by Lis Howell
Lynn smiled softly. ‘Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, I’m not knocking what you and Neil do. But isn’t Chloe, well, a bit extreme? She’s very intense about it, isn’t she? I mean, aren’t you just the tiniest bit worried?’
To Suzy’s horror Lynn’s face crumpled as if she was going to burst into tears, but she recovered herself. ‘Suzy, I have faith in God. Neil and I realize that Chloe is going through an odd phase. But we believe that if we pray about it, we’ll be given understanding.’
‘Yes, well, I often think that if God had meant us just to pray about things he wouldn’t have given us legs!’
Lynn laughed. ‘But in this case, Suzy, I don’t know what else we can do! I’m just grateful that Chloe came home and didn’t go through all this in Leeds, away from us. And I’m there a lot more for her. She may not realize it, but I’m ready when she is. She’ll come round, I know she will.’
I hope so, Suzy thought.
At what was now officially the Lent Course at Fellside Fellowship the next evening, Suzy sat with Lynn and Alex, while Chloe was in the front row looking devotedly at Paul and Jenny. Suzy noticed that, this week, Jenny had a prettier version of Chloe’s shapeless headscarf. Jenny’s cropped wavy hair poked out from under it in short pretty curls, and she had chosen a striking blue colour. These scarves must be a new fashion, Suzy thought. She made a mental note to catch up with the latest celebrity trends. Maybe we’re all supposed to be into Soviet chic, she thought.
She found that she was looking round the room, rather than concentrating on Jenny’s analysis of Psalm 71. It was tedious stuff, but Jenny actually smiled once or twice and glanced adoringly at her husband. The only other new development was that Mark Wilson was off on a Norbridge Council away-day, and Freddie Fabrikant had been brought to the meeting by Wanda, who had pushed his wheelchair in, taken one look at the assembled company, and disappeared faster than you could say Dimitri Shostakovich.
Could Freddie have been involved in Morris’s murder? He was certainly big enough to smack somebody effectively, and he might not know his own strength. But wasn’t Paul a more likely candidate? There was something rather neurotic about him, Suzy thought, though she knew that these days she was always suspicious of clergymen. She thought they were all inclined to be excessive and egotistical, while she expected women priests to show common sense and understanding. It was irrational, Suzy knew, but not entirely. The few women priests she had known had all been sensible, kindly and inclusive, whereas the men . . . Although she had to concede that Neil Clifford seemed OK.
But what about women murderers? It could have been a lucky blow which finished off Morris. Jenny certainly seemed passionate enough to take things to extremes. She was coldly distant with Suzy and had a resentful manner when dealing with other women. Maybe she disliked her husband’s being wrapped up in genealogical research and had taken this out on Morris. Unlikely, though. Pat Johnstone was at the Bible study meeting, too and, from what Alex had said, Pat was calculating enough to have a go at anyone who stood in her way. Even Alex could have done the murder. She was strong enough and she had no alibi either. She had mentioned how much she disliked Morris Little for his nasty remarks about her drinking.
‘And now for our final prayer,’ Paul said, and Suzy snapped back from her imaginings.
Then they filtered out into the night, and she drove home to find that some of the work Robert had done on the garage door had collapsed. There was muck all over the hall floor, which he had walked in after going outside to do emergency repairs.
The Briars seemed rather sad, she thought. One of the light bulbs had gone in the hall and the old mahogany staircase looked shadowy and gloomy as a result. The living room, where they’d had so many lovely fires in the depths of winter, now had a blind black dusty socket where the glowing flames should be, and smelt of cold ash. She noticed how grey the paintwork looked. And the cat had trodden dirty little paw-prints over the cream easy chair, one of the few nice things she had brought from her own home.
Poor house! she thought. The Briars was a lovely place but it certainly needed some attention. She thought again about Robert’s suggestion that they should find something of their own. If they were going to sell it they would need to do some work. And it made sense. But somehow she didn’t feel the enthusiasm for the idea that she would have expected.
Robert was in the kitchen putting his tools away. ‘Bloody door!’ he said.
Suzy laughed. It was nice to hear Robert getting cross, something he usually left to her. She went over to him and gave him a hug.
* * *
A few evenings later, Alex couldn’t sleep. She got up at one o’clock in the morning and pushed her feet into her slippers. She pattered next door into her kitchen which, like her bedroom, had a view over the fell to where it drooped into the quarry.
She made a cup of tea and stood looking out of the window. The back of the house was bleak. There was nothing between it and Norbridge. The bungalow stood alone on the ridge.
As Alex watched, she saw something which at first she couldn’t place and then she realized it was only a light, on the hill to her left. Was it poachers? she wondered. Or a car? But there was only one source and it wasn’t moving. She blinked, and then it had gone. Funny, she thought. It looked as if it was coming from the old convent. But then again, it might have been her imagination. Or a spaceship coming to turn them all into aliens. Alex was getting tired of constant speculation. The Little murder just went round and round in circles in her head. Like the others, she felt the Frosts might have been wrongly accused, but Alex had a tougher attitude. The boys had done little to help themselves and by confessing, at least to start with, they had given the police every reason to haul them in.
The Frosts were typical of a lot of families, she thought. A teenage unmarried mother from a bad background has one child and then teams up with a series of other men to produce a drug-ridden brood. Except that there was some confusion about how many siblings the lovely Marilyn actually had. She and Edwin had an unspoken moratorium on discussing the matter in detail, and, though she picked up the odd detail, she still hadn’t quite worked out who Marilyn’s sisters were.
Though she didn’t want to do so, she found herself thinking about it again. It was odd that Marilyn hadn’t visited her brothers earlier. What had Edwin said? – that she hadn’t been allowed to. But that was nonsense, wasn’t it? The Frost boys weren’t in solitary confinement!
And why was Marilyn so loath to come back to Norbridge? If my sister were remanded in custody you wouldn’t be able to keep me away, Alex thought, but then the very idea of fifty-year-old Chris being in trouble with the police was really quite funny. Unless you knew Pat Johnstone. Now there was an older woman who was capable of crime. Alex shuddered.
She left the window and the cold dark stretch of countryside beyond, and went back to the snugness of her bedroom. She tried reading for a while, but all her thoughts and fears about Marilyn Frost went round in her head.
And then a thought dropped into her brain from nowhere. She lay stock still. No, don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. She shut her eyes and willed herself to sleep.
Edwin usually found this part of the year unbearable. He was deeply frustrated about not being able to find out more about Quaile Woods’ music, but agreed with Alex that they had to wait. If the police started investigating again, maybe more information about Morris’s research would come out. Or maybe Robert would find out more from Norma.
The weather was windy and wet, but he and Alex went to a few really good concerts. And one day they both sneaked away and had a wonderful walk around Derwentwater, with tea at Watendlath.
He spent extra evenings practising with Tom Firth, whose voice was developing a rich powerful timbre despite his age. Tom, so gauche and non-committal in speech, was gifted in song.
And he visited Freddie several times. Each time, he got the impression that Freddie wanted to unburden himself
about something. And he was also aware of the big man’s pent-up power. Wanda would open the front door and look at Edwin as if he had emerged from under a stone; then she would take herself off upstairs from where he could hear the sound of her computer keyboard clacking. He knew she was working on some learned article.
He also found time to visit his solicitor friend and ask him about the convent. ‘Oh, that’s a well-known local mess,’ his friend said genially. ‘The nuns were a one-off order, totally independent. There were quite a few like that in the nineteenth century, most of them in the south of England. This order lasted longer than most because they mainly recruited local women and concentrated their efforts on the slums in Norbridge and the Fellside quarry workers and miners.’
‘That’s quite a geographical spread!’
‘Before they had a car, they had a house in Chapterhouse where they would stay overnight, and put up the fallen women they rescued. But that was a little terraced place which was sold about twenty years ago. They had the deeds to that one. But they never had any deeds to the big convent. They claimed old Cleaverthorpe had given it to his daughter, but there’s no record of it.’
‘What do the Cleaverthorpes say?’
‘Not much. Old Cleaverthorpe isn’t very interested. Rumour has it that the Cleaverthorpes gave it to someone who held it on the nuns’ behalf anyway. There was no need for title deeds because it was built by Cleaverthorpe on Cleaverthorpe land. On top of that, women weren’t considered to be up to property owning, especially if they were supposed to be praying and doing good works!’ The solicitor laughed. ‘I wish my wife would try it instead of shopping. Anyway, the convent isn’t worth much, especially if the local history people push for it to be listed and what-have-you, though I gather that’s off the boil now. It would be much more desirable to developers if it could be demolished or rebuilt.’
‘What would it take for that to happen?’
‘Oh, if the neighbours found it was a hazard to them. Broken drains or falling masonry, that sort of thing. But there aren’t any neighbours if I remember rightly. Oh, yes, that tatty bungalow on the hill. But I don’t know who lives there.’
I do, Edwin thought. So that was David Johnstone’s end game. Hadn’t Alex said that Reg and Christine Prout had talked about a possible leisure development? It wasn’t the bungalow David was after. That was just a sprat to catch a mackerel. He had really been after the convent.
‘Thanks a lot,’ Edwin said.
‘No bother,’ said his friend. ‘And by the way, whatever happened to that lovely girlfriend of yours? Marilyn, wasn’t it?’
‘Don’t ask,’ Edwin said, and he meant it.
41
Such knowledge is too wonderful and excellent for me; I cannot attain unto it. Psalm 139:5
In the week before Mother’s Day the weather did one of those sudden reverses which characterize early spring. Icy showers of hailstones swept into Norbridge like advancing Border reivers. In Tarnfield a sudden flurry of tiny snowflakes settled for an hour on the few hardy daffodils which were poking their heads above the earth.
For some reason Suzy felt she had to do a big clean-up at The Briars for Marilyn Frost’s visit. She started the day before. As usual she had sent her mother a bouquet, and she tried to ignore Molly’s messy attempts to paint her own card as a surprise, but Mother’s Day was on her mind.
It should really be named Mothering Sunday, she thought, as Edwin had called it. It was the traditional break in Lent, when visits home were allowed for apprentices who were indentured away from their families. In some areas the mothers had baked large spicy simnel cakes, with heavy marzipan icing and eleven marzipan balls around the edge, representing Jesus’s disciples – without Judas, the baddie who betrayed him. They hadn’t been common in Manchester, but Suzy had seen them with delight in bakers in Carlisle and Norbridge.
‘I don’t know why I’m bothering!’ she shouted to Robert as she hoovered round him. ‘I’m treating Marilyn’s visit like royalty!’
In Uplands Parish the children were always given tiny bouquets at church for Mothering Sunday. There were nearly a hundred children, and making up the little posies was time- consuming. Lynn usually did it along with one or two of the other mothers in the parish, but this year Chloe insisted on helping, torturing the flower stems and heaving sighs of quickly suppressed irritation when the flower heads fell off. Really, Lynn thought, it would have been quicker and more economical to do it herself! She had hoped that several hours spent together on the task would make Chloe chattier. There were times when she felt they almost got there. After Chloe had spoilt her fourth posy, there was a moment when Lynn felt her daughter would suddenly explode, but instead Chloe put her head down and started again, not with real commitment but with a sort of melodramatic meekness.
On Sunday morning, Edwin phoned his mother and then went to communion at the Abbey. His religious faith was so bound up in music and tradition that he was sometimes unsure if it was really there. Alex, he knew, was into church history and singing, but had no belief in God. That didn’t matter, he thought. We all get there in our own time. Or God’s time, anyway. And some of us were much, much faster than others.
He ate lunch by himself in a pub in Carlisle and then went to meet Marilyn from the train. For once it was early, and she was standing outside the station in the wintry sunshine. She was a little bit plumper, but she still looked very much as she had done the last time he had seen her. His heart didn’t lurch, and though he felt slightly nervous of her, he couldn’t have felt less romantic. Marilyn had a new, more confident, slightly earthy timbre to her voice and had acquired a flatter Midlands accent. She was oblivious of the stares she got, and strode over to meet him.
‘Hi, Edwin,’ she said, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘The train got in ten minutes before time. Astonishing.’
She got into his car, and smiled at him. ‘I’m staying in Keswick tonight and going to see the boys tomorrow morning. It’s going to be a shock on both sides, I’m afraid. What time are we meeting your friends?’
‘Three o’clock.’
‘Oh, then can we go on a little tour on the way? I’d love you to drive through Chapterhouse. And could we go via Fellside? It would be great to see the place again. It’s good to be back!’
He drove her over to Norbridge, hearing her exclaim at long forgotten landmarks. In the town, Marilyn even saw one or two people she thought she remembered – an elderly man walking a dog who was perhaps once her teacher, and a woman who looked like a neighbour. Marilyn was easy to talk to, Edwin thought, but not easy to reach. He suddenly missed the closer, more human contact that he had with Alex, with all her doubts and fears. They drove through the town, taking in the Chapterhouse estate, and then headed west to Fellside. The industrial village looked almost pretty in the clear sunshine, with the fells frosted with snow on the tops, and the occasional burst of daffodils. As they drove down the main street, he saw Rev Paul and Mark Wilson walking ahead of them with a group of kids and parishioners, on their way to St Luke’s. He remembered Suzy saying there was a rock band practice that afternoon.
‘Who are those people?’ Marilyn asked.
‘The trendy vicar at Fellside Fellowship and his coterie. Why d’you ask?’
‘I thought I recognized someone, but I can’t put my finger on it.’
The mind plays tricks on you when you revisit a place, Edwin thought. As they grew nearer to Tarnfield, Marilyn became chattier. She’s bracing herself for this, Edwin thought. It can’t be easy.
He bumped down the dirt lane towards The Briars and pulled up in front of the house. Marilyn opened the door, sweeping up her long skirts.
‘You don’t need to help me out of the car,’ she said. ‘I’m getting used to it.’
Suzy heard the car as she came into the front room of The Briars.
‘They’re here, Rob,’ she called. ‘Will you open the door?’
Alex was already in the front room, her hand stretched to take
the coffee that Suzy was offering. But Suzy had stopped, with the tray on a dangerous slant. She was looking out of the window at the visitors, transfixed.
‘What is it?’ Alex asked.
But Suzy just turned back to her, eyes huge with astonishment. They heard Robert, for once fazed, say, ‘Oh! Well . . . er . . . do come in. I’ll take your coat, Edwin. Go straight into the front room, er . . ..’
Alex knew then that her mad idea had been right. She took a deep breath and got up to greet the famous Marilyn Frost. She knew she was the only one of them who was prepared for this.
‘Hello, Sister,’ she said.
Later that night, Suzy snuggled up to Robert. Their guests had stayed till late because there had been so much to discuss. And after they’d left, Jake had come home after a long rehearsal session, demanding to talk about the band. They were practising something special and exciting for Easter Sunday; Robert and Suzy would have to be there. Suzy caught Robert’s glance. After what they had been discussing that afternoon, Jake’s involvement with Fellside Fellowship was worrying.
‘So what did you make of our new friend the nun?’ Suzy asked Robert once they were alone in bed. ‘Were you surprised?’
‘Astonished! I would never have recognized her. Of course she was still beautiful, but with her hair under that veil, and having put on some weight, she looked very different.’
‘She’s not a full nun, is she?’
‘No. She told us about that when you were making tea. She said she felt called when she was in her early twenties after Edwin started taking her to church. But these days the average age for postulants is about forty. Marilyn had to work for a further six or seven years before they’d even discuss it with her.’
‘And what stage is she at now?’
‘She’s a novice. She wears the habit but she’s not been accepted for life yet. They’ll make her stay a novice for a few years because she’s so young, relatively speaking, though she must be about thirty now. But she knows that this is her vocation.’