The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew

by Milly Johnson

  Luke started to jump up and down in excitement, repeating the word please on a continual loop.

  There was no way that Sophie could say no after this onslaught. ‘Okay, give me five minutes to scrub up,’ she said.

  Elliott stuck up his thumb. ‘Luke, come and help me lay the table for another person.’

  Luke Bellringer ran back up the path like an Olympic sprinter.

  Inside the almshouse, Sophie changed into jeans and a T-shirt and the sneakers she’d bought in Slattercove. She had no reason for dressing to impress, which was just as well with the current wardrobe she had to call upon.

  She knocked on the vicarage door and it was opened seconds later by Elliott. Behind him a grinning Luke stood holding a tiny black kitten.

  ‘Come in and meet the new addition to the family,’ said Elliott. ‘We picked a black one because they’re the hardest to rehome, allegedly.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, what a cutie,’ said Sophie, bending down to the little boy and his pet.

  ‘He’s called Pom,’ said Luke.

  ‘Er, no, he isn’t,’ corrected Elliott. ‘He’s called Plum. We decided, didn’t we, Luke, that it would be unfair to have two Poms living next door to each other: it could cause all sorts of confusion. So Luke chose a name that was close, but not too close.’

  ‘Plum is a wonderful name for a kitten. Much better than Pom,’ Sophie nodded in agreement as Luke held the kitten up for her to take.

  ‘Blimey, you’re honoured,’ said Elliott. ‘He wouldn’t even let Tracey hold him.’

  Sophie had never held a kitten before and she was surprised at how incredibly fragile Plum felt. The kitten pushed his head against her neck, his whole body vibrating with a purr as he snuggled there.

  ‘It was either Plum or Bomb,’ said Elliott.

  ‘Oh, right,’ Sophie chuckled.

  ‘Me now,’ said Luke, reaching for his kitten. Sophie gently extricated Plum’s claws from her top and placed him into Luke’s waiting hands.

  ‘Come through,’ Elliott’s span touched her back lightly, to guide her forwards but as soon as it made contact it left her again. She imagined he had to keep his boundaries defined, especially with all the women in the congregation thinking they were his minders.

  The kitchen smelled of basil, garlic and tomatoes; a huge pan was sitting on the stove emitting Italian aromas.

  ‘Tracey, Pom’s here,’ said Elliott.

  ‘In here,’ Tracey called from another room.

  Elliott pointed to the open door in the corner. ‘Go and say hello whilst I dish up. Luke, put Plum down and wash your hands, please.’

  Sophie stepped into the next room, a study, she guessed. A dark-green leather Chesterfield sofa sat underneath a picture window – more dodgy swags and tails sat above the curtains – and shelves of books filled two whole walls. The room was dominated by a large mahogany partners’ desk, now covered in a chaos of material.

  ‘Hi, Pom,’ said Tracey. She both looked and sounded stressed.

  ‘What a beautiful room,’ Sophie remarked.

  ‘Ells’ study, but I’ve taken up temporary residence in it. Welcome to prom dress HQ.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘So far, so good.’ said Tracey. I’ve dismantled it all and I’m now in the process of altering it and then putting it back together.’

  ‘Great. Taking the seams apart can be really tricky.’ Not as much as reassembling it, but Sophie didn’t want to sound like a harbinger of doom.

  ‘And I’ve blown the dust off Mum’s old sewing machine. Ta da.’ Tracey pointed to the other side of the room where a vintage treadle sewing machine stood.

  Sophie’s breath caught in her throat. It was almost identical to the old Singer that Mrs Ackroyd had, the one that Sophie learned her craft upon. ‘Oh my, that is a thing of beauty.’ She rushed over to admire it. ‘Does the machine fold down into the table?’

  ‘It does indeed.’

  ‘It’s in fantastic condition.’

  ‘It used to be my granny’s before it was Mum’s. It’s been well used, but also very much treasured.’

  Sophie pulled open the long square drawers. They were full of cotton reels and pins, needles wrapped in tissue paper, embroidery threads, scissors, buttons.

  It meant a lot for Tracey to do Jade’s dress, Sophie knew. It would bond them, ease the way forward for their relationship to sprout leaves. There was a lot riding on Tracey getting it right. A true labour of love.

  ‘Tea’s up, ladies,’ said Elliott.

  ‘Good because I’m pigging starving. So what have you been up to the last few days then, Pom?’ asked Tracey as they walked through into the kitchen. ‘I noticed you at church on Sunday but I kind of presumed because you were sitting where you were that you wanted to be left alone. Plus you might have felt as if Elliott’s sermon about the wronged woman was directed at you. I cringed heartily.’

  ‘It wasn’t, for the record,’ said Elliott, making a discomfited face. ‘It didn’t strike me until halfway through that you might think it was and I must confess I had a moment of cringing heartily myself then.’

  ‘I didn’t at all,’ lied Sophie, taking her place at the table, ‘and to answer your question, Tracey, I’ve been gardening. I thought I’d tidy it up a little and earn my keep. Marshall’s son came around today and helped, which was very sweet of him.’

  ‘Worzel?’

  ‘Roger,’ said Sophie.

  ‘That’s who I meant,’ replied Tracey. ‘Wouldn’t think it to look at him would you that he’s a millionaire. Scrap metal merchant. Rich as Croesus. But uses string for a belt.’

  ‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ said Sophie, indicating her own clothing, which caused Tracey to hoot.

  ‘Absolutely, take my brother there. Mild-mannered man of God or ninja?’

  ‘Auntie Tracey, what’s an nininja?’ asked Luke.

  ‘Oh, Tracey,’ tutted Elliott bashfully, passing around a plate of garlic bread covered with cheese.

  ‘Someone who does all this sort of stuff,’ said Tracey to Luke, chopping her hands everywhere and making noises like a very badly dubbed Japanese film.

  ‘You do martial arts?’ asked Sophie, raising an impressed brace of eyebrows.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘He’s a black belt in karate.’

  ‘Throwback from the police days,’ Elliott tried to explain his skill away.

  ‘And what’s that thing with the stick?’ asked Tracey. ‘He can do all that fancy stuff with it.’

  ‘Kendo,’ said Elliott, clearly not comfortable with being bragged about. ‘Anyway, tuck in.’

  ‘He goes running on the beach sometimes too, he’s very fit,’ added Tracey, as if she were selling her brother at a slave market.

  ‘It is permitted for vicars to exercise, surprisingly. Mens sana in corpore sano and all that,’ said Elliott, with a faux-serious nod. ‘We also feel the cold and visit McDonald’s occasionally like normal men.’

  ‘And I once came in and found him watching TOWIE,’ said Tracey.

  ‘No way.’ Sophie gave a faux-gasp.

  ‘Yep, all the stuff that other people do,’ said Elliott, scratching his neck. An unbidden picture of him about to do something very temporal slipped into Sophie’s mind and she chased it off quickly because it had an X rating.

  Elliott shifted the conversation away from himself and onto his son. ‘Luke does baby judo. He should have been going tonight but . . .’

  Sophie and Tracey both gave an understanding nod.

  ‘. . . there was no way, not with a new kitten on the block,’ Elliott carried on.

  ‘No way, José,’ said Luke, stuffing a huge forkful of pasta into his mouth.

  ‘How do you manage to juggle it all, Elliott?’ asked Sophie. ‘I don’t imagine the job is nine to five.’

  ‘Well, like any other single parent family, you just do. Tracey helps; Luke’s best friend’s mum picks him up and drops him off from nursery sometimes. People muck in
, as we say here.’

  ‘Little Loste might be small, but there’s plenty of community spirit,’ added Tracey. ‘Although I wish they’d centre it around the pub a little bit more than they do. I might actually make some money then.’

  ‘Slattercove is becoming more attractive to holidaymakers,’ said Elliott. ‘They’ve spent a fortune cleaning it up, building a funfair, restaurants. The death of the fishing industry hit this area hard; it’s taken an age to recover and reinvent itself, but it’s getting there.’

  ‘And Ren Dullem has become quite a popular spot,’ said Tracey. ‘Once upon a time it was like the Forbidden City.’

  ‘How come?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘No idea,’ Tracey answered, through a mouthful of pasta. ‘Very odd place. It was dying on its arse until a few years ago . . .’

  ‘Auntie Tracey, that’s a naughty word,’ said Luke, giggling.

  ‘Yes, Auntie Tracey,’ said Elliott with emphasis.

  ‘Sorry, Lukey. Naughty Auntie Tracey,’ said naughty Auntie Tracey, slapping her own hand. ‘Ren Dullem was a really unfriendly place, you never felt welcome when you went there . . . so no one went there. It was like something off one of those horror films where all the locals are nutters. Then a couple of years ago, it threw open the doors and said, “Come on in, folks.” It’s a sweet little place now with a gorgeous café. Luke and I go sometimes for ice-cream. Oh and here’s something I bet you didn’t know, this area was renowned for sightings of mermaids. Apparently – and listen carefully, Lukey, because this will probably come up in your History A-level and you heard it here first – a lot of the ships from the Spanish Armada were blown off course and were chased up the east coast by English ships and they mysteriously sank in these waters, though the English ships didn’t.’ She pressed her face close to Luke’s. ‘Mermaids scuppered them.’

  ‘Reines de la Mer,’ said Sophie. ‘Queens of the sea, that’s what they used to call them in the place in France where I lived for a year when I was doing my degree.’

  ‘That must have been a nice experience. Did you enjoy it?’ asked Elliott.

  ‘I did.’ She’d often wondered why she didn’t go back after she’d graduated. Worked in a French fashion house and not taken the temporary position at Mint in London. It must have seemed the right idea at the time was the best answer she could come up with. ‘I enjoyed living by the seaside.’

  ‘My mummy lives in France,’ announced Luke.

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ said Tracey. ‘Whatever makes you think that, Luke?’

  Luke shrugged. ‘I’ve had enough tea. Can I go and play with Plum?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Elliott, ‘though it looks as if Plum is asleep. He’s only a baby so don’t wake him.’

  ‘I’ll tell him a story,’ said Luke, heading for a stack of books piled in the corner.

  ‘Where’s that idea come from?’ asked Tracey quietly. ‘Joy isn’t in France. Is she?’

  ‘No,’ said Elliott. ‘Wigan. I think maybe Elliott is fusing her with Pom here.’

  ‘Oh my. I don’t want to mix him up . . .’

  ‘It’s not your fault. If he gets things confused, we correct him when we need to without making a fuss,’ Tracey insisted. ‘Have you sent the divorce papers back, Ells?’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Elliott.

  ‘Bitch from hell. I never did see what you saw in her. Joy. Huh. The name couldn’t suit her less,’ Tracey said with a huff.

  ‘One of the teachers at St Bathsheba’s was called Merry Egerton,’ said Sophie. ‘You couldn’t meet a more horrible woman ever.’

  ‘Elliott could.’

  ‘Tracey, behave yourself,’ said her brother. ‘Stuff some more bread in your mouth.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ she chuckled and reached for a hunk of it. ‘I hope when you get divorced she goes back to being a Wisbey and leaves our surname to nice people who deserve it.’

  ‘I have no control over that, have I?’ said Elliott.

  ‘It’s a perfect name for someone who belongs to the church,’ Sophie commented.

  ‘But not so much for a murderer,’ put in Tracey. ‘One of our Bellringer ancestors was shipped over to Australia for slitting someone’s throat. Got off lightly in my opinion.’

  ‘Yes, don’t be fooled.’ Elliott grinned. ‘The Bellringers have a chequered history.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go back to being a Bellringer, Tracey?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘She’s hoping she’ll soon be a Darlow, that’s why,’ said Elliott.

  ‘Oy, that’s a lie. Well . . . okay, maybe it’s a little bit true; but there are so many forms to fill in, is what I’ll admit to,’ Tracey replied. ‘Oh bloody Norah, look at the time. I’ve got a bar to open. I’ll have to wolf this down.’

  ‘You’ll get indigestion eating your food at that pace,’ tutted Elliott, watching his sister load her mouth with pasta and chew quickly.

  ‘Yes, Mum. Okay, I’m done.’ She grabbed another slice of bread to take with her.

  ‘I should leave you to it, too,’ said Sophie. ‘You’ll want to enjoy your time with Luke and Plum on his first day here.’

  ‘No, you stay,’ said Tracey. ‘We can’t both desert him. He’ll feel rejected. Besides, you haven’t finished.’

  She leaned over her brother’s shoulder, planted a kiss on his cheek and then went to give her nephew a hug.

  ‘See you soon, Pom. I’ll give your love to Marshall. He’s been asking when you’re next in. You’ve got yourself a fan there. I’ll see myself out.’ And with that she was off.

  Elliott raised his eyebrows. ‘Bossy, isn’t she.’

  ‘Very.’ Sophie smiled. ‘In the best way.’

  ‘She’s right, though, I would feel very rejected if you left straight after her. No emotional blackmail intended.’ He nodded mock-seriously.

  ‘Of course not,’ she replied with the same expression.

  ‘I’ve made enough pasta to feed the five thousand,’ said Elliott. ‘Please, dig in.’

  Maybe it was because of the heavy-duty gardening, maybe it was the sea air, maybe it was this lovely house and this kind man and his son and their new kitten, but Sophie’s appetite was demanding that she scoop another spoonful of pasta onto her plate, sprinkle it with shaved parmesan from the dish, grind some black pepper over it and savour.

  ‘Have you made any plans?’ asked Elliott, quickly adding, ‘And that isn’t me asking you how long you intend to stay for, because the almshouse is there as long as you need it. This is simply me asking if you’ve made any plans.’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Sophie. ‘I don’t even know where to start making them, Elliott. I don’t know what to do. I’ll have to do something eventually – obviously – but I just feel . . . numb. If that makes any sense.’

  Elliott got up from the table, took two glasses out of a cupboard and brought them and a bottle of wine over to the table.

  ‘Mrs Cherry’s parsnip, or it could be Mrs Parsnip’s cherry, I can’t remember.’

  It was silly but Sophie burst into a disproportionate giggle at that. She apologised, blamed it on stress.

  ‘It’s my delivery, I think . . . The way I tell ’em,’ he said, in a terrible impression of a TV comedian. He smiled and she thought again, what a handsome man he was. No wonder all the women in the parish were waiting for him to become single again. She tried not to notice his strong nininja arms covered in dark hairs, the shape of his chest pressing against his T-shirt as he stood pouring the wine. The lecherous old vicar at St Bathsheba’s had definitely not been contoured like that.

  ‘Take the time whilst you have it to find some perspective – and answers. You’re safe here. There’s still a lot of heat in the newspapers.’

  ‘I know. I bought a couple. Masochistic of me really, especially to read the insinuations that I brought all this on myself.’

  ‘That certainly isn’t the general opinion from what I’ve read,’ countered Elliott. ‘There’s a lot of support for you out ther
e.’

  Sophie shrugged, grateful for his gallantry, even if it wasn’t true. ‘It’s been wonderful not feeling as if there is a great big eye in the sky watching everything I do. Although I suppose you must feel as if you’re being watched all the time too.’ She glanced upwards.

  ‘I’m sure God’s not concentrating solely on me,’ said Elliott, taking a sip of wine, coughing and then setting the glass back down on the table. ‘My, that’s a pungent parsnip . . . Not quite the same as your situation, I think.’

  ‘I’d hope not. For your sake,’ said Sophie. She took a sip also and started coughing, then laughing then nearly choking.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, quickly fetching her a glass of water.

  She nodded but couldn’t speak. It set Elliott off grinning. A grin that reached up to his eyes and made them shine.

  ‘Daddy, I’m tired.’ Luke’s head was resting in the cat bed, the kitten snuggled up to his face.

  ‘Look, I’ll go,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Please, stay. Finish off your wine or let it finish you off. I’ll put Luke in bed. It’s good to talk to someone who isn’t my sister, in the nicest possible way.’

  Luke sprang into animation when his father picked him up.

  ‘Will Pom give me a goodnight kiss?’

  Sophie stood. She gave Luke a kiss on his butter-soft cheek. He smelled of garlic and soap and a little bit of cat wee. He waved wearily at her over his dad’s shoulder as he was being carried away. Sophie sat back down, speared another forkful of pasta and thought what a friendly kitchen this was. Clean, tidy, but not too much so. There was a corner heaped with toys and books and a very large floor cushion next to the furry cat bed where the sleeping kitten lay. The shelves of an oak dresser were filled with framed family photographs, pots of coloured pens, ornaments, letters, a small vase of garden flowers. The dining table was scrubbed antique pine, distressed, the heads of clout nails clearly visible, the chairs around it different styles and woods: a beech fiddleback, Lancashire slat, bullseye, a mahogany carver at the end. A mix of new and old. So different from the décor of Park Court with everything matching, everything precise, everything house rather than home.

  She took the plates over to the sink, rinsed them, placed them in the dishwasher. She looked at the photos on the dresser: Elliott as a much younger man in a police uniform standing with a stick-thin Tracey sporting a punky-short hairstyle. Elliott and Tracey as children with their parents presumably: a plump blonde woman in a wheelchair and a big strapping man with thick dark hair standing behind; Elliott was so very like him. A bride and groom – their parents, much younger – standing outside a church with men in suits and women in hats. Elliott holding a baby, a delighted curve of a smile on his face. Sophie heard a creak on the stairs and threw herself back into the chair at the dining table, not wanting him to find her snooping.