‘And… she worked for you for…?’
‘Twelve years. For ten of them, we had separate homes.’ Ms Merchant’s soft voice trailed the faintest of Hereford accents which somehow made her sound even more refined. ‘But, as times – and attitudes – were changing, it seemed silly, as well as uneconomical, to pay two lots of council tax, insurance, water rates, all that.’
Merrily nodded. There was a murmur of traffic from the Ledbury road. This was Tupsley, the main southern suburb of Hereford, uphill from the town. Away from the main road it had these secure, leafy corners.
‘Ms Nott managed the garden,’ Sylvia Merchant said. ‘I’ve hired a girl. It’s not the same. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Looks wonderful. I don’t talk about mine.’
The movable backrest of the typist’s chair was fixed at the wrong angle, thrusting her forward. To keep herself steady, she had to push her feet into the carpet and her hands into her knees. Sylvia Merchant didn’t seem to notice.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I must have seen you around the Cathedral. Which we’ve always thought of as… our church, I suppose.’
‘Well, we’re based – Deliverance, that is – in the Bishop’s Palace gatehouse office, as you know. Although I tend not come in more than once or twice a week. I have a parish to…’
‘Ledwardine, yes. Not quite as charming as it was when I was a child, though it’s resisted most of the excesses. We park there regularly, on the square, to walk the lanes on summer evenings. And occasionally have dinner at the Black Swan. Sad to hear about the manager losing an eye. He was quite a pleasant man.’
‘Still is. And handling the situation brilliantly. Sometimes, I suspect he rather likes wearing a black eye patch, although it—’
‘Deliverance,’ Ms Merchant said suddenly. ‘I’m not sure I like that word. In this context.’
She was sitting up, straight-backed. She wore a white blouse and jeans with creases. You could imagine her sitting just like that in her office when some kid was pulled in for smoking in the toilets. Last of a breed, perhaps.
Merrily shrugged.
‘Oh. Well. Nor me, really. I even prefer the term it replaced…’
‘Exorcist.’
‘… in a way.’
‘Although I gather,’ Ms Merchant said, ‘that you don’t perform that function very often these days.’
Sounding as if she’d gone into it. The Internet?
‘Well, that’s true,’ Merrily said. ‘Some of us go through an entire career without once facing a major exorcism. It needs special permission from the Bishop, anyway. And usually the involvement of a psychiatrist.’
‘And may only be applied against evil. A word seldom used these days.’
‘Shouldn’t be allowed to slip out of use, though,’ Merrily said.
Beginning to think she should have worn the full kit. The blue sweater and small pectoral cross… this looked like one of those situations where friendly and casual were inappropriate.
‘So,’ Ms Merchant said, ‘how would you describe your main function?’
‘Well… essentially…’ Never an easy answer to this one. ‘We try to help people deal with problems often dismissed as irrational. Which covers… quite a lot.’
‘You take such matters seriously.’
‘Always.’
Ms Merchant nodded. She was expecting jokes?
‘I have to say you seem quite young for this.’
‘I’ll be forty soon.’
‘Have you known bereavement?’
‘I’m a widow.’
Don’t ask, Ms Merchant. Really, don’t ask.
‘Bereavement is a challenge,’ Ms Merchant said.
Ms Nott, Alys, had died a month ago following a stroke. She’d been cremated at Hereford, her ashes sprinkled on the garden, below the arbour. Telling Merrily about this, Sylvia Merchant had displayed no emotion, as if the ashes had been seeds. This was unusual. Normally, helping someone with this particular problem, you’d be faced with an uneasy mix of gratitude and the most gentle form of fear.
‘Erm, when did you first…?’
Ms Merchant extended her long legs, in surprisingly tight jeans, to the base of Ms Nott’s light-green bed.
‘Three days after the funeral, I awoke, as usual, at seven prompt. The sun was shining, much like today, but it was a cold morning. The winter wasn’t letting go. I’d look down, as I forced myself to, every morning, at Ms Nott’s pillow.’
Each of the beds had a pillow in a fresh white pillowcase.
Pushed unnaturally forward by the typist’s chair’s tilting back-support, it was hard not to look towards the pillow on the light-green bed. There was a shallow dent in it, as though a head had recently lain there.