But he would, I knew he would, and now we had a rider for the horses. I dug my heels harder into The Admiral’s ribcage, bursting to get back to the yard and break the news to Charity Ensdale.
* * *
One of the bullocks made a mournful noise as I left to find St. Luke. I had thought to find him in St. Chad’s and made my way by the vicarage path. The church basked in the sunshine like an old carthorse drying the damp out of its bones. One half-expected a slight steam to rise from it. On the baked stones of the porch, three solemn little girls had set out a collection of dolls and a tiny tea-set. They were totally absorbed in their play and barely noticed as I stepped over them.
The church was not quite empty. One solitary old man sat in one of the black box pews. He was totally immobile and sat completely upright, holding his cap in his lap, and staring straight ahead. He did not appear to be praying. At least, his lips did not move, but who was I to say he was not in communion with someone.
Sunshine banished all thought of the devil. Slabs of light dropped onto the ancient stones, lit up the scarred woodwork. The poor brass shone. Someone had placed a few summer flowers on the altar. Was it so difficult, after all, to see why St. Luke preferred it here? Even though it was not hushed and immaculate, and splendid like St. Aidan’s? Even though there was no organ and no choir, no chandeliers and no smartly dressed ladies to organise a rota and vie with each other for the best niches in which to display their flower arrangements? Even though there were bird-droppings on the flags, and bumble bees bumping against the windows?
Out in the churchyard, a smell of mown grass, petrol and the fretful whine of a machine, indicated the whereabouts of St. Luke. I stepped back over the tea-party and took the path which led to the front of the church. One of the villagers was busily weeding a grave with a bunch of sweet peas on the grass beside her. Nearby was the grave of St. Luke’s wife, Francesca’s mother. That Francesca resembled her in many ways, having the same grey-green eyes, the same tumble of auburn hair, I knew from the photographs in the Vicarage drawing room and I paused for a moment at the foot of the plot, pondering the neatly tended grass, the abundant beauty of the floribunda rose, which had been chosen, Francesca had told me for the appropriateness of its name, Sweet Repose, and was now appreciated for its generous blooms. Was this part of the reason why St. Luke was so desperate to hang on to St. Chad’s, I wondered, did he want to be laid to rest here with what remained of his wife, under the pink and gold splendour of Sweet Repose?
I found St. Luke struggling to cut grass by means of a hover mower not designed to cope with hummocks and patches of long, bowed grasses.
“Ah,” he exclaimed when he saw me, “Kathryn.” He turned off the machine which subsided with a sigh of despair. The welcome was, I fancied, a trifle apprehensive.
There was nothing to be gained by prevarication.
“I want to talk to you about the Restoration fund,” I said.
“Ah,” said St. Luke again. Beyond his shoulder I could see that the appeal barometer had risen to five thousand, two hundred and sixty seven pounds. I wondered if the rise could be attributed to the Dutch dresser, the hall chairs, or both.
“I want to know,” I said, “if there is really any point in fund-raising.”
St. Luke pulled a grubby handkerchief from the pocket of his threadbare corduroy trousers. He wiped his brow and his hands. “What a perfectly lovely day,” he said.
“I want to know,” I continued, “why you don’t agree to let them close St. Chad’s because in the end, even if you manage to collect enough money to thatch the roof, to treat the timbers, to replace the windows, to bring electricity, who is there to appreciate it? Where is your congregation?” There had been a congregation once, I knew, because I had been part of it, but now the weekenders came and went. They had no roots in the village, and their brief visits left them no time for involvement with its people, much less its impoverished, decaying church.
“Shall we sit down?” St. Luke suggested. We sat on a nearby tomb. Its stone was warmed by the sun and grainy to the touch. ‘Jessica Sarah Elizabeth Obedience Barnes’, one of the inscriptions read, ‘Departed This Life on the 14th Day of March, in the Year 1888. Aged 37 Years. Her Goodness Liveth.’
“I want you to tell me,” I said, “if it is sensible to try to prolong the life of St. Chad’s when it will surely fall into disrepair again when you are gone and be closed by the next generation.” ‘Jessica Sarah Elizabeth Obedience Barnes, whose Goodness Liveth,’ could be a mother to someone still living in the village, I thought, she was probably a grandmother to some, she might even be a great-grandparent of one of the solemn little girls playing in the porch. They all belong to somebody. Their ancestors lie here, their parents, their husbands, their wives, in some cases, even their children.
“I wondered, you see,” I carried on, “if you think people really need St. Chad’s any more? If it has fulfilled its purpose to the community it was built to serve, if it is now redundant? I wondered if it was still useful?”
Did the old man in the box pew find it useful? Why was he there, sitting with his lips not moving, holding his cap in his hands? Was he there to commune with a dead wife, or to escape from a living one? ‘And there shall be a tabernacle,’ I thought, ‘for shelter in the daytime from the heat’ or perhaps, more appropriately in this day and age, for shelter in the daytime from the world.
“St. Luke,” I said despairingly, “how much money do you need?”
“Crabtree gave me an estimate for the roof which was ten and a half, I shall need another five.” St. Luke raised his eyes to the roof in a thoughtful manner. Birds were busily pulling straw out of what remained of the thatch. The protective wire had long since rusted away.
It didn’t seem such a lot. “Five hundred?”
“Five thousand,” said St. Luke gently.
Five thousand pounds. More than the entire remaining contents of the Vicarage were worth, I felt sure.
“I know it sounds impossible, he said, “but by raising a little at a time … a coffee morning perhaps … a jumble sale …”
“A sideboard,” I said, “a few hall chairs …”
St. Luke got up rather hurriedly.
“You are not to sell any more furniture,” I said, “I … we forbid it.”
He directed his attention towards the hover mower.
“You must leave something for Francesca,” I pointed out, “God has no use for a dining table, after all.”
St. Luke took the starter in his hand and pulled it. A lot of cord appeared, but nothing else happened.
“I don’t know if you realise how difficult it is to have a discussion with someone who won’t answer back,” I said, “I know you talk to God, I know you talk to your congregation, you even talk to your parishioners, but you have never talked to us.”
He unscrewed the petrol cap and peered into the tank.
“I don’t wish to criticise,” I said, “Neither do I wish to appear ungrateful, but you never included us, you have never wanted us close. We may not have been perfect, but you have not been without fault. You have never given us a chance to care because we have never known you. You have never allowed us to love you.”
St. Luke replaced the petrol cap. He spent a lot of time making sure that it was tight enough.
“But, I’ve come to say that we want to help,” I said, “I’ve come to tell you that somehow, we don’t know how, we will help to raise the other five thousand pounds.”
St. Luke straightened. He swallowed rather hard a few times, but still he had to turn his face away.
“There shall be a tabernacle,” I said.
“You always were a dear child, Kathryn,” said St. Luke.
THIRTEEN
“You really should let me cut a little bit off, just to trim away the split ends, it would look so much better.”
“How much is a little bit? Show me.”
Between my index finger and my thumb, I measured out approximately half
a centimetre.
“Well …” Francesca still looked doubtful. “If you swear not to take off any more than that.”
She had never taken a pride in her hair, never bothered to look after it, but she had always hated having it cut, even as a child. Half a centimetre was something of a triumph. The trimming scissors were reserved for the horses and locked in the tack room. I fetched bacon scissors from the tiny lean-to kitchen, where the floor glistened, unhealthy as a fevered brow, and the taps dripped ceaselessly into the stone sink. In the living room, thistles forced their way through the spongy soleplate, flattening themselves against the walls, surprising us with their sly presence whenever we moved the furniture. I began to snip away at the dry, faded ends of Francesca’s hair. Neglected it may have been, but once washed and brushed out, it was lovely. Curly and strong, it trailed below her shoulder blades, and would have graced a head in a Renaissance painting.
“What happened this afternoon?” Francesca wanted to know, “did you manage to get any sense out of St. Luke?”
I said I thought I had.
“Well?” Francesca frowned into the plastic-backed mirror with which she was monitoring every snip of the bacon scissors. “What did he say?”
“Not a lot. You know St. Luke.”
“But you did tell him we were prepared to help?”
“Yes.”
“Did he seem pleased?”
“I think so.” I stood back, flipping the ends of hair with a comb. I did not want to talk about St. Luke. Not yet. “Have you decided what you are going to wear tonight?”
“Not yet. But jeans, of course.”
“No,” I said, “not jeans, you can’t possibly go out to dinner wearing jeans.”
“Then you will either have to lend me something suitable or go on your own. I don’t suppose,” Francesca enquired in a hopeful voice, “you would like to go on your own?”
“Certainly not.” Hours of persuasive tactics had been necessary in order to wear down her resistance to Simon Hooper’s invitation, and having finally succeeded, I was not going to allow her to back out now.
“You do realise,” I said, “that we have less than half an hour in which to get ready? I think we should concentrate on finding something to wear, we can talk about St. Luke later.”
“And I think you’re being evasive,” Francesca replied, “I think we should find something to wear, and talk about St. Luke at the same time.”
We climbed the perilous little staircase where damp had gathered itself into weird, bruise-like shapes upon the plaster. Somewhat cautiously, I began to hunt through the unwholesome cupboards which tapered into the eves of my cramped, claustrophobic bedroom. Everything smelled of mice. When I had first moved into Pond Cottage, I nagged Francesca about hygiene and we had set traps and caught thirty-nine mice in one week. After that, smitten by the piteous innocence of our victims, and appalled by the growing pile of furry bodies, we had given up, hoping that some sort of ecological balance would come about. So far the balance was all in favour of the mice.
“What about this?” I pulled out a pink dress with a pleated skirt and a deep collar. It had been bought for me by Count Von Der Drehler to wear when I had accompanied him to watch Oliver perform at Goodwood, but I did not tell Francesca that. She dismissed it at a glance.
“Not pink, not with red hair. Tell me about St. Luke. I suppose you did ask how much he needs for the roof?”
“Umm.” I turned my attention back to the cupboard.
“So?”
“So what?”
“So how much does he need?”
“What about this then?” I produced a white dress with splashes of red on it. “There is a belt, and somewhere, there should be a matching stole.”
“I can’t see myself wearing it though, can you?” She frowned at me impatiently, “Come on, Kathryn, you may as well tell me how much. Is it more than we thought? Is it hundreds?”
I found a pale green skirt in slubbed cotton. In the rickety chest of drawers under the tiny window that refused to open, I knew there was a matching angora jersey. “What about green? Surely green is alright with red hair?”
“Green will be lovely. Come, Kathryn, tell.”
“I am not going to tell you anything until we are at dinner,” I said. “It is my insurance that you will be pleasant to Simon Hooper, and that you will not take umbrage and walk out, or vanish just because you feel like it.” This was not quite true. I did not want to discuss it now because once she knew what a colossal, impossible sum was involved, I was afraid she would be plunged into depression and refuse to go. At dinner, I planned to avoid the subject altogether, but at the same time, I was not averse to using any ploy which would help to show Francesca in a good light in front of Simon Hooper.
With the pale green skirt clutched to her chest, Francesca looked at me and narrowed her eyes. “Just for a moment, you sounded exactly like Oliver,” she said.
It proved impossible not to keep my word. Simon Hooper collected us in the family BMW and drove us out to a beamy, low-slung hostelry on the banks of the river, appropriately called The Angler. The Angler was awash with cases of flies, rods, and stuffed specimens in bow-fronted glass cases. Amidst a vast display of piscine paraphernalia, we drank an aperitif, and were ushered into a restaurant whose ceiling dripped floats of every description and whose walls were covered with angling prints.
“I thought it would make a welcome change from horse-brasses and coach horns,” Simon Hooper said with a grin, as we took our places at a table with fish-printed table mats and looked at the predominantly fish menu.
As an antidote to our surroundings we all ordered baked avocado and steak. It had been a relief to see the waiter was conventionally dressed. I had half-expected him to be attired for salmon-fishing in the Spey.
Francesca looked across at me expectantly as she unfolded a linen napkin with a fishhook embroidered in the corner.
“Now,” she said, “tell me about St. Luke.”
I had been pleased with the effect of the green cotton skirt and the jersey. With her spectacular hair, the grey-green eyes accentuated with a coating of mascara on the lashes, the cheeks smoothed with moisturiser, and the chapped lips softened with a pink lip gloss, she looked quite stunning. Simon Hooper had clearly been taken aback by the transformation, but was far too well-mannered to say so. Now, he looked at her in consternation.
“St. Luke?” he said.
There followed some protracted explanations regarding St. Luke and his appeal fund, from which point it was possibly to steer the conversation towards our childhood and family circumstances and even to Oliver and his achievements. Simon had never heard of Oliver, but as dressage does not have the popular appeal of other forms of equestrian activity such a racing, or even showjumping, this was not surprising.
But if I had hoped that this digression would divert Francesca’s attention, I was disappointed. There seemed no point in holding out, because she was determined to know.
“Five thousand pounds? Five THOUSAND?” Over her half-eaten baked avocado, Francesca gaped.
“But I thought you said the church was eligible for some kind of grant,” Simon said, “wouldn’t that help towards it?”
“I don’t think there will be any grants,” I said, “I think St. Luke is on his own at the moment.”
Francesca laid down her spoon and fork. She said in a frustrated voice, “So there’s nothing we can do to help then? Nothing at all.”
“Not if you are thinking of ways to raise the whole amount,” I said.
“But he will have to be stopped, you know. We shall have to stop him somehow, because he’ll sell everything, he’ll have nothing left, and still he won’t have a church roof.”
“But we don’t have to raise the whole amount,” I went on, “at least, not all at once. We will be intimidated if we look at it that way. What we have to do is break it down a bit, to try and raise the money a little at a time.”
Francesca looked at m
e doubtfully. “How little at a time?”
“Five hundred. Even one hundred pounds would be a start.”
Francesca picked up her spoon. “At this particular moment, even one hundred seems an impossibility,” she said.
Simon Hooper looked thoughtful. “What do you do with your manure?” he asked.
“Manure?” Francesca said. The waiter who had arrived to collect our empty plates, gave her a sharp look.
“Your stable manure,” Simon Hooper said, “you’ve heard of stable manure, I assume? It’s a waste product.”
Levity was wasted on Francesca. “I know what it is,” she told him, “it just seemed such a funny question to ask.”
“Especially over dinner,” I said.
“Sorry. I’m a farmer, though, remember? To me it’s just another waste product, like bran, or straw. You’re quite fortunate,” Simon pointed out with a sideways look at the waiter, “that I called it manure.”
“What about manure?” Francesca looked at him, interested.
“The thing about manure is that it’s quite valuable. You can sell manure, especially horse manure. It’s a marketable commodity.”
“We did try selling ours in the early days,” I pointed out, “We used to stack bags by the roadside, but the Council said they were illegal and unsightly, and we had to move them.”
“So we shall have to think of other ways.”
Our conversation lapsed for a while to enable the waiter to serve the steak and the vegetables, to offer us French bread and mustard.
“What other ways are there?” Francesca wanted to know. “Are you going to suggest I put it in the small ads? ‘Pile of manure for sale, thirty feet by sixty feet’? You do realise it’s almost the size of a house?
“Perhaps you were meaning we should try to sell it to a market garden,” I suggested, “or a mushroom farm?”
“I wasn’t actually,” Simon fended off the waiter who was trying to encourage him to taste the wine, indicating that he would prefer to pour it himself. “Places like that are only usually interested in making regular collections from large commercial premises. You probably have a lot now, but think how long it has taken to amass it. I don’t see how your few horses could make a collection contract viable.”
Flying Changes Page 10