by Kate Charles
‘Well, it can’t be as bad as the “fête worse than death”,’ Daphne observed comfortingly.
Emily came back quickly, ‘No, but I’ll still be glad this time next week when it’s a “fête accompli”.’
David laughed in appreciation. ‘What are your responsibilities?’
‘Well, in the afternoon I have to oversee the teas in the vicarage garden, though I should have quite a few helpers. And in the morning I’m lumbered with the jam stall as usual. Lucy’s offered to help me with that, fortunately. That way I can start getting organised for the teas in plenty of time.’
‘Is this one of Lucy’s quiches?’ Daphne asked, as she took a bite.
‘No, it’s one of mine, which means it’s still Lucy’s recipe,’ Emily replied. She explained to David. ‘My friend Lucy’s a superb cook. She taught me how to cook when I got married. That sweet you’ve got is one of her specialities.’
He eyed it with anticipation. ‘It looks wonderful. Just the sort of thing I shouldn’t eat. Can’t I meet this great gourmet chef?’
‘Oh, she’s not here today. If you want to meet Lucy, you must come to the organ recital tomorrow. That’s something she never misses – Lucy’s a real music-lover.’
‘Then I shall definitely come. Is this something that happens every week?’
‘Yes, every Wednesday at lunch-time.’
A woman approached their table, looking anxious. Initially David didn’t recognise her, then realised that he’d never seen Julia Dawson without her husband before; she looked incomplete somehow. Her face reminded him of some nocturnal woodland animal, with its wide, startled-looking eyes, its long, pointed nose, and its receding chin. She didn’t really look exactly like her husband, he decided: Roger Dawson had more resemblance to a predatory creature, a wolf perhaps, with his sharp, prominent teeth. It was their identical curdled-milk expressions and the overall greyness of them that gave that impression of likeness; both had straight, iron-grey hair, an unhealthy greyish tinge to their skin, and a way of moving that was both self-effacing and obtrusive. Julia Dawson was dressed in an unseasonal murky-coloured jumper, as she sidled up to Emily purposefully.
‘Have you been baking cakes?’ she asked, with an intense quiver in her voice, completely out of proportion to the question.
‘Oh, yes,’ Emily affirmed. ‘But my freezer’s getting full, I’m afraid. I don’t know if I’ll have room for the ones I did this morning.’
Julia stood stock-still, her face registering horror. ‘But that’s terrible! What are you going to do?’
‘Put them in someone else’s freezer, I imagine.’
‘I can put them in mine. I can get them right now, if you’re finished here.’ She looked at Emily’s empty plate. ‘Running the cake stall is such a responsibility. You just can’t imagine.’
Emily rose, with a regretful smile for David and Daphne. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the organ recital, then.’
‘She won’t see me,’ Daphne stated as Emily departed.
‘Why not? Don’t you like Miles Taylor?’
Daphne looked at him shrewdly. ‘I’m not one of the old ladies in his fan club, if that’s what you mean. He knows I haven’t got any money, so he never bothers being nice to me.’
‘Are you saying . . .’
‘I’m saying that he makes a great fuss over some of the old ladies, and they all adore him.’ She smiled blandly, inviting him to draw his own conclusions.
The two empty chairs at their table were now being claimed by Cecily Framlingham and Mavis Conwell. Mavis barely acknowledged their greeting; Cecily, too, virtually ignored their presence, but chatted volubly to Mavis. ‘It’s too crowded today. I just don’t know where all these people come from. I suppose it’s this nasty weather that brings people indoors. It’s just ruined the flowers, the frightful weather we’ve had this summer. I simply don’t know what we’ll have to sell on the flower stall at the fête.’ She turned to Mavis. ‘What have you got in your garden that might do?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she replied offhandedly. ‘Not much, I suppose.’
‘How about the lobelia? Or the dianthus? I wish your antirrhinum were better this year. Maybe some of that artemisia – people like that for drying, don’t they?’
‘You can have whatever you like.’
‘We can always try to sell some of Arthur’s marrows, if the worst comes to the worst. The rain doesn’t seem to be doing them any harm.’
Mavis made no reply. Frustrated by her friend’s lack of response, Cecily tried a topic calculated to engage Mavis’s interest. ‘Did you see that Norman Newsome has resigned? Arthur read it in this morning’s newspaper.’
Mavis’s reaction to this bombshell was less than gratifying. ‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes. Apparently the Dean decided there was no smoke without fire, if you know what I mean. That’s what you’ve said all along, Mavis. No smoke without fire.’
David, intrigued by her uncharacteristic silence, observed Mavis out of the corner of his eye as he ate – with great appreciation – his sweet. She seemed to be watching the entrance; she gave a little start and David raised his head in time to see a young man hesitate for a moment at the door, then slouch towards her. He was a well-built and good-looking young man, with coal-black hair worn very short, but there was an indefinable weakness around his mouth, and his posture was appalling. The manly Craig, David concluded, as he reached the table.
‘Craig,’ his mother said flatly.
‘Mum, where’s the ten quid I asked you for? I need it now.’ He spoke in a low, urgent voice.
‘I haven’t got it, Craig. I told you I didn’t have it.’ She looked frightened.
‘But I need it! Well, give me a fiver then.’
She scrabbled in her brown vinyl handbag, looking for loose change. A couple of pound coins appeared, and a few odd coppers. ‘This is all I’ve got. You can have it.’
He looked at the proffered coins with scorn. ‘Is that the best you can do? That’s not much bloody good, is it?’ His voice was low, but it carried.
‘Craig, please! Not in church!’ she hissed in an agonised whisper.
‘Maybe I can help,’ Cecily interposed, pulling a five-pound note out of her handbag. ‘Consider it a loan, Mavis.’
Craig took it from her, inspecting it with care. ‘I’ll expect the other fiver tonight, Mum. Don’t forget,’ he muttered ungraciously, and, glowering sullenly, turned and made his way out.
Most people who were close enough to hear anything of this exchange were looking down at their plates in embarrassment, but Beryl Ball, who had just come into the room, observed his departure with frank enjoyment.
She shuffled up to their table. ‘That’s a fine boy you’ve got, Mavis. Quite a high-spirited lad.’ She nodded, smiled, and thrust her teeth out with her tongue.
David couldn’t help raising his head and looking at her. She was dressed all in yellow, with a large-brimmed yellow hat. He stared involuntarily at the glassy-eyed canaries perched on its brim, as if ready to burst into song, or into flight.
‘What are you looking at?’ she challenged him loudly. ‘I know that look – you want me, don’t you? Well, you can’t have me! If I don’t give in to the Vicar, I certainly won’t give in to you! I’ve kept myself pure for over fifty years, young man! I have never been touched by a man!’ With a majestic toss of her head, which sent the canaries bobbing, she turned and hobbled out of the room. Mavis took advantage of the distraction to escape, with Cecily close behind her.
David looked at Daphne with a bemused smile. ‘Well, I must say. You certainly put on a good show for visitors at this place. And I thought I was going to have a quiet lunch!’
Daphne shook her head. ‘Anything to keep you amused. It looks as though you’re ready for a cup of tea. Shall I get it? Or would you rather have a coffee?’
‘Tea would be lovely, thanks.’ He watched her make her way to the table with the urn. She stopped to speak to a woman who had just c
ome in, and David observed the newcomer with quiet amusement. Barbara Pym, he thought. She looks exactly like someone out of Barbara Pym.
She was a large woman, tall and well upholstered though not fat. All of her clothes were just a bit too small for her; her dress encased her body tightly, and stopped just short of the knee, where a lace petticoat peeped out coyly, and she wore a white vinyl raincoat, also very tight and a bit shorter than the dress. Her face, topped by tightly permed white hair, was large and round, like an undercooked dumpling, with small features and pale gooseberry eyes. Her shoes were an old-fashioned brown, and as she approached with Daphne he noted that she walked slightly pigeon-toed, with small mincing steps that seemed quite out of keeping with her substantial frame.
Daphne introduced them. ‘Mary, this is my friend David Middleton-Brown. David, Miss Mary Hughes.’
‘Hello, David, it is so nice to meet you.’ Her voice was also unexpected: it was precious and slightly breathless.
‘My pleasure, Miss Hughes. Are you joining us?’ David rose gallantly and pulled out a chair for her.
He was rewarded with a look of extreme gratitude. ‘Oh, thank you. You’re most kind.’ She sat down and leaned towards him confidingly; he got a not-unexpected whiff of Pears’ Soap. ‘I do hope that Beryl hasn’t upset you. Daphne tells me that you’ve had a little encounter.’
‘I’ve been assured that she’s harmless,’ he replied.
‘Oh, she is. I’ve known Beryl since we were girls together, if you can believe it!’ She giggled in a coy way. ‘We were confirmed together in this church. That’s been a few years ago, of course.’
‘Has she always been . . . like this?’
‘Oh, Beryl has always been a bit peculiar, if you know what I mean. I suppose you’ve heard about all the men who have been in love with her. I wish I could tell you it was true!’
‘You mean it’s not?’ Daphne was disillusioned, if not surprised.
‘No, indeed. But she’s always had a fixation about clergymen. All men, really – it’s quite dreadful. Sex,’ she whispered furtively. ‘It’s unhinged her mind. Not having any, I mean.’ She blushed at her own candour.
*
‘A whisky before bedtime is something Mother would never have approved of,’ David said, stretched out on Daphne’s sofa.
Daphne refrained from saying that Mother was no longer around to approve or disapprove of anything that her son did. From her own observations, Daphne had concluded that Mother had done much more of the latter than the former, and not to her son’s benefit. ‘Well, I approve heartily,’ was all she said.
‘Tell me about Mary Hughes. She’s so Barbara Pym.’
‘Yes, isn’t she? One of her “excellent women” types, but we have a lot of those at St Anne’s.’
‘What’s her story?’
‘I don’t think there’s that much to tell. Spinster, obviously. She looked after her aged parents until they died a few years ago. They left her well cared for financially, so she can now devote herself to the church and other “good works”. She still lives in the house where she was born. She’s a very well-meaning person, and usually gets lumbered with all the jobs that nobody else wants.’
David pondered the events of the day. ‘I know I’ve promised Emily to go to that organ recital tomorrow, but in the morning I fancy getting away from it all. Do you realise that we haven’t looked at a single London church since I’ve been here? How about it, Daphne? It’s been years since we’ve done a London church-crawl. You can show me all your favourites. Let’s get an early start. Well, a civilised start,’ he amended.
CHAPTER 14
Therefore will I praise thee and thy faithfulness, O God, playing upon an instrument of musick: unto thee will I sing upon the harp, O thou Holy One of Israel.
Psalm 71.20
Wednesday morning passed too quickly; David and Daphne agreed to continue their leisurely progress through the London churches on the following day, and David arrived at St Anne’s in good time for the organ recital.
Mary Hughes handed him a programme at the door. ‘This is your first time, isn’t it, Mr Middleton-Brown? You’re in for quite a treat, I can tell you.’
He glanced down the list of pieces. ‘Mm. Sounds very nice. A most ambitious programme. Mr Taylor is a very accomplished organist, I believe.’
‘Oh, yes, he’s wonderful!’
He was surprised to see a sizeable audience gathering in the nave. There were many people he didn’t recognise, and he assumed that the weekly event must draw in many regulars from outside the congregation.
Emily was waiting for him inside the door. ‘Here you are, David. The best seats are going fast!’ She led him up the aisle and selected three seats. ‘We’ll save one for Lucy.’
‘Is it always this well attended? I’m amazed to see so many people here on a weekday!’
‘Oh, definitely. See that group over there?’ She indicated a section of the prime seats, distinguished chiefly by the uniformly white heads of the inhabitants. ‘Lucy and I call that the Fan Club. They’re all here every week.’
David looked around curiously. ‘Is Miles’s wife here?’
Emily laughed. ‘The mysterious Mrs Taylor? Not a chance!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Would you believe that no one at St Anne’s has ever seen his wife? Lucy and I think that he keeps her hidden away, so as not to damage his mystique with the Fan Club. The old ladies love him, you know.’
David nodded. ‘So it would seem.’ He went on, ‘This really is an impressive crowd. Do you get many people from outside the church?’
‘Well, there are quite a few people who work around here who come regularly, and then there’s always the odd tourist who wanders in.’
‘You ought to charge admission.’
‘That’s what Miles says. We do take a retiring collection, but he thinks that’s not good enough.’
An expectant hush had fallen; a few of the more eager members of the Fan Club were craning their necks towards the chancel. Mary Hughes abandoned her post at the door and hurried up the aisle to her seat among the Fan Club.
‘Looks like Lucy’s going to be late,’ Emily whispered.
Lucy slipped into the church halfway through the Bach Prelude and Fugue and decided to stand at the back until the end of the piece. She spotted Emily, with the empty seat beside her; on her other side there was a man she’d never seen before. She observed him with interest and wondered who he was.
During the applause at the end of the fugue, she moved to claim her seat beside Emily, and whispered introductions were made. There was just time enough for Lucy to get a quick impression of the man Emily said was called David Middleton-Brown. He was quite ordinary-looking, distinguished by no particular beauty of form or feature. He appeared to be of an average height, and had brown hair, dusted with grey at the temples, and pleasant hazel eyes. But it was a nice face, Lucy decided – above all a kind face.
The recital continued. The final piece was a very dissonant and somewhat formless work that David found much more difficult to appreciate than the Bach. After he’d finished, the lanky organist descended into an eager crowd of admirers; Mary Hughes was in the forefront. ‘I didn’t realise that Miss Hughes was such a great fan,’ David remarked, as they stood up.
‘Definitely,’ Emily replied. ‘She thinks that our Miles is the “bees’ knees”.’
He turned to Lucy for the first time. ‘Emily tells me that you come every week. Don’t you count as one of the Fan Club?’
She laughed. ‘No, not I. The man’s organ playing is superb, but . . . well, he’s just not my type. For that matter, I don’t think I’m his type, either.’
‘Then that is his loss,’ David said gallantly, feeling a bit foolish as he said it. She smiled at him almost conspiratorially as Emily asked her a question about jams, and for a moment the two women were involved in a technical discussion of boiling points and pectins. Though he hadn’t given her a great deal of th
ought prior to this meeting, Lucy wasn’t really what he’d expected, David decided, watching them with their heads together, one dark and one rosy. He’d thought she’d be much like Emily, he supposed, but the two were very different, and not just in colouring. Emily was wearing what David had come to recognise as her preferred everyday garb – jeans and a loose cotton jumper – whereas Lucy was elegant in an ivory lawn blouse with a delicate antique lace collar and a calf-length flowered skirt in shades of willow green and apricot. There was something so graceful in the way she pushed her hair back from her face with her long tapering fingers. That incredible aureole of hair! She wasn’t a girl, David realised. The network of tiny lines around her greeny-blue eyes told him that she would never see thirty again. But the quality of her beauty was not dependent on youth.
‘Do forgive us, David,’ she said, turning to him with a charming smile. ‘We’ve been very rude, talking about jams like that! But this fête seems to be overshadowing everything that happens around here at the moment.’
‘Why don’t you both come back to the vicarage and have some tea?’ Emily suggested. ‘Gabriel’s out this afternoon, and with the children away it would be nice to have some company.’
‘That would be very nice,’ David accepted. ‘I don’t think Daphne’s expecting me back just yet.’
Lucy looked regretful. ‘I’m sorry, Em, but I really can’t. I started a painting this morning, and I must get back to it. I’ll tell you what, though – could you both come to me for tea tomorrow afternoon? It might be finished by then, and you can tell me what you think.’
‘Super, Luce. David, how about you?’
‘I’d love to come, thank you.’
‘Lovely. I’ll see you both tomorrow, then. It was very nice to meet you, David.’ She smiled as they parted at the church door.
‘And you.’ His eyes followed her involuntarily as she walked down the street and around the corner.
Emily tugged at his arm. ‘Come on, David. You can’t get out of having tea with me so easily.’
He smiled down at her. ‘That’s the farthest thing from my mind.’