by K T Bowes
Emma punched Rohan in the ribs and he snuffed a laugh. “This is a school corridor!” she hissed. “I’m already losing my job, but I guess you’d enjoy seeing me robbed of everything, wouldn’t you?”
“No, Em! Of course I wouldn’t! Why are you losing your job?” Rohan’s fingers reached for her face again but the spell was broken. Emma shoved at him with both hands and her whole body weight, succeeding when he took a step back. “I love you!” he said in English, pointing his index finger at her heart. “Nothing changes that, ever.”
“Yeah, except another woman in a house in Harborough. That changes a few things. I’m not into polygamy so it’s a deal breaker, Rohan. Go away, leave me alone and let me work out what to do with the rest of my life.” Emma exhaled through pursed lips and Rohan’s eyes widened.
“You wouldn’t sell up and move?” he asked, regaining the tiled distance between their feet. “This will work out, I promise. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“There we go again; durak, that little word which sums up all my dealings with you. You’ve never denied there’s a woman at your house so from now on I’ll do what I want; it’s clearly good enough for you. I might lead a double life and get myself a hot guy to warm my bed on winter nights. Let’s see how you like it. Go away, Rohan. Last warning!”
Emma turned and fell through the office door as Sam emerged with his ever present screwdriver and a small coat peg. “Everything ok?” he asked, glancing from her to Rohan. Tears pricked in Emma’s eyes as she saw the determination in his soft brown eyes and the fingers of his left hand balled into a fist. Sam’s body language spoke of willingness to defend her honour, but the determination in his eyes faded to fear as he contemplated the tall Russian. Rohan’s face channelled storm clouds and pure anger.
“Everything’s fine,” Emma said, touching Sam’s arm. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, every nerve ending in her body giving off distress signals. Her marriage had crumbled at the first hurdle and her job followed it down the same rocky path. “Maybe I should sell up and go,” she breathed, the idea at the forefront of her mind.
The costly, beautiful plans for Wingate Hall fluttered through her inner vision, the sense of purpose it gave her to restore its dignity pulling her back from thoughts of flight. Emma sighed. “Fine! We’ll co-exist in this very small town for now,” she muttered to herself, knowing how hard it would be to avoid the Russian.
Sam left his computer logged in and Emma trawled the internet, looking for something to help her research. Her neat script filled the pad next to her, offering directions and places to go next in her quest. When Sam’s battered telephone trilled on the desk, Emma jumped and knocked over the dregs of Sam’s cold coffee.
“Drat!” Emma exclaimed into the handset, mopping frantically with one of his work cloths. Shoe polish spread across the desk, making a black, muddy mess on the old pine surface.
“Oh, hi Emma. This is Miriam from the office. I’ve got a lady from a church in Leicester asking for you. Is this a bad time?”
“No, sorry. It’s fine. I just knocked Sam’s coffee everywhere. Put her through and thanks.”
“Did your partner find you?” Miriam asked, her voice tentative. “He left the flowers with me, but wanted to see you first. He’s gorgeous.”
“Flowers?” Emma’s voice sounded flat.
“Yeah, men are predictable, aren’t they?” Miriam laughed. “From forgetting to put the bins out to having extra marital sex, they think flowers and chocolates produce instant forgiveness.” Emma’s silence made the secretary nervous. “Not that I’m suggesting he’s had...well, shall I put this woman through?”
“Yes, please.” Emma’s words came out in a rush. “Thanks. Bloody hell, I forgot it was bin day!” The lack of a vehicle made wheeling the rubbish along the half mile driveway impossible. She shook her head in irritation at herself and waited for Miriam to put the call through.
“Emma Harrington,” she said when the connection clicked from the front office.
“Oh, Hi. This is Sharon from the parish council. You spoke to our secretary yesterday about archives held in the diocese?”
“Yes, thanks for returning my call.” Emma breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well, we’ve searched our archives and those of St Martin’s. We’ve also spoken to a local church historian who’s familiar with the artifacts held at the cathedral in Leicester. There’s no record of the vicar of St Martin’s ever opening anything, let alone a school. Because Little Arden is listed as a church school, it possibly had its origins with the diocese, but that’s just a title nowadays. As I’m sure you know, the government didn’t get involved with mandatory schooling until 1880 but there were grants given after the Education Act of 1870. It’s possible the Church grabbed one of those and built the school. There’s forty schools I know of which were built under that funding. It’s possible yours was one of those projects.”
“Thanks,” Emma replied, sounding crestfallen and resisting the urge to say too much to the helpful woman.
“Have you come across log books for the school?” The voice sounded tinny.
“Yes,” Emma replied. “But the first ones are missing. They don’t start until 1865.”
“Do the logs mention the school opening in the January 1865 one?” Sharon asked, unable to see Emma’s frustrated eye roll.
“No. They mention a delay in opening that year due to sickness. So they’re little help in establishing a date. I read somewhere the vicar of St Martin’s opened the school building.”
“Really? I’d be interested to see that. Was it a newspaper article or an official document?”
“I can’t remember,” Emma lied, a little too quickly.
“Oh dear. Have you tried the district council and Leicester city council?” Sharon asked, naming sources Emma already tried.
“Yes thanks. The district council had a fire in 1965 which damaged many of their school history records and the main office in Leicester can’t find anything. Little Arden was transferred from Northamptonshire to Leicestershire in 1888 and the local council didn’t exist until 1894, so the only body likely to have what I need is the Diocesan.”
“I wonder why the vicar of St Dionysius didn’t open a new school building in his district,” Sharon intoned, and Emma felt relieved at the other woman’s persistence despite her own ingratitude.
“That’s a great point!” she gushed. “I’ll check that today. Thank you so much.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Can I ask why you’re researching this?”
Emma’s pen stilled half way through her doodle and her body froze. “Oh, I’m making display boards for our one hundred and fiftieth celebration and I want to get my facts straight.”
“Oh, of course. 1865! Our secretary recorded the year wrong. I’ve searched 1860 by mistake. I’ll go back and look again. That might solve the mystery.”
Emma thanked the enthusiastic woman and hung up, knowing she’d condemned her to another wasted afternoon in the annals of the church archives. “But then again,” Emma reassured herself, “she might find something to suggest this plaque had the wrong date on it.”
Cheered, Emma went back to her research. Unable to rouse anyone in the offices at St Di’s by phone, she waited until lunchtime and made her escape. Sam returned just as she pulled on her long coat and sucked his bottom lip as he blocked her exit. “I would’ve hit him, just so ya know,” he said, his thin face sincere.
“I know,” Emma said with a smile, not adding he wouldn’t have survived the attentions of a trained killer. “You’re very sweet.”
“So are you married to that Russian guy then?” Sam pressed and Emma focussed on gathering her mittens and stuffing her small purse into her pocket.
“Yes.”
“But your baby’s not his?”
“What?” Shocked, Emma spun round, almost overbalancing. “What do you think I am, some loose tart?”
“No!” Sam looked sorry and took
a step forward, reaching out towards her. “I messed that up, sorry. I just wanted you to know if you need anything, I’m here for you.” He smiled and his utter sincerity overwhelmed Emma. She swallowed and nodded, unable to speak. “I talk about you and Freda all the time at home. My missus is right keen to meet ya. We don’t have much but if you need anything, you sing out. You’re not on your own.”
Emma nodded, feeling choked. All the money in Britain couldn’t replace the support of good friends. It was an old lesson which came back to her like an electrical pulse, learned on the poverty stricken council estate in Lincoln. “Thanks, Sam,” she whispered and beat a hasty retreat.
Chapter 12
The beautiful church dominated the centre of Market Harborough and had done for centuries. The grey stone spire once stood above the sprawling Rockingham forest skyline which rambled across the area unchecked, acting as a beacon of sanctuary in a tumultuous world. A brochure in the entrance revealed how the original construction began in 1300 and took twenty years to complete, the broache spire still the most striking part of the church.
Emma closed her eyes and breathed in the sense of the ancients around her. The peace of the building hummed, its security resting on God and not the foibles of men. It reminded her of her father’s church, childhood memories invoking feelings of loss which she wasn’t quick enough to dismiss.
Every movement caused a dull, thudding echo in the cavernous nave and a group of tourists produced a hum of stage whispers which reverberated around Emma’s head. She opened her eyes and exhaled, releasing her breath in a controlled whoosh.
“Can I help you, dear?” An elderly woman smiled at Emma with kindness, a set of expensive pearls wound around her slender neck and a matching sweater and cardigan adorning her body. She looked like the perfect guide for the historic monument with fluffy white hair and pale pink lipstick.
“I’m the archivist from Little Arden School,” Emma began, collecting her wits and assuming a professional air. “I’m trying to find out who the vicar of St Di’s was during the 1860s and whether he might have been invited to open the school.”
“Oh yes! It’s your big celebration this year, isn’t it?” Bright eyes smiled from her crinkly face as the guide held out her hand. “I’m Eva Collins but my married name was Stokes.” She smiled at the recognition in Emma’s face.
“I’ve seen your photograph. You went to the school in the 1950s and your father taught the older children. That’s right isn’t it?”
Eva smiled with pleasure. “Spot on, dear. My, you have a good memory.” Her pale skin flushed against her snowy hair and she looked ethereal. She waved a hand towards the front of the church. “The vicar during that time was the Reverend Frederick Pigott and he served here from 1856 to 1865. Is that what you wanted to know?”
Emma nodded, the smile wavering on her face. She knew what was coming next and the elderly lady didn’t disappoint her. “He died a few months before the school was completed. I believe he was in ill health.”
“Did he have regular contact with the school?” Emma tried a different tack, attempting to establish relationship between church and school. “Where would I find that kind of information?”
Eva continued to smile but the confidence in her eyes waned with considerable speed. “I don’t know, dear.”
Emma pursed her lips and shifted on her feet, hearing the stone floor make a dull shushing sound under her soles. “If he had lived, do you think he’d be the logical choice to open the new building?” she asked, knowing full well the vicar was alive and well when it happened five years earlier.
“But he wasn’t, so I don’t know.” Eva raised her eyes to heaven as though expecting to find the answer written on the vaulted ceiling. “It should have been the vicar of St Mary’s in Arden. Do you know who that was?”
Emma shook her head, feeling the visit grow quickly pointless. She gazed at the mediaeval stonework and sighed.
“Perhaps one of our other ladies knows,” she said, spinning around and looking for help. With a nod of her fluffy head, Eva clip clopped down the aisle to another white haired lady cleaning the brass at the front of the church. After a whispered conversation she returned, trying not to walk on her heels and producing a peculiar shimmy in an attempt to be less clumpy. “St Mary’s in Arden was already in disrepair by then, or at least on its way. Gloria doesn’t think it had an incumbent.”
“What about the church in Little Bowden?” Emma asked. “It’s not very far away, so perhaps the vicar from there attended?”
“Ooh, I think St Di’s and Little Bowden have shared a vicar for a very long time.” Eva’s brow knitted in concentration. “It’s only a very small parish, you see. Vicar sharing’s been going on for a while.”
Emma tried not to roll her eyes at the spurious notion of vicar sharing. “Surely not,” she said. “Back in the 1860s they must have employed their own clergy. Arden and Bowden weren’t released by Northamptonshire until the late 1880s and the local district wasn’t officially formed until the mid-1890s. I can’t imagine Leicester taking much responsibility for the area, so that leaves the local churches running everything between them. One vicar couldn’t do all of it.”
“The Bishop of Lincoln was in charge, dear.” Eva felt challenged and her tone became acerbic.
“Lincoln?” Even the name of her hometown filled Emma with a prickling sensation up her spine and her body tensed in response.
“Yes dear, Lincoln. For many centuries the churches of this area were included in the dioceses of Lincoln and Peterborough and under the fee of Lincoln. It was through the clemency of the Bishop of Lincoln that local clergy kept donations from the parish to fund their work.”
Emma’s eyes wandered around the historical feast, taking in every ancient detail with hungry appraisal. The stained glass windows looked newly restored and the interior stone was clean and free of the usual staining and debris associated with old churches. Eva pointed towards the pulpit, her face crinkling up in excitement as she dropped into her usual tourist patter. “The Sermon on the Mount carving was erected by the Reverend Johnson’s brothers as an offering after they returned from India and the vicar himself donated the east window in 1860. They altered and renovated much of the church during his time. He was quite the visionary.” Eva’s tone faltered. “But that isn’t what you wanted to know, is it? I dislike not being able to answer visitors’ questions.” She cast around again and her eyes settled on a tall woman speaking to a group of Oriental visitors with huge cameras dragging their necks forward like giraffes. “I’ll see if our head guide knows,” Eva said. “Mrs Clarissa Jameson-Arden knows everything about the town’s history.” She said the other woman’s name with a bouncing lilt as though climbing a high fence in a delicate dress. Emma repeated the name in her head, disliking its cadence and curious about its owner.
Eva smiled and waved at the tour guide as she bid farewell to her group of Japanese tourists. They bowed and waved with dignity after first instigating a group selfie including her. The woman appeared superior with their well-intentioned smiles and bows, hurrying across to Eva at the earliest opportunity.
“Hello, nice to meet you. I’m Clarissa Jameson-Arden.” The newcomer pushed into the situation with a forcefulness which bordered on rude. She ignored Eva as she held out her delicate, ring encrusted hand, but the smile she offered didn’t reach her eyes. Her handshake was limp like a dead fish and Emma withdrew her fingers as soon as she decently could. “I overheard you say you’re the new Little Arden archivist.” She searched Emma’s face with cool interest.
“Yes, that’s right.” Emma tried not to shrink from her piercing scrutiny, astounded at the range of the elderly woman’s hearing. “I’m researching for the display boards. With it being a Church of England school, I want to track down which church commissioned the building.”
Something dangerous flitted across the woman’s eyes, gone before Emma could properly register it. Her answer was perplexing. “There’s no need t
o waste your time on such small matters. A few photos will suffice on the day. But as you’re interested, St Di’s commissioned the school when the Education Act came into force and the school pence was removed. Education became free for all after that and children between the ages of five and ten attended compulsorily.”
Emma bit her tongue and kept her contradictions to herself. The woman had the order wrong. Something warned Emma not to correct her as the steel grey eyes bore into her face, unsmiling and robotic.
“Oh no, Clarissa,” Eva interrupted. “The Education Act was passed in 1870 but school fees were collected until 1891. So for twenty six years, the school collected the school pence in fees. Then schooling became mandatory and free and the age raised to twelve or thirteen, I can’t remember which.” Eva tittered like a chipmunk. “They seemed to always be fiddling around with leaving ages and new bits of legislation. It gets very confusing.” Eva gave a tinkling laugh which set Clarissa’s teeth on edge, judging by her painful grimace.
Emma averted her gaze from the hostile stare of the other tour guide and directed her question to Eva. “The government approved grants to churches around 1870 to encourage school building or extensions to cope with the mandatory attendance. But do you know of any other local schools built under that scheme? Apparently there’s about forty according to the Leicester Diocese. Were any others here in Harborough?” A rash of schools built around the same time under the auspices of the same legislation must generate documentation somewhere. Emma just had to find it.
Eva opened her mouth to speak but Clarissa shut her down with little effort. She gathered her expensive lace jacket around her opulent blouse with wooden fingers and set her body in an aggressive stance. “The church built schools when it needed them. It didn’t wait for government handouts, not in Market Harborough. That’s not how we do things here!” The way she said the name of the town indicated ownership.
Emma fought the urge to bristle and name-drop her ownership of Wingate Hall. It would muddy the woman’s jaded opinion of her and force early acceptance into the barred Harborough club, but Emma didn’t want it, not that way. She closed her mouth instead, acknowledging Clarissa was right, in part. The church had funded the school a full decade before government legislation released the cash to improve or extend it, but the older woman wasn’t to know that.