The Rectory

by Ivan B

  “I know you shouldn’t think ill of the dead, but have you ever thought that he might have bumped them off?”

  I almost forgot to turn round a bend, but she was right, I hadn’t considered it.

  “What about the tin trunks?”

  “Be a good smoke-screen, can you imagine the police finding that lot?”

  I drove towards Eastburgh and then wondered what I was doing, I pulled into a lay-by and slithered to a stop. I turned to face her.

  “Can’t believe it somehow, what sort of man would kill his own children?”

  She shrugged.

  “One who was besotted with Mari Mathu?”

  I had no answer to that so I changed tack.

  “Fancy a cream tea? I always have a cream tea after dinner with Millicent.”

  She made a face.

  “Not really, I think the cream would really be the last straw for my stomach, wouldn’t mind something like scrambled egg on toast.”

  My stomach rumbled in agreement and I headed off to the Captain’s Table on the Felburgh Promenade. In winter this café has a wonderful advantage, you can sit in sublime comfort while watching people being blow along the promenade and showered with salt laden spray, it somehow makes the meals that much more enjoyable.

  Now I’m a man of the world and I’ve taken out quite a few girls in my time. The liaisons have been at various places, clubs, pubs, cinemas and restaurants, and I’ve never felt at ease. It’s always been a case of ‘am I impressing her’ and ‘is this the right thing.’ So it was almost inevitable that the liaisons never came to anything. Roberta was the only one who came close; we went out for five months until I inadvertently fell into the middle of her families dining table that was already spread with Sunday lunch; somehow that was unforgivable. But eating with Yolande was different, I wasn’t setting out to impress and I could not see any female claws trying to get me into their clutches, so it was a relaxed easygoing affair. By the time we’d cleaned out plates we’d exhausted our conversation about Mr Grant and I broached another subject, one closer to home.

  “How’s your father, still gunning for my blood?”

  She smiled in her calm way.

  “He was a lot quieter when I left home, I’m not surprised you should have heard mum tear into him when we got home; I’ve never seen her so mad.”

  I watched a pair of teenage lovers walk hand in hand through a shower of spray and seem unconcerned about the whole thing. “I really am sorry about the trouble I caused you, if I’d known I’d have found some other way of giving you the money.”

  She shook her head.

  “It was my choice to tell my parents about the money, I knew how dad would react, I just didn’t expect it to make him that angry.”

  I waited, I knew there was more to come. Eventually, after sipping her tea she said softly.

  “It had to happen sometime. We’ve got our own vans, but it’s always been father and daughter. You know, father knows best and daughter does what she’s told. Funny thing is I’m better qualified these days than he is, but he’s never acknowledged the fact. Perhaps it was the devil in me telling him something I knew he wouldn’t like to prove that I’m an adult and worthy of being listened to.”

  I remembered my father and step mother and wished that they had cared; perhaps they did, but I had never noticed.

  “He seems awfully protective.”

  “He is and he isn’t. It’s woe betide for any customer that makes a pass at me, but he’d have been happy to let me do the prison job.”

  I digested this and decided that parents lived on another planet. She turned her brown eyes on me and caught me off guard.

  “What about your father, was he protective?”

  Normally I’d have run a million miles from talking about my family, but I was relaxed, I was with Yolande not a girl I was trying to impress; so I told her about my family. I fear I rather gave her the full run-down; the step-mother who thought I was a waste of space, the brother who thought I was to blame for his mother’s death, the father for whom I was a burden to be rid of as soon as practicable and my three step-siblings who knew I was out of favour with their mum and played on the fact at every opportunity. I left no stone unturned and no part of the sordid tale unsaid. Yolande just listened, she didn’t make sarcastic comments, didn’t interrupt and didn’t look disgusted; she just listened. It was rather cathartic and I wished I’d talked to someone like that before.

  We went from the Captain’s Table to St Marks as Yolande had to sing evensong in the choir. I’ve never been one for evensong, but that evening, in that church I felt at peace. However, peace was not on my mind as I went to drop Yolande off at home. She sat poised to slide out of the vehicle and said the words I had been dreading since we’d left church.

  “Want to come in for coffee?”

  Did I want to put my head in a noose, or in the lion’s mouth, or under a guillotine or perhaps all three at the same time? I think not. I tried for a way out, a coward’s way out.

  “Will your parents mind, I mean…”

  “You’ll have to face them sometime, why not now.”

  Of course I never asked why I had to face them sometime, but then joined up thinking that didn’t involve numbers was never my strong-point.

  Her parents proved to be as docile as domesticated mice and after a brief welcome they ushered me into their tiny lounge while Yolande went to make the coffee. I was just letting my heart-rate subside when her father strode into the room and closed the door. Sitting in the armchair I realised what a big man he was as he blocked the entire doorway with his shoulders. He didn’t say anything for a few heart-stopping seconds and then, much to my surprise talked like a man condemned.

  “Look,” he said huskily, “I rather think that Friday night I was out of order. Yolande is an adult and I’ve no right to try and control her life anymore. It just came as a bit of a shock; getting that much money from someone I thought was a complete stranger.”

  I realise, with horror, that he was apologising, I tried to be magnanimous.

  “Think nothing of it, you were just concerned that’s all.”

  He held out his hand an I shook it. He murmured softly.

  “And I’d better not come to the rectory unless Yolande asks for help.”

  I tried not to laugh and decided that Mrs Cranstone must have a hell of a tongue.

  “I understand.” I said solemnly.

  He went to open the door and added as he left.

  “I do hope that we can put this little incident behind us and that it won’t spoil our relationship,” and he was gone.

  I was still trying to figure out what relationship when Yolande returned with coffee and home-baked biscuits.

  Monday morning I was just considering dusting down Fiatimo when Yolande rang to tell me that the mail had arrived. She didn’t normally bother to tell me when my few pieces of mail came and I could hear an overtone to her voice that I didn’t recognise; it was almost like suppressed hysteria, hysteria of the funny kind that is. To humour her I walked up to the rectory and entered via the kitchen door, she called out from somewhere to say that it was in the lounge. I walked in and found six overstuffed mailbags sitting in the middle of the floor and three normal letters. Yolande appeared, as if by magic.

  “Fan-mail?” She enquired.

  I looked at the sacks.

  “No the Sword of Damocles.”

  She raised an eyebrow towards her blue woolen bobble-hat and I patted a sack.

  “You know me by now, somewhere in here is a letter that will whisk away my new found wealth and make me a penniless beggar.”

  She rubbed her nose on the back of her gloved hand.

  “Well don’t find it till you’ve paid me.”

  I looked at her attire, she looked like an Eskimo on a winter’s day.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Re-wiring your sump-pump; they say it’s going to snow and then rain, last thing I want is a flooded basement.
”

  Now that was joined up thinking.

  For the next fortnight we slipped into a routine. In the mornings I open the mail and tried to sort it out into an ever growing set of piles spread around the floor. In the afternoons I pulled in cables for Yolande and pulled out the old cables for Yolande. She insisted on that as she said that old cables both lead to confusion and temptation when you needed that little bit extra and there was no new cable available to tap into. By the end of the fortnight she had the burglar alarm installed on the downstairs doors and movement detectors in the downstairs rooms and basement. She had also finished the upstairs lighting and installed a couple of strip-lights in the loft. To say that I was impressed would be an understatement. Then, on the Friday afternoon, she broke the routine. I’d just finished the fifth mailbag when she looked round the lounge door.

  “Can I tempt you to some fish ‘n’ chips and take you to an antique shop.”

  I became suspicious.

  “Where?”

  “Aldeburgh.”

  I looked out of the window.

  “In this weather?”

  She gave me a winning smile.

  “He-Man has Land Rover.”

  So we locked the rectory with Yolande teaching me for the umpteenth time how to set the burglar alarm and we set out for Aldeburgh. Now there is no direct route from Eastburgh to Aldeburgh because of the river Alde, in fact there is really only one decent route into the place. So I had to drive to the A12 trunk road to turn North and then a few miles later leave it to make my way East and back towards the coast. Fortunately on the way there is an excellent Fish ‘n’ Chip shop and we ate and enjoyable meal of haddock and chips in the Rover. As we started to approach Aldeburgh it began to snow hard, but fortunately it wasn’t settling. However, it did make the Land Rover interesting to drive as the tiny windscreen wipers only had one speed and only left a tiny piece of bare glass in front of me to see through. Aldeburgh in the summer is a fine place, Aldeburgh in the winter is like a ghost town. As we pulled up outside a antique shop I turned to Yolande slightly mystified.

  “What are we looking at?”

  “A chandelier, if it is as good as they say it is it will look marvelous in your hallway.”

  I could hardly believe my ears, she’d had me drive for miles through blinding snow to look at a light fitting! However, before I could make a suitable retort she’d slipped out of the Rover and fought her way against the near horizontal snow into the antique shop. Once inside I felt glum; these are the sort of places I absolutely loath. Give me something new every time not somebody else’s cast offs. We made our way through the shop and out into a sort of store-room behind, tucked away in a corner was the chandelier hanging from the top of a four-poster crate. That is a crate with the sides missing, but the corner posts still in place. The chandelier was about two feet in diameter and I must admit that even in the dismal light of the back room it looked impressive. Yolande murmured that she thought that I had better see it before she added it to her monthly invoice. I nearly asked her if she wanted to show me all the light-bulbs she was going to buy as well. In the end I think I gave some sort of shrug.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because it costs £8000. You said you wanted something special for the hall.”

  Something special yes, something like a giant light bulb or a set of hanging spotlights, but an £8000 chandelier? Was she insane?

  “Seems a bit extravagant for one light fitting doesn’t it?” I remarked carefully.

  She gave her bird-charming smile.

  “You want to sell the place when we’ve finished don’t you? Think of the impression this would make. It speaks of no penny spared, of a job well down, of a regal palace of… ”

  I held up my hands in surrender.

  “OK, OK, it’s only money.”

  Like magic a shop owner appeared, Yolande smiled at him and I swear I saw his pulse rate increase.

  “How much?”

  I’ll never understand women, she knew how much as she’d just told me. The shop owner smiled.

  “£8000 and worth every penny.”

  “No it isn’t,” replied Yolande, “The hook in the centre that it hangs on is cracking and opening up, see.”

  She pointed to the unfortunate hook and the shop owner raised an eyebrow.

  “Well it’s an antique, you have to accept some wear and tear.”

  She shrugged.

  “Makes it unusable, in fact you’ll be lucky if it doesn’t spread itself all over the floor one dark night.”

  He peered at the offending hook, doubt now in his eyes.

  “I guess it can be replaced.”

  She nodded.

  “But at a price. Tell you what I’ll give you £5000.”

  Now this I was beginning to enjoy as the expression on the owner’s face was a mixture of disbelief and effrontery. He shook his head.

  “I’d be making a loss, I might be persuaded to take £7500.”

  Yolande pushed the chandelier gently and the whole thing swayed and tinkled.

  “How long do you think you’ll have to store it before it goes, chandeliers this size don’t fit into the average home.

  “£5,250”

  He shook his head harder.

  “Couldn’t possibly. £7000.”

  Yolande gave a slight shrug and for a moment I thought she was about to walk away. She gave a sort of sway from side to side with her head and puckered her cheeks.

  “Tell you what, my colleague here will give you a cheque now for £5500 take it or leave it.”

  He knew how to accept defeat gracefully and took the cheque from me like a man who had lost the battle, but won the war. After she had taken the receipt from him she gave him a piece of paper.

  “Have it delivered here please.”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “But we don’t normally…”

  But Yolande wasn’t listening, she was already on her way out of the shop.

  Back in the Rover I shook my head in disbelief.

  “You just knocked him down by £2500.”

  “That’s because he’d overpriced it.”

  “How would you know? Is there a catalogue somewhere for used chandeliers?”

  She laughed.

  “No, it was up for auction last week at some mansion in Norfolk and I was going to put in a telephone bid, but this chappie bought it for £5000 before it went under the hammer. He pinched it from right under my nose.”

  I began to get suspicious.

  “And is the hook faulty?”

  “Oh yes, it definitely needs replacing.”

  I almost groaned at the expense to come.

  “How much?”

  She grinned.

  “About £5 if you want the job done properly.”

  We both burst out laughing and I turned the Rover round and headed for home. Not that we got anywhere near that far as just after we had passed the golf course on the way out a policeman flagged us down. I opened the window enough to talk to him, he already looked like a polar bear.

  “Sorry sir,” he said politely, “roads closed.”

  “Closed? We only came down it less than an hour ago.”

  He gave a patient sigh that was audible above the wind.

  “I’m afraid that the driver of a snow-plough has managed to break his propshaft and it’s stranded in the middle of the road; as you can imagine in this weather it will take us some time to recover the vehicle.”

  I imagined the local geography in my head.

  “Is the road to Aldringham open?”

  Not this week, they’re repairing the bridge over the river.”

  “How about the coast road to Thorpeness?”

  He plainly thought I was batty.

  “You might make Thorpeness, but I wouldn’t rate your chances on the road towards Leiston, not in these conditions. If I was you I’d go back into Aldeburgh and spend a comfortable night in a hotel, we’ll have it fixed by morning.”

&
nbsp; Yolande and I looked out and the near blizzard conditions and I could see the sense in his advice, but that blizzard and that advice started nudging my life in a different, and unexpected, direction.

  Chapter 13

  Musical Interlude

  I booked us into the large hotel at the end of the promenade. This has always been a favourite of mine as the restaurant area sits directly on the edge of the beach. According to the receptionist we were lucky to get in, especially as I wanted two single rooms; in the end we had to settle for two twin-bedded rooms. After we had booked in Yolande disappeared muttering something about toothbrushes and I wandered around the place ending up in the large function room. It was all laid out for some sort of concert and the piano had a small pile of music sitting on top of it. At this point I’d better explain about me and pianos. Some people speak a second language like French and can switch effortlessly between one and the other; well my second language is piano. It all started when I was about four and my grandma used to help me pick out one fingered tunes on her old upright. That led to me having private piano tuition every week from the age of six to the age of fifteen, by then I was also teaching the piano and had no more of the usual grades to take. At sixteen the church organist persuaded me to have a go on the church organ and I became hooked, so my third language is pipe organ. Don’t be fooled about pianos and organs, they both have keyboards, but the playing technique is entirely different. Anyway the upshot is that I can both sight-read music and play by ear; give me a tune and I can, almost without thinking, reproduce it on the piano. Once I’d ceased my fruitless foray into the thespian world and settled at the bank, I also settled into a local mini-orchestra and we had backed everything from Annie get your gun to virtually the whole of the Gilbert & Sullivan repertoire. That is until the local council closed down the only hireable hall with a sufficient number of seats to make such shows worthwhile. Anyway, show me a piece of music and a piano and I’ll start playing. So I thumbed through the music, sat down and commenced to play One enchanted evening and sing along. Now my singing is nowhere near as good as my playing, but it is acceptable. When I finished there was a clapping sound from behind and Yolande joined me at the piano.