Just before Christmas, Avis had introduced a box of homemade hazelnut clusters. Someone, no doubt over-stimulated by excess protein, had let this slip. A definite coldness emanated from the vicarage and, as a result, Avis Jennings was left off the church flower rota for three months.
Mugs of well-sugared tea were now handed out. Everyone sat, in varying degrees of comfort, among coils of chicken wire and green Oasis, choirboys’ surplices, the Sunday School’s paints and brushes, Bible storybooks and towering piles of dusty hymnals.
The vicar took a sip of tea, far too strong for his liking, and turned the conversation once more to Mrs. Hollingswofth’s absence.
“Have you seen her at all today, Elfrida?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Mrs. Molfrey in a squeezed-up voice for she was bending over threading some tape through the eyelet of her plimsolls.
“What about you, dear heart?”
Cubby Dawlish turned very pink and tugged at his brief white beard, more of a sparkly frill really, which ran neatly from one earlobe to the other. Then he cleared his throat shyly before also admitting ignorance of Mrs. Hollingsworth’s whereabouts. “But I don’t think she could have gone far. I’m sure I would have noticed if Charlie’s taxi had turned up. I’ve been outside nearly all day.”
Cubby also lived next door to Alan and Simone Hollingsworth in a grace and favour residence placed discreetly among the fruit trees in Mrs. Molfrey’s orchard. In lieu of rent and in gratitude for her kindness, he spent a great deal of time working in the garden.
“I’m not sure,” began the vicar, urging his plate of pallid soporifics to little effect, “if there’s a lot of point in her coming tomorrow. She’s not really familiar with the peal and we don’t want anyone dropping a clanger.”
Mrs. Molfrey gave a whoop of pleasure at this felicity, slapping her thin haunches and releasing puffs of dust from her rusty chenille skirt.
“Especially,” added the Reverend Bream sternly, “at a funeral.”
It took a lot more than this to subdue Mrs. Molfrey who chortled again and nudged Cubby so hard he almost overbalanced. Reaching out to save himself, he knocked over a watering can and blushed even more deeply than before.
“I’ll call round after I’ve locked up,” said the Reverend Bream. “If she hasn’t returned, no doubt Alan will have some sort of explanation.”
“I wouldn’t trouble,” said Avis Jennings. “He’s a workaholic. Never back before eight, Simone said. And that’s early.”
“It’s no trouble,” said the vicar. “I have to call on old Mrs. Carter and they’re practically on the way.”
Nightingales was one of three houses set a little way back from St. Chad’s Lane, in an area not quite large or clearly defined enough for the post office to designate it a close. On the left of the Hollingsworths’ was a 1930s pebble dash, complete with glass door panels in harsh, fruit-gum colours. Patchily stained bits of wood had been fixed to the walls in an alternating series of Y shapes and inverted chevrons. These were, in the opinion of Avis Jennings who came from the North, neither use nor ornament. A polished wooden shingle read “The Larches” though not a single arboreal specimen supported the bold claim.
On the other side of Nightingales were Mrs. Molfrey’s twin cottages discreetly transformed into one. Only thirty years older than the hideous mock Tudor, Arcadia exuded a stable and serene charm. The gardens were exuberant, fruitful and very lovely.
The Hollingsworths’ residence was totally out of place in this small enclosure. “A Desirable Executive Country Dwelling” according to the pre-sale literature, it had been built in 1989 by an enterprising money man with a nose for a snip. He had bought the row of three decrepit workman’s hovels previously standing there, demolished them and erected the type of building usually only seen fraternising with a group of select fellows on camera-ridden, landscaped grounds behind fully charged high-wire fences.
The village had protested fiercely once the scale and pomposity of the entrepreneur’s vision was revealed but to no effect. Bribery in the planning offices was suspected.
Alan’s car was parked a few feet from the double garage. The gravel was all swirly and churned about as if he had driven up to the house in a great hurry, skidded and slammed on the brakes. The gates were wide open. Walking up to the front door, the vicar lifted the tail of a brass mermaid and rapped firmly several times.
No one came. The Reverend Bream hesitated, wondering what to do next. He waited, enjoying the scent from clusters of white nicotiana flowering in fat Italian pots. Then he rapped again.
Afterwards the vicar was to say that he sensed, even at that early stage, that there was something very wrong. But the truth was, within seconds he had got bored and would have simply given up had it not been for the car, so plainly visible a few feet away.
As the unexpected silence continued, curiosity overcame him. Not thinking for a moment how such behaviour might strike the casual passer-by—he had never known embarrassment in his life—the vicar crossed over to the sitting-room windows and, cupping his hands against the early evening sunlight, peered in.
A lush room. Peach walls and hangings, clotted cream carpet, pretty puffed-up silk sofas and armchairs. Gilt and ormolu and crystal. Masses of flowers and several table lamps, none of which were switched on. No human life at all.
A creaking sound some short distance away caught his attention. The door of a shed was being closed in the garden of The Larches. Discreet footsteps tiptoed away. The Reverend Bream guessed it to be the master of the house. Like everyone else, he was familiar with the Brockleys’ sly, concealing ways. Not for them the frank enjoyment of a bit of a gossip in the village shop or a good stare over the fence. Whilst being passionately interested in everyone else’s business, they presented a united front of absolute indifference. Metaphorically they would cover their eyes and ears and mouths in self-righteous repulsion should even the merest morsel of titillation drift their way. Mrs. Bream said they reminded her of the three wise monkeys. She could be very unChristian at times.
Naughtily, the vicar called out, “Good evening, Mr. Brockley!” Then, as the footsteps hastened away, he went back to the mermaid and knocked again.
Inside the house, to be precise in the kitchen doorway, the quarry stood, motionless, head resting on the painted white wooden frame. On the point of entering the hall when his visitor first knocked, Alan Hollingsworth had frozen on the spot, staring at the panel of thick, wavily patterned glass through which the vicar’s distorted figure could be seen but not recognised.
Alan closed his eyes and moaned silently. The seconds passed, marked by the soft whirring of a grandmother clock in the dining room and the strained beating of his heart. He cursed himself for not putting the car away. Weeks—no, years passed. Whoever it was still stood there.
The ridiculousness of his position and the impossibility of maintaining it indefinitely filled him with humiliation and distress. He knew that, even if whoever it was out there gave up, someone else would sooner or later take their place. Villages were like that. People were always calling round collecting or stuffing leaflets through the letter box or asking you to sign petitions. Even though he had remained pointedly uninvolved in the day-to-day life of Fawcett Green, no one escaped entirely. Eventually neighbours, receiving neither sight nor sound of the inhabitants of Nightingales, would start to wonder if they were still in situ. If they were “all right.” Someone might even call the police. A cold sweat broke over Alan’s face and vile-tasting liquid surged into his throat.