Well into February the snow continued to lay, where it froze overnight, making the paths treacherous in the morning. The elderly frequently slipped on trodden freezing snow, especially where the paving stones were uneven. It was outside Edward’s that Miss Johnson fell, sending her walking stick flying. A group of shoppers congregated around her.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ ‘Has she broken anything?’ ‘Does anybody know about first aid?’ ‘Can she stand up?’
Beryl was lying on her side, and gave a moan of pain. ‘I can’t pull myself up,’ she gasped. ‘Somebody will have to help me.’ She quickly checked that her skirt was well pulled down, not showing her knickers. The contents of her shopping bag were spread around on the pavement.
A couple of shoppers raised her head and shoulders, which made her groan out loud.
Mrs Pearce from Edward’s bakery shook her head. ‘What we need is a good, strong man to heave you up, dear – oh, look, there’s the vicar on the other side of the road – he’ll help you!’ She raised her voice. ‘I say, Mr Bolt, this lady’s had a fall, and needs somebody to help her to stand up. Could you come and oblige?’
Which was exactly what Beryl had planned when she apparently slipped and fell; in fact she sustained a bruise over her left hip which was unplanned but none the less painful.
With extreme reluctance Derek Bolt crossed the road. ‘What’s the trouble?’ he asked. ‘Can she not get up on her own?’
A moan from Beryl was the only reply, but she held up her right arm for him to take hold of, and with Mrs Pearce supporting her at the back, she managed to sit upright. Another heave brought her to a standing position, still clinging to Derek’s arm.
‘She can’t walk in this state,’ said Mrs Pearce. ‘Just let’s get you into the shop, my dear, and we’ll brew you a nice hot cup of tea. Can you keep hold of her, Mr Bolt? Just so’s we can get her into the bakery.’
Derek could find no way of escape. Beryl laid her head on his shoulder. ‘Stay with me,’ she whispered, ‘don’t let me go!’
The women exchanged glances, remembering what had happened in church on Christmas morning. Everybody had heard about it.
‘If we can support her just as far as the shop, she can sit down and rest,’ said Mrs Pearce, happy to take charge of a tricky situation. ‘Can you just put your arm around her, Mr Bolt, so that she can lean on you? That’s right, we’ll soon be there.’
But not quite soon enough. Daphne Bolt was just emerging from the chemist’s when she saw her husband, half-leading, half-carrying Miss Johnson towards Edward’s bakery, while a few other women watched and commented. It was the last straw: enough was enough. She stepped forward and faced the couple squarely.
‘Let go of her at once, Derek. Stop making a fool of yourself,’ she said loudly. ‘And as for you, Miss Whatsername, you can stop this ridiculous carry-on, and take your hands off my husband at once, or you’ll regret it. I won’t stand for it!’
Derek had removed his supporting arm from Beryl’s waist, and drew away from her, and her head drooped with no shoulder to rest on. The onlookers stared in fascination: this was a scene to tell and retell! Mrs Pearce stepped forward to support Beryl in place of the vicar.
‘You needn’t think you’re going to get away with this!’ Daphne called out to Beryl. ‘You’re going to hear from my solicitor tomorrow, let me tell you – you’ll be ordered to stop this nonsense once and for all!’
Beryl was trembling all over as Mrs Pearce steered her into the bakery.
‘Come on, my dear, let’s get indoors,’ said her rescuer, casting a contemptuous look back over her shoulder at the vicar before she shut the door.
Ignoring her husband, Mrs Bolt headed for the vicarage. Derek took the opposite direction, and found that he too was trembling. Daphne was more than capable of carrying out her threat, and he needed time to consider how he should act. Hitherto he had not thought it necessary to consult the Bishop of the Diocese, but if Jamieson the family solicitor was to become involved, he would be well advised to get his own story ready. That evening he wrote a letter to Bishop George Grieve, outlining the problem, rather than telephoning him out of the blue and having to launch into the ridiculous details.
The Matron of Everham Park Hospital, and the Medical Superintendent Dr Brooks, met together with Miss Coyle the Midwifery Superintendent at an informal meeting in Matron’s office, to discuss the self-discharge of a maternity patient with her baby in the middle of a cold February night, two days after a caesarean section.
‘If the Gainsfords send in a formal complaint, or if the incident appears in the Everham News, there will have to be an official tribunal,’ said Matron, ‘and we would be in a much stronger position if we hold an internal inquiry as soon as possible, and have a written record of it at hand.’
Dr Brooks agreed, and asked who should be present in addition to Dr Hammond.
‘Harry Kydd, of course, as she’s on his team, and Night Sister Hicks?’ he suggested. ‘And what about Fisher?’
‘He’ll make an enormous fuss if we don’t,’ she replied, ‘and will no doubt give us his lecture on secrets of successful breastfeeding. I shall ask Miss Coyle to speak on behalf of Sister Hicks who has been thoroughly upset by this whole business, and has had to go to her doctor because of it. Miss Coyle considers that she has been punished enough, if indeed she has been at fault.’
‘And we don’t invite the Gainsfords to attend?’
‘Oh, no, Dr Brooks, they would only be required to attend a tribunal, which we hope will not be necessary, as we’ve agreed.’
So Dr Shelagh Hammond was summoned to attend the meeting which took place two days later, at ten o’clock in the morning. She held her head high and was outwardly composed when asked to describe what had happened, beginning with being called to the postnatal ward at 2.40 a.m. She recalled it to the best of her ability, reporting that baby Gainsford was asleep when she arrived in the ward, having been given a small diluted formula feed by Sister Hicks. Mrs Gainsford, however, was very displeased.
‘A bottle given to a baby whose mother was determined to breastfeed?’ Dr Fisher cut in. ‘Utterly irresponsible!’
‘You will have your turn to speak, Dr Fisher,’ said Dr Brooks. ‘And so was this small bottle-feed the cause of Mrs Gainsford’s self-discharge, Dr Hammond?’
‘That and her state of mind, sir. She came near to physically attacking Sister Hicks for giving the baby a drink that finally settled him. He was a very large, hungry baby, and wouldn’t suck at the breast because his mother’s lactation was insufficient – in fact she had scarcely any milk, two days after a section.’
‘And did you make any attempt to persuade Mrs Gainsford to stay?’
‘No, sir. By this time she was hysterical, and had already telephoned her husband to come and take her home. And in my opinion, sir, she was showing signs of puerperal depression, and was incapable of listening to any reasonable explanation.’
‘And when the husband arrived, was he equally insistent on taking her home?’
‘No, sir, he’d have tried to persuade her to stay if she had been capable of listening to reason. I felt that she was mentally disturbed, and in letting her go, I chose the lesser of two evils. I lent her two hospital blankets to keep herself and the baby warm in the car.’
‘And could you not have telephoned Dr Fisher at home to ask for his advice?’
‘With respect, sir, it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference.’
‘Rubbish!’ said Dr Fisher contemptuously.
Dr Brooks ignored him, and went on to question Miss Coyle about Sister Hicks, exonerating her for giving the bottle-feed. When Dr Fisher had his turn to speak, he condemned all concerned, and said that Mrs Gainsford was a sensible woman who wanted to do right by her baby son, and gave his opinion that she had been badly let down by insensitive midwives. Mr Kydd gave a good account of Dr Hammond’s practice on his team, and mentioned that her mother was terminally ill. Dr Brooks immediately offered his sympathy, but Shelagh assured him that her mother’s illness had nothing to do with her actions on that night. ‘I would have acted in the same way, whatever my private problems.’
The meeting ended after twenty-five minutes. Dr Brooks gave Shelagh a mild reprimand, and a warning that in future she should not take too much responsibility into her own hands. ‘Consultants are there to be consulted, doctor,’ he said, though Dr Fisher clearly thought the outcome of the meeting was unsatisfactory.
‘It will be a different story at the tribunal,’ he said, ‘when the Gainsfords are able to speak for themselves, and it’s all in the local press. Then you’ll hear the verdict of the local community,’ he said with a certain relish.
When the outcome of the meeting became known, Shelagh met with both blame and sympathy.
‘Congratulations, Dr Hammond, on getting off with just a slap on the wrists,’ said Dr McDowall when she met him and Tanya Dickenson in the antenatal ward office. ‘Only mind your step with Dr Fisher in future – he thinks the whole thing was mismanaged.’
‘Thank you, doctor. I haven’t anything further to say,’ she replied coldly.
The next day she was summoned to Mr Kydd’s office.
‘Very sad news, Shelagh. Mrs Gainsford’s GP has phoned to say she’s been admitted to Bridge House as an emergency. It’s a small private hospital, as you know, actually a psychiatric unit. The poor woman went completely berserk when she got home, and her husband thought the baby might be in danger, so their GP sent for an ambulance straight away, with a provisional diagnosis of puerperal psychosis. We can only hope that rest and sedation will restore her to normality. Her mother has come to look after the baby who’s apparently thriving on formula milk. It’s as well that you let her go when you did, but it’s a sad business.’
‘I’m so very sorry to hear that, Mr Kydd,’ said Shelagh, thinking of the mother, the husband and the baby. She made no comment about it to any other members of staff, but when they came to hear of it, there was a great deal of commenting and head-shaking.
‘Well done, darling!’ enthused Paul when the story reached the doctors’ mess. ‘What a slap in the eye for that know-all Fisher!’
‘What a tragedy for the family, just after the birth of their first baby,’ she replied. ‘Let’s say no more about it, Paul.’
‘When that wretched woman receives a letter from Jamieson, she’ll find out that her pestering of you is to cease forthwith,’ said Daphne Bolt.
‘Can you hold your horses until I’ve spoken to the Bishop?’ asked Derek. ‘I’ve asked for an appointment with him to discuss the problem and what best to do about it.’
‘Good. And you can tell him the whole truth – that you’ve never encouraged her in any way,’ his wife replied sceptically. ‘There are those who hint that it isn’t all on her side, you know, and if you are completely blameless, we need to hear it. And I need to hear it – in court, if that’s the only way to stop this nonsense.’
‘Only wait until I’ve spoken to Bishop Grieve,’ said Derek wearily. ‘If it does turn into a public scandal – which it will do if she’s taken to court – I want to get my story in first, and the Bishop on my side. And of course I want you to know that I’m not guilty of any wrongdoing, Daphne. I’ve been a fool, it’s true, and I’ve regretted trying to be kind to the woman, but that’s the extent of my fault, and nothing worse than that.’
Jeremy North was finding life easier to bear. The snow still lingered, but as the days began to draw out, the enlarged church choir still met on Thursday evenings to practise, and it was common knowledge that the choirmaster met Miss Oates from time to time, usually after choir practice in a public place like The Volunteer, where they talked. And his car had been seen in the hospital car park, and Sister Oates emerging from Outpatients, having changed into her usual neat hooded jacket and getting into his car.
‘I don’t think there’s anything in it,’ said Phyllis Maynard. ‘It’s all open and above board – they’re never seen doing anything other than talk, and it’s probably all about music.’
‘They don’t have to say or do anything untoward, you’ve only got to look at them,’ retorted Mary Whittaker. ‘See the sparkle in her eyes and the spring in her step. And he’s happier, nobody can deny that. He was looking dreadful at Christmas. None of his family come to church, which is a pity, when you consider there are three of them, plus the wife and that dear little boy. They say the eldest girl’s expecting again.’
‘We mustn’t jump to conclusions,’ said her friend, though she too had heard the rumours. ‘But if it’s true, poor Jeremy!’
‘Jeremy, I need a word,’ said the vicar to the choirmaster after evensong.
‘Is it about something I’ve done, Derek? – because if it is—’
‘Nothing whatever to do with you and your soprano,’ replied Derek, ‘though I reckon that’s being well chewed over and giving rise to all sorts of rumours. No, this is my problem, and I think you may be able to help me out. I hope so, anyway.’
‘Mysterious,’ said Jeremy, raising his eyebrows. ‘Is it by any chance about a certain lovelorn spinster?’
‘How did you know?’ asked Derek quickly.
‘The gossips of Everham talk of nothing else, old chap. What do you want me to do? – take her off your hands?’
‘I only wish you could. You should see the letters, desperate love letters, gifts which I have to keep in the safe, out of sight – and the stalking, the sudden confrontations in public or in the church grounds, the pleading – it’s intolerable, Jeremy. It’s reached a point when something’s got to be done, and if I won’t do it, Daphne will. I decided to see the Bishop and ask for guidance—’
‘Ah, that was a good move. What did his lordship say?’
‘Frankly, he wasn’t much use, and was inclined to treat it as a joke – “oh, come on, Bolt, use a bit of common sense, be firm with her”, that sort of thing – he said that clergymen and doctors must accept that lonely and lovelorn women fall for them. He actually said that I took the situation too seriously – “you must face the fact that for her you’re just a masturbatory fantasy”—’
‘Is that what he said? I’ve heard some name-calling in my time, but that one has to be a first,’ said Jeremy, unable to keep a straight face.
‘Yes, he thought it was funny, too, and I told him it was no joke. When I said that Daphne was going to see a solicitor, he said it would be much wiser to ask the woman to attend me in the vestry by appointment, and let her know that if she doesn’t stop it forthwith, she’ll be hearing from my solicitor and threatened with a court injunction.’
‘But it’ll just be her word against yours, won’t it?’
‘No, because I shall have a strong third-party presence there as a witness, an authoritative figure, preferably a man who will stand there looking suitably grave while I speak sternly to her – and who will not leave us alone on any account.’
‘That sounds like a good idea. What about one of the churchwardens?’
‘I’d like a man who’s had some experience of domestic tension, Jeremy – and who has successfully pulled himself up, somebody liked and respected in Everham, articulate and – oh, you know who I mean, Jeremy!’
‘Are you telling me that you mean myself, by any chance? No way, I’m no heavyweight here, Derek, on the contrary I’m gossiped about because of Iris Oates – and don’t ask me to give her up, because she’s the one individual who keeps me sane. No, I’m not the strong third-party presence you’re looking for.’
‘But I think you are, Jerry. You’re human. People like you. And I’m asking you nicely to do this for me as a friend!’
‘Well, if you really can’t think of anybody else—’
‘I can’t. Name a day and a time when you can nip out of school.’
‘Wednesday, say about ten?’
‘Yes, that’ll do.’
‘Let’s make it Wednesday week – give you a chance to think what you’re going to say to the woman. That’s er—’ He took out his pocket diary. ‘That’s February 20th.’
‘OK. And thanks a million.’
The continuing snow and ice brought in a stream of casualties, mainly elderly, who had slipped and broken hips, wrists and ankles. Paul looked tired, not surprisingly, thought Shelagh, after days and nights of overworking. And he was impatient.
‘When can we have another weekend, darling?’ he asked her. ‘Or just a night away? This bloody snow keeps laying around, but we can get down to Eastbourne before dark. Or find some place a bit nearer?’
‘It seems as if this winter is never going to end,’ sighed Shelagh. ‘Actually I’m off the second weekend in March, if that fits in with you.’
‘I can make it fit, no problem. Seems like a hell of a time to wait, but make it the Saturday and we’re as good as there. Oh, Shelagh, you need to get away just as much as I do. Your mother’s still holding on, so you’ve got no immediate worries where she’s concerned. I just want to – need to – we both do, darling.’ His eyes looked into hers, and she felt almost guilty. Her mother might have a relapse at any time, in which case their night of love would have to be postponed for an indefinite period, but meanwhile she owed it to him to show that her feelings were unchanged, though she wished they could be officially engaged before midsummer. Perhaps after another tender lovemaking, it might happen …
Fiona North was in tears, the cause of her distress being Roy’s two-year-old daughter Sally, to whom they were not allowed access.
‘And the situation’s not helped by your attitude to Roy,’ she accused him, shrugging away the arm he had put around her shoulders. ‘You won’t let him stay here, your own son!’
‘I’ve got him to join Alcoholics Anonymous, and found him a flat in Everham – he has just got to stand on his own two feet, he’s twenty-three, not a child but a grown man – a married man, can’t you see that? And I’ve got him this job as a garage forecourt attendant.’
‘Do you call that a job?’
‘Yes, it’s a job that he can do, and will bring in a small wage – give him a chance to build up his selfrespect. You never know, Amy might be persuaded to have him back.’
‘That wicked woman, he’s better off without her.’
‘My dear Fiona, there’s Sally to consider, and his responsibility to her – and we want to see her, she’s as much our grandchild as Peter-poppet.’
‘Amy refused him his rights, and threw him out!’
‘Yes, because he was lurching home belching and hiccuping – what woman would want him in her bed, for Christ’s sake? You’d throw me out if I was a drunk.’
‘She drove him to drinking!’
‘Oh, come on, Fiona, he was always drawn to the booze. Remember how we copped it when he was caught trying to buy liquor at the wine shop, underage? Anyway, I’ve done what I can for him, and now I want to see little Sally. I’m going to ask Amy if she will let her come to see us for one day a week.’
‘Well, I’m not having that woman in my house. If I saw her I think I’d give her a fist between her eyes – and don’t expect me to drive over there and grovel to her!’
‘And Roy’s lost his licence, so he can’t go, so it’ll have to be me, then.’
‘I don’t think it’s asking too much of you. Roy has a right to see his daughter.’
‘And we all want to see Sally, poor mite. Right, then, I’ll ring Amy and fix a day. I’ll make it Saturday if that’s all right with her; I’m a bit tied up on Sundays with the choir.’
‘Thank you,’ she said in unsmiling acknowledgement.
‘Oh, Fiona, if you only knew how much I long to be as we were,’ he suddenly confessed, reaching out to take hold of her hand. ‘If you could only see beyond your own family and realise that other people also have rights – it would make such a difference to us.’
‘If you’re telling me to chum up with that bitch of an Amy, you can save your breath.’
Don’t say anything more, Jeremy North told himself. And thought of Iris Oates.
The snow of the longest winter since 1947 still lay in the churchyard when the Reverend Derek Bolt had summoned Miss Beryl Johnson to a meeting in the vestry of St Matthew’s. He was there at half past nine, expecting that she would be early, and Jeremy North appeared at twenty to ten. Miss Johnson arrived five minutes later. The stage is set for the play to begin, thought Jeremy, noting Derek’s nervousness and giving him a broad wink.
When Beryl had seen the envelope lying on the doormat, with her name and address neatly typed, she had no idea what it was or where it came from. It was not a utility bill or a begging letter from a charity, there being no such printed indication on the front or back of it.
When she picked it up and slit it open, she thought she would faint for joy. Derek Bolt was requesting a meeting with her in the vestry of St Matthew’s church on Wednesday the 20th at ten! The typed letter was brief, and mention was made of Mr North who would also be present, but Beryl thought only of the main contents, that the man she loved as much as life was summoning – inviting? – her to a meeting with him.
What should she wear? Her choice settled on her best coat of brown-and-white tweed, and a brown beret in place of a hat. None of her shoes seemed right, and she bought an expensive pair of soft brown leather boots that almost matched her handbag. A light silk scarf completed the ensemble, and she set off with mixed eagerness and apprehension in equal measures, hoping that Mr North might not yet have arrived; but he was already there in the vestry where the two men had been talking. She smiled uncertainly at them, but their faces were serious as she entered the vestry.
‘Please sit down, Miss Johnson,’ said the vicar, though both men remained standing.
‘I’ve asked to see you about the unsolicited letters and gifts you persist in sending to the vicarage,’ Derek Bolt began. ‘I have to keep the gifts in the safe, so that they will not be seen. My wife is very annoyed at the number of letters I receive from you, and it is partly due to her understandable anger that I have called you to this meeting. It is very disrespectful towards her, as well as the sudden meetings we have in the town, clearly planned by you, for example, when you slipped and fell in the market square.’
‘Oh, Derek, you don’t – you can’t really know how I—’
He held up his hand. ‘Let me finish, please. Your behaviour has become a joke in Everham, it’s made me into a laughing stock, which is embarrassing for me and Mrs Bolt. I want no excuses, no pleading, I only want this nonsense to stop. Do you understand what I’m saying, Miss Johnson?’
‘Please, Derek, if you’ll only listen—’
‘No, I don’t want to listen. You must listen to me. I want this nuisance to stop, and I want your assurance that it will. Do you hear me? Do you understand?’
She began to cry, and her voice broke on a sob. ‘Please, Derek, please will you ask Mr North to step outside for a minute—’
‘Certainly not. Mr North is here at my request, to be a witness to everything said by either of us. I want him to hear your promise that you will stop harassing me. I don’t want to exclude you from St Matthew’s, though I think it would be advisable for you to attend another church while all this gossip is going on. So will you give me your assurance that you will stop following me?’
There was no intelligible reply. She continued to weep into a handkerchief, and Derek looked helplessly at Jeremy. Although Jeremy had been told there was no need for him to speak, he decided that he had better step in.
‘Now then, Miss Johnson, Mr Bolt has put it to you fairly and squarely. You are not to pursue him any longer, because if you do he will take legal advice to force you to obey. You wouldn’t like to be summoned to appear in court, would you? But that’s what will happen if you persist in annoying him and his wife. Think of all the local newspapers, the embarrassment to all concerned. Come on, Miss Johnson, pull yourself together and be sensible. I know it’s hard to feel as you do, but if you have any regard at all for Mr and Mrs Bolt, you will cease annoying them.’
Beryl now gave way to loud, uncontrollable sobs, and the two men looked at each other helplessly.
‘What on earth am I to do, Jeremy?’
‘You go, and leave her with me. Go back to the vicarage or whatever, and I’ll drive her home. Go on, there’s nothing more you can do, she wants you to comfort her, but that would be fatal. Go!’
And Bolt obeyed, leaving North to take a firm hold on Beryl’s right arm and lead her, sobbing, out of the vestry, down to the west door, and out into the cold air. Holding firmly on to her, he took her to his car and pushed her into the passenger seat. He clicked her safety belt into position, then climbed into the driver’s seat and started up the engine.
What was said on that short journey was a repetition of what had already been said in the vestry, and finally ended when he made her promise to stop pestering the vicar. She finally answered with a despairing ‘yes’, which he made her repeat.
‘You promise to – to keep this promise?’
‘Yes. All right, yes.’ It was barely a whisper.
He let her go, with pity in his heart, reflecting that his was not the only unhappy house in Everham.
How the news got out, nobody knew, but the three-way meeting in the vestry became known and talked about. Most of the women sympathised with the vicar and thought Miss Johnson a silly woman; others felt sorry for her and thought him unnecessarily harsh. Everybody praised Mr North’s involvement, and approved of his role as referee, adding to his popularity as headmaster and choirmaster.
But …
‘He and Miss Oates were seen together at that concert in the school assembly hall,’ said Mary Whittaker.
‘Yes, and seen by everybody there, all open and above board,’ answered Phyllis Maynard who had her own happy thoughts. Tim and Jenny Gifford had been visited by a social worker following their application, and were due to attend an adoption panel on the ninth of May. Phyllis could think of nothing else.