The Chorister at the Abbey (22 page)

‘Er, I’ve come up here to get this last copy of the
Cumberland News
for last week, still on sale in Fellside. Bit behind
The Times
here, you know!’ He laughed noisily at his own joke, hoping Chloe wouldn’t rumble him. ‘And what are you doing up here yourself?’ he asked, trying to sound nonchalant and take the initiative.

‘Oh, me? I just came to see someone. If you see my dad, don’t mention it. You know what a fuss they make.
Sooo
irritating.’

‘Yeah, totally.’

Tom moved from foot to foot. He was really cold now. Chloe hadn’t actually looked at him. She stared forwards, tensely waiting for the bus, which came into view and bounced down the hill to pull up abruptly. He followed her into it and plonked himself down beside her. Chloe gazed out of the window. Suddenly annoyed and demeaned, Tom poked her on the arm.

‘Have you been in touch with Poppy? She really needs to talk to you.’

‘Don’t tell me what my friends need!’ As if suddenly unguarded, the old Chloe turned angrily to face him.

To his surprise, Tom noticed a big grey smear across her forehead.

36

Sing unto the Lord a new song; sing praises lustily unto him with good courage.
Psalm 33:3

Paul at the Fellowship didn’t hold an Ash Wednesday service. That sort of thing was for bigger and more traditional parishes, he argued. But this year Jenny had challenged him.

‘You should take a communion service for the start of Lent,’ she had said. ‘I’m sure Mark agrees. He would help at it.’

‘But we’ve got Bible study tonight. The start of the real Lent course. That’s enough.’

These days, every time Mark was mentioned Paul felt uncomfortable. He was aware of Mark’s popularity and his easy intellectual processes. Mark could argue for anything and make it sound right. But am I just jealous? Paul asked himself. I’m such a poor fish, Lord, he would pray. Sometimes it seemed incredible that he had come as far as this, and then he had to acknowledge that much of his success had been because of Jenny. She was the one whose faith was solid and whose support had brought him through his own crises, time and again.

But now that support wasn’t there. Jenny was still tired, still distant, and she increasingly looked at him as if he had crawled from under a rock rather being one. He was spending ever more time at the computer, trying to find out more about Quaile Woods and the Whinfells, as if that would give him the foundation he needed.

And it was so interesting! He’d started to delve into the whole system of church patronage in the nineteenth century. He’d been fascinated to find that Uplands, the mother church, had been in the gift of the Cleaverthorpes. Then the father of the current Lord Cleaverthorpe had transferred his rights as patron to the Bishop. But he’d insisted that the family should still be consulted when a new incumbent was appointed. It was archaic, and a million miles from the straightforward suburban churches in Bristol and Manchester where Paul had served his probation as a curate.

But it harked straight back to the man Paul believed was his ancestor. Quaile Woods had come to the north after a childhood in Middlesex and an education at Oxford where he’d met the elderly Pusey. According to Henry Quaile Whinfell’s biography of Quaile Woods, he’d also met and befriended Cleaverthorpe’s son, which is how he had got the living. He must have come north aged thirty in 1860, brimming with almost missionary enthusiasm – but from a High Church perspective.

Paul, on the other hand, had qualified as a teacher after doing his first degree in geography. That’s how he’d met Jenny; her uncle was a vicar and he had helped them navigate through the system. But during the three years of his training for the ministry, Paul had never been anything other than a straightforward evangelical. One of his great strengths had been the geographer’s ability to assess the information on the ground and get on with it!

Despite their faith, there seemed little relationship between him and his putative great-great-grandfather. It was like reading about another world. He had been fascinated to find that Quaile Woods had been chaplain to the convent in Fellside. These women’s orders had sprung up like mushrooms in the nineteenth century. They supposedly accommodated the surplus single upper-middle-class women. Their male equivalents had been following the flag to the outreaches of Empire. Paul had done some research. At one point there had been over twenty thousand Anglican nuns in Britain. The Whinfell book referred to the order at Fellside as the Fellside Holy Sisters. Like most of them, it was a completely independent, local order. This one was fuelled by the passion of Sister Clementina, a Cleaverthorpe daughter who had dedicated herself to prayer and good works. Interestingly, in his biographical book Whinfell referred to the order as ‘Quaile Woods’ Order’ as if the vicar had somehow owned it. But all female orders needed a male priest – without one they couldn’t have the sacraments.

Paul looked at his watch. It was midday. He was still in his pyjamas and he’d forgotten his Bible study for the morning, which he did instead of reading the daily office. He had no idea where his wife was. He still hadn’t told her about the notion which was bumping around in his head like an unmoored boat.

He pulled his dressing gown round him and bumbled into the hall, feeling as if he had been in another world. ‘Jenny!’ he shouted. She was in the kitchen. He could almost sense her fury, although she didn’t answer him. She was bent over the high chair, feeding the baby.

‘Jenny, we have to talk. I want to tell you about an idea I’ve had.’

Jenny turned on him. ‘You want to discuss ideas with me, do you? Well, that’s new. You’ve spent three hours this morning in that study of yours without even getting dressed. What’s happened to you, Paul? Are you having some sort of breakdown?’

‘No.’ But even as he said it he wondered. He had spent the whole morning in the nineteenth century. ‘No! Listen to me, Jenny.’

‘Why should I listen to you? When was the last time you listened to me? Joseph is completely overtired and not eating properly. When was the last time you played with your own son? You’re too busy playing with your computer. I’m going to take him out in the buggy. He needs fresh air.’

She hauled the still-howling baby out of the high chair. She would change him later and anyway he smelt OK. She strapped him into the buggy, aware that Paul was hovering over her uselessly, trying to say something.

‘I’m going out,’ she snapped. She hurtled out of the house and into the street, head down. For a moment she had no idea where she was going.

And then the buggy almost ran over somebody’s large feet. A man’s. Dressed in dark clothes, he was big enough to hide the sun for the moment when she saw him. Looking into the light, it took her a moment to focus.

‘Oh,’ she said, suddenly calmed. ‘It’s you. What are you doing here?’

Edwin saw Tom loping ahead of him in the corridor later that day. ‘Tom!’ he called.

The boy turned, his fresh face open, but it crowded into a frown when he saw Edwin. ‘Yeah?’

‘Have you got a second?’

Tom looked around suspiciously, but none of his mates was in the corridor so he followed Edwin through the doors into the Music Department, head down and face pulled into a grimace. What was Mr Armstrong after? Was he in trouble for something? For a minute he wondered if Edwin knew he had told Chloe about the psalter. But what harm could that do? Even so, these things weren’t rational. Tom had learnt from his father after his lacklustre performance at school that it was always best to expect a bollocking and to meet it with either aggression or dumb insolence.

Edward was unlocking the office door. ‘Step in,’ he said. He was rather embarrassed about what he had to offer Tom, so he seemed more saturnine than usual – with the result that Tom hung back looking truculent. The moment of hysteria over Morris’s death which had brought them together was long over.

‘I’ve got a proposition for you,’ Edwin said, looking very serious.

Tom wasn’t sure what he meant, but thought the word sounded a bit like punishment.

‘A what?’

‘A proposition. A suggestion. You may feel it’s a bit over the top. I mean, you don’t have to say yes, and you can think about it if you want. It’s quite a serious matter.’

Tom was now both wary and confused. ‘Yeah? What is it?’

‘Sit down, Tom.’

Tom huddled into the chair under the window, looking round as if for a quick escape route.

Edwin stayed standing. ‘You’ve been really regular attending the Stainer rehearsals. I assume you’ve listened to a CD of the piece?’

Tom wondered what to say and decided on the truth. ‘Nah. I haven’t downloaded it and I’m a bit skint at the moment.’

‘So do you know how the piece goes?’

‘Oh, yeah, course. I’ve got the score, haven’t I? I’ve had a good look at that. I can read music, you know. It’s all a bit dated but not bad.’

Edwin breathed a sigh of relief. ‘We need two soloists, a bass and a tenor. The committee has asked Freddie Fabrikant to sing bass.’

So? What’s this got to do with me? The question was written all over Tom’s face.

He looks totally uninterested, Edwin thought. This might be a mistake. ‘And we’d like you to sing the tenor.’

Tom went on looking at the bookcase. Then his face shifted, and he brought his eyes round to Edwin’s. ‘What?’ he said.

Edwin sighed, and repeated: ‘The committee would like to ask you to sing the tenor solos. It’s hard work of course and if you feel you can’t cope . . .’

‘Me?
Me
? Do you mean me?’

‘Yes, of course I do. Why else d’you think I’m talking about it?’

‘But what about the others? The adults?’

‘You’ve got the best tenor voice in the choir, Tom, and you’re a quick learner. And Robin the musical director will help you. So will I. We’ve still got five weeks. You can do it. I suggest you and I and Robin meet an hour before the others each week and practise. I’m sure you’ll be good.’

Tom was gobsmacked, truly gobsmacked. That was the best way to describe his feelings, although chuffed-to-bits came a close second. He examined his feelings from the outside – a technique he’d learnt from his counsellor after Morris’s death – and was surprised to find that the one thing he didn’t feel was nervous. This wasn’t an exam or horrible homework or a presentation to the class. This was music and he could do it. It needed work, of course, but he liked doing that. It was his meat and drink.

‘When’s the concert, again?’ he asked.

‘Palm Sunday. The week before Easter.’ Oh dear, Edwin thought, was that the only comment Tom could make?

‘Oh.’ Tom looked crestfallen. Poppy wasn’t coming back until Maundy Thursday, the Thursday before the Easter weekend. ‘My girlfriend . . .’ The words sounded so strange, he had to stop and listen to them bounce around the room. He swallowed. ‘My girlfriend won’t be home from uni for it.’

‘So are you saying no?’ Edwin asked, on the verge of irritation.

‘No! I’m saying yes!’ Tom stared at him. Plonker! What idiots adults were. Would he turn this down? As if!

‘Good!’ Edwin breathed out, astonished at how relieved he was. ‘Look, the committee will also offer you a very small fee for this. It’s an unusual move but we recognize that there’d be expenses for you – buying a suit perhaps and maybe getting a CD player of some sort of your own. It’s not much but we’re offering you some money out of the funds. Is that all right?’

Tom gazed at him while he took it all in. ‘All right.’

‘That’s that then, Tom. I’ll see you at five-ish next Tuesday. And I’ll lend you my CD in the meantime. Here it is.’

‘Thanks.’ It was all starting to sink in and Tom felt rather wonderful. It was truly great that Mr Armstrong had asked him. And one good turn deserved another.

‘Mr Armstrong?’

‘Edwin.’

‘OK, Edwin. You know Chloe, your niece?’

‘Yes. What about her?’

‘She’s gone really weird. I’ve seen her twice up at Fellside, once a week ago on Saturday and then again today, and I don’t know what she’s doing there. Someone should tell her parents. I don’t know what’s going on – but something is. Poppy says she’s seeing some man.’

‘Chloe? But she looks terrible these days. Those clothes she’s wearing!’

‘Exactly. And when I saw her today she had a dirty great mark on her forehead. She’s really going downhill. Anyway, I just thought you should know.’

‘Yes. Well, thank you, Tom. I’ll mention it to her mother.’ But he knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t bear to see Lynn’s pain. But he would try to speak to Chloe himself.

‘So, Tom, see you next week.’

‘And Mr Armstrong, something else. When that fat woman, Miss Gibson, found me and the body, you know, with the book, the psalter, I told you there was a front page missing, didn’t I? I could tell, because it’d been torn out, but in a neat way.’

‘Yes. Alex said so too.’

‘Well, I’ve been thinking. At first I thought someone had taken the page out of the book once Morris was dead. But there wasn’t time. And anyway, why not take the whole book rather than just one page? Someone did that in the end, didn’t they, so why would they rip out one page first!’

It was a good point. ‘So what are you suggesting, Tom?’

‘Well, just say Mr Little brought the book into college with the front page missing in the first place? I mean, say Morris was the one who took the page out? Maybe the page is at his house. And if someone found it there, that would prove there was definitely a psalter, wouldn’t it? So then the police wouldn’t think me and Miss Gibson were plonkers, would they?’

Paul Whinfell had dressed in casual clothes and gone back to his computer. He had a lot to think about. So far the only progress he had made with his idea was to prevent anyone else from getting in the way of it. He wanted to talk to Jenny without the fear of Mark’s involvement. He put his head down and worked for about two hours until the room felt cold. Then he remembered Jenny hadn’t come back.

He got up to make a cup of coffee, wondering what he should do, when he heard the back door open and the unmistakable sound of the buggy being dragged into the kitchen. ‘Jenny,’ he said, ‘where’ve you been?’

‘Oh, just out for a walk. I needed the space and Joseph went straight off so I walked around just to keep him sleeping. He’s awake now, but calm.’

So she was talking to him. This was a good sign. She even smiled. Her walk had done her good.

‘That’s great. And it’s the Bible study group tonight so we need to eat early. What’s for tea?’ he asked, but tentatively. That was the sort of question which might make Jenny explode.

But she said gently, ‘I’m making a shepherd’s pie. I’ve got some mince in the freezer.’

Shepherd’s pie! That was good. His wife hadn’t peeled a potato for weeks and their menus had been increasingly erratic.

‘Who’s coming to the Bible study group?’ she asked.

‘Oh, the usual suspects,’ Paul said.

Jenny actually laughed. Then she said, ‘I’ve got something to say.’

‘What’s that?’ Paul felt a moment of terror.

‘I’m sorry. Really sorry, Paul. I’ve been walking and thinking for hours. I’ve been full of my own resentment lately. I’ve been selfish. You’re the priest and you’ve got a lot of responsibility; I should respect that.’