Theft on Thursday (4 page)

J
AMIE
M
EADE SLOPED ALONG WITH A LONG STRIDE
from the bus stop towards his house. He’d finished his A-levels, and had an offer of a place at York University. All summer he had taken temporary jobs, but had begun to think he might take a year off before going to York, if they’d hold his place. It would be nice to forget studying for a while, get out into the real world and earn some money. Live it up a bit. But music was his life as well as his subject and he would be looking for something connected to that.

Derek had offered to take him around on jobs and teach him some of the electrician’s trade, but Jamie had refused, reasonably politely, saying it would be a waste of Dad’s time, since he had no intention of following in his footsteps.

He found Gran in the kitchen, ironing shirts and grumbling gently. “Some men iron their own shirts,” she said, looking at him fondly as he folded himself into a chair. He’d been such a charmer at eleven years old, but
teenagehood had moulded him into a lanky, casual young man. Cool, they called it, Gran knew, but it was all an act with Jamie. He was still her same sweet-natured boy at heart, and still passionate about his music. She remembered when he’d been encouraged to play the piano by Enid Abraham, one of Lois’s team and no mean pianist herself, and—contrary to his parents’ expectations—he had stuck to it, taking exam after exam and doing very well in them all. Now Gran approved of his intention to make his career in the musical world.

He grinned at her. “I don’t mind havin’ a go at ironing,” he said, “but I don’t see that as a proper job. I have got a possible, though.”

“Good,” nodded Gran approvingly. “That new bloke,” Jamie continued, “Sandy something, him what’s taken on the church biddies, he works in an estate agent’s in Tresham and goes in every day by car. He might give me a lift.”

Transport was a problem in Long Farnden. Two buses a week went through the village, picking up shoppers who wanted a couple of hours in Tresham before returning home. The workmen’s bus had long since been discontinued, and young village people without cars or motorbikes found it impossible to live at home and work in town.

“Mm,” said Gran, with an apparent lack of enthusiasm for the Sandy plan. “You could bike, if you got up early enough.”

“Oh, fine,” said Jamie. “And what about when it rains?”

“You won’t dissolve,” said Gran, punishing a linen tea towel with a hot, steaming iron.

“Well, anyway,” Jamie said, “I’ve said I’ll go round and see him. Livin’ at the vicarage at present, but means to get his own place. What’s for tea, Gran?” he added,
and she let the subject drop. No doubt he would talk about it to Lois and Derek later.

A
T THE VICARAGE
,
THE ROW THAT
L
OIS INTERRUPTED
had continued on and off all day. “I wish I hadn’t taken time off,” said Sandy sulkily. “They were nice about it when I explained I’d still got my stuff to sort out, but made it clear I’d have to make up the hours. And now all I’ve done is argue with you.”

“And all about nothing,” said the vicar miserably.

“It’s not nothing! You know what people will say … two blokes living together—sure to be gay. And you being old and me young looks even worse. So there’s no point you making all kinds of arrangements here for me. I’m not stopping any longer than necessary.”

Brian Rollinson sighed. “Very well, Sandy,” he said. “I must say I think you’re wrong. I’ve made it clear you are my godson, the son of an old friend.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Sandy dismissively.

Brian said mildly, “The fact that he died so young doesn’t mean I have forgotten our friendship, Sandy.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” said Sandy, sitting down heavily on a protesting chair. “I’ve got my own life to get on with, and the sooner I find a place of my own the better. It’d be much more convenient living in Tresham, dump though it is.”

“I’m sure something will come up in Farnden,” said Brian Rollinson quickly. “I did promise your mother I’d keep an eye …”

“Oh, for God’s sake! I don’t need a minder!” Sandy saw Rollinson wince, and for a second felt ashamed. “Sorry,” he said, more quietly. “Yeah, I know you mean it for the best. But this is all far from satisfactory, so I’ll be off as soon as poss.”

“And the church choir?” Rollinson’s voice was low.

“Oh, I’ll carry on with that, whatever. Looks like being
a real laugh, and once I get a few extras—hopefully girls, and hopefully under ninety years old—we’ll make your church a legend in the county.”

“Yes, well … be careful, Sandy.” Rollinson walked towards the door, lightly touching the top of Sandy’s head as he passed. “You may end up with no choir at all. Village people are very conservative, you know. Just bear that in mind.”

“Yes, Brian,” said Sandy in a mock-weary voice. “Whatever you say, Brian. Ah,” he added, looking out of the window and brightening, “there’s that lad I met in the shop. Jamie Meade, I think he said. Son of the excellent Lois, d’you reckon? He’s finding a job in town, and needs a daily lift, so I said I’d oblige. Will you open the door, or shall I?”

“W
ELL
, I
DON
’
T SEE NOTHIN
’
WRONG WITH THAT
, L
OIS
,” Derek said that evening. “Good idea, I reckon. All Jamie’s got to do now is find a job.” Jamie sighed with relief. His mother, like Gran, had not been keen on the daily lift with Sandy Mackerras, and had hinted they might help with a motorbike. Anyway, now Dad had backed him up, it was safe to make his proposal.

“I’ve already found something,” he said. “You know that music shop in Church Lane, off the High Street? Well, they need some help, they say. Lots of kids with nothing to do get in there and spend hours driftin’ round. They got instruments as well as CDs and sheet music an’ that … Need somebody to keep an eye open, an’ help advise and sell.”

“Advise?” said Lois. “Advise on what?”

“Music, Mum,” said Jamie. He was resigned to a certain lack of understanding in his parents. “It’s what I know most about.”

“O’course he does,” said Derek. “You just go ahead,
boy,” he added. “And some of your wages goes to Mum towards your keep. When I was your age …”

Laughter drowned out the rest of his sentence, and broke the tension. “Not that old thing!” said Lois. “Well, you can only give it a try. Now, can we please have the telly on? We’re missing Mum’s favourite rubbish.”

B
ILL
S
TOCKBRIDGE TOOK OUT HIS KEYS AND PREPARED
to unlock the front door of the cottage. To his surprise, the door swung open before he could turn the key in the lock. Rebecca must be home, though he could have sworn she’d said there would be a staff meeting after school.

“Rebecca?” He walked through to the kitchen, and saw her cutting bread, making sandwiches.

“Hi,” she said, and kissed him with buttery lips. “Got home earlier than expected. Just as well, though. I’ve decided to have a go at the choir—first practice tonight. You coming?”

He had forgotten. It had certainly never loomed large in his thoughts, and he was surprised that Rebecca seemed so keen. They were not churchgoers, and he was astute enough to see that the new vicar had seen expansion of the choir as a way of increasing his tiny congregation.

“Oh, well … I thought we’d have a talk about it first. Haven’t really discussed it, have we?”

Rebecca looked at him. Stolid, square and handsome in
his outdoor, reliable way, she wished sometimes he would surprise her, make a decision on the spot, take a controversial line on something. But that wasn’t fair. Hadn’t he done the most controversial thing the farming community could have imagined? Gone cleaning, like a skivvy … like a woman! He’d put up with constant ribbing in the pub from the lads, but had stuck to it, until even they had got used to the idea, and accepted him as one of them.

“No, we haven’t,” she said sweetly, smiling at him. “But I reckoned when you said you’d been a choirboy meant you’d decided … hadn’t you?”

He hugged her, unfortunately with a slice of greasy bread between them, and agreed to go with her and give it a try.

“You’ll need to change now, then!” she said, pulling away from him gently. “You’ve just got time before I finish these, and then we can eat.”

T
HE CHURCH WAS GLOOMY
,
EVEN THOUGH THE EVENING
sun still lit up the village outside. “Just putting some lights on,” a voice came from the bell tower, and then Sandy emerged. He squinted at the two of them silhouetted against the low sunlight.

“Hi there!” he said. “Not sure we’ve met, but come on in and let’s introduce ourselves. I’m Sandy … and I’m sort of in charge.”

“I’m Rebecca and he’s Bill.” Smiles were exchanged, and the three walked with clattering steps along the red-tiled aisle into the chancel, the noise softened there by a warmly patterned carpet.

“We’re early,” said Rebecca. “I expect the others’ll be along soon?”

“Oh yes, there’s a core of old faithfuls, and I’m hoping for one or two more like yourselves. We’ve been spreading the word. Brian—er, Rev. Rollinson—gave out a notice
about it on Sunday. Fingers crossed!” He looked down the empty aisle, and his face brightened as he heard voices approaching from the churchyard.

Mrs. T-J was first in, of course. She led a small company of elderly ladies, plus the squint-eyed girl from the shop, and, trailing behind, Jamie Meade, looking embarrassed and tentative.

“Hi!” said Sandy loudly. “Good evening, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, and welcome to Jamie, our new and very much needed tenor.” Steady Sandy, he said to himself. Don’t frighten the lad away.

A few minutes later, Brian Rollinson appeared at the door. “Coming to sing?” said Sandy, and his tone was not welcoming.

“No, no,” Rollinson said quickly. “Just checking the church was open, lights on and all that. Got everything you need, Sandy? Good, good. Have a great practice, then—see you later.”

Sandy frowned. Why couldn’t Brian keep out of it and leave it to him? The less they were seen as a pair, the better he’d like it. He turned to his little flock, rearranged them in the choir stalls, diplomatically leaving soprano Mrs. T-J at the front where she could be seen as self-appointed leader, and moved across to the organ.

“Um, excuse me, Sandy,” said the squint-eyed girl. “I think I’m better at playin’ than singin’, and I wondered if you’d like me to do that always now, so’s you could conduct? We got plenty of sopranos, now Rebecca’s here, and …?”

“Great idea!” said Sandy vigorously. “Many thanks, dear. What was your name again?” She blushed, and said, “Sharon, Sharon Miller.”

“Of course,” said Sandy, bestowing his sunlit smile on her that caused her to blush ever more deeply. “Now, everybody, I’ve a nice surprise for you! Mrs. T-J, would you hand around these books?”

Nobody had ever called her that to her face, and she blanched, swallowed, and then managed a small smile, as Sandy held out a pile of slim, gold-coloured books. “I think I’d rather stick to my full name,” she said icily.

Sandy replied innocently, “Oh, so sorry! You’ll probably have to remind me again, Mrs. T-J … oh, oops … anyway, these books …” He continued that an anonymous donor had paid for them, hoping that the modern tunes and words would jolly up the Sunday services.

“Jolly up?” echoed Mrs. T-J, holding each book between thumb and forefinger as if contaminated by revolutionary ideas.

The choir dutifully opened the books, titled optimistically
Sing with all my Soul
, at number six, “Bind us together, Lord,” while Sharon Miller played through the tune with a pleasing fluency. Jamie, sitting behind the altos and next to the only other tenor, a reedy renegade from Waltonby, was surprised to hear such skill from a girl who’d weighed out potatoes for Gran only hours ago.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” he muttered to his neighbour, who didn’t reply, being busy with wavering over notes under his breath, ready to start singing.

“OK, ready everyone?” Sandy began to beat time, and his eyes rested on the shining face of Rebecca, singing with all her soul. My God, she was a bit special! Sandy licked his lips involuntarily, and held up his hand. The choir tailed off, with Mrs. T-J holding on to her note much longer than anyone else. “Let’s just try that bit again,” he said. “Bar ten, we hold ‘there’ for a full three quavers. Once more, then.”

Some of the older members of the choir had no idea what he was talking about. Bar ten? Quavers? Weren’t they some sort of potato crisp? They’d always ignored the music as being an irrelevant collection of black dots. Tunes were what mattered, and the old tunes were in their blood.

“Excuse me!” said a particularly forthright alto. “Who’s
idea was these books? None of
us
was consulted.” She sniffed. “We’ve managed perfectly well with
A & M
up to now. And what’s more,” she added, warming to the attack, “the congregation knows the old tunes. How are they goin’ to sing this stuff? Sounds more like one of them gospel choirs on the telly than our village church.”

Sandy took a deep breath. Brian had warned him, and he was prepared. With a glance constantly returning to check on the smiling Rebecca, he explained that he hoped the choir would perform anthems occasionally, singing by themselves on special days in the church calendar. “And this is not a new idea, Mrs. er …”