The Chorister at the Abbey (14 page)

They’re going to kill me, he thought. I’m totally conscious but I know I’m going to die. He could hold on no longer. As he slipped between the terrified animals, crushed till he could hardly gasp, he saw a stray skidding hoof raised higher than the others as a bullock lost its footing and went skittering at the side of his head. He felt the impact, heard the crunch and, as he went down, he knew with total clarity that the breath was being kicked out of him.

Then his brain went to black.

24

But it was even thou, my companion, my guide, and mine own familiar friend.
Psalm 55:14

‘He’s lucky to be alive! If he hadn’t had such good hearing, they’d have been on top of him before he could turn round!’ Lynn said.

It was the following Wednesday, a typical cold, wet, dreary February day. Lynn Clifford and Suzy Spencer were having lunch in McCrea’s. This time the meeting was at Suzy’s instigation. She was the one who needed to talk now. But discussion of Freddie Fabrikant’s terrible accident had to come first.

She asked, ‘Has Neil been visiting Freddie?’

‘Yes. He’s broken both his legs really badly and is very badly bruised, but Neil says he’s almost perky!’

‘What about Stainer’s
Crucifixion
? Will he still be able to sing in that?’

‘It’s not until April and he reckons he’ll be able to do it, with his legs in plaster. Neil says Wanda’s been in to see him every day and taken him the score and his CDs, and he’s threatening to practise in the Infirmary.’

‘That’ll go down well with the other patients!’

They laughed. Then Suzy’s face fell again. She went on to ask about Chloe, but Lynn knew it was just routine politeness, and that Suzy’s mind was on something else. And anyway, there was little to report. Chloe was just the same – working on her academic books most days, with a view to studying at the Open University, refusing to discuss going back to Leeds. She spent most evenings with friends whom she never brought back, and she was generally hard to reach. But Lynn was terrified of disturbing the status quo. At least Chloe was safe at home.

‘So what’s wrong, Suzy? You look pale. Is it Jake? Or Molly?’

‘Neither, actually. I’m worried about Robert.’

‘Robert?’

Suzy took a deep breath. ‘Yes. Before Christmas, Robert asked me to marry him.’ She forestalled her friend’s delighted smile. ‘No, Lynn. I know you’re by definition a fan of marriage. But I’m not. I felt that Robert was indicating that something was missing – security, discipline perhaps – in my relationship with the children. I thought he was trying to compensate by becoming a stepfather. I was hurt. I felt put down.’

Lynn looked thoughtful. She knew how hard it could be for women who believed they were in a partnership only to find the man assuming control. Fleetingly she thought about the Whinfells, remembering Jenny Whinfell’s tight lips and the way she avoided eye contact. Jenny only blossomed when she was given the floor, like at the Bible study course. And then she seemed aggressive, overheated by the sudden exposure.

But that wasn’t Suzy’s problem. Robert Clark wasn’t the assertive type and Suzy had a good job and financial independence. The cause of their rift lay deeper than gender politics.

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘I don’t know if you’ll understand, Lynn, because it sounds awful, but I don’t just want to be the second wife. As things are, I could never be compared to Mary because Mary was the wife and I’m well . . . the mistress? The girlfriend? The live-in lover? But if we got married . . .’

‘You’d be in a competition with a dead person?’

‘Yes! I know it sounds stupid. But I would feel that I had to be like her – Mrs Perfect.’

Lynn thought for a moment. Then she laughed. ‘Suzy, you could never be a Mrs Perfect, and you know it. There’s something else going on here.’

‘I guess you’re right.’ Suzy smiled sadly.

‘So what’s the real problem?’

Suzy paused to think. ‘I’m not really sure. I worry that Robert only cares for me and the children because he rescued us from a terrible situation. There’s a protective streak in him which was really brought out when he was married to Mary. But I don’t need protecting.’

‘No. But you need loving. We all do.’

‘Yes, but love is best between equals. If someone thinks they’re doing all the supporting then either they become dominating or they feel stifled by the very role they think they enjoy. I think that with Mary he was stifled without admitting it. So he went off to conferences and things like that, to escape. I flattered myself that he didn’t need that with me. But since we rowed, he’s been away – oh, only overnight, I know, in London. But I feel . . .’

‘You feel he’s reconstructing the past?’

‘Yes! The fun and the honesty have all gone. We can’t talk. He’s terribly nice, but cold and distant. And with the kids there’s so little time for us to be together.’

‘Then you’ll have to wait till he comes back to you, metaphorically speaking. Just be yourself. It’s a dynamic. He can’t be the same with you as he was with Mary. It’s not possible.’

‘That’s true.’ Suzy smiled wanly. Lynn picked up her bags, leant across the table and pecked her on the cheek.

‘Give it time.’

But time was what Suzy did not have. Nigel was snapping at her heels. On the other hand Robert seemed more and more distant. And on top of everything, Suzy was getting increasingly exhausted. Caring for the children and their endless social arrangements – while making sure she kept Robert out of the schedule and asked him for nothing – was absorbing all her spare energy and wearing her out. Even taking Jake to Fellside Fellowship was losing its attraction. Flirting with Mark Wilson didn’t fill the hole in her life.

She waved goodbye to Lynn, who was rushing back to Uplands School, and called for the bill. She was working a late shift that evening and had the drive to Tynedale ahead of her. It would be a demanding day. And when she came home late at night, it would be to a man who talked in clichés, then disappeared into his study to his writing. To her own horror she felt tears filling her eyes and she started to sniff loudly. Then she gave in and sobbed quietly and discreetly into one of Robert’s large white handkerchiefs.

Mark Wilson was leaning against the counter in Jenny Whinfell’s small but neat kitchen-diner. Jenny was sitting at the table feeding the baby in the high chair. She’d already breast-fed him for starters before Mark knocked on the door, and felt dishevelled and messy.

‘Just hang on a minute,’ she said, harassed. ‘I can’t stop in mid-meal. He’ll scream the place down if he doesn’t get enough.’

‘That’s blokes for you,’ Mark quipped, but Jenny did not respond.

He could see that she was stressed. Her face was pale, and her mouth was set in a thin bloodless line. Her hair, usually a pale brown feathery pageboy around her face, was scraped back into a small tufty pony tail. He hadn’t meant to barge in on her, but it would be nice to get a word with her alone.

‘I’m sorry, Jenny. I didn’t mean to be in the way. I’d forgotten Paul was at a Deanery meeting. I called in to see how Freddie was getting on. I was thinking of going to see him in the hospital this afternoon as I’ve got the day off and I’ll be in Carlisle.’

‘Neil Clifford went yesterday but I haven’t heard any more news.’

Jenny focused fiercely on wiping a smear of baby food off her little boy’s chin. Never chatty at the best of times, she felt uncomfortable now she was alone with Mark again. Since their amazing conversation just after Christmas when he had given her the New Puseyite leaflet, she had been in a state of acute nervousness where he was concerned. He had treated her like someone with a brain, whose views on the Church mattered. It had been months since Paul had talked to her like that. Gossip, yes, chit-chat about parish matters, fine – but major discussions about their mission, about their strategy, about their faith, these had all been subsumed under the daily weight of domesticity.

‘When will Paul be back?’

‘I don’t know.’

And when he was back he would be scurrying to the computer to mess about with that wretched family tree stuff, trying to confirm a local connection. Jenny didn’t care whether Paul was a Cumbrian or a Martian as long as he treated her with respect. That had been the deal. But since the baby had been born she had felt pushed out more and more. It was hard to take a suckling baby along to parish meetings; having a newborn inevitably meant withdrawal from the world. But Joseph was ten months old now and she felt as if Paul had never really welcomed her back.

Mark sighed. He had watched the Whinfells’ relationship deteriorate from a distance. He liked women but he had never met anyone he felt could be a partner for him in the way Jenny had been to Paul. It wasn’t for lack of trying and he could certainly attract intelligent and interesting females, but none of them was quite right. With his blond good looks, lots of younger girls had crushes on him too. That was always an embarrassment and he tried as much as he could to keep them at a distance and help them through the minefield of growing up, rather than encourage them. But the time was coming when the matter of mature marriage would have to be addressed. What Mark liked was spark, but sparky women had this awful dilemma about their position these days. Perhaps that was one of Jenny’s problems.

Mark had gone from wanting a wife just like her, to wondering how you could make any marriage really work. He had started to wonder more about the High Church; the idea of becoming a celibate Anglican priest had started to take root. Until recently he hadn’t thought that celibacy as an act of faith was suitable to the Church of England, where most priests seemed to be family men. Then he had read about John Henry Newman and the Oxford Movement. Newman had become a Catholic but his colleague Edward Bouverie Pusey had stayed an Anglican. Notwithstanding that, Pusey had valued the celibate life, especially after the death of his wife. Mark had thought about a few ways of serving St Luke’s and had already taken some significant steps, including an appointment with the director of ordinands, the person responsible for interviewing would-be priests. He already had a huge dream. But his one big idea, the vision he was nurturing, meant making even bigger moves.

He wondered if he could say something about all this to Jenny now. She seemed to need desperately to talk. He tried to think of something to say which would help. Her tense misery made him feel sad for her and women like her in the confusing modern world.

‘Your talk at the Psalms course was really good, Jenny,’ he said kindly.

For a minute her back seemed to quiver before she stiffened and turned to him. ‘Do you really think so? The only thing Paul said was that it was a bit unfortunate that I mentioned Psalm 22 – you know, the fat bulls of Basan closing in on every side!’

Mark spluttered into his coffee. ‘But it was hardly your fault that poor old Freddie got caught in a stampede on the way home!’

‘Tell that to Paul.’ She turned testily back to the baby.

Oh no, Mark thought, don’t be angry. During her pregnancy Jenny had looked like the Madonna and he had felt her impending motherhood draw him in, as if her growing belly was a metaphor for the world. It had been so easy to pop over or turn up for meals almost every day, especially as the Fellowship meant there was always so much to talk about. And for months, even after Joseph was born, she and Paul had seemed the perfect couple. He’d been happy to be the outsider, the gooseberry, the third person singular. He didn’t mind at all, worshipping at the shrine of their perfect marriage and beautiful baby. It had been a state to aim for.

But something had soured all that, something coming from Jenny. He wanted to think about it, to try and understand why this marriage, like so many, was going wrong. It seemed as if every woman he met these days was unhappy.

He put the mug down. ‘I’ll be off then. It sounds as if a visit to Freddie might be a bit unnecessary if Neil Clifford’s doing the business on behalf of the church. I’ll wait till Freddie’s a bit better. Maybe next week.’

‘Will you be off every Wednesday?’ Jenny asked bluntly.

‘No. Not every Wednesday. Just today. I wanted to go over to talk to the director of ordinands. I’m really serious about becoming a priest, Jenny. You’ve been an inspiration to me.’

Jenny blushed, clearly delighted. ‘Well, I hope it goes well,’ she said rather stiffly.

‘I hope so too.’ He smiled at her. His face lit up the kitchen. Then he waved his hand and let himself out of the back door.

Jenny Whinfell’s heart was thumping. She put her hands up to her face and felt her hot cheeks. She needed to pull herself together and calm down. She would get the buggy out and go to the Co-op. The chill wind off the fells would cool down any inappropriate thoughts she had. But Mark was the first man who had noticed her in more than two years. And from day one she had felt attracted to his warm eyes and bright smile. She grabbed the scarf Paul had given her for Christmas, a stupid red velvety thing, and turned it twice round her neck like a noose. What a nightmare, she thought, as she belted the screeching toddler firmly into place and pushed him out into the street. She kept her head down to avoid eye contact with any passing parishioner and marched to the Co-op where she wielded the buggy in front of her to fend off anyone who might dare to speak to her.

25

For the ungodly hath made boast of his own heart’s desire, and speaketh good of the covetous, whom God abhorreth.
Psalm 10:3

Edwin had suggested to Alex that they meet at lunchtime on Wednesday to talk about his visit to Norma Little. It had taken him several days to wade through all the paperwork he had printed out from Morris’s computer. Alex had said, ‘Great! But not in the canteen, please.’ Edwin had been mildly surprised, but quite pleased, when she had suggested the Crown and Thistle.

‘I can get out for about an hour and a half,’ she said, ‘and if it’s Wednesday afternoon you won’t be teaching, will you?’

And if we’re in the pub there’s no chance of running into Robert Clark for a friendly chat, Alex had thought. She had thought about him constantly since the Bible study meeting a week before. What a bastard he was! He must have left his wife for Suzy Spencer. And Suzy had seemed such a nice woman, good fun and just a bit different. How ironic that the first woman – besides the kindly Lynn – that Alex had taken a liking to in years was living with a horrible hypocrite like Robert Clark.

Did Suzy know the truth about him? Alex wondered. Anger had fired her up. She had spent some time the previous weekend shopping in Carlisle. She had already lost a lot of weight and had ordered contact lenses. She had her hair done again – still auburn but darker, more like the old days. And she had bought some smart outfits in warm glowing colours which suited her.

As a test, she had invited herself to Christine and Reg Prout’s for the first time since New Year’s Day. She had gone by taxi. When Reg opened the door his mouth fell open in his pale round face.

‘Yes, it’s me. Proof that there’s life after death. How are you, Reg?’ She brushed past him into the hall. ‘Here I am, Chris. I’ve brought a bottle of Chablis. Make sure I only drink one glass. I’m dieting.’

‘You look wonderful! Like your old self.’

‘Well, thank you, big sister.’

Chris was smiling, her plump face genuinely delighted. They had never been close but they had never quarrelled either. That was good enough, Alex thought.

They had a good but healthy lunch, and the chat had been uncontroversial. Chris had talked about her daughters and about decorating, which led Reg to talk about property prices – although he was very careful not to mention the bungalow straight away. He did mention David Johnstone, though, patting his bald head with that nervous gesture he had.

‘I know this is highly confidential, Alex, but Johnstone has hinted that he’s got plans for development at Fellside. He’s interested in a scheme for turning the old quarry into a lake – leisure pursuits and all that. Of course the bungalow would be in prime position. He’s on the way to getting planning permission and it could be marvellous news for us.’

‘If I wanted to sell,’ Alex had said evenly.

‘Johnstone would make it worth your while.’

‘Worth all our whiles, don’t you mean, Reg?’

‘Alex, I don’t want to fall out with you. But bear in mind that Johnstone doesn’t mess about. He always gets what he wants. There are a few people around here who’ve regretted standing in David Johnstone’s way.’

‘What does he do? Advance on them with thumbscrews? Set Pat to cackling them to death?’

‘You may well be flippant. But you should think about it.’

But this development is light years away, Alex had wanted to say. Instead she just smiled at Reg, and for once the meal passed without too much friction.

And she had found out what she wanted to know. She was recognizable again, which meant that either she had to leave town or sort things out with Robert Clark. But not yet, she found herself thinking. If the truth came out it might just prejudice things with Edwin. And her friendship with him was starting to matter more and more.

So the following Wednesday she and Edwin had met as arranged in the lounge of the Crown and Thistle. Alex could tell by Edwin’s wider eyes and the way he bent to talk to her that he too had noticed the difference in her. I wonder how many years younger than me he really is, Alex thought.

But Edwin had too much to say to be stunned by her new looks for long. He told her about the contents of Morris Little’s emails, and how Morris had been going to meet Wanda Wisley on the night he had died.

‘Good heavens! And she never mentioned it?’

‘Not a word. Rather strange, don’t you think?’

‘Yes and no. Dr Wisley’s got a reputation amongst administrators for disappearing when anything tedious needs to be done. Maybe she forgot about him.’

‘It’s possible,’ Edwin said. ‘But there’s this crazy business of the psalter. You saw a psalter. Tom Firth saw a psalter. But there was no psalter when the police came back.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that. It must have been the Frosts or one of their gang who came back and took it.’

‘We’ve discussed this before.’ Edwin sounded edgy. ‘The Frosts wouldn’t know one end of a book from another.’

‘That’s a bit sweeping? How do you know?’

Edwin looked at her. Then he looked down at his half pint of real ale and Alex realized the conversation had ground to a halt. No, worse – it had crashed into some invisible barrier she hadn’t seen. What on earth was the problem?

Why was Edwin Armstrong so sensitive about the Frost brothers?

At the same moment, only half a mile away in the middle of Norbridge, David Johnstone looked at Reg Prout over his gin and tonic. He saw a middle-aged man slurping greedily, and that pleased him. Prout was a respectable local functionary who worked for the council in the Environmental Health Department. But it seemed as if he might like his little luxuries.

Johnstone had met him through the golf club, but until now their contact had been purely social and Prout had been rather in awe of him. Good. That could be very helpful, Johnstone thought with satisfaction. They were in the Norbridge Arms, the town’s best hotel with a plush bar. It was used by the Rotary Club and the Lions, and was a well-known meeting place for Norbridge businessmen. David Johnstone had organized quite a few liaisons there over the years – one or two of them taking place upstairs in the bedrooms.

‘Dixon will be along in a minute,’ he said brusquely. David Johnstone had scant respect for most of his associates, including the ferrety Brian Dixon, but both Dixon and Reg Prout were going to be useful. And in addition, Dixon was under obligation to him, which always helped.

On cue, Brian Dixon came sidling into the bar, wrapped in a huge sheepskin coat, his tweed cap in his hand. A small man with stringy brown hair that was too long, he looked like a superior rodent.

‘Greetings, David and Reg.’ He smiled weakly at them. His thin, upper-class voice contrasted with the well-upholstered David Johnstone’s rich confident local twang.

‘‘Ow do, Brian my lad. A Jameson’s as ever?’

Dixon nodded nervously, and Johnstone turned to the bar. It was useful, in one phrase, to remind Brian Dixon of their several encounters at the Norbridge Arms. They had been joined on occasion by two ladies, whose services had been paid for on Johnstone’s account. This had always been preceded by Dixon glugging down a fair amount of Irish whiskey.

Dixon was typical of a class of older local gent – landed family, various sources of income, minor public school – but of the generation and class where, if you were not academic enough for Oxford, you were sent home to manage a business of some sort. In Dixon’s case, he had become general manager of one of the smaller textile mills in Norbridge, which had closed down. He and his wife lived in a nice Georgian gem of a farmhouse on the road between Norbridge and Tarnfield. They still had money, but much of it was spent on a son who’d been to an even more minor public school and been equally undistinguished. The boy was now working in Manchester and borrowing from his father to finance his own family. Money was tightish for the Dixons.

Good, David Johnstone thought again.

‘Now then,’ he said, ‘let’s sit down, over in the corner.’

He led his two cronies to a dark booth fitted with a rounded banquette and a low heavy coffee table. It was divided off from the bar with dark wood and etched glass screens. There was an air of conspiracy about it. Johnstone thought that the atmosphere would help.

‘As you know, I’ve got my eye on a neat little development idea. I suspect no one’s come up with it before, because it’s in Fellside, and with all due respect to your wife’s family seat, Reg, Fellside isn’t exactly Windermere, is it?’

‘Actually,’ said Reg ponderously, patting his bald head nervously, ‘my wife’s family is from Workhaven. They only moved to Fellside when my father-in-law fell ill and needed a bungalow, after he retired. My mother-in-law lived there for a few years, that’s all.’

‘Well, it mebbe helps that there’s no great sentimental affection for the place on your wife’s part. But your sister-in-law lives there now, right?’

‘Yes.’ Reg tried to sound decisive but he shifted uncomfortably.

‘The point is, Reggie lad, that the disused quarry would make a great site for a leisure pool and the old convent site would be perfect for holiday flats. Use the façade but have it completely ripped out and modernized behind. No one seems to know why the convent’s just been left to go to rack and ruin. What’s the story on that, Brian?’

‘Well . . .’ Brian Dixon squirmed too. He was pleased to be included, but there was something about David Johnstone which put a chap on the spot. At least he knew all about this and could answer as required. ‘As you know, my wife Millie is second cousin to Jimmy Cleaverthorpe. It was one of Jimmy’s great-great-aunts or something who wanted to start a convent.’

‘I didn’t know the Cleaverthorpes were left-footers?’ said Reg Prout in surprise.

‘No, no.’ Brian Dixon shook his head. ‘Not RCs. These were Church of England nuns.’

Reg looked surprised and patted his bald head again, but Johnstone burped and said deeply, ‘Go on, man.’

‘So when the old man, the first great Lord Cleaverthorpe, realized his cherished eldest daughter wanted to take the veil – and not the seven veils, I assure you . . .’ Dixon squirmed in a ratty way and waited for a laugh, but there was none. ‘Sorry. Anyway, the old man bought land for her and built a house for her and her companions. He’d been a bit of a dirty old sod in his time and local gossip still says there are bastard Cleaverthorpes in Fellside. But his eldest girl was a bit of a saint and he respected that. She said she would pray for a building, and her father answered her prayers. But he never gave her any title deeds. Of course he didn’t need to if it was on his own land. The story goes that despite his love for his daughter, old Cleaverthorpe didn’t agree with women owning property, and sorted it out with some sort of male representative when he was on his deathbed. Then the Cleaverthorpe nun died suddenly of something she caught in Chapterhouse . . .’

‘What was she doing there?’ asked Reg.

‘Saving fallen women or so the story goes.’ Brian took a deep sip of his whiskey. ‘Anyway, the nuns just stayed on there for another century on the assumption it was theirs. No one challenged them and now no one seems sure who the place belongs to. They all died out about fifteen years ago. So it’s been boarded up since.’

‘And Jimmy Cleaverthorpe can’t sell it?’

‘Not till the ownership is sorted out. I think the last Mother Superior believed it was theirs and tried to leave it to the Church. But they can’t sell it either,’ Dixon said.

‘But of course it’s supposed to be a local historic monument,’ Reg Prout butted in, trying to be helpful. ‘The chapel is supposed to be beautiful. That chap Morris Little had a meeting with the council about it. He wanted it listed. Of course, then he died.’

Johnstone sipped his drink reflectively. ‘But what would happen, Reg, if there was, say, a problem with the septic tank? Or if the fabric was going to collapse? After all, that fool Freddie from the Chorus managed to demolish half the wall being chased by a herd of cattle!’

‘But that was just an accident, David, it could have happened anywhere.’

David looked at Reg Prout and laughed evilly. ‘Accidents do happen, Reg. Say the place was a health and safety hazard? Especially to the bungalow next door. Do you follow me?’

Reg gulped. ‘Well, the Environmental Health Department would have something to say about it, I suppose.’

‘So they would, Reg, so they would!’ Johnstone patted him on the back. ‘I think a visit to the convent might be called for. Who knows what alarming structural or drainage problems we might find! And then the council might have to be brought in, don’t you think? And they might have to act quickly and get it sold off, for the sake of public health!’

Reg Prout was looking very uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know, David.’

‘Oh yes, you do!’ Johnstone leant forward and tapped him gently on the knee. ‘Oh yes, you do, Reg. I think I might take a trip up to the convent and see just how much prayer it needs to keep it standing. Or to have it knocked down!’

In the Crown and Thistle at the same moment, Edwin looked up slowly and then looked away, but Alex refused to be embarrassed. If she had said something wrong it was inadvertent.

‘Edwin, what have I said? It’s unfair of you to pull up the conversational drawbridge.’

He shifted on his bar stool. But she didn’t give up. She waited.

‘Don’t you know?’ he said eventually.

‘Know what? Something about the Frosts?’ She moved her eye-line until Edwin was forced to return her gaze.

He saw in front of him a big but surprisingly pretty dark-haired woman with intelligent features, head slightly on one side, and a questioning look.

In a small town all news was high octane. But maybe his story had run out of gas. He wasn’t the only person in the world – or in Norbridge, for that matter – to have been dumped. Maybe Alex genuinely didn’t know all about it. It was only his pride which made him reticent to tell her.

But Alex had swallowed hers, and occasionally mentioned her past with rueful humour. Perhaps he could do the same. Or at least he could just tell her the basics. No details or emotional trappings, no melodrama.