by Milly Adams
Did she sound too bossy? Well, not only would some time alone be necessary to help her cope, but it would keep Lizzy away from the window, without being told not to go near it. She’d also tie it so it couldn’t be opened, which would make it doubly safe. ‘I must go down and read the lists, and make sure I know what I should be doing, and when. Together you and I, Lizzy, will muddle through. Oh yes, we will.’
Lizzy looked at her uncertainly. ‘Mum said if there was a problem with you, I’m to go to Mrs Summers.’
‘We – if there’s a problem – we will both go to her. How’s that for an idea?’
They headed for the hatch. Kate climbed down first, to catch Lizzy if she fell. She remembered now that Sarah had done that when she was little. Well, now Kate, in her turn, was old enough to catch Lizzy.
Together she and Lizzy returned downstairs and entered the kitchen, which was exactly the same, except for the lists. There were six, written out in small, neat writing. The first thing she saw was that Lizzy sang in the church choir, and therefore attendance at church was obligatory. She sighed, missing the club with a vengeance. But perhaps that young verger would be there. And besides, no-one in this village could tell her that anything was obligatory, so she would drop Lizzy and pick her up.
She thought again of her old bedroom, and of the water stain. How could it still be there, as indelible as the memories it evoked?
Chapter Six
According to Sarah’s Sunday list, Lizzy needed to be at St Thomas’s Church by ten thirty at the latest, with her hair brushed, wearing her Sunday dress. This was not only in capitals, but underlined, twice. Kate insisted that Lizzy cleared the kitchen table while she hurried to the compost with the boiled eggshells, scattering the remains of the toast on the bird table on her way back. She ticked it off the list.
She worked her way through points 1 to 5, which brought her to ten fifteen. She was now to dust throughout the downstairs. She began in the sitting room, flicking a duster along the dust-free mantelpiece, then the small table by the easy chair nearest the fire. She reached the sideboard on which her father’s decanter stood, empty. She removed the stopper and sniffed. It still smelled of Scotch. Her stomach turned. He and Dr Bates would sit here, drinking and talking of their plans for the golf club. Who was captain now, with Father dead and Dr Bates elsewhere?
Lizzy said from the doorway, ‘Will I do?’ She stood neat as a pin, in a dark-brown dress and even more pristine white socks. ‘You’ll need to plait my hair. Mum doesn’t like it being loose, because she thinks it looks wild. She didn’t get cross yesterday, though, when I took my plaits out to say goodbye, because I was so upset with her. I don’t think she noticed, because she didn’t even really look at me.’ She held out a hairbrush and dark-brown ribbons.
Kate smiled, ‘We’ll do it in the kitchen.’
‘Mum says that’s unhygienic, because hairs could get in the food.’
‘Ah, well, perhaps she’s right; but it’s gloomy in here, and I’ll wipe the table afterwards, to within an inch of its life. Come on, and never think your mum didn’t notice you. She was trying not to show how much it hurt to leave. Let me tell you, my girl, her eyes were full of “missing-you tears”.’
Kate herded the child into the light of the kitchen. She had left the back door open, to air the whole house, hoping that perhaps it would clear it of memories.
Lizzy said, ‘Mum keeps the door shut, in case next door’s cat comes in.’
‘Well, the cat hasn’t yet. And does it really matter if he, or she, visits us?’
‘Mum says it might jump up on the table and …’
Kate took over, ‘It’s unhygienic.’
‘Yes, that’s what she says.’ Lizzy looked amazed. ‘How did you know?’
‘Just a wild guess,’ Kate muttered. ‘Sit down and pass me the brush, please. Ah, you have kirby grips too. Excellent.’ She held those in her mouth.
Lizzy said, ‘Mum never puts them in her mouth. She says it’s …’
‘Unhygienic,’ Kate muttered, biting on the kirby grips and brushing the child’s hair – so dark, so like … She stopped. She created a parting and plaited first one side, tying it off with ribbon, and then the other. Finally she looked from the front. ‘There, even-stevens. You look perfect.’ But in the brushing back of Lizzy’s hair there was a hint of him, the father. She fetched the dishcloth from the draining board and wiped the table.
‘Don’t you like me?’ Lizzy asked, still sitting.
Kate stopped, looked and saw, not a grown man, but a child of eight. She closed her eyes. God, life was so complicated, so damned difficult. And she wanted to be back in her world, one in which she had control. She showed Lizzy the cloth. ‘Why on earth would you ask that? See, no hairs.’
She turned away and washed the cloth beneath the running water. It splashed her; well, it splashed Sarah’s apron. Lizzy said nothing, and Kate relaxed.
The child appeared at her side. ‘Mum looks at me like that sometimes, as though she wonders who I am. Sort of worried, sort of angry, sort of frightened.’
Kate wrung out the dishcloth, draped it over the taps and answered carefully, ‘I think that a child is a sort of miracle, and that parents must be worried about how to keep this miracle safe and sound. I feel it, even though I’ve just been here a few hours. There’s so much to think about, isn’t there? If we’re not clearing up after breakfast, we’re getting into a sort of uniform for church; and then, according to the list, there’s lunch, and I haven’t even scrubbed the potatoes and cut up the lettuce, ready for you when church is finished. Speaking of which, we need to go. Fetch your cardigan, it’s always cool in church.’
Lizzy had been nodding, her expression serious, as though she was examining every word Kate said.
‘Go on then,’ Kate insisted. ‘Cardigan, you little miracle.’
Lizzy laughed, a great pealing laugh, which Kate joined in. As the child ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs, she locked the back door, shoved Lizzy’s chair back tidily, checked the list again, then met her charge in the hall.
‘You’ll need gloves,’ said Lizzy.
‘A hat will be enough. It’s too hot, and we’re late.’ Kate’s tone brooked no argument. She applied lipstick, put on her straw hat, locked the front door behind them and they half ran to the church, because it was already ten thirty-five.
They rushed in through the church door and there, waiting just inside, was the verger from yesterday, only he wasn’t a verger: he was wearing a dog collar.
‘Morning, Vicar Tom,’ said Lizzy as she skipped towards the choir stalls where other scrubbed and brushed children waited. Kate couldn’t see who played the organ. Whoever it was, they were finding some of the right notes, but not many.
She waved at Lizzy, and then smiled at the vicar. ‘You could, perhaps, have told me who you are. No parrot yet, I see.’
He grinned. ‘No peg-leg, either, between yesterday and today.’
‘A wound of war?’ she asked, waving aside his offering of prayer and hymn books.
For a moment his smile faltered. ‘It was not exactly a picnic on the beach.’
‘Ah, Dunkirk?’
He nodded.
She said, ‘It must have hurt, and probably still does. I’ve heard about blast damage – sort of sucks the breath out of you, quite apart from the burning flesh. I feel for you.’
Behind her she heard a whispered, ‘Well, a parrot, indeed; and drawing attention to that awful face. Has she no sense of what’s right?’
Mrs Bartholomew came from behind and overtook Kate, grabbing the prayer and hymn books from the vicar. ‘You go and do what you should be doing, and ask again for someone to take the verger’s position. The grass needs cutting properly, whatever you said about the bees. It’s a dreadful mess.’
It was not a suggestion, but an order. Kate raised an eyebrow, and the vicar sighed and winked at her. He said to Mrs Bartholomew, ‘No, Mrs B. I’m sure if you think about the honey situatio
n, you’ll realise that Miss Watson’s suggestion is a good one. We’ll leave it for a while longer.’ He sauntered off down the aisle towards the altar.
The women behind Kate gasped, and one said in a loud voice, ‘Coming back to the village and straight away she’s taking advantage of that poor, damaged young man. What would her father think? But he wouldn’t be surprised, would he? Stripping indeed. Whatever next?’
Kate moved from the queue, and waved at Lizzy again, but she was chatting to the other children. For a moment Kate watched; then, without looking to left or right, she left as she had always intended to. Mrs Fellows, from the big house, said as she passed, ‘How dare she wear all that lipstick in church.’
‘Her sort always dare.’ It was Mrs Williams, whom Kate had spotted the day before outside the bakery, with her daughter.
Outside the church a woman blocked her path. Kate side-stepped, but the woman went with her. Kate focused, knowing she had to toughen up all over again. It was Mrs Summers, Kate’s mother’s old friend, and the mother of Sarah’s runaway nanny – Ellie Summers. She’d recognise that white hair anywhere.
‘Not so fast, young Katie Watson. I’m cutting off your retreat.’
Her laugh was booming, and she dragged Kate to the side of the path, out of the way of several women who were scurrying past, gossiping like a gathering of starlings plotting their migration.
‘Don’t you dare do a runner. And I insist that you do not let those tears fall, young lady. You need to face those women out; and I’ll be with you, cheering you on while you do it. They’ll get tired of their delicious shock at your return, and at their distinctly mouth-watering “disgust” that you were a stripper. Kate, they haven’t the wit to see that sometimes needs must. And, sadly, they are encouraged by that appalling snob, Barbara Fellows, who has little to do but count her money and create divisions. Your mother would have made sure that whatever happened back then, it didn’t – even if it meant going to the woods with you and learning to tango. However, I suspect she already could. Now, come along, this is not the time to be precious. Lizzy needs you.’
She slipped her arm through Kate’s and, pinioned thus, Kate had no option but to return and take prayer and hymn books from Mrs Bartholomew, who looked as though she’d sucked a lemon.
The vicar, now wearing his vestments, announced from the altar steps, ‘Hymn number one hundred and ninety-six: “Guide me, O thou great Redeemer”.’
The choir drowned out the wheezing discord of the organ, and it was Lizzy’s voice that soared above all others as Kate listened, mesmerised. Mrs Summers nudged Kate, and against the grinding of the congregation’s efforts she said, ‘Now, do you see why I wanted you to stay. She is like you, my dear. Just listen to that voice. Now, sing up and help her.’
Kate found herself doing so, and around them voices grew quieter. In the choir stall Lizzy was gazing across the congregation, trying to find who was singing, just as the choir and vicar were doing. Mrs Summers waved to Lizzy, pointing to Kate, who was singing to Lizzy – and her alone. Within seconds Lizzy was doing the same, and it was as though there was no-one else.
The organ wheezed its last notes and the congregation rustled and sat down, craning round to see whose voice had melded with Lizzy’s. They located Kate and stared, then shook their heads. Kate sighed.
‘Let us pray,’ said the vicar. More rustling as hassocks were arranged, knees plonked down; then they were standing again, and soon it was another hymn, ‘There is a green hill far away’. This time the young female choir-leader looked out at the church, waiting for ‘the voice’. Kate sang, but more quietly now, but still she and Lizzy sang for one another because, in Kate’s world, there was no God.
The vicar took to the pulpit for the sermon, and Kate leaned back in the pew. It was at this point of the service that the Reverend Hastings had droned interminably on and on and she’d longed to be outside, playing with her friend Melanie, who had left the village soon after Topsy had died. Perhaps it was as well, because Melanie was a Roman Catholic and her father hadn’t approved of their friendship, so it would have caused even more discord.
The vicar was clearing his throat and presenting as much of the good side of his face as possible. She supposed she might do the same, if her back had been visible, but maybe they both ought to brazen it out. She smiled at the thought of stripping off her clothes and revealing all. Her back had been perfect when she’d worked at the Burlesque Club, and if she’d known then what it was like to be pain-free, she would have appreciated every minute. The vicar was rustling his papers on the lectern. Oh, do get on with it, she thought, longing for a cigarette, and regretting her promise to donate the gin, because she’d need one after this.
The Reverend Thomas Rees at last began. ‘I was going to talk to you today about suffering, but,’ he tapped the papers he had before him, ‘I have listened yesterday afternoon and this morning to my “flock” and will now read you Colossians three, verses twelve to thirteen.’ He did so, then placed his Bible on the pulpit ledge and leaned forward, resting on his elbows. ‘You will see that we are asked to clothe ourselves with – amongst other virtues – compassion, kindness, humility. We are also advised that if anyone has a complaint against another, forgiveness is everything, just as God is forgiveness personified. So, my friends, is this call for forgiveness reasonable, if we feel we have been slighted or our sense of decency has been outraged?’
There was a shuffling in the pews. Kate could see Mrs Bartholomew whispering to her neighbour, Mrs Fellows, as the vicar continued, ‘You see, my friends, the Apostle Paul teaches that at the core of our Christian identity we are to become as one unified humanity. It is a humanity which, of course, he and perhaps we place ourselves firmly within. Do we realise, whilst trying to achieve this, that central to this humanity is forgiveness. Now, what stands in the way of forgiveness?’
He straightened, and looked at the congregation, and around at the choir. Kate wondered if they were to put up their hands or answer in writing. Forgiveness was sadly lacking, she wanted to say, in this village; and certainly in me too. In fact, the lack of it eats away at what was my heart until, quite honestly, there is just a husk left – not enough to make a silk purse, or even a sow’s ear. The vicar was talking again, so clearly answers in writing were not required.
‘Let us think of Matthew seven, verses one and two. Judgement is what frequently stands in the way of forgiveness. If you are pondering my words, let me help. Jesus tells us exactly what he meant: “judge not that ye be not judged”. So, basically, he means that in the way you judge, you will be judged.
‘I don’t believe Jesus meant that we should never make a judgement about right and wrong, which is surely essential in our society. Think of Germany: had judgements been made by Hitler’s people, perhaps the horrors in the making would never have been born. Yes, indeed, if someone kills, we can judge that this is wrong, but I believe he meant also that no-one is perfect, least of all ourselves. I have already said that I speak as someone who has listened to some discussions, so bring your compassion, your examination of yourself into the arena and move towards forgiveness of whatever you might feel has been a slight, or a wrong done to you or to a community.’ He straightened and looked around.
‘Beware of behaving in much the same way you have deemed wrong. Remember: we are at war, and for now that can’t be changed, but in our own lives we have the power to open our hearts to kindness, acceptance and welcome. In Little Worthy, let kindness, inclusion and humanity reign. Now, may the peace of God, which passes all understanding, keep your hearts and minds, through Jesus Christ, our Lord, Amen.’
Mrs Summers pressed her arm against Kate’s, murmuring as they rose to their feet, ‘That’s telling them.’
Kate replied, ‘That’s telling us all.’ But for her, there were some things that couldn’t be forgiven, and she couldn’t sing the next hymn because her throat was too full. Yet again, as she had so often before, she felt the need to run free and
make for the woods, to look up through the trees to the sky, to thoughts of her mother, and Topsy, and a time of safety and protection. But if she couldn’t find it in her to forgive the unfairness of all that had happened, why should the village be kind to her?
As they left the church she shook Reverend Thomas Rees’s hand. ‘Interesting sermon, it was good of you.’
‘As it was of you to stay here.’
‘Yes, a bit above and beyond, I think, Vicar.’
‘One day it might not be.’
She just smiled and waited at the side of the path for the choristers to be released. Mrs Summers joined her. ‘Have the ticked-off come running to you in sackcloth and ashes, to embrace she who they wanted to cast out?’
‘You can see the rush to embrace me with warmth and welcome.’
The two women laughed gently. Kate enjoyed the July heat, and tasted the dust in the air from the wheat that was beginning to ripen. She liked the August harvest time; it was then there was a faded fullness to the verges and gardens. In a few months it would be autumn, with its changing colours, and she must make a point of stepping out in the London parks. Then it would be winter and, when she lived here, before her mother died, the door would be shut, and chestnuts baked on the fire on shovels. She laughed at herself. Chestnuts on shovels had stopped for her, long ago.
Mrs Summers called, ‘Hello, Lizzy.’
Lizzy was skipping out of the church and came to them. ‘We sang, you and me,’ she said. ‘We sang and I didn’t really hear anyone else while we did. It was really strange, and Miss Easton, my teacher, says thank you for the offer of gin for the raffle. She teaches us church choir too, you see. I’m really quite hungry.’ She set off along the path. Kate and Mrs Summers shared a look, laughed and then followed.
Mrs Summers said, ‘You didn’t really donate a whole bottle of gin?’
‘What else could I do, or it would be all around the village that they could add being a drunk to my list of sins.’