Telling people about Jesus isn’t brainwashing,’ Daisy said, with a sudden burst of bravery. Then she seemed to cave in a little. ‘But like Kevin says, I don’t think Mary or Robert had a real experience of the Lord. I mean, they were good people and churchgoers and everything but Kevin says he doesn’t know if they had real commitment.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ whinnied Yvonne, ‘that’s ridiculous, Daisy. You shouldn’t listen to Kevin Jones. All this “born again” stuff is just embarrassing nonsense.’
‘But if you haven’t got real religious commitment, then why work so hard for the church?’ Suzy asked.
It was a question she regularly put to herself. Why do I do this? The only answer she could find was that Tarnfield wasn’t exactly full of alternative entertainment. But that wasn’t all. There was something about being involved with All Saints that satisfied her more than it irritated her, though it irritated her too, for sure. But I certainly haven’t got Daisy or Kevin’s faith, she thought.
‘Well, I do it because I just love to see the church looking beautiful,’ said Yvonne. ‘And of course a well-kept, well-run church is an asset to any community. Heaven knows what would happen to property values round here if the church was turned into a tile warehouse or something.’ She shuddered.
‘But what about Mary Clark? If, as Daisy says, she wasn’t “born again”, why was she so keen?’
‘Oh, Suzy,’ Yvonne took a final gulp from her glass and turned her eyes to heaven, ‘don’t you know?’
‘Know what?’
Daisy stood up suddenly and dropped the scissors. ‘Don’t do this, Yvonne,’ she said tensely. ‘You really shouldn’t say things about people behind their backs. You’ve no proof.’
‘But there you are!’ Yvonne stood up too, as if in triumph. ‘The very fact that you know exactly what I’m going to say, Daisy, means it’s common knowledge. Why shouldn’t Suzy know too?’
‘Because it’s wrong to spread rumours.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a silly little cow.’ Yvonne’s laugh was scornful this time. ‘It was so obvious anyway. Obvious to everyone except Robert of course. Though in the end, even he could see — once I mentioned it, of course.’
‘What was obvious, Yvonne?’ Suzy asked.
‘Even an incomer like you should have seen the signs!’ She laughed with a scoffing sort of sound. ‘Mary Clark and George Pattinson were having an affair!’
‘You mustn’t say things like that, Yvonne. You don’t know.’
‘Daisy, you’d be amazed what I know. Which, as a matter of fact, is why I came to find you tonight. I really do need to t
alk to you. Now, preferably.’
Yvonne was totally assured and in command. She gave Daisy a long, knowing look. Then she said, ‘Thanks for the wine, Suzy. We’d better go. Daisy and I have things to discuss. And it seems as if you’ve finished with those paper things.’ She looked down at the decorations, and sniffed. Daisy started to gather her belongings together. ‘I’ll get there a bit early tomorrow,’ she said apologetically to Suzy. ‘I’ll leave Lo-cost at lunchtime and take some stuff from the shop, for the children.’
Suzy could hardly wait to shut the door on them before sinking into the sofa. So that was what it was all about. Mary Clark and George Pattinson had been having an affair. No wonder the vicar had had a breakdown when Mary died. So that was why he had been consigned to extended sick leave, and alienated from his former flock. She drained her own glass. Well, well, well. That explained what they’d been doing in the church that Thursday afternoon. But she didn’t have time to think any more about it. Jake came thundering down the stairs.
‘Yuk,’ he said. ‘What’s that disgusting stink?’ Oh God. Now he’d pointed it out, there was no mistaking it. Yvonne’s lingering perfume was mingling with the smell of burning pie.
After dinner Suzy flung the sticky mess into the dustbin and opened a carton of ice cream instead. She let Jake have three helpings because her mind was somewhere else. George and Mary? Had that been what Robert was going to tell her that evening at The Briars? That his wife had been bonking the vicar? Perhaps all Robert had wanted to do was tell Suzy what everyone else knew, that George Pattinson and Mary had been some sort of unspoken ‘item’.
So why would he want her to know? Perhaps because, as Yvonne said, it was ‘common knowledge’. So if she and Robert were supposed to be working together to find out who’d injured Phyllis, Suzy needed to know too.
Then something else struck Suzy. If Mary’s infidelity was as well known as Yvonne said, Phyllis would have known about it for ages. There would be no reason for Robert to suddenly attack her.