Winter Wishes (27 page)

Jules smiled faintly. After seeing the bishop, her next port of call was the main branch of her bank.

“Thanks,” she said. “I am proud but I still feel that leaving is the right thing to do.”

The bishop raised his teacup to his lips, took a delicate sip and replaced it in the saucer with a rattle. “You look tired, Julia, and you’ve lost weight. Do you think that maybe you’re under stress? Perhaps a rest is what you need?”

All the rest in the world wasn’t going to mend her broken heart, thought Jules, but the bishop didn’t need to know this.

“No, it’s nothing at all to do with that. I just feel that it’s the right time for me to move on.”

“Is this because of the audit?” The bishop wasn’t buying her excuses. “If it is, then – and this is strictly off the record, you understand – then you really don’t need to worry on that score. St Wenn’s isn’t under any imminent threat.”

A week ago Jules would have been orbiting the moon with joy at this news. Today, however, all she could do was nod.

“Provided we don’t find any issues with the registers, of course, and the audit makes sense,” the bishop added. “But that’s just a formality. Oh, and no more scandals of course, ha ha!”

What if their mysterious benefactor continued to make big donations? Jules thought with alarm. What an irony if somebody who really wanted to help St Wenn’s actually became the church’s downfall. For the hundredth time Jules wracked her brains trying to work out who this person might be, but as usual she drew a total blank. Beneath her teacup her fingers were firmly crossed. As long as she kept Sheila away from the slave-auction idea and the Pollards were kidding about a “butlers in the buff” fundraiser, then things should be fine.

“I’m sure everything will be perfectly in order.” Jules sent up a quick prayer with this thought. “Whoever takes over from me won’t have any problems.”

There was a pause as the bishop gazed at her thoughtfully. The room was quiet except for the heavy ticking of a longcase clock and the buzz of traffic outside.

“Is this something that you feel comes from God? Or are you running away?” he asked eventually.

“Running away?”

“From a situation you feel that you can’t escape? Or maybe someone?”

Jules looked up, shocked at his insight. “Is it that obvious?”

“Not at all, but it’s not an easy path that you’ve been called to follow. It comes with many blessings but also many burdens, and sometimes you’ll have to decide if those blessings are enough to compensate for the hard choices you’ll make along the way.”

She swallowed back the lump in her throat. “I love my job, and I know it’s what God wants me to do. It’s just that there’s a conflict for me now and I think that leaving would be the best thing to do.”

The bishop removed his glasses and regarded her with faded brown eyes that had doubtless watched many young clerics come and go. There was probably nothing that he hadn’t seen before.

“The best or the easiest?”

“Both, maybe?” Jules wasn’t sure. She loved Polwenna Bay and St Wenn’s and Danny. Leaving these behind would be like losing a part of herself but, ultimately, if it cleared the way for Danny to resolve his issues with Tara, then that had to be for the best. “So, is it possible for me to leave?”

“All things are possible, Julia. You’re not a prisoner in your parish. If you really do believe that God wants you elsewhere, then of course you’re free to move on. But I would ask you this: make sure that it really is His voice you’re listening to and not just the whispering of your own fears. Sometimes what God wants for us is the steep and rocky road rather than the smooth downhill one.”

 “So you’re saying I should stay?”

He inclined his grey head. “I would suggest that you give it until the New Year. Let’s get Christmas out of the way; it’s always the busiest and most emotive time. Then come and speak to me again once you’ve had time to reflect.”

“So I can’t have some time off now?” Jules had been hoping that the bishop would put forward the idea of a locum filling in for her while she had a few weeks away. That would be enough time for her to write her resignation and think about her next move.

“I’m afraid not. There’s nobody who could help out at such short notice and you’d be leaving St Wenn’s without a vicar at Christmas. Of course, if you still feel that’s the right thing…”

His voice trailed off but the meaning was clear. She could stay and deal with her issues or walk away and leave St Wenn’s in the lurch. Jules could no sooner do that than she could just switch off her feelings for Danny. She was damned either way. As the conversation turned to the upcoming nativity play, the matter of her resignation having been gently but firmly put aside, Jules knew that she would have no choice but to go back to the village and tell Danny once and for all that there could and would never be anything more than friendship between them.

Then she could count the days until she left for good.

* * *

“One hundred, one twenty, one forty, one sixty, one eighty, two hundred… and four fifties.”

The bank teller was busy with the customer at the head of the queue while everyone else fidgeted quietly and, in true British style, watched for anyone who might surreptitiously try to push in. Jules, sitting on the furthest side of the bank, checked her watch and sighed. She’d been due to see the bank manager over fifteen minutes ago and there was still no sign of him. It felt a bit like waiting for the dentist.

“Shall I put that in an envelope " for you?” the bank teller was asking.

“No thanks. Could you pay it straight in to this account please? I’ve got the details here.”

“Certainly, Madam.”

Although Jules couldn’t see the front of the queue there was something familiar about the customer’s polite and well-modulated tones. Craning her neck she made out an elderly woman delving into a printed jute bag and pulling out a piece of paper.

“Sorry, Madam, I can’t read the writing. What does that say? St Winn?”

“St Wenn’s church. It’s in Polwenna Bay. I’ve written down the sort code.”

Jules was on her feet and at the counter before she even knew it. This was the mystery benefactor caught red-handed, she was certain of it!

But what she hadn’t guessed was who this person might be, and it was hard to say who was more surprised – Jules or Alice Tremaine.

“Alice?” Jules’s eyes were round with shock. “It’s been you all along? You’ve been paying money into the account?”

Alice’s face was ashen. “Jules! I can explain! I’ve just been trying to help.”

“But you know the trouble it’s been causing,” said Jules in bewilderment.

Alice looked stricken. “Of course, but what can I do? If I have the money in our account Jake will see it or Jimmy will fritter it. He’s been twice as bad since he came back from America. This was going to be the last donation, I promise. Giving it to the church felt like a good thing to do.”

“In theory it is, but not like this.” Jules was staggered. “Alice, where on earth are you getting all this cash from?”

A look of guilt crossed Alice’s face. “I can’t tell you.”

Jules was starting to feel a little tired of the Tremaines’ capacity for secrets.

“Oh yes you can,” she said grimly. “I need to know everything. And so will our accountant. And maybe the tax man. Do I need the police as well?”

Alice looked offended. “Certainly not! It’s all perfectly legal and above board.”

“Will you get a move on?” grumbled the next person in the queue. “Some of us have got homes to go to.”

“Madam, shall I pay the money in?” asked the bank teller, looking nervously at Jules. The wad of money in her hand trembled.

“Yes,” said Alice.

“No!” cried Jules. “Those deposits of yours look like money laundering. Any more and we’ll probably have a tax inspection – at the least.”

The notes were pushed beneath the window and Alice put them in her purse with great reluctance.

Jules shook her head. “I don’t know what this is all about but I think it’s time we had a chat.”

There was a coffee shop across the road from the bank, a trendy affair that was all glass and steel and bleached driftwood, and which had a mind-boggling menu. Once they were seated, each with a latte and a cinnamon slice, Jules fixed Alice with a stern look.

“So? Are you going to tell me exactly what’s been going on?”

It was like opening the harbour gates mid-storm. As Alice began to speak, her words gathered speed and her breath became ragged. Several times Jules had to tell her to calm down and take a sip of her drink. It was as though she was unloading a dreadful burden, and with every word she uttered her face seemed to become less pale and strained. Jules listened, her mouth hanging open, while her untouched coffee grew cool. She couldn’t believe her ears.

“So now you know,” Alice finished quietly. “I wrote
Blackwarren
just as a bit of fun. I never thought of publishing it until one of the women at the University of the Third Age did a talk about Kindle books. When I pressed the publish button on Amazon I didn’t think anything more of it.”

Jules still wasn’t quite able to comprehend what she was hearing: Alice Tremaine, seventy-nine years old, pillar of St Wenn’s and respected grandmother, was the secret author of
Blackwarren
, the steamy self-published novel that had been taking Polwenna Bay and, it now transpired, the rest of the UK by storm.

“I never thought it would earn any money, so when some came in it was a nice surprise.” Alice gave Jules a half smile. “To be honest it was a bit of a distraction from everything at home with Danny and Tara. I’d always loved writing and everyone was on about that dreadful
Fifty Shades
stuff, so I thought why not?”

“Some distraction,” Jules said. “I guess that’s why you kept borrowing the laptop from Morgan?”

“Guilty as charged,” nodded Alice. “I knew that nobody would ever guess I wrote the book – but I did feel dreadful when everyone was speculating, and having to pretend I was in the dark too. I thought that giving the money to St Wenn’s would make up for that. When you mentioned that I might have caused problems I felt terrible about it. I was going to put this last bit in and then stop.”

Recalling her earlier conversation with the bishop, Jules thought that
problems
was an understatement.
No more scandals
, was what he’d said. He might have a sense of humour and be pretty understanding, but the Church of England being subsidised by soft-porn novels probably wouldn’t amuse him.

It could also mean the end of St Wenn’s.

“You have to stop giving the money to the church,” Jules said firmly, and Alice nodded.

“It’s just that I wanted to make sure there was a good lump sum in by the time the bishop looked at the finances. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

Jules reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I know you didn’t, but there might well be questions about where the money came from.”

“I understand, and of course I’d stand up and tell anyone official who needed to know that it was me. But do you really have to tell the others I wrote the book?” Alice looked very upset at this thought.

“The PCC needs to know where the money came from,” Jules said gently. “They’re worried.”

Alice bit her lip. “I know, but I’d hate to embarrass my family.”

“They’d never be embarrassed of you.”

 “This is awful,” replied Alice, glancing down, “but I’d also rather Jimmy didn’t know. He’s spending everything we have as it is. If he thinks there’s an extra income stream he’ll be twice as bad.”

“I understand that,” said Jules, “but I really think it’s best to be honest. Besides, what will you do when the film companies start making offers?”

Alice laughed. “I hardly think that will happen, love.”

“So what’s the real problem then? You’re proud of your work, your family love you and Jimmy will just have to behave. Why can’t you admit you’re the author?”

The older woman stared into her coffee cup. “I’ve also based Lord Blackwarren on somebody real. I’d rather he didn’t know. It could be very… awkward.”

Recalling the juicy scenes – lots of rippling torsos, throbbing manhoods and quivering thighs – Jules understood why. Although, then again, most men would be flattered: Lord Blackwarren was sexy and hung like one of Mo’s stallions.

“So spill: who is he?” she asked. “We’re all desperate to know.”

But Alice’s lips were sealed. “That’s my secret. Suffice to say that a lot of my book wasn’t wholly fiction! Jules, promise me that you won’t tell anyone it’s me. Can’t we pretend the book was written by somebody else? There must be someone who owes you a favour? Somebody who’s prepared to say it’s them? Someone who might plausibly have written it?”

Jules was just about to pick up her cinnamon slice. Her hand hovered over it as several pennies dropped.

“Do you know what,” she said slowly, “I think there is. And, even better, he’s going to be only too happy to help.”

Caspar Owen was about to become very useful indeed.

Chapter 19

Avoiding Danny wasn’t easy in a village the size of Polwenna Bay, but having kept her mobile set to silent and made sure that she was out on parish business as much as possible, Jules had managed to get to Friday without seeing him. The week had been hectic anyway. Much of it had been spent persuading Caspar to drop some hints that he was the secret author of
Blackwarren
, but she’d also had a packed Christmas schedule to keep her occupied. For one thing, there was organising the lighting of the Christmas tree, and then there was the nativity play too. For the past few days she’d been working flat out. Jules was still determined to resign, so she knew this would be both her first and her last Christmas in Polwenna Bay. Although it was a bittersweet occasion, she was determined to put her heart and soul into it.

The first Friday in December was traditionally the night when Polwenna Bay’s Christmas decorations were lit. All week the Pollards had been busy stringing lights across the village, over the top of the fish market and along the quay, while the shopkeepers had dusted off their tills and goods in readiness for the influx of festive tourists. The pièce de résistance was the huge Christmas tree that had been erected on the green and smothered in white and blue lights to match those on the smaller trees either side of the harbour gate. The PA system was fully up and running now; earlier, big Eddie Penhalligan had been shouting “Testing! Testing!” at regular intervals, between which random snatches of Christmas carols had echoed across the valley. Stalls had been set up on the village green, too, including The Ship’s makeshift stand selling mulled wine and hot toddies. Meanwhile there was great excitement over a sumptuous Harrods hamper that had been anonymously donated for the raffle.