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  The Requiem had not, of course, been his idea. He couldn’t tell the difference between Faure and Andrew Lloyd Webber. But Sandy had been so keen to have a go, planning to recruit new choir members and even possibly inviting one of the Tresham church choirs to supplement the eventual performance. Brian himself had doubts. Though he had very little musical talent or appreciation, he was nevertheless aware of the choir’s limitations. But Sandy was difficult to resist.

  “Well, yes, I am, actually, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones. Well, that is, serious in examining the possibility of such a plan. Naturally, it would be in the hands of Sandy. Who, if I may say so,” he added, warming up, “is quite capable of working a musical miracle!”

  Mrs. T-J frowned. “That is very nearly blasphemy, Brian,” she said acidly.

  “Forgive me,” Brian said quickly. “But what I meant was—”

  “I’m well aware of what you meant. You asked if you could come and discuss the matter with me, and I have allowed half an hour of my very busy day to consider it with you. As far as I am concerned, the proposal is a foolish, unrealistic one, and I would certainly not give it my support. But then,” she added with serpent-like agility, “it is really not for me to say. You are the vicar. Sandy Mackerras is the choir master, and the decision is yours and his. However,” she added, getting up from her chair dismissively, “I would remind you that choir members are there voluntarily. Most cannot read music, some have little voice, but all are there because they love their church, the old familiar hymn tunes, the association with a village tradition which some remember spoken of by their grandparents. And finally,” she concluded, walking towards the door, “they are free to leave whenever they choose, and will not hesitate to do so.”

  Brian followed her to the door, his face burning like a naughty schoolboy. “You can find your way out, can’t you,” she said, and he fled.

  “SANDY, IT LOOKS LIKE THE REQUIEM IS A NON-STARTER.” They were in the dreary sitting room of the modern vicarage. Brian had done what he could with paintings on the walls, a few pieces of good furniture. But it was still a skimped, four-square room with metal-framed windows and a characterless beige-tiled fireplace. What a pity he was too late for the old vicarage. He would have felt at home in its lofty rooms and spacious gardens.

  “What d’you mean? It’s up to me, isn’t it?” Sandy sat up straight and frowned.

  “Well, we have to tread carefully at first, you know. I had a word with Mrs. Tollervey-Jones …”

  “That old trout! What’s it got to do with her?”

  “Perhaps more than you think. She says it is beyond the choir’s capability, and they’ll just pack up and leave. They like doing what they’ve always done, and anything new will have to be added gradually. You’ve made a start with the new books, so perhaps you’d better leave it at that for a bit.”

  “For God’s sake!” Sandy stood up, red-faced with anger. “Well, thanks a lot for your support, Brian,” he snapped. “I’m off down the pub. Maybe I’ll find some better company, or even the lovely Rebecca might be there without her flat-footed boyfriend.” He knew this would annoy Brian, with his strict moral code. Huh! He went upstairs, banging doors and cursing. Then he was back, pulling on his jacket.

  “Just go, Sandy,” Brian said quietly. “I’ve had enough. And I’ve a sermon to write. Do try not to make a noise when you come in.”

  THIRTEEN

  SHARON MILLER STOOD AT THE DOOR TO THE STOREROOM of the shop. She looked around at the high shelves, dusty and unused for as long as she had been working there. Half-empty boxes, jars and bottles were difficult to distinguish in the light dimly shining on them from a low-wattage bulb hanging crookedly from the ceiling. She turned around to Mrs. Carr, and said, “We should have a go at getting this room turned out and sorted. I could do it, if you want.”

  “No, I don’t think so, Sharon.” The elderly woman shook her head. “Couldn’t afford the extra hours. In fact … come back in here, dear … we have been thinking that we shall have to cut down on your working hours.”

  Sharon’s face fell. She loved working in the shop, with people coming in and out, telling her their news and troubles. Working in an office would drive her mad, with the same faces day in, day out.

  “We’re really sorry, Sharon. You know how we rely on you. You’re like a daughter to us.” Mrs. Carr’s chin wobbled, and Sharon impulsively put her arm around Mrs. Carr’s stooped shoulders. “The only way we can carry on is by doing more ourselves,” she continued. “Jack says he can help more, and I shall do my best. A couple more years, and we’ll have saved enough to retire in the way we’ve always planned.”

  “Don’t you worry,” said Sharon, her romantic heart touched by all this. “I shall easily find some other work. Don’t you worry about me.” As she said it, she remembered the paper pinned to the shop noticeboard. Lois Meade had brought it in a couple of days ago. New Brooms was looking for extra staff. Part-time, local work. Could be just what she needed.

  Mrs. Carr followed her eyes, and nodded. “Mrs. Meade’s a very nice woman,” she said. “Tough employer, but we can give you a good reference. I’m sure she’ll take you on.”

  Sharon had a sudden picture of herself in rubber gloves and overalls, and wasn’t sure what Sandy would think of that. But then she thought again. Those cleaners of Mrs. Meade’s were a nice bunch, and had made a real profession of the job. And then there’d be the fun of going to different houses, meeting new people. They’d tell her things, and she would listen sympathetically. Yep, just up her street.

  “I’ll call in on the way home,” she said. “Now don’t you think any more about it,” she added, patting Mrs. Carr reassuringly. “We’ll still have our get-togethers when I come to do a few hours. And I’ll always be around if you need any extra help. See you after lunch.”

  LOIS SAW SHARON COMING UP THE DRIVE TO THE BACK door, and knew immediately why she had come. Gran had heard through her busy and reliable grapevine that the Carrs were struggling at the shop. They had probably cut down on Sharon’s hours, and here she was, applying for a job.

  “Hi, Sharon,” Lois said, opening the back door. “Come on in. Come through to my office, where we can talk.”

  Sharon, who had passed all her formative years in the village, did not think to question how Lois seemed to know at once the purpose of her visit. Of course she would know. That’s how it is in villages.

  “Any experience of cleaning other people’s houses?” Lois said, picking up a pen.

  “Well, I’ve always helped at home,” began Sharon.

  “No, I said other people’s houses,” Lois interrupted. “It’s not the same.”

  “Oh, right.” Sharon blinked a little. This was a different Mrs. Meade from the one who came into the shop for groceries. “Well, when Mrs. Carr’s been poorly, I’ve given their house a thorough going-through. O’course, they’re both old now, and don’t keep it as spick and span as it should be. Still, after she got better, she asked me if I’d clean them up every now and then, so I have. You can ask them if it’s satisfactory, if you like.”

  “I will,” said Lois shortly. Then she put her pen down and grinned. “You’ll do, Sharon,” she said. “What I don’t know about you and your family would go on the back of a postage stamp. When can you start?”

  She arranged times and dates, and then gave Sharon a friendly but firm account of how her business worked, what she expected of her cleaners, and what they might encounter in unfamiliar houses. She warned Sharon about finding it very different working as part of a team, respecting her colleagues and keeping strict confidentiality on anything she heard whilst at work.

  Lois stressed this last point, knowing Sharon’s reputation for gossip. But most women gossip, and Lois reckoned she could keep it in check, making it clear that anyone breaking the rule would be out on their ear before they could say sorry.

  “Right,” she said, showing Sharon back through the kitchen, where Gran was sitting over a coffee. “See you next
week. Weekly meeting Monday midday. I’ll tell you the rest then.”

  “Thanks very much, Mrs. Meade,” Sharon said, and then smiled at Gran. “You feelin’ better, Mrs. Weedon?” she said. “Nasty old business that. Sandy was really poorly.” She blushed, wishing she’d not mentioned Sandy, but she ploughed on. “Funny nobody else has got the bug. I’d hear if it was round the village. Anyway,” she added quickly, remembering Lois’s strictures, “you’re looking a bit peaky still. Just you take care.”

  “Bye, then,” said Lois, opening the back door. “See you on Monday, if not before.”

  “Have you set her on, then?” said Gran.

  “Yes, she’ll be fine,” said Lois.

  “Especially with earplugs in and her mouth taped up,” said Derek, appearing at the door. “Just met our Sharon on her way out, and she was all excited about working for you. Hope you know what you’re doin’, me duck,” he said. “Young Sharon is not all she seems, so I hear.”

  “If I believed all you hear in the pub,” said Lois, refilling the kettle, “I’d have no cleaners at all. And, by the way, did you hear Mrs. T-J’s had a row with the vicar?”

  “Lois!” exploded her mother.

  NOW SHE WAS ALONE AGAIN, GRAN PLANNED AN AETERnoon dozing and watching television. But her stomach was still churning. She had little appetite, and the pills the doctor had given her were useless. Maybe she should get some fresh air. A stroll down to the shop. They might have some of her usuals, or a good old-fashioned remedy like that. She fetched her coat and locked up the house. The village street shone in bright sunlight, the warm, dark gold of the stone houses giving an illusion of summer. But there was a chill in the wind, and Gran stepped out, pulling up her coat collar. The shop was full, with Sharon behind the counter, speedy and efficient. There was no doubt the girl was a worker. Old Mrs. Carr limped in from the back, and Gran felt sorry for her. She was getting past it, without a doubt.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Weedon.”

  Bother, thought Gran, just my luck to get the old woman. She had hoped Sharon might serve her, and then she could be back home in a few minutes. Her legs still felt shaky, and she was short of breath. “Afternoon,” she said.

  Mrs. Carr settled herself on a high stool, hands on the counter, ready for a chat. “Better now?”

  Here we go, thought Gran. Perhaps if I wander about for a few seconds, I might get Sharon. “Just looking for what I want,” she said, walking away and peering at shelves on the opposite side of the shop.

  Mrs. Carr followed her. “What is it you’re looking for, dear?” she said.

  Gran sighed, and gave in. “Something for indigestion,” she said. “I’m really quite better, but still get a few twinges. Have you got some of my usuals?”

  “Temporarily out of stock,” said Mrs. Carr. “But let’s think. Yes, I’ve got just the thing. Just wait a moment while I get them from the storeroom. Here,” she added, pulling a chair towards Gran, “perch yourself on that while you wait.”

  The shop door jangled on the old bell, and Sandy Mackerras came in. Sharon’s face was the colour of the tomatoes she was weighing. “Hi, Sharon!” he said cheerily. “How’re doing?”

  “Fine, thanks,” she answered, and dropped a tomato, then stepped on it, and in great confusion mopped up the mess.

  Sandy grinned, and turned to Gran. “See what effect I have on the girls, Mrs. Weedon,” he said in a mock whisper.

  Gran sniffed. “Don’t be so sure it was you,” she said. “Young Thornbull’s just been in talking to Sharon—John’s brother—and he’s a real he-man. Anyway,” she added, with a smile to soften the blow, “never trust ginger hair, my mother used to say. You heard that one, Sandy?”

  Discomforted, he went over to the counter and engaged Sharon in a low-voiced conversation. Gran heard the words “Saturday” and “Tresham” and judged from the ecstatic look on the girl’s face that Sandy had asked her for a date. Huh, well, no good could come of that, in Gran’s opinion. He must’ve been stood up. Some smart one with big boobs and plenty of experience would have been his first choice, that’s for sure.

  “Here we are, dear.” Mrs. Carr was returning from the stockroom, carrying a box, from the top of which she was blowing a layer of dust. “Just the thing. My mother used to swear by these. Lucky for you we’ve got some left. Hard to find these days.” She took out a rattling box and handed it to Gran.

  “Never heard of it,” Gran said. “And there’s no price on it.”

  “One pound fifty to you,” said Mrs. Carr, plucking a figure out of the air.

  Gran paid, took the box in its bag and put it in her pocket, and returned slowly up the High Street. Jamie was waiting outside the house. “Where’ve you been, Gran?” he said. “You’re not supposed to be out on your own yet. Mum’ll be furious.”

  “Then we won’t tell her,” Gran said.

  FOURTEEN

  MRS. CARR’S REMEDY HAD NOT DONE GRAN MUCH good. She’d sucked one of the big white tablets as instructed, and not only felt no calmer, but the reverse. She’d spent the afternoon trotting up and down stairs, and by the time Lois came in, she had her feet up on the sofa, looking very wan.

  “Just making myself comfortable,” she said, as Lois looked worriedly at her. She had no intention of telling Lois about the tablets. Self-doctoring was not allowed in Lois’s house, and the medicine cabinet in the bathroom held Elastoplast, throat sweets, and not much else.

  “I had a little walk, and managed fine,” Gran lied. “Saw Sandy Mackerras, and he asked about choir practice tonight. I thought I might try to go along. It’d cheer me up.”

  “You are certainly not going down there to a cold church, standing on a hard floor for hours! For God’s sake, Mum, use your famous common sense. Jamie can take an apology.”

  But when time for practice came, Jamie rang Lois on his mobile to say he and Annabelle had missed the bus from Tresham, and they couldn’t get back until later. “Oh, sod it!” Lois said. She was tired, and looking forward to a quiet evening. “Can’t you ring Sandy? Oh, all right, I’ll go down and tell them. But just be a bit more responsible in future.” She banged the telephone down, and pulled on her jacket. “Shan’t be long,” she called out, and marched off down the darkening street.

  The lights were on in the church, and Lois walked smartly up the path. “Watch out, missus!” said a voice from the shadows. It was Cyril. “There’s a bit of broken paving by the door,” he added. “Frost, or summat. Don’t want you goin’ arse over tip, do we.” His chesty chuckle masked the sound of voices warming up.

  “Thanks, Cyril,” she said, and tried to move on, but he blocked her way. “Didn’t know you was in the choir,” he said. “Thought it was your mother. Now, there’s a lovely woman.”

  “Pity I don’t take after her, then, Cyril,” said Lois, and edged past him into the church.

  “Ain’t she better?” he called after her.

  “Yes, thanks,” she yelled back, and carried on into the chilly interior.

  All heads turned towards her as she walked up the aisle.

  “Mrs. Meade!” said Sandy, with a broad smile of welcome. “How splendid! Now, are you soprano or alto?”

  “More like frog,” said Lois flatly. “I’ve just come to bring apologies from Mum and Jamie. Mum’s still poorly, and Jamie’s stuck in Tresham. They said sorry and they’d be here next week.”

  Before Sandy could reply, Mrs. T-J burst out, “Stuck in Tresham? What d’you mean? How are they getting back? I don’t want Annabelle put at risk in that place at night!”

  Lois turned on her a full basilisk stare, and said “She’s not at risk. She’s with Jamie, and he’s quite capable of looking after her. They’re getting a lift, an’ will be back about half-past nine.”

  She turned to go, but Sandy said in his best pleading voice, “Oh, do hold on a moment, Mrs. Meade. We’re so short on numbers tonight … wouldn’t you do us an enormous favour and sing a couple of hymns with us? Just this once?”

&n
bsp; Lois hesitated. It was not true that she had a voice like a frog. She knew she could sing. Music was the only lesson she enjoyed at school, and several times she’d done solos at school concerts.

  Sandy pounced. “There, look, if you could just sit in the alto pew, and we’ll go straight into ‘Lead us, Heavenly Father, lead us.’ ” This had been a regular at school, and Lois was surprised to discover she could remember the alto line. The old heady feeling of singing out lustily in a large space came back to her.

  Three hymns later, they paused, whilst Sandy looked up a modern tune in the gold book. “You sing lovely, Mrs. Meade,” said Sharon shyly. The altos were sitting in front of the organ, and Lois had been aware of music being played very well behind her. She was about to say something complimentary in return, when Sandy Mackerras suddenly dropped the book, and bent over double. “Ahhhh!” It was a cry of agony, and Sharon was out of the organ seat in seconds, bending over him and holding his hand.

  Without stopping to think, Lois ran out of the church at speed and through the vicarage gate. She banged at the door, thanking God there was a light, indicating the vicar was at home. “Quick,” she said, as he opened up, “come quickly. Sandy’s collapsed. Looks like that stomach bug again.”

  The two of them ran side by side, and then Lois allowed Brian to go ahead up the aisle to where Sandy lay stretched out on the floor, with a kneeler under his head. He was very still.

  Lois slowed up, and found herself tiptoeing forward. Nobody said anything, until a sobbing Sharon turned and saw her. “Mrs. T-J’s gone for the doctor,” she said. “He’ll be OK, Mrs. Meade, won’t he?”

  Lois looked down at Sandy’s white face, saw the purplish-blue line around his mouth, the froth trickling down his chin, and thought it best not to answer.

  FIFTEEN

  AS DAWN BROKE ON A GREY, MISTY MORNING, BRIAN Rollinson sat beside a hospital bed containing the slight, white-faced figure of Sandy Mackerras, son of his dearest friend Gerald, and wept. The nightmare had continued throughout the long hours after Lois Meade had appeared at his door. The doctor had been all efficiency and calm, the ambulance men wonderfully strong and reassuring; but then that girl from the shop had been completely hysterical and upset all the other women in the choir.