The Silence Before Thunder

by Kathy Shuker

  Jo had been exchanging emails and responding to phone calls for several days as participating speakers checked details. It was finally coming together. Brian Hunwin, the retired MP and Jenny, Eleanor’s agent, were both speaking on the Saturday and had accepted Jo’s invitation to stay in the main house for the weekend. Jo was relieved; she dreaded her aunt being left alone. Not that she had told Eleanor yet.

  But her plans began to unravel. On the Sunday of the Bank Holiday weekend, Jenny emailed her apologies, saying something had come up and she wouldn’t be able to stay over after all. She would give her talk then had to get away. ‘Please give Eleanor my love and apologies; I hope she’ll understand.’ On the Monday morning, Brian rang to say he could only stay on the Friday night and had to be in Oxford by Saturday afternoon. ‘We’ll be able to catch up on the Friday evening at least. Tell Eleanor to have the Scotch ready.’ That same evening Jo received an email from Patrick Digence, another speaker. There had been a death in the family and he had to pull out of the event.

  Now there was a vacant slot to fill. At a push Jo could ask someone to double up and repeat a talk but that was far from ideal even if she could persuade anyone to do it. So who to ask? She had a working relationship with a lot of writers but didn’t know them well enough to gauge their talents as public speakers. In any case, how many of them would be able to come down to Devon at such short notice? And there was also the issue of cost. Patrick had been doing the festival as a favour to Eleanor as were many of the others. It was an embryonic event, run on a shoe-string, uncertain of breaking even. The committee weren’t going to like paying out more money, unplanned. Jo could offer one of the studio flats for a night’s accommodation but couldn’t promise more than travel expenses and most writers, she knew, earned little enough as it was.

  Of course there was Vincent. He was could be quite the performer on his day. She remembered hearing him speak years ago and he was excellent, but what he might be like now she had no idea. And Eleanor had expressly excluded him from the line-up. He had a reputation for being unreliable. Suppose he started quoting the Bible and evangelising? He was more than capable of torpedoing the event if the whim took him, just for spite. No, it wouldn’t work.

  She spent the rest of the evening and all the following morning chasing her tail, contacting anyone she could think of, hoping someone would bite. No-one did. Late on the Tuesday afternoon she gave in and went in search of Vincent. He’d told Lawrence he had arranged a private tutorial with a student for the Tuesday morning and would leave on the Wednesday. He had to be around the village somewhere.

  She found him eventually in The Mill wine bar with a large black coffee on the table in front of him and his nose in The Times newspaper. She crossed to stand by his table.

  ‘May I join you?’

  The newspaper descended and Vincent regarded her over the top of his reading glasses.

  ‘You may. How refreshing to hear someone use the correct verb - ‘may’ and not ‘can’. May I order you a drink, my dear? Though perhaps it’s I who will need something stronger. You look as though you have bad news to impart. I hope it’s not dear old Eleanor?’

  She sat on the chair opposite him. ‘No. Dear old Eleanor is fine, thank you.’

  ‘And coming home, I understand. What a shame I shall miss her. I really wanted to stay to see her - we are family after all - but Lawrence suggested… To be honest, suggest is altogether too polite a word to describe his manner. He told me I had to vacate the flat since I am not needed for the festival. Apparently I am now redundant so, since I’m not wanted here…’ He left the sentence hanging.

  ‘That’s why I’ve come to see you.’

  ‘Indeed?’ He folded the newspaper up, laid it on the table and removed his reading glasses. His thin mouth stretched into a fair imitation of a smile. ‘Tell me more, do.’

  ‘Are you available to speak at one of the sessions on Saturday? It starts at five…for an hour. Well, the usual: speak for forty-five to fifty minutes then field questions. How would you feel about that?’

  ‘Did this come from Eleanor?’

  ‘No. It comes from me.’

  He sucked ruminatively on the end of one of the arms of his glasses. ‘Someone has let you down.’

  ‘A family bereavement.’

  ‘Tragic. Tell me the name and I shall pray for them.’

  ‘You haven’t answered, Vincent.’

  ‘I’m thinking. I’m also wondering what the fee might be. I presume the previous speaker was receiving remuneration?’

  ‘No. He was doing it as a favour to Eleanor. Just as the other tutors are - after being allowed to stay all summer I might add. You, as well as being able to stay on in the flat, rent free, for the rest of the week, would be doing her a favour too. You keep saying that blood is thicker than water.’

  ‘Ah.’ He gave another sickly smile and gestured with the glasses towards her. ‘But it seems the blood flows more thickly one way than the other.’

  ‘Perhaps it does. Though I imagine we might disagree on which way that is.’

  He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Well, I believe I’m capable of turning the other cheek. Still, it would be nice if Eleanor asked me herself. I have my pride to consider.’

  ‘Eleanor’s not here, nor is she in a position to do that. I am organising the speakers. If you want the job, Vincent, say so now. And deliver. Or I will ask someone else.’

  ‘Whom you have already struggled to find, or you wouldn’t be here now.’ He hesitated, pursing up his lips. ‘Will you do some special publicity, splash it about that I’ve stepped into the breach? And of course cover my plays and novels, mention my latest book? I do happen to have several copies with me.’

  ‘Yes. Of course we’ll do that.’ It would mean liaising with Matthew and Lawrence but she could do that.

  ‘Then I shall indeed be available, my dear.’ He replaced the glasses on his nose and picked up the newspaper again. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a drink? The coffee here is really quite tolerable.’

  Jo declined and left. Leaving The Mill she pulled the voice recorder out of her pocket and played the conversation back. It was all there. She didn’t trust him.

  *

  ‘I’m just going to the committee meeting in the hall,’ Matthew shouted up the stairs, trying to outgun the music and failing. He raised his voice still further. ‘Harry?’

  A shape appeared on the landing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to the committee meeting in the hall. I won’t be late.’

  ‘Fine.’ The shape disappeared.

  Matthew let himself out and walked down to the sea front. It was only twenty past seven but the sun had nearly set and the village was bathed in an amber half-light, like a taste of the autumn to come. It was nearly the end of August already; the summer had passed in the blink of an eye.

  He leant on the wall for a minute, looking out at the sea. The previous few days had been hectic in the coffee shop: the tables had been full, the queue to the counter apparently endless. If people weren’t ordering drinks to sit inside and enjoy they’d been ordering takeaways. Matthew was exhausted though his staff had been brilliant, never once complaining and working with an enthusiasm and good-nature he envied. The atmosphere in the place was happy. People were on holiday; the shop buzzed with high-spirited chatter.

  And Harry had helped out. He had agreed to do it in his usual, wordless way - a nod of the head and a grunt of apparently reluctant acceptance. He had worked hard too and Matthew had even spotted him laughing with Eddie a couple of times. But since the awful confrontation over his visits to Skymeet, the relationship between father and son seemed to have reached a new low.

  ‘What on earth possessed you to trespass on a private beach when we’ve got a great beach on our doorstep?’ Matthew had demanded. ‘And you could have broken your neck, climbing round the cliff like that. To say nothing of the underhandedness of your behaviour. And visi
ting a woman on the sly. God, Harry, what did you think it was: some kind of game? Trying to see how much you can get away with without me finding out?’

  ‘I didn’t tell you I was going there,’ Harry countered, his voice rising with angry indignation, ‘because you’d have given me a load of grief about it like you’re doing now, that’s why. You’re always on at me. I can’t do anything right. And Jo listens to me. She actually listens like mum used to do. You never listen. And it’s not dangerous to climb round if you know what you’re doing. That’s just stupid. You have to watch the tides, that’s all. Any fool can do that.’

  ‘And clearly did,’ Matthew retorted. ‘And don’t you dare call me stupid.’

  Between taking orders and making coffees, Matthew had watched his son carrying trays of drinks and sandwiches to the tables, saw him clearing dirty dishes and wiping down. There was a resignation about him, as if he had crawled even deeper inside himself like a hibernating animal retreating into its lair and shutting down till conditions outside improve.

  Now Matthew turned away from the sea and began walking again, inland towards the hall. Jo listens to me. I’d listen too, Matthew thought bitterly, if you ever said anything to me. He took a deep breath and let it out on a long sigh. No, that wasn’t strictly true. He didn’t always listen. When Harry tried to talk about Sophie, Matthew cut him, just as Jo had said. It was how he got through. He had closed the door on all that - Sophie’s illness, her stoic suffering, the unbearable pain of their parting… Surely it was better that way. What was the point in opening it now and reliving it all again? How would that help anyone? Yes, it meant Sophie was shut away too but that was the way it had to be. Jo simply didn’t understand. How could she? She wasn’t there.

  He reached the hall and paused outside the doors, took a breath to compose himself, then went inside and found a seat.

  Jo was late again and apologised as she always did. She slid into a seat near the door with a distracted air, as if she had lost something and didn’t have any idea where to find it. He remembered her saying something about Eleanor being pushed, that her fall wasn’t an accident. Too cross about her attitude to Harry, he hadn’t paid it much attention since. Nor did he think it credible anyway; her imagination had been working overtime. He watched her now surreptitiously. She did look pinched. Perhaps he ought to at least ask her about it, show some concern. He had thought about her a lot over these last days and he deeply regretted saying all those things to her; he had over-reacted and ought to apologise properly. Maybe after the meeting he would invite her for a drink and try to build bridges. The thought of not sharing time with her again made him feel empty.

  He became aware of Lawrence’s eyes on him and shifted his own gaze to the top of the table, trying to concentrate on what Nancy was saying. She was running through the arrangements for these final days leading up to the festival, checking that everyone knew the timetable for setting up the venues and that all committee members in charge of volunteers had given them the information required. Various members reported in. There was an air of nervous anticipation.

  ‘I believe the tickets are selling well,’ she said proudly. ‘There are a few left but Lawrence has arranged a piece in the local paper on Friday. That should bring some extra people to buy on the door. Any questions?’

  Jo raised her hand and said that one of the speakers had pulled out because of a bereavement but that she had organised a replacement. ‘It’ll need a change on the programme and some new publicity material, I’m afraid.’ She glanced between Matthew and Lawrence, her expression blank and unreadable. ‘The new speaker’s name is Vincent Pells. I’ll send you everything you need.’

  Matthew noticed Lawrence pull a face, looking at Jo with annoyance. She ignored him and sat down.

  ‘That’s very unfortunate,’ said Nancy. ‘The programmes have been so beautifully printed. I suppose we’ll have to write on them. Not very professional.’ She immediately delegated someone else to do it.

  The meeting closed. Matthew stood up, exchanged a word with a neighbour and walked round the table towards the exit. He expected Jo to wait around but she was already leaving without a backward glance. It wasn’t surprising in the circumstances. He tried to shrug his disappointment away and trudged heavily home.

  *

  Back at Skymeet Jo wasted no time in sending out the promised emails about Vincent with links to his books and further information. She asked that it be made clear that Mr Pells had kindly stepped in at the last moment. Job done. She expected grief from Lawrence but didn’t care. From Matthew she had no idea what to expect nor what he wanted from her. Confused and still hurting, she refused to dwell on it; there were too many other things pressing on her mind right now.

  On the Thursday she burned up and down the path to the village, dividing her time between the venues - checking how they were being set up and making suggestions - and helping Charlotte prepare the house for Eleanor’s return, barking ideas and reminders into Eleanor’s voice recorder which she kept in a pocket for whenever anything struck her. In the house, Charlotte was anxious and fussed over every detail. Clearly delighted that Eleanor was coming home, she was equally determined not to admit to it. Lawrence in contrast, drifted round the house without expression, watching what they were doing, saying little except occasionally to criticise.

  ‘She’s not going to like you moving the rug,’ he remarked coldly as he watched them rolling the hearth rug up and carrying it out of the sitting room.

  ‘She wouldn’t like falling flat on her face either,’ countered Jo, barely looking at him.

  At the end of the afternoon, Jo returned to the village hall. The setting up had finished and the main door was locked but there were lights on and she could hear someone talking inside. Curious, she went round to the single door at the back. It opened to her touch and she walked into the kitchen at the rear of the stage. The door to the main hall was open and she could hear the voice clearly; it was Imogen’s, practising her talk for the following evening. Jo held back, listening. Imogen spoke well but too fast, falling over her words, and stopped suddenly.

  ‘I keep getting ahead of myself. How does it sound from there, Mari?’

  ‘Very good, Immy,’ returned Mari’s fluting voice. ‘It’s just nerves. Remember to take a deep breath now and then to slow you down.’

  ‘No, right. I don’t think I’ll do any more now. It just makes me more nervous.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. You always are once you start.’

  Jo walked in on them.

  ‘Hi. I’ve just come to check everything’s OK in here.’ She glanced round. The chairs had been laid out in rows; there was a table by the main doors and another on the platform. Several posters had been stuck to the walls. Leaflets, some advertising other literary festivals and some relating to specific speakers, were spread over the admission table.

  ‘It’s all fine.’ Imogen descended the steps from the stage. ‘Right Mari, shall we go? Mari’s speaking up at The Mill and wants to try it out up there. Vincent was supposed to be coming down but he hasn’t shown so I’ll give the keys back to…what’s her name?’

  ‘Wendy Lawson,’ said Jo. ‘But I’ll do it if you want to go on up to The Mill.’

  ‘Thanks. OK Mari?’

  But Mari lingered, watching Jo’s face. ‘It’s going to be nice to have Eleanor back. Is she excited?’

  Jo hesitated. ‘I think so, yes. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Nervous. We always are at these things.’

  ‘Isn’t everyone?’ said Jo. ‘That’s supposed to be good, isn’t it?’

  ‘I bet Vincent’s not nervous,’ said Imogen bitterly. ‘He’s probably in training now, downing Scotch in readiness. I still can’t believe you asked him to give a talk.’

  ‘He doesn’t drink as much these days,’ said Jo.

  Imogen laughed. ‘Is that what he told you?’

  ‘He can be brilliant,’ said Mari.

&nb
sp; ‘Or a disaster.’

  ‘He used to do amazing performances at launches.’ Mari smiled with an air of wonder. ‘Off the top of his head. He didn’t need to read from the book. He just knew it. He’d do it at parties too, impromptu. And bits of plays sometimes, speaking all the parts. Amazing.’

  Imogen scoffed. ‘Yes, if he wasn’t drunk.’

  ‘No, he did it when he was drunk too,’ Mari replied doggedly. ‘Except the words weren’t always so clear.’

  Imogen grunted. Jo had stopped listening at the word ‘party’.

  ‘Does the name Hugh Shrigley mean anything to either of you?’ she asked.

  The two women looked at each other then back at Jo.

  ‘Yes,’ said Imogen warily. ‘We knew him. Why?’

  ‘He used to give wonderful parties,’ Mari said. ‘But he died. It was very sad.’

  ‘I saw a piece about him somewhere the other day.’ Jo tried to sound casual. ‘I’d never heard of him before. A writer and a patron of the arts, it said. He had an accident or something.’

  ‘That’s right. After one of his parties. He’d been drinking.’ Mari flicked another glance at Imogen. ‘He fell off his balcony. Everyone had gone and his wife was away. It must have been awful for her to hear the news.’

  Jo felt something tighten in the pit of her stomach. ‘He fell? I didn’t know. Who was there - for the party, I mean? People I’d know?’

  ‘Yes. Well us, of course,’ said Imogen, ‘except that Mari was married to someone else then so we weren’t together. The whole gang were there: Frank and Eleanor; Lawrence; and Vincent turned up too. He always did whether he was invited or not.’

  ‘Yes, Vincent was there.’ Mari mentioned another novelist and a couple of playwrights and some names that Jo had never heard of. ‘But Vincent definitely. He and Hugh had a big row.’ Her eyes grew bigger. ‘It cast a shadow over the event, especially with what happened afterwards.’