Eleven Pipers Piping (42 page)

Tom frowned. “Arthur Stanhope must have learned the truth, somehow.”

“Arthur was formidable, but I can’t believe my father didn’t address him with the truth of my condition. I don’t know for certain, however. You must remember, all this happened within a couple of days. The subject was so painful and embarrassing for both my father and me that we didn’t speak of it. But I felt the old man—Arthur’s—eyes on me in that time and then, afterwards, when he insisted on paying for my nursing training …” She paused. “Either my father told him about my delicate condition, as they said in those days, or he suspected something and beat the truth out of Clive, which he was quite capable of doing. At any rate, ten days after my father’s funeral, at this very church”—she glanced over towards the Norman tower—“I was gone, enrolled at St. James’s in Leeds, never to return. Arthur must have pulled a few strings. I hadn’t even applied
there, but I think Leeds was the farthest place Arthur might have had connections with.

“I heard little of Thornford after that. We Frosts were a small family—both my parents, unusual for the day, were only children. I had no cousins. A few school chums wrote a bit, but I’m afraid I was a poor correspondent. I did get word in a letter a few years later that Clive had married Dorothy, the daughter of a vicar in a nearby parish—a more genteel alliance, I suppose. I knew who she was, an insipid girl, I thought, but of suitable breeding. I’m sure the old man kept Clive on a short leash for all the years till he died. I expect Arthur was barely cold before Clive sold the hotel and ran off to Australia.”

“Tough years for you, a single mother—particularly in those unforgiving days.” Tom gave a passing thought, as he had many times in his life, to the nameless woman who was his birth mother.

“Saint James’s was very forward-thinking for its time and accommodating to my situation.” Judith seemed to choose her words carefully. “And I met a wonderful man—a young administrator at the hospital—within a year and married him. We had nearly fifty years together, though the last ten, of course, were not what I would have wished.”

Tom stared unseeing at the Frost gravestone, its base mottled with dead dark leaves. Judith had shaken the dust from her feet when she left Thornford and had not looked back. She had embraced her new life, her child, her husband, her career. But her husband was dead, her son was on the other side of the world, and she was soon to retire from her life’s work. He could understand that in the wake of a loved one’s death, in the midst of grief, the mind might rake through the coals in search of diamond-hardened memories. But that didn’t satisfy the question he was burning to ask.

“Vicar? A penny …?”

Tom bit his lip. “Judith, I hope you’ll forgive the provocation, but I don’t really believe you came to Thornford last Saturday on a
whim, on a notion to buy a little business or see what had become of your former home. The weather that day wasn’t a complete surprise. The forecast had been for an unusual amount of snow for almost all of England—which I think would discourage most people from taking to the roads. But you did, and not only did you, you very determinedly persevered down choked roads and through poor visibility, until you landed up at Thorn Court.”

“I’m a determined woman.”

“I believe you are. But are you willing to tell me why—in this instance?”

He watched her features shift as she seemed to struggle for a response. Then she released a tiny sigh. “I came for the Burns Supper.”

“How would you have known there was a Burns Supper at Thorn Court last Saturday?”

“Tom, really.” She shot him a withering glance. “The Thistle But Mostly Rose South Devon Pipe Band has a website—a rather comprehensive one, I might add. The supper was posted.”

“But it was an exclusive event—by invitation only.”

“Yes, I know, but I didn’t think you gentlemen would be ungracious. And you weren’t.”

“I’m afraid I’m still very puzzled.”

“It’s simple, Tom. I wanted, as the young people would say these days, to ‘crash’ the event.”

“But why?”

“Tom, I’ve told you things this afternoon that only my husband ever heard from my lips. But why I appeared at your Burns Supper, I can’t tell you. At least, not quite yet.”

17 JANUARY

Dear Mum
,

I’m pleased to say I haven’t lost my mind after all. I thought I saw Oona Blanc in the churchyard Thursday and everyone at the post office said I’d gone round the twist, but I was in Torquay yesterday shopping at Debenhams for some new beach shorts for Tenerife, when who did I spot also shopping for clothes, but Herself! Of course, I had to be sure. It seemed odd that she was alone. I always think people the likes of her travel around in great crowds. That’s the way it looks on TV. And it was hard to believe she was shopping in anything less than a Harvey Nick’s, but I guess you have to make do when you’re down among us rough folk in the West Country. Of course she was wearing very large sunglasses, which made everyone look at her, though I’m not sure how many recognised her. Anyway, I went up to her, bold as brass, and asked if she were Oona Blanc. She made an odd noise, which I took as a yes, so then I asked her if she was still seeing
that nice young man who accompanied her to Sybella’s funeral last year, though I didn’t specifically mention the funeral, as I thought it would be too upsetting, and she said something very rude to me, which I shan’t type, but anyway, there you have it, and when I go down to post this letter, I’ll be sure to tell those in the queue that I SPOKE to Oona and that if she’s visiting Torquay then she very well could have visited Thornford on Thursday, though I still can’t think what would bring her to Devon at this time of year. I’ve looked through the papers and can’t see any notice of a fashion show or the like. Anyway, I felt quite confirmed that this week’s worry wasn’t making me see things so I decided that I would contribute something to the baking stall at the Wassail after all—Cornish fairings, I thought, as they involve no fruit at all, which should reassure everyone, not that they need reassuring, and of course it’s all for a good cause, the school and the Scouts troop. They turned out
magif mafni
splendidly, which was a great relief as my collapsed Yorkshires have been playing on my mind at bit, as I wonder if their fallen state was somehow a
hardinger harbinder
sign of worse to come. After all, the Moirs were here for their Sunday lunch and then six days later Will is dead! I did mention this to Mr. Christmas, but he took the view that the world doesn’t work that way, which I expect is true. Certainly, I HOPE it’s true, otherwise I shall worry every time something comes out of the Aga in an unpresentable state, not that that happens very often I must say. I’m glad so much of the snow has gone. It looked a bit touch-and-go there for a while as to whether the Wassail might be cancelled, as kiddies having to tramp about in snow wouldn’t work very well, would it? The vicarage garden still has drifts against the east wall, which makes me wonder if the rosesbushes there will be damaged and of course the girls’ snowman is now nothing more than a lump. I think various creatures have made off with the apple eyes and carrot nose. Bumble still barks at it. It must have the
scent of the children. Anyway, I think everyone is looking forward to the Wassail, at least as a diversion from last weekend’s unhappy event up at Thorn Court. I told you Tamara is coming down from Exeter to perform with Shanks Pony. I play their CD when I’m up here sewing this and that, like the costumes for the play at the v. hall, though I expect Shanks Pony won’t last much longer, as they’re all going about their separate ways now. I expect Tamara will have Adam Moir in tow. He has been one of the Guns the last years at the Wassail, though I wonder if he will again this year? It may not be the best thing to take a role at a social event so soon after a death in the family, but then perhaps instead of her mother he’ll accompany Ariel, who I know was so looking forward to the Wassail. Miranda came home from school yesterday with the lantern she’s made. It’s shaped like a church bell, quite wonderful. She was probably thinking of her father. I’m sure it will be the best lantern there. Anyway, I expect all shall go well at this year’s Wassail, although the shotguns firing to chase away the evil spirits and wake the trees never fail to make me jump. There’s rain in the forecast, but it shouldn’t start until later this evening, so with luck we’ll be high and dry for the festivities. I think our houseguest is leaving for home Monday. She’s been good company, though she does ask me questions more than answer mine. I’m not really sure how keen she is to buy the Tidy Dolly or whether to relocate to Thornford in her retirement or not. Anyway, I won’t be serving beef for Sunday lunch, as I don’t think I want to get back up on that horse quite yet, not after 2 Yorkshire failures in a row. I’m planning roast chicken instead, even if it means having poultry so soon after Christmas. I got a lovely bird at the farm shop at Thorn Barton which I’ll do with rosemary and lemon potatoes, which is Greek, isn’t it? But I suppose I’m
antetici
looking forward to my winter vacation though of course Tenerife is part of Spain. Anyway, must get on, Mum. Mr. Christmas is driving Miranda to Exeter
this morning, as he has no weddings this Saturday, and he’ll want to visit with his sister-in-law. Poor woman. I never know quite what to say to Mrs. Hennis if it’s me taking Miranda to Exeter, but I think she’s adjusting to her changed circumstances. We’re all otherwise well here, cats and Bumble included, and I hope you are, too. Love to Aunt Gwen
.

Much love,
Madrun

A
nimal, végétal ou minéral?”

“Végétal.”

“Est-ce plus grand que ma tête?”

“Non.”

“Est-ce …”
Tom groped around in the atrophied French-language wrinkle of his brain as he pulled his car onto the A380 outside Pennycross St. Paul.
“… une chose unique au monde?”

“Non.”

“Est-ce …
darling,
pourrions-nous … commuter … commuter?”

“
Oui
. Change? Switch?”

“Oui … pourrions-nous commuter à l’anglais. Tu sais que mon français n’est pas très bon.”

Miranda sighed. “Okay.”

“
Bon!
Or ‘good!,’ rather. Let’s see …” Tom was relieved not to have to press on with Twenty Questions in his ill-taught and
ill-learned school French. “Vegetable, smaller than my head, and not a unique thing—so a category of things. Could I buy it somewhere?”

Miranda paused imperceptibly, then replied, “No.”

“Is it found in England?”

“Yes.”

“Is it found in this car?”

“No.”

Tom tapped his fingernails along the steering wheel with a little impatience—not at the game. Twenty Questions on longish car trips with his daughter was a favoured pastime. More impatient-making was the traffic. They’d had a slightly late start, Miranda and he: Miranda to have her dark, now long, hair put in Dutch braids, for some reason that seemed vital to the three females occupying the vicarage; he because the archdeacon had called him when he’d returned from Morning Prayer with a question that seemed to need an immediate answer. Barring roadworks or breakdown, they should reach Exeter in just under an hour, sufficient time to unite Miranda with her Aunt Julia outside the synagogue.

“Does it smell?”

“No.”

“Is it round?”

Tom glanced at Miranda when no reply came immediately. She was squinting, as if trying to visualise whatever the mysterious thing was. “No.”

“Aha! Then is it … oh, what can the word be? Ellipsoid … or spheroid, like a rugby ball?”

“Yes.”

“Is it a rugby ball?”

“No. Besides”—Miranda was counting questions asked thus far on her fingers—“aren’t rugby balls made from leather? That would be animal.”

“And rubber. Mineral.”

“But rubber is made from trees. So vegetable.”

“That’s right. Well done, you. Besides, you can buy a rugby ball in a shop, and you said whatever it is can’t be bought.”

“You have ten questions left, Daddy.”

Tom spotted a gap through the trundling cars and zipped into the speedier fast lane with a satisfied grunt, settling in for uninterrupted passage. The landscape outside the window, winter-drab, a study in denuded trees and lingering patches of snow, offered little cheer, but cocooned inside the car, with the heater’s warm fug and Miranda’s bright conversation, all felt well with the world.

“All right, something rugby-ball-ish. Is it smaller than a rugby ball?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, I’d asked before if it were smaller than my head, so that was a wasted question, since a rugby ball is bigger. Does it, then, have something to do with sport?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Is it … useful?”

When Miranda didn’t answer with her usual swift assurance, he glanced over to see her biting her lip in thought. After a moment, she turned to him, a faintly troubled cast to her features.