Tonight there was to be the follow-up PCC meeting about the shop’s move to the church. We had an early supper, because I suspected that the meeting might run very late. Once again it would be held in the rectory dining room.
‘How do you think it will go?’ Dave asked, as we cleared the kitchen table at which we’d eaten.
‘Well, I hope— drat! I’d better take that.’ Theo put down the tea-towel, and went off to answer the phone.
‘I think poor Theo’s got some sticky tape to cover my mouth,’ I said, squirting washing-up liquid. ‘But I’ll try to be professional and simply minute everyone else’s ideas.’
‘It’d be fun to make up a few, wouldn’t it?’ Dave began.
‘I’m afraid she won’t be able to do that this evening,’ Theo interrupted him, returning to his tea-towel. ‘That was Mrs Baker to say her arthritic hand was better, and she would be present to minute the PCC meeting. I’m so sorry, Jodie: I can imagine how much you wanted to be present.’
I managed an insouciant shrug. ‘They’ll speak more freely without me. And no one will be able to accuse me of trying to influence any voting. So long as that poor arthritic hand of hers can manage to open the wine bottles and fill the glasses.’
Undeceived, he gathered me into his arms. ‘I’d no idea how much you were investing in this. Not money. But will and desire. Commitment to the future.’
I was ready to protest that I was doing it for him. But it dawned on me that I was doing it for other people too – Burble and Mazza and Sian, for instance, and all the other villagers I’d not yet met; even, perhaps especially, for those who’d never have dreamt of going into a lovely building but would now buy their stamps there. Perhaps something would, in Theo’s phrase, rub off.
With an exhausted Dave for company, I adjourned to the living room, defiantly turned on another bar of the electric fire (to turn the central heating up might provide enough comfort to prolong the meeting) and poured rather better wine than the PCC would be getting.
‘I’d just barge in if I were you,’ Dave said, as I looked at my watch for the umpteenth time. ‘Your idea, your effort – you should be in on the final call.’
‘But I’m not a member and I’ve not been co-opted. And Theo’s got to live with the result. And with me. So if I do something to cause problems, they’ll come back not on my head but on his.’ My would-be smile might have been a grimace. ‘At the risk of sounding as if I’m changing the subject, has Mazza got any theories about Burble’s disappearance?’
He snorted. ‘If all Mazza’s theories are as sound as the one he had about me, I wouldn’t build too much on any of them. He’s got the idea I must be gay, and possibly predatory with it, on account of not having a wife and getting on well with my cousin.’
Swallowing the slight question mark I’d raised myself, I said mildly, ‘He’s probably not had much adult male company before – doesn’t know how to take it. Probably very few male role models in his life at all.’
‘Even so – how would you have felt being asked if you were a lesbian?’ He stood. The room shrank.
‘It would surprise me, given my married state. But it wouldn’t be a problem.’ Though I suppose it might be if you’d spent your life being a macho policeman. ‘There was one accusation that hurt, however: the villagers thought I was a banker!’
He put his head back and roared with laughter. ‘My God, how did you get out of that one?’
‘Evidence: I’d already ditched the Porsche. And I told Mazza the truth.’
‘What? All of it?’ He frowned. ‘Your annual income, for instance?’
‘Hell’s bells, no – what do you take me for?’
Before he could answer, the door opened and Theo came in. His shoulders were shaking so much I was afraid for one dreadful moment he was in tears. Perhaps he was. Tears of laughter. He leant on the back of the sofa.
‘Poor Mrs Baker’s hand can’t cope with the speed at which she’s required to write. I don’t suppose you’d care to help out, my loved one? Oh, bring your glass with you. We’ll be stopping for refreshments any moment now.’
‘Don’t go,’ Dave urged, already reaching for the TV zapper. ‘They made their bed – let them lie in it.’
‘I’d guess that Mrs Mountford made this particular bed – and I’ve no desire, sexual orientation apart, to share it with her!’ I darted back for my wine, which Dave had obligingly topped up, and for the pad and biro we kept beside the phone.
‘What was all that about?’ Theo asked, waiting for me in the hall.
‘I’ll tell you later. Or better still, Dave will.’ I kissed him before following him into the dining room. Taking the tediously apologetic Mrs Baker’s place, slightly behind George Cox, who was chairing the meeting, I prepared to become demurely secretarial.
There was a loud knock on the door, Dave putting his head round it simultaneously. ‘Theo, I’m sorry to interrupt but the police are on the phone – won’t let me take a message, of course.’
Theo went white. His eyes held mine: this was going to be really bad news, wasn’t it? He put a hand on George’s shoulder. ‘Just carry on.’
It was hard to concentrate, let alone take notes, although it was clear that the meeting was going what I still thought of as my way. A glance at Mrs Baker’s beautiful if shaky writing – unlike my scrawl, vile and shapeless after years of using nothing but some sort of keyboard or another – told me that at the start it looked as if Mrs Mountford’s cohort had the edge, despite the absence of Ted Vesey, who’d sent apologies. What on earth could have kept him from what he knew was a very important meeting? Now, however, wasn’t the moment to speculate. But as each report was presented, from Violet’s impassioned plea to the calm tones of the diocesan office, it was clear that more and more people wanted to have an open church. And if accommodating the much-needed shop was the only way forward, so be it. Any moment now, George ought to wrap things up by calling for a vote – but he wouldn’t want to do so without Theo. On the other hand, he probably wouldn’t want to lose impetus by adjourning the item and moving on to the matter of the website, a late addition to the agenda.
Theo’s return resolved the situation before it could become a crisis. His face showed both relief and exasperation. He raised a quizzical eyebrow in my direction before asking George’s permission to speak.
‘Goodness knows why the police needed to speak to me in person: they only needed to tell me that they thought they’d found my old bike. And a couple of others, so brace yourselves for “urgent” calls too.’ He gestured ironic quotation marks. As he sat, he produced a weary smile. ‘OK. Where have you got to?’
‘I was just about to call for a vote, Theo – if we need such a formal measure.’ George smiled around the table, making sure he included me, to whom I’ll swear he added a wink.
I suspect Theo was going to suggest that we did, but someone else was louder and quicker.
‘I certainly want my opposition put on record,’ Mrs Mountford declared, glaring at those whom she suspected of changing sides. ‘So perhaps Mrs Welsh would be kind enough to note not just the numbers but also the identities of those voting.’
‘Overruled,’ George declared. ‘We are a committee; we behave as a committee; we take committee responsibility. Just a show of hands, please. All those in favour? Against? Abstentions?’
As I dutifully wrote down the results, trying to suppress the smile of triumph on my face, George leant back in his chair. ‘As if anyone ever bothers to read the minutes, apart from us, that is. And sometimes, when we’re asked to approve them at the next meeting, I really doubt if any of us has read them.’ He knew as well as I did that minutes were a legal requirement, but I took his point.
He returned his attention to the rest of the committee, saying, ‘And now item twelve on the agenda: the village website. I’d like to thank and congratulate all involved in getting St Dunstan’s on to it. I thought the wording of the appeal for the fabric was particularly effective against the vivid pictures of the cracks.’
‘I don’t recall our giving permission for any of this,’ Mrs Mountford said.
‘Julie Cole and the parish council authorized the village site; it only took a phone call. As to St Dunstan’s presence, how could we have a village site that didn’t mention the church?’ Theo asked, quite deliberately avoiding the question, which was a valid one, after all.
‘It seems …’ began a middle-aged man whom I saw so rarely it took a moment to recall his name. Tim Robins, that was it, breaking his apparent vow of silence. ‘It seems terribly sad that to access the St Dunstan’s pages one has to go to the village site. Our own might just have been preferable.’
‘It was cheaper to have just the one,’ I said. ‘And quicker. If you’re prepared to authorize funds for a second domain, I’ll happily separate them. Unless you happen to think that the church should in fact be at the heart of the village?’
Jackie Simmons, the normally silent treasurer, suddenly emerged from behind her sheet of hair: ‘Could someone remind me when we approved payment?’
‘You’ve got me there, Jackie,’ Theo said affably. ‘I paid out of my own pocket.’
He’d done no such thing, of course, but I didn’t see anyone challenging him. So I added cheerfully, ‘I gave him a considerable discount for cash. Actually, all the work was done by volunteers. All we had to pay for was registering the domain name: twenty-four pounds, valid for two years.’
‘I note the term “we”, Mrs Welsh,’ Mrs Mountford said. ‘Whom do you mean by “we”? And who were these volunteers?’
‘I should imagine they were those splendid young people who’ve been dashing round the village taking photos,’ Alison Cox said, with a wink. Did she and George spend their evenings together communicating with their eyelids? ‘Did they help build the website – or whatever the correct term is? Such a good idea to fill their time with something constructive. Well done, Jodie.’
‘There may be one volunteer less, I should imagine,’ Mrs Mountford said, ‘when they run to earth whoever stole your cycle, Theo. If ever there was an obvious delinquent it’s the young man who’s been helping in your garden.’ Taking the shocked silence as encouragement, she added, ‘Did I not hear on the grapevine that the lad has done what I believe is called a runner? Or perhaps that’s more directly connected with the sad and very sudden death of his mother.’
Theo didn’t exactly slam his hands on the table, nor did he raise his voice. But he radiated anger. ‘Are you implying that young Burble is both a thief and a murderer? Because I tell you straight, unless you have any evidence, let alone proof, such an accusation is unworthy of you. Please withdraw it and please don’t make it again.’
I would have said a great deal more, including a firm recommendation that she leave the meeting and indeed my home. Preferably for ever. But then, Theo was the professional Christian, and I just did my best.
George turned to me, laying a firm hand on my notepad. ‘I don’t see the need to minute any of this, Jodie, from beginning to last. Let Alison’s congratulations be noted, however. Is there any other business?’
Elaine raised a hand. ‘Just a point of information, George. The WI will be holding a special meeting tomorrow—’
‘Not the blessed WI and its excess of confectionery again,’ someone from the Vesey cohort muttered rather too audibly.
Elaine flushed with what looked like a mixture of anger and embarrassment, but she turned his rudeness to her advantage. ‘The excess of confectionery, as you so eloquently put it, is going to be channelled into helping the pub to survive, thank you very much. What Jodie said about church visitors needing somewhere to eat struck home. We’re hoping to come to an agreement with Suze—’
‘That would be the esteemed Mrs Fellows, as well-met as her name implies,’ yawned Mrs Mountford, inspecting her nails.
By now Elaine was scarlet. ‘I’m not sure what you’re implying by that, Mrs Mountford, but to continue, we are hoping to come to an agreement with Suze to provide morning coffee and afternoon teas in the Pickled Walnut. Thank you, George.’
‘Thank you, Elaine. I hope your sterling efforts will be sampled by all here. Do let us know if there’s to be an official opening, won’t you? We’ll all want to be there. And now, Theo, I wonder if you’d be kind enough to wrap up our meeting with a prayer?’