Eleven Pipers Piping

by C. C. Benison

  “Clive’s. I saw it—on the stairs leading to the tower. Sorry, Vicar, I don’t mean to be melodramatic. In those days, at weekends or between terms at school, I worked as a chambermaid at Thorn Court—it had been a hotel for only a few years. I was changing the linen in a bedroom facing the forecourt, one of the grander rooms with a bay window, when my father fell. I heard a crash above me, then I saw his body plummet before my very eyes. I heard the scream.” She shut her eyes momentarily, as if to ward off the pain of the memory. “I flew from the room and as I reached the stairs I glimpsed Clive’s shadow against the wall of the staircase up to the tower. You’ve been up with me—there’s a window on each side of the lower part of the tower. It was quite early in the morning, a bright day in summer, and the low sun created a shadow of Clive coming down the stair. I knew it was him, the way you know someone from the back of a head or an idiosyncratic gait seen at a distance. I even called out to him, ‘Clive, come quick!’ ”

  “And he didn’t come.”

  “No. He later claimed to have been nowhere near the tower. But I knew he had—or, rather, it came back to me sometime later that he surely had been, and that he was lying.”

  “But why would he do something so cruel, so criminal?”

  Judith shivered visibly.

  “Would you like to go inside somewhere?” Tom offered. “We can go to the vicarage or back to the pub.”

  Judith drew her scarf tighter around her neck. “I’m fine, really. Coming to Thornford has stirred many memories, the strongest ones not happy ones necessarily. You’re kind to endure my company for so long. I feel I may have outstayed my welcome.”

  “You’ve been no trouble at all.”

  “I expect you’d like an answer to your question.”

  “You’re under no obligation.”

  “I think you disappoint a few folk in the village, Tom.”

  “Oh, really? Why?”

  “Because you’re not keen to gossip.” She smiled up at him.

  “I suppose I am a dull fellow that way. But I very much dislike tittletattle. The words of a talebearer are as wounds, says the Proverb. Unless the information is true and more—honourable in some fashion—I’m inclined to turn my ear away. However, I must confess”—he smiled back—“I have my eyes and ears in the village. Mrs. Prowse is a font of knowledge and is rarely disinclined to speak her mind when she feels moved to do so. Miranda, too, usually keeps me abreast of this and that. So really, they both let me remain on my high horse.”

  Judith laughed. “You always refer to Madrun as ‘Mrs. Prowse.’ Very old-fashioned. Harks back to the day when cooks and housekeepers were always ‘Mrs.’ no matter what their marital status.”

  “That seems to be the footing we got onto, but I don’t think she ever addressed the previous incumbents with anything less than the proper honorific, and she expects the same in return. Oddly, I prefer it. Although I do use the occasional ‘Mrs. P’ out of earshot.”

  “Well, I shall tell you what I have not told your Mrs. P, as she is, as you suggest, terribly inquisitive and unlikely to keep it to herself. At the time of my father’s death, I was pregnant …”

  “Yes?”

  “… with Clive’s baby.” She regarded him. “Are you shocked?”

  “No. A little surprised, perhaps.”

  “That’s because you’re more than a generation younger than I. Attitudes changed so rapidly. When I was a teenager, pregnancy out of wedlock was still a disgrace. I dreaded telling my father, but finally I had to, before I began to show. The ignorance in those days was appalling. No advice bureaus, no discussion of birth control, no options but to give the baby up or have a backstreet abortion. If my mother had been alive, perhaps it all would have been handled differently. But my father had his own views, masculine, protective ones, I daresay. He believed I had been seduced, raped—I could hardly make my poor father believe that I had been more than willing.”

  Judith paused to glance at the gravestone. “My father was a very kindly man. Never raised his voice—at least not in my hearing—but that day, I could see it come over him, a kind of cold rage. I don’t know quite what he did, but he must have put the fear of God into Clive somehow. The next day Clive would have nothing to do with me.”

  “You hadn’t told Clive first about the pregnancy.”

  “No. I … I suppose I had some vague romantic fantasies of marrying him, but I knew it would never be on. I was … well, not really the right sort, was I? A servant girl, you might say—all very Barbara Cartland if it had worked out—and, really, I’m not sure I really fancied being anyone’s wife at that stage in my life.” She paused. “Anyway, I suspect Clive had never been spoken to like that before, even by his own father who stood for no nonsense.”

  “But, Judith, to do what he did!”

  “Impulsive, arrogant, thoughtless—that was Clive’s nature. All the Stanhopes have the taint, I think. I doubt Clive made any plan to do it. He simply seized the opportunity when he saw my father on Thorn Court’s roof. He stupidly thought if he could eliminate my father at that moment, his father wouldn’t find out. Which was ridiculous, as my condition would eventually become evident and questions would be asked.”

  Tom frowned. “Arthur Stanhope must have learned the truth, somehow.”

  “Arthur was formidable, but I can’t believe my father didn’t address him with the truth of my condition. I don’t know for certain, however. You must remember, all this happened within a couple of days. The subject was so painful and embarrassing for both my father and me that we didn’t speak of it. But I felt the old man—Arthur’s—eyes on me in that time and then, afterwards, when he insisted on paying for my nursing training …” She paused. “Either my father told him about my delicate condition, as they said in those days, or he suspected something and beat the truth out of Clive, which he was quite capable of doing. At any rate, ten days after my father’s funeral, at this very church”—she glanced over towards the Norman tower—“I was gone, enrolled at St. James’s in Leeds, never to return. Arthur must have pulled a few strings. I hadn’t even applied there, but I think Leeds was the farthest place Arthur might have had connections with.

  “I heard little of Thornford after that. We Frosts were a small family—both my parents, unusual for the day, were only children. I had no cousins. A few school chums wrote a bit, but I’m afraid I was a poor correspondent. I did get word in a letter a few years later that Clive had married Dorothy, the daughter of a vicar in a nearby parish—a more genteel alliance, I suppose. I knew who she was, an insipid girl, I thought, but of suitable breeding. I’m sure the old man kept Clive on a short leash for all the years till he died. I expect Arthur was barely cold before Clive sold the hotel and ran off to Australia.”

  “Tough years for you, a single mother—particularly in those unforgiving days.” Tom gave a passing thought, as he had many times in his life, to the nameless woman who was his birth mother.

  “Saint James’s was very forward-thinking for its time and accommodating to my situation.” Judith seemed to choose her words carefully. “And I met a wonderful man—a young administrator at the hospital—within a year and married him. We had nearly fifty years together, though the last ten, of course, were not what I would have wished.”

  Tom stared unseeing at the Frost gravestone, its base mottled with dead dark leaves. Judith had shaken the dust from her feet when she left Thornford and had not looked back. She had embraced her new life, her child, her husband, her career. But her husband was dead, her son was on the other side of the world, and she was soon to retire from her life’s work. He could understand that in the wake of a loved one’s death, in the midst of grief, the mind might rake through the coals in search of diamond-hardened memories. But that didn’t satisfy the question he was burning to ask.

  “Vicar? A penny …?”

  Tom bit his lip. “Judith, I hope you’ll forgive the provocation, but I don’t really believe you came to Thornford last Saturday
on a whim, on a notion to buy a little business or see what had become of your former home. The weather that day wasn’t a complete surprise. The forecast had been for an unusual amount of snow for almost all of England—which I think would discourage most people from taking to the roads. But you did, and not only did you, you very determinedly persevered down choked roads and through poor visibility, until you landed up at Thorn Court.”

  “I’m a determined woman.”

  “I believe you are. But are you willing to tell me why—in this instance?”

  He watched her features shift as she seemed to struggle for a response. Then she released a tiny sigh. “I came for the Burns Supper.”

  “How would you have known there was a Burns Supper at Thorn Court last Saturday?”

  “Tom, really.” She shot him a withering glance. “The Thistle But Mostly Rose South Devon Pipe Band has a website—a rather comprehensive one, I might add. The supper was posted.”

  “But it was an exclusive event—by invitation only.”

  “Yes, I know, but I didn’t think you gentlemen would be ungracious. And you weren’t.”

  “I’m afraid I’m still very puzzled.”

  “It’s simple, Tom. I wanted, as the young people would say these days, to ‘crash’ the event.”

  “But why?”

  “Tom, I’ve told you things this afternoon that only my husband ever heard from my lips. But why I appeared at your Burns Supper, I can’t tell you. At least, not quite yet.”

  The Vicarage

  Thornford Regis TC9 6QX

  17 JANUARY

  Dear Mum,

  I’m pleased to say I haven’t lost my mind after all. I thought I saw Oona Blanc in the churchyard Thursday and everyone at the post office said I’d gone round the twist, but I was in Torquay yesterday shopping at Debenhams for some new beach shorts for Tenerife, when who did I spot also shopping for clothes, but Herself! Of course, I had to be sure. It seemed odd that she was alone. I always think people the likes of her travel around in great crowds. That’s the way it looks on TV. And it was hard to believe she was shopping in anything less than a Harvey Nick’s, but I guess you have to make do when you’re down among us rough folk in the West Country. Of course she was wearing very large sunglasses, which made everyone look at her, though I’m not sure how many recognised her. Anyway, I went up to her, bold as brass, and asked if she were Oona Blanc. She made an odd noise, which I took as a yes, so then I asked her if she was still seeing that nice young man who accompanied her to Sybella’s funeral last year, though I didn’t specifically mention the funeral, as I thought it would be too upsetting, and she said something very rude to me, which I shan’t type, but anyway, there you have it, and when I go down to post this letter, I’ll be sure to tell those in the queue that I SPOKE to Oona and that if she’s visiting Torquay then she very well could have visited Thornford on Thursday, though I still can’t think what would bring her to Devon at this time of year. I’ve looked through the papers and can’t see any notice of a fashion show or the like. Anyway, I felt quite confirmed that this week’s worry wasn’t making me see things so I decided that I would contribute something to the baking stall at the Wassail after all—Cornish fairings, I thought, as they involve no fruit at all, which should reassure everyone, not that they need reassuring, and of course it’s all for a good cause, the school and the Scouts troop. They turned out magif mafni splendidly, which was a great relief as my collapsed Yorkshires have been playing on my mind at bit, as I wonder if their fallen state was somehow a hardinger harbinder sign of worse to come. After all, the Moirs were here for their Sunday lunch and then six days later Will is dead! I did mention this to Mr. Christmas, but he took the view that the world doesn’t work that way, which I expect is true. Certainly, I HOPE it’s true, otherwise I shall worry every time something comes out of the Aga in an unpresentable state, not that that happens very often I must say. I’m glad so much of the snow has gone. It looked a bit touch-and-go there for a while as to whether the Wassail might be cancelled, as kiddies having to tramp about in snow wouldn’t work very well, would it? The vicarage garden still has drifts against the east wall, which makes me wonder if the rosesbushes there will be damaged and of course the girls’ snowman is now nothing more than a lump. I think various creatures have made off with the apple eyes and carrot nose. Bumble still barks at it. It must have the scent of the children. Anyway, I think everyone is looking forward to the Wassail, at least as a diversion from last weekend’s unhappy event up at Thorn Court. I told you Tamara is coming down from Exeter to perform with Shanks Pony. I play their CD when I’m up here sewing this and that, like the costumes for the play at the v. hall, though I expect Shanks Pony won’t last much longer, as they’re all going about their separate ways now. I expect Tamara will have Adam Moir in tow. He has been one of the Guns the last years at the Wassail, though I wonder if he will again this year? It may not be the best thing to take a role at a social event so soon after a death in the family, but then perhaps instead of her mother he’ll accompany Ariel, who I know was so looking forward to the Wassail. Miranda came home from school yesterday with the lantern she’s made. It’s shaped like a church bell, quite wonderful. She was probably thinking of her father. I’m sure it will be the best lantern there. Anyway, I expect all shall go well at this year’s Wassail, although the shotguns firing to chase away the evil spirits and wake the trees never fail to make me jump. There’s rain in the forecast, but it shouldn’t start until later this evening, so with luck we’ll be high and dry for the festivities. I think our houseguest is leaving for home Monday. She’s been good company, though she does ask me questions more than answer mine. I’m not really sure how keen she is to buy the Tidy Dolly or whether to relocate to Thornford in her retirement or not. Anyway, I won’t be serving beef for Sunday lunch, as I don’t think I want to get back up on that horse quite yet, not after 2 Yorkshire failures in a row. I’m planning roast chicken instead, even if it means having poultry so soon after Christmas. I got a lovely bird at the farm shop at Thorn Barton which I’ll do with rosemary and lemon potatoes, which is Greek, isn’t it? But I suppose I’m antetici looking forward to my winter vacation though of course Tenerife is part of Spain. Anyway, must get on, Mum. Mr. Christmas is driving Miranda to Exeter this morning, as he has no weddings this Saturday, and he’ll want to visit with his sister-in-law. Poor woman. I never know quite what to say to Mrs. Hennis if it’s me taking Miranda to Exeter, but I think she’s adjusting to her changed circumstances. We’re all otherwise well here, cats and Bumble included, and I hope you are, too. Love to Aunt Gwen.

  Much love,

  Madrun

  P.S. What about a RED mobility scooter? That would be more your colour, I think.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Animal, végétal ou minéral?”

  “Végétal.”

  “Est-ce plus grand que ma tête?”

  “Non.”

  “Est-ce …” Tom groped around in the atrophied French-language wrinkle of his brain as he pulled his car onto the A380 outside Pennycross St. Paul. “… une chose unique au monde?”

  “Non.”

  “Est-ce … darling, pourrions-nous … commuter … commuter?”

  “Oui. Change? Switch?”

  “Oui … pourrions-nous commuter à l’anglais. Tu sais que mon français n’est pas très bon.”

  Miranda sighed. “Okay.”

  “Bon! Or ‘good!,’ rather. Let’s see …” Tom was relieved not to have to press on with Twenty Questions in his ill-taught and ill-learned school French. “Vegetable, smaller than my head, and not a unique thing—so a category of things. Could I buy it somewhere?”

  Miranda paused imperceptibly, then replied, “No.”

  “Is it found in England?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it found in this car?”

  “No.”

  Tom tapped his fingernails along the steering wheel with a little impatience—not at the game. T
wenty Questions on longish car trips with his daughter was a favoured pastime. More impatient-making was the traffic. They’d had a slightly late start, Miranda and he: Miranda to have her dark, now long, hair put in Dutch braids, for some reason that seemed vital to the three females occupying the vicarage; he because the archdeacon had called him when he’d returned from Morning Prayer with a question that seemed to need an immediate answer. Barring roadworks or breakdown, they should reach Exeter in just under an hour, sufficient time to unite Miranda with her Aunt Julia outside the synagogue.

  “Does it smell?”

  “No.”

  “Is it round?”

  Tom glanced at Miranda when no reply came immediately. She was squinting, as if trying to visualise whatever the mysterious thing was. “No.”

  “Aha! Then is it … oh, what can the word be? Ellipsoid … or spheroid, like a rugby ball?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it a rugby ball?”

  “No. Besides”—Miranda was counting questions asked thus far on her fingers—“aren’t rugby balls made from leather? That would be animal.”

  “And rubber. Mineral.”

  “But rubber is made from trees. So vegetable.”

  “That’s right. Well done, you. Besides, you can buy a rugby ball in a shop, and you said whatever it is can’t be bought.”

  “You have ten questions left, Daddy.”

  Tom spotted a gap through the trundling cars and zipped into the speedier fast lane with a satisfied grunt, settling in for uninterrupted passage. The landscape outside the window, winter-drab, a study in denuded trees and lingering patches of snow, offered little cheer, but cocooned inside the car, with the heater’s warm fug and Miranda’s bright conversation, all felt well with the world.

  “All right, something rugby-ball-ish. Is it smaller than a rugby ball?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course, I’d asked before if it were smaller than my head, so that was a wasted question, since a rugby ball is bigger. Does it, then, have something to do with sport?”