Hiding From the Light (21 page)

‘I can’t think why you would want to come and live down here after London,’ Paula put in. ‘It seems crazy to me. And giving up a good career to grow herbs!’

‘Paula, leave it!’ There was a clear warning in Alex’s voice.

‘No! I’m entitled to give my view.’ Paula’s pale cheeks flushed angrily. ‘You know damn well I think we should move back to London. The kids would be happy there. They’d love it. Emma is a fool to give up all that. A complete fool.’

‘Thanks a lot!’ Emma was indignant.

‘Forgive us, Emma. It’s none of our business.’ Alex was profoundly embarrassed.

‘Nevertheless, you are in a position to make informed comment,’ Piers put in. ‘And Paula is right. If she works in London and commuting doesn’t do it for her, then perhaps you should move. No,’ he held up his hand as Emma drew breath to interrupt. ‘Similarly, Em effectively ended our relationship by moving down here. She knows I think she’s mad.’ He softened the remark with a smile, reaching out to cover her hand with his own.

She snatched it away. ‘I don’t think Alex and Paula want to hear about our relationship or lack of it.’

A silence followed, broken only by the ostentatious clatter of spoons on plates. Paula glanced at Alex and then at Emma and frowned, suddenly suspicious. No. Surely not. He wasn’t going to fall for Emma, was he? Standing up abruptly she disappeared into the kitchen to fetch coffee.

Emma followed her, arms full of dirty dishes. ‘I’m sorry about that. Childish!’

‘Don’t be silly. The trouble is it’s rather shown up the cracks in our own united front,’ Paula said coldly. She put on the kettle. ‘I’m just going upstairs to the loo.’ She did not look pleased when Emma followed her – more out of curiosity than need.

The upstairs of the house was as spacious as the ground floor. Five bedrooms with three bathrooms. Emma was shown into a small guest bathroom generously supplied with exotic soaps and lotions. Having dried her hands, she made her way towards the stairs past the master bedroom where Paula had disappeared. From behind the closed inner door of what must be their hosts’ bathroom she heard the sound of violent retching. For a moment she paused, wondering if she should offer help, then suddenly she understood. That was how Paula managed to combine the eating of huge meals and rich exotic trifles with a pencil-thin figure.

When Paula rejoined the others in the drawing room around the open fire she was white and drawn, but otherwise outwardly cheerful as she passed round the cups. Emma had taken a seat on the long, grey-upholstered sofa and was watching Alex feed neatly sawn logs onto the fire. Oozing with resin, they spat furiously as they crackled into the flames.

Glancing up at her hostess, Emma tried to make peace. ‘There is a lot about the City I miss, I must admit. The camaraderie. The social life. Even the work!’

‘Then why leave?’ Paula was standing in front of her proffering the sugar basin.

Emma waved it away. ‘It’s as if there is something inside me, telling me to do it. A deeper, stronger part of me. Almost some kind of spiritual longing.’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t think I haven’t asked myself why – I’ve lost so much …’ As her voice trailed into silence her eyes strayed towards Piers, who was standing looking down at the fire, talking to Alex.

Paula frowned. ‘It doesn’t sound like a very rational decision, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘It wasn’t.’ Emma shrugged. ‘That’s the terrible part. It wasn’t. But there is no going back.’

With a sigh, Mike stood up and wandered across to stand in his favourite position by the window. While he had been trying to write his sermon it had grown dark outside. A mist lay across the lawn, swirling like damp gauze in the light from the window. He glanced at his watch and was appalled to find it was already well after seven.

Shivering, he pulled the curtains across and turned his back. She was there again, inside his head, the woman who had haunted his dreams the night before; at first he had thought she might be Lyndsey Clark, but she didn’t meet the description Alex had given. In fact, she wasn’t a twentieth-century woman at all. She was shadowy, there at the edge of his vision, a woman whose hair was concealed by a white cap tied under the chin, who wore a long black dress with a white linen collar. But it wasn’t the old woman of his earlier vision. It was a young woman with bright frank hazel eyes and a determined chin, the woman whose face had for a moment overshadowed that of Emma Dickson in the coffee shop down in the town, a woman who could be Emma Dickson except that this was a woman who radiated hatred.

Taking a deep breath, he went back to his desk and stared at the screensaver swirling silently in the corner. The phone was signalling eight missed messages and as he stood there looking at it, it rang again.

‘Mike? Are you there yet? I’ve tried to reach you a couple of times today. I do need to speak to you about the service tomorrow.’ He heard the irritation in Judith’s voice as he sat down at the desk. His hand had extended almost of its own free will to pick up the receiver. Then it had stopped. The phone fell silent and he sat motionless, staring at it.

He had been like this all day. Shaky, nervous, alternately shivering and hot as though he were coming down with flu. And all day he had been aware of these faces hovering on the periphery of his consciousness. Women. Women in Puritan dress. Voices, echoing in his head.

Putting his elbows on the desk, he clasped his hands and closed his eyes ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven.’ He stopped. Somewhere upstairs a door had banged. He looked up towards the ceiling. It had been misty when he looked out into the garden. Surely there was no wind?

When the phone rang again a moment later he picked it up without giving himself time to think.

‘Mike! At last! I’ve been trying to reach you.’

‘I’m sorry, Judith. I’ve just got in.’ He hoped he would be forgiven the lie. Another lie. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Tomorrow’s service. I said I’d play the organ.’

‘Of course. Charles is away.’ Mike dragged his mind back to the daily details of running the parish.

‘The hymns, Mike.’ There was a hint of impatience in her voice. ‘You said you’d tell me which ones in case I have to have a brief run through. I’m not that practised.’ She laughed.

‘And I’ve given you no time. Judith, I’m so sorry.’ He was scrabbling amongst the notes on his desk.

‘I thought I would go up to the church now and have a quick go, while there’s no one about to hear me. Perhaps you could have a think and meet me there in half an hour or so? I haven’t got a key.’

There was another implied reprimand there. She had asked before for her own key. He should have seen that she had one by now.

‘I’ll be there.’ He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. There was no list. Not yet. Not until the sermon was written. Not until he had a theme. He sighed. Tomorrow was St Crispin’s Day. Was he going to write about the patron saint of shoemakers or should he go for Shakespeare and Henry V? Or both. Surely he could think up something stimulating with that kind of background.

He hung up and glanced at his watch. Half an hour to think, make a few notes, choose the hymns and walk over to the church with his key.

She was already waiting in the porch when he arrived. ‘Judith, I’m so sorry. You should have come on up to the rectory. I am all behind today.’ He produced the key from his pocket.

The church was very cold as they switched on the lights. Bill Standing’s first job on Sunday mornings as autumn arrived was to come over and go round the back to the boiler house to make sure the heating was on. On the other days of the week it was as cold as a tomb in here.

‘Have you got the numbers?’ Judith was heading towards the organ, which was up in the side-aisle.

‘Here you are. All easy ones.’ Mike smiled. ‘I took pity on you.’

She glanced at him sharply. ‘You sound as though you hadn’t given it a thought before I rang you.’

‘Not quite true.’ Damn it, he didn’t need a lecture. ‘I had given the theme of my sermon a great deal of thought.’ That at least was true, even if he hadn’t got much down on paper. ‘It is not always easy to select the right subject.’

He watched as she slid onto the seat, unlocked the lid, switched on the pump and lights. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Judith.’

‘I’ll drop the key in on my way home.’ She was leafing through the music.

There was no way he could say no. All he could do was hope she would put it through the letterbox without disturbing him.

She didn’t. Only forty minutes later there was a knock at the door. ‘Here you are, Mike.’ She was past him and in the hall before he could protest. Dropping the key on the table, she went towards his study. ‘So, is the sermon finished?’

‘Just about.’ He hovered in the doorway behind her. ‘In fact, I have to spend the rest of the evening working. I’ll go over it again last thing.’ He frowned. She had walked over to his desk and was staring openly at the monitor. The coloured screensaver gave nothing away.

‘I’ve told you before, Mike, you should let me help you with your paperwork.’ Her gaze had strayed from the computer to the heaps of letters scattered over his desk. ‘You need some secretarial assistance and I would be more than happy to give you a hand.’

He took a deep breath. ‘That’s kind of you, Judith, but I have a system, believe it or not.’ He grinned at her. ‘No one else could possibly understand it and I’m very happy to muddle through in my own way.’ God preserve him from having her in the house any more than she was already!

She gave a small, disappointed laugh. ‘Well, the offer is there.’

‘And much appreciated. If I get too behind I’ll let you know.’ He paused. ‘If there’s nothing else, Judith, I should get on – ’

‘You went to see Lyndsey Clark.’ She swung round to face him.

‘How on earth did you know that?’ Mike could feel his impatience growing.

‘Her neighbour told me. She saw you. I told you not to go and see her, Mike. I told you to leave her to me.’

Mike frowned. ‘Judith, my dear, it is not for you to say who I do or do not see. I welcome your advice, but you must allow me to make my own decisions.’ He spoke firmly.

She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, plainly irritated. ‘What did she say?’

‘As it happens, she was out when I called.’

‘So you didn’t see her.’

‘No.’

‘May the Lord be praised.’ Judith was standing with her back to his desk now and she folded her arms, effectively barring his way. ‘Don’t go near her, Mike. I know the girl. When I first came across her I thought she was relatively harmless. Ineffectual. Playing at witchcraft, evil and dangerous though it is. But I was wrong. It is far worse than I feared. She is poison. And she’d never listen to you anyway. The bishop will be horrified to hear you are consorting with people like her.’

Mike felt a surge of his customary distaste. ‘The bishop, Judith, will be relieved to hear that I am doing my job, which is trying to help sinners and bring lost souls back to the fold. If he hears about it at all, and there is no reason that he should.’

He was beginning to think some fairly unsaintly thoughts about Judith. The woman’s smug humourless face was too confrontational as she stood before him.

But she was smiling at him now, a thoughtful, almost calculating smile. ‘Did John Downing get in touch, Mike?’

‘He did. We talked it through.’

‘And was he helpful?’

Mike met her gaze. He managed to return her smile. ‘Indeed he was. He is going to handle the whole thing. He told me not to worry.’

‘Good.’ She seemed genuinely relieved. ‘I was worried about you, Mike.’

He nodded. ‘So he said. Now, Judith, I must get on. I’m sorry, but there’s a lot to do.’

‘And it’s nearly nine. Look, if you haven’t eaten yet …?’ She was masking her aggression well, but her smile did not reach her eyes.

‘No, Judith, I’m sorry. I won’t have time to eat now.’

He wished he hadn’t said the ‘now’. She looked first crestfallen and then guilty. But it did the trick. ‘I’ll leave you, then. Don’t forget to change the clocks. I’ll see you tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow, Judith. Good night.’

He closed the door behind her and drew the bolt firmly, aware that she could probably hear it sliding into place, and took a deep breath.

John Downing hadn’t been in touch again and Mike had no intention of ringing him. Or of confiding in his helpful lay reader. Or the bishop.

And now he really did have a sermon to write!

It was midnight before he printed up the last pages, clipped them together and switched off the computer. With a sigh he headed for the door. The house was in darkness and the central heating had clicked off at eleven, leaving it cold.

Wearily he climbed the stairs and made for his bedroom, thinking about Judith. He foresaw difficulty there. She had been in the parish a long time and obviously had some powerful friends, both in the church and amongst his parishioners. It would not do to alienate her. On the other hand she represented a wing of the church he disliked intensely. Repressive. Old-fashioned and at the same time evangelical. Unforgiving. Joyless.

Puritan. That was the word.

He switched on his bedroom light and walked to the window. The wall of mist outside was thicker than ever now, coming up off the river, pressing against the glass, blanketing any sounds from the road. He stared at it for a moment with a shiver of distaste, then he reached for the curtains and drew them across, shutting out the night. Sally would have loved a night like this. He turned wistfully towards the bed and drew back the cover. She would have laughed and demanded music and roaring log fires and made gallons of soup and homemade bread. He shook his head sadly. She was probably still demanding all those things, but of another man. Their relationship had survived his abandonment of teaching, but not his resignation from the job in industry and his decision to train for the priesthood. She had never wanted marriage anyway, and she was not prepared to cope with his vocation. ‘I would fight another woman for you, Mike. I can’t fight God!’ she had said, clinging to him, that last day when they had talked it all through like grown-ups. ‘I can’t do it. There isn’t enough room for three of us in this relationship. I know that’s a cliché and I know it’s small-minded of me. I know it’s my fault. I’ve tried and tried. But I can’t do it. And it’ll get worse. You’ll want a wife who can make jam and dole out sympathy and attend the WI or live in an inner-city parish and pick used needles and condoms off the doorstep. I can’t do that, Mike. I never will be able to. Better quit now, before you grow to hate me.’

It had been the right decision. Of course it had. But how he missed her. He sighed. Emma had made the same connections in her mind. The inner city or Gilbert White. He sat down on the bed miserably and he shivered again.

Sally was a harlot. She did not believe in the sacrament of marriage.
You did right to put her behind you …

The voice in his head was so clear he looked round, expecting to see someone there. He took a deep breath. He was imagining things. He had been sitting in front of the computer for too long.

‘Christ be with me, Christ within me,

Christ behind me, Christ before me …’

The woman Judith is steadfast in the Lord. She would not suffer a witch
to live, a witch like Sarah Paxman …

‘Stop it!’ Mike stood up. ‘Who are you?’

His brain was whirling and he closed his eyes. Sounds. Voices. Snatches of speech played in his ears as though he were tuning in to band after band of distant radio transmissions. He spun round, his hands to his head, and before he realised what he was doing he had fallen to his knees, clawing at his scalp as though trying to tear the sounds out of his head. ‘Christ be with me. Christ within me – dear God!’ He screwed up his eyes and raised his hands towards the ceiling. ‘In the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ, STOP!’

Total silence.

Opening his eyes, he stared round the room. It looked absolutely normal.

Shaking, he climbed to his feet and made for the door. Walking unsteadily downstairs to his study, he went over to his desk and sat down, staring unseeing at the pile of papers in front of him, then slowly he reached for his diary. Tony and Ruth Gilchrist’s number was written firmly inside the front cover underneath that of John Downing, whom he had no intention of contacting. The couple of times he had tried to ring the Gilchrists before, hoping they were back from their trip to see the new grandchild, there had been no answer. They had presumably decided to extend their stay. Oh God, how he needed to hear Tony’s calm, reassuring voice. Please, please, let them be back, and if they were, let them not mind being rung at this hour. He picked up the phone. The bell rang on and on in their empty house and at last he replaced the receiver in despair. They had not even set the answering machine.

He lay in bed for a long time, unable to sleep, his eyes staring up at the ceiling above his head, tracing the faint shadows from the window. The mist had retreated as quickly as it had come, to leave a cold starry night. Frost was on the way. A car drove down the road outside and for a second its headlights shone in onto the wall as it turned the corner of the lane. It drove on and the room was dark once more. Eventually he dozed.