Guilty Pleasures (5 page)

I had an idea that breaking your wrists in a fall was something more likely to happen when you were Josie's age, but didn't want to upset her by arguing.

‘How did you get on in Hastings yesterday?' she continued. ‘Were you so busy you couldn't wave to an old duck like me? Mind you, with a young fellow like that in tow, perhaps you didn't even see me.'

‘If I didn't wave, it was because I didn't see you. And it wasn't a young fellow I was with – it was a whole churchyard full of people, miles from Hastings.'

She looked sceptical, so I explained in a little more detail.

It was clear she still wasn't convinced. Perhaps her eyes weren't as good as they once were. No point in arguing about that, either. I admired a couple of pieces on her stand, only to have her press them on me. ‘Go on, chick. These earrings would set off your eyes beautifully, and the necklace goes with them like cream on a scone. And I'd rather give them to you than have some other dealer flog them at twice their value. Yes, this is absolutely my last fair, Lina. I'm selling up. Lock, stock and barrel. You and Griff stay back after the others have gone, will you? So you can pick out anything for your business. I know you'll give me a fair price. But these you must and shall have, just for yourself.' She reached up and kissed me. ‘So long as you remember to wave next time you see me.'

Griff stared at me in horror. ‘Josie's an institution! She can't be retiring!'

I nodded. ‘She's been threatening to ever since I've known her. But I really think she means it. And I'm wondering – there must be other folk here who'd like to give her a decent send-off.'

‘You make it sound like a funeral, sweet one. But you're right. I believe the hotel could provide sandwiches and champagne. If you organize that, I'll see to the guests. A discreet little promenade between stalls, of course . . .'

And not just between stalls either. I actually saw Griff speaking to Titus. I was so amazed that I almost gave the guy asking the price of a Chamberlain's Worcester plate the trade price, not the retail one. Neither Griff nor Titus would have been amused. I might have had difficulty seeing the funny side myself, come to think of it.

Soon after three, however, I was grinning like a Cheshire cat. We'd risked putting the Meissen parrot out, and had given it quite a high price to perch on, too. And someone swooped down and bought it, without a quibble. Seemed his daughter liked miniatures.

I smiled. ‘Miniature vases too? Look at these gorgeous Worcester ones with bird paintings on the sides . . .'

Our card terminal had a few very happy moments.

It was, as Griff said, in his apparently spontaneous farewell speech to Josie, the end of an era. I knew how long it had taken him to write it, and how many backs of envelopes, but I wasn't about to snitch. Half of the room was in tears, the other half in tears of laughter. The champagne flowed, the dealers fell on the sandwiches and cupcakes – those had been my idea, but they looked a lot better than they tasted – as if they'd fasted for weeks. There were hugs all round.

Tripp and Townend had done Josie proud. The only thing that spoilt it for me was Josie's last plea to me: ‘Next time you see me, just remember to wave. That's all I ask, lovie.'

The words niggled as I loaded the van, and niggled as I pulled on to the rectory forecourt – heavens, was the use of weed killer against the Ten Commandments? – to give Robin the cheque for the difference between what I'd paid for the Meissen and what I'd got for it. I'd expected Griff to argue about stopping off en route, but, as my father had observed, he had a soft spot for Robin . . . and was also keen on using the rectory loo.

Robin accepted the cheque with pleasure and offered us a cup of coffee. I accepted on Griff's behalf and drifted into the kitchen after him, only to have him try to shoo me out. No wonder he was embarrassed to find me in such a tip. When had he last washed up, for goodness' sake? And why would he need to wash up when there was a dishwasher there?

‘Because I haven't had time to empty the dishwasher, that's why,' he said, his voice grainy with tiredness.

‘OK. I'll empty it and pass all the stuff to you and you can put it away without it ever having to touch – yuk – these work surfaces. And then we'll load up and we'll wash anything that we can't cram in. Heavens, Robin, you're as bad as my father. Actually, that's an insult to my father. He keeps his kitchen pretty clean these days.'

As we worked, I said, ‘I thought young vicars were supposed to be fighting off all the ladies in the parish; at least, they were in those Barbara Pym novels that Griff read to me.'

‘They were probably curates. And the ladies in my parish don't ride bikes to eight o'clock Communion, remember, they drive past the church – all the churches! – in four-by-fours and drop the kids off at school early so they can whizz off to their part-time but highly lucrative jobs.'

‘I see. So they're not desperate to feed you and so on.'

‘Especially the so on.'

‘That's a great shame, if so on includes emptying the kitchen bin and the sink tidy. It means you'll just have to do them yourself.' I shooed him out and set to work refilling the dishwasher.

‘You treat him very cavalierly, angel heart,' Griff declared, wandering in. ‘Ah. I see why. Where does he keep his tea towels?'

How I got talked into going with Robin to a concert in the Cathedral the following evening, I've no idea. Griff's doing, I suspect. Anyway, it was agreed we'd meet in Canterbury.

Griff would have preferred me to go in by train, since for some unknown reason he didn't like the idea of my driving round on my own after dusk, but I pointed out that the last train left Canterbury for Bredeham at 9.35 p.m., and I'd be properly stuck if the orchestra gave an encore. In fact, it was a good job I had my own transport, because I found that we were seated amongst some church dignitaries and their wives, and that somehow Robin and I were absorbed into their after concert drink and nibbles do in the crypt.

Not my scene at all. But I wasn't the only nervous one. Seeing Robin's Adam's apple training for the Olympics, I couldn't back out and leave him to it.

Mostly people were talking about the concert, which left me in pretty scary territory. Griff and I often listened to music together, so I could tell my Verdi from my Vivaldi. But I was always bemused by the Cathedral's echo, not knowing which part of the orchestra to listen to first, and this was a piece I'd never heard before and couldn't make head or tail of. I really couldn't have said anything intelligent – except about the hardness of the seats. No wonder some people had brought their own cushions.

I stuck to Robin like glue, assuming he'd introduce me to people.

People swirled about us, everyone apparently knowing everyone else. Willy-nilly, a woman with a profile like a horse grabbed Robin by the arm and marched him off, leaving me eyeball to eyeball with a sleek middle-aged guy in a black roll-neck, probably cashmere. Clearly one of us ought to say something. I could have asked him what had brought him here, the opening gambit Griff said never failed. Since he was one of the few men there not sporting a dog collar, it might have worked. But he stared at me with something like horror, as if he really, really did not want to be anywhere near me, and turned so sharply that he jostled the canapés clean off a waiter's tray.

In less august company I might have yelled, ‘Pardon me for living, I'm sure!' with a few extra words added, to make sure he knew I was offended. As it was, stranded, I felt a horrible wobble of the lower lip. What had I done to deserve that?

To cover my embarrassment, I bent to help the poor scrabbling waiter, but only made things worse, of course, so I surfaced sharply, almost colliding with an elderly guy with a rather well-filled lilac shirt.

I could try Griff's gambit on him, though he was clearly a clergyman. But he'd grasped some at least of the situation, and passed me a napkin to wipe my tapenade-covered fingers. And he spirited some more champagne from nowhere.

I ought to say something, apart, of course, from, ‘Thank you,' which I gabbled several times.

Inspiration!

‘It must be so hard,' I ventured, recalling that the crypt also housed the Treasury and its contents, ‘to balance the vital maintenance of your lovely churches, and the need to preserve historical artefacts like those locked away down here.' That didn't sound too bad, did it?

Actually it did. It sounded as if I was preparing to interview him for the
Today
radio programme.

On the other hand, I got results. I might have fired a starting pistol. He poured out all the things I'd heard from Robin about small congregations and huge bills and the number of churches in benefices, plus a few more, including words like faculty and non-stipendiary. Finally, with an apologetic smile, he said, ‘But I've talked enough shop—'

I really didn't want to talk about me, so I came in with a swift, ‘And how does this affect you and your role?'

Bingo!

His eyebrow asked if I really wanted to know, but he responded, prompted, I think, by the fact that I threw in a question about poor St Jude's.

‘Truly, absolutely enough shop!' he declared at last. ‘Now, what's your connection with that wonderful old church?' he asked, with the sort of smile that made him seem really interested. Perhaps he was. And it was certainly something the first man was interested in. Very interested. Cashmere Roll-Neck had sidled up to us as if desperate to catch every last syllabub. Hell, that was a dessert Griff made. Very rich. I'd banned it. Syllabus? Syllable!

‘None. Not really. I just helped with the fête on Saturday. And I thought – such a lovely building—'

‘It's very good of you to be helping out, my dear, if you have no connection with the church.'

I was afraid an explanation might land Robin in some sort of ecclesiastical sh— But I probably shouldn't even think that word, not in the Cathedral.

‘A friend asked me,' I said, not even looking in Robin's direction. Or in Cashmere Roll-Neck's. He was practically perched on Rev Lilac Shirt's arm. ‘Just books and bric-a-brac.'

‘Just two of the dirtiest jobs, bless you. Ah! I think His Grace is going to speak.'

‘The Archbishop! Not the Archbishop of Canterbury! In person!' Miming a big beard, Griff, who'd stayed up to make sure I got home in one piece, sat down heavily and reached for his glass of whisky.

‘Yes. Really nice guy. Twinkly eyes. He gave a short speech – very short, just a couple of sentences. Then he said hello to a load of us, no more than that – because he'd told us he had to get home. I couldn't work that bit out. Not a big deal, surely, a walk across the grass?'

‘Ah, but the Archbishop of Canterbury lives in Lambeth Palace, sweet one. Lambeth as in London.'

‘So why's he called the Archbishop of Canterbury, not the Archbishop of Lambeth?'

He embarked on a more detailed explanation than I needed right now. What I really needed was time to think about some questions I didn't actually want to ask myself. Josie said she'd waved to me in Hastings, when I wasn't there. This evening I'd given someone I didn't know the shock of his life. Did I have a double?

Or had one of my half-sisters surfaced?

If so, how did I feel about that?

FIVE

‘
H
ave you spoken to your father about the snuffbox – or indeed the pattern book – yet?' Griff asked over breakfast. The warm weather had returned, and we were in a sunny corner of the garden, the table covered with a jolly check cloth, just as if, Griff said, we were in France. We weren't in France, because there he'd have stuffed his face with croissants and apricot conserve, and his blood tests told him he shouldn't have much of either.

He knew I hadn't seen my father, of course, so I answered a question he hadn't asked. ‘I'm worried about cleaning something so fragile.'

‘So you've been putting it off. But that was yesterday, when your mind was full of what you should wear for the Cathedral concert. Now it's Tuesday, and you almost have the Archbishop's blessing on your work,' he said teasingly.

I put down my egg spoon with very great care. ‘I did not spend yesterday worrying about clothes. You can't worry about clothes when you're trying to reunite a poor little Worcester shepherdess with her milk churn. The Archbishop didn't bless me, or my work. He said, “Good evening,” and murmured something about the concert I didn't quite catch because someone else grabbed his attention by stepping between us, and I think he managed a kind smile for Robin. He didn't come out with any controversial comments about women bishops or Sharia law, either. OK?'

‘So you're going to tackle it today?' He put down his spoon too, very quietly, in case a sudden movement would push me over into losing my temper good and proper. ‘The snuffbox? You really are worried about it, aren't you, dear one? You don't doubt your skill, surely.'

‘No, not my skill. I doubt my expertise. Hey, that sounded good, didn't it?' I added, rather taking away the effect.

He took my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back. We were friends again. ‘Indeed it did. So tell me why. Are we back with your being a divvy? Is it something you sense about it?'

‘I told you, it called me. That and the pattern book. Most times I can back up my divviness with nice hard information. Like when I pick out something at Bossingham Hall or at a fair. But not with either of these. I wouldn't ever try to clean the book. And yet I've a funny feeling that the box is even more precious. Not just because someone tried to nick it, either. Whoever it was could only have caught a glimpse of it – not enough to identify it. Just opp . . . opportunistic crime.'