Up from the Grave (2 page)

“How can the dead make so many demands on the living?” Lillie spewed the words. “If you please, a cold figure down in the lab seems preferable to a living one at his side.”

“Stuff and nonsense.”

“The saddest part is that when Loren asks me to dinner again, I’ll go.”

“I dare say.”

Lillie lifted her chin. “Well maybe not this time. Maybe we’ll just see.”

Berdie glanced at the clock nestled near the roof line of The White Window Box, a gift and garden shop. Knowing the clock was accurate only seventy percent of the time at best, she hoped it was now fast. “Is that the correct time on the Window Box clock?”

Lillie peeked at her watch. “It looks as if it’s seven minutes slow.”

“My dear Lord have mercy,” Berdie yelped. And both women doubled their speed.

They flew past the shops with their simple windows of displayed goods, where owners swept the walkways enveloped by the warm afternoon sun. Berdie and Lillie greeted the people who chatted in the office entries and treaded the walkway. Despite being in a mad dash, Berdie admired the fresh daffodil blooms that decorated the terraced homes along the way.

Finally, at the end of the High Street on the front end of a wooded area, Saint Aidan of the Wood Parish Church sat elegantly awaiting all who wished to enter. Like a large tree offering shade in the heat of the day, this building made of ancient stones held peace and restoration for the pilgrims of this mortal earth just as it had for eight hundred years.

The moment Berdie and Lillie entered the pathway towards the vicarage, just a hundred yards from the church itself, a voice from across the front garden swelled.

“Mrs. Elliott.”

Berdie stopped short causing Lillie to bump into her.

It was Ivy Butz. Her rotund figure moved quite quickly towards the two women. Her brown hair was banded by a pretty yellow ribbon that matched her pinny. And her usual jolly full-moon cheeks danced at the end of each corner of her upturned mouth. Not one of her six children was in tow this time round, but she held the elbow of Cherry Lawler and nearly tugged her along. Cherry’s twenty-two-year-old visage and attitude contrasted greatly to Ivy’s. The petite young woman’s body reluctantly bounced along with Mrs. Butz. Cherry’s lowered eyes peeked out from behind the blonde fringe of her pixie haircut, her lips set.

When they arrived at Berdie’s side, Ivy urged the young woman. “Now tell Mrs. Elliott the problem, Cherry. She’s ever so good at finding solutions.” Ivy glowed expectantly at Berdie.

“Thank you for your confidence, Ivy. I only hope I can help. What is it, Cherry?”

The young woman lifted her pointy chin. Her slender fingers twisted the long sleeve of her jumper. “It’s just that we have two extra guests from the Golden Season’s Tour, and we just haven’t an inch of room left at our bed and breakfast. That is to say, my Jeff said we can’t possibly fit any more in unless they want to sleep standing up.”

“I’ll take them,” Lilly offered energetically.

“Could you do?” Cherry brightened.

“The garret flat at Swallow Gate is available,” Lillie offered. “It’s very comfortable.”

“That’s brilliant!” Cherry smiled, but her eyes still held a sense of distress.

“Now go on,” Ivy urged. “Tell the vicar’s wife the other thing—you know.”

Cherry Lawler’s thin bottom lip began to quiver. “It’s a bit personal.”

Ivy flashed a not often seen frown towards Berdie. “My uncle Wilkie, Cherry’s granddad, can be a daft old sort. And that’s all I have to say on the matter. I’ll see to the tea preparations, Mrs. Elliott.” Ivy hijacked the scone boxes from Berdie. “Take good care of my cousin here.” Ivy gave Cherry a pat. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Yes, must get the women’s chorus in form for the ceremonial performance.” Lillie, choir director extraordinaire and understandingly discreet, excused herself as well.

“I don’t mean to be a bother Mrs. Elliott.” Cherry apologized and swallowed.

“Not a bother.” Berdie put her hand on Cherry Lawler’s arm. “Please, go on.”

“It’s just that, well, you know my grandfather.”

Berdie nodded.

“He’s against this whole church garden scheme.”

Hugh had told Berdie about Wilkie Gordon’s explosive reaction at the parish meeting where the garden expansion was approved. Something about dismantling God’s green earth as she recalled. “Yes, I’ve gotten word.”

“He says that the money could be better spent on people in need, and the church is being irresponsible.”

“Oh. Well, we do give generously to many charities and missions of course.”

“Yes, Mrs. Elliott. We all know that. He knows that. But he insists the whole affair diminishes both the church and God’s honor.”

Berdie knitted her brow and shook her head. “That seems a bit extreme.”

“Mrs. Elliott, I’m afraid he’s going to do something daft, and it’s creating a great deal of tension in our family.”

Berdie noticed the moisture building in Cherry’s generous eyes.

“How daft, exactly?” Berdie asked cautiously.

“Who can say? I’ve never seen him this angry before.”

Berdie could see a silent plea in Cherry’s face.

“I wish someone could help my grandfather see sense.”

Berdie became instantly aware who ‘someone’ meant to Cherry Lawler. “Would you like my husband to have a word?”

Cherry wore relief like a lavish Easter bonnet. “Could he? Oh, that would be brilliant…and before the ceremony?”

“I’ll give Hugh the message straight away. You have my word. I’m sure he’ll be glad to help. He’ll speak with your grandfather as soon as possible. Don’t trouble yourself on the matter anymore.”

“I’m grateful,” Cherry tittered with relief. “I’ll just go catch Ivy up.” With a decidedly lighter step, the young woman departed.

Berdie made haste for the church. She wondered why Wilkie Gordon was going on so. He had been the church gardener for several years but had quit the position just a few months before Berdie and Hugh arrived. It seemed, Berdie reasoned, he should be one who would delight in a water feature for the church garden. But she didn’t have time to think about it now. She not only had to greet the Golden Season Tour guests who were to arrive soon and help service the tea for them; but she was also the greeter for the ceremony proceedings. Now she needed to have a quiet moment with her husband before the sod turning.

“And I’m already late,” she announced to the warm sun.

****

“Watch your step.” Hugh Elliott assisted an elderly woman from Golden Season Tours down the large coach steps. “Welcome to Saint Aidan of the Woods Church.”

Berdie eyed her tall husband. Even after twenty-seven years of marriage, he held a magnetism that pulled Berdie like an arrow to due north. His military bearing, a leftover from his former career, enhanced his clerical collar and couldn’t hide his kind, keen interest in people. And then of course there was his rugged build, silvery hair, and striking blue eyes.

“Hugh, may I have a word?” Berdie asked.

“Of course, love. Can you first attend to our guest?” Hugh smiled, and Berdie recognized his lifted left eyebrow as his gentle reprimand for being late.

When the woman he was assisting reached the ground of the church garden, Berdie took the old dear by the elbow.

In a whisk of impatience, a man alighted from the coach and pushed through, nearly knocking the frail pensioner over. Berdie felt the woman’s weight against her but caught the visitor in a firm grasp that held the woman steady as the fellow passenger moved across the garden towards the terrace near the woods.

“What a boor!” A woman wearing a broad orange hat voiced her annoyance.

“Sir!” Hugh’s voice commanded respect that all could clearly hear.

The man stopped short and turned. “Pardon.” He offered little penitence towards the woman Berdie had by the hand. Then, once again, he continued moving towards the back garden.

“Sir.” Hugh made it sound more a command than a title. “Please attend to your meeting inside the church if you will. The tea on the terrace is still in the ready.”

The man stopped and angled his body towards Hugh. With a sullen nod, he retrieved his steps and entered the front door of the church.

“I say”—fired the orange hat female—“so rude and all!”

Berdie made sure her little guest was steady. “Are you quite all right?”

The white head made an uneasy nod.

“I’m Mrs. Elliott, Reverend Elliott’s wife.”

“Here now, I’ll see to her.” Miss Orange Hat took the woman’s arm. “Come along now dear.” The vocal woman looked at Berdie. “Are we going to hear a sermon?” she asked baldly.

“Oh, no.” Berdie grinned. “Mathew Reese, your tour organizer, will inform you about the particulars of your stay here, quick as you like. Then it’s tea.”

“Oh, tea!” A large smile spread across both visitors’ faces as they made for the door.

Berdie excused herself and turned just in time to observe the huge coach pull away, wheezing black diesel smoke like a cottage chimney. It took to the road like a giant on its way down an elfin lane.

She glanced back toward the church, but Hugh was not in sight. “Oh, dear.” She thought to go find him but then spotted Ivy scooting across the garden with a tray of yellow dafs in little posies. Just the thing to add a touch of spring to the tables being laid for tea.

“Have you by chance seen my husband?” Berdie called out to the busy woman.

“Sorry, no. Did all go well with Cherry?”

“It did,” Berdie assured. “And all will be set when I find Hugh.” She watched Ivy try to manage the tray while placing the posies. “Do you need some help?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

Just a twinkle of time, and all was in the ready. Berdie noticed guests beginning to trickle from the church door towards the tables.

The slate terrace was just large enough to seat the crowd at tables for eight and still have a bit of leeway for the servers. The goods in place, the tea commenced.

Berdie was grateful for the ideal weather. Mostly blue sky, the sun felt warm. She wondered if its brightness on her hair betrayed the enhanced red highlights resulting from the recent trips to Michael’s Coiffure in Timsley, the bustling market town not thirty minutes away.

“Lovely today.” Berdie poured hot liquid from a bright yellow teapot into awaiting cups that held splashes of milk. She found herself at the table where the little woman she assisted sat with Miss Orange Hat and several others.

“’Tis lovely,” spoke Orange Hat. “But I rather hope that one, Mister Rude-and-Unfriendly, has curdled milk for his tea.”

Berdie followed the woman’s gaze to a table where the impatient gentleman sat with the youthful Mathew Reese. The middle-aged man appeared rather non-descript—regular features, salt and pepper hair combed flat, medium build, moderate clothing.

“Even though it’s Lent, all our milk is fresh,” Berdie offered with levity.

Orange Hat bypassed the well-intended humor. She brought the dainty teacup to her lips and took a rather voluble slurp.

With a courteous nod, and smothered giggle, Berdie moved to the next table where she glanced round searching for Hugh, but he wasn’t to be found.

In the midst of pouring tea, Mathew approached her.

“Mrs. Elliott, may I speak to you a moment?”

The tall and remarkably handsome golden haired university student cum tour director had grown up a parishioner of St. Aidan’s. Though currently attending university some distance away, he returned often. And now his special course project, organizing and leading a Senior Lenten tour, brought him back to his home parish. The tour, almost a pilgrimage really, visited several of the larger cathedrals. The few days in Aidan Kirkwood were to be a quiet respite in the midst of the travel. Mathew took Berdie aside.

“The business end of things I do brilliantly, but I’m desperately poor at making artful conversation. Do you think you could give it a go, artful conversation, I mean?” He made a quick nod towards the now solitary man with whom he had been seated.

“I’ll do my best Mathew.” Berdie was none too confident the guest would be keen on speaking with her.

In a moment, she was offering to top off the gentleman’s tea. Berdie lifted the yellow pot and smiled. But the stranger waved her off. Not deterred, she set the pot on the table and proceeded. “I do hope you’ll enjoy the next event. It’s our sod turning for a new water feature in our church garden.”

The gentleman blinked and at last directed his gaze towards her.

“I’m the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Elliott. Welcome to Saint Aidan of the Wood.”

“Groundbreaking, you say?” The man was suddenly alive and not especially gracious.

“Yes.” Berdie pointed towards the edge of the wood on the far end of the church garden. “Just there where the wild geranium grows.”

The man’s brow made a deep furrow. “By the Lenten roses?” His voice became animated. “You’re digging a church garden pond by, what I presume to be, a protected wood?”

“Just at the edge, and it is church property.” Berdie suddenly found herself on the defensive.

The man thrust his hand towards the trees. “What real benefit is a garden pond? Leave the flora and fauna as intended.” His voice grew fiery and none too calm. “That wood is the heritage of our great isle. We’ve all but destroyed most our forests. You’d give that up for a church pond?”

Eyes across the terrace settled upon Berdie and the loner who had become molten lava. She sat and pulled her chair close to the fellow.

“It’s all quite legal. We have appropriate approval.” She spoke in hushed tones. “The wood will hardly be touched. It will not be exploited; there is an eco-preservation scheme in place. Our parish council has crossed all their
T’s
.”

Berdie wondered how the man would carry on if he knew Grayson Webb’s primary interest for creating the pond: to build church attendance. She rested her hand on the man’s arm. “You can be assured it will be well looked after.”

The gentleman stiffened, and his eyes expanded. As he did so, Berdie sensed that she had seen him somewhere before. He glanced at her hand on his arm and cleared his throat. Berdie quickly removed the comforting gesture.