Heaven's On Hold Read online

  Here, too, he was not alone. Maurice Martin was kneeling precariously on the edge of the pulpit putting a bulb into the wall light. He glanced very cautiously over his shoulder, without moving the rest of his body.

  ‘Good afternoon whoever you are.’

  ‘It’s me, David Keating.’

  ‘David, my dear chap, since you’re here could you take this off me …?’ He held out the old bulb at arm’s length.

  ‘Here.’ David relieved him of it.

  ‘Thanks. One less hazard to contend with. And could you possibly just switch this on for me to check? It’s the left-hand switch by the vestry door.’

  David obliged, the light came on, and he turned it off again.

  ‘Good. Now for the undignified business of getting down.’

  Back on terra firma, Maurice dusted his hand on his trousers. He was in mufti – cords, desert boots and a fleece – a bulky, strong-looking man who coached football (both sexes) at the primary school and wielded a useful middle-order bat in the Newton first XI.

  ‘Of course this is your week for the joys of fatherhood. All going well?’

  David liked Maurice. ‘I’d hate to appear over confident, but rather better than expected.’

  ‘So you didn’t come in here to plead for strength and guidance, then?’

  ‘No, no particular reason. We went for a walk up the river and came back this way.’

  Maurice gazed around fondly. ‘Place is a sort of magnet, isn’t it? I mean, if you’re at all susceptible. I know you could say I would, wouldn’t I, but there are plenty of times when I come in just to be here – nothing to do with the job.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Not today though!’ Maurice jerked a thumb in the direction of the churchyard. ‘Their last session this year. I’m afraid I rather unworthily make a point of stopping by when the R. D. A. chaps are here. Finding some pretext or other … I’ve no reason not to trust them implicitly but it does no harm to show the flag – make it clear this is a place where people come and go.’ He put his finger into Freya’s furled palm. ‘So you turning up adds a bit of credence to that.’

  They strolled companionably down the centre aisle.

  ‘Annet happy to be back? Or torn?’

  ‘Both, I think.’

  ‘It must be hard. Della and I were saying after your party – good fun, by the way – how much we admired your approach, the two of you. It’s not a dilemma the clergy have to face much. Clerics work flexitime by definition and very few clergy wives go out to work, even in this day and age. Nothing to stop them I hasten to add, but the ministry has a way of expanding to employ the people available.’

  They reached the cross aisle.

  ‘Thinking of getting Freya baptised?’

  ‘Thinking of it, yes.’

  ‘Bone of contention?’

  ‘Nothing as definite as that. I tend towards it, Annet doesn’t, so we dicker.’

  ‘Hm.’ For only a second David caught a flash of something less than entirely genial. ‘Apathy, the old enemy. Anyway—’ Maurice slapped his hands together – ‘ is it just me or is it getting chilly in here? Were you going to sit, or shall we return to the sun?’

  David might have sat, but the meeting with Maurice had made him slightly self-conscious.

  ‘The sun beckons, I think.’

  Maurice moved to the north door. ‘Let’s go this way to escape the racket, I’ve made my point.’

  R.D.A. had already seen to this half of the churchyard, skirting, with jobsworth accuracy, the more recent graves so that the plots were like islands in the calm sea of shorn grass. The more kempt among them benefited from the comparison, but David couldn’t help noticing that Robert Townsend’s had been let go, the spanking new gravestone obscured by a shock of long, pale, autumnal weeds.

  Maurice remarked: ‘Sad when they’re not looked after, isn’t it?’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing.’

  Maurice went to Townsend’s grave and began tugging at the weeds, which being half-dead came out easily, in handfuls.

  ‘Not my business, I know, but the poor chap’s only been gone a couple of months and already he’s a mess.’

  ‘Perhaps people feel – perhaps the grave depresses them.’

  Maurice straightened up, grasping a shock of weeds. ‘They can always go for a neat little urn.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Still, judge not.’ He was angry again about something. ‘Cheerio. See you again soon.’

  He went off in the direction of the compost-bin, and tossed the weeds into it. David, returning to the south porch to reclaim the buggy, felt more saddened than angered by the neglected resting place of Robert Townsend.

  True to her word, Annet was home at six, less elated and more weary than the previous evening. She kept him company while he bathed Freya, sitting on the lavatory seat nursing a vodka and tonic, not talking much. Afterwards David put on k d lang, and Annet gave Freya her bottle, sitting with her feet up on the sofa. He didn’t go into the kitchen but lit the fire and sat with them, half-looking at the Standard she’d brought with her.

  Once she looked over at him, and said: ‘ Nice.’ He couldn’t bear to spoil things, when there was no need.

  She put Freya to bed, and then he heard her winged feet flying down the stairs.

  ‘David! I got a smile!’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘A real, beaming smile, not wind, right at me!’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ he said.

  Laughing, she splashed more tonic into her glass. ‘Not fair is it? “Absentee mother gets first smile” …?’

  His heart gave a little skip.

  ‘There’s no justice,’ he said. ‘How about “ Careworn father gets big kiss”?’

  Chapter Ten

  The next day was fine again, and still unseasonally warm. They both slept well and woke at the same time, and David went to fetch Freya for her early bottle while Annet had a shower. When she came back wrapped in her old robe she didn’t at once start to dress, but perched on the side of the bed with her arms folded, watching them with a softly indulgent air.

  ‘You’re good at this,’ she commented, like Pamela.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Better than me.’

  ‘Scarcely. It’s not a case of better or worse, anyway, but of different styles. It isn’t a job.’

  ‘Exactly. Proves my point, darl. You’re more temperamentally suited. To me it is a job.’

  ‘You mean you’re a perfectionist.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I mean!’ She grabbed her hair in exasperation. I’m not a perfectionist, but neither am I a complete idiot!’ She heaved a short, pointed sigh, collected herself and went on: ‘I wasn’t making a value judgement. It’s simply that in my opinion we confound the gender police on this one. I may well be more efficient, but you’re more intuitive … or something …’ She caught his eye and they exchanged a look that stopped just short of a laugh.

  ‘Pax.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  As she stood in front of the long mirror doing her make-up – he’d never realised she wore any till they were married and didn’t know why she bothered – he asked:

  ‘Where do you stand on ghosts?’

  ‘You what?’ She paused with the mascara held at eye level.

  ‘Ghosts. Do you believe in them?’

  She shook her head, smiling into the mirror in utter disbelief. ‘What on earth brought this on?’

  He opted for transparent simplicity. ‘I thought I saw one.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘That’s it, how would I know? I thought you might.’

  She dabbed some mascara, got some on her cheek, said ‘Damn!’ and added as she applied a tissue: ‘Wouldn’t have a clue. So tell me.’

  He described the face at the window, the deep silence, the sensation of time standing still. As he talked she finished her make-up, put the mascara away, and came back to sit on the bed, fixing him wi
th a detached, quizzical look, as though sizing him up for a part in a play.

  ‘How real was it?’

  He considered. ‘It seemed – unreal as a matter of fact, but to be actually happening.’

  She slapped the duvet, got up again. ‘ Good answer. But I still don’t know what to say. I accept what you saw. But what’s the objective truth? If I’d been standing in the empty room at that time, would I have seen this person – this thing’s – backview? And if I wouldn’t have done, does that make it less real?’

  He shook his head. ‘Exactly.’

  Suspecting that she was a natural sceptic, he was touched by the unexpected thoughtfulness of her answer, and its evenhandedness. He watched as she brushed her hair, which crackled and reared with static electricity.

  She put the brush down and turned to face him, shrugging on her jacket.

  ‘Were you frightened?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘But I was transfixed. Compelled to look.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ she came over and kissed him, then Freya, in her usual way, ‘let’s see if we can find something out about the house. Maybe there’s something we should know that the wicked estate agent wouldn’t tell us.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘We all know what bastards they are.’

  ‘Whatever it is,’ he said, ‘it’s not malign.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She was beginning to lose interest, to move towards her day. ‘I need a coffee.’

  He looked down at Freya. The bottle was empty but she was still sucking sporadically on the teat. He put his little finger in the corner of her mouth and detached her with a slight ‘pop’ – it was surprising with what strength and tenacity she tried to hang on. Her eyes, which had been closing, flew open at this outrage.

  ‘Let’s go with Mummy,’ he suggested.

  They went downstairs and into the kitchen. Annet was pouring water into the cafetiere. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘ has it put you off that room?’

  ‘No, not at all. As a matter of fact I went up there afterwards. It felt exactly the same. Peaceful.’

  ‘Maybe it was a sign,’ She put the cafetiere on the table. ‘You should get back to your drawing.’

  ‘I’m going to,’ he said. ‘I was in the library yesterday and they’re putting on an exhibition of local artists.’

  ‘Go for it. But not that one of me – I don’t want that exposed to public view.’

  ‘I know.’

  He’d been unable to keep the note of disappointment out of his voice. ‘ You must have had it in for me that day,’ she protested, pouring, ‘you made me look like a mad woman.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ He took his coffee. ‘Thanks. Don’t make yourself late.’

  This deserved the cowboy look and got it. ‘Careful darl, you’re beginning to sound like a wife.’

  For an hour in the middle of the morning, between Freya’s early nap and her midday bottle, he laid her on a rug on the drawing-room floor and played with her – dangling his keys, letting her grip his fingers, applying a light pressure to the soles of her feet with his hand to test her kicks. Twice, she smiled and his spirits leapt like flames in a draught – but when he tried to bring back the smile she gazed back at him blankly, and then grew impatient, as though the effort were simply too great. Out of respect for this he gave up, and carried her about with him for a while as he took things out of the freezer, discovered a map from Mags on the fax, and took a call from Doug Border.

  ‘What do you mean by coming in and not coming to see me?’

  ‘It wasn’t a state visit. I was passing and thought the girls would like to see Freya.’

  Doug grunted. ‘Oh they did, they did, and they think you’re the very model of a modern, caring daddy. If I hear the word sweet applied to you or your daughter one more time, I’ll barf.’

  David was flattered in spite of himself. ‘ What can I say?’

  ‘Nothing, take it like a man, now listen – have you got five minutes?’

  David glanced at Freya. ‘ I should think so.’

  ‘At your party – nice do, by the way, we enjoyed yourselves – I got talking to Chris Harper, and bugger me it turns out he is looking for another property for his parents. Goes to show these things are always worth a try. His old man’s got a dicky ticker and everyone would be happier if they were a bit closer.’

  ‘With a place like Stoneyhaye,’ said David, ‘you’d have thought they’d go for a conversion.’

  ‘Well, yes and no … Who knows what goes on around there, and anyway the place is probably crawling with unsavoury types already. He’s after some nice cottage in a village that has all the amenities. Expense is no object, a listed building with all mod cons would be great, or I gather he’d be interested in building them something if the perfect site came up, I warned him that planning regs were prohibitive in this area, but it’s a possibility.’

  David said: What would you like me to do? I don’t want to point out the obvious, Doug, but I do actually have my hands full on the domestic front this week.’

  ‘I know, I know, I fully appreciate that, your saintly status is quite safe with me, there are half a dozen females in this place who’d tear me apart if they thought I was interfering with your paternal duties … But since you’re on good terms with Harper and right there, I wondered if you could maintain a bit of a watching brief. Newton Bury’s the sort of village that would do Harper’s mum and dad nicely I’d have thought. We’ve got nothing on the stocks there at present, but if you’re going to all those coffee mornings you might hear of something.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out.’

  ‘Thanks. Are you likely to be seeing Harper in the forseeable?’

  David considered the trip to Stoneyhaye. ‘ It’s a possibility.’

  ‘Great,’ said Doug. ‘Only if we can keep his ill-gotten bucks circulating via B and C it’s good for us all.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So!’ Doug’s tone became determinedly hearty. ‘How’s it going otherwise?’

  When David had put the phone down and was warming Freya’s bottle in the kitchen he told himself not to be so damn snobbish about Doug. Doug paid his not inconsiderable wages, and was a smart operator. That was how people got to be successful in business, by never doing anything else, by seeing every occasion and chance meeting as a potential business opportunity, by spotting the main chance. Though it was in his mind to visit Stoneyhaye this afternoon he himself shied away from the idea of discussing properties with Harper.

  He took Mags’s fax with him while he fed Freya on the sofa. It was detailed and enthusiastically over-annotated, with injunctions to ‘ignore first turning, it’s all round the houses’, and ‘pub sign obscured by tree, so slow down!’ He was looking forward to tomorrow, to getting away from this area and, perhaps because he felt more confident, was not dreading the prospect of his sister-in-law’s breezy expertise. On the bottom of the map she’d written: ‘Sadie has the dentist tomorrow a.m. and is angling for the day off, hope that will be OK,’ which he took as an indication that the party incident was forgotten.

  Freya fell asleep before finishing the bottle. He put her in her pram near the garden door and made himself a sandwich. As soon as he’d eaten he went up the two flights of stairs to the top floor and into the studio room, as if trying to catch something unawares.

  If that was what he’d hoped, he was disappointed. The room was light, bright and uncommunicative. He opened the window, and Annet’s remark about objective reality came back to him. It was typically pertinent, but she had put the proposition in an open-ended way, not in the expectation of a particular answer. Nor was any forthcoming.

  He glanced out of the window and found he had a good view of Freya down below in her pram. Contentedly, he sat down and opened one of his folders, spreading the drawings over the table, pleased that some of them weren’t all that bad.…

  It was three quarters of an hour later, and he’d even done some desultory free-hand sketching, when he went back downstai
rs. He locked up, loaded both the buggy and the papoose into the boot, transferred Freya with the greatest care from her pram into her car seat and was on the road by two. The route to Stoneyhaye lay in the opposite direction from town, not up on to the ridgeway, but due south-west along the river valley. For the first mile or so – the section that he and Freya had walked earlier in the week – the Nevitt was some distance from the road, dawdling but keeping pace between its threadbare autumn willows, shocks of bullrushes and ramparts of brambles threaded with willowherb. Here and there cows grazed, corralled by electric fencing.

  After a couple of miles, the road crossed the river. Upriver of the bridge, to David’s right, were two swans on an island of shingle. The hen sat with her head beneath her wing, the cob stood faithfully in attendance on a single shiny black leg.

  Road and river kept each other company for another couple of miles, then David turned south into a lane that wound away first through the water meadows and then into the shallow, premonitory undulations of the South Downs. It was a day of clearness and clouds, with shadows trailing across the grey-green flanks of the hills above the treeline and a cold sharpness to the horizon. It was a pleasure to be driving on such a day, and David felt an exhilarating sense of freedom – the freedom that he imagined Annet relished in returning to work. Except that next to him lay his sleeping daughter. He was tempted to think of her sleep as trusting, but corrected himself: trust didn’t come into it. Even had Freya been old enough to understand the concept, he recognised ruefully that he had done precious little to inspire trust. He reached out and touched the pure, fragile curve of her cheek, promising that he could and would do better.

  A few miles down the lane he slowed down and began to watch out for the Stoneyhaye turning. He thought maybe he’d missed it – one of the charms of the house was its seclusion, an important factor in its appeal to Harper. A tractor appeared and he had to reverse as far as a gateway to let it pass. When it drew level he wound the window down and signalled the driver, who removed his headphones and leaned down, hanging on by one hand. David shouted over the noise of the engine, and the man pointed further along the road, hooking his finger round to the left and mouthing ‘Not far’.