Theft on Thursday Page 14

  Brian shook his head violently, as if to scramble unwanted thoughts, and stood up. Useless to brood on the past. He pushed back his chair and walked through to the kitchen, where Sharon was busy with mugs and teabags. “Let’s sit down for a few minutes,” he said. “Take a short break. I’d like a little chat about next Sunday’s hymns.” This was an innovation in Long Farnden church. Consultation and compromise, these were Brian’s bywords. His tutors had shown him how to achieve his goals without resentment and animosity—at least, that was the aim. They hadn’t told him about such as ex-organist Gladys Mary Smith, of course, but she seemed to have subsided into a simmering resentment that he hoped would fade.

  “Now,” he said, opening the hymn book, “I thought that after the second lesson we might have number seven: ‘Christ, whose glory fills the skies.’ ”

  Sharon nodded. She was quite happy to play whatever he suggested, and was anxious to get back to her daydreaming. Would Max pick her up in the sports car to go to the meeting? She must make sure to mention it to the Carrs, so they could look out of their window.

  “By Charles Wesley, this one,” said Brian. “It has been described as ‘one of his loveliest progeny.’ ”

  “You what?” said Sharon.

  “Well, one of the best of his hymns. He composed a great many, you know.”

  “Right.” Sharon took another biscuit. She could do without this togetherness.

  “The words are full of light and darkness imagery,” ploughed on Brian. “So lovely to start the morning in the light of Christ’s glory …” He looked at Sharon, who was staring out of the window.

  “Oh, look,” she said. “There’s the dairy van. That’s good. Mrs. Carr was hoping they’d be there today with the new yoghurts. She was running short, she said.”

  Brian gave up. “Here,” he said, putting the list in front of her. “See what you think. I’m always happy to change them if you or the choir disagree. Now I must get on.”

  Funny bloke, thought Sharon. Still, all vicars are a bit odd. Rotten job, anyway, dealing with the likes of Mrs. T-J and old Gladys. She resumed work, going into Sandy’s bedroom briskly, determined not to think about him at all. Just another room to clean. Then she picked up a sweater from the floor and the smell of his aftershave wafted under her nose. She held it against her cheek and closed her eyes. Sod him, she thought, but was comforted by the possibility of the small revenge that Max had dangled before her.

  AS SHARON EMERGED FROM THE VICARAGE INTO THE darkening street, a car pulled up beside her, and she looked round, suddenly excited. But it was only the boss, Mrs. M, who lowered her window and said, “Everything all right, Sharon? Jump in, I’ll give you a lift.”

  “No, it’s OK thanks, it’s only a few steps.”

  “Come on, girl, I want a word.”

  “She who must be obeyed,” muttered Sharon, and got in. She’d had enough of little chats for one day.

  “Was everything all right at the vicarage, then?” repeated Lois.

  “Yep, fine,” said Sharon.

  “Did the vicar say anything about this morning? Old Cyril, an’ that?” Lois’s tone was casual.

  “No, not about Cyril. He just thanked me for playing the songs. Said Cyril would’ve bin pleased. But I’m not so sure about that!” Sharon laughed. “He was a miserable old sod most of the time. Mrs. Carr says we have to make allowances, because of his indigestion. Enough to make anyone bad-tempered, she says. He’s got a good heart, she says.” She paused, and added, “Had a good heart, I should say …”

  “Yes, well, it wasn’t a good end, Sharon. Poor old man must’ve been in great pain that last night. Did he complain at all … more than usual? In the shop, I mean?”

  Sharon shook her head. “No, he’d been in for some more tablets in the afternoon, and I opened a new box. He went off quite cheerful … for him …”

  They were outside the Millers’ garage, and Lois stopped. “There you are then,” she said. “Don’t forget the team meeting on Monday. Twelve o’clock sharp. Enjoy the weekend.”

  Sometimes, thought Sharon, as she opened her front door, Mrs. M could be quite nice.

  THIRTY

  AT NOON ON MONDAY THE SUN WAS STILL LOW, AND shining through Lois’s office window, where it filled the fish tank with light, dazzling the ghost goldfish hiding behind an immersed pottery ashtray remembered fondly by Gran as Ash Cottage. Fishy-Wishy had been golden once, but age and a tumour at the base of his tail fin had rendered him colourless, except for an ugly red patch of scaleless skin. Lois stared at him. “You’re a survivor, F. Wishy,” she said. “A lesson to us all.” Wiser than the vet, nature had taken pity on the fish and cured the tumour without aid. “No such luck for Cyril,” Lois muttered. “Perhaps he’d have done better to go easy on the tablets.”

  Tablets for indigestion. A new box opened by Sharon that very afternoon. Something that Mrs. Carr kept just for her favourites. Lois wrote a memo to herself. Shop: ask about tablets. She picked up her mug of coffee awkwardly and it slipped from her hand, spreading scalding liquid over her desk and on to her legs. “Bloody hell!” She gasped, jumped up and ran to the kitchen for help. Gran was not around, so she grabbed cloths and a kitchen roll and ran back. Luckily, only her memo pad was soaked, and she threw it quickly into the bin. The skin on her thighs was beginning to sting, and when she had finished mopping up she rushed upstairs for the burn cream. She was still smoothing it over the tender skin when a knock at the front door signalled the start of the weekly team meeting.

  “Coming!” she yelled, and pulled on a dry pair of jeans. She felt dizzy and queasy.

  “Mrs. M? Are you OK?” It was Bill, standing foursquare and reassuring on the step. She remembered his nursing experience in Tresham General, and explained.

  “Shock, probably,” he said. “Go and sit down and I’ll make you a drink.”

  At this moment, Derek arrived back from a job he’d finished early, took one look at Lois and made for the cupboard in the corner. “Brandy,” he said. “That’s what you need, my girl.”

  When Bill returned with a cup of hot, sweet tea, an argument ensued. Derek stuck by the brandy, and Bill said it was not right. They became so heated that Lois realized she was totally forgotten and stood up.

  “Derek! Bill! Shut up the pair of you! I’m fine now, and we’ve got work to do. Gran’s around somewhere, Derek, and she’ll get your dinner. Bill—sit down and wait for the others. I’m just going for pee. Back in a minute.”

  The two men looked at each other. “Right,” said Derek. “That seems to be that. She’s like that, Bill. Might as well leave her be.”

  Bill nodded. “Yeah, well, you’re right. Still, I’ll keep an eye during the meeting. Just to be on the safe side.”

  “Fine,” said Derek, and left the room.

  When they were all there, Enid Abraham, Sheila, Bill, Sharon, Bridie and Hazel with her bump, Lois picked up her pen and said, “Morning everybody. Let’s get the schedules sorted, and then we can go over anything else you want to talk about.” She shifted uneasily in her seat.

  “Sure you’re all right to carry on?” said Bill, unwisely.

  “Forget it, Bill,” snapped Lois, and took them through the week’s jobs at a cracking pace.

  Enid was the first to speak up. “I wonder if I could make a suggestion?” she said mildly. Enid Abraham had gone through dreadful family troubles, but had come through with increased confidence. Lois had a soft spot for her, and remembered how kind she had been in giving Jamie his first piano lessons.

  “Of course,” she said, and moved her legs, wincing.

  The others looked sideways at each other. If any of them had offered suggestions, they’d have got a dusty answer, especially this morning, when Lois was clearly suffering.

  Enid continued, “I have been wondering if it would be a good idea to suggest—for the spring—a special package to our existing customers? Spring cleaning, in the good old-fashioned way. A good turn-out and airing throughout t
he house. It was always done in the old days, and I remember as a child how sweet my grandmother’s house smelled after she’d gone through it like a tornado!”

  Again the others exchanged glances, waiting for the explosion. The thought of extra work, more organizing, would surely bring forth a storm. But Lois smiled at Enid, nodded her head, and said, “Great! Why didn’t the rest of us think of that? Thanks, Enid, you’re a star.”

  Bill frowned. Had Lois flipped? Was this what happened with shock and a large brandy? He cleared his throat, and said, “If there’s nothing else, perhaps we should let you go and have a rest, Lois. Scalding can be very nasty.” He braced himself, waiting for another snub, but Sharon spoke up first.

  “Um, there was one thing before you go, Mrs. M. I’ve been invited to a sort of party, and need to get a new dress, an’ the buses aren’t that good, an’ I thought I’d go in on Thursday afternoon—the party’s on Thursday—and see what I could get. Trouble is,” she carried on without a pause, “I’m supposed to be at the vicarage.” She stopped, smiled brightly at Lois, and waited.

  Lois realized she was feeling distinctly odd now, and said quickly, “Fine, Sharon. Whatever. I’ll cover for you. Now, if there’s nothing else …” And then she fainted and was caught by swift action from Bill, who carried her upstairs to bed.

  When she surfaced later, and sat up in bed drinking tea and trying to reassure an anxious Derek, she realized she could remember nothing from what had happened at the meeting. Something about spring cleaning? Ah well, she’d ask Bill. He would fill her in, and then she could get on with her week’s work.

  Gran quietly cleaned the coffee stains off the carpet, emptied the soggy waste paper from the bin, and polished the top of Lois’s desk. “Takes on too much, that girl,” she muttered to herself. “Expect she was miles away, not thinking what she was doing. Just like those other times when she got mixed up with that cop. Damn it all!”

  REBECCA WAS HOME FROM SCHOOL AND COOKING. THE kitchen was full of steam and warmth, and Bill put his arms around her waist and kissed her floury face.

  “Pooh!” she said. “You smell of cows!”

  Offended, Bill withdrew. “Never bothered you before,” he said. “Anyway, it’s part of my job. Once I’d finished at the Hall, I had to help with one of old Giles’s cows in trouble. Sebastian sent an SOS. That’s why I’m a bit late.”

  “Hadn’t noticed,” said Rebecca. She was remembering the good smell of Sandy Mackerras, the clean masculine scent that surrounded her when they kissed.

  “I’m out tonight,” she said. “We’ll have supper early. That’s why I’m well on with it now.”

  “Where’re you going? You never said anything this morning …” Bill was instantly suspicious. Did she think he was a fool? All those lecherous looks from Sandy in church, returned with blushes and smiles from his Rebecca … Yes, his Rebecca! Maybe it was time he said something. But what? He and Rebecca were not married. She was free to go anywhere and with anyone, and if he didn’t like it, he could leave. It was her cottage, after all. She’d lived there before he joined her, coming down from Yorkshire in determined pursuit. No, his commonsense told him it would be best to ride it out, unless it became too unbearable.

  “Governors’ meeting,” she said quickly. “Probably go on later than usual. A lot to discuss, what with the new classroom extension and all that. Don’t wait up for me.”

  This was too much. “Go on that late?” exploded Bill. “Come on, Rebecca, I wasn’t born yesterday. What’re you up to?”

  She gave him an icy look, and said, “Don’t ever say that to me again, Bill Stockbridge. We have an open relationship, remember? Respect each other. Trust each other.” She felt a pang when she said this. Still, nothing had really happened with Sandy. Mild flirting, that was all.

  MAX WEDDERBURN (OR DARREN COCKSHUTT, AS HIS mother knew him) sat in his cramped bed-sitting-room in Tresham, staring at the television. He had come home from work—a mundane job in the office of a second-hand car showroom—and put in his favourite video, fast-forwarding it to the sequence he had played over and over again. He loved the Coen brothers’ films, with their strange twisted plots and spooky violence. This one, a tale of the Deep South, featured three convicts escaping, and had the most exciting scene of all. He peered closely at the screen, where a black friend of the convicts is dragged by the KuKlux Klan to a huge and fearsome gathering of figures in white robes and pointed hoods, a giant fiery cross towering over them. Their leader, a bigoted, racist local, harangues the chanting multitude in violent and inciting language, and tension rises like the leaping flames from the cross.

  Max huddled close to the screen, his fists clenched. The next scene, where the black guitarist is rescued, was not to his taste. He licked his lips and reached for the off button.

  His mobile rang.

  Who the hell? “Hello, Darren?” It was his mother, asking him to collect his washing next time he was round that way, and would he like to come to tea on Sunday, when his Auntie Doris would be coming and she’d love to see him.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “WHERE’RE WE GOING, THEN?” SHARON HAD FI-nally decided on jeans and a new top, with a scarlet leather jacket and her hair in a swinging ponytail. She looked clean and fresh, and very young.

  “You’ll see,” said Max, glancing at her approvingly and smiling. They continued along the dark country lanes in silence for a while, Sharon trying not to notice that the glamorous sports car was the most uncomfortable ride she’d ever had. Max drove well, but she felt every bump in the rough road surface.

  “Max,” she said tentatively.

  “Yes?” He could see that she was looking at her own reflection in the dark window.

  “You know about my eyes?” she continued slowly.

  “What about them?” Max’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Well, one of them wanders around a bit,” she said, turning to look straight at his profile. It was a good profile, and you couldn’t see his teeth in the dark. “I thought I might see about getting it fixed. Now I’m getting out and about an’ that.” His reaction startled her.

  “No!” he said violently, then lowered his voice quickly. “No, don’t do that, Sharon. You’re perfect as you are. Our Sandy wouldn’t have anything to do with you unless you were special, you can be sure of that!”

  She blinked. “Oh. Right, then. Thanks.”

  A near thing, that, thought Max. The strangely independent eye had been the very thing that had attracted the Wycombe Society. Eyes like Sharon’s had magical properties, gave mystical power to their owners. It was in the lore. Not that the likes of Sharon would know about that, of course, but she would be shown how to make the most of her gift.

  “Oh, I know where we are!” she said, changing the subject with relief. “It’s Mrs. T-J’s! We used to play Trespass in there when we were kids. Is she a member of your lot?”

  “Not really,” he said evasively. “But her granddaughter, Annabelle—you know her?—comes along. Mrs. T-J is abroad at the moment, inspecting her racing stables in South Africa. A woman of many parts, our Mrs. T-J!”

  The car approached the house, then turned off on a curving drive to where the outbuildings huddled round a courtyard. Lights were blazing in one of them, and Max pulled up outside. He went quickly round to the passenger door, and helped Sharon to struggle out. Not very elegant, she said to herself. I shall have to practise that. She looked through the lighted window and saw a dozen or so people, all in animated conversation, full glasses in hand. Suddenly she felt frightened. What was she doing here? It was not her world at all. But it was the world of her novels, of her dreams. And so she braced herself and followed Max into the meeting.

  THAT AFTERNOON, LOIS HAD TURNED UP AT THE VICarage as substitute for Sharon, as arranged. It had been a strange couple of hours. She sat now in front of the fire, cup of tea in hand, and watched Gran’s fingers busy with her knitting. Derek had said he would be late, and the two had eaten earlier.


  “Everything all right with the vicar?” Gran had decided Brian Rollinson would do. She found him a bit secretive, withdrawn sometimes, and had said so to Lois, who’d agreed. But both had said they liked him and thought he was doing a good job.

  “He was fine,” Lois said. But that was not altogether true. He was friendly enough, as always, but had followed her about the house like a dog, starting sentences and not finishing them, leaving questions hanging in the air. What had he wanted to know? More than once he had asked where Sharon had gone. When she’d mentioned a chap with a sports car, he had frowned, and said he thought that Max Wedderburn was one of Sandy’s less desirable friends. Lived in Tresham and was known to the police. Had been involved in some racist secret society that plagued the black community in town and left threatening messages scrawled on the homes of known … er … gays.

  Suddenly Lois remembered the contorted face on television news, and Annabelle’s sudden “Max!” blurted out and then swiftly retracted. Oh my God, she thought now, watching the flames flicker in the grate, what is our Sharon up to now? True to form, the overprotected precious daughter was the most likely to go off the rails—and in Sharon’s case, right off and into a bog, if Cowgill was right. Lois sighed. Better have a word with him. She finished her tea and said there were one or two things she had to clear up in her study. Gran looked hard at her. “Derek will be home soon,” she said. “You promised him ice cream, and there’s none in the freezer.”

  “OK, OK! I’ll go next door and borrow some as soon as I’ve cleared up.” She left the room, and only just stopped herself banging the door. Sometimes Mum was a bit too ever-present. You bet she’d have her ears flapping for the sound of the telephone.