Читать книгу The Rise and Fall of a Domestic Diva - Sarah May - Страница 16

Even late as she was after the impromptu Beulah Hill viewing, Kate still found time to stop at St Anthony’s vicarage on the way to Village Montessori. Jolting over a speed bump at the crest of the hill, she was sure she saw someone—the vicar?—in the vicarage garden, and on an impulse decided to stop, parking behind a distinctive black Chrysler just pulling away, which—if she hadn’t been so preoccupied—she would have recognised as Evie McRae’s.

She got out of the car and started to walk through the dull April drizzle, trying not to slip on the overspill of gravel from the vicar’s newly gravelled drive. Ignoring the increasingly invasive smell of wet tarmac, which always made her panic, she emerged from behind a bank of hydrangeas with what she liked to think of as a healthy smile on her face.

‘Hi,’ she said across the uneven trail of hydrangea cuttings littering the immaculate lawn.

The Reverend Tessa Walker—it was the vicar—looked up, a pair of secateurs in her hand. She managed to master her annoyance at the interruption—the second interruption that morning—but it left her face looking glum.

After what felt like a minute’s silence, Kate said, ‘Sorry—this is a bit impromptu; I should have phoned. Actually, I did phone, but no one was in and then I was driving past and I saw you in your garden and…’ She inhaled a lungful of wet tarmac and then panic set in as the memory of long wet suburban days fell over her…She stared blearily at the Reverend Walker, trying to claw her way back into the present moment. ‘I tried to phone, but there was no answer and…’

The Reverend Walker lost the grip on her secateurs so that they hung from the band round her wrist. She didn’t attempt to speak; she just carried on staring at Kate.

‘I’m Kate—Kate Hunter? I come to church here on Sundays. Every Sunday…here to St Anthony’s every Sunday—well, most Sundays…’ She paused, letting out a nervous laugh that made her feel like the only child in a roomful of adults.

The Reverend Walker said nothing. She was too busy thinking…this woman comes to my church every Sunday and I don’t recognise her. It made her feel old.

The drizzle was gaining momentum. There was going to be a downpour, which hadn’t started yet, but there was so much moisture in the air that Kate could feel it collecting on her eyelashes.

The sound of children being let out onto a playing field reached them through the dense, moist air and she started to panic again. Nursery—she needed to collect Findlay and Flo from nursery. ‘I came here to talk about a child,’ she said suddenly. This sounded epic; she hadn’t meant to sound epic.

The Reverend Walker said, ‘A child?’

‘My son—Findlay.’

‘You want to talk to me about your son?’ the Reverend Walker said, helplessly. Was this the first time the woman had mentioned a child? She didn’t know any more. It just seemed as though she’d been standing on her wet lawn among the hydrangea cuttings for weeks, and now wasn’t a good time for anybody to be talking to her about their children—because she was undergoing a crisis of faith; a profound crisis of faith. With an effort, she twisted back to Kate. ‘You’re having concerns about your son?’ she said, trying to sound less helpless this time.

‘Concerns?’ Kate echoed.

‘Spiritual concerns?’

‘He’s five years old,’ Kate said, trying not to yell. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. I just came to check that you wrote the letter to St Anthony’s confirming the fact that Findlay comes to church here on Sundays. You needed to write a letter—about Findlay. It was part of our application, and I just wanted to check that it was done because I got a letter this morning saying he didn’t get a place.’

A place where? Heaven? Full of a sudden dread, the Reverend Walker wondered whether they were talking about a dead child—the woman’s son? Was he dead? Had there been a funeral she’d forgotten to attend? A child she’d forgotten to bury? She started to walk slowly, earnestly, towards Kate.

‘We’ve been coming here to church since he was nine months old and this morning—this morning—I find out that he doesn’t have a place at St Anthony’s, and nobody seems to know why. Every Sunday—nearly every Sunday—for over four years, and he doesn’t get a place.’

The clouds gathered and the moisture thickened until it officially became rain—the steady sort of rain the birds carry on singing through.

Kate tried to breathe in but there was no air anywhere, her nostrils were full of rain and it seemed as though the Reverend Walker was staring at her from the end of a long green tunnel.

‘We’ve been coming to St Anthony’s every Sunday,’ she said again, before realising that she was repeating herself.

Somebody’s voice—a long way off—was saying, ‘Only fifty per cent of places are offered on the basis of faith; the other fifty are offered according to catchment area criteria and whether a child has siblings at the school. Do you want to come inside?’ the Reverend said at last.

‘We’ve done everything right—everything,’ Kate yelled. ‘Right down to sitting through sermon after sermon on those fucking Sudanese orphans.’ She broke off, vaguely aware that the rain was running so steadily down her face now it was impairing her vision. The right-hand side of her head seemed to be filling with blood, and the weight of it was pulling her down through the rain towards the lawn. She stumbled, but managed to regain her balance. This prompted the Reverend Walker to say, ‘Come inside,’ again.

Kate stared at her, suddenly intensely aware of the fact that she was, in effect, accosting the vicar in her garden. If she took a look around her, the evidence would be there: her footprints in the gravel on the drive, and across the wet lawn behind her. God. This was exactly the sort of thing her mother would have done. God.

The church bells began ringing and, pushing the vicar’s hands away, she turned and ran back across the lawn and gravel drive, her head thumping so badly with migraine now that it was beginning to seriously affect her balance. She staggered towards the Audi. Somewhere beyond the bells there were screaming children and, beyond them, a dog was intermittently whining and yapping.

A workman standing in front of a Portaloo on the drive next door was staring at her. How long had he been standing there?

Ignoring him, she yanked open the driver’s door and fell into the car—the sound of the wet afternoon immediately muffled by safety glass as she slammed the door shut.

What was it she’d yelled at the Reverend Walker? Something about Sudanese orphans…?

Afraid, she phoned Robert, but Robert didn’t answer his phone.