Springtime at Hope Hall Page 6

  “He was so endearing,” she sighed to Kath that February morning as they sipped their coffee. “His hair needed a cut and draped over his eyes – have you seen how blue his eyes are, by the way? And he looked as if he’d got dressed in the dark with only a charity bag of second-hand clothes to choose from. Honestly, he was a completely fascinating, inspirational, wonderful mess of a man. I fell in love with him instantly, and although I have moments every day when I wonder if I should see a shrink to work out why on earth I ever thought marrying such a man was a good idea, I wouldn’t change him for the world.”

  “You make a good team,” agreed Kath. “He’s a wonderful priest, completely mesmerizing in the pulpit. He comes out with all the detailed theology, and can quote just about any line from the Bible. But you’re the one who organizes everything around him: the family, the house, his diary. He’d be lost without you. In fact, we all would.”

  “Well,” laughed Ellie, “in spite of all the management skills I needed to run that department, I’m still at a loss when it comes to running a parish without offending anyone. It’s a minefield. There are so many strong personalities in that church. I think James manages to skim over any problems by being so spiritual and downright holy that people don’t like to bother him.”

  “They run and ask you instead.”

  “Got it in one. That’s marriage for you.”

  “Ah well, I wouldn’t know.”

  Ellie looked at her friend for a few moments. “Why not, Kath? How come you never married? You’re bright, beautiful and one of the kindest people I know. There must have been men beating a path to your door to win you over.”

  “Not that I noticed.” Kath paused as she stirred her coffee thoughtfully. “Maybe I was too organized. Perhaps a little set in my ways? One man even told me I was scary. That scared me quite a lot too…”

  “No regrets? No near misses?”

  Kath’s eyes clouded a little as she remembered. “Two who were really special, both of them around for several years. One of them did ask me to marry him, but I realized in that instant that he was too self-centred to make a good husband or family man. I loved him dearly as a boyfriend, but he would have driven me to distraction as a lifelong partner. When I said no, he told me I’d broken his heart, and then he walked out of the door very dramatically. I never saw him again.”

  “And the other one?”

  “Oh, he never asked me. If he had, I’d have said yes. He was the love of my life.”

  “So was it you who decided the relationship should end?”

  “Me – and Mum really. She’d just had the diagnosis of Parkinson’s, and I couldn’t bear the thought of her going through that on her own. It was the right reason to leave, but the decision meant that our relationship had to stop. It would never have survived being long-distance. The worst thing was that he completely understood. I suppose I wanted him to realize in a flash that he couldn’t live without me, and beg me to stay. But he didn’t – so I left.”

  “His loss,” said Ellie, covering Kath’s hand with her own. “And why should this be the end of your story? You meet people all the time. You’re a terrific person, attractive, caring and organized. You’ve no idea who may walk into Hope Hall one day and sweep you off your feet.”

  Kath chuckled. “There’s a good line in toothy, bald-headed, elderly gents with a twinkle in their eye. I’ll give you that. Not quite my type though.”

  “Well, don’t give up. You know what they say – God works in mysterious ways…”

  “I don’t think I’m in the market for mystery. Taller than me, half a brain, a nice smile and his own teeth will do nicely. Oh, and a good sense of humour and the ability to rub the aches out of tired feet – that would go down well too.”

  “Do we need one of those cupcakes?” suggested Ellie, eyeing up the display cabinet. “Or a scone and cream, do you think?”

  “Both, I reckon!”

  It was over their cakes that Ellie let Kath in on the latest upheaval to ruffle feathers at the church.

  “You know how highbrow James can be. Oh, he knows he’s got to move with the times – modern songs, worship bands, and not a ‘thee’ or ‘thou’ in sight – and he does all that, of course, because he has to. His heart, though, is completely old school. He loves traditional hymns. He’s brought in that regular Sunday service using the words from the Book of Common Prayer – and he adores choral music. He was a choirboy at Lichfield Cathedral for years, and he relished every minute. All the responses, the anthems, the Glorias – they’re right up his street.”

  “But…” prompted Kath.

  “But the congregation were very sad back in the summer to say goodbye to Maurice, our organist and choirmaster, who retired after playing at the church for more than three decades. We managed with deputy organists for a while, but it was very hit and miss, and we almost lost our choir over the months that followed, without someone to lead them.”

  “I can see what’s coming,” said Kath. “James chose Gregory Palmer as the new organist and choir leader—”

  “And Gregory is even more traditional and highbrow than James, if that’s possible.”

  “It’s not gone down too well with the congregation then?”

  “Do you know, I think they’ve been surprised by how glorious our music now sounds. Gregory can make that old organ of ours sing. The music has become really rather exciting again, and I don’t think any of us expected to feel like that. We still have the worship band for the family service at eleven o’clock on Sundays, but the first service at nine-thirty every week is completely traditional, and people are just pouring in. It seems to have hit a vein of need in them – perhaps bringing back memories of being in church as children; maybe simply because of the much-loved phrasing and language of that service, and the familiar hymn words that are just stored there in their hearts and minds, like a spiritual first-aid kit.”

  “That sounds as if it’s working well then.”

  “But not for the choir, it seems. I mean, most of them aren’t a day under retirement age and they’ve been singing in the choir for as long as anyone can remember. There were only ever about ten of them anyway, and it sometimes felt as if they were just singing for their own enjoyment rather than leading the congregation. I remember when James was installed, he was asked to choose the hymns he wanted, and he made sure they were all really well known, but even then they managed to get the phrasing all wrong so that the words didn’t really make sense. A couple of the other vicars who came along for that special occasion were sitting in the choir stalls, and we could all hear them trying to out-sing the choir because they were so terrible.”

  “Oh dear,” said Kath, trying not to laugh.

  Ellie started giggling too. “Honestly, Kath, it went from bad to worse. Whenever I was queueing for Communion in the aisle between the choir stalls, all I could ever hear were two voices from a couple of choir members in the back, and neither of them managed to hit any of the right notes.”

  “And then along came Gregory.”

  “Along came Gregory,” echoed Ellie. “He swept in like a new broom, and insisted that every one of them should audition for a place in the choir – and he ended up inviting only three of them to stay, because the others just couldn’t sing.”

  “Ah, not the most tactful approach.”

  “You can say that again. The three he chose were so incensed about the others being excluded that they all hung up their robes too, so we were left with no choir at all. But Gregory probably planned that all along, because the following week there was a notice in the local paper describing the content and quality of the choral music he wanted the newly formed St Mark’s choir to sing – and applications came flooding in, from music students, trained singers and several members of other established choirs in the area. The end result is that the St Mark’s Choral Choir, as it’s now called, is more than twenty strong. They have even numbers of female and male members, which is amazing because we’ve only ever ha
d a couple of male voices in the choir before now. And they’re good, really good – which is vindication for James and Gregory, very pleasant for the congregation, but the start of mutiny among all the old choir members.”

  “Oh dear, what a mess.”

  “Well, it’s a mess that might be coming your way. Pauline Owen – you remember her, the one with the strongest voice that always stands out from the rest because she’s usually singing half a tone above everyone else?”

  “Oh yes, I know exactly who you mean.”

  “Well, apparently Pauline went to see Gregory to ask him to explain precisely what was wrong with the choir members he’d sacked, after they’d been perfectly well received for many years at the church. He just told her they had to go because they can’t sing.”

  “He didn’t sugar coat the pill then.”

  “Far from it. She stomped off, called an emergency meeting, and the upshot is that they’ve decided to form an alternative choir of their own.”

  “Wow! Good for them. How do they plan to do that?”

  “They’re coming to see you to ask if they can rehearse at Hope Hall. You may have to choose your time for their rehearsals quite carefully. They’ve chosen a name that I have no doubt they’ll live up to: the Can’t Sing Singers!”

  Carol glanced at the kitchen clock as she tried to persuade a wriggling Little Joe to put his arms through the sleeves of his winter jacket. Half past eight, bang on time. She hated being late, because she knew how difficult it was for Jen to open up the hall and prepare everything needed for that day at playgroup when she was on her own.

  A chilly winter wind took her breath away as she opened the front door and headed towards her car with Little Joe happily singing in her arms. Two minutes’ wrestling to get the reluctant toddler into his car seat and she was behind the wheel at last, turning the key in the ignition.

  Nothing. Not a peep.

  She tried the key again, but the old car didn’t even give a groan or a creak. There was just nothing.

  With a squeal of frustration, she thumped the palms of her hands against the steering wheel. Little Joe immediately burst into tears of alarm, and she could happily have joined him. Instead, fumbling in her bag for her phone, she rang Phil’s number. Perhaps he hadn’t reached work yet. Maybe she could just catch him before he got too busy. Her heart was sinking as the phone rang half a dozen times, but then, just as she thought she was going to be leaving yet another message on his voicemail, he picked up the call.

  “Babe, I can’t talk now.”

  “Wait, Phil! My car won’t start – again.”

  “Babe, I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything about it. I’m at work. You know I can’t do anything when I’m at work.”

  “And I need to get to work. Phil, this car is a wreck, and I’m driving our son around in it.”

  “I’ll speak to you tonight, okay? We’ll talk then—”

  “Phil, I’m stuck in the car on our front drive. How am I going to get to playgroup?”

  “The bus?”

  “That could take me an hour, once I’ve got to the stop, then waited for the next bus to come along. They only run every thirty minutes.”

  “Good luck then, babe. Ring me at lunchtime, if you like, and let me know how you get on.”

  The line went dead.

  Seething with anger, Carol forced herself to take several deep breaths. What should she do? What could she do but ring Jen straight away?

  “Hi, Carol! You okay?” Jen’s familiar voice brought a warm wave of relief to Carol’s frazzled nerves.

  “The car won’t start.”

  “Oh, Carol, please don’t say that—”

  “I’ve spoken to Phil, but he can’t do anything because he’s already at work.”

  “Your Phil wouldn’t do anything anyway. He’s so irresponsible about that old wreck he sends you out in.”

  “He says I’ll have to catch the bus.”

  Jen sighed heavily, obviously irritated by this news. “What time do you reckon you’ll get in?”

  “I’ll just nip back indoors to get Little Joe’s pushchair, then I’ll walk down to the bus stop. The next bus goes at five past nine, so I should be with you by about twenty-five past.”

  There was silence at the other end of the phone as Jen considered her options.

  “I’ll ring Marie. Perhaps she can come in a bit earlier to help me out. This can’t keep happening, though, Carol. I have to rely on you because you’re the second most senior member of staff, and I love you dearly, but if you can’t guarantee you’re going to be here on time…”

  Carol didn’t want to hear the rest of that sentence. “I’m on my way, Jen. Bye.”

  The bus was late. It was gone half past nine by the time a redfaced Carol rushed into the old school hall. Quickly organizing Little Joe, she waved across at Jen as she hurried off to make the morning snacks. Jen gave a small smile back, then returned her attention to the little girl beside her.

  In that moment, Carol knew that however strong their friendship was, she was on thin ice as far as her job was concerned, unless she could improve her travel arrangements. As she chopped and buttered, she wondered whether she should simply abandon the car and take the bus every morning, but the length of the journey and the unreliability of the bus service, not to mention the expense of the tickets, made that an option she’d prefer not to have to take. Could she cycle? Perhaps put a seat on the back of her old bike for Little Joe? She thought about the rush-hour traffic with all those impatient drivers determined to cross roundabouts and traffic lights without much care for anyone else, and knew that cycling would terrify her. No, there was nothing for it. She had to get a new car. She’d talk to Phil that night. She’d sit him down and tell him in no uncertain terms that she would have to give up her job, and they’d lose all her income, unless he organized for her to have a car that actually worked.

  The sharp knife in her hand flashed as she chopped the carrots and cucumber sticks as if she hated them.

  ***

  They’d had their meal and Little Joe was safely tucked up in bed that night before Carol brought them both a cup of tea and joined Phil on the settee. In retrospect, it was probably a mistake to tackle him on the subject of the car just as A Question of Sport was about to start, because his eyes barely left the screen as she said her piece about the difficulty of getting to work that morning, the embarrassment of being late, and the fear she felt about the security of her job if she couldn’t guarantee getting to the playgroup on time.

  “I know, love,” said Phil. “But we can’t afford anything different at the moment.”

  “But you’re doing okay at work, aren’t you? Have you had this month’s bonus yet? You thought you’d done quite well, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, I didn’t get as much as I’d hoped. Sometimes they don’t pay a bonus at all these days. Perhaps I’ll get a bit more next month.”

  “I hope so. I mean, we shouldn’t be this broke, should we? Not when you’ve got such a good job and I’m working too?”

  He shrugged, his eyes still on the screen. “Everything’s so expensive these days.”

  “But we’ve got our savings account. How much is in there now?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t looked for a while. Not a lot though. A few hundred at best. Don’t forget we had to pay for the new central heating boiler.”

  “A few hundred? Could we spare that for a car?”

  “That would leave us with nothing at all to fall back on, Carol. We can’t live like that. I won’t let us. We need to keep some in reserve.”

  “Look, Phil, I’m not asking for anything posh. Just a car that works – please!”

  “Frankie Dettori!” Phil yelled at the television, seconds before the presenter Sue Barker confirmed that Frankie Dettori was indeed the answer to the last question she’d asked the Question of Sport teams.

  “Phil, listen to me. Did you speak to Rob?”

  “He called this afternoon, but I
was on the road with a client in the car. I couldn’t ring back.”

  “Speak to him now.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “He won’t mind.”

  “I’ll give him a ring tomorrow.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “I’ll try. Depends how things go at work.”

  Furious with frustration, she reached for her tea and stood up. “I’m going to bed.”

  He looked surprised. “It’s only half past eight.”

  “Well, there’s not much company for me down here. Goodnight.” Carol stomped off upstairs. Deciding that a long hot soak in the bath might go some way to calming the anger that bubbled within her, Carol turned on the taps, added some of her Christmas bath oil and lit a couple of scented candles on the shelf in front of the bathroom mirror. Heading back to the bedroom as the bath filled, she tore her clothes off, still incensed by Phil’s lack of reaction, or even interest, in discussing her need for a different car. What they needed was money – and Phil had always been the one to keep an eye on their purse strings. He’d been a bit vague about exactly how much was left in their savings account. Perhaps there was more than he thought. Now where did he keep the building society folder? It would be in the banking file, of course: the large box he kept tucked under the dressing table with all their statements and account details in it. Pulling it out, she quickly flicked through the paperwork, cheque-book stubs and bank correspondence, but was slightly surprised to find the building society statement folder wasn’t in there. Where on earth would it be? She searched through another couple of folders they kept in the box, then pulled out all the drawers in his bedside unit to see if it was there. Nothing.

  Now committed to her search, she went to turn off the bath taps before directing her attention to the wardrobe. She opened the door on his side and looked across the shelves, the shoe racks and the rail packed with clothes neatly hung on hangers. In a moment of hopeful inspiration, she reached out to grab the jacket of the suit he’d worn to work that day. She patted at the fabric to see if he’d left anything in the pockets, but then, as she pulled the jacket forward to search properly, she caught sight of something stuffed down behind his suits where it would never normally be seen. She stretched out to pull whatever it was into the light. And there it was: the folder he “hadn’t looked at for a while”, in which all the building society statements and paying-in slips were neatly kept in date order. With fumbling fingers, she turned to the last payment slip.