‘No pressure on you to do or say anything,’ Rushton adds. ‘We’ll do all that officially later. But it’s good you’re here.’ He winks. ‘News of your arrival has spread. Everyone is keen to see the new lady vicar.’
I tense. ‘Great.’
‘Well, we’d better get ourselves ready then.’ Rushton stuffs the handkerchief back in his pocket and claps his hands together. ‘Our audience will be arriving soon!’
Aaron moves towards the altar. I sit down on a pew near the front.
‘Oh.’ Rushton half turns in a way that’s a little too casual. ‘Aaron tells me that you met Simon Harper and his daughter yesterday.’
So that’s what they were talking about.
‘Yes. It was quite an introduction.’
He pauses, choosing his next words carefully.
‘The Harper family have lived in the area for generations. Their ancestry goes all the way back to the Sussex Martyrs … I don’t know whether you’ve heard of the martyrs?’
‘The Protestants who were killed during the reign of Mary I.’
He beams. ‘Very good.’
‘I looked it up online.’
‘Ah, well, you’ll hear a lot about them in this area. Simon Harper’s ancestors were amongst the martyrs burnt at the stake. There’s a monument to them in the graveyard.’
‘We saw it. Someone had left Burning Girls all around it.’
His bushy eyebrows rise. ‘Burning Girls? You really have done your research. Some people find them a bit macabre, but we’re very proud of our burnt martyrs here in Sussex!’ He chortles again. Then his face grows more serious. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, the Harpers are what you might call “stalwarts of the community”. Very well respected here. They’ve done a lot for the village and the church over the years.’
‘In what way?’
‘Donations, fundraising. Their business employs a lot of locals.’
Money, I think. What it always comes down to.
‘I was thinking of calling around to see them,’ I say. ‘Check Poppy is okay.’
‘Well, it couldn’t hurt to acquaint yourself with the Harpers.’ He eyes me shrewdly. ‘And anything else you want to ask me about, anything at all, I’d be happy to help.’
I think about the leather case sitting on the table in the kitchen. The strange card. Does Rushton know something? Perhaps. But I’m not sure now is the time to mention it.
‘Thank you.’ I smile. ‘If I think of anything, I’ll be sure to do that.’
The service passes quickly. The church is almost half full, which is probably just curiosity but still a sight I’m unused to. Even in my previous church, which was well attended by city standards, I was lucky to see a quarter of the pews filled. And not all of the congregation here are elderly. I spot a dark-haired man in his forties sitting alone at the end of a row and a few families, although not the Harpers, so obviously their support is limited to the financial kind.
Throughout the service I can feel eyes upon me. I tell myself it’s understandable. I’m new. I’m a woman. They’re seeing the dog collar, not me.
Rushton is a warm, ebullient speaker. Humorous in just the right places and not too heavy on biblical text. That may sound odd, but people don’t come to church to hear from the Bible. For a start, it was written thousands of years ago. It’s a little dry. The best vicars translate the Bible in a way which reflects the lives and concerns of their congregation. Rushton has it spot on. If I wasn’t so aware of being watched, I’d have taken notes.
Although I’ve been a practising vicar for over fifteen years, I still feel like I’m learning. Perhaps, as a woman, I’m conscious of how much harder it is to be taken seriously. Or perhaps all adults feel like that at times. Like we’re just playing at being grown-up, but inside we’re still children, shuffling around in oversized clothes, wishing someone would tell us that monsters don’t exist.
Rushton keeps the service short and sweet. Soon, the congregation start to file out. Rushton stands at the chapel entrance, shaking hands and making small talk. I hang back, not wanting to intrude. A few people ask how I’m settling in. Others remark how nice it is to have a fresh face at the church. Some markedly ignore me. That’s fine too. Finally, the last fluffy white head totters past and I breathe a sigh of relief. First public display over. Rushton pulls out his car keys.
‘Right, got to get to Warblers Green by eleven thirty, so I’ll catch you tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Parish meeting. Nine a.m., here at the chapel. Just to run through all the boring administrative stuff.’
‘Oh, of course.’
I must have forgotten. Or maybe no one mentioned it. The whole relocation has been so swift, almost suspiciously so, like Durkin couldn’t wait to get rid of me.
‘Maybe we can catch up less formally at some point, too, over a coffee or, better still, a pint?’ Rushton continues.
‘Sounds good.’
‘Excellent. I’ve got your number. I’ll WhatsApp you.’
He grabs my hand again and pumps it vigorously. ‘I’m sure you’ll fit in here very well.’
I smile. ‘I already feel at home.’
He trots down to his bright yellow Fiat. I wave him off and walk back into the chapel. Aaron has collected the prayer books and disappeared back into the office. I’m not quite sure what Aaron’s skill sets are, but silently disappearing and reappearing have got to be up there.
I stand there for a moment, just taking in the chapel. There’s always a feeling once the congregation have left, like a slow exhalation of breath before a well-deserved rest. The presence of all those souls leaves an echo behind.
Except the chapel isn’t empty. Not quite. There’s a figure sitting in a pew at the front. I thought everyone had gone and wonder why Aaron hasn’t moved them on. Not that God has a kicking-out time, but very few churches can afford to leave their doors open all day. In the inner city this would be an invitation for drunks, drug addicts and prostitutes. Here, I imagine it’s more likely to be foxes, bats and rabbits.
I walk slowly down the aisle towards the figure. Barely more than a shadow in the dim light.
‘Excuse me?’
The figure doesn’t turn. It’s small, no more than a child, but no one would forget to take their child home with them, would they?
‘Are you okay?’
The figure still doesn’t turn. And now I realize that I can smell something. Faint but unmistakable. Smoke. Burning.
‘Reverend?’
I jump and spin around, squinting against the bright shaft of sunlight from the door. Aaron stands behind me. Again.
‘Je— Could you stop doing that?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Sorry. Never mind. Who’s the child?’
‘What child?’
‘The –’ I turn to point out the figure in the front pew.
I blink. The pew is empty, except for a black coat slung over the back, left behind by one of the parishioners. The hood is sticking up and, in the dim lighting, if you squinted, you might just mistake it for a person.
Aaron does something odd with his lips. It takes me a moment to realize that he is smiling.