The New Rector (Tales from Turnham Malpas)

by Shaw, Rebecca

  ‘Mrs Meadows, I saw the police car outside so I came to see if you needed help. The policewoman has told me what’s happened. I’m so sorry.’

  Peter took her hands in his and automatically rubbed them to bring some warmth to them. She smiled at him. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m wearing this cassock, I’ve been conducting a service. Do we know why it happened?’

  Debra explained that they knew no reason for it but that Mr Meadows had left a letter for Mrs Meadows. She seemed glad of an opportunity to mention it as though anxious to know what was in it, but sensitive enough not to suggest opening it.

  ‘Would you like to open it while I’m here, Mrs Meadows?’ When Suzy nodded Peter picked up the letter and handed it to her. She gave it back to him and asked him to read it to her.

  ‘I really can’t do that, Suzy: Patrick meant it for you. It will be very private. Perhaps we’d better leave it till later when you feel more yourself.’ He held her hand and she held his as though by doing so she held onto reality.

  ‘I shan’t have a funeral service for him. It would be an absolute mockery if we did. He had no time for the Church. I’ll just have him cremated. No hymns, no prayers. There’ll be no afterlife for him, Peter. He’s finished. Give me the letter.’

  ‘“Suzy,”’ she read. ‘“The research I have been doing for the last three years has proved to be based on a total misconception, a complete falsehood. I am so appalled by my colossal mistake, that I have destroyed all my notes and the paper I was preparing, so no one will find out what a horrifying waste of time these last three years have been. I might as well never have lived at all. I can’t face my colleagues, so I am obliterating myself.”

  ‘Peter, here – you read it.’

  He took the letter expecting to read a loving farewell. He’d read suicide notes before, but this was the cruellest. Hot tears began falling on the hand Suzy held. He looked into her face and saw her Madonna-like features crumpled with grief. He held her close whilst the tears fell. Gradually the tears lessened and Suzy spoke.

  ‘Did you notice, Peter, that there was nothing in the letter about me or the children? Nothing about what will happen to us now, or how we shall live? Nothing about “how much I have loved you or sorry for what has happened”? Losing him is bad enough, but to know he hadn’t a thought for us is what really hurts.’

  ‘I think you need someone to be with you. We ought to get your mother to come and bring the girls home.’

  ‘Oh dear Lord, how on earth can I tell them? What words do you use? “Your father’s killed himself because he can’t live with himself any more? He didn’t care a fig for you all”?’

  ‘Perhaps your mother could help you to find the right words. Whatever you say it won’t be easy, I’m afraid. We should contact Patrick’s parents. I’ll tell them for you if you would like me to.’

  ‘His parents both died when he was in his twenties. He has no one, except a distant aunt who never bothers with him. Will you ring my parents and get them to come and bring the girls? The number’s here.’

  After a pause she said, her voice trembling: ‘I’ll sit here waiting. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but I am. Patrick will be home soon. He’s always early on Thursdays.’

  Chapter 4

  First thing next morning, before she left for the hospital, Caroline placed a vase of flowers on Peter’s desk with a little note telling him how much she loved him. She looked out of the study window to see what the weather was going to be like. Outside on the pavement were four or five photographers and press reporters, grouped around Suzy’s door. Their cars were parked haphazardly on the village green. So the ghouls had arrived. She could just imagine the headlines: ‘Nuclear physicist dies. Was it murder?’

  ‘Peter, come here a minute. Look at this.’

  He was horrified. ‘This simply won’t do. I’m going out to stop it. First I’ll ring the police – they ought to be here.’

  ‘I’ll ring them. You go out and have a word.’

  Peter swept out of the Rectory door and down the pavement, his cassock swishing angrily as he walked.

  ‘I would be most grateful if you would kindly move away from here and leave Mr Meadows’ widow and her children in peace.’ The reporters clustered around Peter, holding their microphones up ready to catch his words.

  ‘Can you give us some information about Mrs Meadows? How many children has she? Did she realise something was seriously wrong? Will she come out for an interview?’

  ‘Have you not listened to what I said? I asked you to move away from here. Get in your cars and go. Please.’

  ‘Now, sir, you can’t expect us to leave a headline story like this, the public have a right to know. A top nuclear physicist is found dead in his car … something must be very wrong. Could be a breach of national security.’

  ‘Has his wife been playing away?’

  ‘Is it marriage problems? You’ll know, sir, being the Vicar.’

  They all clamoured around him.

  ‘Can you get us an interview?’

  Peter towering above them all caught a glimpse of the little girls watching from a downstairs window and the hurt this must be causing them made him angrier still.

  ‘Come into my study and I’ll tell you everything I know,’ he promised, saying the first thing that came into his head just to get them away.

  ‘Right, sir, you lead the way.’

  Having got them away from Suzy’s house, Peter then had to think what on earth he would say when they reached his study. At the same time, he remembered why he was wearing his cassock: the children from the school were coming to church for their morning prayers. As he opened the Rectory door to let the reporters in, the police arrived. The local sergeant, beefy and belligerent, made his views known.

  ‘Now then, gentlemen and ladies, we don’t want Mrs Meadows troubled by all of you stood about. Have some consideration, if you please. Those cars will have to be moved. It’s an offence to park on the green, and I shall put the owners on a charge if the vehicles are not moved immediately. Constable, you can stand on duty outside Mrs Meadows’ house. Let’s have these cars moved pronto, if you please. The Royal Oak will be open soon so you can go and sit in there for a bit. They’ve got a car park, too.’

  When the group of eager journalists had dispersed, he turned to Peter. ‘Thank you, sir, for moving them on. Never thought they’d be on to it as quick as this. Reckon they must be telepathic.’

  ‘Mrs Meadows needs to be protected from these people. She has quite enough to contend with.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Rector. I’ll see to it. Nice to meet you, sir, sorry it’s in such difficult circumstances.’

  ‘Thank you. Must be off, got a service to take.’

  There must have been almost thirty children gathered in the church for their Friday morning prayers. Muriel Hipkin was seated at the piano playing gentle ‘settling down’ pieces. She’d often fancied trying out the organ but felt it was beyond her. In any case, Mrs Peel would have had something to say about that; she jealously guarded her position of organist. Michael Palmer stood as Peter entered the church and the children followed suit. Everyone, that is, except Scott McDonald, who was feeling anti-everything that morning. Muriel frowned at him but he stuck out his tongue and ignored her.

  Peter, well practised at attracting everyone’s attention, had Scott out at the front as his assistant before he knew where he was. He cooperated wonderfully and displayed an intelligence at odds with his usual silly behaviour. However, as he passed the piano on his way back to his seat he made a rude gesture to Muriel. She turned her bright pink face to the music and played the tune for going out. That boy really was obnoxious. She didn’t like using that word about a child but it fitted him exactly.

  Peter argued with himself as to whether or not he should go in to see Suzy again. Best not, he eventually decided. He might find himself holding her hands in a most un-rector-like manner, and that would neve
r do. As he settled down at his desk to commence his notes for Sunday’s sermon he noticed the flowers and the note propped up against the vase.

  ‘To my dearest Peter, to keep you cheerful till I get back. All my love, Caroline.’

  He leant forward so that he could appreciate the scent of the flowers. It was gestures like this which made Caroline so endearing. The two of them were like one person and he never wanted to spend even a single night away from her. If he lost her through death like Suzy had lost Patrick, his life would be over. A large family would have completed their happiness, but God in His wisdom had seen it differently. Perhaps if Peter had had children he would not have been able to devote his life so entirely to the Church. He’d never replaced the crude painting of the Madonna which he’d taken down that day, but nevertheless the image of her face kept reappearing in his mind. Suzy – a rather ridiculous name, but it suited her. She might move away then he would have a chance to forget her. He recollected her face crumpled in grief. Why on earth hadn’t the man said something in his letter about how he felt? Why hadn’t he said the kind of things Peter had read in other suicide notes, like: ‘You will be well provided for,’ or, ‘The insurance policies are in the bottom drawer,’ or ‘I love you. Please forgive me.’? There had been nothing of his relationship with his family at all. Peter pushed to the back of his mind thoughts about Patrick’s relationship with Suzy. If he was as icy-cold in his life as he had been in his letter of death, maybe their marriage had not been idyllic.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Caroline here. Is everything all right with Suzy? I had to dash, I was running late.’

  ‘Yes. The police have moved the reporters on and there’s a constable outside the door. Darling, can I come into Culworth and take you out to lunch?’

  ‘I’d love that – what a nice surprise! See you about twelve-thirty outside Casualty. Bye, darling.’

  When he got back from his lunch with Caroline, Suzy’s mother called round to say that she and her husband were taking Suzy and the girls to live with them for a few days. They’d be leaving tomorrow. Could Peter call in this afternoon while they took the children out and advise their daughter about Patrick’s cremation? Suzy didn’t want the girls to overhear, as she had no intention of them going to it …

  It was about three o’clock when Peter saw the girls set out with Suzy’s parents. He waited five minutes and then went round. The constable had gone and the reporters were nowhere to be seen. Suzy answered the door. He’d expected her to be in black but she was wearing a bright pink shirt and white trousers, with her hair tied up in a pink ribbon. Only the dark shadows under her eyes showed her distress. She took his hand and drew him in. They discussed Patrick’s cremation. The police had told her that it would be some time before his body would be released: post mortem etc, etc.

  ‘I want no one there. I’ll go by myself. I shall put his ashes in the bin. No, no, it’s no good protesting, I shall do just that. And I’m staying in this house. The children are upset enough without moving them to a strange place. And, Peter, I don’t want you at the cremation. No one – just me. Then I can forget him. Do you know, we had not made love for over a year? Fancy that. I’ve not told anyone that but you. Don’t really know why I’m telling you. Yes, I do. Yes, I do. Please comfort me, please.’

  Suzy reached out her hand as she finished speaking and took hold of his arm. Peter lifted her hand and held it to his cheek, then turned it over and kissed the palm.

  Chapter 5

  Muriel, taking Pericles for his afternoon walk, had stopped for a rest on the seat under The Royal Oak on the green. She’d seen Peter go into Suzy Meadows’ house and had decided to have a word with him when he came out. She needed to know if Suzy wanted help with the children. Muriel quite fancied having the three of them for the afternoon some time. Poor little mites. She hoped they were too young to understand fully what had happened. Little Rosie in particular would never remember her father. He’d always been strange, had Patrick. It really wasn’t surprising that he had committed suicide – though with so much to live for at home, how could he leave them all?

  The sun had gone in and it had become quite chilly. She decided that she was only making an excuse to have some one to talk to. That was it – she was so lonely she had to make up excuses to talk to people. What must it be like, to be grateful for a moment of peace and quiet? Fancy being so busy, so very busy that being left alone felt like a bonus.

  That was it, then. She would march purposefully across the green, down Shepherd’s Hill and cross the spare land and walk by Turnham Beck. Pericles liked rooting about on the banks. Do something positive, she had read in a magazine article. Yes, positive. Her brown walking shoes made quite a brisk noise as she set off determinedly for the beck.

  It must have been over an hour before she came back into Shepherd’s Hill and turned up Jacks Lane. As she came out at the top of the lane and crossed to her house she glanced towards the rectory and saw Peter leaving Suzy’s house. Poor dear, she must be very distressed. How thoughtful of the rector to spend so much time with her. Muriel waved enthusiastically to him but he didn’t see her. It must be very draining, she thought, dealing with people who are bereaved.

  The following Tuesday was not one of Muriel’s better days. She played the piano at the school from 10.30 to 11.30; half an hour for the Infants and then, while they were out at play, half an hour for the Juniors. The first half hour she always enjoyed. Toria Clark was a lovely, lively girl just right for tiny ones, but the Juniors were another story. How Mr Palmer controlled them she didn’t know. So calm he was, and yet they did as they were told.

  Muriel had very nearly been late for school. She’d begun baking early for a coffee morning, but somehow the cakes had not been ready to come out of the oven and she’d had to wait around. Finally, she’d got to school. She usually put her coat and her keys in the tiny teachers’ room, but being late she’d left them on top of the piano. Halfway through the Juniors’ lesson, half a dozen infants had come running in, shouting: ‘Miss Hipkin! Peri-what’s-it is in the playground.’ They were closely followed by what appeared to be the entire Infant Department. Miss Clark also came hurrying in, hoping to retrieve the Juniors’ singing lesson before it was too late.

  Pandemonium reigned. The entire school rushed out to help catch the errant poodle, but by that time, Pericles was over the wall and well on his way down to the beck. With a booming command, Mr Palmer stopped the children from crossing Shepherd’s Hill just in time, and ushered them all back into school. Meanwhile, the singing lesson forgotten, Muriel stumbled on the rough ground as she hurried after him. ‘Pericles, Pericles!’

  She shouted in vain. He scampered on, leaving her well behind. Tears began to run over the edges of her eyes and trickle down her face. She hadn’t anyone who cared, apart from Pericles, and even he had decided to desert her. She struggled on, calling his name. Just as she had given up on him and decided to sit down on the grass and wait, Sir Ronald appeared with Pericles tucked under one arm and Lady Bissett’s Pomeranian under the other.

  ‘Found him digging a big hole down by that rabbit burrow in the bottom field. ’Fraid he’s dirty, Miss Hipkin. Now, now, don’t take on so. He’s safe and sound.’ He handed Pericles to her and she thanked him profusely. Muriel didn’t enjoy being under an obligation to such a common man but she had to tolerate it.

  ‘Thank you very much indeed. How he got out of the house I don’t know. I do appreciate your kindness, Sir Ronald. Thank you again.’

  When she got back to school the caretaker was getting the hall ready for dinners.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you, Mrs Duckett. I left my coat and keys on top of the piano.’

  ‘Here’s yer coat but there ain’t no keys with it, Miss Hipkin.’

  ‘Oh, there are. I left them there.’

  ‘Only yer coat. There ain’t no keys whatsoever.’

  Muriel looked under the piano and moved the chairs about in the hope that they had been
knocked off in the excitement.

  ‘I’ve just put all them chairs ready for dinners, do you mind!’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Duckett. Maybe I never locked the house at all – perhaps that’s how Pericles got out. Oh dear, I do hope I haven’t been burgled!’

  ‘Don’t put that Prickles down in ’ere, this floor’s clean.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ll be off then.’

  She hurried home to find the back door wide open but the front door locked and no sign of her keys. She spent most of the afternoon worrying herself to death. She must pull herself together. Sixty-four didn’t mean you were in your dotage. The keys must be at school somewhere. Her spare ones were hidden under a plant pot in the back garden. She’d use those till the others turned up. What a mercy she’d hidden the spare set in case she ever locked herself out.

  The next two nights were uncomfortable ones and she didn’t sleep at all well. On the Thursday when she went to school to play for movement lessons, Michael Palmer greeted her, jangling her keys in his hand.

  ‘Look what I’ve just found amongst the music in the piano stool. I was sorting out what we needed for this morning and there they were.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Palmer. What a relief! How foolish of me.’

  The postman rarely called at number I Glebe Cottages, but on the mat the next morning was a lovely thick envelope. Inside was a gold-edged invitation card. Harriet and James Charter-Plackett invited Miss Muriel Hipkin to dinner to celebrate James’s fortieth birthday. Formal dress. Never, ever, had Muriel attended any event at which the gentlemen wore dinner jackets. The incident of the keys dwindled into insignificance. Two weeks today, no – two weeks and one day. What on earth should she wear? And what should she buy Jimbo for his birthday? Equally important, who else had been honoured with an invitation? Her finances were stretched to the limit just living from day to day; extra expense caused havoc. The only answer would be to dip into her capital. After all, this was the highlight of her year. Surely she could afford to live dangerously for a while? A visit to Culworth and the Building Society was a must and while she was there she would look for a suitable present and for a dress.