Not yet eight a.m. Merrily crossing Church Street to Lol’s terraced cottage, letting herself in to an empty hush, no bleeps from the answering machine. When Lol was merely out, temporarily, you’d walk in here, and the draught when you shut the door would cause a shivering of strings from the Boswell.
But the guitar stand was abandoned, an upturned V of black metal, empty padded rests. No vibration. No strings.
Picking up the mail from the mat: all junk. Fuel-saving offers, insurance deals. Carried them through to the recycling bin, which had been made by a firm called SimpleHuman.
Jesus, if only. She’d be doing this day after day. And next week, she was on holiday. A lonely holiday she couldn’t get out of.
In front of the cold stove in the inglenook, she came close to weeping for a moment before scowling it away and opening a window to let in some street sounds. What she wasn’t going to do again was wander upstairs, lie on Lol’s bed and sob into his pillow.
Jane would have told her how daft and pathetic she was being. But Jane had driven off with Eirion Lewis, the two of them looking like a grown-up couple. Eirion, yeah – Jane on the phone to Neil Cooper, the archaeologist – my partner. Partner? Jesus wept, at which stage did Eirion become her partner? They were kids. Could never have called Lol her partner. A loose, casual, cowboy word, no real commitment involved.
No strings.
When she got back, Ethel was mewing in legitimate protest; if Jane had been here, she’d have been fed by now.
‘Sorry, Ethel… sorry, sorry, sorry…’
She forked out half a tray of Sheba, the expensive stuff, the special treat food, and then made herself some breakfast, honey and toast. Tried to eat it sitting at the refectory table and suddenly had a picture of herself as if from above, CCTV from the ceiling: one small person at one end of a long, communal table.
The vicarage was vast. It had seven bedrooms, two of them used as stockrooms for the gift shop in the vestry. Maybe she should start taking in battered wives, asylum seekers…
She was stupidly relieved when the old phone jangled and she had to carry the plate through to the scullery office, half a slice of thick toast and honey clenched between her teeth.
‘You didn’t come in yesterday,’ Sophie said.
‘Oh…’
Monday. Yesterday had been Monday. Traditionally a vicar’s day off, hers always sacrificed on the altar of Deliverance, the little extra job. Monday was the weekly meeting with Sophie at the gatehouse office to go through the Deliverance database, reply to any queries from parish priests, many of whom found this aspect of their role distasteful and couldn’t unload it fast enough. Also, to see who might require aftercare. What Uncle Ted called neglecting the parish. But if it wasn’t for the little extra job she’d probably have seven parishes by now and he’d be lucky to see her every other week.
‘Yes, well, something…’ Putting the plate on the desk, dropping the toast on it ‘… something came up. Sorry, Sophie. Could we possibly make it this afternoon?’
Sophie would be arranging her chained glasses to consult the diary.
‘The Bishop should be on the train to London by then, so… yes, I suppose so.’
Small clink: the glasses rejoining the pearls on Sophie’s chest. Her primary function was as Bishop’s lay secretary, so the Bishop was always going to come first. Actually, that wasn’t true; with Sophie, the Cathedral came first… although this was possibly a metaphor for something more amorphous at the ancient heart of Hereford.
‘Good. Excellent. Thanks.’ Merrily picked up the slice of toast, bit off a small piece. A good day to get out of here. Maybe they could grab some lunch in Hereford, her and Sophie. ‘Erm… anything I need to know about, meanwhile?’
Sophie would never ring out of pique, just because a meeting had been missed.
‘It’ll wait.’
‘No…’ Call it intuition. ‘Go on…’
‘You’re probably not going to like this, Merrily.’
Merrily put down the toast.
‘It’s Ms Merchant, isn’t it?’
‘Must’ve rung very early this morning. Evidently exasperated at getting an answering machine. As if we ought to be operating a twenty-four-hour service.’
‘And Ms Nott? Ms Nott is still with her?’
‘If I play the message to you now, you might want to consider your options on the way here.’
Sophie must have had the message already wound back. Ms Merchant’s voice was as low and calm as ever but carried, in Merrily’s head, like a barn owl’s screech.
‘Mrs Hill, I’m afraid your young woman didn’t do what I wanted her to do. In essence, Ms Nott is not smiling any more.’