The Chorister at the Abbey (12 page)

And now it had come full circle. Here he was, going to a church meeting on his bicycle as he had done when he was a boy!

He grunted and pushed on the pedals to lever himself past the bulk of the boarded-up convent, a strange neo-Gothic building in red brick with turrets and gables. From the corner of his eye he saw the dark outline of a large stone cross, chipped and lurching crazily to one side in the overgrown garden.

‘Wowwww!’ Freddie called out loud as he pedalled, feeling the pressure lift as he reached the brow of the hill and the bicycle wheels spin of their own accord. Freewheeling! This was Freddie Fabrikant, caped crusader.

‘Hello, hello!’ He careered round the corner into the gravelly car park outside the Fellside Fellowship Chapel where his bike literally ground to a halt. To his amazement, there was quite a crowd.

So many people interested in the Psalms. Freddie chuckled.

22

Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving, and shew ourselves glad in him with psalms.
Psalm 95:2

At the former St Luke’s, Pat Johnstone was making for the lighted doorway, looking at Mark Wilson in a hungry way as he and Paul Whinfell welcomed people on the doorstep. Lynn Clifford had brought Chloe, who was wearing a strange headscarf like something from post-war Eastern Europe, and Suzy Spencer lingered behind them, looking a bit bemused.

Freddie flung his bike to one side and advanced on her in his usual expansive way. ‘Hello! It’s me!’ he called, totally assured of his own fame. ‘You are Robert’s wife, yes?’

‘No. Just the girlfriend,’ Suzy said firmly, but with less mischief in her voice than usual. Lynn Clifford glanced anxiously at her, but was distracted by Chloe who was marching purposefully into the hall.

To Freddie’s surprise, someone else from the Chorus moved towards them out of the shadows. It was the big mezzo woman, Alex Gibson, looking brighter than usual in a red coat, and a red velvet scarf like the one he’d bought Wanda for Christmas. She had rarely spoken to him, but this evening she seemed animated.

‘Hello, Freddie,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d give this a go. You too?’

‘
Absolut!
Why not?’ Freddie laughed infectiously.

Alex turned to the woman next to her. ‘Hi – I’m Alex Gibson.’

‘I’m Suzy Spencer.’

‘Shall we go in? I don’t know what to expect.’

‘Me neither. But at least Mark Wilson has got nice shoulders!’

Alex laughed. Suzy Spencer seemed like fun. Alex had been intrigued by the Bible study course – but primarily because it was being held in Fellside, within walking distance. And she was keen to meet people now she was feeling so much better. She could take a risk because Robert Clark was definitely away during half-term week. Or so Edwin had told her at the Chorus practice. There was no danger of meeting him over stewed tea and biscuits in the brightly lit church hall.

Listening to the discussion getting under way, Suzy Spencer had to admit it was interesting but she wasn’t sure if she would stick it for the whole course.

She had come partly out of pique. It had hit her like a blow when Robert had said he was going to London on a creative writing course. That night was the first time in eighteen months that she’d got a casual babysitter for Molly; just because Robert was away, she wasn’t going to sit at home and mope. She had done Bible study before in Tarnfield and not enjoyed it much, but when Lynn had suggested it, she thought she might give it another try. And Mark Wilson did have an appeal, there was no doubt about it. But getting out on weekday evenings was a pretty tough call, just to hear the painfully serious Jenny Whinfell give a learned analysis of the psalms of lament!

But then Mark followed with some really funny allusions, pointing out the more entertaining episodes. ‘The Psalms would make quite a good computer game,’ he said. ‘How God might defeat thine enemies in over a hundred ways, most of them pretty bloody!’

Suzy laughed, thinking of Jake. Mark made her feel up to date, one of the people who knew the score in the big wide world. At the tea break, Suzy had the feeling that he had singled her out. She told herself not to be stupid. But catching sight of herself in the mirror in the Ladies, she could see that the cold air had brought colour to her face and her blond spiky hair had withstood the rain and damp better than the blow-dry styles of the other women. She was surprised to see that she looked quite trim, too. Obviously having Robert away from home or working in the evenings wasn’t doing her figure any harm – the only things she ate these days were Molly’s leftovers.

And how old was Mark Wilson? He wasn’t a toy-boy himself. Early thirties, and if roles were reversed and she were the bloke, no one would think anything of the age gap. What age gap, anyway? Robert was years older than she was. No one but Nigel ever mentioned that.

Mark bent confidentially to talk to her, and Suzy felt herself twinkling back at him. Get a grip, she told herself sharply.

‘No Robert with you?’

‘He’s away actually.’

I’m flirting, she thought. How bloody stupid. I ought to move off. But Mark said quietly, ‘You know, perhaps we ought to have a chat. Maybe we could talk when you bring Jake up to the band.’

‘Yes . . . yes, that would be good . . .’

Mark smiled at her, and then went over to speak to Pat Johnstone. He was probably the only person who approached her voluntarily. Pat was all over him like a rash. They’ll have to peel her off him when the talk starts again, Suzy thought. Then she realized she was standing dumbly in the middle of the room, holding her cup and saucer at a dangerous angle.

Alex Gibson came and stood next to her. ‘He
is
rather gorgeous, isn’t he? With the monstrous regiment of single women lusting after him!’

‘Actually that’s a myth, you know!’

‘Really? About the single women or the lusting after Mark?’

‘The single women. There are usually fifty-one per cent women and forty-nine per cent men in the population. It’s always been like that, except after the First World War. The idea of surplus women is rubbish.’

‘So what about all these middle-aged harpies supposedly looking for partners?’

‘There are loads of men looking for partners too. It’s just that women like to trade up. It’s a class thing, not a numbers thing. If you want to meet a man, try the snug bar. He’ll be wearing Crimplene trousers and have his teeth in, if you’re lucky.’

‘I’ll pass on that, I think. How do you know all this?’

‘I’m a freelance producer for daytime TV. You’d be amazed what we know. That’s another myth for you. Look, we’d better get back into our seats. I don’t want to miss a word Mark says!’

But the second half of the talk seemed to drag more. Suzy found her eyes closing and had to chew her fingers to keep awake. Paul Whinfell was earnestly looking at similes and metaphors in the Psalms and relating them to the New Testament.

‘And there’s Psalm 19,’ he was saying. ‘This is an interesting one. The bridegroom analogy . . .’

‘Ah yes!’ Freddie Fabrikant had grown tired of listening. ‘I find this so weird, Paul. You know, we have all these bride and bridegroom ideas in the Bible. But also there is this big thing about virgins, I mean staying a virgin. You know, virgins keeping each other company. I heard someone say that just recently . . .’ He stopped, aware that suddenly the room had gone quiet.

‘What is this about?’ Jenny Whinfell spoke sharply, annoyed at the interruption.

‘I expect Freddie means Psalm 45,’ Mark said gently, defusing things. ‘You know, there are so many mixed references in the Bible. Perhaps we should move on to our final words. Does anyone have a favourite psalm? And not Psalm 23 please . . .’

‘I do!’ Everyone turned to Chloe Clifford, who stood up.

Without reference to a book she said, ‘It’s Psalm 131. It’s one of the shortest . . .

‘Lord I am not high minded; I have no proud looks.

I do not exercise myself in great matters which are too high
for me.

But I refrain my soul and keep it low, like as a child that is
weaned from his mother; yea my soul is even as a weaned
child.

O Israel, trust in the Lord from this time forth for evermore.’

‘Thank you, Chloe,’ said Paul Whinfell, obviously moved. ‘After that there’s nothing more to say but the closing prayer.’

Alex and Suzy found themselves together in the car park. Alex had found Suzy’s remarks about single women intriguing. Suzy was an interesting person, Alex thought. Suzy had liked Alex, too.

‘It was novel to hear Freddie Fabrikant on theology,’ Suzy said.

‘Like Bluebeard on domestic violence.’ Alex laughed. ‘Not to mention Chloe Clifford and that astounding rendition!’

‘Yes, I think Lynn’s got her hands full with that one at the moment. Have you got any kids?’

‘Sadly not. I’m one of your single statistics though I’m not trading up or down at the moment! I’m divorced. And you? Are you local? I haven’t seen you in Fellside before?’

‘No, I live in Tarnfield.’

‘Tarnfield. Isn’t that where Robert Clark lives? I know him from the college where I work.’ Alex couldn’t help asking, like pushing on a painful tooth.

Suzy laughed. ‘Funny you should ask. Actually, I’m living with Robert Clark. At least, for the time being.’

In the dark Suzy couldn’t see the way Alex’s jaw dropped. What on earth was going on? Robert Clark was married to Mary, wasn’t he? The love of his life? Who was this bright, spiky blonde woman?

‘Well, I’m off,’ Suzy said. ‘It’s been nice to meet you. There aren’t many laughs at Fellside Fellowship. I bring my son here most Sundays and get glared at by the vicar’s wife!’

Alex felt as if she had been punched in the chest. She smiled vacantly, turned sharply away from Suzy and narrowly missed being hit by Freddie on his bike, as he wheeled in a magnificent uncontrolled arc out of the Fellside Fellowship car park.

Robert Clark couldn’t sleep. He was staying at the Traveller’s Hotel in Islington for his creative writing course, and the noise of the heating plus the fact that his room was next to the lift shaft kept him awake. He told himself it was those things, but he really suspected it was his mental state. He had been wretched ever since the coolness with Suzy started, and found it really difficult to try and write anything. Using his imagination was certainly out, so he’d tried ‘faction’ but that wasn’t working either.

‘Ouch!’ He had rolled over and hit his head on the book he had been reading, which crashed off the bed. It was no good. He switched the bedside light on and got up, ostensibly to go to the loo, but really because he was restless. He stood by the window and drew the curtains back. Below him the city lights peppered the night. He felt guilty because he was literally around the corner from Suzy’s best friend Rachel Cohen, but he hadn’t called her. Rachel was too perceptive and would have known at once that something was wrong. But he had felt obliged to have dinner that evening with his sister who lived in Hendon.

‘So are how are things with Suzy?’ his sister had asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he had said.

‘I thought it was serious.’

‘It is serious. But I don’t know what to do next.’

His sister had raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s not like you,’ she said archly. ‘You always have things under control.’

He had squirmed a little. There was a sort of conceit about believing that you could act as a counterbalance to people in turmoil. Now he was in turmoil himself. Suzy had destabilized him. It was as if she had seen through his vaunting of marriage and exposed it to a searchlight. Did she suspect that he was a hypocrite? Did she guess that his commitment to Mary had really been less than a hundred per cent? He could hardly bear to acknowledge it even to himself.

Instead, he thought about Edwin Armstrong. Edwin was a calm type as well, but unlike Robert his even-temperedness seemed the product of detachment. Robert remembered when Edwin had been seeing Marilyn Frost, the stunning sister of the Frost brothers. She was the eldest child in the rambling Frost family, the scourge of the neighbourhood. She had enrolled to do music at the college, and was one of those students whom everyone knew, because of her looks and her family’s notoriety. She must have been about twenty, Robert thought, and Edwin in his early thirties.

Edwin’s quiet joy at being with Marilyn stifled any scruples people might have had about the age gap. It was as if he couldn’t believe his own luck. Robert remembered seeing them at Norbridge Abbey once, and Marilyn’s face had been shining with delight, her hand holding Edwin’s tightly. Edwin hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her.

And then Robert had heard that she had gone away. It was when Mary was terminally ill and he hadn’t given anyone else much thought. No one had known why the split had happened and there was something about Edwin’s despair that stopped gossip in its tracks.

Robert went to the bathroom and then back to the window. London. He loved it, but Tarnfield was his home. How long would Suzy stick it? he wondered. She had been living in the country for four years now, but it wasn’t her natural habitat. Much of her work was in Newcastle and Manchester, and she spent hours on the road. He knew she always rushed home to him, giving up the after-work drinks and the occasional parties. They did silly things together which he hadn’t done for decades and until recently the bad temper never lasted. There had never been that sense of walking on eggshells which Robert had mistaken with Mary for the empathy of love.

He had really tried hard to make his wife happy, that was for sure. But Robert knew that the version of his married life which he had given Suzy had one or two factual gaps in it. For Mary’s wonderful husband had not been so wonderful, really. Robert had been unfaithful to her more than once. Five times actually. And though they were usually one-night stands between consenting adults, on one occasion he knew he had behaved badly. He had tried to forget it. But his rows with Suzy had exposed the double standards of his own position. He knew that if things were ever going to be right with her, he had to sort them out for himself first. Then he would need to face the music or the mockery at home. He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

Either way, it wouldn’t be pleasant, and Suzy would have every right to tell him to take his sanctimonious sentiments about marriage – and stuff ’em.