Last Voyage of the Valentina(50)

Alba had only attended church to irritate the Buffalo in her short skirt and to show off her “boyfriend.” She had not intended to listen. Not for a moment. God was not someone she welcomed into her life. If she thought about Him at all, it was out of guilt. She had grown up with Him, as they all had in that small, rural community of Beechfield. But then she had outgrown Him. Of course, she knew there was some sort of higher power. Her mother was up there somewhere. She certainly wasn’t dead in a coffin buried in the ground for the worms to eat. There was some sort of spirit life but she never let herself wonder about it for too long, mainly because if her mother could see her she would no doubt disapprove of the promiscuous and decadent life she led, which left Alba, momentarily, very unhappy and riddled with self-loathing. No, better to live in the present. However, Reverend Weatherbone captured her attention. She didn’t take her eyes off him for a second. He strode the nave, arms flapping, robes flying, hair waving about as if it had a life of its own, with such charisma that even she, the most skeptical of the congregation, believed that God must be speaking through him directly to her.

She didn’t think about sex. She didn’t dwell on Fitz’s kiss. For once in her life, Alba Arbuckle thought about God.





12




W hen the service was over Reverend Weatherbone stood in the porch shaking the congregants’ hands as they filed out. Margo found herself behind Mabel Hancock. She tensed competitively as the reverend congratulated Mabel on the flowers she had arranged the week before and felt compelled to interrupt, desperate for Mabel to know that the reverend was lunching at Beechfield Park. “Oh yes, couldn’t do without her.”

“Nor you, Mrs. Arbuckle,” said the reverend diplomatically.

“An invigorating service.” Margo returned the compliment.

“I’m glad to see Alba attending today.”

“Yes, she’s down for the weekend with her new boyfriend. We’re all rather hoping this one’s for keeps. I’m glad you will meet her properly over lunch. Come whenever you are ready.” She smiled at Mabel in triumph.

“My mind boggles at the things young people wear these days,” said Mabel, as she walked away, shaking her head.

Margo turned to see Alba greeting the vicar, her coat open and flapping in the wind, revealing her small skirt and patterned tights. She stalked over to intervene. She would have to make a joke of it. Why hadn’t the silly girl buttoned up her coat? To Margo’s astonishment, as she approached, she realized that their entire conversation now revolved around that dreaded slip of material and that the vicar was voicing, very loudly and with great enthusiasm, his approval.

Alba’s little skirt had also aroused the interest of the invisible bell ringers: Fred Timble, Hannah Galloway, and Verity Forthright. Once they had finished their highly skilled job, which, they lamented, went unnoticed by the majority of the community, they sat down on the wooden benches, high above the now dwindling congregants, to catch their breath and discuss the service. They didn’t waste time dissecting the sermon or admiring the flowers, or indeed the village characters whose familiarity now bred a kind of affectionate contempt, but zoomed straight in on Alba Arbuckle.

“You could see the look of disapproval on Mrs. Arbuckle’s face,” commented Verity, who never had a good word to say. “Even with that long coat you couldn’t miss that skirt and those boots. In church of all places!”

Fred had been infatuated with Margo for many years. He thought her a real lady. Gracious, capable, dignified, and very upper-class. He liked the way she spoke, that old-fashioned articulation of words that set her so far apart from everyone else in Beechfield. Once or twice she had deigned to speak to him. She had praised his bell ringing, told him he did a terrific job. “It sets everyone’s mind in the right frame for worship,” she had said. He had remembered that, word for word. But she thought less of him ever since she had discovered him having an illegal drink and cigarette with fourteen-year-old Alba, in the Hen’s Legs pub. She had marched in, face pinched and angry, and hauled the teenager away. “Mr. Timble, you disappoint me!” she had exclaimed. It still hurt to remember it. “I would have thought you more honorable than this. She’s a child and you are leading her astray.” She had dragged Alba out by the ear. A month or so later, when Alba had sneaked back in again, she had told him she had had every privilege withdrawn: no sweets, no outings, and a ride every day of the holidays on Miranda’s skittish pony. She had added with a wicked grin that her legs had grown so sore she could barely close them. “Serve the old Buffalo right if she raises me to be a tart!” she had said with a raucous laugh. They had taken care after that to hide around the corner.