by Joyce Cato
‘Oh? You call it nit-picking not even to be consulted about where we’re going to live?’ Margaret sniped back bitchily, the look on her face, even from several yards away, unmistakably ferocious.
Monica hastily ducked her head and wiped her work surfaces vigorously. She contemplated closing the window, since she hardly wanted to be a witness to anyone else’s marital spats, but then a small trickle of sweat running down her spine quickly changed her mind.
It was the first week in July, and absolutely sweltering. The news was full of the heat wave, and promised more record-breaking temperatures to come. And why should she be forced to roast, Monica wondered, somewhat resentfully. If the Franklyns would insist on arguing in public, they surely had no reason for complaint if they were accidentally overheard?
‘Oh come off it, we got a bargain and you know it. This place is great,’ Sean’s whining voice echoed back as the couple found a spot in the sun and disappeared from view behind a bed of exuberant and rather rampant roses.
‘I’d have preferred to stay in Bath, as you bloody well know,’ Margaret’s voice snapped right back.
Monica tried to close her ears to the discord, but it was all but impossible. As soon as the oven was up to the required heat, she would put the pies in and go seek sanctuary in the den, where the latest mystery thriller by a writer that she particularly liked, was waiting to tempt her.
‘Our lease was almost up and you still hadn’t found anywhere good enough for you,’ Sean’s voice was more of an angry growl by now. ‘You were wasting so much time being so bloody picky. Would you rather we were out on the streets? Anyway, what’s wrong with this place? It’s a genuinely old building, a fact that should please all your antique-mad cronies. It’s in a pretty village, it’s central, and it’s quiet. What the hell more could you ask for?’ The volume of his voice rose higher still.
‘Oh it’s quiet all right,’ Margaret snapped.
Monica sighed and muttered something not particularly Christian under her breath.
With lots of long, dark wavy brown hair, a still-neat and trim figure, and possessed of a good fashion sense, she knew that she was not exactly most people’s idea of a typical country vicar’s wife. In fact, she flattered herself that she could look quite presentable when she put her mind to it, and had a modern outlook on life that didn’t always sit well with the older ladies in her husband’s parish.
Graham’s fan club, as Monica had quickly nicknamed his middle-aged female admirers, had been shocked to their collective bosoms when their vicar had suddenly got married, and hadn’t been shy in gossiping about it. Especially when he’d just reached his fiftieth birthday and his long bachelorhood had seemed to be safely confirmed.
Monica grinned somewhat smugly now, as she contemplated her husband, and perhaps not surprisingly, for Graham Noble was one of those really good-looking men whom age only seemed to improve. At just over six feet tall, slim, with nearly black hair that was keeping its natural colour and dark brown, melting eyes, he looked a good ten years younger than he actually was. With attractive crow’s feet at his eyes, and an air of kind, bookish wisdom, it was not surprising that he could still make female hearts flutter.
As Carol-Ann had grudgingly put it, he resembled a sitter for one of those portraits of scandalous nineteenth century poets – all dark and brooding and wickedly handsome.
But for all that, Graham Noble was an ideal vicar. He wore the long cardigans his parishioners knitted for him every Christmas, and managed to look good in them. He drove an old car, left to the church by an eccentric widow, and used it to make himself genuinely useful, shopping for the bedridden and taking others to doctor’s appointments and generally making life easier for a lot of people. More than this, he actually listened to them. He was always there for anyone who needed him. He gave good services, and was a popular choice far and wide for marriages and Christenings. He even gave interesting sermons. Well, sometimes. And if the fact that his church was inhabited more than most English churches were on an average Sunday morning because of how good he looked in a cassock, nobody was complaining.
Not the fan club, not the bishop, nor Graham. Not even Graham’s wife.
Marrying a much younger woman, and a widow with a teenage daughter to boot, he had shocked many of the locals with this display of what they saw as uncharacteristic rashness. And even though they’d been very happily married for over a year now, tongues still hadn’t ceased to wag. Which just went to show, Monica thought placidly, how little happened in Heyford Bassett!
Glad to leave the arguing Franklyns behind, she put the pies into the oven, and was just about to leave the kitchen when Margaret’s strident voice started up again.
‘And I still haven’t found those earrings – not the ones I made, the ones I bought in Travinia’s in the High Street – the gold and sapphire ones.’
Monica had quickly cottoned on to the fact that Margaret, although she liked to model her own eye-catching wares, also frequented some of Cheltenham’s swankiest jewellery shops to buy the ‘real’ thing, and had noticed a few diamond rings on her fingers, from time to time. Not that she was envious, naturally. Well, not much, anyway. As a vicar’s wife it didn’t do to go coveting your neighbour’s ass. Or his wife’s bling, for that matter.
‘I had them on when I was sunbathing here the last time. And that little teenage bimbo was hanging around – I saw her. It wouldn’t surprise me if they fell off, and that little pest found them and pocketed them, instead of returning them to me, like any decent person would.’
This latest outburst made Monica’s hackles rise, like a dog catching sight of a stranger lurking in the doorway.
‘It’s been nearly two weeks now, and they still haven’t come to light,’ Margaret moaned. ‘I’m telling you, that Carole thingummy must have taken them.’
By the kitchen door, Monica began to simmer. She was going to damned well march right out there and give that woman a piece of her mind. How dare she suggest that her daughter had any interest in her manky earrings!
‘I hope you haven’t accused her,’ Sean warned quickly. ‘She’s the vicar’s daughter for Pete’s sake.’
‘Stepdaughter,’ Margaret’s voice corrected, making Monica’s hackles rise even further.
‘Are you sure you couldn’t have just lost them?’ her husband’s mollifying voice sounded ineffably weary, now. ‘Perhaps you took them off and left them on your towel and forgot about them. Then, when you got up and collected the towel, they could have fallen onto the grass without your noticing them. Shall I look?’
‘Oh for—’
Monica grimaced, as the language became fouler and fouler. ‘They’re diamonds, Sean, diamonds,’ Margaret finally yelled, at the end of her patience. ‘If they were in the grass they’d sparkle and be seen. I’m telling you, someone stole them.’
But not my daughter, Monica thought silently. And if you so much as dare accuse her, you’ll get your ears roasted! She stalked from the room, trying to calm down. Margaret was just a sour, spiteful woman with nothing better to do than create dramas around herself, Monica told herself firmly. Get a grip and get some perspective! If she couldn’t quite manage to turn the other cheek yet, as Graham seemed to be able to do so easily, the least she could do was refrain from rising to the bait.
She took a deep breath and headed for the bathroom. First she’d have a cold shower and simmer down, and then lie naked on the bed, allowing the water to dry naturally on her skin. That always made her feel cool and refreshed on a hot summer’s day. And if Graham just happened to be around, well – even better.
And just what would Graham’s fan club have to say about that!
CHAPTER 2
Trisha Lancer parked her neat little Metro under a big yew tree at the end of Church Lane and turned off the ignition. Through the trees, she could see the handsome Cotswold-stone vicarage she remembered so well and chewed nervously on her lower lip.
She felt, suddenly, ridiculous. Here they all
were, in a brave new world full of science and modern psychology, and yet here she was, bringing her troubles to the vicar of all people. Just how last century was that?
Like the vast majority of Heyford Bassett children, Trisha had been raised, half-heartedly, as Church of England. And, also like everyone else, she’d found Graham Noble to be both approachable and human. But since getting married and moving to Stroud, her visits to his church had become fewer and far between.
But now here she was, back again, and needing help.
Taking a deep breath, she got out of the car, clutching her handbag close to her chest and already wishing that she hadn’t come.
It had all seemed so clear-cut when she’d made the appointment to see him. She was in trouble, and Graham Noble might be able to help her. He was one of the very few people whom she could trust not to go blabbing her troubles about to all and sundry, as her so-called “friends” were wont to do. But he was also a very clever man, with a surprisingly practical nature, considering his calling, and those two attributes were just what she needed now. If he couldn’t see the problem clearly, and didn’t set about helping her, then no one would.
But now she’d almost talked herself out of it. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it, really, turning to a vicar for help? Besides, she’d hardly spoken to him for ages. And yet, for all that, here she was, psyching herself up to tell him things that she wouldn’t even dream of telling anyone else.
Above her, a blackbird began to sing sweetly. It was a beautiful, hot, summer’s day, and mallow bushes were bursting into pale pink and peach blooms all around her. But she was feeling utterly depressed, and incapable of appreciating the beauty on offer.
I’m desperate, she thought suddenly. And as that simple statement filtered into her subconscious, she found it created hardly a ripple. It was, perhaps, not so surprising – she’d been desperate for some time now.
Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and walked through the big iron gates, a short, slightly plump, rather scantily clad woman, with tear-bright, desperate eyes.
Her mother had told her about the vicarage being made into new flats, of course, and so she was careful to check that she had indeed come to flat number 1 before ringing the doorbell.
A pretty, dark-haired woman, wearing a loose floral dress answered it almost at once.
Trisha, who’d seen Monica Noble about the village only a few times, and never talked to, looked at her helplessly.
‘Hello. It’s Mrs Lancer, isn’t it?’ Monica smiled gently.
Trisha nodded and nervously tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. Her hand shook as it did so. Recognising all the signs of embarrassment and need, Monica’s blue eyes softened in sympathy.
‘Please, come on in, my husband’s expecting you. He’s in his study. Would you like something cold to drink? It’s so hot, isn’t it?’
Trisha shook her head to the offer of a drink, but followed her hostess into a cool and pleasant hall.
‘It’s right through here.’ Monica led her to the first door on the right, and tapped firmly. She opened the door and looked inside. ‘Graham, it’s Mrs Lancer to see you.’ She smiled and stood aside, and Trisha, with no other option now, stepped hesitantly into the room.
Graham came from behind the desk and held out his hand.
‘Trisha! How lovely to see you again; come in and sit down.’ His pleasant, deep voice was instantly soothing and it was some moments before she realized that her hand was being engulfed in a warm strong grip. When she looked up, the dark brown eyes looking down at her were full of concern.
She managed to drag in a breath. ‘This is silly,’ she said, then blushed deeply.
‘Perhaps it is,’ Graham said mildly, and smiled. ‘Then again, perhaps it isn’t.’ He led her to a comfortable armchair, and as he turned, his eyes met those of his wife, who gave him a long, gentle look, and backed out.
Over the past year, Monica had quickly discovered that Graham’s job, unlike those of a lot of people, actually meant something. He wasn’t in the business of just creating or moving money around, or producing throwaway items, for a throwaway society. He didn’t care a fig about such things as the media, PR, or quality control and time-and-motion efficiency.
Instead, she’d watched her husband visit patients in hospitals who had nobody else to care about them, or to bring them a bunch of grapes and a magazine, and to just sit and chat and make them feel less alone for an hour or two. She’d been awakened in the dead of night by the telephone, because somebody was having a crisis that required a man of God. And, sometimes, like today, she’d shown people into Graham’s study who had that same look of desperation about them as the young and obviously troubled Mrs Lancer had now. And, more often than not, Monica had seen them leave his study, looking like very different people – as if some weight had been miraculously lifted from their shoulders.
As an ex-advertising executive, it made her feel distinctly humble – and grateful – to be married to such a man. It was during moments like these that Monica, who already loved her husband at a steady, calm and comforting level, loved him just that little bit more intensely.
Inside his study, Graham reached for a carafe of water, tinkling with ice cubes, poured out a glass and handed it over to Trisha. He’d officiated at her wedding in the church just across the road, and had subsequently christened her son Carl, just a couple of years or so ago. Right now, though, it was hard to equate the happy, carefree young girl he remembered with this woman. She looked downright haggard.
She accepted the glass of water and sipped it. It was good – and had a nice but faint tang of lime. And suddenly, coming here didn’t seem so ridiculous anymore.
‘I’ve come because I need help,’ she said simply.
Graham nodded. ‘I’ll help if I can,’ he agreed, just as simply.
‘You won’t tell Mum I’ve been, will you?’ she asked anxiously. ‘She’ll fuss so.’
Graham quickly assured her that nobody would know of her visit, unless she herself told them.
‘It’s my husband, Jim,’ she said flatly. ‘We’ve got a problem.’
Graham crossed his legs slowly, resting his hands on his knees in a comfortable gesture.
‘What sort of problem?’ He’d heard many things from many people during his twenty-six years as a vicar, and honestly believed that it was not his place to judge. What’s more, he knew that voicing pain and fear out loud was often the hardest thing of all, and added gently, ‘Just take a deep breath, and take your time.’
‘He’s …’ Trisha bit her lower lip again, glanced uncertainly at the man in front of her, and sighed. ‘This is going to sound so ridiculous. But it’s really, really becoming a problem.’
Graham nodded. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged gently,’ and Trisha sighed.
‘He’s got this thing about body building,’ she finally blurted out. ‘He thinks he can win Mr Universe.’
Graham blinked, and hoped he didn’t look as surprised – or as amused – as he felt. He felt a treacherous tug on his lips and ruthlessly suppressed the urge to smile. Instead he nodded.
‘I see. That’s a little unusual, I agree. How old is he exactly?’
‘Oh, he’s three years older than me. Twenty-nine.’
‘Hmm. And is he likely to win Mr Universe?’ Graham asked.
Trisha began to laugh, and once started, it took her a long time to stop.
‘In a pig’s eye,’ she said finally. ‘Not that that’s going to stop him. Every day he’s down at that damned gym, pumping iron. He won’t eat what I cook for him any more – it’s not got the right balance of carbohydrates he says. I wouldn’t mind so much, but he’s started talking about taking Carl with him to work out, and that I’m not standing for,’ Trisha finished militantly.
‘Carl?’ Graham said, taken aback. ‘You mean your son, Carl? But how old is he?’
‘Only five, for pity’s sake.’
And that was when Graham quickly lost all desire to l
augh. ‘Yes, that does sound worrying,’ he agreed a shade grimly. Nobody living in modern times could fail to be aware of the issue of child abuse – and abuse came in many different guises. Not that he thought he was dealing with that here, but obviously Jim Lancer couldn’t be thinking quite straight if he wanted his 5-year-old to start pumping iron.
‘I’m scared we’re going to lose all our money too,’ Trisha carried on, a definite wobble in her voice now. ‘He’s spent so much money on equipment, our house looks like a hardware shop for weightlifters. And he’s gone right off … you know,’ she suddenly blushed furiously.
Graham nodded. Yes, he knew.
‘How long has this been going on?’ he asked quietly.
‘Nearly a year now,’ Trisha sniffed. ‘Ever since he joined that gym. At first, I thought it was a good idea, and when he started coming home with some muscles, and all my friends said how buff he was looking, I felt sort of proud of the silly sod, you know?’ Trish’s voice started to rise. ‘But now he’s spending all our money on vitamins and equipment, and letting everything else go to rack and ruin. The lawn’s not been mowed in months. People have started to look at him sideways, you know, as if they’re not too sure that he’s all there anymore. And I’m so scared that he’ll get the sack, because he’s not doing his job properly. He’s sold a few flats recently, but he hasn’t sold a proper house in ages, and that’s not just because the market’s flat, even though it is; it’s like he just can’t think of anything else but putting on more inches around his biceps.’
‘It’s become an obsession, in fact,’ Graham put in quietly.
‘Yes, and that’s not good, is it?’
‘No.’ It was beginning to sound more and more as if the man had a developed a definite kink in his psyche. The obvious answer was for him to see a therapist or mental health expert of some kind, but that, Graham was sure, was going to be very tricky to arrange. Given the ever-perilous state of the male ego.
Trisha, surprised to have her worst fears so calmly confirmed, suddenly seemed to wilt.