The Chorister at the Abbey (18 page)

29

Be still then, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the heathen, and I will be exalted in the earth.
Psalm 46:10

Wanda Wisley sat at the end of Freddie’s bed and wondered why hospitals always made her feel so nauseous. A volunteer went past with a cup of coffee and she thought she might gag there and then. Well, at least that would punctuate the boredom. Freddie was as restless as it was possible for a big man in a small bed to be.

‘I want to go hoooome,’ he whined like an irritable child. ‘Let me oooout!’

‘They say you can go home tomorrow. The consultant wants one last look at you this afternoon.’

‘
Ach
, Wanda, you’re so strict. Discipline! It would be nice if you could be like that at home sometimes! In black leather!’ He leered and made as much of a lunge at her as he could.

‘Gerroff! This is a hospital, for God’s sake, not a bear garden.’

‘A bare garden. What a sexy idea, Wanda! I can see you now, like a little gnome with no knickers on. How cute. But we need a bigger garden.’

‘Oh yes? Like at that stupid convent place where you nearly got killed? If you think that after this whole business I’m going to live anywhere other than the middle of town you’re mad. I want to get rid of that cottage, Freddie, and move to one of those new refurbished lofts above the shopping mall. Or if they’re too boring we’ll go to Carlisle or Newcastle and commute. No more rural idyll crap!’

‘But Wanda, I love the country!’

‘Well, it doesn’t love you. Look at the state you’re in!’

‘You don’t understand,
Liebchen
. What happened to me was nothing to do with the country. Real country people don’t let their cattle out to roam over the mountains in the winter! The animals are snug inside.’

‘So what do you think happened, Mr Lonely Goatherd?’

‘Don’t mock, Wanda. What happened to me was deliberate and whoever did it did not care whether or I lived or died. I think they made a hole in the wall for the animals to go through.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’ve had time to read the Psalms since I was here. Listen to this, Psalm 22 verse 12 –
Many oxen are come about me; fat
bulls of Basan close me in on every side. They gape upon me with
their mouths, as it were a ramping and roaring lion. I am poured
out like water and all my bones are out of joint.
And Wanda, it goes on to talk about dogs being set on me! I guess that would have been next!’

‘But you managed to survive . . .’

‘It was a guardian angel, Wanda, you bet! But I tell you there are some strange things happening around here. But I won’t let it put me off. That house of the sisters is a lovely place. Someone wants to stop us having it, but it’s a special place that needs special people. Psalm 147 verse 13:
For
he hath made fast the bars of thy gates and hath made blessed thy
children within thee
.’

‘Yeah, right. All your children are down the loo with the Durex.’

‘That may be. But there’s another psalm which says:
I
will sing a new song unto thee O God. And sing praises unto
thee upon a ten stringed lute
. The bass guitar, Wanda! Maybe that is what we are here to do!’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! It must be years of drug abuse. You’re over the top. You make me want to vomit!’ And Wanda lurched towards the nurses’ station, calling for something to be sick in.

Poppy and Tom stood some distance away from the bus station in the middle of Norbridge.

‘I don’t really like doing this,’ said Tom.

‘Well, you’ve no choice.’

‘But it’s spying on her, isn’t it? I mean she’s got a right to go wherever she wants to go, hasn’t she? It’s not our business.’

He was cold. He’d left his squashy hat at home in recognition of a burst of soft sunlight, and also because of Poppy’s disgust as he’d reached for it, but now the wind was coming down from the fells, where it was still winter, and his ears hurt. It wasn’t helped by the fact that Poppy had made him get his hair cut. ‘God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,’ the barber had said, laughing at the old saying. It was bollocks, Tom thought; his neck was bloody freezing.

‘There she is,’ whispered Poppy. They were looking intently into the window of a games shop and the plate glass gave them a clear reflection of the scene opposite. ‘God, what does she look like!’

‘Yukky.’

Chloe was wearing an old tweed coat of Lynn’s, thick stockings and flat heavy trainers. This time she didn’t have the red velvet scarf round her head, but a handkerchief was tied behind her ears. Her hair was tucked back.

‘Which bus is she getting, Tom?’

‘The one back to Uplands. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it? After getting her mum to drop her off in Norbridge, now she looks as if she’s going straight back home.’

It was the Saturday morning of the most momentous week of Tom’s life. Poppy was now officially his girlfriend in every possible way and he was still reeling from the effect of her awesome persuasive powers. Here he was, scrubbed up, hair like some sort of smoothie, on a mission impossible which would have seemed madness only a fortnight earlier.

The day before, Poppy had suddenly announced: ‘Chloe needs to know about this!’

‘Does she?’ They had been lying in Poppy’s bed again, watching old episodes of the
Torchwood
series.

‘Yes, she does. She might have ideas about you herself. Anyway it’s my time for showing off!’

‘Don’t tell her everything.’

‘I’m not some sort of perv! I just want her to know that we’re an item. And anyway we used to text every day.’ Poppy frowned; Tom watched as her thumbs tap-danced over the mobile keys. Then they had watched more TV, but there had been no response from Chloe. Poppy tried again and a few minutes later the noise of a message arriving pinged through the sound of video gunfire.

‘Yes, it’s her,’ Poppy had said, and concentrated deeply on the message. ‘But she doesn’t want to meet. I’m not important enough for her, it seems. Well, I’m not going to let her get away with just saying
No, I’ve got plans
. What about tomorrow then?’ Poppy’s thumbs had clacked like lobster claws.

‘Look, this is better,’ she’d said when the replying message pinged back.
No. Going t Nbridge w mum. Busy after
.

Poppy texted,
C u Figs? 1030?

The message replied,
Can’t. Mum at hairdrs 10. Then have
plans
.

‘Cow!’ Poppy had said angrily. ‘I’ve been back all this week and she hasn’t wanted to see me once. She’s either jealous or stuck up worse than ever. Or . . .’ She’d chewed her hair and crossed her eyes reflectively. The eye-crossing was her favourite trick.

‘Or what?’

‘Or there’s something going on that she doesn’t want me in on.’

That was when Poppy had formulated her plan. There was one multi-storey car park in Norbridge, serving the shopping mall. They would wait there between nine twenty and ten to see where Chloe went. ‘I know which hairdresser her mum goes to. It’s Sessions in the mall. They wouldn’t park anywhere else but the multi-storey. Anyway it’s worth a try. Something to do.’

Tom had acquiesced without saying anything. He was completely uninterested in Chloe’s secret lover and he suspected there wasn’t anyone at all. But he liked Poppy’s style. She was becoming quite forceful; he thought that coming out from under Chloe’s shadow was the best thing that had happened to her. He’d completely recovered from his crush on Chloe and thought she had lost the plot since Christmas, but he liked the way Poppy still cared about her, even if she had a funny way of showing it!

So here they were, following her. That made him uncomfortable, of course; but there was no way he was going to argue with Poppy over it.

‘Shit,’ Poppy whispered. ‘What shall we do? The bus will be leaving in a minute. And if we get on she’ll see us.’

‘Her bus is going to Uplands, isn’t it? It’s not far. We can get a taxi.’

‘Can we? Where from?’

‘The rank by the shopping precinct main entrance. Come on, Poppy. I’ve got some money.’ He was starting to enjoy this. He felt like a secret agent and Poppy was clearly impressed. She followed the newly authoritative Tom to the taxi rank and was bowled over when she heard him say, in rather a deep and decisive voice to the driver: ‘Follow that bus!’

In Tarnfield, Robert held the telephone away from his ear as Edwin Armstrong shouted at him.

‘So you’re telling me that Sandy McFay is Alex Gibson. But why didn’t she tell me?’

Yet even as Edwin said it, he thought of Marilyn and his own mystery. We’re older, he thought. Life is full of baggage. I haven’t exactly come clean. The thought calmed him.

It was later on Saturday afternoon. Robert had made his call straight after arriving home from his meeting with Sandy, before he could bottle out.

‘Yes, that’s right. Alex Gibson is Sandy McFay,’ he said again.

Robert understood why his friend sounded outraged and confused. But he had promised Alex that he would tell Edwin what had happened. It seemed a fair exchange for leaving her sobbing in their bed in London all those years ago. She had insisted that he told Edwin everything, however embarrassing. Edwin would either accept it or not. So Robert took a deep breath and went on . . .

‘There’s something more. Sandy and I know each other because we met eight years ago at a conference and fell for each other. I never followed it up because Mary . . . well, we were married and there was no way I would leave her. And soon afterwards Mary became very ill. But you should know that Sandy – sorry, I mean Alex – and I were very close. Just for a few days.’

Robert listened to the other man’s breathing. He had given Edwin a lot to take in. Finally Edwin said, ‘And now?’

‘What do you mean, “and now”?’

‘So is there anything between you and Alex now?’

‘She’s a very attractive woman, Edwin. But I’ve met Suzy. And Suzy is the one for me.’ Even if she doesn’t think so herself, Robert thought.

Edwin took a long time breathing in and out. ‘Does Suzy know about Alex?’

‘Not yet. Suzy’s away in London. She’s back tomorrow night. I’ll tell her as soon as she gets off the train.’

And that might be the end of everything, Robert thought. So much for the Perfect Husband. Once Suzy finds out how good a husband I really was, she’ll either laugh and never take me seriously again, or send me packing as a charlatan. But that isn’t Edwin’s problem. Edwin was obviously thinking of something else.

‘So there’s absolutely no chance of you taking up with Alex again?’

How odd, and how significant, that that should be his first concern.

‘Absolutely none. In fact, when Suzy comes home we’ll invite you both round to dinner.’

If we’re still together, he thought dourly. But it was a good idea, strange and impetuous though it seemed. In a small place like Norbridge so many people had been involved with each other that if dinner parties excluded former lovers, there would be no entertaining. The great thing about social life in a small country town was that there was no escape – you were one society, and once the gossip died down, all you could do was face the facts and get on with it. Life went on with the same people. There was no alternative.

Edwin said, ‘I’m seeing Alex next week. We’re going to
The Dream of Gerontius
in Newcastle.’

‘Rather you than me. It’s not my favourite piece.’

‘But the point is, it will give me a chance to talk to her about all this. It’s a lot to take in. Unbelievable.’

‘Oh, come on, Edwin. Surely you sensed there was more to Alex than a deeply depressed and bad-tempered finance clerk? Alex is a formidable woman who even managed to make her mental breakdown very thorough. But at Wanda Wisley’s party she was starting to look her old self again. You could tell she had something about her.’

‘I suppose you’re right. I did sense there was more to her than met the eye.’

‘And you’re similar people, Edwin. Both creative.’

That was a point, Edwin thought, surprised at Robert’s remark. Maybe that was one of the many things that appealed to him, intuitively, about Alex Gibson. He had been pottering around looking at the Psalms again, but nothing had yet inspired him. Maybe talking to Alex would help.

‘Thanks for telling me, Robert. It can’t have been easy.’

‘And it won’t make any difference?’

‘Of course it will! But it might be for the better! The truth’s always best, you know.’

Robert winced, and thought: We’ll see about that. And at the same time Edwin was thinking: Yes. But I’m not telling the truth myself. Not yet. At least Alex had made sure he knew everything now. Could he do the same?

In The Briars, Robert put the phone down with relief. Now the only thing left was to tell Suzy. How would she react? Jealousy? Contempt? Disgust? Fury at his hypocrisy?

The one reaction he did not expect was the one he got on Sunday night.

30

The Lord is nigh unto them that are of contrite heart, and will save such as be of an humble spirit.
Psalm 34:18

Norbridge bus station was not a pleasant sight on a Sunday evening. The passengers were largely grey-faced pensioners and students, the latter exhausted by a weekend of partying and the former just exhausted. The prospect of a long bus journey in the dark was not the warmest and most welcoming thought at this time of year. There was a smattering of tourists, some in walking gear and some in smart bulky coats or macs. But most people were dressed in dreary layers, trailing all sorts of mismatched luggage and occasionally strewing sweet papers, magazine pages and flyers to be mashed on the dirty concrete floor by hundreds of feet. The platforms had a down-at-heel feel. And it was cold.

Poppy and Tom sat close together on a bench waiting for the bus to Newcastle. You could see their breath in the air.

‘It’s been a good week,’ Tom said again. The best thing was he was absolutely sure that Poppy agreed. And she was reliable. The knowledge that there would be no more pounding hearts over emails, or terrifying insecurity, like the sort that had taken him to the Gents during that power cut at the college, made him feel more truly grown up than their sexual initiation. Manly, even.

‘Yeah. Good. Really good,’ said Poppy, and then she did her now familiar cross-eyed frown. ‘What did you make of that business with Chloe yesterday?’

‘Dunno. Weird.’

‘You can’t just keep saying “weird” as if that explains it.’

‘Well, it does explain it. Weird behaviour.’

‘But why, thickhead?’

‘Dunno.’

They both sat thinking about their spying activities the day before. The taxi ride had been hairy, partly because the bus driver knew his route like the back of his hand and rode his suspension with a panache which the minicab couldn’t emulate, and partly because it was just such a crazy thing to be doing.

The local bus to Uplands had pulled up to a screeching halt outside Little’s store. There were cars parked outside and Saturday shoppers milling round. Tom asked the taxi to pull up behind it. While Tom paid the fare, Poppy had watched Chloe get off the bus, cross the road and walk up the hill for a few yards to get another bus.

‘Shit. She’s changing buses. Quick, look in Little’s window so she doesn’t see us.’ Poppy fixed her frown on a fascinating box of satsumas.

‘Which bus will that be?’ Tom asked.

‘It’s the bus to Fellside, I think.’

‘She must be going to Fellside Fellowship.’

‘On a Saturday morning? Don’t be a plonker: even I know that they don’t do anything on Saturday mornings and I never go to church.’

Tom thought back to his days in the choir at Uplands Parish Church. ‘Maybe it’s a coffee morning?’

‘Chloe at a coffee morning? She may be going nuts but she’s not that nuts. Dream on, Tom.’

Nettled, Tom had to think of a new idea. ‘OK, so if we walk in the other direction we can pick up the Fellside bus at its previous stop. And if you get a paper, something big like er . . .
The Daily Telegraph
, and we sit at the back reading it, she won’t notice us. And if she does, well, we just say “Hi!” We don’t owe her an explanation.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. Good thinking, Tom.’

Poppy had gone into Little’s to buy the paper, and they walked quickly down to the previous bus stop. The Fellside bus, half full of early shoppers coming back from Workhaven, pulled in and they got seats at the back on the lurching bit which no one liked, perched over the engine. Poppy unfolded the
Telegraph
.

Chloe boarded the bus and didn’t see them. Poppy had thought she looked as if she was in a dream anyway, and for a moment she wondered whether Chloe had taken her experiments with drugs a bit further. But that wouldn’t square with the self-consciously dowdy clothes.

‘C’mon,’ she’d said when Chloe got off the bus at the Co-op in Fellside. They had hurried to catch up with her, but it was a busy stopping point and they were at the back of the bus. The strategy which had helped them follow her unseen now let them down. By the time they were off the bus, Chloe had disappeared.

‘Where’s she gone?’ Poppy had looked down the road to the low brick building that was St Luke’s, now Fellside Fellowship. Chloe was nowhere in sight, so she certainly wasn’t going there. But there was no sign of her up the road either.

‘She’s gone,’ Tom had said. They stood there, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. ‘We’d better give up.’

‘All right. I’m getting cold anyway.’ They’d gone into the Co-op to buy some fizzy drinks, but they never reached the checkout because of some mad woman ranting on about a missing scarf, and taking up all the attention of the girl on the till.

‘Might as well go home,’ Tom had said.

So they had taken the bus back to Poppy’s house between Uplands and Norbridge, and watched DVDs. Occasionally Poppy frowned and crossed her eyes, but in an unspoken pact they didn’t mention her former friend again. The rest of the weekend had been OK. Well, great really.

Now it was over. The bus to Newcastle rocked into the bus station. ‘Time to go,’ Poppy said resolutely.

Tom felt an awful lurch in his stomach. ‘Can I come and see you?’

‘Yeah. All right.’ She looked at him intently and he wondered what she was going to say.

‘Keep an eye on Chloe for me?’ she said surprisingly. ‘There’s something really weird going on.’

‘That’s what I said,’ yelped Tom. ‘Weird!’

‘Yes.’ Poppy was on the bus now. ‘I know you did. You’re right. See you.’

‘See you.’ Then in a moment of madness he added: ‘Love ya!’

‘Love you too,’ Poppy said, chewing a bit of hair and crossing her eyes. Then she disappeared to make way for a noisy family seeing off their tearful grandma.

Love you, love you, love you, Tom sang all the way home.

At the same time, Suzy Spencer was getting out of the train at Carlisle station. She travelled to Tarnfield in a cab and let herself in at The Briars. She took her overnight bag upstairs and then came running down, face flushed.

‘Robert, we have to talk.’

‘Too true. Let me get you a drink. I want you to sit down, Suzy, and listen to me. No, this can’t be a discussion. I’ve got things that have to be said and you need to listen.’

He had rehearsed this moment but he still found it hard to speak. Since his confident conversation with Edwin the day before, he had thought constantly about what he was going to say to Suzy. He needed to apologize for being so pompous about marriage when he had made a mess of it himself. He needed to explain that he didn’t think she needed a stepfather for Jake but that he would be privileged to take on that role. And most importantly he had to make her see that she would never be another Mary and that he would never be that sort of husband again. Every marriage was different. And if one day, perhaps, she would marry him, then it would be for his good and not necessarily for hers. He would never again presume to tell her what she needed.

He blushed and stumbled through his confession. ‘So, you see I wasn’t a good husband. I did my best but I was tempted more than once.’

‘So you were unfaithful! You hypocrite! Mr Perfect with his trousers down.’

‘If you put it like that. I loved Mary, but it was tough. And though I wasn’t faithful, she never knew.’

‘Well, that’s one for the village to enjoy!’

‘If you want to put an ad in Lo-cost’s window then I’ll have to grin and bear it.’

‘You should, literally! But seriously, how much damage did you cause?’

‘I think that Sandy – that is, Alex Gibson – was the only woman I really hurt. I’m deeply sorry about that. I know you must think I’m a self-righteous old fart and you’re right. But I needed to escape from Mary sometimes, and I will never need to escape from you. You’ve saved me from all that mess.’

‘You mean
I’ve
rescued
you
?’

‘Absolutely! Saved me from myself! Thank you!’

And to his astonishment Suzy leapt off the sofa, did a pole-dance round the door jamb and kissed him with a warmth and passion he hadn’t felt for months.

‘I love you, Robert Clark. It’s so much better now!’

‘What, now you’ve found out I was unfaithful? After all I said?’

‘Of course! What do you think it’s been like for me living in the shadow of your unimpeachable behaviour? And thinking that you only loved me because I was the local flake in need of care and protection?’

‘But Suzy, I was a bad husband.’

‘Yes, you were.’ She paused. ‘But maybe you’ll get another chance . . .’

* * *

Pat Johnstone looked at the velvet scarf and sneezed. ‘Horrible thing,’ she said, and pushed it away.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Christine Prout said, sipping her coffee and looking as if the scarf on the coffee table in Pat’s lounge was a snake about to strike. ‘It’s all right in itself. It’s just the implications. You say they found this in the car with David?’

‘Yes, the police brought it over. I said it was mine straight away but of course it’s not! I wanted to get my hands on it. Ugh. It’s already brought me out in a rash.’ Pat scratched her skinny arm under her lambswool sweater.

‘So you think it must belong to, er, David’s other woman?’

‘Well, who else could it belong to? That was my theory anyway. I thought he was up to something in Fellside. I followed him once, you know, last year. He parked the car on the edge of the council estate and walked in there. I couldn’t go any further or he’d have seen me. But I’m pretty sure it was some woman he was meeting. So now I thought I’d go into the Co-op and ask if I could leave the scarf there for someone to pick it up. I wanted to leave my name and address so the owner could let me know she’d got it back.’

‘And what happened?’

‘The stupid girl on the till said these scarves were ten a penny. McCrea’s in Norbridge had job lots of them. Everybody’s got one.’

‘I think you’re right. I think my sister’s got one like this.’

‘Exactly! So I brought it home. I must say right up until Saturday night I felt pretty good about having it. But now, I don’t think it’s going to help me at all.’

‘Do you really want to find out who David might be . . . seeing?’

‘I don’t know . . .’ Pat paused. ‘I’m not sure any more. You see, it’s not the fact that he’s got another woman which bothers me.’ She stood up and walked to the big plate glass windows looking over the hills. The house was almost too warm, but she shivered. And she suddenly changed the subject. ‘You can see the old convent from your sister’s bungalow, can’t you?’

‘Yes, you can. It’s the only good view of the grounds.’

Pat paused. ‘I can trust you, Chris, can’t I? We’ve been friends for years, haven’t we? And you know what David’s like?’

‘Oh, Pat . . .’

‘You know what I mean, Chris. The reason I’m asking you is that I want you to ask your sister if she’s seen anyone in the grounds of the convent. Digging.’

‘Digging? Why on earth would you want to know about that?’ Chris wrinkled her brow. When Pat had asked her to come over on Monday morning for a heart-to-heart she had imagined all sorts of things, but not this.

Pat scowled and walked up and down in front of the window. ‘You know I said I followed David last year? Well, I followed him on Friday as well. When he left Norbridge, I followed him to Fellside and I saw him park the car by the convent. He strolled through the hole in the wall. He walked through the garden and then he fell.’

‘Fell? Where?’

‘Into a bloody big hole in the ground, that’s where. From what I could see it looked like someone had dug a great big grave. I just turned round and ran back to my car. I thought David would start yelling and people would come running, so I drove away like the clappers. But then I went round the block and came back; the car was still there so I guessed that David was knocked out.’

‘And you didn’t do anything to help? I mean, like go and find him or get an ambulance?’

‘You must be joking. If David had seen me he’d have known I’d followed him and my life wouldn’t be worth living! No, the convent’s right on the main road. Someone would have come for him sooner or later.’

Chris Prout swallowed. She would never describe her relationship with Reg as particularly warm, but she couldn’t imagine leaving him in a hole in the ground!

‘Anyway,’ Pat was saying, unfazed, ‘someone must have got David out of the pit and into the car.’

‘But what makes you think it was a properly dug pit?’ Chris was confused. Something slipped into her mind that Reg had said worriedly a few days earlier. ‘Couldn’t it have been subsidence? Or collapsed drains?’

‘Nah! I had my driving specs on and I could see the edges. Clean as a whistle. Believe me, it was dug really deep, and then covered over. Like an animal trap.’

‘Well, maybe someone was doing the garden. Or putting in a new septic tank!’ Chris reasoned. ‘And then maybe poor David was concussed and climbed out himself – and then drove when he was only half conscious which is why he hit the tree?’ Chris was trying to be helpful, but Pat looked at her with contempt.

‘No one’s officially working up there. And no one could climb out of that hole unaided. No, I think the person who got David out of that trap was the same person who dug it.’

‘But that means someone deliberately tried to injure him!’

‘Oh, clever girl! Go to the top of the class and give the pencils out!’

‘But Pat, shouldn’t you go to the police? And anyway, why do you want to know?’

‘Because the person who dug the pit must be on to something too! There’s something big going on and that convent is right in the middle of it, literally. And your sister’s place is too. David wouldn’t usually go to such trouble over a jerry-built bungalow. If there’s any money to be made, I want to know about it. The bastard has tucked it all away and I haven’t a penny. But things are changing here!’ Pat gave a cackle. ‘The only reason I need to find out about his tart is to make sure she hasn’t got her nose in the trough. It’s his money I’m after. Not his willy! I’ve had enough of that!’