The Chorister at the Abbey

by Lis Howell

  Chloe had walked into the rectory looking perfectly composed and unusually calm. First, she had unwound her scarf to reveal a new, uncharacteristically shorn haircut. And then she had announced with complete conviction that she wasn’t going back to university – ever!

  20

  Like as the hart desireth the water-brooks, so longeth my soul after thee, O God. Psalm 42:1

  David Johnstone hurriedly pushed his papers to one side as his wife came clattering into the room.

  ‘Do you have to frighten the living daylights out of me?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I’m sure. What do you want me to do? Knock in my own house?’

  ‘It wouldn’t do you any harm, busybodying around.’

  Must be this new grandchild – it had given her an exaggerated sense of her own importance.

  ‘David, I need some money. I’ve been invited down to Croydon to help do up the nursery. They say I can go as soon as the weather improves. I’d like to go.’ Her tone fluctuated between aggressive and wheedling. David Johnstone was unsure which annoyed him more.

  ‘I’ve told you, your place is here. I’m up to my neck in one of the most important deals of my career. I need clean shirts and meals made. I haven’t got time to look after myself while you gad about.’

  Thank goodness, he thought, that he held the purse strings. For a while, when they were first married, Pat had talked nonsense about joint accounts. But he ran the house like his father did. The breadwinner controlled the income and the wife was given the housekeeping money. And he made damn sure that there was no surplus for her to squirrel away.

  Recently though, he had made a smart move. Years ago he had made Pat open a little savings account. It wasn’t to be touched, he had said. They had left a few thousand quid in it. But a couple of weeks earlier he had dumped a very large sum of cash in there. Pat never checked on it or read the statements. He always opened her post. A man like himself, who wasn’t afraid of taking risks, had to make sure there was tidy sum put aside just in case, in someone else’s name. As long as Pat didn’t know about it, it was safe, and he would still be able to keep his hands on it. Even if she found out about it, he had too much of a hold over her for her to run off with the cash.

  His eyes went back to the photocopy he had in front of him. He wasn’t so sure now whether the original was all that important: the main thing was that it hadn’t turned up. If he could move fast, then he could get what he wanted. In the usual Johnstone style, fast footwork was what was needed, that and contacts. Reg Prout was going to come in handy, and of course the Dixons. It had been a wise move, jollying up to them at the Chorus.

  Pat shouted: ‘There’s something at the door for you, David. Parcel. You’ve got to sign for it.’

  Bloody hell. He pushed his chair to one side and stomped through the hall.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A delivery man. He must have gone down the drive . . .’

  Johnstone strode off, increasingly furious. His wife sidled into his office, duster in hand, and tried to make out what the document was that David had been reading. It looked like some flowery dedication from a sort of Gothic name all intertwined with flowers. The only letter she could make out was a giant Q because it reminded her of James Bond. On a piece of paper underneath it was an interesting valuation for the bungalow on the hill at Fellside. She wasn’t sure what to make of the information, but before she could dust the computer she heard him coming back into the house.

  ‘I couldn’t find any bloody delivery man. What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, that’s funny. He didn’t mention you by name. He just said, “It’s for your husband.” Maybe he really wanted the people next door!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Thick old bat! You should have asked the man who he really wanted! Idiot!’

  Pat went on polishing the mirror in the hall, smiling to herself. There had been no parcel, of course, but she now had a little package of knowledge for herself!

  Winter lingered miserably in the Norbridge area. The searing cold of January soon melted into continual dreary rain. Alex Gibson thought she could scarcely remember a more monochrome season – grey day followed grey day. She was keeping her head down, scurrying into the fug of her office and hurrying out to the car park, making sure other people delivered cheques and expenses around the college. Always a perfectionist and hard worker, asking people to do this made her more communicable. She seemed nicer. Those of her colleagues who noticed the change in her put it down to the drama of finding a dead man in the corridor. Alex seemed to be someone who rose to the occasion.

  They also thought the shock perhaps explained her weight loss. Alex was aware her clothes were looser, but she was concentrating on stopping drinking and repairing the bungalow, rather than on her figure. The Chorus rehearsal, and the orange juice in the pub afterwards with Edwin, was a highlight of each week.

  Then one morning she received a business letter which astonished her. It would probably come to nothing, she thought, putting it in her dressing-gown pocket. But you never knew . . .

  It encouraged her to maintain her new hair colour with some tint she bought at Uplands store. While she was there, she noticed Norma Little was back behind the till. But she said nothing to her. The Frost boys were remanded in custody, and Morris’s body had been released for burial. Alex hadn’t gone to the funeral, but everyone had talked about it at the Chorus practice. It had been a very quiet affair, not what Morris Little would have wanted at all. But Norma now went through life grim-lipped and silent, serving at the shop with manic intensity as if she might pull a gun on anyone who argued, and the funeral reflected her anger with the world.

  Edwin Armstrong called Alex once or twice each week, as well as enjoying their regular drinks after the Chorus practice. He seemed to value her thoughts.

  ‘Freddie says he’ll have a go at those bass solos,’ he had said on the phone one Monday night.

  ‘That’s great!’ Alex loved the Chorus practices, but she made sure she arrived at the last minute, staying at the back next to the warbling Pat Johnstone. There was no way she was making eye contact with Robert Clark again. But in any event, he was missing at most rehearsals.

  Freddie Fabrikant was over the moon at being asked to be the bass soloist. He started playing Stainer’s Crucifixion very loudly in the tiny cottage, and singing along.

  ‘For God’s sake stop that noise,’ Wanda would shriek at him. She found the congregational hymn music embarrassing. She longed for the days when he played Ozzie Osborne at maximum decibels. ‘I thought you had famously good hearing. Why do you need to play this droning crap so loud? It’s just ordinary people, for God’s sake!’

  ‘What was that? I can’t hear you!’ Freddie would guffaw at his own joke. It was a relief to her when he donned his huge cycle cape and rode off in the dark for a practice at the Abbey or a jam session at Fellside Fellowship. Wanda was glad to see the back of him. She was trying to write a piece for Music Today on Messiaen’s relationship to rap. All this amateur church music-making was so provincial. She couldn’t believe she had actually socialized with vicars’ wives!

  In Uplands, the Cliffords were coming to terms with the fact that Chloe had refused to return to Leeds University. They had driven over to Yorkshire without her to talk to her tutor, who seemed to have some difficulty recollecting her. Her room in the hall of residence was pathetically normal. Lynn was moved to tears by the tawdry bits of jewellery and tatty posters, and could hardly bear to collect the few belongings which Chloe had demanded they brought home. Yes, Chloe was going through a difficult patch, her tutor nodded sagely, but it wasn’t unusual. Many undergraduates panicked. It was possible she might be able to catch up on the work she had missed thanks to e-learning and email, and if the worst came to the worst she could retake the year, no problem.

  But it is a problem, Lynn heard herself shouting at this smug man in his jeans and earring. My daughter is suffering.

  ‘Counselling?’ he suggested. />
  ‘Get stuffed!’ Chloe said to them when they got home, with a hint of her old spark. ‘I’m all right. I’ve got plenty of people to talk to. Just give me a bit of space.’ Later she was on the phone for over an hour, in her bedroom. To Poppy? Lynn wondered. Or maybe Tom Firth?

  The next day, Lynn noticed that Chloe was calm again. It was quieter in the house as a result, but she felt her real daughter was hiding somewhere. Chloe wouldn’t be drawn – she just smiled remotely. Then Lynn was distracted by a sudden row on the parochial church council about the ‘Lenten array’ which would be used in a few weeks’ time. Some people objected to the altar cloth, which showed a brutal hammer, nails and whip, appliquéd in red and black on the ivory background. It was traditionally used at Uplands Parish Church. It frightened the kids, some said. But crucifixion is frightening, Lynn thought. Sorting out a compromise was absorbing a lot of Neil’s attention, and hers too.

  Ash Wednesday was less than a month away.

  David Johnstone was enjoying the winter. Darker evenings meant his trips to his woman friend in Fellside were more likely to be unnoticed. This time of year was always a quiet time in property, when he would work out his strategies. He chatted to the weasel-like Brian Dixon one night after the Chorus about his plans for Fellside Leisure. It meant a big investment in the area, but Brian had been all for it and had offered to get the Johnstones an invite to Lord Cleaverthorpe’s place – just on a social level.

  He needed to get the bungalow too, of course. That was crucial. It was a pity baldy Reg’s drunken sister-in-law had turned out to be tougher than he’d expected. But joining the Chorus had been a good move, he thought happily. He could keep tabs on her there, and the other contacts were worth having. He quite fancied one of the sopranos. And he liked eyeing up plump little Chloe Clifford who’d been trailing along after her mother. Young ones were much more fun than some of these older, so-called sophisticated types. He felt sorry for Robert Clark, with that TV producer.

  Suzy and Robert rubbed along domestically, but that was about all. The closeness was gone. Robert was evasive, and she found that she was nervous of discussing things. Anyway, there wasn’t much time for talking. Every Saturday there was a new reason to drive to Nigel’s, who found his wife and children much more interesting now his girlfriend was off the scene. And on Sundays she took Molly to Sunday School in Tarnfield, and later drove Jake to Fellside Fellowship to rehearse and play at the rock service. His mate Ollie went with them to play drums. At least she got to chat to Mark Wilson. In the week, her work was hectic. Geordies in Space was doing surprisingly well and they needed to record a few ‘specials’ with north-east celebrities. On one of the rare occasions she and Robert found themselves at home on their own, a row had flared from nowhere.

  ‘I’ve taken that rug Molly spilt glue on to the cleaners.’

  ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have bothered, Suzy. It hardly showed.’

  ‘But it was one which Mary made herself. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘I know. She was really good at that sort of thing. But we can’t expect a child to keep it pristine. And it’s not Mary’s house any more.’

  ‘You sound like you regret it, Robert. Was that what you meant before Christmas when you said, “Mary’s dead,” in that tone of voice?’

  ‘No! It was just a point of fact.’

  ‘But if Mary were alive then we wouldn’t be together.’

  ‘She’s not alive, Suzy. She died. I can’t say I would have left her for you, because I wouldn’t.’

  I stayed with Mary and it wasn’t always easy, he was thinking. These days his conscience was pricking him more and more. I did some wrong things – but I stayed, he told himself. I really did do my best.

  ‘Oh, and because now I’m abandoning Nigel I’m not as good as you. Mr Perfect stayed the course! You’re so flaming sanctimonious!’

  ‘No, Suzy, that’s not what I meant . . .’

  But she had gone and slammed the door.

  21

  Let it be unto him as the cloke that he hath upon him . . . Psalm 109:18

  Suzy had arranged to meet Lynn Clifford for coffee again. The part-time contract at Tynedale TV gave her some time during the day while the children were at school, though the erratic shift pattern meant she felt unsettled. But it was good to talk to Lynn. They were in the coffee shop at McCrae’s, which was tucked in a corner of the lingerie section, cordoned off and furnished with tiny metal tables.

  ‘Chloe’s rather better, I think.’ Lynn leant forward confidingly. ‘She stays in a lot but she’s been out once or twice this week to meet a friend. She’s still very quiet and dresses very sloppily, but maybe that’s no bad thing.’ Lynn was smiling, but Suzy could pick up a hint of concern. People don’t change so dramatically, she thought, but there was no way she would puncture Lynn’s fragile happiness.

  ‘I’m glad. Will Chloe be going back to university?’

  ‘I hope so. I think the real problem was that it was all too much too soon after living in a little place like Norbridge.’

  ‘Maybe she should defer for a year. She could try travelling, or maybe working somewhere.’

  Lynn shook her head. ‘Neil thinks she should get over this and get back to normal as soon as possible.’

  ‘Men want things “back to normal” as soon as possible because that means that they’re in control.’

  Lynn looked at Suzy sharply. What was wrong there?

  ‘Oh, Neil’s not like that,’ she said vaguely.

  But later, when she got home, it made Lynn wonder if her husband was perhaps being a little intolerant. Neil had been tired lately. The Lenten altar cloth argument had drained him. It seemed trivial but was brewing into a local schism. And Paul and Jenny Whinfell at Fellside seemed to be going through a difficult phase, which had meant long phone conversations for several evenings running. It was lucky that Paul had Mark Wilson as such a steadfast supporter, Lynn thought. According to Neil, Mark was doing more and more of the routine parish chores.

  Paul had confided to Neil, who was his boss in the hierarchy, that Jenny seemed unhappy and uncommunicative.

  ‘I think she’s angry, Neil. But I don’t know why. Everything’s fine.’

  To Neil, most personal issues boiled down to a crisis of faith.

  ‘Why not start a Bible study course?’ he said. ‘You could relate it to Lent, but you don’t have to wait for Ash Wednesday. Get cracking now. Jenny could be a leader; it would do her good. And why not try looking at the Psalms? They would be interesting to Mark with his High Church leanings, but equally interesting to you and Jenny with your evangelical approach.’

  ‘But who would come to a Bible study course at Fellside? It’s not really what kids do. Would we get enough interested people at a mid-week session?’

  ‘You would if I didn’t do a Lent course at Uplands. I could encourage my parishioners to come to you. I’ll help you with the extra work, though with Jenny and Mark you’ve got a good team.’

  ‘That’s a thought. Thanks, Neil.’

  In fact it was a great idea, thought Paul. It would be meaty enough for all three of them to get their teeth into. He would publicize the course to everyone in the whole area. And he had his own reasons for feeling it would be particularly helpful. How significant that Neil should mention the Psalms! Then he put the phone down and guiltily tapped into ancestry.co.uk.

  * * *

  The following Monday, Edwin Armstrong arrived home at about six o’clock. The phone was already ringing as he got out of the car, which he parked outside his small cottage on the road between Uplands and Fellside.

  ‘Hello?’ He expected it to be someone selling him financial services, but the rasping voice at the other end was distinctly local.

  ‘Is that Edwin? From the Abbey Chorus?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘It’s Norma Little here. Morris’s wife.’

  ‘How are you, Norma?’

  ‘How d’you think?’ Her smoker’s voic
e rattled irritably. ‘Never mind all that. There’s stuff here I want you to look at. Music stuff. You know. Morris wanted to talk to you about it.’

  Edwin’s heart sank. He imagined piles of dusty scores and sticky old-fashioned cassette covers. Morris had been the sort of person to keep everything. ‘What sort of thing do you have?’ he asked guardedly.

  ‘All sorts. But that’s not the point. I want you to have a look at the stuff on his computer. I’m not good at technology and my children just keep trying to stop me. They think it will upset me.’

  ‘What are you getting at, Norma?’ Edwin knew his own voice was sharpening. This wasn’t a routine call by the bereaved.

  ‘My husband was doing some research. I know you all thought Morris was a pain, but he knew what he was talking about. He wanted to talk to you about it.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. You should look at his work.’

  Edwin suddenly felt guilty. No one from the Chorus except Robert had really bothered to talk to Norma. The funeral, once the body had been released, had been a very utilitarian affair and Edwin had wondered at the time why Norma was so tense and fierce. Perhaps she felt there was unfinished business.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re right. Morris was a first-class researcher.’

  She sniffed, happier. ‘I think you should come over to the shop sometime this week. What about Thursday night? I’m finishing at six that night, and my daughter’s taking over.’

  It wouldn’t harm him to be sympathetic. And there was still a lot about Morris’s death that seemed peculiar.

  ‘Maybe I can have a look at Morris’s psalter at the same time?’ he suggested.

  ‘Salter? What do you mean, salter? Is it something to do with the grocery side?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. It’s a sort of music book for singing psalms. Apparently Morris had rather a nice copy. It was with him when . . . when he died.’