30

‘You’re a big girl,’ Mrs Gotobed observed. ‘That’s nice.’

‘Mother!’ Mr Gotobed set down the tea tray on a brass table between my chair and his. ‘She doesn’t always realize what she’s saying,’ he murmured to me.

‘Like me,’ Mrs Gotobed continued. ‘Wilfred’s father used to say I was built like a queen.’

‘How lovely.’ Nobody had ever told me I was built like a queen but I wished they had.

Mrs Gotobed nodded. She was sitting in a wing armchair with her feet up almost on top of the little coal fire that smouldered in the grate. Her legs were covered with a crocheted blanket. She was wearing what looked like a tweed coat. Her face was long and bony, with pale, dusty skin like tissue paper.

‘Milk, Mrs Appleyard? Sugar?’

Watched by Pursy, who was lying in a patch of sunlight on the window ledge, Mr Gotobed blundered around the over-furnished little room. He was wearing an apron over a dark suit made of stiff, shiny material that looked as if it would stand up by itself if its owner suddenly evaporated. The tea service was bone china speckled with little pink roses. We had lovingly laundered napkins, so old that their ironed creases were now permanent, apostle teaspoons, two sorts of sandwiches and two sorts of cake.

‘You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble,’ I said as I accepted a fishpaste sandwich.

‘It’s no trouble,’ Mrs Gotobed replied. ‘Wilfred enjoys it. I always say he’ll make someone a lovely wife.’

‘Mother!’

For the moment we devoted ourselves to eating and drinking. The Gotobeds’ house was next to the Porta. Through Pursy’s window I saw the Theological College across the green. Rain fell steadily from a sky the colour of the slates of the college’s roof. As I watched, two familiar figures emerged from the driveway, the one sheltering under an umbrella held over him by the other.

‘There’s the bishop,’ I said.

Mrs Gotobed looked up. ‘And Mr Haselbury-Finch. The dean and Canon Hudson went in a little earlier.’

‘Mother knows everything that’s going on,’ said Mr Gotobed proudly. ‘Inside or outside the Close.’

Directly opposite Pursy’s window was another which overlooked the chestnuts, the entrance to Canons’ Meadow and the road up to the cloisters and the south door.

‘So you live in the Dark Hostelry with Mr and Mrs Byfield?’

‘That’s right.’

‘They’re a handsome couple. And that little girl of theirs is a beauty. I saw you and her the other day talking to His Lordship and Canon Hudson.’

‘Mrs Appleyard is working in the Cathedral Library for Canon Hudson,’ Mr Gotobed said in a loud voice, speaking in the vocal equivalent of capital letters.

‘I know that, dear. I’m not stupid.’

‘No, Mother. Try a slice of this fruit cake, Mrs Appleyard. It was made by one of the Mothers’ Union ladies.’

‘Just a small slice,’ I said. ‘I mustn’t spoil my supper.’

Mr Gotobed cut three substantial slices and handed them round. Once again silence descended. It was clear that in this household eating and talking were not combined.

‘Not bad,’ Mrs Gotobed said, wiping her fingers on her napkin, ‘though not as good as the ones I used to make. They don’t put in enough fruit nowadays.’

‘Mrs Appleyard,’ announced Mr Gotobed, ‘is very interested in the old days.’

‘There’s no need to shout, Wilfred.’

‘Because of working in the library and helping with the exhibition. You remember the exhibition, Mother? The one the dean’s having in the Chapter House.’

She sniffed. ‘Next thing we know they’ll be selling cups of tea in the Lady Chapel. I don’t know what your father would have said.’

‘The dean and chapter have to make ends meet, same as everyone else.’

‘It’s not right,’ Mrs Gotobed said. ‘It’s the thin end of the wedge, you mark my words.’ She cast her eyes up to the ceiling as if searching for consolation there. ‘You’d think they’d remember Jesus throwing the moneylenders out of the Temple, being educated men and all.’

‘That’s not the same thing at all, Mother.’

‘Why not?’

I said, ‘You must have seen a lot of changes over the years, Mrs Gotobed.’

‘Changes?’ She snorted, then began to choke. But a second later I realized she wasn’t choking, she was laughing. After a moment, she brushed the tears from her eyes with a grubby forefinger. ‘This is the sort of place where everything changes and everything stays the same.’

‘Now, Mother, that doesn’t quite make sense. Do you mean –’

‘Mrs Appleyard knows what I mean.’

‘Were you thinking about the pigeon your son found?’ I asked.

‘Oh, that. I suppose so. That and other things.’

‘Mr Gotobed said you’d told him it’d happened before, about fifty years ago.’

‘Not pigeons, I think.’ She took a sip of tea and stared into the glowing coals of the fire. ‘I remember a cat. That had lost its head. They found it in the north porch. And there was a rat, too – they found that in Canons’ Meadow. And I think there was a magpie that had lost its feet. No pigeons, though.’

‘And they found who was responsible?’ I prompted. ‘One of the canons who wasn’t quite right in the head?’

‘Oh, no.’ Mrs Gotobed held out her cup to her son. ‘More.’

He took the cup. ‘But, Mother, I’m sure you said –’

‘You’re getting muddled again, Wilfred.’

She turned to me. ‘He sometimes says it’s me that’s muddled, Mrs Appleyard, but half the time it’s him.’

‘I’m sure you said it was one of the canons.’

‘I said they thought it might be one of the canons, Wilfred. That’s a very different thing. There was a lot of gossip, I remember, a lot of wagging of nasty tongues.’

‘Was the canon Mr Youlgreave?’

‘Yes, that’s the name. How do you know?’

‘Just a guess. He used to be the Cathedral librarian so I’ve come across a few references to him.’

‘They didn’t like him, that was the long and the short of it. He tried to rock the boat, Mrs Appleyard, and nobody likes people like that.’

‘How did he rock the boat?’

‘There used to be some dreadful places in Rosington then. Down by the river. He made a fuss about them, tried to get something done.’

‘Like Swan Alley.’

‘How do you know about Swan Alley?’ she snapped.

‘Someone mentioned there was slum housing down there.’

‘All the land down there was owned by the dean and chapter. They’d let it out, of course, but it was still their land. So they didn’t like him pointing the finger. Well, they wouldn’t, would they? It’s human nature, isn’t it? Mind you, Canon Youlgreave did have some funny ideas. They got rid of him in the end. Ganged up on him, I shouldn’t wonder. He wasn’t a well man.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘But such a lovely gentleman.’

Mr Gotobed was looking bewildered. ‘So it wasn’t him after all.’

‘What?’

‘Cutting up birds and things.’

‘How can it be? He’s been dead for fifty years.’

‘Not now, Mother. Then.’

‘There’s a copycat about if you ask me.’ She stared dreamily into her teacup and then looked at me. ‘Like I said, Mrs Appleyard, things don’t change, not around here. I said as much to Dr Flaxman only the other day.’

‘But who would want to copy something like this?’ I asked. ‘And who would know about it in the first place?’

‘Plenty of people,’ she shot back. ‘You’d be surprised. Fifty years isn’t really a long time.’

‘Not when you’re your age, Mother,’ said Mr Gotobed, beaming nervously and brushing the crumbs from his apron. ‘Next thing we know we’ll be seeing your telegram from the Queen and your photo in the Observer. That will be a treat.’

She shook off his interruption like a fly. ‘Fifty years isn’t long in Rosington.’ She waved a hand at the window overlooking the Close. ‘Especially out there.’

‘Just some lad, I expect,’ Mr Gotobed said. ‘Fiddling around with his penknife. I dare say he didn’t mean any harm.’

Mrs Gotobed wrinkled her nose, sipped her tea and wrinkled her nose again. ‘This is stewed, Wilfred. That’s not very nice for our visitor, is it? Couldn’t you make some fresh?’

In an instant Mr Gotobed was on his feet, apologizing, gathering teacups, dropping teaspoons on the carpet, and denying that making a fresh pot would be in the slightest bit troublesome. He picked up the tray and then realized he would have difficulty opening the door. I stood up to do it for him. He edged out of the room, keeping as far away from me as possible.

‘Close the door,’ Mrs Gotobed told me. ‘There’s a draught.’

On my way back to the chair, I paused by the mantelpiece. There was a photograph of a boy in a chorister’s cassock and ruff.

‘Is this Wilfred, Mrs Gotobed?’

She nodded. ‘He cried when his voice broke. Always was a silly boy. But kind-hearted, I’ll say that.’

I sat down. Now we were alone, she looked younger, as if age was part of a disguise she wore when her son was in the room.

‘Have you lived in this house a long time?’ I asked.

‘That’s one good thing about a place like this, about it not changing. They’d had a Gotobed in the Close for the past hundred years, so they didn’t want a change when his dad died. Just as well. I don’t know what he’d have done otherwise. I don’t know where we’d have lived.’

A short, uncomfortable silence followed. Pursy woke and looked first at Mrs Gotobed and then at me. Coals settled in the grate, and the window looking out on the Close rattled in its frame as a squall of rain spattered against the glass.

‘If it wasn’t Canon Youlgreave cutting up animals,’ I said, ‘then who was it? Did you ever find out?’

She glanced at me, her face at once sly and unsurprised. ‘Not for certain.’

‘But you had an idea?’

‘There was a boy.’

‘Can you remember his name?’

‘Simon. Was it Simon?’ Her head nodded on to her chest and her eyelids closed. ‘Don’t mind me if I nod off,’ she mumbled. ‘And don’t go. Wilfred will bring the tea, that will wake me up.’

‘Simon who?’

‘Simon,’ she repeated. ‘Good-looking boy. He went away.’

Then the door opened and Mr Gotobed walked backwards into the room carrying the tray. For the rest of my visit the three of us took part in short, intense bursts of conversation, punctuated with pauses when Mrs Gotobed nodded off for a moment.

She was curious about Mr Treevor. She had heard that he was living in the Dark Hostelry.

‘I thought I saw someone who might be him the other day,’ she said. ‘Old gentleman, with a big head, not too steady on his pins. Went into Canons’ Meadow. He was by himself.’

‘Mr Treevor doesn’t go out much,’ I said. ‘Not by himself.’

But he had gone out on his own on Rosie’s birthday. He said he’d gone to feed some ducks.

‘That’s Mother all over,’ Mr Gotobed whispered as he showed me out of the house. ‘Likes to know everything about everyone.’

It was only as I was walking back through the Close that I realized Mrs Gotobed had asked me very few questions about myself, and none about how I came to be living in the Dark Hostelry, or the whereabouts of my husband. She must have known that Henry had been sacked from the Choir School. She must have noted my surname. If she asked no questions, then presumably she knew the answers already.

At the Dark Hostelry I found Janet, Rosie and Mr Treevor in the kitchen. Rosie and Mr Treevor were eating cheese on toast. Rosie’s doll was on the chair beside her.

‘How did it go?’ Janet asked.

Rosie pressed the doll’s chest. ‘Mama!’ it said.

‘Angel wants more,’ Rosie interpreted.

‘Coming, darling,’ Janet said mechanically.

‘It was interesting.’ I sat down at the table. ‘And she was very protective of Wilfred.’

‘Wilfred?’

‘Mr Gotobed to you. Mrs G. was a hen with one chick. I think I was being sized up.’

Janet giggled. ‘As a future Mrs Gotobed?’

It was the first time I had heard her laugh for days. ‘I don’t think the current Mrs Gotobed would approve of a woman in my situation.’

I tried to speak lightly but Janet wasn’t fooled. All the laughter drained from her face.

‘Did you learn anything about Francis Youlgreave?’ she asked.

‘Not really. Except Mrs Gotobed’s a supporter. A real gentleman, she said. She thinks he wasn’t liked in the Close because he ruffled too many feathers about the slums by the river. Apparently the dean and chapter owned the freehold.’

I didn’t mention Simon. David had told Janet about the pigeon Mr Gotobed had found, but I hadn’t yet passed on Mr Gotobed’s information that someone else, fifty years earlier, had a penchant for cutting up small animals in the Close. The Byfields had other things on their minds at present, and also I didn’t think Janet would thank me, or that David would approve. When I was in Rosington that year, I often had the feeling he was looking for reasons to disapprove of me.

‘So Canon Youlgreave remains a man of mystery,’ Janet said, cutting the slice of bread into two, half for Rosie, half for Angel.

‘What about mine?’ Mr Treevor demanded.

‘Just coming, Daddy.’

There was something in her voice that alerted me. ‘How have you been?’

Janet pushed her hair from her forehead. ‘Fine, really. A bit tired.’

Our eyes met. She was tired, so she should rest. But how could she rest with these people in this house?

I said, ‘When the weather’s cleared up, I’ll mow the lawn.’

Janet began to speak, but was interrupted by the slamming of the door in the hall above. She straightened up. Suddenly the tiredness was smoothed away.

‘David’s home early,’ she said. ‘That’s nice, isn’t it, poppet?’

Rosie nodded.

‘You’ve got crumbs on your chin,’ Janet went on. ‘Wipe them off with your napkin and sit up.’

Rosie obeyed.

Usually David would come down to the kitchen to say hello when he got back from the Theological College, if only for a moment.

Janet took some toast from the grill, added a layer of grated cheese and slid it back. ‘I’ll just pop up and see if he needs a cup of tea.’

‘I’ll keep an eye on the toast,’ I said.

I listened to Janet’s slow footsteps on the stairs to the hall. A moment later I gave Mr Treevor his second slice of cheese on toast.

‘Thank you, Mummy,’ he said, and seized it with both hands.

He had almost finished by the time Janet came back downstairs. I knew by her face something was wrong.

‘Janet –’

‘There was a meeting of the trustees this afternoon,’ she said dully. She leant on the table, taking the weight from her feet. ‘They’ve decided to close the Theological College after all.’