The tapping started again.
Telling himself that the first time would be the worst and the quicker he got it over the better, he turned his head and called, “Coming.”
The vicar fixed an expression of concern to his face. An expression he had no trouble whatsoever maintaining when the door was finally opened, for Hollingsworth looked quite dreadful. His face was pale, the skin sheened with moisture as if he had just completed a vigorous workout. His eyes stared wildly and he was frowning; struggling to remember where he had seen the man facing him before. His tangled hair stood on end as if he had been tugging at it. When he spoke his voice was loud and he seemed to have trouble breathing normally. This resulted in his sentences being oddly punctuated.
“Ah Vicar it’s. You.”
Agreeing politely that it was indeed him, the Reverend Bream took Hollingsworth’s involuntary step backwards as an invitation to enter and was on the hall carpet in a twinkling. He asked if all was well.
“We were a little worried when Simone didn’t come to practice,” he elaborated. “And I’m really calling to tell her not to bother about the funeral tomorrow.”
“Funeral?”
“Two o’clock.” The vicar became increasingly concerned. The man looked almost demented. “Are you quite well, Mr. Hollingsworth? You look as if you’ve had rather a shock.”
“No, no. Everything’s.” The rest of the sentence seemed either to escape or defeat him. He glanced aside, rather longingly, it seemed to the vicar, at the now wide open front door. But the Reverend Bream, faced with an obviously deeply distressed parishioner, was nothing if not aware of his duty.
“May I?” he inquired and, without waiting for a reply, sailed into the Viennese pastry of a living room. He lowered his ample rear on to a heap of heart-shaped satin cushions, slid off and replaced himself more securely. He then turned a determinedly benign smile on Hollingsworth who had reluctantly followed him in.
“Now, Alan,” said the vicar, “if I may call you that?” His kindly glance was momentarily distracted by the sight of a splendid silver tray holding two cut-glass decanters and several bottles including a Jack Daniels, nearly full, and a Bushmills, half empty. There was no way, on his stipend, the vicar could afford either of these splendid beverages. He heaved himself upright again saying, “You look as if you could do with a drink. Perhaps I could—”
“Simone’s. Don’t worry I’ll pass. The message.”
“She isn’t here then?”
“No. Her mother.” Hollingsworth shook his head and made a despairing gesture with his palms upturned.
“I’m so sorry.” The vicar gave up all hope of the Jack Daniels. Even lusting after it now struck him as slightly improper. “I do hope it’s nothing serious.”
“A stroke.” Alan said this without thinking but immediately recognised it as an invention of genius. Unlike other illnesses, where one either got better or worse, strokes could incapacitate indefinitely, engendering a more or less permanent need for attention. So if the worse came to the worst. The very, very worst ...
“Oh dear.” The vicar reprised his condolences and made a move to leave. For the first time since he had answered the door, Hollingsworth’s face relaxed slightly. Relief would be too strong a word. Just a small decrease in wariness and tension.
“Does she live far away?” asked the Reverend Bream.
“Wales,” said Alan. “The Midlands.”
“That’s not so bad,” said the vicar. “Perhaps you’ll be able—”
“I don’t. Think so business.”
“Of course.” The Reverend Bream nodded understandingly while trying to recall what Hollingsworth’s business actually was. Something to do with computers. The vicar’s brain turned to custard at the very thought. One of his flock had recently presented St. Chad’s with a second-hand machine on to which had been transferred every scrap of data relating to parish matters. Now the vicar could not even find his verger’s phone number. He had thought the dark night of the soul a mere metaphysical concept until pitched into its shadows by the demon Amstrad.
Now, with one foot on the front step, the thought struck him that Evadne, once advised of this present set-up, would chide him for not extending a supper invitation. He mumbled something along the lines of “cold collation” and “stretching to three.”
Much to his relief, for he had spotted the game pie in the larder at tea time and thought it a very small one, Hollingsworth immediately declined.
“Freezer. Full,” he said and closed the door before his visitor was properly outside.
Walking away, the Reverend Bream turned and looked behind him. Alan Hollingsworth was resting against the wavy glass panel. As the vicar watched, the dark shape, its outline shimmering as if beneath deep water, gradually started to slip and slide downwards until, within a matter of seconds, the man was slumped on the floor.
“The vicar’s just called at Nightingales.”
Iris Brockley, her nostrils satisfactorily filled with the rich smell of Windowlene, bent a frilled net curtain rigid with starch to the side and took a discreet step backwards. When it came to surveillance, Iris could have given tips to the FBI.
“Does he have a collecting tin?”
“No.”
“That’s all right then.”
Iris lifted her husband’s cup and wiped the saucer where the spoon had made a mark, wiped the spoon, wiped the plastic tray hooked over the arm of his chair and replaced the flowered, gold-rimmed crockery. Then she perched on the edge of the pale green Dralon stool attached to the knee-high telephone table. The darker green piping pressed into the back of her plump thighs.
“I wonder what he wanted.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t begin to comprehend.”
“I hope there’s nothing wrong, Reg.”
“Won’t be our business if there is.” Mr. Brockley closed the Daily Express, smoothed it front and back with the palm of his hand, folded it into a precise half and placed it in a bamboo rack by his feet.
“Have you finished with that?” Springing up when her husband nodded, Iris snatched the newspaper out again and disappeared to the kitchen.
Reg closed his eyes, waiting for the thwack of the pedal bin’s lid as it hit the wall and the clang as it fell back. When this had been followed by a cry of, “Get back into your basket please, madam!” he drained his tea, unclipped a pen from his breast pocket and opened the Radio Times. All of his movements were cramped. Completed almost before they began.
When Iris returned he was drawing three neat rings round their evening’s viewing: Question Time, May To December and The Travel Show. Not that the Brockleys ever went anywhere. Leafy Bucks was good enough for them, thank you very much. But they enjoyed programmes about foreign climes, especially when the unfortunate tourists were stranded, struck down by some exotic virus, mugged or, best of all, asphyxiated in poorly ventilated hotel rooms.
Having replaced the magazine, Reg now stepped out through the French windows as he did every evening about this time in clement weather. He would perambulate around the garden, returning on the dot for the six o’clock news and the arrival, also on the dot (bar her late night) of their daughter Brenda.
It was a lovely evening. The soft, sweet air pressed against Reg’s plump cheeks and stiff little moustache. All he needed was a cherrywood pipe and copper-coloured spaniel and he could have stepped straight into a Metroland poster.
Next door’s clematis was climbing exuberantly over the trellis and trailing down the Brockleys’ side. Reg and Iris had had many weighty discussions about this beautiful plant but refrained from any direct comment. This would mean “getting involved,” which was out of the question. A comment about the weather, a tut or two regarding the increase in village vandalism, a brief, insincere compliment with respect to each other’s floral landscapes, this was the limit of the Hollingsworth/Brockley discourse.