Читать книгу The Newcomer - Fern Britton, Fern Britton - Страница 11

The vestry key, heavy and old, had a knack to it that Simon had showed her but Angela now couldn’t remember.

‘The previous vicar told me the trick but …’ she turned the key and wiggled the old latch to no avail, ‘… I can’t think what it was.’

‘Give it to me,’ said Mamie. Angela stepped aside as her aunt lifted the latch and pulled the door up and outwards. She turned the key. The door opened smoothly. ‘I think it’s one of those doors that changes with the weather,’ she said to an astonished Angela. ‘You’ll get used to it.’ She stepped into the vestry. ‘God, it’s cold in here.’

‘The heating’s on a timer.’ Angela was looking for the light switch. ‘Just a couple of hours twice a day, to keep the old place ticking over.’ She found the old brass light switch and flipped it down with a pleasing clunk. A dim, unshaded single bulb, hanging from the ceiling, began to glow. ‘It’ll warm up in a minute. Let there be light and all that,’ said Angela, hoping that Mamie wouldn’t hate everything. ‘And I think the bank of lights switches over by the door there turns on the main lights.’

Mamie peered at the plastic panel and pushed each switch down.

Angela opened the inner door to the church and found the nave and choir fully lit. ‘Oh, good. They are the right ones.’

Mamie walked in and took in the beauty of the old church with the late morning sun making the jewelled, stained-glass windows glow.

Taking her time, she stepped towards the altar, heels clicking on the cardinal-red floor tiles. She gazed up at the vaulted ceiling, motes of dust drifting through the sunbeams.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed. ‘Imagine all the weddings and baptisms and funerals that have taken place here.’ She turned to Angela. ‘It’s perfect and you are perfect for it.’

An anxious Angela asked, ‘So you like it?’

Mamie sat on a pew. ‘Darling, I am bursting with pride.’

‘Would Mum like it?’ Angela asked as she sat next to Mamie.

‘She’d hug herself with joy.’ Mamie put her feet up on the pew in front of her. ‘Bloody cold, obviously, but this is exactly where you belong. I can feel it. There is good karma here. I like the smell too. Beeswax. God, if your mother were here she’d be polishing every day.’

Angela grinned. She pointed at a needlepoint kneeler lying at her feet and examined the motif of a lamb watching a bright star in a night sky. ‘Wouldn’t she love making one of these?’

Mamie nodded. ‘Oh, yes. She’d have the stitch-and-bitch club up and running. Knitting for beginners, forcing the poor grannies and young mums into creating hideous pram blankets and woolly hats.’ She sighed. ‘I miss her.’

Angela looked towards the altar and sighed. ‘This is one of those times when I want to ring her. Tell her all about it. I find myself actually reaching for the phone at times. Let her know how Faith is doing. How happy I am with Robert … Silly, isn’t it?’

Mamie took her niece’s hand. ‘I do the same. Very often. I miss her more than I can say. I have so much to thank her for.’ She rummaged the depths of her pockets. ‘Three years this October.’ She pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a gold lighter. ‘Can I smoke in here?’

‘Probably not but I won’t tell.’

Mamie lit up and blew a plume of smoke into the still air, then turned her concerned eyes towards Angela. ‘How are you?’

Angela watched the smoke rise in the still air. ‘OK.’

‘Only OK?’

‘I haven’t cried for almost a fortnight.’

‘And the tablets?’

Angela looked at her hands. ‘Good. Half the dose now. Dr King keeps an eye on me.’

‘And who will keep an eye on you while you are here?’

‘I can call Dr King any time. But we generally chat once a week. It helps. Sometimes I’m fine, sometimes I am drowning in the grief of missing Mum and other times I am totally numb. Dr King says it’s all normal.’

‘Do you talk to Robert when things are difficult?’

‘I try not to. It worries him and he feels helpless so …’ Angela rubbed at her forehead, not wanting to break down in front of Mamie.

‘When we were little, your mum and I, she was the good daughter. If there was washing to hang on the line, she’d do it. If Mum needed her feet rubbed, it was her she wanted. It caused more than a little sibling rivalry between us, I can tell you.’

Angela smiled. ‘Mum told me you were a bit of a rebel.’

‘A bit! The uncomfortable truth is, I was jealous of her. Her beauty, her sweetness, her brains. Her smooth complexion. She had no need to rebel. Everyone loved her.’

‘She told me she envied your independence.’

‘Oh, I was independent all right. Lipstick, boyfriends, the Rolling Stones, cigarettes and gin. Insisting that everyone called me Mamie rather than Marjorie.’

Angela laughed. ‘Is it true that you tried to get Mum to change her name too?’

‘Oh, yes! How could I have a sister called Elsie! I went on and on at her. Ellie. You must be called Ellie. Mamie and Ellie sounded infinitely better than Marjorie and Elsie.’

‘And yet you were so close as you got older.’

‘We were. She was my best friend. I could tell her anything and she’d never judge me.’

Angela nodded. ‘She told me that when Dad died, you came straight home to be with her.’

‘Where else would I be? Anyway, being a chalet girl in Klosters might have sounded good but it was a terrible job. The men were all randy, but ugly, and the women were all skeletal bitches.’

Angela laughed. ‘I can imagine you arriving, all glam in white salopettes and fur boots.’

‘I brought her a bottle of Nina Ricci L’Air du Temps from duty-free. To cheer her up.’ Mamie inhaled her cigarette deeply then stubbed the butt on the tiled floor. She noted Angela’s raised eyebrow. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll pick it up before we go. So I gave her the perfume and she hugged me for it and, shortly afterwards, we discovered you were on the way.’

Angela bent down and picked up the discarded cigarette butt. ‘What would she and I have done without you?’

‘Well, you’d have been called Tracey, for a start!’

‘What?’

‘Yep. It was the name of the midwife who delivered you. Terrible idea. So I gave her some better options. Sadie. Eloise. Tuesday.’

‘Tuesday?’

‘Well, you were born on a Tuesday. Anyway, she said no to all of them and then I thought of Angelina because you were such an angel, but your Mum preferred Angela so here we are. And, as it happens, the perfect name for a perfect vicar.’

‘I will be happy with being a half-decent vicar.’

Mamie put a comforting arm around her niece and kissed her hair. ‘Darling, your mum and I couldn’t be more proud of you.’

‘Thank you.’ Angela’s eyes pricked with tears. ‘I wonder if I have been incredibly selfish. Asking Robert to take a year out. Disrupting Faith’s school life …’

‘Now stop that!’ Mamie reached for her bag and drew out her packet of cigarettes. ‘That is self-indulgent nonsense and you know it.’ She lit another cigarette and with it between her teeth said, ‘You, my girl, are a brave and wonderful woman. Robert will survive; in fact, I think he’s very grateful to be out of his rut for a bit.’

‘It’s not a rut! Mamie, the Prime Minister calls him Bob. The BBC are thinking of sending him to Washington to be their correspondent. He is important. I’m just a rookie vicar who has landed in a tiny rural parish and who isn’t so certain that it’s the best thing I could have done.’

‘You might like to have a few joss sticks burning in here,’ Mamie said.

‘Don’t change the subject. I’m trying to tell you how scared I am. This could all turn out to be a huge disaster.’ Angela clenched her hands anxiously.

‘My darling girl, I may not have faith in your God, but whoever she is, she has faith in you. This is simply a test of that faith.’

Angela angrily brushed away a stray tear. ‘It’s hard. Believing in something that others think is a fantasy. People judge me. Think I am naïve. Mad.’

‘Who thinks that?’

‘You. Robert. Faith. Old friends. I’ve been asked so often, If there is a God, why does he allow war and violence? I can only say that we were given the Ten Commandments to live by but God gave us the free will to follow them or not. Not much of an answer, is it?’

Mamie sat silently, mulling this over, then said, ‘If I believe in anything it is the innate goodness that lies inside humans. You will lead this parish by example.’

Angela took a deep breath then sighed. ‘I will try.’

‘You’re only human.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So what about some joss sticks?’

‘No.’ Angela smiled weakly.

‘Why not?’ Mamie shrugged.

‘Because I am an ordained priest in the Christian Church. Not an old hippy like you.’

‘So pompous and pious,’ Mamie teased. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a joss stick. Great for meditation. Why wouldn’t they be great for prayer? Tell me where in the Bible God says, Let there be no joss sticks?’

‘Fire hazard.’ Angela sniffed. ‘And please don’t stub that cigarette out on the floor again.’

‘Sorry.’ Mamie stood and walked up the aisle. ‘Nice vibe in this building. I can see you bringing fun and spirit to this place. It may not be an inner-city area but it will have its own problems. Humans like to make a mess of their lives and all human mess will be here exactly as it is in any other parish.’ She walked back to where Angela was still sitting. ‘All joking apart, darling, I know you will make a difference. Whatever that difference may be. Too late for me, of course. God gave up on me years ago. But he likes you.’

‘He likes all of us, even you,’ Angela said fondly.

‘Don’t try and convert me. It’s much too late. Now let’s get out of here, I want to see the beach.’

They went back to the vicarage and picked up an excited Mr Worthington and Faith. The latter was in a tiny jumper and hot pants.

‘Put some clothes on. You’ll catch your death out there,’ Mamie ordered.

‘I’ll be fine,’ said Faith, wrapping an extra-long scarf round her neck.

‘It’s raining,’ her mother told her. ‘Put your coat on.’

Faith did as she was told, grumbling, ‘You’re so boring.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Mamie said, propelling her to the door.

The weather had turned from the early sunshine and bright blue sky to a grey accumulation of grim-looking clouds. Shellsand Bay was at its bleakest. As the three women, with Mr Worthington bounding ahead of them, neared the beach, the wind pummelled their faces and the roar of the waves filled their ears.

The weak sunshine layered strips of colour across the wrinkled sea. Steel grey, bright silver, and oily green met and mingled, changing with the dance of the wind.

The white-capped waves hissed as they bumped on the shore, their rhythm soothing and hypnotic. Dozens of smooth pebbles chasing and flipping as the tide sucked the water out again.

Mamie took off her wedge-heeled gold trainers, revealing tanned feet with scarlet-painted toenails. ‘Paddling, Faith?’ she called above the strong breeze, not blind to the fact that Faith was shaking with the cold, her bare legs, sticking out from under her far from sensible coat, covered in goosebumps and turning blue.

‘No.’

‘Well, Mr Worthington and I are going in. Come on. What about you Angela?’

‘No, thank you.’ Angela’s chin was down inside her jacket.

‘What’s wrong with the pair of you? When you’ve lived with the Inuits your blood thickens. Hold my shoes.’ She handed them to Angela. ‘Come on, Mr Worthington.’

Excitedly, Mr Worthington dashed ahead, stopping to circle back for her every few seconds. He spotted a piece of driftwood and wrapped his jaws around it, sand and all, plonking it at Mamie’s feet.

She obliged and threw it high towards the water line.

Angela and Faith watched her from the drier sand.

‘Inuits?’ asked Faith. ‘What, like, living in an igloo?’

‘Hmm.’ Angela frowned slightly. ‘I can’t always tell which of her stories are real, embroidered or simply fiction.’

‘Who was supposed to have given her that fur coat again?’

‘A man she met in Marrakesh. He told her it had been left behind in a restaurant by Rita Hayworth, who had never returned to claim it.’

‘Who’s Rita Hayworth?’

‘The most alluring film star of her day.’

Faith wrinkled her nose. ‘Weird.’

‘Nice coat, though.’

‘Yeah, like wearing dead animals on your back is like a good thing. As if the poor things were, like,’ Faith raised the pitch of her voice to mimic a small mammal, ‘oh yeah, please murder me and wear me as a coat. I’d be honoured.’

‘Well, let’s not get into that right now. That was then and this is now and Aunt Mamie is Aunt Mamie and … oh my goodness, she’s fallen over.’

Mamie had been bowled over by an overenthusiastic Mr Worthington and was now on her knees clutching at the shifting sand as a huge wave crashed over her, soaking her hair, leaving her gasping for breath, and tugging her further out.

As Faith and Angela ran to her, shouting, ‘We’re coming. Hold on,’ they heard strong footsteps racing behind them. Angela turned and saw Piran.

‘My aunt! She’s fallen in,’ she shouted.

Piran made no answer. He simply ran to the water’s edge and strode into the icy waves. Mamie had found her feet and was staggering in the swell but the next wave knocked her over again and pulled her further out. Piran shouted to her but his voice was just a rag on the wind. Now up to his waist, he plunged in, swimming with admirable strength, as Angela and Faith were later to attest, towards a helpless Mamie.

‘He’s got her,’ shrieked Faith to her mother, panting. ‘Hang onto him, Auntie Mamie,’ she shouted.

At last, Mamie was towed in, arriving breathless and tumbled.

‘Oh goodness.’ She rested on Piran’s shoulder, trembling and trying to pull her hair from her eyes. ‘How can I thank you?’

‘What the bleddy ’ell do you think you were doing, woman?’ Piran said tersely, gripping her shoulders and pushing her off him.

Mamie let go of him and pulled herself up straight. ‘Thank you so much for saving my life. Very kind of you. Though you are hardly Prince Charming.’

Piran saw the coal-like glitter in her eyes. He glared back. ‘And you’re no Cinderella.’

Angela looked from one to the other. ‘Please. Stop. It’s all been a shock.’ She put her hand on Piran’s arm. ‘Thank you for saving my aunt, Piran. Perhaps you’d like to come back to the vicarage where I can give you some dry clothes and a hot drink?’

‘Thank you, no.’ He shook out his sodden jumper and looked up the beach to where Mr Worthington and a Jack Russell were chasing each other. ‘Jack, heel.’

‘Please send my love to Helen.’ Angela attempted a smile. ‘It was so good of you both to come to the party yesterday.’

‘Had to give Simon and Penny a good send-off, didn’t we? We’m going to miss them.’

Angela felt squashed. ‘Yes. Well. Simon has left big shoes to fill.’

‘Too bleddy right he has,’ Piran retorted.

Jack sauntered up and sniffed at Mamie’s leg. Her arms aching, her teeth chattering, her heart banging, she could only watch as the little dog raised his rear leg and peed on her foot.

Piran wiped a demon’s smile from his face with a huge hand. ‘Come on boy,’ he said, his eyes still dancing with amusement. ‘Home.’

‘What a horrible gorilla of a man!’ Mamie complained as she squelched through the back door.

‘I’m going to run you a bath,’ Angela said. ‘Give me your clothes and I will launder them.’

‘What an absolute oaf,’ Mamie said emphatically, peeling off her sodden things.

‘Who is?’ asked Robert as he ambled into the kitchen and backed out again at the sight of his aunt-in-law in bra and pants.

‘Don’t be so priggish,’ responded Mamie. ‘Never seen a woman in her underwear before?’

Angela gave him a warning glance. ‘Make yourself useful and put the kettle on. Mamie fell into the sea and Piran saved her.’

‘Good old Piran.’

‘I saw nothing good in the man.’ Mamie’s anger grew and filled the kitchen. ‘He was unspeakably rude to me and insulted Angela.’

‘Really?’

‘I don’t think he meant to. It was all very heat-of-the-moment stuff,’ said Angela, moving to the kettle that Robert had ignored. ‘Tea? Anyone?’

‘Tea?’ Mamie was unimpressed. ‘I need some brandy.’

‘Robert, please get Auntie Mamie some brandy and fetch her dressing gown and a warm towel from the airing cupboard.’

‘The pink silk wrap on the bathroom door, Robert,’ Mamie added. ‘Toot sweet, if you could. I’m freezing my jacksie off here.’

After a hot bath and a change into warm pyjamas, Mamie came downstairs to find the sitting room fire had been lit. A proper afternoon tea was laid out on the piano. Cheese sandwiches, ham sandwiches, scones and cake. Angela was setting down the teapot.

‘Angela, what a spread,’ Mamie exclaimed. ‘The country is doing you good.’

Angela sat heavily on the sofa and sighed. ‘The leftovers from yesterday’s farewell party for Simon and Helen. I hope the sandwiches are not too curled at the edges.’

Robert entered with an armful of logs. ‘Simon has a fine log store round the side of the house.’ He crouched in front of the crackling grate and balanced a log onto the blaze. ‘Very impressive. Simon knows what he’s doing obviously. A good log store takes understanding and time to …’ he looked up at the unimpressed faces of Angela and Mamie and changed tack, ‘Ah. There you are, Mamie. Better after the bath? Another brandy?’

‘If you don’t mind. Then I shall tell you all about this afternoon’s misadventure.’

After he’d heard the story, he was torn between respect for Piran and a desire to go round and punch his lights out. ‘I had my doubts about the man when I met him yesterday.’

‘Did you really?’ Angela contradicted. ‘I thought you said you were looking forward to going fishing with him.’

‘Going fishing with him and liking him are two entirely different things.’

‘He’s a swine.’ Mamie tipped the brandy into her mouth and held out the glass for Robert to refill.

Angela plonked the remains of a Victoria sponge onto her plate and sat down. ‘I think he was in shock. Remember, Robert, when Faith was small and we lost her in that hypermarket in France? When we found her you shouted at her until you were hoarse.’

‘That was with relief.’

‘Quite. And I believe that Piran was feeling the same. Relief. Shock. The poor man was only out on a walk with his dog and ended up fully submerged in the icy Atlantic, saving the life of a strange, fully clothed woman.’

Mamie growled, ‘I was the victim.’

Angela pulled a face of disbelief. ‘You have never been a victim. I shall go and see Piran and Helen tomorrow and pour oil on troubled waters. We have only just arrived and I want to be friends with everybody. I want this year to be a success.’ She glared at her aunt and husband. ‘You two have to buck up and be nice. Understood?’

Mamie pursed her lips and looked over at Robert. ‘I suppose I could,’ she said reluctantly. ‘If Robert will.’

‘I will,’ answered Robert slowly. ‘Just as long as no one else takes a pop at either of you.’

‘Good. That’s sorted.’ Angela smiled at them both and pushed a large chunk of Victoria sponge into her mouth.

Two hundred yards away, across the village green, Helen was having words with Piran in her cottage.

‘How could you? You have insulted Angela by suggesting she’s not welcome here, and you have been extremely rude to an elderly lady.’

‘She ain’t no lady. I can tell. Smelling like a tart’s boudoir and pouring herself all over me when I put her down. You should have seen her face when Jack cocked his leg on her foot. Priceless.’

Helen picked up Piran’s wet jumper from the rail of the Aga and threw it at him. ‘Goodbye.’

Piran caught the jumper in astonishment. ‘Now what’s got into you? I thought you was cooking supper?’

‘I am cooking supper. But not for you. I don’t like it when you go all Neanderthal. Go to the pub and get something there.’

‘But my trousers are still damp.’

‘Well, go back to your house, get changed, and then go to the pub.’

Scowling, Piran went to the door, whistling up Jack behind him. ‘Come on, Jack. Someone’s had a sense of humour failure.’

Helen winced as he slammed the front door. Piran was one of the kindest, gentlest men she had ever met. But, unfortunately, he still had rather a large slice of chauvinism in his blood.

Helen abandoned the idea of making a lasagne, and took a Scotch egg, some salad and a bottle of wine out of the fridge. Putting the small meal together she went to her snug front room and turned on the television. A romantic comedy starring Ryan Gosling was just starting. Helen settled into the sofa and balanced her plate on her lap. She took a sip of wine and put her feet up.

‘He’ll be back,’ she said to herself. ‘Idiotic man.’