A Dead Man Out of Mind (13 page)

‘No, though sometimes it's difficult to work up a proper semblance of enthusiasm for yet another cup of instant coffee or stewed tea. But offering and accepting hospitality is a great ice-breaker sometimes,' she added seriously.

‘You must be freezing, as well. Come on into the kitchen – it's warm in there,' Emily invited.

The kitchen was indeed warm, courtesy of the Aga. It was also brightly lit and cheery, with a red quarry-tiled floor, blue and white tiles on the wall, and gleaming white worktops and kitchen units. The table was set invitingly with blue-and-white crockery, and delicious smells wafted from the Aga; another woman rose from the table as they entered.

Emily performed the introductions. ‘Rachel, this is my friend Lucy Kingsley. Lucy, this is Rachel Nightingale, the new curate at St Jude's and St Margaret's. Gabriel is out today, so it will just be us women for lunch.'

They liked each other instantly, instinctively; by the time the food was dished up they were chatting away like old friends.

‘The garlic bread isn't quite warm enough,' Emily apologised, ‘but I think we'll start anyway.'

‘This looks wonderful, Emily,' Rachel said as a steaming plate of pasta with a savoury-smelling mushroom sauce was put in front of her. ‘I don't seem to remember that cooking was one of your accomplishments in your digs at Cambridge.'

Emily made a face. ‘Your memory serves you well. Beans on toast was my chief speciality in those days.'

‘Em is an excellent cook,' Lucy asserted loyally.

‘But only because you taught me,' Emily reminded her, then went on to explain to Rachel. ‘Lucy saved my life after I married Gabriel. She taught me everything I know about cooking. We've been friends ever since.' Lifting a bottle of Frascati, she poised it invitingly over Rachel's glass. ‘Wine?'

It was Rachel's turn to make a face. ‘I'm afraid not. Lent.'

‘Oh, you disciplined people!' Lucy laughed. ‘I'm glad to say that I'm not that holy. Yes, please, Em. Some for me.'

‘I'm not that holy, either,' Emily admitted. ‘Much to Gabriel's horror, I don't have to tell you. I'm giving up chocolate instead.'

Lucy groaned. ‘I think that would be even worse.'

‘Gabriel always gives up alcohol
and
chocolate for Lent.'

‘Yes, he would.' Lucy tried to keep her voice neutral, to mask the acid hostility she felt. She must not have been particularly successful, as Emily gave her an odd look and quickly changed the subject.

‘Rachel, how are you settling in to your new job?' She filled Rachel's glass with mineral water.

‘It's going pretty well, actually. The most difficult thing is learning so many new names and faces all at once. Everyone expects you to remember
them
, even if you forget everyone else.'

‘And how is the Vicar?' Emily queried. ‘Are you getting on well with him?'

Rachel chose her words carefully. ‘Father Keble Smythe is very . . . agreeable. A very able man – his parishioners think the world of him. But he's quite busy, of course. He doesn't really have time to come around with me holding my hand. He gives me credit for being able and qualified to do the job, and has more or less let me get on with it. With some help from the Parish Administrator, of course.'

‘Ah, yes,' Emily said. ‘Mr Everitt.'

‘Yes, Stanley Everitt.' Rachel gave them a conspiratorial grin. ‘Within these four walls, I must admit that he's driving me completely round the twist. What a relief it is to be able to tell someone! I have to be so polite all the time.'

‘What has he done?' Lucy wanted to know.

Rachel shook her head. ‘Nothing, really. He's just so self-important. He never misses a chance to tell me how much the Vicar relies on him, and how everything at St Jude's and St Margaret's would grind to a complete halt without him and all of his hard work. He's as much as said that a curate – especially one who's only a deacon and can't celebrate the Mass – is really surplus to requirements with an Administrator like him around.'

‘Oh, dear.' Emily, who had encountered her fair share of self-important people in the Church of England, was sympathetic.

‘And he has these annoying mannerisms – he wrings his hands, just like Uriah Heep!'

‘Are you sure he doesn't just patronise you because you're a woman?' Lucy asked shrewdly.

‘Oh, no. He's like that with everyone.' With a deft motion of her wrist, Rachel twisted a strand of pasta around her fork and conveyed it to her mouth. ‘I'll tell you who
does
patronise me because I'm a woman, though – Martin Bairstow, the churchwarden. He's very polite, but it's the sort of politeness that some people use with small children or the mentally deficient, as a thin veneer of civilisation over their contempt. It makes me uneasy. And it's strange,' she added, ‘because all of the old women absolutely sing his praises. I've been to see three elderly parishioners this morning, and every one of them has told me how wonderful Martin Bairstow is, and how lucky his wife is to have such a gem for a husband.'

‘I've heard that, too,' confirmed Emily. ‘Apparently he gives them all lifts to church functions, and even goes round to their houses to do little odd jobs, the sort of thing that is difficult to get done without a man about the house.' Belatedly she realised that her last remark might be interpreted as insensitive, given Rachel's situation, so she hurried on. ‘And what about the other churchwarden, Norman Topping?'

‘He's all right,' admitted Rachel. ‘It's his wife who's really rude to me.'

‘Oh, Dolly.' Emily rolled her eyes.

Lucy groaned. ‘That frightful woman.'

‘You both know her?' They nodded. ‘Then I don't have to explain.'

‘Not at all,' confirmed Emily. ‘And now, if the mention of Dolly Topping hasn't completely spoiled everyone's appetite, I think that the garlic bread is ready.'

It wasn't until they were drinking their coffee after lunch that Emily steeled herself to ask the question that she knew had to be asked. ‘How is Colin?'

Rachel looked into her coffee cup. ‘Oh, the same as he's been for some time. I visit him every morning and every evening. I talk to him and read to him, but there's no change – no indication that he knows I'm there.'

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . .' Emily said awkwardly.

‘No,' said Rachel, raising her hand to her scarred cheek in an unconscious, poignant gesture. ‘You don't have to be afraid to mention him. He's not dead, you know.' After a moment she went on, ‘It's so good to be able to talk about him. I don't, as a general rule – people are embarrassed about it, so I don't even mention him.'

Impulsively Emily leaned over and squeezed her hand. ‘Well, you can talk about him to us any time you like. Can't she, Luce?'

‘Any time,' echoed Lucy thoughtfully.

Rachel had scarcely had time to make herself a reviving mug of tea before the doorbell rang, heralding the arrival of Nicola Topping. ‘Come in,' she greeted the girl who stood, ill at ease, at the front door. ‘There's fresh tea in the pot. Would you like a cup?'

‘Oh, yes, please, Miss . . . Mrs . . .' Nicola fumbled.

‘Just call me Rachel. That will make things easier.'

Nicola followed her into the kitchen. The school uniform emphasised the girl's size, the white blouse straining across her enormous breasts. Clearly she had inherited her mother's large frame, but her face was unexpectedly pretty, especially when she smiled, which she was now doing in a nervous manner: her small, pearly teeth were flawless, and she had attractively dimpled cheeks. Her complexion was good for a girl of her age, and her long brown hair was thick and glossy.

‘There's a tin of biscuits somewhere,' Rachel went on. ‘Let me see if I can remember where I put it.'

‘Oh, that's all right. I shouldn't really have biscuits.' Those were Nicola's words, but Rachel could read the ambivalent yearning in her voice. ‘My mum would kill me if she knew I was eating biscuits.'

‘Well, your mum isn't here,' Rachel stated, pulling the tin out of a cupboard. It was a commemorative Royal Wedding tin, Charles and Diana vintage, battered with age and usage. ‘Hobnobs and chocolate digestives,' she analysed, peering inside. ‘I thought there might be some shortbread, but I must have eaten it.'

As Rachel poured another mug of tea, Nicola pulled out a chair, sat down and shamefacedly helped herself to a chocolate digestive biscuit.

Rachel settled down across from her. ‘I think it's cosier in here than in the lounge,' she said in a conversational tone, cupping her hands around her tea mug; she could sense the girl's nervousness and was trying to put her at ease by behaving as naturally as possible. ‘But if you'd rather, we can go in there and put the gas fire on.'

‘No, this is fine.' Nicola, having polished off her first biscuit, reached for another.

Rachel waited, sipping her tea. It would all come out eventually, she knew, but she wouldn't push her. If she were a sociologist, she thought with detachment while she was waiting, she'd investigate what you could tell about people based on what they chose to drink their tea and coffee from. Cups or mugs? Bone china or stoneware? Decorated with what? Coffee at the Brights' had come in serviceable brown stoneware mugs; Emily had provided the after-lunch coffee in blue and white cups of contemporary design but impeccable English manufacture. Lucy Kingsley, Rachel was sure, would serve tea in thin bone china cups, probably antique. Her own mugs were a thoroughly mixed lot, collected over a lifetime. The one she'd given Nicola was, by coincidence, a Royal Wedding one, the two names linked forever, indissolubly, on the mug as they no longer were in life; her own tea was in a Beatrix Potter mug that had been a particular favourite of Rosie's. Rosie, now nearly four years dead. Why had she kept it?

‘I suppose you're wondering why I wanted to see you,' Nicola began at last, after four biscuits and a cup of tea.

Deciding that it was safer to say nothing, Rachel inclined her head, a gesture that could mean anything Nicola wanted it to.

She interpreted it as an invitation to talk. ‘I've got a problem,' she began, ‘and I just didn't know who else to talk to. When I saw you the other night at the pancake supper, I could tell that you were nice. I hope you don't mind.' She gave Rachel a shy smile.

Rachel returned the smile. ‘Don't mind you thinking I'm nice, or don't mind you talking to me?' Her mother is at the bottom of this somehow, she told herself. Depend on it – otherwise she'd be talking to
her.
‘No, of course I don't mind.'

‘Well, then.' Nicola took a deep breath and another chocolate biscuit, which she held in her hand like a talisman while she talked. ‘I'm in love. And Ben is in love with me, too.'

‘That doesn't sound like such a problem,' Rachel said lightly.

‘Oh, but it is!' Her tone was heartfelt and intense. ‘You don't know my mum, or you wouldn't say that!'

Exactly. Rachel tried to keep her voice neutral. ‘Your mum.'

‘Yes. She's been just awful about Ben and me. We want to get married, you see. And Mum says absolutely not.'

‘Well, you are quite young,' Rachel said. ‘Is Ben older, then?'

‘No, he's the same age as me – seventeen. He's in the sixth form with me at school. But that's not the problem!'

‘It
is
a problem if your mother won't consent. You can't get married without your parents' permission until you're eighteen.'

‘Don't you think I know that?' Nicola said bitterly. ‘But the real problem is that Ben is . . . well, his skin is darker than mine. No big deal, right? But not to my mum! She calls him . . . a filthy wog!'

Just what she'd expect from the charming and tactful Mrs Topping, thought Rachel. She didn't trust herself to say anything.

‘She says that he doesn't really love me – that he just wants to marry me so he can stay in this country. She's heard all these stories about people doing anything to get a British passport. But that's ridiculous – Ben is as English as I am! He was born in this country, and so were his parents. And she says that I can't possibly love him, that . . .' Here Nicola broke off, chewing her lip, as a tear escaped from each eye. She gulped and went on, ‘That I'm just desperate, because I'm fat. That I think it's my only chance, and that no one else will ever want me. But I
do
love Ben,' she finished passionately. ‘And he loves me. I'll always love him, no matter what my mum says!'

‘What about your father? What does he think?'

Nicola's voice was scornful, dismissive. ‘What he always thinks about everything – exactly what my mother tells him to.'

Rachel gave her a thoughtful nod.

‘Have you ever read
Romeo and Juliet
?' Nicola asked.

She fought the urge to smile. ‘English was my subject at Cambridge.'

‘We did it at school, for our English GCSE,' explained Nicola. ‘Well, it's just like that, isn't it? We love each other, but our parents –
my
parents – are keeping us apart. Tragic,' she sighed with melodramatic fervour. Absent-mindedly she nibbled at the biscuit she was clutching till it was gone, then licked the melted chocolate from her fingers.

‘I'm not sure how I can help you,' Rachel admitted, after careful thought. ‘You do realise that it will do no good my trying to talk to your mother? I'm not exactly tops on her list,' she added in an attempt at humour.

‘Yes, I know that she hates you,' Nicola said frankly. ‘Maybe that's one reason I wanted to talk to you – just to get back at her for being so horrible to me.'

‘Then what—'