I reach for my coffee and take a gulp. It doesn’t seem to taste quite as good now.
I choose my next words carefully. ‘Did anyone suspect that Reverend Fletcher’s death might not have been suicide?’
‘No. Of course not. Who would say that?’
‘One of the parishioners mentioned something –’
Rushton rolls his eyes. ‘Joan Hartman.’ He waves his hand, indicating I don’t need to deny or confirm. ‘Joan is quite a character, but I wouldn’t take what she says too seriously.’
‘Because she’s old?’
‘No. Because she’s isolated, imaginative and reads far too many crime novels.’ Rushton leans forward. ‘Jack, can I offer a bit of advice?’
I want to say no. Generally, when people ask if they can offer advice, it’s as welcome as a pile of horse shit. But I smile and say: ‘Of course.’
‘Don’t get bogged down with the past. Your arrival is a fresh start. A chance to put the tragic circumstances of Reverend Fletcher’s death behind us. And, as you can see, there is plenty here to keep you busy.’
I keep the smile glued in place. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
He places his chubby hand over mine and gives it a squeeze. ‘Talking of which, we should get back. I have to meet with the Bakers to talk about their father’s funeral.’
He gets up from the table. Clara follows.
‘See you later. And remember what I said.’
‘I will. Bye.’
I watch them walk from the hall, exchanging goodbyes with a few of the other patrons. I think about getting another coffee, then glance at my watch. Nope. I should really go and do some shopping. Woman and daughter cannot live on pizza alone.
I’m just standing up when I hear the crash. I turn. An elderly lady at another table lies on the floor, surrounded by broken crockery and dregs of coffee. A few people glance over and a couple start to rise, but I’m closest. I hurry over and kneel down, taking her hand.
‘Are you okay? Have you hurt yourself?’
She seems a little dazed. I wonder if she’s hit her head.
‘It’s all right. Take a moment,’ I say.
She stares at me. Her eyes focus.
‘Is that you?’
I try to pull my hand away, but she digs her fingers in.
‘Where is she? Tell me.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t –’
And then a warm, soothing voice says:
‘It’s okay. She gets confused sometimes.’
A young woman with short hair, dressed in dungarees and a T-shirt, crouches down next to me and speaks gently to the elderly lady.
‘Doreen? You had a bit of a fall. You’re in the village hall. Are you okay?’
‘Village hall?’ The old lady’s grip slackens. The woman eases her hand away from mine.
‘Shall we get you sitting up?’
‘But I need to get home. She’ll be expecting her tea.’
‘Of course, but first, how about we get you some water?’
‘I can do that,’ I say.
I walk over to the serving hatch.
‘Can I get a glass of water?’
By the time I bring the water back the old lady is sitting on a chair, looking a little less dazed.
‘Here you go.’
She takes the paper cup in a wavering hand and sips from it.
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’
She smiles, embarrassed. And I remind myself that old age is not a disease but a destination.
‘That’s okay,’ I say. ‘We can all have a dizzy moment.’
‘Do you have anyone who can take you home, Doreen?’ the short-haired woman asks.
Doreen. Why is that name familiar? Doreen. And then it comes to me. The conversation I had with Joan:
‘Joy’s mother, Doreen, suffers from dementia.’
Joy’s mother. I stare at her. Doreen must only be in her early seventies, but she looks closer to ninety. She’s so frail. Her face is like flaccid dough, hair spider-web fine and spun into wispy curls.
‘I was going to walk, dear.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ Short-haired woman says.
There’s a pause, during which I could make a perfectly reasonable excuse about having to go shopping and get back to my daughter. Instead, I hear myself say:
‘I can give Doreen a lift home.’
Short-haired woman smiles at me. ‘Thank you.’ Then she glances back at Doreen. ‘That’s okay, isn’t it, Doreen? If the nice lady drives you home?’
Doreen looks at me. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
Short-haired woman sticks out a hand. ‘I’m Kirsty. I run the youth group and help out here when needed.’
‘Jack.’ I shake her hand. ‘The new vicar.’
‘I guessed. The dog collar kind of gave it away.’
I glance down. ‘Ah. Yes. That’s the thing with dog collars. They’re a bit like tattoos. You forget you’ve got one until people give you odd looks.’
She laughs and hitches up the arm of her T-shirt, revealing a bold tattoo of a leering skull.
‘Amen to that.’
Doreen lives on a narrow lane off the high street. Packed with higgledy-piggledy terraces, most brimming with window boxes and hanging baskets.
I would have known Doreen’s house even if Kirsty hadn’t given me the address. The brick is dirty, the small front garden overgrown and the windows grimy and dark. Grief and loss hang over the place like a widow’s veil.
I pull up outside. Doreen hasn’t spoken much on the short journey, sitting, twisting a handkerchief around in her gnarled hands. I let the silence be. Sometimes, trying to fill a silence just makes it heavier.
I climb out of the car and hold the door for her, helping her out and then guiding her up the path to the front door. She fumbles in her handbag and brings out a key.
‘Thank you again, dear.’
‘No problem.’
She opens the door. ‘Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?’
I hesitate. I really shouldn’t. I shouldn’t even be here. I need to go shopping, then get back to Flo and finish sorting out the cottage. On the other hand, I look at the forlorn terrace. Something twists inside.
I smile. ‘That would be lovely.’
The hall is dark and smells of stale cooking and damp. The patterned carpet is threadbare. An old dial phone sits on a chipped side table under a large picture of the Virgin Mary. Her mournful eyes follow us into a dingy kitchen that looks untouched since the mid-seventies. Cracked linoleum, Formica worktops and sagging green cupboard doors. A tiny semicircular table is wedged against one wall, two chairs tucked in either side. A cross hangs directly above it and two plaques: ‘As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord’; ‘Be still, and know that I am God.’
Doreen sheds her jacket and shuffles towards the kettle.
‘Would you like some help?’
‘My mind might not be what it once is, but I can remember how to make a cup of tea.’
‘Of course.’
And the elderly have their pride. I pull out a chair and sit down beneath God’s soundbites while she makes tea in a proper teapot.
‘So, you’re the new vicar?’ She brings the teapot over with shaking hands.