by Syd Moore
He gazed at me, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. I stared back. We were like two cats prowling about each other, unsure whether to fight or flee.
Those fiery eyes shifted away from me, glancing down at my notebook. He opened his mouth then closed it, like he wanted to say something but kept changing his mind.
I took control in an attempt to normalize the situation. ‘I’m doing some family history.’
It didn’t have the effect that I’d hoped for. McWhittard propped his elbows onto the table and sank his head into his hands. His dark hair covered his face for a moment so I couldn’t see his expression. Then he jerked his head back to reveal a broad, albeit forced, smile. His eyes were still narrowed as he spoke. ‘That’s odd. So am I.’
I took a sip of my coffee, ignoring the slight tremor to the cup, and wiped my upper lip of the sweat which had broken out all over my body. The air between us crackled with tension. Had he been looking at the same fiche as me?
‘But I thought your family were Scottish?’
He leant back and fixed me with a hard stare. ‘There are connections down here.’ It wasn’t a statement as such, more of a challenge.
I decided not to speak. Silence, I found, was an effective but quite underused method of class control. Instead I nodded. It did the trick. He relinquished my gaze and shifted his eyes to my notebook.
‘So who are you delving into?’
I tossed the book to him. ‘Sarah Grey.’
His right hand, which had crept out to take the book, withdrew with a sharpness neither of us could ignore.
His eyes met mine again. For a long moment it felt like he was looking deep inside me, trying to find something or read a motive of sorts. Then, all of a sudden, he stood up. ‘I think it’s time you and I had a proper chat.’
With an energy that surprised and confused me, he strode round to my side of the table and thrust out his hand. Without thinking I took it and stood up.
‘Have you had lunch yet?’
I shook my head, half conscious of the fact we were still holding hands. ‘There’s a nice little pub about ten minutes’ drive from here. Have you got your car?’
I said that I hadn’t and allowed him to lead me out of the Records Office and into his car.
The journey had been awkward and surreal with neither of us speaking. But once we had got into the pub, a seventeenth-century inn, and ensconced ourselves in a quiet corner beside a large unlit inglenook fireplace, I began to relax a little.
It was Andrew who spoke first and once he started he didn’t stop. His tale was almost as bizarre as my own.
Born in a suburb of Glasgow to young parents he’d enjoyed a happy childhood, he said. His father was a communist, a form of rebellion against his mother’s parents who were quite religious. They had some connection of which they were very proud, to a past bishop of the Episcopal Church, the Primus of Scotland.
McWhittard spoke fondly of the holidays he spent with his maternal grandparents and was even comical as he relayed his own teenage rebellion – finding God outside of a communist rally. A huge disappointment to his father, he wanted to study Theology at university but was persuaded by his mum to read Economics to avoid a family rift.
On graduation however, having fulfilled his filial duties, he applied to a theology college and so started on a course that wound up with him making a living some years later in a small parish outside of Aberdeen. There was a tinge of regret in his eyes as he told me about the quiet happy life he had led there.
‘I met my wife, Imogen. She wasn’t a churchgoer but she did the flowers for us. She was lovely,’ he said with a deep sigh. ‘Our first child, Amelia, was born at home. Quite effortlessly.’
He looked up to find my eyebrows arched up high and smiled at me briefly. ‘When I say “effortlessly” I mean it was as easy a childbirth as it could have been,’ he explained.
But the shock he read in my face had more to do with the revelation of his fatherhood. Where is she now? I wondered, but he was off again.
‘I was quite ambitious then. After we’d got over the shock of becoming parents and had settled down into a familiar routine I got itchy feet. Things were too comfortable there in the village. I wanted to find a bigger parish. Imogen was reluctant to leave the place she had grown up in and the extended family that supported us.’
He gripped his glass tightly now. ‘She wanted stability. And of course, who could blame her?’ Andrew leant forwards and propped his elbows on the table. He ran his fingers through his hair and took a long swig of beer. ‘The schools were good where we were. I just wanted to move on in some way. But I understood why she wanted to stay. Anyway, when she told me she was pregnant again, I knew that was going to seal the deal. We were going to be staying for a good while.’ His eyes searched my face for signs of consent or approval.
I was a bit stunned by it all so I simply nodded.
He went on to praise his wife’s sensitivity. ‘Imogen knew I would do the right thing. She always said I was noble.’ He glanced at me again and laughed harshly. ‘A lot of things have changed since then.’
I didn’t know how to take this so I murmured somewhat sarcastically, ‘I see.’
‘She knew,’ he went on steadily, ‘that I would abandon the idea of relocation, so, as a kind of alternative or a distraction, she planted a new idea in my head. She suggested I should steer my ambitions towards more academic goals and write a biography of the man who had so influenced my grandparents, and my own path in life – the Primus of Scotland, Robert Eden.’
The name rang a bell. Yes, Eden had been rector of St Clements. He had overseen the building of the new rectory, now the library.
‘Not much had been written about him so it was a bit of a challenge. She understood exactly what I was like. And of course I grasped the opportunity. She knew it meant days away for me while I visited various archives, but Imogen was happy that I was happy. And I was.’ He blew out his cheeks and rubbed his right eye with his palm.
‘So off I went on my research. It was fairly bog-standard academic trawling at first but I was tipped off by a librarian in Edinburgh, who directed me to the recent discovery found in a chest rescued from a derelict old house in the city. It contained the Primus’s journals. There were about twenty books, chronologically arranged, with an assortment of catalogues, papers and letters. It was a treasure-trove.
‘The library was happy to give me full access to the records. But of course it meant more time away from Imogen and Amelia. But I was enthralled. I don’t remember thinking I had a choice at the time but of course I did. Anyway, I started my investigations, focusing on the end of the Primus’s life, purely because it was easier; he had published more documents and pamphlets than he had as a simple reverend.
‘One day, when I was trawling through one of the journals that the Primus had written in his latter years, I found an entry that intrigued me. It was regarding a trip made by the Bishop to the small parish of Leigh-on-Sea in the south of England.’
I shifted in my chair and leant closer to him.
‘He once spent time there as the rector of St Clements. It transpired that the Primus had received a letter from one of his old parishioners. Written by an old widow that he’d had some dealings with in the past, it begged him to help her find justice for an offence unmentioned but which, the letter inferred, the Primus had some secret knowledge of. It hooked me. Totally.’
At this point Andrew stopped, and I supposed he was going to fetch another glass or go for a fag. It was that kind of pause. But he didn’t.
He breathed in deeply through his nostrils and bent his head. His face had paled in colour, from his usual pastiness to ashen.
His brow puckered in a deep line across his forehead indicating a real internal conflict within. Amidst my own bemusement I kind of felt sorry for him so didn’t press, although, to be fair, the urge was coming on strong.
After yet another moment’s consideration, in which he bit his lip and nervou
sly ran his fingers through his hair, he went on. ‘The Primus constantly referred to letting the woman down. OK? You got that?’ He leant forwards across the table and repeated ‘Constantly?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got it,’ I replied, but I hadn’t got a clue where he was going now.
‘I was intrigued. Really fascinated. I felt for him. It was almost as if he was haunted by his failure for the rest of his life. So I looked into it further. In fact, I cancelled my afternoon ticket home and booked into a nearby hotel. I phoned Imogen but got the answer-phone so I left a message. Then I went back to the library and worked through the journals for hours until finally I found a passage that seemed to shed some light on the mystery.’
McWhittard had been talking for an hour, during which time we had paused to eat lunch. By now, however, I was on the edge of my seat, barely able to contain my excitement. ‘Well, what did it say? Was the woman Sarah Grey?’
He took a deep breath and to my bewilderment his eyes filled with water. I marvelled briefly at the academic fervour of the man. Such passion for the dead; I had underestimated him. He glanced at the empty fireplace beside us. ‘I have a copy of the passages in the notebook at home. You must read them yourself.’ His voice was heavy with a tone I couldn’t fathom.
Had he taken me to this point only to leave me dangling there? ‘Oh come on, Andrew. What did it say?’
He sniffed, still looking at the hearth. ‘I wasn’t able to photocopy it in case the pages were damaged so spent some time writing it out. I was there longer than I ever should have been and my mobile was turned off. When I finally got back to the hotel late that night I switched on my phone. There was a message from the police: there had been an accident. Imogen’s car had been hit by a young man who had just passed his test. She hadn’t got my message and had been on the way to collect me from the station. I rushed back as soon as I could but by the time I got to the hospital, my daughter Amelia was already dead.’
I took in a deep breath and stared at him as he told me that for ten long days Imogen and their unborn baby fought for their lives, during which time McWhittard prayed. Then when that didn’t work, he negotiated with his boss to save them. On the tenth day his wife succumbed to her injuries taking his unborn son to the grave with her.
The pub was filling up now. A couple had joined the table next to us and were busily chatting about their day. The waitress came over and cleared our table of cutlery and dirty plates, clearly disconcerted by the sight of two people sitting in their own still pool of absolute silence.
Eventually I spoke. ‘Is that why you left the church?’
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Instead he said, ‘Do you want a lift back?’
I struggled out of my stupor and glanced at the antique iron clock above the fireplace. It was nearly time to get Alfie. ‘Yes please. Do you mind if we stop at the nursery …’ I trailed off, acutely embarrassed by my lack of tact.
‘It’s fine,’ he said.
We took another car journey in silence. It wasn’t companionable. More like the surface of a sea rip: calm at first sight, concealing a host of dark currents that would toss you around and drag you down if you swam too close.
I stared out the window at the flat landscape, not seeing any of it.
It was something of a relief to install Alfie in the back seat. He immediately demanded to know who Andrew was, if he had any sweets, and whether or not he was coming to play at our house. I excused Alfie’s demands but politely asked if Andrew would like to come in for a cup of tea.
As we pulled up outside our house he surprised me by saying, ‘Why not?’
Once Alfie had been set up with his supper and CBeebies I took out one of my favourite teapots – pretty pink bone china, decorated with small yellow roses. I popped two floral cups and saucers onto the tray with it and joined my boss outside in the garden. I set the tray on the table and he poured the tea into both cups, sugared and added milk to his although, I noticed, he did not touch it until I had picked up mine.
‘Cheers,’ I said, for want of anything better, and clinked my cup to his.
He seemed more relaxed and smiled as he said, ‘I’m sorry.’
I told him he had nothing to apologize for. ‘In fact,’ I continued, ‘I would be very interested in reading your transcript. If that’s OK with you? I realize that it has a difficult personal resonance and I really don’t want to …’
He cut in. ‘I’d like you to. I said you should earlier.’
I became aware that I hadn’t reapplied my lipstick for hours and was thinking of nipping off to freshen up when he gave me a little half smile and said, ‘You didn’t like me, did you? Not at first. I could tell.’ His right hand fluttered up to his hair and tugged on a small black lock by his ear.
This was awkward. We had just shared an intimate exchange. That is, he had shared with me. He certainly wasn’t the person I had assumed him to be a mere four weeks ago. ‘I’ve always had a problem with authority.’
‘I know,’ he said glumly. ‘That’s why …’ He paused, took a large gulp of tea and changed tack. ‘Can you imagine?’ he said at last. ‘What a shock it was to meet you, Sarah Grey.’
It was dawning on me.
I recalled our first meeting: I’d assumed my common accent had been the thing to shock him so.
I was beginning to realize I’d assumed a lot about this man.
‘And then when I learnt you too were a widow.’ He replaced the cup in its saucer in a heavy, cack-handed way, spilling half the tea though he seemed not to notice, and began thumbing the rusty iron edges of the table as he went on. ‘At first I thought it was a sign. Some kind of omen. It irritated the fuck out of me.’
I’d never heard him swear before. On his forehead small drops of perspiration wetted strands of fringe. It was hot but not that hot. He took another swig. ‘I know I was perhaps a little harsh with you when I needn’t have been, but I was alarmed.’ His cup came down on the table with a crack. ‘And protective.’
‘Protective? That’s an unusual word to use.’
He shrugged. ‘The Primus had not been there for old Sarah Grey when she needed him. I wondered if you’d been sent to me for some reason, if there wasn’t some kind of moral obligation or duty.’ He uncrossed his legs and moved forward in his chair. He was articulating half-thoughts, his mind rushing over others spoken only inside his mind. ‘It brought a great deal back and I …’
A plane flew across the sun, casting him into momentary darkness. The vein on the left of his neck pulsed and without thinking I reached out and put my hand out and covered his. ‘I know what it’s like. Don’t go there now.’
He took my hand. ‘I know you know,’ he said, after a few moments then released me and clenched his fist. ‘And I know,’ he said as if to himself, ‘that there is no rhyme nor rhythm nor reason to the universe. But to see you there today …’
He shook his head at some inner confusion. ‘Ending up here as I had … I resolved to investigate what happened to Sarah Grey. Purely out of curiosity, you understand. I didn’t get round to it, but when I had a spare couple of days I went to the Records Office and, well, it was a shock. There you were. Sitting there in the café like a …’ He paused to take a long breath and steadied his voice. ‘It was as if He was back again trying to get my attention.’ He threw back his head and let out an icy laugh that chilled me. ‘But you’re just researching your family tree. More fool me. There’s nothing divine or unusual in that. I’m sorry. It just threw me.’
He was looking away now, watching his foot dangle over the decking, thinking about events that had led him to this point.
It was fortunate for me that he couldn’t see my cheeks burn. Of all the situations I could have imagined this was not one of them. I bowed my head and tried to think about the best thing to say. Should I tell him the truth and be labelled a nutter? He might have confided in me but he was still my boss, and what I had to say was insane. Yet he had opened his heart t
o me. Could I really return his honesty with a lie?
It would certainly protect me. And protect him. But would it be the right thing to do? Was there a right thing to do?
I didn’t have to make a decision. He picked up the teapot and refilled his cup and my own. ‘I’ve upset you.’ He took in my ruddy complexion. ‘I’m sorry. I realize I’m being quite unprofessional.’
‘That’s OK.’ I smiled brightly, and forced my eyes as wide as possible. ‘I like you better this way.’
He laughed and as the sun shifted through the leaves of the ivy it caught his eyes. They twinkled, swirling like dark brown pools in the depths of the ocean, and just as unknown. His lips settled into a genuine smile this time. A shot of adrenalin surged through me. I blushed yet again and tried to disguise it by topping up my teacup. This must have appeared silly after he had just filled them, and of course I ended up overfilling it. I don’t know what he must have thought. But he only remarked, ‘Careful, it’s still hot.’
I blurt things out, I always have. It’s a terrible trait. Mostly I manage to control it but over the past couple of weeks my control mechanisms had had a hell of a lot to cope with. ‘Health and Safety,’ I said, in a strange, funny voice.
Thank God, he smiled. ‘McBastard. Yes, I remember our conversation outside the Red Lion.’
‘Sorry. Old habits …’
But he didn’t look annoyed.
‘So.’ I changed direction. ‘Is that what brought you to Leigh? The connection? To the Primus?’
He shook his head and picked a small piece of lint off his pale blue t-shirt. It was clean and well-laundered today. ‘No. I was already down South but in quite a tough school in London. People don’t last long there. Two or three years at the most. I’d done four out of pride, but I was ready to move on. I’d obviously heard of Leigh before but I’d not visited. A colleague came back from a weekend trip raving about it. We both applied for the St John’s job but in the end I got it. You know the rest.’