by Deryn Lake
‘Yes, I had heard. Well, I hope you’ll be happy here.’
‘Thank you very much. I hope so too.’
Jack had nodded, somewhat tersely, and gone back to his solitary chair where he had picked up the Daily Telegraph and buried his nose in it.
Nick had looked at Giles. ‘Well, my friend, I think I must be getting back. It’s been a great pleasure to meet you.’
‘Likewise, Father Nick. Come up and inspect the farm some time.’
‘I certainly will when I’ve settled down.’
He strolled back to the vicarage and felt a moment’s thrill when he let himself in with the front door key. Inside the house was still and dark, but friendly and welcoming. Nick climbed the stairs and as he reached the half landing thought for a second that he saw the outline of a man standing at the top.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
But there was only silence and Nick was glad to go into his room and get into bed, leaving his window open so that the smells of the flowers filled the air.
TWO
The next morning Nick rose punctually at seven and spent two hours unpacking boxes, then feeling like some fresh air, he put on a pair of respectable trousers, a shirt and jacket and his dog collar, and stepped out of the front door.
He decided to visit the church last of all, his grand finale, but making up his mind to walk on the sunny side he crossed the road. He was aware of a woman in the window of the post office, a large pair of pink-rimmed glasses beaming like searchlights in his direction, and then the door flew open and what could only be old Mrs Weaver bore down on him.
‘Oh, Vicar, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Mabel Weaver. I work here.’
All this was said in a breathless whisper and Nick hazarded a guess that she had been hanging round the window for the last two hours, longing to get a glimpse of him. He held out his hand.
‘How do you do, Mrs Weaver.’
She took it and he felt a large, moist palm.
‘Such a thrill to get someone young in the parish. The last vicar – dear old man, we were all so sorry to see him go – was quite withdrawn, you know. Not from his duties, you understand, but socially. He had his own circle of friends and that was it. He came to see everything, of course, but never joined in.’
Wise man, thought Nick, but did not say anything.
‘I hear that there is no Mrs Lawrence,’ Mabel continued. ‘But Lakehurst has a reputation for courting couples, you know.’ She laughed loudly and archly and wagged a finger at him.
Nick inwardly shuddered but kept smiling bravely.
‘Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you,’ he said.
‘Likewise, Vicar, likewise. I shall see you on Sunday no doubt.’
‘No doubt.’ He gave her a small, courtly bow and continued on his way.
The village, though of the most peculiar shape, was for all that attractive. The High Street ended in two roads, one sweeping away towards the nearest town, the other going steeply downhill. Here lay the truly ancient cottages. On either side of the road they clustered, their small front gardens rich with roses and creepers. One of them clearly had a hidden cellar and Nick wondered at once about the history of smuggling in this area. Admittedly the village lay inland but that did not necessarily preclude it from having been involved. Another was shaped like a ship, heavily weatherboarded on the outside and leaning very slightly. Despite himself Nick paused to have a better look. The front door flew open.
‘Cooee,’ called a voice. ‘I say, Vicar, cooee.’
A woman was advancing down the path, a woman who could have stepped straight out of the fifties. She wore a dirndl skirt and sandals and had on a strange white blouse covered with a hand-crocheted shawl.
She stopped. ‘You are the new vicar, aren’t you? I haven’t made an utter idiot of myself?’
‘No, no. You’re quite right. I’m Nicholas Lawrence. I arrived yesterday.’
She clasped her hands together ecstatically. ‘I’m so pleased. I’m always mistaking people for other people, you know. Silly habit of mine. Passing of the years I daresay. Do come in and have a cup of tea – or coffee if you prefer. Or I have some elderflower wine. I went gathering in at harvest time.’
Nick stood irresolutely, changing his weight from foot to foot. ‘Well, I . . . er. I’m not officially on parish visits yet.’
‘Oh dear. And there was me hoping for a little company.’
Eyes like great saucers looked melancholy behind their heavy horn rims and the vicar’s better nature won.
‘I can spare a quarter of an hour,’ he said.
‘Oh goody.’ Both sandalled feet left the ground as she jumped in the air and clapped her hands. ‘How nice. Now enter, do.’
The house inside could have been lovely but instead was an altar to tweeness. Little framed poems hung on the walls, together with pressed flowers and cut-outs of rather malicious-looking children in jolly seaside romping gear. His hostess, watching the direction of the vicar’s eyes, said, ‘Ah, you like poetry I see. Now, what will it be to drink?’
‘I think just a small black coffee, please.’
‘Of course, of course. Now forgive me for a moment or two.’
She bustled off through a door with a porcelain plaque on it saying ‘Kitchen’ where she could be heard banging about. Nick peered at the poems and saw that other than the usual things like ‘Don’t Give Up’ and ‘If’ there were several with titles such as ‘Picking Blackberries in Late Summer with Adrian’ and ‘Missing Train at Mdina Once More.’
His hostess popped her head round the kitchen door. ‘Sugar, Vicar?’
‘No, thank you. Do you write poetry yourself?’
She pulled a face. ‘Ah, my secret is out. Yes, I am a poet.’
‘Really? Have you had a lot published?’
‘Oh yes. Several collections.
‘Who are your publishers?’
She looked a little vague. ‘A very nice firm in Eastbourne.’
She disappeared again and came back with a tray which depicted a cat playing with several kittens and a ball of wool. Balanced on this were two mugs of coffee and the same pallid biscuits that Mavis Cox had brought to the vicarage. Wondering if they were a sweetmeat beloved of the citizens of Lakehurst, Nick balanced on the edge of a chair, declined the biscuit and took the mug proffered him. He jumped as his hostess leapt in the air once more.
‘Oh please, whatever will you think of me, Vicar? I haven’t introduced myself. I am Ceinwen Carruthers.’
Nick, who had a mug of coffee half way to his mouth, put it down again.
‘How do you do. As I’ve already said, I am Nick Lawrence.’
Ceinwen sat down again in a whirl of dirndl skirt which revealed hairy legs shaped like inverted milk bottles.
‘And how are you liking the vicarage?’
‘It’s a lovely house, really old and comfortable. At least I think it will be when I can get all my boxes unpacked.’
Ceinwen neighed a laugh. ‘Oh, those dreadful things. Everyone’s nightmare. If I can help you . . .’
‘No,’ Nick answered hastily, ‘really, I can manage. I’ve set myself a target of so many a day.’ He sipped his coffee.
‘I went to the vicarage once. Mrs Simpkins asked me to tea. She was interested in my poetry.’
‘As am I,’ the vicar answered gallantly.
Ceinwen simpered a little. ‘I’ve had three collections published and many, many poems published in poetry magazines. I am what you might call moderately successful.’
‘How interesting. Did you write these?’
He indicated the framed odes on the wall. Ceinwen looked modest.
‘They are some of mine, yes. You see I take inspiration from nature, from places I visit, from flora and fauna and forestry. I have founded a local group, here, in Lakehurst. We call ourselves the Pixie Poets.’
‘What an unusual name.’
‘Yes, but some of us believe in the wee folk. But enough of that. I hope tha
t you will live long and prosper – as they say on Star Trek – in our village.’ Ceinwen suddenly glanced at her watch – an old fashioned little gold one – and said, ‘Oh my, is that the time. I’m afraid I must fly. I’m meeting someone –’ she blushed – ‘in ten minutes.’
Realizing he was dismissed Nick put down his mug and stood up. ‘Well, thank you so much for inviting me in, Miss Carruthers. It has been most interesting.’
‘Anytime, my dear Vicar. Please call again.’
‘Thank you.’
He gave her his odd little courtly bow and proceeded down the path.
Arrow Street bent round to the left, its junction marked by an ancient pub called The White Hart which was just opening its doors. Nick popped inside to answer a call from nature and then ordered an orange juice, having made a promise to himself not to drink till after six except in exceptional circumstances. The place was empty but there was a bored-looking barmaid with very long red fingernails and a short black skirt.
She plonked the glass down on the bar and said, ‘One pound, twenty-five, please,’ in a pronounced south-east accent.
Nick fished in his pocket and produced the right change. The girl checked it in her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and banged it into the till.
‘A nice day,’ ventured Nick.
‘Yeah.’
‘Can you tell me where this road leads to?’
‘It goes off to Speckled Wood.’
‘And the one ahead? Where does that go?’
The girl gave him a curious glance from kohl-ringed eyes. ‘You’re the new vicar, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘Me gran told me you had arrived. Yesterday, wasn’t it? And me brother saw you last night in The Great House.’
‘Gracious, I didn’t realize I was so famous.’
The girl gave a sly grin and said, ‘Everybody knows everything that goes on in Lakehurst.’
‘I see. Well I’m just walking round the parish now so where does the road in front go?’
‘It’s South Street. But off it on the right is the posh place.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s called The Maze. That’s where all the rich people hang out. It’s full of private houses. My gran calls it Nob’s Row.’
Nick was just about to ask another question when a voice from the back bellowed, ‘Kylie, you’re wanted,’ and the barmaid vanished without another word.
Finishing his juice, Nick went outside and breathed in the morning. The air was quite literally scented by the many roses which bloomed in the tiny front gardens of South Street. And the view itself was crystal clear; he felt he could see a leaf drop a mile away. Deciding that to visit Nob’s Row at this stage would take up too much of the morning, Nick turned around, crossed the road, and started the steep climb back to the vicarage.
The phone was ringing as he came through the front door. He hastily picked it up. It was a woman’s voice that spoke.
‘Hello, is that the Reverend Lawrence?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Oh hello. My name is Olivia Beauchamp. I wondered if I could pop in and see you. It’s about the recital.’
‘Of course you can come but I’m afraid you’ve lost me. I don’t know anything about a recital.’
She laughed quietly, a warm and pleasing sound. ‘No, of course you don’t. That’s what I wanted to explain. I made a promise to the old vicar that I would play for him for charity and at last I’ve got a free slot. I’ll explain when I see you. How’s your diary?’
Nick laughed. ‘Blissfully free, till I get bogged down with parish affairs. When do you want to come?’
‘How about six o’clock? We can meet in The Great House if you’re still in a mess. Or don’t you go to places like that?’
‘I’m a modern vicar. I’ll go anywhere.’
Olivia laughed again. ‘Six o’clock then. Goodbye.’
Nick put the phone down and wondered who the owner of such a delightful laugh could possibly be. He decided to tackle another box after snatching a sandwich and a cup of coffee and, in fact, was halfway through it when there was a ring at the front door. He opened it to find Mavis Cox standing there balancing a large cake on a plate.
‘Oh Father Nick, so glad to have caught you in. I’ve come to help.’
‘Thank you, but . . .’
But she had marched past him straight into the kitchen.
‘I’ve brought you a cake for your tea. Shall we get this room sorted out? I always think the kitchen is the worst job of all.’
And she had her coat off and her arms in a box before Nick could utter a word. He had to admit, though, that she was a terrific worker. Drawers were being opened and kitchen implements placed within them and what tins he had brought were put in a cupboard over the cooker.
He smiled at her. ‘Shall we not talk parish business until tomorrow?’
‘Not if you don’t wish it, Father Nick.’
‘I’d rather you told me something about the village. About the people who live here.’
‘Well, I don’t like to gossip but they’re a very mixed bunch as you can imagine. They’re the old villagers, the people born and bred here, though they’re not so many of them left.’
‘I suppose commuters have taken their place.’
‘And you’d suppose right, Vicar. There are masses of those here – the gin and tonic set I call them.’
Her small eyes had a malicious gleam in them momentarily.
‘And who else do we have?’
‘The arty crowd and the horsey crowd. Like to live in the heart of the country, or at least be seen to do so.’
‘So who’s in the horsey crowd?’
‘Oh, several of them. There’s a livery stable out towards Speckled Wood. Owned by one Cheryl Hamilton-Harty. She rides up and down the High Street on a huge great stallion.’ Mavis muttered something like, ‘Looking for one I shouldn’t wonder.’
Nick thought this extremely naughty from one of his churchwardens but pretended he hadn’t heard it and continued to unpack his box.
‘And tell me about the arty crowd.’
‘Well, you’ve already met one, my other half – in the churchwarden sense only. I lost my husband some while ago.’
Mavis looked downcast and Nick felt obliged to say, ‘I’m sorry.’
She sniffed a bit but answered bravely, ‘But life goes on. He’s gone to a better place is how I look at it.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Well I was saying, Richard Culpepper calls himself an actor but gets precious little work. He teaches drama at evening classes and has one or two private pupils to make ends meet. But it’s his wife who’s the moneyed one, believe me.’
‘And what does she do?’
‘Retired now. But used to be in films, I believe.’
‘Roseanna, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Then there’s Gerrard Riddell. He’s a costume designer and is awfully handy with his needle.’
She gave Nick a sly glance and he couldn’t help but grin.
‘And Miss Olivia Beauchamp, of course.’
Nick knew at once by the tone of Mavis Cox’s voice that she was jealous of the lady in question.
‘Tell me about her,’ he said from deep within a box.
‘She lives in London a lot of the time. She’s a violinist – professional, I mean. Anway, she has a weekend cottage here which used to belong to her parents. The village doesn’t like weekenders but she’s forgiven because she was brought up here.’
‘I see. And what about Ceinwen Carruthers?’
Mavis gave an audible snort. ‘That amateur and her fairy folklore. She pays to have her books published. Makes out that is genuine publishing but I know different. My Alf’s brother was a printer so I do know what’s what in that line.’
The vicar murmured something suitable like, ‘Quite so.’
‘Anyway, that’s that box finished. What would you like me to do next, Father Nick?’
‘How about making a cup of tea and telling me something of the history of the vicarage.’
They sat down on the kitchen chairs while the kettle boiled and Mavis said, ‘Well, it’s a Tudor house, like a lot of the others in Lakehurst.’
‘I knew it was very old.’
‘And it has belonged to the village vicar since the fifteen hundreds.’
‘Has it got a ghost?’ Nick asked.
Mavis looked disapproving. ‘Surely you don’t believe in such things.’
‘I like to keep an open mind.’
‘Well, there are rumours about it but I put those down to all the tales that people like that Carruthers woman spin.’
‘What are they?’
‘There’s some old Elizabethan servant called William supposed to haunt the place. The story goes that he was so happy working here that he could never leave. Stuff and nonsense. I’ve never seen anything in the many times I’ve visited the vicarage.’
She stopped for breath and suddenly a chill little breeze swept through the kitchen making the unpacked mugs rattle on their newly screwed-in hooks.
‘William?’ said the vicar, only half joking.
And from upstairs came the sound of a door banging shut.
THREE
The Great House had lit the first log fire of the autumn season. It roared redly up the huge chimney and threw a comforting glow on the many people who sat at tables close to it. Nick, who hadn’t realized quite how cold it had got, thought of warming the vicarage and wondered about ordering logs and finding out about the central heating. He looked round the room and saw that Jack Boggis was sitting in his usual seat, back turned, hiding behind the Daily Telegraph, but that there was nobody else there that he recognized.
A very handsome man sat alone, puzzling over a crossword and totally ignoring the group of four young women – all uncannily alike, Nick thought – who sat near him, giggling and talking loudly. Other than for Jack Boggis there was nobody that the vicar had seen before. Despite that several rural types said, ‘Evening, Vicar,’ and one even asked him how he was getting on in the vicarage.
‘Still unpacking,’ Nick answered cheerfully. ‘But it’s a wonderful house.’
‘It is that. Provided old William leaves you in peace.’