The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew

by Milly Johnson

  At the top of the stairs, she gave herself the hard word: pull yourself together, Sophie. Rally. By the time she had reached the bottom, she was back in control. But she didn’t want to be, she wanted to howl and let everything go, be totally out of control, cry and grieve and scream that it wasn’t fair.

  She went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea, checked on the kitten who was also snug in his bed, then carried the mug through to the lounge. The room was dominated by a very long squashy sofa and an equally squashy armchair. There was a coffee table with a sensible A4 black Moleskin notepad and a Parker pen set on it, a colouring book and a pot of pencils, a holder full of remote controls. The TV was large but not super-massive and there was an impressive collection of DVDs and CDs in a cabinet at the side. It seemed the Reverend liked rock and retro: The Who, the Stones, Heart, Nirvana, INXS, Bowie. But on the shelf below, Schubert, Beethoven, Handel’s Messiah. And he liked box sets too: Line of Duty, The Tunnel, Sherlock, The Office. This was a room where you could snuggle up quite happily and binge on them.

  She pressed a few buttons on the remote, eventually finding the one that switched on the TV. There was a programme on about the death of Stalin, which was as good as anything, she supposed. Sophie was fascinated by Russian history. She’d picked the wrong subject to study at university: she was channelled into doing French because she was very good at it, but she’d learned over the years that what you were given as a gift wasn’t necessarily the thing that made you the happiest.

  She toyed with the idea of looking in the notepad just to see what Elliott’s hand-writing was like. That was too nosy, she decided. Then she did it anyway. She didn’t know anything about graphology but she did know that if she had to guess which sex had written on the pad, she would have presumed it was a man. Not too precise, not too regimented – she would have said that the writer was open, friendly, easy-going. Notes about a sermon and PAYING IT FORWARD in pressured, underlined capitals. A cleverly drawn cartoon of a wide-eyed kitten on the next page and underneath it an instruction:

  Worm every month until 6 months, then 3 months.

  Then she turned the page and saw her name in elaborate scroll:

  Pom

  Squiggles and swirls around it, as if he had been absently doodling it whilst he was on the phone. She gulped, closed up the notebook quickly, replaced it on the coffee table, hoping she had positioned it so it wouldn’t look as if it had been interfered with. Then she sat back on the sofa and put all her efforts into watching Stalin’s demise.

  Chapter 32

  The last thing Sophie remembered about the programme was Stalin dismissing all his guards the night before he died. She presumed, when she heard her name being called softly, that she had dozed off for a few minutes and Elliott had returned. She did not expect to see the TV off, light seeping through the curtains and find herself under a blanket. Elliott was standing there holding a mug of coffee.

  ‘I didn’t have the heart to wake you when I came back,’ he said, putting the coffee down on the table.

  Sophie sat bolt upright, Elliott held up his hand.

  ‘Don’t panic. Take the time to come round, you were in a very deep sleep.’

  What did that mean? Oh no – she was snoring.

  ‘Ah,’ she said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a noisy sleeper,’ he grinned.

  ‘How embarrassing,’ said Sophie, ripping her eyes from his. ‘I don’t sleep well usually. I have tablets to help me. I don’t know what it is about this place but I’m out like a light most nights.’

  ‘Maybe you’re just stress-free here,’ said Elliott, parking himself on the arm of the chair.

  ‘I don’t have that much stress at home though,’ replied Sophie.

  ‘Really? You don’t think that being in the public eye, being constantly on display as you are is high pressure?’

  ‘Well, not compared to the pressures some people have,’ replied Sophie. ‘I wouldn’t equate . . .’

  ‘Forget other people and comparing, we’re talking about you and your life.’

  She felt whacked. As if she had risen too quickly through water and had some strange sleep version of the bends.

  ‘Is your whole life about duty to others?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, isn’t yours?’ she threw at him, slightly defensively.

  ‘I enjoy what I do.’

  ‘I should go and let you get Luke ready for nursery.’

  ‘I dropped him off there half an hour ago.’

  ‘Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It was past one when I came in last night,’ said Elliott. ‘Crisis averted. Thank you for babysitting.’

  Sophie tried to sit up and then flopped against the back of the sofa.

  ‘This is far too comfortable. I could fall asleep again,’ she said. She couldn’t relax like this on the sofa at home. ‘I should like to bottle this air and take it with me when I leave. I’ll miss it.’

  Then don’t leave.

  The words were so loud in her head, she thought for a moment that Elliott had spoken them, but he was drinking his coffee.

  ‘Luke was no trouble last night, I hope,’ said Elliott eventually.

  ‘Nope. One story—’

  ‘Scary Edwin Page, I presume? His particular favourite at the moment.’

  ‘Yes. I did wonder if that was okay.’

  ‘He’s like his father, nothing fazes him,’ said Elliott.

  Sophie smiled. ‘One story and I never heard a peep out of him. I did watch TV for a while. I didn’t just blank out straightaway. The rise and fall of Stalin.’

  ‘Sounds riveting.’ A crinkle of lines appeared at the corners of his eyes as he grinned at her. His eyes were far too unholy for a vicar. Whoever became the next Mrs Bellringer was a very lucky woman.

  She made a concerted effort to sit up now, pulled the woollen blanket from her and folded it up.

  ‘I think I’ll go for a walk and blow the cobwebs away.’ Even the coffee was good, working its magic to boot her up and chase away the lethargy.

  ‘If you walk on the beach to the right, you’ll come to a path that takes you into Briswith. There’s quite a breeze today, perfect for cobweb-ridding.’

  ‘Not sure I dare go to Briswith,’ replied Sophie. ‘I have this idyllic picture of it in my head and I don’t want it desecrated.’

  ‘It hasn’t changed that much over the years. It’s like most of the places on this stretch of the coast, pretty unspoilt.’

  ‘Okay, you’ve convinced me,’ said Sophie. ‘Thank you for the coffee, Elliott. Once again, I’ll use the back door. I wouldn’t want anyone spotting me leaving the vicarage in last night’s clothes.’

  ‘Oh my, that would never do.’

  Just at that moment, the front door opened and in walked Tracey. ‘Only me,’ she called and then stopped dead, eyes swinging from Elliott to Sophie and back again.

  ‘Well, hello?’ she said, eyes wide with amusement. ‘Ding Dong.’

  Sophie’s mouth opened to protest.

  ‘Oh, Pom, take that expression off your face,’ Tracey chuckled. ‘I know my brother too well. Whatever it might look like, I know it isn’t that.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to explain, Elliott,’ said Sophie, taking her cue to go. ‘But I will still use the back door. See you later, Tracey.’

  ‘See you later, Pom.’

  Tracey waited until Sophie had left before speaking.

  ‘Nice isn’t she?’

  ‘She is a very nice woman, yes,’ replied Elliott.

  ‘She fits in here, doesn’t she? I think whatever happens, a couple of weeks in Little Loste will have done her some good.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Elliott. ‘I can’t say I ever took much notice of Sophie Mayhew but when I did, I always wondered what must be going on behind that dispassionate expression. I never did think it would be something happy. Anyway, are you here to work on Jade’s dress?’

  ‘I am,’ said Tracey. ‘The p
rom is two weeks today so I need to crack on.’

  ‘I’ll make you a coffee and some toast and then I’ll crack on myself with Sunday’s sermon.’

  ‘Oh, you’d make someone a proper little housewife.’ Tracey winked. She was joking but he really would. Someone who respected him and supported him and loved him and wasn’t anything like Joy bloody Bellringer. Someone that made her brother’s eyes dilate – like Pom did. Oh yes, she’d noticed that. What a bummer that her new friend was married because Tracey would have match-maked her socks off and wouldn’t have stopped until they were standing at the altar together.

  The sun was shining but the breeze was cool, blustery and perfect for blowing the last vestiges of her very deep sleep away. Sophie hadn’t thought about her life being pressurised until Elliott mentioned that it must be; she didn’t worry about money or have a debilitating illness, stuff that turned people’s hair grey, but the quality of her sleep at home was never brilliant. If she woke up at four a.m., there was little chance she would drop off again afterwards because her head would start to mull over all manner of things. Duties, correspondence she needed to answer for John’s constituents, dry-cleaning to arrange – usually John’s suits – information she needed to find out for John’s surgeries. And then she would begin to dissect herself, what people had been saying about her in the press and online, what they would be saying about her in the press and online. How they criticised what she wore, how she looked, how she spoke, how she breathed. Vile and vicious comments from people she had never met, ripping into her because they thought she was too southern, too slim, too tall, too blonde, too rich, too quiet, too out of touch, too frigid. Being Pom with none of that cluttering up her head, no wonder her brain had space and was free to flop and wander and think about vicars’ eyes.

  A seagull swooped down to her, considered whether or not she was important for a moment, concluded she was nothing of interest and soared off – how brilliant to be so indistinct. The sea lapped gently at the sand and Sophie considered kicking off her trainers and socks and walking along to their meeting point but decided that would be her treat for the way home. She found the path, helped by a weathered wooden sign pointing to it that had ‘BRISWITH UP HERE’ scratched into it. The way was steep enough to challenge her calf muscles but the view from the top was wonderful and well worth the burn.

  Elliott was right, the village hardly seemed to have changed in essence. She passed by the hotel where Tina’s best friend had lived. It looked so much smaller than it had back then, or maybe her mind had distorted the dimensions over the years. The Sea View Hotel, it was called now, not highly imaginative. It had been Sandcastles the last time she’d seen it; a nicer name. The gift shop next door looked exactly as it had eighteen years ago. Bunches of buckets and spades were hanging outside along with toy flags and fishing nets, bags of candy floss and sticks of rock. The window was crammed full of cheap souvenirs that had faded in the sun. She remembered buying a pen from here that had a mermaid floating in some water set in the barrel, and a box of clotted cream fudge for them all to share on the beach. Their gang had made a massive sandcastle once, complete with moat. The sea had flattened it overnight and they’d all been gutted after all their hard work.

  She walked down the road and came to Mrs Ackroyd’s cottage and something inside her gave a little sob of delight. A conservatory had been built at the side of it and a door had replaced the pantry window, but those were the only differences. Whoever lived there chose that moment to open the front door to come out and Sophie recalled walking inside with as much familiarity as if it were her own home. She noticed there was a blue carpet on the floor now where there had been old polished floorboards and a busy-patterned dark pink and green rug that Mrs Ackroyd had bought in Tunisia. Chintzy curtains had hung at the windows and the sofa was made up of a similarly busy-patterned material; the overall effect had been chaotic and cosy. Sophie looked up and saw Tina’s old bedroom window. There was a two-foot-deep window seat below it where they used to sit, applying make-up to each other’s faces, talking about teenage girl things. It had been a beautiful summer; even the few days confined inside because it was too rainy to go out had had their charm. Sophie decided that when she did go back to Cherlgrove she was going to make it her mission to try and find the Ackroyds in Australia, say hello, connect.

  The fish shop wasn’t there any more; it was a café now, but the wall outside where they used to sit and dangle their legs as they ate was still the same. How she hadn’t been the size of a house for the amount of times she had parked her bottom there as she gobbled up haddock and chips was anyone’s guess. She went inside and was sure that the woman who served her was one of the girls who was friends with Tina. She didn’t go through a long, convoluted ‘Hello, can you remember a girl who went to St Bathsheba’s who once stayed with the Ackroyds whilst her teacher was mid-emotional crisis?’ but she did ask if she had known the family.

  ‘I used to go to school with Tina,’ the woman answered, ‘but they all moved to Australia and we lost contact, like you do.’

  Maybe some friendships were only ever meant to be transient and not last the course of time, Sophie thought as she made short work of a plate of vinegary fish and chips, for old times’ sake. Maybe the purpose of meeting the Ackroyds had been solely to add some colour to her grey existence, show her a different sort of family to the one that had formed her standard template, give her something to aspire to. Instil in her a love of creating via the medium of material and thread. Introduce Sophie Calladine to Pom No-Surname.

  She had quite fancied Charlie Ackroyd with his sandy-blond hair and soft grey eyes. She had derived a lot of pleasure from knowing that he liked her, even if it was quite obvious that he didn’t fancy her. His attention had thrilled her younger self, given her insides the sensation of warm honey spreading over them whenever his smile found her. She could see him now, tall and lanky, his smooth young skin tanned, hands in his shorts pockets, kicking stones idly as he waited for his friends to come racing down the hill, chasing a football. The Ackroyd family had no idea what happy disorder they had brought to her life. Then again, maybe if she hadn’t met them, she would have accepted her lot and never dreamed of eating meals around a table where a family talked and laughed.

  Sophie paid the bill and decided to head back to Little Loste because this visit to Briswith was digging up too many sun-soaked memories, causing an ache deep inside her. She desperately wanted to climb through a portal in time, knock on the cottage door, walk in and kick off her shoes. She felt incredibly sad that those days were gone and nothing could ever bring them back. She’d truly lived that summer. She wasn’t sure she’d lived as much since.

  She took off her trainers and socks on the beach, trod along the seam of the sea, felt the sand squish up through her toes, such a simple pleasure but wonderful. Running in the fields wouldn’t feel as good as being able to walk out of the house and straight onto the beach. But the clock was ticking and its beat was getting louder every day and soon a great big fat alarm bell would sound and tell her it was time to wake up and smell the coffee. The coffee that came from the percolator that stood in the corner of her kitchen in Cherlgrove and not from the noisy pod machine on Elliott Bellringer’s worktop.

  Chapter 33

  Sophie had been in the house a matter of minutes when there was a rap on the front door, an insistent, impatient knock. She opened the door to find Tracey there, her usual smile replaced by a downward arc.

  ‘Can I come in, Pom?’

  ‘Of cou—’

  Tracey didn’t wait to be answered but barged straight into the hallway and then into the bedsit. ‘You okay?’ Sophie asked her.

  Tracey burst into tears. Her hands covered her face and her shoulders juddered with the weight of whatever it was that was troubling her.

  ‘What on earth’s wrong?’ asked Sophie, pushing her towards the small sofa. ‘Sit down and tell me. Can I get you a drink or something?’

  ‘No tha
nks,’ said Tracey, removing her hands to reveal a face so wet that one might be forgiven for thinking her cheeks had sprung a leak. ‘Pom, I’ve cocked up. I don’t know what I’m doing. Elliott sent me over, he said you might be able to help me.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘It’s that sodding dress,’ she said. ‘It’s a mess. Jade is going to hate me. I’ve butchered it and I’m going to wreck her prom and she’ll never forget it. Elliott says you’re really good at sewing, please tell me he hasn’t got that wrong.’

  Sophie trotted off into the bathroom to fetch a toilet roll, though a bath towel might have been more appropriate. She snapped off a python-length of tissue and handed it to Tracey. ‘No, he hasn’t got it wrong, I am very good at sewing,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I can undo the damage and Jade will have her dress.’

  ‘You haven’t seen what I’ve done to it,’ said Tracey.

  ‘Well, let’s go and have a look at it then, shall we?’ returned Sophie.

  Luke’s face almost split in two when Sophie walked into the house. He cannoned into her legs, considerately holding his kitten to the side so that he wouldn’t get squashed.

  ‘Long time no see,’ said his father with a smile in his voice. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his notebook open, the notebook in which he had doodled her name, and as if he were on that actual page, he closed it as Sophie neared.

  ‘It’s been ages,’ replied Sophie.

  ‘I told you Pom would help you,’ said Elliott to his sister, before addressing Sophie again. ‘She was afraid to ask.’

  ‘The word is ashamed to ask,’ Tracey corrected him. ‘Pride goes before a fall, as they say.’

  Sophie bent down to Luke. ‘And how’s Plum today?’

  ‘He’s just done a really enormous poo,’ replied Luke with glee. ‘It was that long.’ He stretched his arms to capacity as if he were much older and bragging about the fish that had got away.

  ‘Not quite,’ said Elliott, ‘but not far off.’