by Kate Charles
Lady Constance tended to agree that she’d have a difficult time, but perhaps not for the same reason that Mavis intended.
‘Thermal underwear!’ Mavis announced. ‘Just look at the quality of this thermal underwear. It will keep you nice and toasty warm next winter – and it’s hardly been worn! I’ll bet that big house of yours is cold in the winter. I’d hate to pay the heating bills, anyway.’
Lady Constance looked at all the garments strewn about by Beryl Ball in her enthusiasm. Beryl Ball’s rejects of someone else’s cast-offs – it didn’t bear thinking about. ‘Yes, I’m sure that will be most . . . suitable,’ she agreed repressively. ‘Could you please wrap them up?’
‘Of course, Lady Constance. Thank you very much. And may I say . . .’
Lady Constance turned away without hearing what Mavis wished to impart. ‘Dreadful woman,’ she murmured under her breath so that only David could hear.
The book stall was nearly all that remained. Lady Constance passed quickly, with a delicate shudder, over a pile of detective novels with lurid covers. She inspected a complete set of the Waverley novels. ‘A bit too heavy to carry,’ she concluded, looking farther. She looked at a 1967 Almanac and leafed through an old medical text-book.
‘Poetry?’ David suggested. ‘How about Keats?’
‘I’m too old for Keats, I’m afraid. Is there any Tennyson?’
‘One is never too old for Keats!’ Cyril Fitzjames protested from behind the stall. ‘Especially not you, Lady Constance,’ he added gallantly.
David unearthed an old leather-bound volume of George Herbert and showed it to her. ‘That’s just the thing,’ she agreed.
‘Let me buy it for you,’ he said impulsively.
‘You’re very kind, young man,’ she said, bestowing a rare smile.
Daphne stood behind the final stall. Business had not been good, and David could see why. The egg cup was still there, and the plastic cutlery. They were indeed among the more choice items available. There was a box of jumbled-together rhinestone jewellery, all with stones missing, and a stack of stained beer-mats. Lady Constance was looking bemusedly at a framed picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, throbbing with three-dimensional blood, while David inspected a lamp made out of a wine bottle. ‘Not even a very good wine,’ he muttered; Daphne stifled a chuckle. Then Lady Constance pounced thankfully on a box of dusting powder, unopened – someone’s unwanted Christmas gift. ‘This will do nicely, Miss Elford,’ she proclaimed. David added it to the collection in the basket.
‘Well, that’s over for another year,’ Lady Constance said to him in a low voice as they walked away from the stalls. ‘Would you be so kind as to help me to my car?’
He took her arm and walked with her to the elegant old Bentley, parked just around the corner. ‘I usually walk,’ she said apologetically. ‘But I was a bit tired this morning, and then there are these things to be got home . . .’ She paused as her chauffeur climbed out of the car and efficiently dealt with the basket of purchases. ‘You really have been most kind,’ she continued. ‘I like you, young man. Will you have tea with me next week?’
‘Yes, of course. It would give me great pleasure, Lady Constance.’
‘Shall we say Thursday, then? Perhaps you’ll have something to report about the work on the chapel by then.’
‘I will look forward to it.’ He handed her into the car, and saluted respectfully as she was driven away.
CHAPTER 20
They talk of vanity every one with his neighbour: they do but flatter with their lips, and dissemble in their double heart.
The Lord shall root out all deceitful lips: and the tongue that speaketh proud things . . .
Psalm 12.2–3
The jams were looking decidedly depleted by the time David returned; he was glad he’d selected his in advance. Emily was relieved to see him. ‘Oh, you’re back – good. Would you mind giving a hand on the book stall for a while?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Miles was supposed to help Cyril, but he hasn’t shown up yet, and dear old Cyril – bless him – keeps wandering off to buy another jar of my jams.’
‘Or a cake that she’s baked with her own fair hands,’ Lucy added, smiling.
‘So poor Daphne’s had to cover the book stall, as well as her own, half of the time.’
‘Where is Venerable Bead?’ David asked curiously, looking about. ‘I would have thought he would be here in the thick of things.’
‘Oh, he’s giving conducted tours of the church. Much more his line,’ explained Emily.
‘Of course. I should have guessed. Well, I’m off to Daphne’s rescue.’
Daphne gave him a look of gratitude as he stepped behind the book stall. Cyril was just returning from the cake stall. ‘You’re here to help, are you, my boy?’ he boomed. ‘Just look at this marvellous cake I’ve bought. Almond and cherry. Emily baked it herself.’
‘It looks delicious.’
The morning went by quickly; David was kept busy making change, wrapping up parcels of books, and listening to Cyril’s chatter. Periodically, Gabriel’s black-cassocked figure appeared as he relieved them of their accumulated cash and took it to the sacristy, where Mavis remained to count it. ‘We’re doing very well,’ he said on one visit. ‘Well ahead of last year, Mavis says.’
‘I used to count the money,’ Cyril told David when Gabriel had passed on to Daphne’s stall. ‘That was always my job, year after year. But now they think I’m past it, so they’ve given it to that woman to do. Maybe I am past it, my boy. Maybe I am.’
David was on the point of reassuring him when Miles Taylor rushed up to them, completely out of breath.
‘Wouldn’t you know!’ he expostulated. ‘Wouldn’t you just know! My alarm didn’t go off this morning! Well, all I can say is, thank God it didn’t happen on Sunday morning!’
‘No problem, my boy,’ Cyril responded. ‘This fine young man and I have managed splendidly, haven’t we?’
‘Oh!’ Miles drew back and looked at him, gravely offended not to have been missed. ‘Well, if you knew how late I’d been up last night – I was out very late indeed.’ He paused to allow them the opportunity to ask where he’d been, but again he was disappointed.
Cyril chuckled condescendingly. ‘Ah, out sowing your wild oats, were you, young man? Well, I suppose at your age that’s to be expected.’
Miles drew himself up to his full height and looked at him stonily, the light glinting on his round lenses. ‘I was not sowing wild oats! I am a married man! I was . . .’
Mary Hughes touched his arm diffidently and he spun around. ‘Oh, Mr Taylor, I’m so sorry to interrupt you! But I just wanted to ask – you are doing a recital in church this afternoon, aren’t you? I’ve been so looking forward to it. When you weren’t here earlier I thought perhaps . . .’
He gave Cyril a triumphant look. ‘Yes, my dear Miss Hughes,’ he replied expansively. ‘I will be giving a recital at half past four. And I shall play some of your favourite pieces, just for you.’
‘Oh, thank you!’ She turned quite pink with pleasure, and hurried back to her stall.
Miles turned back to David. ‘You can go now,’ he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, then drew a cigarette out of his breast pocket and lit it nonchalantly, taking a deep drag and blowing the smoke in David’s face.
David shrugged, and took his leave. ‘Thank you for your help, my boy!’ Cyril called after him.
He stopped by the tombola stall to see how Tony was faring. Incredibly, the bottle of whisky was unclaimed. ‘Do you feel lucky?’ Tony greeted him, holding out the bowl of tickets.
‘Well, you never know. Today may be my lucky day.’ David fished in his pocket and found fifty pence. The first ticket got him nothing, but the second one he drew bore the number on the whisky bottle.
‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed Tony. ‘I’ve been waiting for that to happen all morning!’
‘I suppose I owe you a drink for this,’ David said, tucking the bottle under his arm. ‘
Daphne will be pleased!’
He turned around to see that Lucy had come up behind him. ‘Emily’s sent me to find you. The jams have sold out, so we’ve packed up, and now she wondered if we could give her a hand setting up the vicarage garden for the teas.’ She didn’t touch him, but there was something about the way David looked at her, about the familiar, almost intimate way that she spoke to him, that piqued Tony’s interest and caused him to watch them as they walked together to the vicarage. Maybe I was wrong about him, he speculated.
Emily was waiting for them with a plate of sandwiches. ‘I suddenly realised that I was starving!’ she said. ‘And I wondered if you two would join me for a sandwich before we get down to work.’ So they sat in the vicarage kitchen for a few moments, eating ham sandwiches and drinking lemon squash.
‘When are the children coming back, Em?’ Lucy asked.
‘We’re going to fetch them on Monday,’ Emily replied, her eyes alight with pleasure. ‘I have missed them. They will have been gone a whole fortnight!’
‘It’s a shame for them to have missed the fête,’ David remarked.
‘A shame for them, but actually much easier for me. I have so much to think about today, and they would have been bored after the first hour or so. Once they’ve done all the side-shows, there’s nothing much for them till tea. And my parents promised to take them to the Woburn Safari Park today, so missing the fête was the last thing they were worried about!’
‘Have you talked to them, then?’ David asked.
‘Oh, yes, every day. I’m sure that I miss them more than they miss me, but they are only six!’
‘I’m sure their father misses them too,’ said Lucy, her face turned away from David.
‘Yes, of course he does. It will be lovely when we’re all together again.’ Emily smiled, a far-away look in her eyes.
‘And I look forward to meeting these wonderful children,’ David said, much too heartily.
‘Of course, you haven’t met them! How very odd that seems!’ Emily looked at him with wonder.
Gabriel came through the door. ‘I wondered where you were.’
‘Just having a bite to eat with Lucy and David, darling. Have you got time for a sandwich?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I’ve just taken Mavis the latest batch of money.’ He sat down at the table and helped himself to a sandwich. ‘It’s really going very well. The cakes have sold out, and the jams, of course. Even Daphne’s managed to shift a lot of her rubbish.’
‘I suppose there’s no accounting for taste,’ David remarked. Gabriel looked at him sharply but David only smiled.
The vicarage garden looked lovely. David had set up all the tables, and the women had covered them with snowy white cloths and decorated them with nosegays of flowers. Stacks of crockery were at the ready, all the cakes had been sliced and the sandwiches cut, the urns were on the boil, and all that remained was to make the tea when the moment arrived. The helpers began trickling in – Julia and Teresa Dawson, assorted members of the Mothers’ Union. Roger Dawson came too, announcing that he would be happy to take the money.
‘I think I can manage now,’ Emily said to Lucy and David. ‘You’ve both been a great help, but now you’re entitled to a break. Relax and have some tea, won’t you?’
They escaped gratefully, and joined the crowd that was gathering outside the vicarage garden, waiting for the gate to open. Restive murmurs of ‘I could murder a cup of tea right now’, ‘Isn’t it about time?’ and ‘I’m perishing for a cup of tea’, were heard on all sides. In a few minutes Emily opened the gate and the rush began.
Lucy hung back, laughing. ‘Let them have their tea first, if they want it so badly. I’m sure there will be some left for us in a few minutes.’
‘Why don’t we go to Kensington Gardens for a while?’ David suggested.
‘Oh, yes. Why not?’
They’d gone farther than they’d intended, all the way down the Flower Walk, so they were ready for their tea by the time they returned. They found a small table at the edge of the garden and settled down with their tea and cakes, oblivious to the speculative stares they were beginning to draw from various members of the parish.
‘Were you planning to go to the organ recital?’ David asked, looking at his watch. ‘It’s nearly half past four.’
‘Oh, I suppose so. Though it seems such a shame to go indoors when it’s so glorious outside.’ Lucy stretched luxuriously in the sunshine and pushed her hair back with both hands. ‘Well, never mind.’
‘We can wait a few minutes more. It won’t hurt to miss the beginning, will it?’
‘Not at all. It’s the kind of thing where people come and go, anyway.’
‘Then let’s have another cup of tea.’
‘Oh, yes.’
Gabriel had quite a heavy-looking bag of money when he stopped by their table a few minutes later.
‘Enjoying yourselves?’ he asked in his most cordial Vicar-voice.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Lucy replied coolly. ‘Your wife has worked very hard to make this a success.’
‘I know she has. And of course the wonderful weather hasn’t hurt.’
Emily appeared beside him quite suddenly, looking very worried. ‘Oh, Gabriel, could you come? Teresa Dawson has just fainted!’
‘Yes, of course. I was just taking this money to the sacristy . . .’
‘I’ll take it for you,’ David offered quickly.
‘Thanks, David.’ Gabriel handed him the bag and disappeared with his wife.
‘Finish your tea, why don’t you?’ David suggested to Lucy. ‘And when you’ve done, I’ll see you at the organ recital.’
He could hear the sound of a Franck chorale as he approached the church. Reluctant to go through the church while the recital was in progress, he walked around the north side of the building and found that the small side door was unlocked. It led directly into the corridor where the sacristy was located, he discovered to his satisfaction. He tapped lightly on the sacristy door.
‘Come in, it’s not locked.’
Mavis looked up as he entered. On the table in front of her were piles of notes, stacks of coins, and a ledger sheet where she was entering hourly totals. ‘Oh. Where’s Father Gabriel?’
‘He had an emergency. I offered to help.’
‘Put the money right here,’ she directed. ‘Mind you don’t knock anything over.’
It was the first time David had been inside the sacristy, Daphne’s domain, and he looked around with mild interest. It was a fairly large room; in the centre was the heavy oak table where Mavis sat with the money. Set into one wall was a large old-fashioned safe, and the other walls were lined with tall, upright oak cupboards for hanging copes and albs, and stacks of big, shallow drawers for storing chasubles, stoles and linen. In the corner opposite the door there was a small desk, on which were an ancient manual typewriter, Mavis’s brown handbag, and a collection of assorted prayer books and hymn books. It was a tidy, well-kept room, which David attributed more to Gabriel’s influence than to Daphne’s inclinations. He could imagine what Gabriel would say – it was a room for holy things, therefore it was proper that it should be kept neat.
‘Father Gabriel says we’re doing quite well,’ he said, glancing at the ledger sheet.
‘Oh, yes. I’ve been comparing the hourly figures to last year’s, and we’ve been well ahead all along. It’s the good weather that’s made all the difference. We’ve gone over two thousand pounds already!’
‘That’s very good. Well, I won’t keep you from your counting any longer, Mrs Conwell.’ He retreated, shutting the door behind him. Instead of leaving by the side door, he went down the short corridor which led to the church. Beryl Ball, dressed in blue, passed him with a nod and a friendly waggle of her false teeth as he went through the door.
He looked around for Lucy. She certainly wasn’t with Mary Hughes and the Fan Club. Tony Kent caught his eye and gestured tentatively, but he shook his head as he saw Lucy slip in from
the north porch. For an instant the sun coming in the west window behind her turned her hair into a halo of rose gold, and he drew in his breath sharply.
They met at the back, smiling silently at each other, and found two seats. Half an hour later, after a slightly flawed performance of Bach’s Great G Minor Fantasia and Fugue, they agreed to call it quits and see if they could get another cup of tea before Evensong.
‘Miles isn’t at his best today,’ Lucy remarked. ‘He must have something on his mind.’ David had to agree.
Venerable Bead was weary after a day on his feet, taking group after group of people around the church. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, he reflected, and he hadn’t even had his tea. There just hadn’t been time for such self-indulgence. He wished he didn’t have to serve at Evensong, but if Father Gabriel couldn’t count on him, who could he count on? He looked at his watch. Half past five. There was certainly no time for a cup of tea before Evensong. He’d have to start laying out the things for Father Gabriel any minute now – his cotta would probably need a quick press. And the candles on the altar were getting low – he’d better replace them before the service. He hoped that fool organist knew that he’d have to stop playing – showing off, more like it – quite soon to allow for the preparations for the service. He sighed, and got to his feet; with a heavy tread he made his way through the door at the north-east end of the church and down the corridor to the sacristy. He tried the door tentatively; it was locked. With another heavy sigh he retrieved his ring of keys from his pocket and fitted the large key into the lock.
The teas were winding to a close. David and Lucy had begged a final cup from Emily, and were enjoying it in the late afternoon sunshine. Julia Dawson had taken the ailing Teresa home, so Gabriel had been pressed into service clearing tables. Lucy pointed out to David how ridiculous he looked, carrying around trays of dirty crockery in his black cassock. But he bore the ignominy with the good grace of a parish priest who often has to do many tasks that he considers beneath him.