by Caron Allan
“I’m so sorry, I just didn’t know who else to call.”
And there, passed out in front of the organ, was Rev Steve, wearing a dress and high-heels and some quite nice nail polish and lipstick.
Oh dear, I thought. Or as Henrietta put it, “holy shit!”
We gave him a tentative little shake. He flapped a hand at us and said in a very groggy voice, “I don’t want to go to school today, mummy, I don’t feel very well.”
Mavis was in a terrible state. She kept wringing her hands and dancing from one foot to the other like a Paddy does when he needs to go to the loo but doesn’t want to stop playing. She kept saying, “oh dear, oh dear, whatever will people say, oh dear.” This was annoying enough but she kept alternating between that and “this can never get out, it would destroy him, what on earth are we going to do?”
It was as much as I could do to keep myself from snapping at her. Mercifully, Henrietta, possibly equally aggravated by her beloved’s hysteria, sent her to keep watch by the main door.
“Don’t let anyone in,” she called after her and as Mavis trotted off, Henrietta said to me, “not that anyone would want to come in, but it gets her out of the way.”
We tried to haul Rev Steve to his feet. It took a couple of attempts. Finally he seemed to realise what was going on and inclined himself to help us help him.
Once we had him on his feet, keeping him there was the tricky bit. We had him in between us with our shoulders under his arms. All was well until he tried to turn around with an anguished cry of “my handbag!”
“We’ll get it later, Stephen,” Henrietta told him sternly. Personally I thought it was a bit much her snapping at him, from one alternative life-styler to another, but there you go. We struggled to get him out of the church, down the connecting path with a breather on a tomb-top and into the manse. Mavis acted as look-out all the way, even once we were in the manse she locked the doors and closed the curtains. We dumped him on the sofa due to Henrietta saying, “I’m not lugging him up all those bloody stairs!”
Mavis nipped into the kitchen and got busy with the strong black coffee and I dashed back to the church for the vicar’s handbag.
It turned out to be a very pretty little clutch purse with a silver chain handle. It was lying on the floor beside the little half-door to the organ. I grabbed it and with it tucked under my arm, went back to the manse, feeling that it was all a bit surreal.
Rev Steve took a fiver out of his purse and gave it to me with a simple “thank you, driver.” Then he passed out.
I left at that point as it was time to collect Paddy from school. On my way past the church I popped my ‘tip’ into the roof fund collection box.
Thursday 25 September – 5.15pm
I didn’t breathe a word to a single soul concerning Steve’s unusual attire, thinking it might be best to keep it all hush-hush. But this afternoon, when Lill was at the park with the children, and Matt and Sid were swearing at the football there was a tiny little knock at the front door.
It was Steve. He was wearing his rather more usual baggy corduroys and ancient brown jumper get-up. He blushed violently and didn’t seem to know quite what to say.
I brought him into the garden-room for a cuppa and at that moment, Matt shouted “oh for fuck’s sake!” and all I caught of Sid’s simultaneous response was “… wanker!” I leapt up to close the door and hastened to apologise to Rev Steve, adding, “I’m afraid they get rather worked up about football.”
He just smiled politely and pretended not to have heard anything.
“Um … about Tuesday …”
Then he sort of ran out of ideas and sort of gaped at me, rather like a bream on the ice at Waitrose.
Over to me, I thought. Well then, I thought, here goes.
“Absolutely gorgeous little clutch purse, Stephen.” I said.
It was the perfect opener. He blushed and thanked me, and said he had made it himself. I couldn’t believe it. I was absolutely astonished. We talked handbags for over an hour. It seems he buys quilting type fabric (I used to have a strange hippie friend who made quilts and quilted items years ago), and then he buys the little frames and he makes all manner of beautiful little handbags and purses. Says he’s been doing it for years. Apparently when he was at Uni doing his theology degree, he did an evening class in textiles and crafts and he’s been making them ever since. Apparently it’s been a huge guilty secret, eating away at him. That and the cross-dressing. Poor sweetie pie, he even had a little cry. Apparently his father wanted a stockbroker and his mother wanted a ballet dancer. Sad that between them they could never accept their sweet little cross-dressing vicar.
Anyway he had to leave, but he has invited me to go round some time and have a look at all these wonderful creations of his. Can’t wait!
Bless him, at the front door he turned back and gave me a quick, clumsy hug and thanked me “for all the- um - help on Tuesday”. Aww! Poor Rev Steve!
As he went down the steps I called softly, “that dress, Stephen …”
He turned back, blushing again. “Y- yes?”
“It looked a lot better on you than it did on Vanessa.”
He took me completely by surprise – he dashed back, gave me a big sloppy kiss on the cheek and then scurried away before I could speak.
Well, well.
Friday 26 September – 11.25pm
I’ve completely got the bug. Went round to Steve’s this evening, took Lill with me, and on the way quickly filled in a bit of the background. She was still saying “Oh my Gawd!” when we opened the squeaky gate and went up to the front door. I could only hope she wouldn’t say that to his face. Mercifully she didn’t.
Steve – still in his ‘man’ clothes of corduroys and prehistoric jumper combo – but with just a suggestion of mascara and blusher – ushered us into his study where we found not only a couple of bibles and other ‘churchified’ accoutrements, but also a desk set up with a sewing machine and a cutting board. He opened a couple of drawers and brought out dozens of little purses and make-up bags, pouches and totes, ipad covers, spectacle cases, clutches, shoulder bags and handbags, all made from, and perfectly lined with, lovely bright cotton fabrics.
Lill and I picked them up and exclaimed over them. They were exquisitely made, delicate and dainty, robust and fun. We couldn’t get over the fact that our vicar had made these gorgeous items with such skill and craftsmanship.
Meanwhile, Steve was bringing out swatch upon swatch of fabric, and all the other gizmos that went into the making of a bag. He talked about his current and new projects, about fabric designers, about styles and shapes. Never, ever, ever had I seen him so passionate, so animated. I knew he had a guilty passion!
Lill said, “you could make a fortune selling these.”
He wafted a modest hand, aww, so sweet, but don’t be silly.
“No, really,” she said, “people would pay a lot for really unique and pretty items like these.” She turned to me, holding out one of the dearest little clutch purses I have ever seen. “How much would you pay for something like this, Cressida?”
“Seventy to eighty pounds,” I said without hesitation. “Possibly more.”
Steve stared at me, disbelieving.
“But … but …”
“But nothing - it’s beautiful,” I said gently, “and when you open the purse, there’s a completely different and utterly gorgeous fabric inside for the lining, like a special little surprise. Yes, Stephen, definitely seventy to eighty pounds. And for that gorgeous big one, more like a hundred and twenty or thirty.”
“That’s the Marianna,” Steve said proudly.
We sat and talked for ages. He was completely open with us. He had married Vanessa when he was – when they both were – very young, too young to realise they weren’t particularly compatible. He hadn’t understood that the secret urges he felt now and then and tried to squash for the sake of ‘respectability’ would gradually grow more and more insistent over the years, nor had he
understood that Vanessa was not the type of person to embrace either change or nonconformity. For a number of years now their marriage had been little more than just house-sharing, and as they withdrew from each other, he found fulfilment in his hobby, and solace in his faith and work in the community, whilst she had retreated into the arms of Madison’s Sacha.
“But now we are going to be divorced,” he said, “and my archbishop has offered me support and counselling, but he doesn’t know about – and would never be so understanding if he did know about – the dresses. And the bags.”
“Does he need to know?” I asked. “Does anyone need to know?”
Stephen sighed. He shook his head. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to keep it a secret, to protect the life I’ve had for so long. Because I’m scared, and ashamed. But part of me says I’m a good man who isn’t hurting anyone, and that it’s time to ‘come out’ as it were and put an end to deception and lying. But I don’t know what to do …”
“Don’t do anything right now. There’s no rush. You can think things over a bit longer, you’ve waited all this time.” Lill said. She patted him on the knee in a motherly way.
We made our way home soon after that. Lill said to me, “well, you could of blown me down with a fevver when he started talking about dresses and all. But it must be hard to keep all that a secret and not be able to talk to anyone about it.”
“It must be terrible,” I agreed.
“One thing at any rate. I bet he looks a lot better in a dress than Vanessa ever did.”
“He does,” I told her. And we went on talking about handbags.
Sunday 28 September – 8.10pm
Why am I so exhausted all the time? This last week or so, I have felt utterly depleted. No energy. Or should I say, a declining amount of energy. This morning I just did not want to get out of bed.
Everyone tried to persuade me to stay in bed, fearing that I was coming down with something, and I would have been happy to be persuaded had our plans not been scuppered by the arrival of the police wanting to talk to me about Jeremy.
They are definitely regarding his death as murder. They said something beastly about ‘tissue’ under the fingernails of his right hand. I presume they mean he scratched ‘whomever’ (MONICA!!! It has to be her!!!) - anyway they are extracting DNA from this ‘tissue’.
What they seem to think is a likely scenario is that he gave ‘someone’ a lift in his car, that they then stopped at the motorway services, and ‘someone’ got out and the presumably turned back to ask him something, ie is your tyre a bit flat? Then he must have lowered the window and leaned out and they bashed him over the head with the classic blunt object.
So – to recap – it was deffo murder.
I just gave them a bit of background (heavily edited). I said yes, it was a bit unusual for him to call me, but that I, and before his death my husband , had been good friends of Nadina and Jeremy for a number of years, that they had always been a devoted couple, etc etc blah blah blah. And that no, I hadn’t struck me as really strange that he should call me and ask to see me, that I’d simply assumed he happened to be in the area and had wanted to pop in to be sociable and that as a couple Jeremy and Nadina had been very sweet to me since Thomas died and had kept a bit of an eye on me. I went on to say that I had been quite excited that he was popping in, and that I’d been a teeny bit annoyed when he hadn’t shown up and hadn’t contacted me to apologise, but hadn’t really thought much about it other than to assume he’d got held up or forgotten about the arrangement.
The Rozzers seemed pretty happy with that. I do hope they don’t try to crowbar me into this. Was a wee bit surprised they didn’t ask for a blood sample or saliva sample for ‘elimination’ purposes.
I forgot to say that it was Paddy’s last day of mornings-only on Friday – next week he will start full days – then what will we do? Hope he doesn’t revert to hating it! Hope Billy doesn’t find the day too long and dreary without him. On October 14th, she will be three years old – a big girl – and after Christmas she will start nursery – with new pal Millie! And then – well, we won’t have peace and quiet for long - am now 25 weeks pregnant and Thomas Sidney is scheduled to make his appearance on Feb 10th, so the time will simply fly by from now on, I’m absolutely certain.
I wonder how much longer the police will keep Jeremy’s body? If there ever is a funeral for him, I bet Monica will turn up all calm and sympathetic and having a nasty little gloat underneath it all. So just in case that happens, I really must buy a new frock – something really gorgeous to maximise my sense of advantage for the occasion! In fact must try to get Nadina to buy herself a new frock too, she has not got a decent stitch in her whole wardrobe (singular, please note! How do people even live like that? I have four wardrobes and even that’s a squeeze!)
Monday 29 September – 4.35pm
Quick call from Mother. They are settled and happy in wherever it is they’ve gone. She wittered on for about half an hour and I didn’t really bother to listen but just before she said goodbye, she said, “Oh Darling! I don’t know if it’s merely a coincidence, but you wouldn’t believe how Whisper has blossomed over the last month or so. Ever since poor Desmond’s demise. She is suddenly so relaxed and confident! Really she’s a completely different girl! Byesy-bye! Kisses!”
Well! How nice to know one’s work is – if not exactly appreciated – then at least is valuable in some small way!
God, never a moment’s peace!
First Mother, then as soon as I put my feet up and was enjoying a nice mug of hot chocolate, the phone rings again, and this time it’s Nadina. She is still staying with Jeremy’s mother and father in Norwich and “by the way the police say they are releasing the body so we can get on with the funeral arrangements. It’s going to be on Friday.”
Was tempted to ask if it’s a real funeral this time, but decided not to.
Then … had just gone back to trying to rescue some of the drowning squirty cream, when the phone rang again and this time it’s Rev Steve. Can I help him set up a website in a false name so he can sell his handbags and make some cash but keep it a secret from Vanessa’s squeaky new solicitor. Have promised to pop round Monday morning. Told him to take lots of pretty photos in the meantime.
Now can I please have a bit of me-time?
Friday 3 October – 10.45pm
Last night Matt and I drove up to Norfolk for Jeremy’s funeral. We stayed in a pleasant enough low-cost hotel near the centre of Norwich and drove out to the village on the outskirts this morning. Don’t think I’ve ever been to this part of the world, quite pretty if a bit flat, unlike our own undulating Gloucestershire.
The funeral was at eleven o’clock this morning at the local crem. Felt awful for Jeremy’s poor parents – so clearly trying to remain composed. Or at least, his mother was – all turned out in her best frock and a black coat, neat little hat and bag and shoes. I reckon she was about Lill’s age, but where Lill looks young and is always busy even though she’s a bit on the plump side, Mrs Jeremy looked very tiny, shrunken and grey. There were so many people swarming about – some of them even had the cheek to stand chatting and laughing as if they thought they were at a cocktail party – I could see Jeremy’s poor mother was trying not to get upset.
We went over to see them, to pay our respects, say how sorry we were, and I managed to think of some nice things to say about Jeremy. His mother was so grateful (hateful word) and she clutched at my arm and wouldn’t let go. We ended up staying with her and Mr Jeremy simply because she latched on and looked as if the slightest breeze would overwhelm her. She thought Matt was Thomas which was ever so slightly embarrassing. It was my fault really, I said, “and this is my husband …” when I introduced myself and forgot that she might have heard of us before. As she shook his hand she said, “dear Thomas, we’ve heard so much about you from our dear Je …” then she was fighting to recover and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her Thomas was dead and this was my new slash secon
d husband, Matthew – I couldn’t add another death to her over-loaded shoulders.
What made things worse was that Mr Jeremy was just – I don’t know – it was like he was away in a little world of his own. He managed a vague smile when introduced and just barely touched my hand in a handshake, but he was away – way away. Don’t know if he’s usually like this or if it’s the shock of losing his only son. I couldn’t decide which was the saddest – his out of touch confusion or her brave resignation. Spent the whole time we were there trying to keep myself from bursting into tears.
Matt leaned forward as we entered the pretty little crematorium chapel for the service, and he whispered to me,
“Where’s Nadina?”
Now I was the confused one, because yes, I suddenly realised he was right. We hadn’t so much as glimpsed her. Where was she?
I’d spoken to her on Tuesday evening when she rang me to finalise the details for the service, but she hadn’t said a word about not being there herself for her own life-partner’s big send-off. So …
I was still puzzling about this as Mrs Jeremy – Margaret, she told me her name was – hauled me into the front pew, chivvying Mr Jeremy (aka Bernard) in ahead of her. She told him to sit down, told him to take off his coat and flat cap. She fussed over him a bit then turned to me with a tight smile. She was tense. I could feel how coiled up inside she was, and I reached out to take her cold hand in mine. Again her look of gratitude almost had me weeping. How were they going to cope without their only child? I am so glad I didn’t have anything to do with his death, because there had been a moment when I thought I might have to.
It was a bit of a trial getting through the somewhat lengthy service. I had to pass Margaret some tissues. Predictably it was all a bit much for her, the poor old girl. It didn’t help when about halfway through Bernard looked around and then turned to her and said loudly, “what time did Jeremy say he was getting here? If he’s not careful he’ll miss it.”