Why did I agree to come here? What do I hope to achieve?
I finally heave myself out of bed at just gone seven. A cockerel is crowing noisily outside. Bloody marvellous. After making myself a coffee, I give in to temptation and dig out my rolling tin and tobacco from where I stuffed them, underneath a tea towel, in a kitchen drawer.
Flo keeps on at me to give up smoking. I keep on trying. But the flesh is weak. I roll the clandestine ciggie at the table, then chuck an old hoodie over my vest and joggers and smoke it outside the back door, trying to put my feelings of gloom to one side. It’s already warm, despite the cloudy skies. A fresh day. New challenges. One thing I always give thanks for. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. Each day is a gift, so use it wisely.
Of course, like most vicars, I don’t always practise what I preach.
I finish my cigarette and head upstairs for a lukewarm bath. Then I dry my hair and try to make myself look presentable. My hair is still, mostly, dark. I don’t have too many wrinkles, but then my face is cushioned from carrying a few extra pounds. I look, I suppose, like any other harried mid-forties mum. Verdict – it will have to do.
I trudge back downstairs. Flo is up, surprisingly, curled on the sofa in the living room, with a cup of tea and a book. The latest Stephen King, from the looks of it.
‘So, how do I look?’
She glances up. ‘Knackered.’
‘Thanks. Aside from that?’
I’ve gone for jeans, black shirt and collar. Just to let people know who I am but also that I’m off duty.
‘I’m not sure about the black.’
‘I’m saving the neon and fishnets.’
‘For when?’
‘Christmas Eve?’
‘Break them in gently.’
‘That’s the plan.’
She smiles. ‘You look great, Mum.’
‘Thanks.’ I hesitate. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Could we not do this again, Mum? No, I don’t hate you. Yes, I’m pissed off about leaving Nottingham. But it’s only temporary, right? Like you say – it is what it is.’
‘Sometimes you’re too grown up for your own good.’
‘One of us has to be.’
I want to go and wrap my arms around her and hug her tight. But she’s got her nose buried back in her book.
‘Are you coming this morning?’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Up to you.’
‘Actually, I thought I might go and have a look around the graveyard. Take some photos.’
‘Okay. Have fun.’
I try to quell the small pang of disappointment. Of course she doesn’t want to come and listen to a dry, dusty service in a small, fusty chapel. She’s fifteen. And I don’t believe you should force your beliefs upon your children.
My mum tried. I remember being dragged along to services when I was small, fidgeting and itching in my best, often-washed dress. The pews were hard, the chapel cold and the priest in his black robes made me cry. Later, religion became one of Mum’s crutches, along with gin and the voices in her head. It had the opposite effect on me. I escaped as soon as I had the chance.
Belief should be a conscious choice, not something you’re brainwashed into when you’re too young to understand or question it. Faith isn’t something you pass down like an heirloom. It’s not tangible or absolute. Not even for a priest. It’s something you have to keep working at, like marriage or children.
You have wobbles. Naturally. Bad things happen. Things that make you question whether there is a God and, if there is, why he’s such a bastard. But the truth is, bad things do not happen because of God. He is not sitting in his heavenly control room, thinking of ways to ‘test’ our faith, like some celestial Ed Harris in The Truman Show.
Bad things happen because life is a series of random, unpredictable events. We’ll make mistakes along the way. But God is forgiving. At least, I hope he is.
I grab my hoodie off the back of a kitchen chair and stick my head back into the living room. ‘Right. I’d better go.’
‘Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘What are you going to do about that case?’
I really don’t know. It’s shaken me more than I like to admit. Certainly, more than I can admit to Flo. Where has it come from? Who could have left it? And why?
‘I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll have a word with Aaron about it.’
She pulls a face. ‘He gives me the creeps.’
I want to tell her not to be so harsh but, actually, he gives me the creeps too. I’m not quite sure why. You meet a fair few oddballs and loners in my line of work. But there’s something about Aaron. Something that invokes feelings I’d rather forget.
‘Let’s talk about it later, okay?’
I shrug my arms into the hoodie.
‘Okay – and Mum?’
‘What?’
‘You might want to grab a different hoodie. That one stinks of smoke.’
SEVEN
Aaron is standing at the back of the chapel talking to a plump, curly-haired vicar when I walk in. It’s half past nine and the first worshippers haven’t arrived yet.
For some reason, perhaps the way they both turn quickly, I immediately get the impression they are talking about me. Maybe paranoid. Maybe not. And why wouldn’t they be talking about me? I’m the newbie. But it makes me uncomfortable. I force a smile.
‘Hello. Not interrupting, am I?’
The curly-haired vicar beams. ‘Reverend Brooks. I’m Reverend Rushton – Brian. We finally meet in person!’
He holds out a pudgy hand. He’s a short, stout man with mottled, corned-beef-coloured skin that speaks of a fondness for the fun things in life. His eyes are bright and mobile, dancing with mischief. Were it not for the clerical collar, I’d have put him down as a pub landlord or perhaps Friar Tuck.
‘We – and especially me – are so glad to have you here at last.’
I shake his hand. ‘Thanks.’
‘So, how are you settling in? Or too soon to say?’
‘Good, although it always takes a while to adjust. You know how it is.’
‘Actually, no. I’ve been at Warblers Green since I was a curate. Almost thirty years now. Very lazy, I know. But I love this parish and, of course’ – he leans in conspiratorially – ‘there’s a rather good pub next door.’
He chortles, his laugh low, dirty and contagious.
‘Can’t fault you on that one.’
‘It must be quite a change from Nottingham.’
‘It’s certainly that.’
‘Try and bear with us poor yokels. We’re not all bad once you get to know us. And we haven’t burnt any newcomers in a wicker man recently. Well, not since Solstice.’
He chortles again, face turning even redder. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs at his brow.
Aaron clears his throat. ‘The theme of today’s service is new friends and beginnings,’ he says in a funereal drone that couldn’t sound less friendly. ‘Reverend Rushton thought it appropriate.’