Lynne, the Vicar

‘The Parochial Church Council will be hell on Thursday evening,’ a cutting from a parish magazine pinned on the vestry notice board, a legacy of Gareth’s, along with an extract from the litany:

From all envy, wickedness and alice

and all evil intent, Good Lord deliver us

and a misprint from my own Family Service leaflet,

Our God resigns.

Bittersweet reminders of my late Treasurer’s eye for a joke… How I would miss him, his talent for laughter and making light of things. I was afraid Tuesday’s PCC with its discussion of urgent repairs to the church roof really would be ‘hell’ without him.

I thumbed through the Treasurer’s folder, delivered the day before by his sister, Elin. She wasn’t the easiest of guests, I gathered from Lily when I met her in the village shop. ‘Elin’s so restless, Lynne. She’s helping with the will so I mustn’t grumble but we don’t find it easy to get along. We hardly know one another.’

Elin had appeared cold and distant at the funeral but yesterday she arrived at the vicarage running up the garden path to deliver the things I’d sent for, looking altogether more approachable in casual jacket and cords.

‘You phoned for these.’ She handed me the folder with a quick smile while Moses, my large, black, neutered tom wound his body round her legs in an effort to ingratiate himself.

‘Thanks. You needn’t have driven down ’specially.’ I had seen her car parked at the gate.

‘No trouble. I was going out anyway.’ She bent to stroke Moses who flirted with her, arching his back, a sucker for attention. ‘A Magnificat.’ Elin Pritchard grinned.

‘You sound like your brother.’

She straightened up. ‘Joking kept us sane.’ She seemed reluctant to go so I waited to see if she had anything else to say while Moses, his mind on a meal, slipped between us, indoors.

‘Might I see you briefly?’ she asked. ‘Not now. Before I go back sometime.’

She was due to leave on Monday, I knew. Not much choice then.

‘Tomorrow evening,’ I suggested, feeling virtuous. I try to keep Sunday evenings for unwinding after a four-service day. ‘Come for coffee after church.’

‘Thank you.’ Watching her go I thought how unlike Gareth she was with her slim build and English accent, and reminded myself, in case I was tempted to feel put upon, that I had intended to have a word with her before she left. She and Gareth had been close, I gathered, both from his brotherly pride – Elin’s the clever one of the family. Done really well for herself she has – and from Lily – she rings him every week almost, even from abroad. I can’t think what they can find to say to each other with only seven days between calls.

I began to arrange the vestry for Tuesday. Gareth would have done it if he’d been here – he’d always gone the extra mile. What were we going to do without him?

As I shifted chairs I recalled my first visit…

I’d arrrived at Llanfadog on a covert fact finding mission after seeing the parish advertised in Church Times. Taking a detour home from climbing in Snowdonia, I was perfectly dressed for the role of undercover agent, no dog collar, walking gear, birdwatching glasses. No one could have guessed I was a potential vicar. But I had reckoned without Gareth.

He was sweeping bird droppings from the porch, a stocky, middle-aged man singing softly to himself in Welsh.

‘It’s not locked, cariad.’ With a beaming smile, he swung open the heavy oak door for me to enter, then followed at a respectful distance as I sauntered into the church, spiritual antennae alert. ‘Been here before?’ he asked as I stood to breathe in the scent of wood polish, the smell of old books and the special atmosphere loved churches possess.

I shook my head. ‘I’m on holiday. I come to Wales a lot but I’ve never been here.’ I ran my finger across the service books on their shelves. I’d forgotten the Church in Wales had its own prayer book. I picked up a copy to look inside.

‘Thinking of coming?’ he asked.

I nearly dropped the book and he burst out laughing. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let on, but I can usually tell. It’s the way people try to look as if they’re not looking.’

He was the local joiner and undertaker, he said, as well as churchwarden. We had a conversation about the village and its people. His love of both showed in every word.

‘Will you come, then?’ he asked, as I made to leave.

‘Depends what God wants,’ I smiled. ‘And the bishop.’

‘I understand.’ He winked. ‘I’ll take it up with the Boss.’ He nodded heavenwards, then picked up his brush once more. ‘We’re not particular about women priests,’ he called, as I walked down the path. What a nice man; I fell in love with him and the place. I couldn’t think of a better first parish.

Before my induction, I met him officially.

‘I knew you’d come,’ he smiled. ‘I’ve prayed for you every day since we met.’

That was six years ago. Since then we’d become firm friends. There was little Gareth didn’t know about Llanfadog and its people. Though he might sigh when individuals refused to speak after a falling-out, or groan with impatience if the PCC tried to backtrack on decisions, he never had an unkind word for anyone. I could always count on his support – and his honest opinion. He wasn’t above telling me if he thought I’d done something wrong, but I knew I could trust him, that everything he said and did sprang from a desire for everyone’s good, including my own. I couldn’t have wished for a better teacher as I struggled to learn Welsh and negotiated my way round the pitfalls of running a rural parish.

‘A grave business, being an undertaker,’ he said once, his blue eyes twinkling. But he was good at it, kind, courteous and sensitive. And after years as churchwarden he had become an able and reliable treasurer. He and Lily had looked after Gareth’s ageing parents, I gathered, moving in with them for his father’s last clouded years, a byword in the village for devotion and caring. Unlike Elin… She never visited them. Never even came to their funerals, local gossip went. A serious crime in Welsh eyes.

‘She was abroad,’ Gareth defended.

‘Even so, you’d have though she’d have got leave.’ Lily sounded hurt as well as critical.

I wondered how brother and sister had come to be so different.

Leaving the chairs neatly arranged, I thought of Tuesday’s meeting with misgivings. Gareth’s death had not only left me to bear the brunt of the financial questions that were bound to be asked, but cast doubt over my own plans. A month earlier a friend in a hospital chaplaincy team in the Midlands had approached me about applying for a vacancy there. ‘You’ve done long enough in a parish, Lynne. Your experience and pastoral gifts would be useful to us and I can vouch for you as a colleague. Why not apply?’ So after much thought, and a confidential consultation with Gareth, who could be trusted not to say a word to anyone, even Lily, I had gone ahead. The interview had been the Wednesday after Gareth died. I’d considered not going. But John, my friend, had persuaded me and I had just received a letter offering me the position. Now I had to make up my mind whether to accept.

At first I reacted by trying to forget the whole thing; it seemed unreal. Still in shock after Gareth’s death I felt I’d interviewed badly and had given up all idea of getting the post. I wasn’t sure I wanted it anyway. Now I was thrown into confusion. Did I wish to leave Llanfadog with the church roof in serious need of repair and the village and congregation mourning one of its favourite sons? Would it be right to abandon Lily and the family in their grief?

And where was God in this, especially when Gareth had said I ought to apply since I had gifts that weren’t being used in Llanfadog? ‘I’ll be sad for you to leave. But you’ve got a lot more to give than you’re using here. Don’t let us hold you back. Six years is long enough in a first parish.’ God must have known what was going to happen to Gareth, so why hadn’t he made me feel uneasy about attending the interview if I wasn’t meant to move?

‘Don’t be silly,’ I told myself that morning before church, as I re-read the letter with its offer. ‘This is what free will is all about. You can’t expect voices from heaven all the time.’ I’d have liked some guidance, though. A fat cheque for the roof repair for a start, like those I read about in those Christian paperbacks with a miracle on every page. But when I prayed heaven seemed silent. Which wasn’t surprising. I suspected I was angry at Gareth’s death, at his removal from parish and family at such a strategic time.

I picked up the treasurer’s folder and glanced at my watch. I ought to be home for Elin’s arrival. As I locked the church I wondered what she wanted to see me about. Not spiritual guidance, surely? She wasn’t a regular churchgoer, I assumed. Sitting with Lily, Bryn and Megan in the front pew reserved for the bereaved family that morning, she’d seemed unfamiliar with the service and hadn’t taken communion, though she came to the rail for a blessing. Praying along the row I’d been aware of tension in her clasped hands, of Megan’s tears, Lily’s self-control and Bryn’s numbness. I’d felt a love for the family and congregation and thought, ‘I can’t leave them now with all this going on. Surely, God, this isn’t what you want?’ But I received no answer, only a sense that if I put one foot in front of the other I would find the right path.

Maybe Elin wanted to talk about her brother. I would enjoy that; it would be good to find out more about my friend from one who’d known him well. And meeting her didn’t seem such an intimidating prospect as I’d imagined from her appearance at the funeral. She seemed quite human on the doorstep the day before. ‘You two would get on,’ Gareth said once, ‘two professional women in a man’s world.’ I’d reserved judgement, thinking of Lily’s reticence and village gossip. Now I could see for myself if Gareth was right.

Walking across the churchyard I felt in my cassock pocket and found the card given me by the young man I’d talked with after Gareth’s funeral. He’d called Gareth ‘Uncle’ but was diffident about being seen or approached. Had Elin Pritchard noticed him, I wondered. I had my own idea who Stephen Loxley was. He looked so like Gareth I was sure he was related and after I’d spoken to him I was almost certain he must be Elin’s son. Gareth hadn’t wanted him to meet the family, he said. Yet in giving me his address he seemed to be hinting that he would like to be contacted if things changed. At that moment I couldn’t see how he might make himself known to them without causing upset. But his grief and isolation had affected me. God sets the solitary in families ... I found myself quoting from Psalm 68. I wasn’t sure Stephen Loxley was solitary. He might have a wife and children for all I knew. But he had lost his adoptive parents and Gareth who, in some measure, had taken their place, and I felt he needed roots and a sense of belonging. I prayed for him and the family as I closed the churchyard gate.

The phone was ringing as I reached the vicarage. I ran to answer it but failed to get there in time. Dialling 1471, I found it was John’s number and decided to ring him back later. He would be bound to ask if I’d written my letter of acceptance and I didn’t feel like being hustled. I went to close the front door and saw Elin Pritchard walking up the path.

‘Am I too early? I wasn’t sure exactly when “after church” was.’

‘No. We finished Evensong twenty minutes ago. Come in.’ I took off my cassock and hung it in the study. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee. Black, no sugar, thanks.’ She waited in the hall, looking at my pictures and I felt suddenly flustered beside her obvious poise and grooming. Grow up, I told myself, she’s only a human being. Remember she’s the sister of a friend. And you’re just as much a professional as she is, even if vicars can’t afford Jaeger trouser suits.

‘Is that Anglesey?’ She paused before an original oil, my favourite.

‘Yes. Red Wharf Bay.’

‘It gets the atmosphere perfectly. I had a friend in Bangor once and he and I used to walk that beach often. I remember crunching over hundreds of washed-up sea potatoes after a winter storm.’ She moved closer to read the signature. ‘I ought to have something to remind me of Wales. A painting might be just the thing.’

‘Not thinking of coming back to live?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I’d die of boredom. Too used to city life.’ She paused. ‘Though what I’ll do in retirement’s another matter. Or before, come to that. Lots of imponderables. Decisions to make.’

She sounded as uncertain as I was. That was encouraging. People who had everything taped could be infuriating when you yourself were in a fog. ‘Come through,’ I said. Jaeger trouser suit or not, I decided I could let her see my kitchen.

‘Did you enjoy being brought up in Llanfadog?’ I asked as I put my best china mugs on a tray. ‘A country childhood and all that?’

She leant against one of the kitchen units, her back to the window. ‘Oh yes. Outside was fun. We ran wild and had a wonderful time. Climbing trees, damming streams, making dens. But those things lose their attraction as you get older, don’t you think?’ She was smiling at me, amusement in her light hazel eyes – they were unusual, the colour of amber or topaz, not like Gareth’s at all. ‘Indoors wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, though,’ she added. A throwaway line but the edge to her voice was unmistakable. She twisted to look out of the window. ‘Don’t you get a lovely view of the church from here? I’ve never seen it from this angle before.’

‘Yes. It’s best in the morning.’ I eyed her curiously, aware of communication on two levels and hidden shoals. She wasn’t like Gareth with his gentle simplicity. I could see why Lily found her difficult.

She saw the look. ‘Sorry. I’m trying not to be negative. No one warns you that grief can turn bitter if you’re not careful. I suppose I’m cross with myself for not coming back and seeing Gareth and the family earlier.’ She smiled sadly. ‘My own fault. You think you have all the time in the world and suddenly it’s gone. I’ve been too immersed in my own career.’

‘Don’t let it eat into you,’ I warned, ‘it doesn’t lead anywhere. Gareth never criticised you for not coming. He was proud of you, always singing your praises.’

‘I know.’ She sighed and I saw the suspicion of a tear in her eye. ‘He could never get over my success. As if that mattered. He was a much better person than I’ll ever be.’ She fiddled with the silk scarf at her neck.

‘Shall we go into the sitting room?’ I poured her black coffee and my white one and picked up the tray.

‘Yes, fine. Thanks for seeing me at such short notice by the way. I won’t insult you by saying it’s your busy day. But I see from the notice board that you’ve taken four services.’

Someone who reads notice boards, I thought, leading the way. But she was a lawyer. ‘I wanted to see you before you go back anyway. We didn’t get a chance to talk on Monday.’

I sat in my favourite leather-covered chair and Elin Pritchard sat on the settee opposite the big picture window. Outside on the lawn blackbirds were listening for worms and I could hear the swifts screaming round the church tower in their usual frenzy of feeding before nightfall. We sipped our coffee in silence while I wondered what she had come for and searched her face, discreetly I hoped, for any resemblance to Gareth. Apart from the red hair and freckles they were not alike in appearance. Even Elin’s red hair was a different shade of red, enhanced, I assumed. She was thin-faced and not unattractive, with those startling hazel eyes. Gareth had been broad-featured with wide-set eyes and a ready smile. Yet there was an echo of Gareth in the way his sister carried her head, in her profile, laugh and sense of humour.

She was watching the birds on the lawn and seemed in no hurry to get to the point. Suddenly she turned to me. ‘So, what’s it like for a woman in your line of work? I’ve always wanted to know.’

For a moment I felt like an exam candidate, asked a difficult question in a viva. ‘Oh, not bad.’ I gathered my thoughts. ‘People are getting used to us. There’s the occasional person who won’t receive communion from a woman, but we’re becoming accepted. In fact I think there are more women candidates coming forward in some places than men.’

‘That’s progress.’ She leaned forward. ‘But what do you do? When someone won’t take communion from you?’

‘Move on. Pray for them. Try not to take it personally.’

She made a face. ‘I’d be tempted to bless them with a heavy hand.’

‘Not very Christ-like.’ I grinned, picturing it.

‘Ah, but then I’m not a Christian.’

‘So you wouldn’t be in my position, I hope.’

‘No.’ We laughed. ‘But what about women bishops?’ she asked. ‘Is there a stained glass ceiling?’

‘Yes. It has to be passed by Synod before I can be Archbishop of Canterbury.’

‘I mitre known.’

‘I’ll cope.’

‘So long as you’re not surplice to requirements.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘Sorry. A bad habit.’ She looked serious then. ‘I supported you, you know. I was a member of MOW, but I missed hearing the big debate. I was abroad.’

‘The Church in Wales waited even longer to ordain women priests,’ I pointed out, ‘but that earlier debate was quite an occasion. I was in theological college at the time and the atmosphere was electric.’

‘I can imagine.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Does that mean you haven’t always been a vicar?’

‘No. I was a social worker before that, working with families.’

‘I suppose that comes in useful now?’

I nodded and set down my cup. ‘How about your job? You’ll have started earlier than me?’

She looked thoughtful. ‘It was awful for women in the firm when I began there. Too many public school men who didn’t think a woman could have brains. I nearly gave up in my first year, but I’d already made one false start and couldn’t afford another.’ She stared into her coffee. ‘It’s better now, but there’s still a glass ceiling. Particularly for women who take time out to have children. It’s easier for those of us with no family commitments.’

Was that why she had had Stephen adopted, I found myself thinking. If he was her son…

‘When I became a partner I was the first woman in the firm at that level,’ she went on, ‘but it can be hard even now. The culture’s very male dominated. I used to joke about “club clients” – contacts made at Rotary or golf or the Masonic lodge.’

‘I remember being on Diocesan committees as an ordinand and never being listened to. If you’re assertive, you’re strident, if you’re quietly spoken you confirm the expectation that you’ve nothing worth saying.’ I smiled. ‘Things are improving, though. And did you know women deacons were running parishes in Wales long before they could in England?’

‘No I didn’t. One up to the old country then.’ She smiled back. ‘Better than when I was young. I gave up on Welsh academia because I couldn’t see myself making a career here. I was far too radical, the way I was then.’

‘So you weren’t a solicitor to start with?’

‘No. I wanted to be an academic first of all, lecture, do research. Teach.’ She finished her coffee and put her cup on the table. ‘The interesting thing is that the part of my work I enjoy most is mentoring trainees and setting up courses. So I seem to have done what I wanted in the end. When I was in Singapore I introduced courses in conflict resolution – giving people the skills to resolve disputes before they come to court. Saves a lot of expense if it works.’

‘My PCC could do with that. Or rather, I could.’

She grinned. ‘Most people who knew me when I was younger would have said my gift was for starting disputes not resolving them. I could have done with all this theory then, though I’m sure I wouldn’t have taken any notice.’

She changed the subject abruptly. ‘But I haven’t come just for a chat, pleasant though it’s been…I meant to ask whether there’s anything the church needs. I want to give something in memory of Gareth, if that’s acceptable to you. I know his faith meant a lot to him and he was very fond of Llanfadog church. It’d be my way of saying “thank you” for all he did for me.’

At first my mind went blank. Then I thought of the roof. ‘If you don’t mind contributing towards repairs rather than donating a particular item, we’ve got a problem with the roof. Slate sickness. We’re going to have to replace all the slates.’

‘Slate sickness?’ She stared at me in disbelief.

‘It’s when the slates have worn so much the nails can’t hold them. The holes have become too big.’

‘If you say so.’ An amused smile. ‘It sounds nasty anyway.’

‘But if you’d prefer to give a specific item. I shall have to think. A new service book for the altar would be useful.’

‘I’ll opt for the roof,’ she said decisively. ‘Gareth was a practical man. No point having new books if water’s dripping on them.’

I could have cheered.

At once she took a chequebook and pen from her shoulder bag and began filling in a cheque. ‘Do I make it out to St. Madoc’s?’

I nodded.

‘You should be able to claim back the tax,’ she said, ‘if I fill in a Gift Aid form. Who’s your treasurer?’

She had obviously forgotten. ‘It was Gareth,’ I said after a small silence. ‘The forms’ll be in the folder you brought yesterday.’

I saw her fingers tighten on the pen. She stopped writing and sat still for a moment, staring at the chequebook on her lap. ‘Damn. I should have remembered.’ She passed a hand across her eyes.

I found her a box of tissues and went to fetch the folder from the study.

When I came back she’d recovered. ‘Sorry. It was the surprise. I should have known. Stupid of me.’ She blew her nose discreetly. ‘It’s the little things that get you.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘like at Communion this morning. I expected Gareth to be sidesman as usual.’

‘He thought the world of you, you know. Said you’d done a lot for the parish.’

I could feel myself blushing. ‘The feeling was mutual. He was a good friend, my greatest ally on the church council. He could defuse tension better than anyone else I know.’

‘He’d had plenty of practice.’ A wry smile from his sister. She was silent for a moment, then asked brightly, ‘Did he tell you about our nationalist phase?’

‘He hinted you were into language protests.’

She launched into an account of their exploits… Their part in the demonstration against the drowning of Tryweryn. ‘I was still at school then. I was only allowed to go if Gareth and I went together.’ Her court appearance with her boyfriend of the time, and their involvement in the language campaign… Gareth’s ancient Morris: ‘The Ffestiniog moors in a snowstorm are no place to push-start a car with a flat battery.’ Their night hike up Moel Fammau: ‘We lugged a primus stove all the way up to the top so we could cook sausages for breakfast.’ Their joint love of shooting: ‘I liked targets, Gareth preferred to bag something for supper.’ Their childhood games in the countryside around Llanfadog…

Elin Pritchard was a gifted raconteur and made Gareth come alive again. I countered with his Harvest Supper entertainments, his achievement in reconciling two warring families at a funeral, and the stuffed mouse he left on my prayer desk one morning to amuse me. Time flew as we enjoyed memories of her brother.

‘Was your father an undertaker too?’ I asked, when we’d run out of anecdotes.

‘No. He was a carpenter and cabinetmaker. His workshop was where the chapel of rest is now. Gareth took over the business when Tad retired. He developed a sideline in coffins,’ an amused smile, ‘and it grew from there. He did one funeral, almost by accident, and he was so much better than the other local undertakers that people started asking for him. He wanted to be a teacher originally. In fact he completed a year’s training in Bangor.’

This was news. ‘Why did he give up?’

‘My father damaged his hand and Gareth came back to help with the business.’

She frowned. ‘A pity. But I suppose it turned out all right in the end. Typical of Gareth, always putting others first. It made our lives easier when he was back home but I’m sorry he had to leave college.’

She looked out at the garden. The swifts had stopped flying round. The blackbirds had gone to roost. ‘My father was a difficult man, a brilliant craftsman, but a perfectionist and impossible to live with. He was a bully. He made our lives hell at times.’ The harshness in her voice contrasted so starkly with the lightness of our earlier conversation that I stared at her in amazement. She gave an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry to spoil the rural idyll, but not all country childhoods are perfect. The stories I told just now are true, thank God. We had a lot of fun and friends outside, good people who looked out for us. If we hadn’t we would have been much more damaged. But our home life could be awful, like living under a thundercloud. You didn’t know when lightning would strike next.’

She paused and looked at her hands. When she went on her voice was softer. ‘It was only Gareth and Aunt Tibby next door who made it bearable for me. Gareth was my protector and friend. I don’t know what I’d have done without him.’ She took a tissue from the box and crumpled it. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t intend to dissolve on you. I’m more likely to throw things.’

‘I had no idea,’ I said. ‘Gareth seemed such a laid-back, relaxed sort of person.’

‘He was. How he managed it I’ll never know. Except that he was closer to Mam than I was. She was a gentle soul who had all the life crushed out of her. She hardly spoke at home except in whispers.’

‘Gareth never hinted there was anything like this.’

‘He wouldn’t. Unhappy families keep their unhappiness to themselves. Mam would have died rather than let anyone know how much she was terrorised. We learnt to pretend for her sake. It was important no one should find out what went on, especially in a community like Llanfadog.’

‘Denial’s very common in that situation,’ I agreed, ‘but Lily knew, surely?’

Elin shook her head. ‘Things were easier when Lily met the parents. Tad’s energy was declining and he was getting confused. I suspect the pills he was on for depression calmed him down. And Gareth wouldn’t have wanted to tell tales, ’specially as Mam and Tad needed caring for. He wouldn’t have liked Lily to think badly of them.’

‘Don’t let this go any further, please,’ she added quickly, ‘I didn’t plan to say any of it, but it’s been hard this week, being in that house. I thought I’d managed to bury it all,’ her voice trembled slightly, ‘but I haven’t, obviously. I can’t tell Lily and the children. I’ve had to be on my guard sometimes when Megan or Bryn have asked questions. No one in the village knows and Gareth wouldn’t have wanted them to. They live with the illusion that everything was fine even if our father could be awkward and unpredictable.’ She stared at the screwed-up tissue in her hand. ‘Anyway, what’s past is past. No point going over it.’

‘There is if we can undo some of its effects,’ I said. ‘Have you ever talked this over with anyone?’

She turned on me a look of sceptical amusement. ‘Counselling, you mean? And, yes, I did talk about it once. Had to. A hospital doctor dragged it out of me like pulling teeth. Not again. I thought then that if I make a mess of my life it’ll be my own mess, thank you, not something I can blame on someone else. I didn’t want everyone muttering, “Poor thing. She had such a dreadful childhood, an abusive and tyrannical father, no sense of self-worth. We must tiptoe round her in case she explodes.”’ She frowned. ‘Besides I don’t trust those who meddle with the insides of other people’s minds.’

‘A good counsellor wouldn’t do that,’ I persisted.

‘So you say.’ Her hazel eyes challenged me and I was aware of the stubborn will that kept her going.

‘How did you survive? You and Gareth, as children?’

‘We made our own world. We were past masters at make-believe – or I was – and we played outside as much as we could. We’d slip away for whole days when Tad was in his black moods. Aunt Tibby, my godmother, lived next door till I was twelve and her house was a safe place. At home we kept out of the way as far as possible, hid upstairs, told each other jokes and stories. It was much harder when Tibby moved. There was no escape then. And when Gareth was away at college it was my mother and myself coping on our own… Not a good year.’ She paused and I could see tension in her hands, fingers clasping and unclasping, twisting round one another, unable to keep still.

‘Was your father violent toward you as well?’

‘Not…violent.’ She stopped suddenly and put her head in her hands. ‘Sorry.’ Her voice was muffled.

I put my arm round her while she sobbed but tried not to. ‘I don’t do this. What on earth’s the matter with me? I’ve survived it all …I’ve got over it… and anyway, I don’t cry.’

‘Maybe you need to.’ I supplied tissues till she’d gone through half the box. ‘You can’t have people dying and not feel it. Nor have bad things happen and expect them to have no effect.’

‘I thought I could manage. I’ve always coped before.’

‘There are times when it’s right to let go. You can’t carry all this pain inside forever.’

‘Perhaps.’ She sounded grudging.

Eventually she detached herself. ‘Sorry.’ She pushed the hair from her eyes. ‘It’s a bit of a shock, giving way like this. Not like me at all. I’ve always had everything under control.’

‘Bereavement can stir up grief from the past as well sadness for immediate losses,’ I explained.

She digested this in silence, looking at her hands. Then she shook her head. ‘I can’t talk about all this. Not yet anyway.’

‘You don’t have to. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you. But you’ve helped me understand a lot about Gareth and the family, about where you’re coming from. And crying’s not a sign of weakness, you know.’

‘But once you start you don’t think you’ll be able to stop.’

‘It’s usually manageable. Grief comes in waves, I find. With spaces for recovery in between. And you stopped just now.’

She laughed through the remains of her tears. ‘Well argued. You’d make a good lawyer.’ She sat up straight. ‘What a self-pitying sod you must think I am.’

‘Not at all, just human, like the rest of us.’

She smiled weakly. ‘Heavens, but I must tidy myself up. What on earth will the family think?’

‘There’s a cloakroom across the hall if you want.’

She didn’t move but sat still, looking at her hands. ‘Maybe it has been helpful to get this out. I’ve been trying to push the memories away all week, after years of forgetting they were even there.’ She took another tissue and blew her nose. ‘The thing that’s hit me hardest,’ she said, ‘is that I’m afraid part of the reason Gareth gave up his teaching course was because of me. I think he suspected that, as well as Mam, I needed protecting. He used to sit with me while I did my homework downstairs so I wouldn’t be alone with Tad – Mam was on tranquillisers by then, knocked out and in bed most evenings.’ She looked at me. ‘Gareth was a very special person. To think he cared for Tad after all that happened – I could hardly bear to be in the same room – he deserves to be canonised.’

‘A very special person,’ I agreed.

She took another tissue and dabbed her eyes. ‘You couldn’t have included any of this in your funeral tribute,’ she said with a sudden wicked grin that reminded me of Gareth at his most mischievous, ‘but I’d love to have seen people’s faces if you had.’ She was recovering.

‘Would you like another drink?’ I decided we both needed it.

‘I could murder a whisky. But I’ll have coffee, thanks. I don’t suppose you allow smoking in the house, do you?’

‘I don’t generally, though I could make an exception. But I do have whisky. I keep it for after difficult meetings and visits from church architects and other bearers of bad news.’

‘You ought to qualify on both counts then. This hasn’t been easy and I’m bad news. I’ve wasted most of your evening.’

‘You’re the sister of a good friend,’ I said decisively. ‘We both need cheering up and we can drink to his memory.’

What a surprising evening this had become, I reflected as I fetched the bottle of Bell’s and the whisky glasses my brother had given me for Christmas. Nothing like I’d anticipated. I wished I could have met Gareth and Elin together. No wonder Lily had found it hard to break into that relationship. Bonds forged in adversity were as strong as climbing ropes.

I pondered about Gareth. I’d never dreamt his joking had its roots in an unhappy home nor that he and Elin were the products of a dysfunctional family. But people always said clowning hides tears. It was their way of coping, as Elin said.

She had tidied herself up when I returned with the drinks. We sipped our whisky as the sky outside darkened.

Then she broke the silence. ‘When Gareth and I were talking on the phone a month ago, he sounded me out, to see if the memories of home that were coming back to him were true or not, some were so bizarre. He needed me to reassure him that he wasn’t going mad or making things up, that the events he recalled really happened.’ Her eyes softened as she spoke about her brother. ‘We were the only people who knew, you see. I think that’s what bound us together so closely, even though we tried to break free in our different ways.’ She finished her whisky. ‘Gareth married and I’m ashamed to say I resented it. I went abroad to work and refused to come back to Wales, and he found that hard.’

She was thinking aloud. I needn’t respond, I decided. I listened, intrigued, to her musings while a dark shape – Moses – landed on the window ledge outside and demanded attention with his hard, imperious eyes. I would let him in, but not yet. I didn’t want to disturb Elin’s train of thought.

‘I was always Gareth’s kid sister,’ she was saying, ‘the one he looked after. Even though I could lead him by the nose at times. Perhaps we were too close. We grew up depending on each other because there was no one else in the house rooting for us, or capable of rooting for us. Mam was too crushed to manage more than survival. Tad was…as he was. Gareth was there for me like the fairy godmother who always turns up when trouble strikes. There aren’t many brothers who’d drive down to London through the night after their sisters nearly chucked themselves in the Thames.’

She noticed my shocked look. ‘It’s all right.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Not as bad as it sounds. I wasn’t suicidal, just flipped – had delusions – the result of a breakdown.’ She spoke quickly. It was obviously something she didn’t want to dwell on.

‘The silly thing is,’ she continued in her ordinary voice, ‘that I’ve been trying for years to persuade Gareth that I needn’t phone him every week. He always said he’d worry if he didn’t hear, that he needed proof that I was all right. Habit I suppose. But these last few years I was the one worrying about him. It’s as if we couldn’t stop feeling responsible for each other. Our childhood tied us up and we couldn’t let go.’

Death causes so much realignment, I had reflected at the funeral. How was Elin going to manage without her brother? How were Lily and Elin going to get on, if at all? I hoped they would come to appreciate each other in the end.

I looked at the clock, saw it was half ten, and opened the window to let Moses in. He claimed my visitor’s lap with one swift bound.

She made a face. ‘He’s a weight. Definitely a Magnificat.’

‘He won’t trouble you for long. You watch him move once he hears his plate.’

The cat fed, we chatted about other things. We discovered we both liked Russian opera and folk groups like Stone Angel, that we were compulsive readers of dictionaries and shared a dream of crossing the Gobi desert by camel one day. I found myself appreciating Elin’s sharp mind, her sardonic humour, her experience as a fellow professional. With more time and more opportunity to meet we might be friends.

We learnt without disclosing details that we both faced significant decisions in the weeks and months to come. ‘I’ll pray for you if you’ll pray for me,’ I suggested, downing the last of my drink.

‘Gareth would have. I can’t promise.’

‘Anyone can pray.’

‘Is that a challenge?’

‘If you like.’

‘You won’t convert me.’

‘That’s not my job. It’s God that does the converting.’

‘You sound like my brother.’ And we laughed.

At last Elin glanced at her watch. ‘Lily’ll think I’ve deserted.’ She stood up to go.

‘Will you be coming to Llanfadog again?’

‘I’m not sure. I’d like to keep in touch for Gareth’s sake. And I’m working on the will so I’ll have to keep Lily informed about its progress. She might be glad of my advice if she’s going to continue the business herself.’

‘Might she keep it on?’

She grinned. ‘I’m trying not to influence her, but I think she’s coming round to the idea. We’ll have to see.’

On the doorstep she turned suddenly and asked, ‘as an ex-social worker, what do you think of the new provision for adopted children to make contact with birth parents? Is it a good idea, or does it just cause unhappiness?’

I paused. Stephen Loxley, I thought, perhaps my guess was the right one, and considered what to say. I was aware of Elin’s attention as she waited for my reply.

‘Depends on the circumstances – and the individuals,’ I replied, ‘I think it’s a good idea generally. So long as all the parties involved have proper support.’

‘I see. It came up when I was talking with a friend earlier in the week. Hearing that you’d once worked with families, I wondered what your view was.’ She was studiedly casual.

I was tempted to tell her the whole story, to give her Stephen Loxley’s card; organise a Hollywood-style reunion of mother and son. But it didn’t feel right, not yet anyway. ‘If you need a considered opinion you can always ring me and have a longer chat.’

‘I might. Thank you for a pleasant evening. And for listening.’

‘I’ve enjoyed it. Come again if you’re visiting. And thank you for your donation. That was kind.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Her smile reminded me, suddenly, of Gareth’s.

I watched her go. Perhaps Stephen Loxley’s hopes of meeting the family would be fulfilled one day. I prayed for Elin, that she would know peace and the right path.

Later I picked up her cheque from the coffee table where she had left it. I had to pause, stunned, to count the noughts.

Tuesday’s PCC wasn’t going to be hell after all.