‘You said she was spreading misery and causing pain. How do you know that? How do you know what she was trying to do?’
‘I was her sister,’ Julia said. ‘I was close to her.’
‘No, you weren’t!’ Viviane said. ‘You were Goody Two Shoes so busy running round in circles trying to please all the grown-ups and be a good little girl that you never noticed Caroline. You had no idea about her life!’
‘Vivi, stop it now,’ I said.
‘You weren’t there, Vivi, you know nothing about any of it,’ said Julia.
‘I do know – I do! Caroline was trying to protect you, Mummy!’
‘She was trying to protect me? Caroline didn’t protect, Vivi, Caroline damaged. She hurt people. She stole and she lied and she—’ Julia stopped herself. Her face was white but her cheeks were flushed. ‘She did some terrible things,’ she finished.
‘No,’ Vivi cried, ‘she didn’t! You’re not listening!’
‘I don’t want to hear any more.’
‘You didn’t listen then and you’re not listening now!’
‘Get out of here, Vivi!’ Julia said. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
I stepped forward and tried to hold Vivi but she shook my hands off and leaned towards her mother, crying and shouting at the same time.
‘You’re a bitch!’ she screamed. ‘No wonder Papa preferred to go to meet the Algerians than be at home with you! No wonder he’d rather be dead!’
Julia raised her hand and slapped her daughter’s face. She hit her so hard that Vivi stumbled and the noise was absolutely shocking. It seemed to bounce from the walls of that awful room. For a moment Vivi was still, crouched on the floor holding one hand to her cheek. Then she pushed herself up and ran from the room. We heard her feet thumping down the stairs and seconds afterwards, the slam of the back door.
‘Christ!’ said Julia. ‘Oh Christ, what have I done? I’ve never laid a finger on her before! What’s happening to me, Amy?’
‘She’ll be OK,’ I said as calmly as I could, trying to stop my voice from shaking.
‘I’m turning into a monster!’
‘You’re not. I’ll go after her. I’ll take her up to the church for her choir practice and after that it’ll all be forgotten.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. She’s old enough now to resent me for that for ever.’
‘It was one slap, Julia, delivered in the heat of the moment. You mustn’t make too much of it.’
Julia covered her face with her hands. ‘Everything is so horrid today, the cold, this room, that terrible drawing, Vivi’s mood … oh God, and me. What is to become of me, Amy? Where will this all end?’
‘You’re a good mother, Julia,’ I said. ‘Vivi pushed you too far, that’s all. You’re only human. It’ll be all right. You’ll get through this. You will.’
‘Not without Alain. I can’t do it without him.’
‘You will have to,’ I said – and then I went down after Viviane.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I WALKED AROUND the churchyard while I waited for Vivi to come out of choir practice. I could hear the singing inside the church and the sound was magical, Viviane’s voice following the descant tune above the others. My mother, before she left, once took me on an outing to a model village. I had especially loved the church because when I knelt down beside it and put my ear close to the little building, I could hear organ music coming from inside, and singing. I found it miraculous.
‘But who were the little people singing inside the church, Mum?’ I had asked for ages afterwards. ‘Who were they?’
I knew who was inside the church at Blackwater – Viviane and eleven other girls from Hailswood School, most of them older than her, some of them experienced and talented singers. When I’d walked up to the church with Vivi an hour earlier, the girl had been subdued and yet proud. The slap had humiliated her but at the same time her anger had solidified from something vague and amorphous into a nugget of pure rage.
I sincerely hoped the singing would put her in a better mood and in some way compensate for the argument earlier.
I went to the Aldridge section of the graveyard and looked for Daniel’s mother’s grave. It was the most ostentatious of them all, the one with the angel with the outstretched arm. The headstone informed me that she had died only three days before Caroline. It commemorated the final resting-place of Jean Matilda Aldridge: A wonderful and loving wife to Robert and mother to Daniel, taken from us so tragically, on August 28th 1931, gone but never forgotten and always remembered in our hearts with the very greatest affection, respect and devotion.
Too much, I thought. Too many words. It was almost as if Robert, if it was he who had composed the inscription, had been trying to compensate for something. Was it grief that made him so verbose, or regret maybe?
I walked on round to the back of the church, to where Caroline was buried. Her grave was as dark, inconspicuous and overgrown as before, but somebody had placed a pot of snowdrops on it. I felt a shiver of pity for the flowers, which would never survive in this cold, dark place, and for Caroline. She and Jean Aldridge had died so close together in this small village and had been treated so very differently. I tugged at the ivy fingering its way over the modest little stone, then jumped at the sound of a throat being cleared behind me. I turned guiltily, feeling altogether as if I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have been doing.
It was the vicar. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just wondered if I could be of any help?’
I’d met him before, briefly, in Sunnyvale. Reverend Pettigrew was a small, slope-shouldered man in his dog collar and shabby suit, the shoulders speckled with dandruff. He was rubbing his hands together against the cold. There was a dewdrop on the end of his nose, which was red and bulbous. Just behind him was the woman who had been cleaning in the nursing home – Susan, his daughter. She was buttoned into an old coat that was too small for her and pinched around the arms and waist. It looked too worn out and thin to be keeping her the least bit warm. She seemed so cold and miserable that I had a strong urge to take her indoors and make her a hot drink.
I stood up. ‘I’m waiting to meet one of the children rehearsing inside the church.’
‘Ah yes,’ said the vicar, ‘the choir are practising for their performance at Sunnyvale. I’m looking forward to that. As patron of the nursing home, I generally act as compère at those sorts of dos.’ He held on to the lapels of his jacket and swelled with self-importance. I smiled as if I were impressed and he continued: ‘We spotted you looking at Jean Aldridge’s grave just now. I was curious as to your interest. You’re too young to have known either Jean or Caroline Cummings.’
‘I work for Julia, Caroline’s sister.’
‘Ah, of course you do.’
‘And it seems strange to me that they died within three days of one another but were buried so differently.’
The vicar shook his head. ‘They died in the same week, certainly, but that was all they had in common.’
‘Oh?’
‘Jean was a wonderful woman,’ said the vicar. ‘She went through so much and then to have her life snuffed out like that when she’d finally fulfilled her dream of becoming a mother as well as a wife … well, it was a tragedy. An absolute tragedy.’
Saint Jean, I thought, and then I was annoyed with myself for feeling unkindly towards someone I had never met, my darling Daniel’s mother. The vicar was right – it was a tragedy for a woman to die within days of the birth of her one and only child.
The vicar fished in his pocket, produced a crumpled handkerchief and blew his nose.
Behind him, Susan clutched the handle of a shopping bag with her plump hands. Her nails were bitten to the quick. She was looking at the ground.
‘But Caroline’s death was tragic too,’ I said. ‘She was only seventeen when she lost her life.’
The vicar gave a kind of snort.
‘It was completely differ
ent,’ he said.
‘How was it different?’ I asked. I couldn’t help but feel defensive of Caroline; she was not my family but I knew about her now. I felt as if she belonged to me.
‘Sadly, there are some people whose lives are best forgotten. Caroline was one of those.’ The vicar sniffed. ‘She had very few friends, and I’m afraid she turned everyone against her.’
‘I was her friend,’ Susan said quietly. ‘I liked her.’
‘I know you did,’ the vicar said bitterly, ‘but you’re not like most people.’ He rubbed his nose with his handkerchief and then addressed me again. ‘Caroline was troubled,’ he said, ‘very troubled. Hasn’t Julia told you about her?’
‘A little.’
‘Well then, I’ll show you something.’ He took hold of my elbow. I did not like the feeling of his hand touching me but felt it would have been an overreaction to snatch my arm away, so I acquiesced, walking beside him back around to the other side of the church, the sun-facing side with the path running past it and the village looking towards it. Susan shuffled behind us.
The vicar stopped. He pointed up towards the church.
‘You see that window, the one that’s different to the others?’
‘The one that isn’t stained glass?’
‘Exactly. It used to be a stained-glass depiction of The Sermon on the Mount. It dated back to the sixteenth century and had been saved from an earlier church and reinstated here. The reason it’s not an invaluable stained-glass window now is because young Caroline threw a stone through the original. The church was full of people at the time.’
I looked up at the window. The last of the sun shone down through the cold, cold air and I looked up and I felt dizzy. From inside the church, the pianist played and Viviane’s voice rang through the glass, clear as a bell: Ave Maria.
The vicar continued: ‘The stone smashed right through the window and the glass rained down on the congregation. Caroline wasn’t even fourteen, she was still a child, but already she had such evil inside her.’
‘Evil?’ I gave a small, disbelieving laugh. ‘That’s rather strong, isn’t it?’
‘Evil,’ the vicar repeated firmly.
And then for an instant, the briefest instant, no more than the time it took for my heart to beat twice, I felt a fury, rage like I’d never felt before. I imagined I heard an organ playing inside the church, not the tinkly piano that was accompanying the school choir but a thunderous, pitching organ bellowing out discordant notes, and the village voices were singing together, voices lumbering after the organ, straining for the tune, and I was outside, excluded, and I felt angry and hurt and utterly humiliated. I looked around and there was a rock, a good-sized rock, and I bent down to pick up the rock and it felt good and heavy in my hand.
I wanted to break that window. I wanted to shatter that pretty glass. I wanted to show those people inside the church that I counted, that I existed, that I mattered.
And I breathed in and the anger and the humiliation were gone and I was myself again. The air was still cold and bright and the vicar was still talking. He was describing the damage caused by the rock, how the people inside the church had rushed outside, shocked and deeply upset that the beautiful and ancient window had been broken.
‘I came out of the church and Caroline was standing there, right where you are now, staring up at the window,’ the vicar said, ‘and do you know what she did when I remonstrated with her? She laughed at me! Can you imagine such wickedness? She laughed!’
I thought of the drawing on the wall, the man swinging, the tongue lolling. Caroline had hated the doctor. Had she hated the vicar too?
Susan put her thumbnail into her mouth and chewed at the cuticle. Her upper lip was dark with whiskers.
The vicar rocked on his heels. The tone of his voice changed as he moved on to the next part of the story. ‘Mr and Mrs Cummings were devastated, of course, but they couldn’t afford to pay for a replacement window so Dr Croucher put up the money. Caroline told me if we replaced the window with more stained glass, she would break it again. That was the kind of girl she was. We didn’t want to risk bringing further embarrassment to her dear mother and father. So we left the window plain, as it is now.’
‘You could have replaced the stained glass after she died.’
‘We tried,’ said the vicar, ‘but the lead framework had twisted and we couldn’t get the glass to fit. So that plain window will always serve as a reminder to the village of a wicked act and a wicked young woman. And the one beside it, the one that depicts The Virgin and Child, that’s the one that dear Jean’s parents, Sir George and Lady Debeger, dedicated in memory of their poor deceased daughter. It seems ironic that the two should be side by side.’
‘Why ironic?’ I asked.
‘Because of what Caroline did to Jean.’
‘What did she do?’
The vicar caught his breath. He glanced at his daughter. Then he took his handkerchief out of his pocket once more and blew his nose again. Inside the church, the song reached a crescendo, an extended, beautiful, musical Amen.
‘Come on, Susan,’ the vicar said, ‘they’re finishing now. You need to get in and lay out the Bibles ready for Prayer Group.’
‘You didn’t tell me what Caroline did to Jean Aldridge!’ I called but either he did not hear, or he pretended not to.
He walked away from me, along the path, and Susan shuffled after him, pausing only to look over her shoulder and send me a glance of sadness.
I waited by the church door for Viviane as a gaggle of chattering schoolgirls came out of the church. Vivi was the last out, walking with a tall, thin, dark-haired man, lanky in his suit. He acknowledged me with a wide, personable smile but Vivi stiffened when she saw me. The man put his hand on her shoulder and guided her towards me.
‘Hi,’ I said, with a smile. ‘I was listening outside. That sounded wonderful, Vivi.’
‘Young Viviane here has a real talent,’ said the man. He held out his hand. ‘Eric Leeson,’ he said, ‘headmaster and choirmaster.’
I took his hand. ‘I’m Amy.’
‘I know exactly who you are. My good friend Dr Croucher has told me all about you.’
‘Have you been all right, Vivi?’ I asked.
There was an awkward pause. Viviane stared at her feet.
‘She’s been fine,’ said Mr Leeson. ‘She was a tiny bit tearful earlier but we went into the vestry and had a little chat, and you’re OK now, aren’t you, Viviane? You’re our star performer. You’re not going to let a little family spat get in the way of your singing, are you?’
Vivi shook her head. She leaned a little closer to him. He squeezed her shoulder. I felt terribly awkward. I didn’t know if I should explain or apologize. I did not know what Vivi had said to Mr Leeson; she may have exaggerated the argument, or played down her own role in instigating the slap. And yet the last thing I wanted to do was cause her more embarrassment or pain.
‘Come on then,’ I said. I held out my hand to Viviane, but she did not take it. Instead she pushed past me and made her way alone, down the path.
I moved to follow her but Mr Leeson said quietly, ‘Leave her – let her be. Give her a little space. She’s a good girl and she’s strong. She’s going to be fine.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘for all you’re doing to help her.’
‘Oh, it’s my pleasure,’ said Mr Leeson. He adjusted his tie. ‘Really, it’s the least I can do.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE VERY NEXT day Daniel called, saying he wanted to see me. He said his father would be out all day and suggested I walked down to Fairlawn. I left Julia scrubbing at the drawing in the empty bedroom with a wire brush and some Vim scouring powder and walked down the hill. Daniel met me on the lane. He was bundled in his outdoor clothes, looking like something organic that had grown up out of the fields and the woods and the countryside. He held out his hands to me; they were filthy but I took them anyway.
‘I’ve been out wit
h the sheep,’ he said.
‘I never would have guessed!’
He laughed. ‘Do I smell agricultural?’
‘A little. It’s OK. I don’t mind that smell.’
‘Really?’
‘On you I don’t mind it.’ I smiled.
‘I’d forgotten,’ Daniel said, ‘how very much I like you.’
‘I like you very much too,’ I said, ‘and I think I always will.’
He coloured a little and I felt my cheeks heat in empathy. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you the grand tour of the Aldridge pile.’
‘Where’s your father?’
‘Out on the lake.’
‘You’re sure he won’t come back?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘If he found me in the house he’d suspect me of filching the family silver.’
‘I’ll check your pockets before you leave,’ Daniel said. I thought if he knew how dire Julia’s financial situation really was, he would not joke about it. He led me towards the house. Dead black leaves were blowing across the lawns, bunching at the feet of the tree trunks. There was a wheelbarrow on the pathway, a rake propped up against the wall, but no lights were on inside the house. It gave the impression of being empty.
I followed Daniel inside. The hallway had been stripped of its Christmas decorations and the fire was no longer burning, but huge radiators kept the place warm and it was light. The furnishings were grand but past their best and it felt a comfortable, lived-in house. Coats were piled on a rack, with boots lined up beneath on sheets of muddy newspaper. Unopened mail lay on a table beneath a mirror hung at an angle, a stack of ornithological books piled beside it.
Daniel pulled the door shut and then he took hold of me and kissed me. His hands were inside my coat. I was bright with desire but I pulled away. Not here, I thought, not here.
‘You are going to show me around, aren’t you?’ I asked.
‘If that’s what you want.’
Daniel sat on a chair by the table and took off his boots. I wandered over to the wall and studied an oil painting of a cocker spaniel with limpid brown eyes. The tricolour collie was about my legs, a whisper of a dog, her claws clicking on the floor. Daniel put his boots on the newspaper, stood up in his thick grey working socks and took off his coat.
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