Stoney Beck Read online

  “Not in the eyes of the Social Services you can’t. They don’t let people like you live alone. Not in a house the size of this, anyway.” She put her arm round Sarah and pulled her close. “But you know Biddy loves you. I was just kidding when I said you wouldn’t live long. You’ll probably outlive the whole village.”

  Sarah wanted to pull away from the suffocating embrace but didn’t dare risk upsetting Biddy again. Her bad breath and the smell of tobacco which always clung to her made Sarah feel sick all over again. She did her best at a big smile and tried hard to look well and strong. She didn’t want the paddy wagon men carting her off to the home for mongoloids. She hated that word and Biddy knew it. She only said it to be mean and spiteful. Almost everybody knew to say Down syndrome. Sarah remembered Mummy and Daddy telling her to think always of the things she could do and not to dwell on the hard things. She could read and write and even play the piano. Daddy had made her and Mummy laugh when he’d said that doctor’s name should have been Dr. Up instead of Dr. Down, because then Sarah would have had the Up Syndrome.

  “Ada rang,” she said to Biddy. “I told her I’m nearly well and begged her not to give my job to anyone else. She promised she wouldn’t. Oh, and Andy rang too. He said he’s some new tapes for me.”

  Sarah liked Andy Ferguson. He’d put in a good word for her at the shop when Ada needed more help with the cards and sweets and had spent ages showing her how to group the greeting cards for different occasions as well as arrange the picture postcards for the tourists. And best of all, he or Alf came by the house every day to pick her up and drive her to and from work.

  Sarah had started work at the shop over two years ago, six weeks before her parents had been killed. They’d been so proud of her, so pleased she’d been clever enough to get her very own job and a wage packet every Friday. And they’d have been prouder still if only they could have heard Ada tell her just last month she didn’t know what she’d do without her.

  Biddy examined Sarah’s pale sallow face. The girl wasn’t any better. Any fool could see that. Still, if she wanted to go back to the shop, Biddy wasn’t about to stop her. Having the house to herself for a few hours a day was better than nothing.

  “How’s about if I heat us up a frozen chicken pie in the microwave,” she said. “If you want to get back to work, you’ll need to put some food in your stomach. I’ll give you a shout when it’s ready.”

  The tension drifted away and Sarah did feel a little hungry. Maybe she could eat something this time without losing it.

  “Yes, OK. I’ll sit in here and watch the telly till you call me.”

  Chapter Five

  On Sunday morning, Jenny sat straight and stiff in the car as she drove toward Daytonwater and St. Mary’s church. She kept to the left, sometimes no more than a foot or so from the miles of dry stonewall which skirted the fields. She held her breath as she inched ever closer to the wall every time a car coming from the opposite direction hurtled past. Her arms ached from the strain of gripping the steering wheel, while she waited for the tearing scrape, the sound of metal against stone. Nobody had warned her the English drove like maniacs.

  She stopped and watched while a couple of border collies, on their own, with their master nowhere in sight, herded about ten sheep wandering in the middle of the road. The dogs guided the sheep toward an open gate then into the pasture to join the rest of the flock. As she eased the car forward, she saw a boy of about twelve tear across the field to close the gate and follow after the dogs.

  Up ahead she saw the sign: Daytonwater, one mile. Andy had said she couldn’t miss St. Mary’s because it had a clock tower and she could see it even now. She crossed the bridge over a stream then guided the car into a small parking lot between the church and a school next door.

  She walked up to the gate and stopped to stare at the notice board. Reverend Father - Charles R. Woodleigh, the sign said in large gold letters. Charles. The priest’s first name was Charles, the same as her mother’s lover. Jenny stumbled a bit as she walked on ancient stone flags beside tombstones centuries old, and then climbed the steps to the entrance.

  Inside she sat against one of the pillars, hoping this would make her less conspicuous. By the time the organ started up, the church was no more than one quarter full. Jenny thought of Reverend Lancing back home who would have been mighty ashamed of a congregation as small as this. She didn’t have many Catholic friends and couldn’t remember attending a Mass. She remembered movies she’d seen, where a procession came slowly down the aisle, altar boys first, followed by the priest swinging his incense ball and chanting something in Latin. But she’d read about how the Catholic church had given up the Latin years ago and also changed the Mass format. She kept her gaze on the stained glass window behind the altar while she felt in her bag for the book of sonnets. She took out the picture and held it between her fingers, when Father Woodleigh suddenly appeared from a door beside the lectern, just like Reverend Lancing back home.

  She looked from him to the picture and back again. There were streaks of silver in the priest’s blonde hair, but it was still thick and wavy. His face was tanned, or weather beaten, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. But it was him all right. Some people as they aged changed beyond all recognition, but not this man. As soon as he smiled, Jenny knew for sure. Even in his priest’s robes, she’d have known him anywhere. She pressed a hand against her chest as she stared at an older version of the man in the photograph who’d laughed into the camera and had his arm around her mother.

  She leaned her back against the pew and watched his every move, listened to his every word. When the congregation stood to sing, he sang along with them, his open hymnbook against his chest, without once looking down at the words. Jenny could hear him over everybody else, a good strong baritone. His eyes inspected the congregation as he sang. When his gaze lingered for a second on her face, her heart bounced up near her throat. Surely he’d recognized her. When his roving eyes moved on, she let her breath out in a rush. The congregation remained seated while the choir of young boys gave a beautiful rendition of Ave Maria. The priest turned to them and, as if unable to help himself, conducted with an invisible baton.

  His sermon was tailor-made for Jenny. He spoke of loss of a loved one, of battling on against overwhelming odds. How, after coping with the initial hurt, you learn to endure, discover that sorrow has made you stronger, you’ve become more compassionate. Jenny tucked her arms in at her sides and dug her nails into her palms. He could easily have been speaking directly to her, especially when a couple of times, he turned her way. It was unreal, as if he knew her and why she’d come. Deliberately she turned away from him and fixed her gaze on one of the stained glass windows. Her imagination was playing games with her.

  She stayed in her pew while the others took Communion, not knowing if it would be would be proper for a Methodist to take Communion at a Catholic Mass. When the organist began the opening bars of the final hymn, the congregation got to its feet and while they belted out “This Little Heart of Mine,” Jenny stood mesmerized. As the floor moved under her feet, she grabbed the pew in front. That priest up there in the pulpit was her father. She’d never laid eyes on him until less than an hour ago, and even though it was impossible to explain, there was a stirring inside her, something beyond explanation.

  When everybody rose from their seats and gathered their things, she sat motionless in the pew until the last person had gone. Eventually, she reached for the back of the pew in front and pulled herself to her feet in the way of an old person stiff from sitting, then took out her sunglasses and put them on. Everybody said she had her mother’s eyes and a lover would remember eyes.

  She was the last in line and as she approached him, the priest extended his hand and beamed at her. “Welcome to St. Mary’s. I saw you in the congregation. Are you here on holiday?”

  She nodded as he enclosed her trembling fingers with his own. “I’m staying in Stoney Beck at the Hare and Hounds,” she said in a
hoarse voice.

  A flicker of something, a shadow maybe, touched his face and just as quickly was gone. “And you’re an American. We have many who come to St. Mary’s. You’re from the South aren’t you?”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, Father. I’m Jenny Robinson from Charlotte, North Carolina.”

  “Ah, North Carolina. Well, we must make you welcome.” He looked toward the small group gathered over to the side, then turned back to her. “A few always stop back for a spot of tea and a chat. We usually go into the rectory but with this warm spell, today we’re having it on the terrace. Will you join us? It would be our pleasure.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, barely able to believe her luck, “I’d like that.”

  Did she imagine his quizzical look? Did he know? Had he guessed? She held her breath, waiting for him to blurt out the words. My God, you’re my daughter. But he only smiled, the very same smile as the one in the snapshot, then walked beside her to join the others. He presented her to the group who sat around on white wicker chairs.

  A plump woman carrying a tray appeared almost immediately. The priest introduced her as Mrs. Thwaites, his housekeeper. “I always bring a few extra cups,” the woman whispered to Jenny. “It saves steps, y’see. It’s seldom the Father doesn’t have a few stay back for a chat.” She shot the priest a motherly look as she placed the tray on the wicker table, then ambled back to the house.

  “Do you take sugar? Milk?” The woman beside her asked.

  “Yes, a little of each, please.”

  Jenny always drank it with lemon but knew already to an Englishman this was the same as asking an American did he take lemon in his coffee.

  “Care for a biscuit?” a man asked as he passed a plate of cookies around.

  She took one and thanked him.

  For a few minutes they made polite small talk, before she became the center of attention. No, she’d never been to England before but had always wanted to come. Yes, London was a fantastic city all right. She’d done all the tourist stuff, seen at least four shows. The conversation was easy, relaxed, and she began to unwind.

  Was it true, one of them asked, that there were more murders in America in one week than in a year in all of Western Europe. Well, yes, she’d heard that one too but you’d never know it from where she lived. Oh, Charlotte was a high crime area all right but her neighborhood was quiet, seemed safe enough.

  “What do you think of England?” another wanted to know.

  “I like it,” she said. “I’m here mainly for the architecture. You know, fine old churches like St. Mary’s.” She didn’t know why she said this unless to give credence as to why she, a Methodist, was attending a Catholic Mass.

  The man who’d passed around the cookies tossed his thumb towards the priest. “Get Father Woodleigh to give you the grand tour. He loves to show off his church. Isn’t that right Father?”

  The priest laughed. “I suppose it is. And yes, if Jenny has time, I’d be pleased to show her around.”

  “Thank you; that would be nice.”

  While the conversation turned to other things, she nibbled on her cookie, her gaze on the bumblebee buzzing among the roses, yet all the while thinking about the love affair between her mother and this priest. Jenny had expected to dislike him on sight, even hate him. But it was impossible not to like this man. The thought had crossed her mind that maybe he wasn’t a priest when he had the affair with her mother, perhaps still in the seminary or whatever it was called. Even that was wrong of course for a man with his leanings, and it didn’t explain his disappearing. Still, her mother had been the first to leave with at least six weeks passing before she returned to the village to look for him. Wouldn’t it be reasonable for him to think she didn’t want him? When he had finally left the Lakes and returned to London, why would he feel the need to tell anybody? Why hadn’t Jenny thought this through before. Perhaps it was her grief, or guilt, anxious to take her mother’s side. What would he say if she told him her mother had come back to Stoney Beck to tell him she was pregnant, then alone and desperate she had gotten a job in the village bookshop and stayed to have their baby? What would he say about the price she had paid?

  When he took Jenny on a tour of the church, she pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, but avoided looking at him. She continued her pretense of being interested in Gothic buildings and asked about the history of the really old part of St. Mary’s, consisting of a round tower which he said dated back to the Middle Ages.

  As the tour ended and they came out into bright sunlight she put her glasses back on and thanked him. “I’m glad I came and I’ll try to come back. I’ve got to hear that choir once more before I leave the Lakes. How did you find so many good voices in such a small place?”

  “Seven of them are from a boys’ boarding school nearby and the other three are local boys. We’re lucky to have them.”

  “You sure are. When they sang “Ave Maria,” it took my breath away. It was so beautiful. Is that your favorite?”

  He nodded. “One of them. Still, priests are only human you know, and most of us listen to all kinds of music. I play the radio all the time, especially in the car, and if I tell you my favorite song, well, I’m sure you won’t believe it.”

  “What is it?”

  Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me—

  Jenny laughed out loud as a sheepish smile flickered on the priest’s face.

  “You’re right. I don’t believe it.” She gazed across the fells, heard the gulls laughing with them overhead.

  When the church clock tolled out the hour, the look on the priest’s face told Jenny he was running late with his church work and it was time for her to go. She hesitated, trying to get the words out but couldn’t. Perhaps she’d try another day, or maybe she’d never tell him. There was something so nice, so decent about this man. It was almost impossible to think of him as lecherous, and Jenny had always considered herself a good judge of people.

  “I need to be getting back,” she said, as she hitched her shoulder bag higher. “Thanks for the tea and cookies, Father, and for showing me around.”

  He held out his hand. “It’s been my pleasure.”

  Charles Woodleigh shaded his eyes with his hand as he watched the American girl drive away. She had worn those dark glasses and so he couldn’t see her eyes, but when she’d laughed in that certain way, with that little tilt of her chin, it was as though he knew her, as though— He had come within a hair of asking her mother’s name but what reason could he have given for wanting to know? He shook his head, impatient with himself. Why, in the name of all that was holy, did he still remember? Why couldn’t he stop searching every American face for a resemblance to Beverly, or even for Beverly herself. He watched as the car grew ever smaller then disappeared over the crest of Badger Hill. He looked away from the road, picked up the tray and strode toward the rectory.

  ***

  The day had turned warm and Jenny opened the windows for the drive back to Stoney Beck. Funny how she’d seen only the grey stone walls on her way to St. Mary’s and hadn’t noticed the long stretches of hawthorn. The hedgerows were in full flower and smelled of summer, a white frothy border to the greenest fields she’d ever seen. And curious how the road wasn’t nearly as narrow as she’d at first thought. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and hurtled along as fast as the other cars as she sang Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me, twice on the pipes if you ain’t gonna show—

  Once inside the cottage, she leaned her back against the door and closed her eyes, still hardly able to believe she had found her father within only days of arriving in the Lakes. “He’s a priest, Mom,” she confided to the empty room. “My father’s a priest. Can you believe it? You fell in love with a priest.”

  She pulled out the book of poems and held it against her cheek as she walked to the window, then thumbed through until she came across her mother’s unfinished note. What had she meant by writing she hadn’t told Jenny th
e whole truth? Uncle Tim had been close to his sister but he was as puzzled as Jenny. She fingered the note, that last hardly legible sentence standing out more than the rest. You have a right to know and I’d give the world—

  Jenny looked out the window and watched a low cloud climb up one side of the mountain and roll down the other. “The answer’s here somewhere,” she said out loud, her breath fogging the window pane. “It’s here in this place.” She pressed her forehead against the cool of the glass and looked down at her watch. It was early, only one o’clock. She’d start with Biddy Biggerstaff and get to the doctor later. Eager now to be gone, she slipped out of the dress she’d worn to church, pulled on a pair of white slacks, and topped them with a red cotton T-shirt.

  While Jenny ate a baked potato, or jacket potato as the English called it, and drank a glass of bitter lemon, she tried to think of a plausible reason for visiting Biddy Biggerstaff. The woman was weird and Jenny would have to tread lightly if she was going to get anywhere. A visit such as this called for more than a touch of finesse.

  The inn’s bar was less formal than the tearoom and people who ate a pub lunch paid for it at the counter. Mr. Pudsley looked up from the cash register as Jenny approached. “How did it go this morning?” he asked while she fished in her purse for the money. “Was the priest the man you were looking for?”

  She faked a smile and shook her head. “’Fraid not,” she lied. “I’m glad I went, though. I’d never been to a Catholic Mass and Father Woodleigh was real nice.” She told Mr. Pudsley she had been invited to stay for tea and cookies, followed by the priest taking her on a tour of his church.

  Mr. Pudsley beamed as he counted out her change. “Well now, wasn’t that nice. St. Mary’s is on the list of historic places.” He pulled a brochure from a stack in the corner. “You might want to browse through this. It’s choc-a-bloc with interesting places to see.”