The Chorister at the Abbey (16 page)

27

Hear me, O Lord, and that soon, for my spirit waxeth faint. Hide not thy face from me, lest I be like unto them that go down into the pit.
Psalm 143:7

On Friday lunchtime, effectively the end of the working week, David Johnstone eased himself into his new Volvo. He’d had a few shorts but he was fit enough to drive – anyway, he knew all the roads around Norbridge and fancied he had a few of the local police in his pocket, so it was worth the risk. The conversation with baldy Prout and weasel-faced Dixon had made him think it was about time he took a closer look at the old convent again. Pity the nights were getting a bit lighter and the Volvo was quite conspicuous. But then there was nothing to stop him or anyone else walking through the huge gap in the rotten wall caused by the stampede, and having a look at the property.

Johnstone farted noisily and then opened the window as he drove through the outskirts of Norbridge. He liked the feeling of control and comfort his big car gave him. Whenever he broke wind in front of Pat she would comment in a silly shrill voice, so to celebrate her absence he did it again, a real trump.

Laughing to himself, he took the road to Fellside. It always gave him a thrill to ease a large, shiny car up the narrow main street where the only lights shone from the Co-op sign, and where the plain terraced houses opened straight on to the pavement. He had been brought up in Scafell Street, then a particularly miserable side road at the top of the hill. It had been a straggling row of cottages, looking over the waste land opposite, littered with old iron implements, post-war rubbish and bits of engines. Often he drove down there just to see the place, which had been done up now and was lived in by a pair of gay teachers, a far cry from housing seven kids in two bedrooms in the 1950s!

He parked carefully next to the convent wall. There was no one else on the road and it was easy to amble into the overgrown garden. He remembered climbing over the wall when he was a kid, wanting to see salacious acts, nuns sunbathing nude or snogging or something. It seemed much smaller inside, though he was pleased to see from a distance that the house brickwork was in good nick. It even looked as if someone had repointed around the window facing away from the road, with the bleak view over the quarry and only the drunk woman’s bungalow in sight. Despite the damp grass round his trousers, he kept on going right around the house. With luck he might be able to see in through the windows, which were broken glass on the outside, but boarded up haphazardly inside.

He moved forward and felt the ground give a little under his feet. He pressed his shoes down. This was good news. If the drains were collapsing, then it would just take a little bit of help to render the place a hazard. If he owned the property next door, he’d have every right to demand that something be done, which would mean a quick sale. There’d be no arguing about who owned it then – they would all want rid of it PDQ! He’d get it for a song – and then go ahead with the holiday development.

Then he felt the ground give way under him. As he collapsed into the earth, he had the sense of falling into a deep, square hole. He hit his head as he twisted and fell, and the window ledge came up to smack him in the face.

Early on Saturday morning, Robert dropped Suzy off at Carlisle station for her trip to Rachel’s in London. She was distracted, thinking about the evening before. Nigel had picked the children up on one of his rare trips back to Tarnfield. He had refused to come into The Briars and had been unpleasant about having to manoeuvre the car up the dirt lane which led to the house.

The children had been sulky and uncommunicative. They loved their father – but Suzy thought they sensed that Nigel was bored by childcare when there was no female audience. And Jake would miss his big band practice at Fellside Fellowship on the Sunday evening. Nigel, who was an atheist, had refused point-blank to drive back earlier to Cumbria for what he described as lot of superstitious nonsense with third-rate musicians.

In the station car park Robert said, ‘Don’t worry. The kids will be fine. Give Rachel my love.’ He kissed Suzy on the cheek.

‘I will. Thanks.’

There had been no suggestion that he should go to London with her. Suzy had made it clear this was a girls’ weekend.

Robert watched her walk through the glass doors to the trains. Then he got out of the car, locked it, and walked into the town centre. Feeling very tense and awkward, he went into Waterstone’s bookshop. There was a section for local writers and another for children’s books, and he wasn’t sure where to look. He probed the shelves until he found what he wanted.

Seeing it made his heart pound.
The West Coast Pirate
by Sandy McFay. A local promotion. The other eight McFay books, making up the West Cumbrian Chronicles, were there. As always, there was very little on Sandy McFay, just a blurb about how the old-fashioned boys’ adventure stories had come back to life.

‘Robert!’

He started, looking up guiltily. ‘Edwin! What are you doing here?’

‘Well, it is the biggest bookshop in the area. Or do you mean here in the local interest section? Did you read in the
Cumberland News
about the Sandy McFay promotion?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘I was intrigued. I’d never heard of Sandy McFay’s books, but Morris Little had them all, you know. I think I’ll buy this one,
The Wizard of Workhaven
. Sounds good.’

‘They are.’

‘Oh, well, you’d know, I suppose. Listen to what it says on the cover –
meticulously researched and authentic tales
which bring the north of England to life in adventures to appeal
to readers of all ages
. Sounds excellent!’

Edwin was rather jaunty, Robert thought. He had seemed more cheerful lately, though they had met less frequently than before. The two men moved towards the checkout holding their books. Robert looked at his watch.

‘Can’t stop, Edwin, I’m meeting someone in the Cumberland Hotel. We should catch up . . .’

‘Yes. In fact why don’t the four of us have supper?’

‘Four?’

‘Er, yes. You, Suzy, me and . . . well, maybe it’s early days . . .’

Robert raised his eyebrows, but before he could say anything he was summoned to the till. Edwin moved to the one next to him. He was in an uncharacteristically chatty mood.

‘These books must make a mint for the bloke who writes them. You should ask Sandy MacFay to give you some help with your writing efforts.’

‘Yes.’ Robert nodded ruefully. If only you knew, he thought. A fat lot of good it would do me.

Pat Johnstone didn’t report her husband missing because she never really knew when to expect him home. But in the early hours of Saturday morning when the doorbell rang with its cocky three notes chiming throughout the house, she expected that it would be about him. She scuttled downstairs, forgetting her slippers, feeling the thick stair carpet between her toes and trying not to think about anything. There were two men on the doorstep and she didn’t need to see the identification which they proffered as soon as the door opened.

‘Mrs Johnstone?’

‘Yes, that’s me. Oh no, it must be about David. Is he all right?’

‘I’m afraid he’s in the West Cumberland. Fractured skull and internal injuries, but he’ll be OK. May we come in?’

‘Yes . . .’ She shuffled backwards. ‘What happened?’

‘It’s a write-off. His car hit a tree.’

‘What? His car? A tree? What do you mean? Where was this?’

‘On a side road near Fellside. Pretty remote. It happened last night, we think, but no one saw it till this morning. We can take you over there now, to the hospital. I’m sorry but we do need to ask you a few questions first. Do sit down, or do you need to go and get something warmer on?’

‘No, I’m all right.’ She was breathing puffily and pulled her dressing gown around her. ‘What do you need me to tell you?’

‘Was your husband alone in the car?’

‘How would I know? I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday morning.’

‘It’s just that we found a couple of things on the passenger seat and we have to be sure there isn’t someone wandering out there with concussion. The glove compartment had sprung open with the impact, so we don’t know what was inside and fell out or what was left by a passenger. Do you recognize this by any chance?’ The police officer held out a scarf in deep red.

Pat looked at it suddenly very calmly and said, ‘Oh yes, a velvet man-made polyester scarf.’ She sneezed at the thought, but then said firmly, ‘Yes. It’s definitely mine.’

‘Hello.’

Robert was sitting in the Cumberland Hotel looking at his new book purchase, a half-drunk pint of Old Peculier beside him. The voice was the one he was expecting, but when he looked up he had a strange, giddying sensation.

‘Sandy!’ he said.

‘That’s me.’ Alex Gibson slipped into the settle opposite him. She laughed. ‘Look, I know I’ve gone to seed a bit – but there’s no need to be quite so shocked!’

‘I . . .well . . . I don’t know what to say!’

‘Try “How about a drink?” In the circumstances I’ll have a malt whisky, please.’

Robert got up and walked slowly to the bar. Then he turned round and looked back at the woman sitting opposite his seat. It was eight years since he had walked out of the hotel room and left her crying. Now he could see clearly that it was the same person. Sandy McFay. The successful woman author, who wrote well-crafted historical yarns for kids. Like Richmal Crompton and J. K. Rowling, taking refuge in an ambiguous name so no red-blooded little reader would think he was a sissy. They had laughed a lot about that. The hair was no longer raven, and she was certainly bigger, but the smile was the same, the wonderful skin tone and large dark eyes.

And yet now he could also see that it was same fat, grey woman from the Finance Department. But why should he have known? Context was so important. He thought back to Wanda Wisley’s party. He’d suspected then, hadn’t he? But why would Sandy McFay be at a party in Norbridge, incognito? He just hadn’t wanted to ask the question.

He put two large whiskies in front of them.

‘Thanks for contacting me. Why did you wait so long?’

‘Oh Robert, think about it.’

‘I have thought about it. When you came back to Norbridge why didn’t you get in touch?’

‘Because I was so angry with you! I had thought you might deliver me from that bastard Sam McFay. When we met at that writers’ conference, we had two nights of passion and a wonderful day in London. And then you told me you loved Mary and she needed you, and you were off back up north. Why would I want to contact you after that?’

‘But now you have. Why?’

‘Because I met your latest girlfriend at a church meeting, of all things.’

‘Suzy?’ He was astonished.

‘Yes. And I wanted to know how you finally summoned up the courage to leave your wonderful wife. Congrats to you and Suzy, and yet another bucket of cold sick for me!’

Robert waited before he spoke. ‘No, Sandy. I never left Mary. She left me. She died from cancer five years ago. She was diagnosed a year after we met and died two years later.’

‘Oh my God! Robert, I’m so sorry.’

‘I’m sorry too,’ he said. ‘When I asked you why you hadn’t contacted me, it was because I
did
contact you. I wrote to you after Mary died. Via the publisher who sent it on to your agent.’

‘But I never got it!’

They looked at each other across the table. Alex felt weak with relief. Robert had hurt her – but he had been true to his word. He had gone back to his wife who needed him. Eight years ago Alex had been the opposite of needy – at least on the surface. The star of the show, she was successful and independent, as well as tall, dark and curvy, with a growing reputation as a writer. She had made the keynote introduction at the conference where they met: a witty, intelligent speech. She had been attracted to Robert’s quiet, good-natured easiness – but it was just weeks after discovering her husband’s duplicity. She was still functioning but the shock was dormant. The nightmare had only just started to close in on her.

‘I bet my agent never sent your letter on. He gave up on me because I went to pieces, slowly at first, but when Sam finally asked me for a divorce, after his baby was born, I cracked. I fought it, but then I went completely bonkers. I was in a desperate state for about a year before coming to Fellside. Drink driving, jealous rages, hysteria. I was a nightmare.’

‘But you were doing so well with your books!’

‘Not after that! I tried writing after coming back north, but I’d lost it. I just vegetated and looked after Mum for a few years. Actually the truth is that she looked after me at first, but she was already going downhill. When she died I got a job at Norbridge College, in the Finance Department, just to do something. Anything. I remembered that you worked there, but I didn’t think we would ever meet. And we didn’t.’

‘But what if we had?’

‘Nothing would have happened. I thought you had ditched me so I didn’t want to know you. And to be honest, I realize now we’d have been wrong for each other, anyway. I’ve seen you around at the college since. You’re too comfortable for me. Too settled. I thought that was Mary who made you like that. But it’s Suzy, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I think it is.’ Robert smiled. ‘Have another drink, Alexandra McFay? Or Sandy Gibson? So you’re all of those people, are you?’

‘It helps to have a name which you can adapt. Alex and Sandy are both diminutives for Alexandra, and I was known by both as a child. After the divorce I ditched the McFay and went back to Gibson and switched from Sandy to Alex. My new agent knows all this of course – that’s why I’m here. She traced me, and wrote asking if she could take me on in January, out of the blue.’

‘Was that a turning point?’

‘That, among other things. Her letter said they wanted to promote the books in Carlisle so I thought I’d come and see what was going on. Anonymously, of course. And that gave me the idea for contacting you, on neutral ground.’

‘Not that neutral actually. I met Edwin Armstrong at Waterstone’s buying
The Wizard of Workhaven
.’