The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew

by Milly Johnson

  ‘You must have had interest.’

  ‘Yes, from builders who’ve offered peanuts because they want the land, until they find out they can’t pull it down because it’s a listed structure. It would be nice to see it restored to its former glory, as it was when Kitty had it. I think she’d like that.’

  The sound of the front door opening, and a man’s cheery voice calling, ‘Hello, hello.’ Then Elliott Bellringer strode into the kitchen. ‘Okay, I’m here, back away from the stove, sister.’

  ‘See, told you,’ said Tracey.

  Elliott checked the stove knobs. ‘Give me five minutes to get changed. Don’t touch a thing.’

  Sophie smiled. ‘He really does take it seriously then, you weren’t joking.’

  ‘He’s the sort of control freak you could easily live with, though. Come and help me lay the table.’

  Elliott reappeared as Tracey was putting Luke’s special cutlery out with the Thomas the Tank Engine tops. He had changed into jeans and a camouflage T-shirt that showed off his toned arms and Sophie was reminded why women of the parish might wish they were in her position right now. Oh my, if they only knew what her position actually was.

  ‘Tracey, horseradish please,’ said Elliott, slipping on an oven gauntlet.

  ‘He makes his own,’ said Tracey with a fond tut. ‘And look what’s for afters.’ She opened the fridge and pointed to a raspberry Pavlova on the second shelf. ‘Proper little Mary Berry. Luke calls it crunchy pie and it’s his all-time favourite.’

  Elliott swung a sizzling roasting tin out of the oven, put it down on a trivet to rest and covered it with a square of foil. ‘Lunch will be served in twenty-five minutes exactly, after the Yorkshire puddings come out.’ He then began to madly whisk the contents of a bowl before spooning the batter into hot tins in the oven.

  ‘Who’s looking after the inn?’ Sophie asked Tracey.

  ‘My second in command. An atheist,’ said Tracey. ‘I always have Sunday off. Sundays were always precious to us. My mum wasn’t well for years and Dad coped best he could but somehow on Sunday, just eating together and talking around the table set us up for everything life threw at us.’

  ‘I’ll call Luke,’ said Elliott, stepping out of the kitchen to shout up the stairs and summon his son.

  ‘I think we were both trying to replicate the happy family thing with our respective partners, but it never happened,’ said Tracey, quietly. ‘I also think we are both closet Italians, wanting that whole barking across the table at each other and waving garlic bread around scenario. Like they do in Goodfellas. Do you know what I mean?’

  Sophie had never seen the film but she could imagine, and nodded.

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever take the plunge again, Tracey, given the chance?’

  ‘If Gerard Butler comes a-calling, I may consider it, yes,’ said Tracey. ‘Okay, I jest. There is . . . someone. He’s a local builder, solid and lovely, a widower – lost his wife nearly two years ago and he’s got a teenage daughter who’s still hurting and she won’t let me in, so we’re taking it slowly and carefully. It’s a shame because I lost my mum at the same age as Jade was when Jenny died and so I know what she’s going through more than anyone else in this village, but . . . she misses her mum and she has a lot of healing to do. She was at church today, you might have seen her. Long dark-red hair and very serious expression disguising a lot of tears. She doesn’t go much, but it would have been her mum’s birthday yesterday so I know she was feeling raw. Wanted to light a candle for her. Funny how the simple act of lighting a candle used to work for me too when we lost Mum.’

  Luke charged into the room at that moment and threw his arms around Sophie’s legs. Sophie stood stiff like a tree, not knowing what to do, whilst Tracey peeled him off.

  ‘Pom, do you like eating?’ Luke asked then.

  ‘I do, very much,’ Sophie said, with just the lightest touch of a French accent.

  ‘Do you like crunchy pie?’

  ‘It is my absolute favourite pudding.’

  ‘Are you my daddy’s girlfriend?’

  ‘Er . . . no . . . I am a friend.’

  Elliott rubbed his forehead. ‘Luke Bellringer, go and wash your hands please. Pom, I apologise.’

  ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,’ laughed Tracey. ‘That rumour didn’t take long. Lock your door tonight, Pom. You’ll be having late-night female visitors armed with machetes.’

  Lunch was delicious, served with home-made beetroot wine made by a parishioner, though it tasted nothing like beetroot. Luke had Ribena and after a portion of crunchy pie he went off to play and conversation could leave the banal and enter the realm of the more entertaining.

  ‘So, you’ve set the cat amongst the pigeons it seems, Pom,’ said Tracey. She turned then to her brother. ‘Wait until Mrs Braithwaite gets back from her cruise.’

  Elliott stabbed a finger at his sister. ‘You are a minx, Tracey Green.’

  ‘Mrs Braithwaite is the flower lady,’ explained Tracey. ‘Totally fixated on Elliott, despite being married for forty years. Mr Braithwaite has long accepted that if Ells happened to declare undying love for his wife, he’d be turfed out of the house immediately.’

  ‘It won’t happen,’ Elliott said, twinkle present in his eye, ‘just in case you were wondering.’

  ‘An incumbent vicar is a special prize. The bishop warned him how possessive some members of his flock could become. Especially about an unmarried vicar who looks like him.’

  ‘A rare compliment, sister,’ said Elliott, viewing her with wonder.

  ‘Don’t get too used to the phenomenon,’ Tracey batted back.

  ‘By the way, it’s not me, it’s the uniform. I’m under no illusions,’ Elliott explained for Sophie’s benefit. ‘It’s not an uncommon problem amongst the clergy.’

  Sophie couldn’t imagine anyone getting so possessive over the horrible old vicar who was allied to her school. She was pretty sure that looking like Ells Bells had something to do with the amount of mascara and lipstick on display in church that morning.

  ‘The role is not without its complications,’ added Elliott. ‘Especially when you’re relatively young and move into a community used to an old church that sadly does not exist any more, and reluctant to move with the times. I had to drag Little Loste into the twentieth century before I could even attempt the twenty-first.’

  ‘He should write a book,’ said Tracey. ‘He has the best stories. Tell Pom about the nativity when Miriam cast the Dobson twins as Mary and Joseph and they had a fight and pulled baby Jesus’s head off.’

  Elliott threw up his hands. ‘Well, there’s nothing left to tell now, is there? But yes, Pom, my sister is right, I have some great stories. And one day I just might write a book.’

  ‘How long have you been the vicar here?’

  ‘Five years. And in that time I think I’ve seen it all. Drunken godfathers at christenings, fights at funerals, a mother of the bride trying to stop a wedding. But I’ve also officiated at some wonderful and moving occasions, met some brave and fabulous people. Little Loste is a special village. Somewhat old-fashioned but its heart is in the right place.’

  ‘We lived in Whitby when I was married, but I’m a village person at heart. So is Ells, aren’t you, bruv?’

  ‘Yes. I’m very happy here. And so is Luke.’

  ‘He’s getting a kitten next week from the rescue centre and is beyond excited,’ said Tracey. ‘Imagine the visitors you’re going to have, Ells, all those female visitors wanting to stroke your animal.’ She gave him a very exaggerated wink.

  ‘You’re absolutely incorrigible,’ he tutted, a grin pulling up one corner of his mouth.

  ‘It’s odd because Luke has an aversion to furry things. Furry toys freak him out and so do dogs, yet he loves cats with a passion.’ Tracey cut herself another sliver of crunchy pie and put it in her mouth whole.

  ‘I’ve never had a cat,’ said Sophie. ‘We had dogs when I was growing up. Great Danes. I mi
ssed them so much when I was at school.’ I had to stay there one summer and when I went back home at Christmas they’d both died and no one even told me.

  ‘I’ve got a cat,’ said Tracey. ‘Old, deaf and white. When I lived in Whitby, the neighbours moved house and left him behind, which was nice of them.’ She made a face that indicated exactly what she thought of them. ‘He’s more or less an extra sofa cushion but I love him dearly. Deaf Jeff. Luke adores him. Oh heck . . .’ she looked at her watch and then sprang from her seat. ‘I promised Dave he could leave early today to watch the darts. I’d better shoot off. Pom can help you do the dishes. Sorry, folks. Must dash.’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of doing the dishes,’ said Elliott, ‘I wouldn’t ask our guest.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to help,’ said Sophie.

  Tracey gave her brother a kiss on the top of the head, mouthed ‘got to go’ at Sophie and then called up the stairs to her nephew on the way out. ‘Lukey. I’m rushing off, if you want a kiss shout now or forever hold your peace.’

  ‘Auntie Tracey, I want a kiss.’

  ‘Okay, I’m coming up.’

  Footsteps thundering up stairs.

  Elliott raised his eyebrows at Sophie. ‘Why do I always feel as if she got more than her fair share of the family energy?’ he said, pushing his Clark Kent glasses back up his nose.

  Sophie smiled and stood to collect the plates.

  ‘No, no,’ he protested.

  ‘I insist,’ she protested back. ‘You’ve both been very kind to me. Let me help in some small way.’

  ‘It’s not necess . . . okay, I relent.’ Elliott held up his hands in surrender and walked across to the dishwasher. ‘Do you usually do the big Sunday lunch thing at home then?’

  ‘Not really. My husband often plays golf on Sunday. And if my parents or in-laws come over, our housekeeper does the cooking. I’m not a great cook, I’ll be honest, all that co-ordination . . . so I leave it to the expert. It’s not my strength.’

  ‘And what is your strength then, Pom?’

  ‘My strength?’ Was being an ornament a strength? Or a weakness. She wouldn’t have admitted that anyway, it was pathetic. ‘I’m not sure I have one.’

  ‘Everyone has a strength.’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s a strength, but I love to sew and garden. If anything, sewing is what I’m best at. A hobby rather than a strength, I would have said, though.’

  ‘My mother loved to sew when we were little,’ said Elliott, with a soft smile of nostalgia. ‘Where did you learn, school?’

  ‘No, you have no idea how bad the homestyle and domestic science teachers were there.’ Sophie puffed out her cheeks, thinking about horrible Miss Branchester who took flower arranging and whipped your hands with thorny rose stems if your Oasis crumbled. ‘One summer I had to stay behind, as a punishment. A whole summer of extra school and – long story, but – I ended up staying at the cook’s house in Briswith instead. I had some wonderful weeks beach-combing and hanging around with kids my own age and in the evenings the cook, Mrs Ackroyd, taught me to sew and crochet and knit, but sewing was my thing. I wish I’d had time to grab my sewing machine when I left, but it might have been a bit damaged by throwing it over the wall.’

  She laughed then, even though it wasn’t really anything to laugh about. Elliott wasn’t laughing, his mouth was a serious line.

  ‘Have you any plan of action?’

  ‘Absolutely none,’ replied Sophie, certain at least about her uncertainty. ‘I have no idea what to do at all. I remember Mrs Ackroyd once saying to me’ – and she imitated her heavy Yorkshire accent as she quoted her – ‘as we say rahnd here, if you don’t know what to do, do nowt. So that’s my plan of action for now: do nowt.’ Sophie didn’t even want to open the door to her options. It felt as though if she did, what lay behind that door would fall forward and bury her.

  ‘Mrs Ackroyd sounds a very wise woman. Let me get you a coffee. Tracey bought me a machine for my birthday. It’s very good. She gives cool presents.’

  ‘Thank you, Elliott, I’d like that.’

  She watched him pick out a coffee pod from a rack, press a button on the machine and then, when nothing happened, consult the book that stood behind it.

  ‘I haven’t used it very often,’ he explained. ‘Ah, here we go. Might help if I switched it on at the mains first.’

  The machine sprang into life then made a strangled noise of pain.

  ‘Is there any water in the reservoir?’ Sophie prompted.

  ‘Oh bollocks . . . No. Good point.’

  Now she did laugh. ‘Are vicars allowed to say bollocks?’

  ‘I shall deny I did so if you decided to quote me,’ said Elliott, a smile in his voice, as he filled up the reservoir. He pressed the button again and gave a finger snap of victory as a stream of coffee hit the awaiting cup. He brought the two cups over to the table and set them down. ‘Wait. I have hot milk as well.’ He darted back to the machine to empty some custard-thick froth into a jug. ‘Be impressed,’ he said.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I was a policeman for three years before I joined the club,’ he said. ‘I always wanted to serve the community and I think I managed that, even though I was very young. I considered myself a fair cop and I enjoyed it, but there was something missing for me. It wasn’t enough.’ He proffered the sugar bowl, she refused it.

  ‘So what made you change professions, because that’s quite a leap?’

  ‘Dad was very ill. I was sitting with him in the hospital, holding his hand. I didn’t really have a lot of time for God back then because I didn’t think he’d particularly done much for us. But you grab at any passing straw sometimes so I prayed, prayed really hard that Dad would have a gentle passing because he’d had a hard life and I didn’t think he deserved a hard death too. And just before he died he opened his eyes and he said to me, “I’ve loved it, son. I’ve loved it all.” He was so lucid, more lucid than he’d been for weeks, and I was filled with this incredible feeling of . . . love, joy even: I know that sounds strange because my father was dying, but it was so powerful. I hadn’t considered that my father could have enjoyed his life as much as he did, because he’d struggled so much, but love had made it all worthwhile and at the moment he passed, it was as if I had a glimpse into a . . . magnificence beyond the realms of any human understanding. And trust me, Pom, I tried to rationalise this, pigeonhole it into hysteria or grief, but it wouldn’t fit neatly into any slot. What I had been put on earth to do is what I’m doing now and it is exactly where I belong. Tracey was worried I was mad, deranged . . .’ He closed his eyes, aware of what he was saying. ‘Oh goodness, I’m sorry. Not the sort of terminology you need to hear. I apol—’

  ‘Elliott, it’s fine. I know I’m okay up here,’ and Sophie tapped her forehead.

  ‘I’m sure you are. Are you a Christian?’ Elliott asked.

  ‘I was raised as one,’ she replied.

  He mused for a moment. ‘A careful answer. It’s conversation, not a judgement call.’

  She swerved it. ‘I think it’s wonderful that you’ve found your place in life. I envy people who have done that. I always felt as if I was on the sidelines, cheering other people on but never actually joining in on the game. Some people never do find their place though. Maybe I’m one of those.’

  She smiled at him, looked into his blue, blue eyes and something stirred inside her. Something that had no place stirring. She drained the coffee cup and stood.

  ‘Thank you for lunch, it was really lovely of you to invite me.’

  ‘Happy that you came. I have an appointment in Winmark tomorrow morning. Would you like to drive in with me, see St Bathsheba’s again?’

  Her first reaction was absolutely not, but what came out of her mouth was ‘Yes. Yes please.’ She had no idea why she would to revisit it because she could still remember the euphoria of ripping up her blazer on her last ever day there. She’d torn it apart with her bare hands.

  ‘If
you can be here for quarter to nine, I’ll drop Luke off at the nursery on the way.’

  ‘I will be here on time.’

  At the door she remembered to ask, ‘Elliott, do you have a torch I can borrow, please?’

  Hanging up on a coat hook was a monster-sized torch.

  ‘Another present from Tracey. She is the queen of practical gifts,’ he said, handing it over.

  Chapter 23

  John slammed down the phone. ‘Bloody ridiculous,’ he announced to the six people sitting around the dining table. ‘The police cannot trace someone who does not want to be traced, they say.’

  ‘Well they do have a point, why waste their resources?’ asked Edward.

  ‘Because Sophie clearly isn’t sane?’ suggested Davina.

  ‘She was sane enough to pack a suitcase, climb out of the attic window and escape over the neighbour’s wall,’ countered Edward. They’d found the CCTV footage and in his eyes, Sophie had been very resourceful. She was probably the most sane amongst them all.

  John rattled a newspaper. His face was front page again. Rebecca had decided to reveal even more sexploits. Most of them true but some of them – such as that he had worn her leopard-print thong whilst arguing with Lena Sowerby in the House of Commons – were grossly mendacious.

  ‘Why isn’t there a terrorist incident when you need one?’ he screamed heavenwards.

  ‘John, what a terrible thing to say,’ remarked his mother.

  ‘He means, to bury that bloody woman,’ said his father.

  There was no other scandal, no bombs, no volcanos erupting, nothing – the playing field was clear for Rebecca Robinson’s bedroom shenanigans with John to monopolise the headlines. The only thing that could rescue him was Sophie standing at his side, dismissing the red-haired whore for the piece of flotsam she was. Trivialising her as mere human error on his part. Len had devised a counter-blitz from Sophie ‘in her own words’. The tragedy of their son dying, bottling up all that emotion in public, though in private it poisoned their marriage, had made John lonely enough to turn to a woman he thought he could trust as a friend. A woman to talk to, but one who manipulated the situation in order to use him for her own personal gain. Len had done a terrific job in preparation but they needed Sophie to blow Rebecca out of the water. John wished above all that they had a child because that could have saved them; Rebecca would have looked extra-vicious for trying to break up a family. When he found Sophie, he’d suggest they adopt; that would make her happy and he supposed he’d get used to the idea. To get him back on course and into number ten, he’d do it. He’d shag Lena Sowerby if that’s what it took; that’s how far he was prepared to go.