Various untruths are bandied about, and there is Sunday sadness in a canal-side flat.
Thelma lit the tealight, which flickered uncertainly into life, faded, flared and then burnt unsteadily, joining all the other tealights flickering uncertainly on the iron stand by the altar steps.
She sat down for the five minutes’ reflection she always allowed herself at the end of Sunday service, left-hand side, towards the back. ‘Please God,’ she began as she always did. And then stopped. She realized she had absolutely no idea what to say next.
There was so much on her mind – St Barnabus’s, the college, Teddy, Jan Starke, Bunty Carter and of course the letters … but what should she be asking for exactly?
Your Father knows what you need before you ask him.
Thelma looked at the flickering flame. She was glad someone did.
Since the day of the harvest, part of her mind had been dominated by thoughts of those letters – those fifteen letters. If they were anything like the few she’d seen … what on earth was going on in her old school? In one respect, however, it slightly eased her conscience about not telling Kayleigh about the letter Liz had found. It was obviously part of a much much bigger picture.
After their previous conversations, she wondered if Kayleigh might call her but Friday and Saturday had come and gone without any communication. Looking at the flame, she admitted to herself she had been feeling slightly hurt. She had thought she was maybe someone Kayleigh might choose to confide in.
The call, when it did come, on the Sunday morning, was a surprise in more ways than one. For a start, Kayleigh’s voice had been upbeat, sunny even, giving no indication of any such thing as fifteen anonymous letters sent to her staff. She realized it was short notice, but would Thelma be able to take part in the book scrutiny next week? They could really use her expertise as a former teacher! The call been both brief and very one-sided. Thelma had barely been able to say ‘yes’ before Kayleigh had rung off, let alone mention the letter Liz found or ask how she was. After the call she sat for a while wondering – was it simply an invitation to take part in a book scrutiny? Or was there more to it?
And then of course she had been just as preoccupied by that other issue – that glossy, sinister document sitting at home on the kitchen counter. ‘Ripon and St Bega’s College, a way forward’. The flowery phrases: vibrant college … charming cathedral city … a vital part of this Yorkshire community … And amongst all those flowers, those thorns: increasingly financially unviable … tough decisions … Suggestion: could the best way to preserve this college potentially be relocating operations to another Baht’at campus?
It’s only a discussion document – that’s what the Children of the Suits had said in their ‘way-forward’ meeting and that was what Thelma and Teddy had been saying to each other repeatedly since he came home with it on Friday. But what if Josie Gribben had been right? What if the college was earmarked for closure? Looking at the guttering candle, she remembered the conversation with Teddy about the curriculum summary he’d shared at the meeting. He’d been standing in the garden, coffee in hand, deep in thought, when she’d asked about how things had gone.
‘Well enough,’ he’d said.
‘But?’
‘There they all were … smiling, nodding …’ He’d paused as though seeing the words written in the tracery of the clematis spidering up the wall. ‘All the suits, the PowerPoints … I can’t escape this feeling … that’s what felt important. Not what we were doing – are doing – with the course. It’s that whole business element to education.’
Thelma had remembered Josie’s words … pounds, shillings and pence …
‘But surely the course content is what the whole thing stands or falls by?’ she’d said.
‘Times change,’ Teddy had said. ‘And one has to accept that.’
‘But not basic training in ordination, surely?’
He’s shrugged. ‘Everything has its day.’
Everything has its day.
Outside the church breaths of chill autumn wind were stirring the yew trees round the graveyard with unsettling sea-like sounds that matched her mood. God, she had long accepted, moved in mysterious ways but actually – right now on this gusty autumn day – she didn’t want him to move at all, or if he had to, in gentle easy steps that didn’t leave her with these great clutches of fear.
‘And how’s our friend Fluffypaws getting on?’ Maureen’s cheerful voice broke into her thoughts.
Thelma looked at her blankly for an instant, before remembering. ‘He’s fine,’ she said. ‘Settling.’
When Frankie Miller had been taken into the Friarage that final time, her worries had been all about her cat Fluffypaws. Visiting her, it had only seemed natural for Thelma to offer to take him in until something could be sorted out. Even though it had been some years since Artaxerxes had died, they still had the various accoutrements of cat care stowed away at 32 College Gardens, and the cat had become a rather nervous addition to their household with very little difficulty.
Except for one thing. His name.
‘Fluffypaws’ had sat well with neither Thelma nor Teddy; still, as his stay was only temporary, it hadn’t seemed much of an issue. But as the days went by, they both began to realize they couldn’t refer to the wide-eyed black scrap as ‘Frankie’s cat’ forever. Then, on the day when they heard she’d died, the cat had been caught in the act of making off with one of Teddy’s mid-morning custard creams; it was then the name Snaffles had been applied and stuck.
To the general congregation of St Catherine’s, however, honouring Frankie’s memory, he was still Fluffypaws. It was such a trivial thing – one of those social lies that arise in life from time to time. But sitting there that morning, Thelma found it irritating. Not, she reflected, because of the lie itself – but because of a sudden, insistent feeling it was one untruth amongst many. What these untruths were Thelma wasn’t sure, but she suddenly felt surrounded by them, as opaque and vague as her unfocused prayers.
As Derek retreated upstairs for his post-run shower, Liz looked at the laptop she’d slammed guiltily shut. Another silly complication.
It wasn’t that she was worried about Bunty Carter, but at the same time, she was on her mind. She’d started thinking about it more as a way of diverting her annoyance away from that awful phone call with Jan earlier that morning … She was sure Bunty was at her daughter’s, but even so, short of tramping the streets of Boroughbridge there seemed to be no way of knowing. Then she’d remembered that cryptic comment of Margo’s about eBay. And that jolly Brownie leader looking for pencil crayons. And all at once Liz had realized there was a way she could track her down.
Of course, it hadn’t been that simple. There were, eBay informed her, over 57,000 people selling pencil crayons – even when she narrowed it down to sellers within a five-mile radius there still seemed to be an inordinately large number, as if Thirsk were some Pencil Crayon Capital of the north. And none of them had seemed to be Bunty. Then she had remembered the username she traded under – Big Mama … There had been a few sellers with that name. The nearest had been in Pickering …
The display of basques had come as a fascinating shock. So many! All colours and textures! And the models – all so heartbreakingly young – standing with one leg on a stool or chair of some description.
And that had been when Derek came in. Just what she didn’t need after their earlier confrontation …
From upstairs came the sound of the shower starting and she shook her head. She sighed. She hoped she hadn’t broken the laptop, slamming it shut like that.
Such a mess.
All thanks to Jan Starke.
After all she’d worried and fretted about the wretched woman. She felt her annoyance swelling back into anger. Her perverse relief at knowing Jan hadn’t been behind the letters had been tempered by a much bigger worry of how her friend would be coping with being on the receiving end of one of them. Again and again, she’d tried to call her, again and again the call had gone straight to voicemail. (Hi it’s Jan! Leave a message!)
‘She knows where you are,’ Thelma had said.
‘She’ll be fine,’ said Pat. ‘You know old Starke-Staring.’
But that was just it – Liz did know Jan. She was one of the few people who had seen beyond that loud brittle façade and Liz knew her friend would have been desperately hurt and upset. And when Jan was upset, you never knew what she might do (though at 3 a.m. two nights running she’d had some pretty nasty ideas).
The call had come earlier, as Derek had been plotting that day’s run on the iPad with the concentration of a NASA scientist planning the trajectory of an Apollo launch. Liz had been clearing up lunch, biting back the yawns after another restless night of imaginings (LOCAL WOMAN FOUND DROWNED IN RIPON CANAL), when her phone had shrilled. Derek had looked up questioningly. From the display she could see it was Jan.
‘Better just take this,’ she said in airy, dismissive tones that she hoped would fool him and took herself off to the relative privacy of the conservatory.
‘Jan!’ She tried not to sound too relieved. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’ The voice bounced out loud and confident.
‘I’ve been worried about you,’ said Liz.
‘I knew you would have been.’ Jan’s voice sounded amused. ‘I said to Kayleigh, I bet Liz’s in a right old stress, bless her!’
Remembering those two sleepless nights, Liz felt the first prickles of irritation.
‘You just seemed so upset after – you know – getting that horrible letter.’
Jan gave a cheerful laugh. ‘That,’ she said dismissively. ‘I think shocked was the word. Now I just find it rather amusing.’
‘Really?’
‘Liz, if someone wants to say something to me, and that’s the only way they can find to say it – well I rather think it’s their problem. It’s like I was saying to Kayleigh: you just pick yourself up and you put one foot in front of the other. There’s absolutely no need to fuss.’
‘You’ve been talking to Kayleigh Brittain?’
‘She’s been brilliant, Liz. Ringing me every day, checking to see how I was.’
Liz felt those prickles of irritation becoming a pronounced flush. So, Jan picked up for Kayleigh Brittain, the woman who had been making her life so difficult, but not her friend who had been there for her so many times before?
‘As long as you’re okay,’ she said in an end-of-conversation tone.
‘Now, the reason I’m ringing you, Liz—’ Jan cut across her, suddenly brisk and business-like. ‘I know you’ve been concerned for me, which is very sweet and lovely of you, but it’s very very important that nobody talks about this.’ The tone was deliberate and calm, the sort of tone Liz had heard her use with her Bumblebees group. ‘All in all it’s probably just as well you’ve decided not to come in.’
‘I wouldn’t—’ began Liz but Jan was on something of a roll.
‘You’ll appreciate what a delicate situation this is. Not for me. Hey! All water off a duck’s back—’ (here Liz came very close to hanging up) ‘—but some people, bless them, have really been taking this to heart. Kayleigh’s been super, ringing them up, offering them support – but the one thing nobody wants is for this being spread all around Thirsk. I know what it’s like when you and Thelma and Pat get together.’ She gave an arch laugh. ‘But, Liz, people talking about this business is going to make the whole thing ten times worse …’
After she had hung up, Liz had expected Derek to have already left on his run, but he was waiting in the kitchen. He looked at her. ‘What did Jan want?’
‘Just to catch up.’
‘You did say you weren’t getting involved.’
‘I’m not!’
She truly hadn’t meant to sound so tetchy. Watching the Lycra-clad figure disappear down the road, she had hated herself for the craven, casual way she was lying to him.
Upstairs the hum of the shower stopped and she could hear the muffled yelps as Derek bent down to dry between his toes. She put the laptop into its satchel. She should just leave it all alone. Leave Jan alone – she was so obviously fine. More than fine—
Screams in the distance … Smoke … What have you done? Jan surely wouldn’t send herself a letter? Almost angrily she shook her head at the thought.
Jacob was lying on his front on the lounge rug, utterly absorbed.
‘How are you getting on?’
‘I’m on Joseph Ellison Lidster,’ he said. He was currently creating a set of memoriam pages for each passenger who had perished on the Titanic.
‘You’re still on third class?’
‘Grandma, I’m not even halfway through.’ His voice held a gloomy relish.
Looking at him, so absorbed, so resolute, she felt something inside her twist and strengthen. ‘I got you more black ribbon,’ she said. ‘It’s in a bag on the side next to the Swiss box. And when you see Grandad, just tell him I’ve popped out to the garden centre.’
‘I was just passing,’ said Liz. ‘On my way back from the garden centre.’
It wasn’t a total lie she told herself; she had been to the garden centre. She placed the bulb catalogue down firmly on the overcrowded coffee table.
Finding Becky Clegg’s canal-side flat in Ripon had been relatively straightforward to locate. It had just been a case of finding her red Fiat and scanning all the doorbells until she found the right one.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’ Liz raised her voice, though she hardly needed to. The kitchen where Becky was making tea was barely a tiny recess off the small lounge-cum-dining-room-cum-everything else.
‘Not at all,’ said Becky.
The answer was obviously not true. So dominated was the space by Becky’s schoolwork that it was hard to make any real judgements about the taste and décor. On the pocket-sized dining table was a pile of exercise books and a couple of magazine boxes of documentation; there was another pile of books in a plastic crate on the floor. Precariously stacked on the sofa were no less than six ring binders. Next to them were three more magazine boxes marked ‘Autumn data predictions’.
The only real sign of any life beyond the schoolwork was a framed photo on the side, partially obscured by yet another magazine box. It showed Becky, with a man her own age, heads touching as they laughed into the camera. Both were wearing ski hats, the man was wearing goggles and Becky’s eyes were screwed up against a brilliant blue sky; no amount of sun and ski apparel could disguise the couple’s sheer joy at life. Presumably this was the other half of the train-wreck split.
‘You look hard at it,’ said Liz as Becky came with the tea. She recalled bygone days, her own strewn dining room table, the books, the tick sheets, her beloved green mark book.
Becky looked vaguely round, as if surprised by her comment. ‘I’m just sorting out one or two bits and pieces for next week.’
Liz smiled; now it had come to it, she was feeling decidedly uncomfortable about asking any questions. ‘Have you heard how Bunty is?’ she asked.
Becky frowned vaguely. ‘Still off with her back I think,’ she said.
Liz sighed, maybe she’d just leave the bulb catalogue and go. Sipping her tea she looked out of the window, at the end of the canal basin, brightly painted barges and disdainful swans. ‘I do like the view,’ she said. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘A week short of six months.’ Becky spoke matter-of-factly but there was a sudden sadness in those hazel eyes as they strayed instinctively to the partially hidden photo. ‘Of course, I was planning on buying with someone. But it didn’t work out.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Liz and looking at that cluttered, lonely room, she genuinely was.
‘Oh well,’ said Becky. ‘One of those things.’
‘And I was so sorry to hear about what happened to you.’ The words came out in a rush of genuine emotion; Liz hadn’t been exactly sure she was going to say the words until she actually did. ‘About the anonymous letter.’ Jolted out of her reverie, Becky looked fixedly at her. There was something distinctly unnerving about that calm, direct gaze. ‘I realize it’s none of my business,’ said Liz flustered. ‘It’s just Thelma happened to mention it, after what happened with Jan.’
‘We’ve been told not to talk about all that,’ said Becky firmly.
‘Of course,’ said Liz hastily, thinking that actually she’d much rather be talking about Cherry Sorbet and Madame Butterfly bulbs. ‘As long as you’re getting the support you need.’
Becky gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘Someone asked me a couple of times if I was okay, if that’s what you mean,’ she said. ‘Asking me in a way that implied I probably was.’ She shook her head and began stroking the end of one of the ring binders. ‘Ignore me,’ she said. ‘I just can’t seem to get my head round it somehow.’
‘It’s a vile and nasty thing,’ said Liz with conviction. Becky looked at her for a brief moment and crossed to one of the magazine boxes from which she extracted a plastic wallet that contained a sheet of A4 white paper.
‘It’s a copy,’ she said. ‘Kayleigh has the original. I don’t even know why I’m keeping it. I hate it, but I can’t quite bring myself to get rid of it.’ She laughed mirthlessly and handed the sheet to Liz.
YOU THINK YOU WORK SO HARD! YOU’RE THE
ONLY ONE WHO DOES! YOU SHOULD HEAR
SOME OF THE THINGS PEOPLE ARE SAYING
BEHIND YOUR BACK, YOU BOSSY COW.
Liz handed the sheet back, feeling rather nauseated at the sheer ill will of the letter. But at the same time, she felt something else, a feeling she couldn’t quite pin down. There was something about the letter that struck her as … off-key.
‘I’ve only seen you in school a little bit,’ said Liz. ‘But I do know you work very, very hard.’
Becky briefly closed her eyes. ‘Of course, I’m not the only one who’s had one.’
‘That doesn’t make it any easier,’ said Liz.
‘Some people have really taken it badly,’ said Becky with a sigh. She frowned slightly, as if deciding whether to speak. ‘Keep this to yourself,’ she said, ‘but you know Margo Benson?’
‘I do,’ said Liz, thinking of those jars of gardener’s hand gel.
‘No one knows this, but she and her husband are in pretty dire financial straits. Something about his job going. She desperately doesn’t want people knowing this – I mean of course a load of people do, you know what it’s like in a school.’
Liz nodded. She knew exactly what it was like in a school.
‘Anyway.’ Becky dropped her voice. ‘She’s started nicking people’s coffee. I keep telling her to use mine, but anyway, she doesn’t – and then she gets this letter calling her a thieving bitch. She was in a terrible state about it.’
‘Does the letter mention her finances?’
Becky shook her head. ‘Just the coffee. But it doesn’t stop her thinking everyone knows about the money.’ She sighed. ‘I just worry someone’s going to get a letter who really can’t cope with it. I just keep thinking something awful’s going to happen.’
Who was doing this?
The spiteful, stark words of Becky’s letter played and replayed through Liz’s mind as she drove up Sharow Hill. She felt nothing but compassion for lonely Raggedy Ann Becky in her bleak tiny flat of books and ring binders. Indeed, she felt a pang of sorrow for all the Beckys of this world, with their Sunday afternoons and chairs and sofas full of spreadsheets and exercise books. Right now, Becky should be with the man in ski goggles, trailing round IKEA or simply sprawled across a clutter-free sofa watching a box set.
She remembered Jan’s rather dismissive tones. Her relationship was a bit of a car crash, reading between the lines. She’s not the easiest person in the world to live with. Liz shook her head at yet another instance of Jan’s breath-taking lack of self-awareness. She wondered how many other people in school knew about Becky’s break-up. Like Margo’s financial woes – probably a fair number.
Hang on. Driving up Sharow Hill she almost braked as a thought suddenly struck her. If the letter writer was so intent on upsetting people, why hadn’t they mentioned Becky’s car-crash relationship in what they had written?