Read The New Rector (Tales from Turnham Malpas) Online
Authors: Rebecca Shaw
The New Rector (Tales from Turnham Malpas) (5 page)
‘Let me see if I can find something for you to play with.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and took out paper and a
pencil. ‘There you are – draw me a picture. I would be delighted, too, if you would do it,’ he said, finally meeting Suzy’s bright blue eyes. ‘We need enthusiasm but we also need expertise, and it will make it much easier for us to get the use of the room in the school if the person in charge is known to be properly qualified for the job. I envisage a really lively playgroup doing a real job, not just keeping the children out of their mothers’ ways. Would that be how you would feel about it?’
‘Yes, of course. It will make Toria Clark’s job so much easier if the new intake have had the experience of a good playgroup. Liz Neal is very willing to help. I don’t know about charges, though. I’ll ask around some of my friends in London and see what they pay.’
‘I hadn’t thought about charges, but of course there will have to be one. You ask around and I’ll draft a letter for the Council and get someone to come down and view our facilities. If we can have it in the school that would be the best. If not, the church hall.’
‘I won’t keep you any longer, Peter. Come along, girls. Isn’t it exciting? I can’t wait to get started!’
‘My daddy’s gone to America this morning.’ Pansy looked up at Peter as she told him her news.
‘Oh, I see. Will he be away long?’
‘No, just three or four days.’ Suzy took hold of Rosie and set off for the door.
Peter saw them out and stood watching them walk along the pavement. They lived next door but one. He heartily wished it hadn’t been Suzy who was the most suitable candidate for the job.
Two days later Suzy, her head full of lists and jobs to do towards the successful opening of the playgroup, answered
a knock at the door. Expecting it to be Muriel with more news about the project, she had a shock when she found a policewoman and what looked like two detectives standing there. The older man showed her his warrant card and then asked if she was Mrs Patrick Meadows.
‘Yes, lam.’
‘May we come in?’
‘Yes.’
They stood looking at one another in a group in the hall.
Finally the policewoman said, ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news for you, Mrs Meadows. It’s your husband. I’m sorry to say he has died.’
‘
Died?
You must be mistaken – he’s in America. No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. It must be another Patrick Meadows. My husband is giving a paper to the Commission. He’ll be home tomorrow – won’t he?’ Her voice trailed off as she recognised the embarrassed sympathy in the faces of the officers.
The policewoman took her into the sitting room and helped her to a chair.
‘I’ll go and make a cup of tea for you, Mrs Meadows. Where are the children?’
‘How do you know I’ve got children?’
The policewoman pointed to the bottom bookshelf where the children kept their books.
‘They’re at my mother’s for a couple of days. I’ll make the tea.’ She started to get up out of the chair but the WPC gently pushed her back down again and disappeared into the kitchen. The two detectives stood in front of her. The younger one was looking about the room as though expecting clues to come leaping out of the walls.
Suzy managed to find some words to say. ‘How did he … how did … what happened?’
‘You mean he had an accident?’
‘Well, no, it appeared to be intentional.’
‘Intentional? What do you mean, “intentional”?’
‘He used the exhaust pipe and a piece of hose.’
‘You mean
suicide
? Patrick wouldn’t commit suicide. He’s not that kind of person!’
‘In view of the top secret job he was doing, Mrs Meadows, could we be allowed to look through his papers and belongings to see if we can find a reason for what has happened? If not today, perhaps another day when you’re feeling more able to cope.’
‘Where was he when he … he … did it?’
‘He was found this morning at first light. He’d parked his car on the cliffs near Flamborough Head in Yorkshire.’
‘Oh well, it definitely isn’t Patrick then, because he went to America three days ago. I packed his case for him.’
‘He never actually left the country, Mrs Meadows. He had no passport, no currency, no ticket – nothing to indicate that that was what he intended to do.’
‘He said he was going. He never told lies – he was scrupulously honest.’
‘Had he been behaving oddly recently?’
‘He always behaved oddly. Everyone thought he was odd, but it was normal for him. His mind was always preoccupied with his work; he didn’t socialise or bother with the children. There was nothing different about him that day he left.’
‘We found this letter addressed to you. I’ll put it here on the mantelpiece and then you can read it when you feel ready. If there is anything in it that might throw light on his state of mind or why he did it we’d be glad to know.’
‘Thank you. That’s his desk over there. You can look in it
if you wish.’
Suzy laid her head back, unable to grasp what had happened. Her mind was racing over the happenings of the last few weeks before Patrick had left for America. Had there been some clues which she’d failed to recognise? Suddenly she shot bolt upright. ‘However am I going to tell the children? Oh dear God, what am I going to do?’
The matter-of-fact voice of the policewoman broke in with a kindly, ‘Here’s your tea, Mrs Meadows.’ She didn’t notice that the tea was scalding hot, she was so thirsty. The senior one of the two detectives had begun searching Patrick’s desk: methodically, drawer by drawer, file by file, letter by letter. His filofax was in the top drawer. Suzy knew when she saw the detective begin to look through it that Patrick had never intended to go to America. He took the filofax with him whenever he left the house. It was filled with names, addresses and messages, all necessary to his work. So he had acted out of character, even before he’d left for work that last morning.
‘He was frightened – that was it. He was frightened that morning when he left,’ Suzy told the policewoman in a shaking voice. ‘I don’t know what he was frightened of, but he was.’
‘Did you do much entertaining of people from the office or the laboratories, Mrs Meadows?’
‘Well, sometimes we did, but not often. Patrick wasn’t a very social being. Occasionally we had people from abroad. They stayed here – they liked the idea of the typical English village.’
‘What nationality were they?’
‘Middle Eastern sometimes, or European, and once an American.’
‘Was everything all right between the two of you? You
know, were you close enough for him to confide in you?’
Suzy felt as though she was carved out of wood. Her face didn’t work properly and she’d lost her voice. There was no part of her of which she was in command. All control had gone. Slowly tears began to trickle down her face. Not huge rolling streams of tears but a steady trickle like drizzling rain. She knew she’d have to get to the lavatory quickly or she was going to wet herself. She found herself in the cloakroom, where she suffered violent diarrhoea. It must have been almost ten minutes before she had sufficient control to leave. The policewoman knocked on the door twice to ask if she was in need of help but Suzy’s voice had gone and she couldn’t reply. Finally she came out and went back to the sitting room. She sat trembling uncontrollably. The room was so cold.
‘We’ll leave now, Mrs Meadows. I’m taking this filofax to the station to see if I can find anything that might be of help. I’ll give you a receipt for it. Debra will stay with you. If there’s anything you think of that might be of help, tell Debra and she’ll let us know.’ The three of them went into the hall and Suzy could hear them quietly talking. Debra came back in, took off her jacket and sat down in the chair opposite her.
A few minutes after the detectives had gone the doorbell rang. Debra answered it. Whoever was at the door was invited in and stood talking in the hall. The sitting-room door opened and framed in the doorway with his head bent because of his height stood Peter Harris. He was wearing his white marriage cassock. He appeared to Suzy like an angel sent from God to comfort her.
‘Mrs Meadows, I saw the police car outside so I came to see if you needed help. The policewoman has told me what’s happened. I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m sorry I’m wearing this cassock, I’ve been conducting a service. Do we know why it happened?’
Debra explained that they knew no reason for it but that Mr Meadows had left a letter for Mrs Meadows. She seemed glad of an opportunity to mention it as though anxious to know what was in it, but sensitive enough not to suggest opening it.
‘Would you like to open it while I’m here, Mrs Meadows?’ When Suzy nodded Peter picked up the letter and handed it to her. She gave it back to him and asked him to read it to her.
‘I really can’t do that, Suzy: Patrick meant it for you. It will be very private. Perhaps we’d better leave it till later when you feel more yourself.’ He held her hand and she held his as though by doing so she held onto reality.
‘I shan’t have a funeral service for him. It would be an absolute mockery if we did. He had no time for the Church. I’ll just have him cremated. No hymns, no prayers. There’ll be no afterlife for him, Peter. He’s finished. Give me the letter.’
‘“
Suzy
,”’ she read. ‘“
The research I have been doing for the last three years has proved to be based on a total misconception, a complete falsehood. I am so appalled by my colossal mistake, that I have destroyed all my notes and the paper I was preparing, so no one will find out what a horrifying waste of time these last three years have been. I might as well never have lived at all. I can’t face my colleagues, so I am obliterating myself
.”
‘Peter, here – you read it.’
He took the letter expecting to read a loving farewell. He’d read suicide notes before, but this was the cruellest.
Hot tears began falling on the hand Suzy held. He looked into her face and saw her Madonna-like features crumpled with grief. He held her close whilst the tears fell. Gradually the tears lessened and Suzy spoke.
‘Did you notice, Peter, that there was nothing in the letter about me or the children? Nothing about what will happen to us now, or how we shall live? Nothing about “how much I have loved you or sorry for what has happened”? Losing him is bad enough, but to know he hadn’t a thought for us is what really hurts.’
‘I think you need someone to be with you. We ought to get your mother to come and bring the girls home.’
‘Oh dear Lord, how on earth can I tell them? What words do you use? “Your father’s killed himself because he can’t live with himself any more? He didn’t care a fig for you all”?’
‘Perhaps your mother could help you to find the right words. Whatever you say it won’t be easy, I’m afraid. We should contact Patrick’s parents. I’ll tell them for you if you would like me to.’
‘His parents both died when he was in his twenties. He has no one, except a distant aunt who never bothers with him. Will you ring my parents and get them to come and bring the girls? The number’s here.’
After a pause she said, her voice trembling: ‘I’ll sit here waiting. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but I am. Patrick will be home soon. He’s always early on Thursdays.’
‘Peter, come here a minute. Look at this.’
He was horrified. ‘This simply won’t do. I’m going out to stop it. First I’ll ring the police – they ought to be here.’
‘I’ll ring them. You go out and have a word.’
Peter swept out of the Rectory door and down the pavement, his cassock swishing angrily as he walked.
‘I would be most grateful if you would kindly move away from here and leave Mr Meadows’ widow and her children in peace.’ The reporters clustered around Peter, holding their microphones up ready to catch his words.
‘Can you give us some information about Mrs Meadows? How many children has she? Did she realise
something was seriously wrong? Will she come out for an interview?’
‘Have you not listened to what I said? I asked you to move away from here. Get in your cars and go. Please.’
‘Now, sir, you can’t expect us to leave a headline story like this, the public have a right to know. A top nuclear physicist is found dead in his car … something must be
very
wrong. Could be a breach of national security.’
‘Has his wife been playing away?’
‘Is it marriage problems? You’ll know, sir, being the Vicar.’
They all clamoured around him.
‘Can you get us an interview?’
Peter towering above them all caught a glimpse of the little girls watching from a downstairs window and the hurt this must be causing them made him angrier still.
‘Come into my study and I’ll tell you everything I know,’ he promised, saying the first thing that came into his head just to get them away.
‘Right, sir, you lead the way.’
Having got them away from Suzy’s house, Peter then had to think what on earth he would say when they reached his study. At the same time, he remembered why he was wearing his cassock: the children from the school were coming to church for their morning prayers. As he opened the Rectory door to let the reporters in, the police arrived. The local sergeant, beefy and belligerent, made his views known.
‘Now then, gentlemen and ladies, we don’t want Mrs Meadows troubled by all of you stood about. Have some consideration, if you please. Those cars will have to be moved. It’s an offence to park on the green, and I shall put the owners on a charge if the vehicles are not moved
immediately. Constable, you can stand on duty outside Mrs Meadows’ house. Let’s have these cars moved pronto, if you please. The Royal Oak will be open soon so you can go and sit in there for a bit. They’ve got a car park, too.’
When the group of eager journalists had dispersed, he turned to Peter. ‘Thank you, sir, for moving them on. Never thought they’d be on to it as quick as this. Reckon they must be telepathic.’
‘Mrs Meadows needs to be protected from these people. She has quite enough to contend with.’
‘You’re absolutely right, Rector. I’ll see to it. Nice to meet you, sir, sorry it’s in such difficult circumstances.’
‘Thank you. Must be off, got a service to take.’
There must have been almost thirty children gathered in the church for their Friday morning prayers. Muriel Hipkin was seated at the piano playing gentle ‘settling down’ pieces. She’d often fancied trying out the organ but felt it was beyond her. In any case, Mrs Peel would have had something to say about that; she jealously guarded her position of organist. Michael Palmer stood as Peter entered the church and the children followed suit. Everyone, that is, except Scott McDonald, who was feeling anti-everything that morning. Muriel frowned at him but he stuck out his tongue and ignored her.
Peter, well practised at attracting everyone’s attention, had Scott out at the front as his assistant before he knew where he was. He cooperated wonderfully and displayed an intelligence at odds with his usual silly behaviour. However, as he passed the piano on his way back to his seat he made a rude gesture to Muriel. She turned her bright pink face to the music and played the tune for going out. That boy really was obnoxious. She didn’t like using that word
about a child but it fitted him exactly.
Peter argued with himself as to whether or not he should go in to see Suzy again. Best not, he eventually decided. He might find himself holding her hands in a most un-rector-like manner, and that would never do. As he settled down at his desk to commence his notes for Sunday’s sermon he noticed the flowers and the note propped up against the vase.
‘
To my dearest Peter, to keep you cheerful till I get back. All my love, Caroline
.’
He leant forward so that he could appreciate the scent of the flowers. It was gestures like this which made Caroline so endearing. The two of them were like one person and he never wanted to spend even a single night away from her. If he lost her through death like Suzy had lost Patrick, his life would be over. A large family would have completed their happiness, but God in His wisdom had seen it differently. Perhaps if Peter had had children he would not have been able to devote his life so entirely to the Church. He’d never replaced the crude painting of the Madonna which he’d taken down that day, but nevertheless the image of her face kept reappearing in his mind. Suzy – a rather ridiculous name, but it suited her. She might move away then he would have a chance to forget her. He recollected her face crumpled in grief. Why on earth hadn’t the man said something in his letter about how he felt? Why hadn’t he said the kind of things Peter had read in other suicide notes, like: ‘
You will be well provided for
,’ or, ‘
The insurance policies are in the bottom drawer
,’ or ‘
I love you. Please forgive me
.’? There had been nothing of his relationship with his family at all. Peter pushed to the back of his mind thoughts about Patrick’s relationship with Suzy. If he was as icy-cold in his life as he had been in his letter of death, maybe their
marriage had not been idyllic.
The phone rang.
‘Caroline here. Is everything all right with Suzy? I had to dash, I was running late.’
‘Yes. The police have moved the reporters on and there’s a constable outside the door. Darling, can I come into Culworth and take you out to lunch?’
‘I’d love that – what a nice surprise! See you about twelve-thirty outside Casualty. Bye, darling.’
When he got back from his lunch with Caroline, Suzy’s mother called round to say that she and her husband were taking Suzy and the girls to live with them for a few days. They’d be leaving tomorrow. Could Peter call in this afternoon while they took the children out and advise their daughter about Patrick’s cremation? Suzy didn’t want the girls to overhear, as she had no intention of them going to it …
It was about three o’clock when Peter saw the girls set out with Suzy’s parents. He waited five minutes and then went round. The constable had gone and the reporters were nowhere to be seen. Suzy answered the door. He’d expected her to be in black but she was wearing a bright pink shirt and white trousers, with her hair tied up in a pink ribbon. Only the dark shadows under her eyes showed her distress. She took his hand and drew him in. They discussed Patrick’s cremation. The police had told her that it would be some time before his body would be released: post mortem etc,
etc.
‘I want no one there. I’ll go by myself. I shall put his ashes in the bin. No, no, it’s no good protesting, I shall do just that. And I’m staying in this house. The children are upset enough without moving them to a strange place. And,
Peter, I don’t want you at the cremation. No one – just me. Then I can forget him. Do you know, we had not made love for over a year? Fancy that. I’ve not told anyone that but you. Don’t really know why I’m telling you. Yes, I do. Yes, I do. Please comfort me, please.’
Suzy reached out her hand as she finished speaking and took hold of his arm. Peter lifted her hand and held it to his cheek, then turned it over and kissed the palm.