The Secret by the Lake (19 page)

It was the vicar. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just wondered if I could be of any help?’

I’d met him before, briefly, in Sunnyvale. Reverend Pettigrew was a small, slope-shouldered man in his dog collar and shabby suit, the shoulders speckled with dandruff. He was rubbing his hands together against the cold. There was a dewdrop on the end of his nose, which was red and bulbous. Just behind him was the woman who had been cleaning in the nursing home – Susan, his daughter. She was buttoned into an old coat that was too small for her and pinched around the arms and waist. It looked too worn out and thin to be keeping her the least bit warm. She seemed so cold and miserable that I had a strong urge to take her indoors and make her a hot drink.

I stood up. ‘I’m waiting to meet one of the children rehearsing inside the church.’

‘Ah yes,’ said the vicar, ‘the choir are practising for their performance at Sunnyvale. I’m looking forward to that. As patron of the nursing home, I generally act as compère at those sorts of dos.’ He held on to the lapels of his jacket and swelled with self-importance. I smiled as if I were impressed and he continued: ‘We spotted you looking at Jean Aldridge’s grave just now. I was curious as to your interest. You’re too young to have known either Jean or Caroline Cummings.’

‘I work for Julia, Caroline’s sister.’

‘Ah, of course you do.’

‘And it seems strange to me that they died within three days of one another but were buried so differently.’

The vicar shook his head. ‘They died in the same week, certainly, but that was all they had in common.’

‘Oh?’

‘Jean was a wonderful woman,’ said the vicar. ‘She went through so much and then to have her life snuffed out like that when she’d finally fulfilled her dream of becoming a mother as well as a wife … well, it was a tragedy. An absolute tragedy.’

Saint Jean, I thought, and then I was annoyed with myself for feeling unkindly towards someone I had never met, my darling Daniel’s mother. The vicar was right – it
was
a tragedy for a woman to die within days of the birth of her one and only child.

The vicar fished in his pocket, produced a crumpled handkerchief and blew his nose.

Behind him, Susan clutched the handle of a shopping bag with her plump hands. Her nails were bitten to the quick. She was looking at the ground.

‘But Caroline’s death was tragic too,’ I said. ‘She was only seventeen when she lost her life.’

The vicar gave a kind of snort.

‘It was completely different,’ he said.

‘How was it different?’ I asked. I couldn’t help but feel defensive of Caroline; she was not my family but I knew about her now. I felt as if she belonged to me.

‘Sadly, there are some people whose lives are best forgotten. Caroline was one of those.’ The vicar sniffed. ‘She had very few friends, and I’m afraid she turned everyone against her.’

‘I was her friend,’ Susan said quietly. ‘I liked her.’

‘I know
you
did,’ the vicar said bitterly, ‘but
you’re
not like most people.’ He rubbed his nose with his handkerchief and then addressed me again. ‘Caroline was troubled,’ he said, ‘very troubled. Hasn’t Julia told you about her?’

‘A little.’

‘Well then, I’ll show you something.’ He took hold of my elbow. I did not like the feeling of his hand touching me but felt it would have been an over-reaction to snatch my arm away, so I acquiesced, walking beside him back around to the other side of the church, the sun-facing side with the path running past it and the village looking towards it. Susan shuffled behind us.

The vicar stopped. He pointed up towards the church.

‘You see that window, the one that’s different to the others?’

‘The one that isn’t stained glass?’

‘Exactly. It used to be a stained-glass depiction of
The Sermon on the Mount
. It dated back to the sixteenth century and had been saved from an earlier church and reinstated here. The reason it’s not an invaluable stained-glass window now is because young Caroline threw a stone through the original. The church was full of people at the time.’

I looked up at the window. The last of the sun shone down through the cold, cold air and I looked up and I felt dizzy. From inside the church, the pianist played and Viviane’s voice rang through the glass, clear as a bell:
Ave Maria.

The vicar continued: ‘The stone smashed right through the window and the glass rained down on the congregation. Caroline wasn’t even fourteen, she was still a child, but already she had such evil inside her.’

‘Evil?’ I gave a small, disbelieving laugh. ‘That’s rather strong, isn’t it?’

‘Evil,’ the vicar repeated firmly.

And then for an instant, the briefest instant, no more than the time it took for my heart to beat twice, I felt a fury, rage like I’d never felt before. I imagined I heard an organ playing inside the church, not the tinkly piano that was accompanying the school choir but a thunderous, pitching organ bellowing out discordant notes, and the village voices were singing together, voices lumbering after the organ, straining for the tune, and I was outside, excluded, and I felt angry and hurt and utterly humiliated. I looked around and there was a rock, a good-sized rock, and I bent down to pick up the rock and it felt good and heavy in my hand.

I wanted to break that window. I wanted to shatter that pretty glass. I wanted to show those people inside the church that I counted, that I existed, that I mattered.

And I breathed in and the anger and the humiliation were gone and I was myself again. The air was still cold and bright and the vicar was still talking. He was describing the damage caused by the rock, how the people inside the church had rushed outside, shocked and deeply upset that the beautiful and ancient window had been broken.

‘I came out of the church and Caroline was standing there, right where you are now, staring up at the window,’ the vicar said, ‘and do you know what she did when I remonstrated with her? She laughed at me! Can you imagine such wickedness? She
laughed
!’

I thought of the drawing on the wall, the man swinging, the tongue lolling. Caroline had hated the doctor. Had she hated the vicar too?

Susan put her thumbnail into her mouth and chewed at the cuticle. Her upper lip was dark with whiskers.

The vicar rocked on his heels. The tone of his voice changed as he moved on to the next part of the story. ‘Mr and Mrs Cummings were devastated, of course, but they couldn’t afford to pay for a replacement window so Dr Croucher put up the money. Caroline told me if we replaced the window with more stained glass, she would break it again. That was the kind of girl she was. We didn’t want to risk bringing further embarrassment to her dear mother and father. So we left the window plain, as it is now.’

‘You could have replaced the stained glass after she died.’

‘We tried,’ said the vicar, ‘but the lead framework had twisted and we couldn’t get the glass to fit. So that plain window will always serve as a reminder to the village of a wicked act and a wicked young woman. And the one beside it, the one that depicts
The Virgin and Child
, that’s the one that dear Jean’s parents, Sir George and Lady Debeger, dedicated in memory of their poor deceased daughter. It seems ironic that the two should be side by side.’

‘Why ironic?’ I asked.

‘Because of what Caroline did to Jean.’

‘What did she do?’

The vicar caught his breath. He glanced at his daughter. Then he took his handkerchief out of his pocket once more and blew his nose again. Inside the church, the song reached a crescendo, an extended, beautiful, musical
Amen.

‘Come on, Susan,’ the vicar said, ‘they’re finishing now. You need to get in and lay out the Bibles ready for Prayer Group.’

‘You didn’t tell me what Caroline did to Jean Aldridge!’ I called but either he did not hear, or he pretended not to.

He walked away from me, along the path, and Susan shuffled after him, pausing only to look over her shoulder and send me a glance of sadness.

I waited by the church door for Viviane as a gaggle of chattering schoolgirls came out of the church. Vivi was the last out, walking with a tall, thin, dark-haired man, lanky in his suit. He acknowledged me with a wide, personable smile but Vivi stiffened when she saw me. The man put his hand on her shoulder and guided her towards me.

‘Hi,’ I said, with a smile. ‘I was listening outside. That sounded wonderful, Vivi.’

‘Young Viviane here has a real talent,’ said the man. He held out his hand. ‘Eric Leeson,’ he said, ‘headmaster and choirmaster.’

I took his hand. ‘I’m Amy.’

‘I know exactly who you are. My good friend Dr Croucher has told me all about you.’

‘Have you been all right, Vivi?’ I asked.

There was an awkward pause. Viviane stared at her feet.

‘She’s been fine,’ said Mr Leeson. ‘She was a tiny bit tearful earlier but we went into the vestry and had a little chat, and you’re OK now, aren’t you, Viviane? You’re our star performer. You’re not going to let a little family spat get in the way of your singing, are you?’

Vivi shook her head. She leaned a little closer to him. He squeezed her shoulder. I felt terribly awkward. I didn’t know if I should explain or apologize. I did not know what Vivi had said to Mr Leeson; she may have exaggerated the argument, or played down her own role in instigating the slap. And yet the last thing I wanted to do was cause her more embarrassment or pain.

‘Come on then,’ I said. I held out my hand to Viviane, but she did not take it. Instead she pushed past me and made her way alone, down the path.

I moved to follow her but Mr Leeson said quietly, ‘Leave her – let her be. Give her a little space. She’s a good girl and she’s strong. She’s going to be fine.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘for all you’re doing to help her.’

‘Oh, it’s my pleasure,’ said Mr Leeson. He adjusted his tie. ‘Really, it’s the least I can do.’

THE VERY NEXT
day Daniel called, saying he wanted to see me. He said his father would be out all day and suggested I walked down to Fairlawn. I left Julia scrubbing at the drawing in the empty bedroom with a wire brush and some Vim scouring powder and walked down the hill. Daniel met me on the lane. He was bundled in his outdoor clothes, looking like something organic that had grown up out of the fields and the woods and the countryside. He held out his hands to me; they were filthy but I took them anyway.

‘I’ve been out with the sheep,’ he said.

‘I never would have guessed!’

He laughed. ‘Do I smell agricultural?’

‘A little. It’s OK. I don’t mind that smell.’

‘Really?’

‘On you I don’t mind it.’ I smiled.

‘I’d forgotten,’ Daniel said, ‘how very much I like you.’

‘I like you very much too,’ I said, ‘and I think I always will.’

He coloured a little and I felt my cheeks heat in empathy. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you the grand tour of the Aldridge pile.’

‘Where’s your father?’

‘Out on the lake.’

‘You’re sure he won’t come back?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘If he found me in the house he’d suspect me of filching the family silver.’

‘I’ll check your pockets before you leave,’ Daniel said. I thought if he knew how dire Julia’s financial situation really was, he would not joke about it. He led me towards the house. Dead black leaves were blowing across the lawns, bunching at the feet of the tree trunks. There was a wheelbarrow on the pathway, a rake propped up against the wall, but no lights were on inside the house. It gave the impression of being empty.

I followed Daniel inside. The hallway had been stripped of its Christmas decorations and the fire was no longer burning, but huge radiators kept the place warm and it was light. The furnishings were grand but past their best and it felt a comfortable, lived-in house. Coats were piled on a rack, with boots lined up beneath on sheets of muddy newspaper. Unopened mail lay on a table beneath a mirror hung at an angle, a stack of ornithological books piled beside it.

Daniel pulled the door shut and then he took hold of me and kissed me. His hands were inside my coat. I was bright with desire but I pulled away. Not here, I thought, not here.

‘You
are
going to show me around, aren’t you?’ I asked.

‘If that’s what you want.’

Daniel sat on a chair by the table and took off his boots. I wandered over to the wall and studied an oil painting of a cocker spaniel with limpid brown eyes. The tricolour collie was about my legs, a whisper of a dog, her claws clicking on the floor. Daniel put his boots on the newspaper, stood up in his thick grey working socks and took off his coat.

‘Would you like coffee?’ he asked.

I nodded and followed him into a large kitchen, grand but untidy. A crate was crammed with empty bottles by the back door and washing was drying over a rack suspended above a huge old Aga. It was men’s washing: corduroy trousers and cotton shirts, socks and underpants, a sweater with frayed cuffs. Mr Aldridge’s laundry. These intimate items made me feel uncomfortable. I bit at a nail while Daniel filled the kettle.

The lake was framed by the window. A few boats, tiny from this distance, were bobbing on the water.

‘Is your father in one of those boats?’

‘Yes.’

‘What is he fishing for?’

‘Trout, but it’s not the fish that’s the attraction,’ Daniel said, ‘not where my father’s concerned. His hook won’t even be wet. He’ll be sitting on the boat as usual, listening to the water slap against the side, drinking whisky and thinking about my mother. The angling’s just an excuse. Sugar?’

‘Please. Four teaspoons.’

‘Four?’

‘Five if you have plenty of sugar.’

Daniel glanced at me. ‘I have a sweet tooth,’ I said, not wanting to admit I hadn’t been able to afford to take sugar in my coffee for months.

‘OK,’ he said. He obligingly stirred in several heaped spoonfuls of sugar and passed me the mug.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m fine.’