Eleanor had arranged to drop off her takings at Philip White’s house a day or so after the festival. She was hoping he might live in the vicarage, then remembered that the fine old house had been sold off and was now the offices for a team of solicitors. Instead, the vicar of Combemouth lived in an ordinary pebble-dashed bungalow in a quiet cul-de-sac.
In front of the house was a neat square of lawn edged with marigolds and salvias in serried ranks, and a concrete birdbath on a stand in the centre. How annoying it must be having to pass the beautiful vicarage every day to return home to this rather dull place. I’m getting obsessed with houses, she thought, as she walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Through the frosted panel she could see Philip approach.
“Eleanor – welcome. Come through to the office.”
She followed the vicar down the short corridor to a room at the back of the house overlooking a long garden that swooped down towards the sea. “Wow, what a view!” Perhaps this place wasn’t so dull after all. Even more impressive than the vista were the photographs that lined the walls: Philip in a West African country wearing loud shirts surrounded by smiling youngsters. Another of him standing in front of a school building helping to dish out food from cooking pots, large ladies in brightly coloured wraps and head gear on either side of him waving ladles in the air. Philip in a desert landscape with a family, the smallest child holding one skinny cow on the end of a rope under a baobab tree and beaming at the camera.
The vicar saw Eleanor admiring the images and walked over to join her. “Such noble people,” he said. “They have so little and yet they are so generous and filled with such a sincere faith.”
“Were you doing missionary work out there?”
“No, that would be a blessing. I was teaching for a Christian charity, which is where I found my true calling.” He pointed at an imposing woman in red and orange Kente cloth. “That’s my colleague, Myrtle. I’m hoping she’ll be able to visit us one of these days.” His voice softened and Eleanor was sure she detected a note of wistfulness.
“Gosh.” Eleanor was lost for words at the discovery of the vicar’s exciting past. “Working there must have been fascinating.”
“Fascinating and humbling, yes.” He smiled. “Make yourself at home while I fetch us a drink. Tea okay?”
“Perfect, yes.” Eleanor sat down on a sofa completely covered in patterned cloth and let her eyes roam around the room, which she now saw was packed with memorabilia from wooden sculptures to African animals in polished stone. She was admiring a very fine hippopotamus carved out of soapstone when Philip returned with floral cups, mismatched saucers, a beige teapot and a plate of sensible-looking biscuits.
He set the tray down on a table and poured out the tea before handing Eleanor a teacup on a chipped saucer. “So what have you got for me? Your table seemed to be very busy with bookworms!”
“I think it went fairly well,” said Eleanor, handing him the biscuit tin she’d been using as a cash box but hadn’t yet emptied. “But I doubt it’s enough for more than a couple of roof tiles.”
Philip held the tin in both his hands for a moment and closed his eyes, as though trying to guess the value of the contents from its weight. When he opened his eyes, he caught Eleanor looking at him curiously. “I was saying a silent prayer to thank all those kind people who donated.”
He really was a good and holy man, Eleanor thought, now wishing she’d managed to persuade her “customers” to part with a bit more cash.
Philip took the top off the tin and tipped the contents onto the tray next to the plate of Rich Tea biscuits. “This is super,” he said, prodding the pounds and pennies into separate piles and adding up the meagre offering. “You have done jolly well: there’s £37.42 in the tin and a cheque for £50 from your good self. That is very generous, Eleanor.”
“Don’t thank me, Reverend. The £50 was for books I bought off one of your parishioners. He refused to take a penny for himself, instead insisting that the money should go to the church fund.”
Philip beamed. “You must tell me who our benefactor is so I can thank him or her personally – unless the money was given anonymously, of course.”
Eleanor shook her head. “No, I don’t think it was meant to be a secret. I didn’t know the gentleman’s surname, but my husband tells me it’s Pinkham.”
“Joshua Pinkham donated £50 of his own money to St Cuthbert’s? Good heavens,” said Philip, crossing himself. “Well, well. Our Lord truly does work in mysterious ways.”
“He’s not a regular worshipper, then?”
The vicar laughed. “No, he keeps well clear of the church as a rule. Although he did come and see me the other day about something, as it happens.”
* * *
Philip had been surprised to hear a knock at the vestry door a week or so before. It wasn’t often he had callers in the middle of the day and it was one of the many things he missed from West Africa. There, life was lived outdoors and people were constantly in and out of each other’s homes. It was quite normal for families to look after friends’ children and it took him quite a while to figure out who were blood relations and who were simply neighbours. He had grown used to people coming and going all day and using his kitchen as an unofficial meeting room or somewhere to complete homework. In Combemouth, he was always delighted when his parishioners called on him, but he was quite taken aback to find Joshua Pinkham on his doorstep.
“Mr Pinkham! Well, this is a pleasant surprise. Come in and make yourself comfortable.” Philip ushered Joshua to a seat and sat down opposite him on a peeling wooden chair.
Joshua looked around at the dark wood of the walls. The lower shelves were packed with books but the top one held a motley selection of hats, spectacles, odd gloves and scarfs, all abandoned in the church. He frowned, thinking they appeared like so many relics.
On the other side of the room was a collection of West African art, including a stilt man wearing a horsehair headdress and a skirt made from raffia. On the wall was a photograph of the latest bishop in his regalia, who looked out across this display as though perplexed to find himself in such exotic company. It was an incongruous collection of things to find in an English country church.
When his guest seemed reluctant to speak, Philip rose to his feet. “Let me put the kettle on.”
“No need. I shan’t stay long.” Joshua was not a man to waste words and when he was ready to speak he came straight to the point. “Vicar, I shall be three score years and twenty next month, which means my time on this earth will be well and truly up.”
Philip leant across and gently stroked Clarence’s head where it emerged from the gap in its owner’s bobbly brown cardigan. “I think you are taking the words of the psalmists a little too literally Joshua, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I know what I know, and I’ve lived ten years longer than I should have done.” Joshua shook his head vigorously. “My father, his father and his father before that all dropped dead on their eightieth birthdays.” He emphasised the words by tapping the vicar’s desk firmly with one gnarled finger. “Now, tell me why I should be any different?”
“But eighty is the new sixty, isn’t that what they say?” Philip smiled, hoping to lighten Joshua’s mood, but the old gentleman’s mouth stayed set in a downward curl. The vicar decided to take a different tack. “There are numerous reasons why you should enjoy many more years of life yet. We live in different times to our fathers and grandfathers. Think about it: there’s no typhoid. We have smallpox vaccinations, better nutrition, the NHS, comfortable homes – lots of things. I suggest you put these negative thoughts out of your mind and enjoy every day as it comes.”
Ignoring him, Mr Pinkham extracted a large brown envelope from inside his cardigan. “I have my instructions here, Reverend, and I’d be grateful if you’d follow them. Don’t worry about the costs – my solicitor has been told to hand over the readies.”
Seeing that Mr Pinkham was not going to be shifted in his views, Philip took the proffered envelope, which carried with it the distinctive aroma of old dog, albeit one in a rather snazzy coat.
“Very well, Joshua, if that’s what you want. I’ll put this in a safe place and hopefully there won’t be any need to open it for many years yet.”
Mr Pinkham harrumphed, seemingly taking the suggestion that he might not be about to die as an insult. As he stood, ready to leave the room, Philip offered his hand. “I hope to see you again.”
Joshua made a grumbling noise and snorted. “Don’t you worry – you’ll be seeing me in a box very soon indeed. I’ve had it on good authority that the Santa Ana has been sighted three times this month, which is a sure sign the grim reaper is on his way.”
“That’s superstitious nonsense.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say such a thing, Vicar – you a man who has spent time in Africa, a place full of powerful spirits.”
Philip had to concede that was a good point.
“I would never say there weren’t unknown forces at work in the world, Joshua, but I’m certain a ghostly vessel is not likely to see you off before your time.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
“Try to put it from your mind. And remember – my door here or at home is always open if there’s ever anything you would like to talk to me about,” he said, grasping the old man’s hand firmly in both of his. “I play a mean game of Scrabble, too, if you ever fancy some entertainment.”
Joshua harrumphed again, readjusted Clarence, who had crept along one baggy sleeve and settled himself under his owner’s armpit, and left.
* * *
Visiting the young, pasty-faced vicar had been a necessary evil as far as Joshua was concerned. He really wanted to be chucked on the compost heap once he expired, but had been told it wasn’t possible because of council bylaws or some such nonsense. Hence his visit to St Cuthbert’s. The Pinkhams had a family plot in the graveyard that was all paid for, so this was where Joshua intended to be interred in a few weeks’ time. “You’re lucky,” he said, addressing the dog, “I’ve got a special place already set aside for you in the orchard. Much nicer than a darned churchyard.” Clarence did not look reassured.