Late of This Parish (2 page)

The Head's study and her own room were situated in the arm of the reversed L-shape of the school. The main wing stretched to her right, the rain-soaked stones glowing with a deep intensity as the rays of the late afternoon sun touched them. Even the scaffolding on the west tower didn't mar the prospect and she felt suddenly pierced to the heart with pure joy: with the beauty and grace of her surroundings, the lovely grouping of buildings, the smooth stretch of the playing fields beyond, the line of huge old chestnuts down the drive, all seen with a new clarity through the lens of her own present happiness. Don't, a cautionary voice warned, don't be too sure, and she shivered as if someone had walked over her grave. She wasn't used to rewards for anything she hadn't worked for and couldn't yet quite accept the idea that here it was: love, the blessed condition that other people seemed to take for granted.

She snapped the window-latch down, made sure her desk was cleared and that she'd switched off her word-processor, an infernal machine which she still regarded warily, like a wild caged animal that might at any moment take a retaliatory bite. A few minutes later she was trundling her bike from the shed to ride down the drive under the still dripping trees.

At that moment an untidy mob of the younger boys surged out from behind the main building. Kitted out for sports practice, scuffling amiably, elbowing and tripping each other up as they made for the playing fields, their unbroken voices shrilled across the front lawn. Bringing up the rear was Jonathan Reece, the geography master who occasionally took them for games, looking tough and muscular in his blue tracksuit, his fair hair haloed by the sun.

‘Shut up, you lot, quieten down and get a move on or it'll be raining again before we get there.'

The voice of authority brought the boys into slightly better order. One hung back to speak to him – Bedingfield, naturally, a budding Mafioso if ever there was one, despite his cherubic appearance. Jon slowed down to listen, smiling down at him and throwing a careless arm across the boy's shoulder as he did so, then shooed him on with the rest. Tossing his hair back, a typical gesture, he was following the boys at a jog when he saw Laura and stopped to wait for her.

‘Hi, Laura. Did you leave those pamphlets out for the parents tomorrow?'

‘They're on your desk ... I'm sorry I shan't be here to help, Jon.'

‘Consider yourself lucky. You realize I'm missing my weekend in London because of all this fandango?'

‘It's good of you,' she answered, thinking privately that might be no bad thing, considering the recklessly aggressive way he drove his car. ‘I know your weekends off are important.'

‘Sure. Recharge the old batteries, become human again. But some of us must rally round Richard. Sorry, didn't mean you, you've worked like stink to get everything ready.' He smiled brilliantly, his charm-the-birds-off-a-tree smile, which still didn't take the edge off his resentment. It had been another dig at David, who was registered for a weekend conference near Brighton and wouldn't be at tomorrow's open day, either.

He looked on David Illingworth, the senior science master, as a blinkered intellectual, not a fair assessment. Whereas David looked upon him as all beef and brawn, which wasn't fair either; there was more to Jon than that. He might not possess a brilliant degree like David, but he was what was known as a good all-rounder, a reader, a music-lover, confident and sure of himself, thought by some, including himself, to be the obvious candidate to step into the Headmaster's shoes when Richard Holden retired at the end of the school year.

‘Don't look so worried,' he said, ‘it won't last.'

This time he meant ‘when I'm Head'. She'd known him for some time and knew how to interpret what he said, though she still wondered occasionally what went on behind that square-cut, fresh-complexioned and apparently guileless face.

Voices clamoured across the lawn and Jon said, ‘Must go. Little perishers are getting restless. Ciao, then, Laura.' He was off at a sprint and in a minute she heard his whistle blowing, saw him charging down the field, throwing himself into it with his amazing energy as he did into everything.

She was sorry in a way that he was in for a disappointment about the Headship. He was naïve enough to believe he couldn't fail, which had possibly been true before David had arrived on the scene, a force to be reckoned with. One who could very easily over-topple Jon's ambitions, although Jon was still a front runner with many of the school governors, including her own father, who had hoped – very nearly decreed – that she should marry Jon. She was horrified sometimes when she thought how narrowly she'd escaped.

It might so easily have happened. I might well have given in, she thought, done what my father and Jon both want, though it was only when Richard had announced his retirement after his heart attack that it had apparently occurred to Jon that a wife was an asset to an aspiring headmaster. Despite being aware of this humbling fact, three months ago she'd been on the brink of stifling her doubts and agreeing when he'd asked her to marry him.

Time's running out, Laura, began the litany whenever she looked in the glass. No grey in the thick dark hair yet, still all your own teeth, lines only of laughter – but it won't be long. Thirty-six next birthday, too old soon for children. And there was the real pain: never to feel a small warm body in her arms, or walk with a child's hand held in hers. The only child she had was her father. Tied to him and no way out, except by marrying Jon Reece.

It had been a shock to Jon's self-esteem when she had refused him, but one from which he'd quickly recovered. He might even have been relieved. All his life, things had fallen into his lap. Perhaps that was partly why she'd refused him, to show him that she at least was immune to his charm. She liked him, but no more. And even at the ripe old age of thirty-five, the blood leaps, the heart dictates more than the head ...

She'd been right to hesitate. Because now here was David and there was no hesitation at all, nothing but the certainty that nothing must spoil it this time. She would do anything, anything at all, to prevent that. But her father was implacably opposed to him, with the result that for months she'd felt torn in two, vacillating between being convinced that she had a right to a life of her own and knowing that she could never face the consequences of direct opposition to him.

Heavy drops fell on to her head from the wet branches above as she reached the top of the hill, mounted and rode along the main street until Dobbs Lane and the turning for the houses on St Kenelm's Walk.

From where he sat, in the comfortably cushioned window-seat of the second house in Parson's Place, the Reverend Lionel Oliver just caught a glimpse of Laura, hair and skirts blowing, as she cycled up Dobbs Lane and turned into St Kenelm's Walk. She was one of his favourite parishioners, willing, able – and nice to look at, too. A sweet young woman and a good child to her father to boot, not like some offspring. He sighed, turned his handsome profile to his hostess, sipped the last of his sherry and suggestively tipped up his glass to catch the very last drops. The sherry was excellent, as always, fine and dry, an eminently civilized sort of drink. Much to be preferred to the very dry martinis his hostess, Miriam Thorne, was in the habit of drinking. Several of them by now. Miriam was never half-hearted about anything.

Large, bossy, vigorous, generous and with a wild bush of untidy carrotty hair, she drained the latest martini and looked meaningfully at the clock. After having been married to Denzil Thorne for nearly twenty-five years the Rector's pre-supper visits and mildly flirtatious attentions were not unwelcome, but she was a busy woman, organizing herself and others to the last degree. As well as teaching modern languages at Uplands House, she was a tireless worker for the church and most of the other local good causes. No one ever came to Miriam for advice and went away without it.

‘Another sherry, Lionel? Though I'm going to have to turf you out shortly. Denzil will be home pretty soon and I've got work to do – and it must be nearly dinner-time at the Rectory. Wouldn't do to let the shepherd's pie get cold.'

This last was said not with any intended malice; Miriam was not a malicious woman, although the cooking at the Rectory was a subject better not mentioned and her careless laugh intimated that such mundane dishes and regular mealtimes were an unnecessary bore. Her own cooking was slapdash, but often successful.

‘Oh,' he answered indifferently, ‘Catherine won't be expecting me yet. She'll still be busy in the summerhouse with her little drawings, I dare say.'

Miriam raised an eyebrow as she reached for the sherry, but said no more and the Rector, reminded of something he would rather ignore, resolutely turned his back on the offending prospect of his own garden next door, or rather that part which could be seen from Miriam's back window. Unfortunately this did not happen to be the section kept tidy by his jobbing gardener. Not the well-tended lawn and neat flowerbeds immediately outside the french windows, alas, but the semi-wild, overgrown, ever-encroaching acre, now lush with the burgeoning foliage of a wet May, which ran steeply down to the river. The part which Catherine, with surprising obduracy, insisted on leaving as it was. Ah well.

Watching the quick frown of displeasure gradually clear from the Rector's face, Miriam guessed he had again put aside the problem of Catherine and old Willard and decided that she herself would certainly have to do something about it, if only for Catherine's sake. For a man of the cloth Lionel Oliver could at times be peculiarly insensitive.

He was an attractive man of considerable charm, extremely good-looking, perhaps more so now than in his youth. Now that his thick smooth hair had acquired that distinguished silver patina like the very best old Sheffield plate, and especially when wearing his long black cassock, a garment that seemed specifically designed to accentuate his height and the leanness of his still youthfully trim figure. He was generally regarded as well-intentioned and urbane, pompous it must be admitted, but good-humoured if not pressed too much.

He had married circumspectly, the daughter of his bishop, and although preferment had not come as swiftly as he had hoped (and believed he deserved) there were compensations. While the Rectory was by no means to be compared to the Bishop's Palace, and Bishop Lionel admittedly had an enviable ring to it, life in Parson's Place was agreeable and undoubtedly created less demands on him than a bishopric would have done. As a rural dean he presided over several parishes, which made him busy but not overworked. Here he could serve God with the ritual and ceremonial he regarded as paramount, conduct his elaborate services and his daily recital of Evensong without interference. He would dearly love to be known as ‘Father' but few in Wyvering would go so High.

And he could always, for instance, find time for a cup of tea or a glass of something with Miriam in this pleasant little house. It was a harmless custom which offended no one, least of all Catherine, who if she was even aware of it gave no indication, merely smiled vaguely whenever Miriam's name was mentioned.

‘Well, all I can say is that old Willard is a spiteful old man and Denzil a fool for getting involved,' Miriam declared energetically, refilling his glass and dismissing the subject they had been discussing, though not from her mind. How facile that sort of judgement really was, she thought, putting the sherry decanter firmly back on the sideboard. For no one was in a better position to know that Dr Denzil Thorne was not a fool than she, his wife – but, though he might be the Director of the Fricker Institute, Miriam sometimes thought he possessed no common sense whatsoever. So willing, so eager, so much more obviously good than either of the two neighbouring clergymen. So like a lovable but not very well trained puppy dog, leaping up with great licks of unwanted affection. Poor Denzil. Tiresome Denzil, putting his foot in it with Catherine – but not to be underrated. He could still on occasions surprise her with his insights and this kept her irritation at bay. She was really rather fond of him.

As for old Willard ... one still tended to believe that a dog-collar automatically conferred goodness and simplicity on the wearer. Nothing could be further from the truth where that selfish old tyrant was concerned. Laura deserved better after dancing attendance on him all these years and now that she had the chance to get away Miriam hoped she'd have the sense to take it this time, and to blazes with her father. There were times recently when Miriam had noticed an expression on her face that could only be described as quietly desperate.

The Rector said, turning to a topic that mention of Denzil had brought to mind, ‘So the police are no further forward with their inquiries about the bomb at the Institute?'

‘The police?' Miriam rolled her eyes to heaven to show what she thought of them. ‘Fat lot of good they're being! Nearly a month and they still haven't a clue who planted it.'

‘Some misguided animal rights activists, of course,' he replied with conviction. ‘Protesting against experiments. One must admit to a certain sympathy with their point of view but it's difficult to support the logic of their thinking.'

‘I'd give them animal rights!' Miriam returned, raking back her hair with her fingers. ‘What about people rights? What about the babies with leukaemia, mothers with cancer? Do they have any thoughts for the rights of the man who was killed, his wife and children? He was only the security guard, only doing his duty.'

The Rector blinked, slightly taken aback, though he should have been used to her vehemence by now. Miriam was always so forthright, so sure she was right!

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed a silvery six, and as it did so a car was heard to draw up outside with an unnecessarily noisy application of brakes. The wide uneven floorboards protested at Miriam's not inconsiderable weight as she went to the small front window, peered out and gave a little shriek. ‘Good heavens, it's Philly! And the naughty girl never told me she was coming home!'