A Dead Man Out of Mind (8 page)

‘Please, call me Dolly,' insisted the other woman. ‘Everyone does. My name is really Harriet, but no one has called me that for years.' She waited for Lucy to ask her why, but when the question wasn't forthcoming she told her anyway. ‘You might not believe it, but I used to be a tiny little thing. When I was first married, my husband Norman said that I was no bigger than a doll. His little Dolly, he said.'

There was no tactful response to that, so Lucy merely smiled.

‘Vanessa is on the phone – it rang just as you arrived. She should be with us any minute,' Dolly went on, oblivious to the awkward silence. ‘It's very kind of you to come and speak to us today, Miss Kingsley. Though as I told Vanessa, there was really no need – I could have stepped into the breach, if necessary. If I say so myself, I'm rather an expert on quite a few things – Ladies Opposed to Women Priests is by no means the only string to
my
bow,' she asserted.

Again Lucy was at a loss for an appropriate reply. ‘Oh, I'm sure,' she said somewhat lamely, wondering where Vanessa Bairstow might be.

Vanessa appeared just then, carrying a cat. ‘Oh, hello, Lucy,' she said with a shy smile.

‘Who was on the phone?' Dolly demanded.

‘Just Vera. She's not going to be able to make it this afternoon – her father isn't well.' She sighed. ‘It's a real shame – she was so looking forward to it, she said.'

‘I do hope that Dr Bright isn't seriously ill,' said Dolly, frowning.

‘I'm sure he's not. Probably just one of these colds that's been going round.' Vanessa turned to Lucy. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes. Mrs Topping – Dolly – has been taking care of me.'

‘This is Augustine.' She held the cat up for Lucy's inspection and admiration. ‘My pride and joy.'

Augustine was no sleek Siamese; Lucy saw instead an evil-looking tom, battle-scarred, with a torn ear and a single malevolent yellow eye.

Lucy once again searched frantically for a suitable response. ‘How . . . um . . . nice.' She reached out a tentative hand to stroke him, and was regally ignored. At least, she thought, he didn't rip my hand off.

‘Sweetums kitty,' crooned Vanessa, enraptured.

Dolly snorted derisively. ‘That's what happens to women who don't have babies,' she muttered to Lucy. ‘They go daft over their animals.'

It was a monumentally insensitive thing to say, and judging by the flush on Vanessa's cheek, the barb had gone home. But to Lucy's great relief, almost immediately the doorbell chimed, and Emily Neville joined them.

Lucy and Emily embraced with genuine pleasure and deep affection. Their friendship was of long standing, dating back more than ten years to the time when Emily first occupied the vicarage of St Anne's, Kensington Gardens, as the Vicar's brand-new wife. Lucy had been on the periphery of the congregation then, largely through her interest in music and her regular attendance at the weekly organ recitals, and she had befriended the shy young woman, teaching her to cook and helping her to redecorate the forbiddingly masculine vicarage. Through the years they had met often, routinely at organ recitals, and at other times by choice, and Lucy was godmother to Viola, one of Emily's twins. Now, though, since Emily's husband had become Archdeacon – and perhaps not coincidentally since Lucy's involvement with David – their meetings were less frequent, and required more planning, though they kept in touch often by phone.

‘Em! You look wonderful!' Lucy spoke only the truth: Emily did indeed look every inch the Archdeacon's wife, her dark brown hair sculptured around her heart-shaped face, her delicate and small-boned figure set off by a trim navy blue dress. But Lucy couldn't help regretting the loss of Emily's own personal style. When she had first known her, barely down from Cambridge, Emily had dressed casually; Lucy had rarely seen her in anything but a pair of jeans and an oversized jumper. It was perhaps not what most vicars' wives wore, but Emily had been loved and accepted for what she was by the parishioners of St Anne's, and there had never been a word of criticism. Now, clearly, things were different, and Emily had to conform to people's expectations of an Archdeacon's wife. Poor Emily, thought Lucy. She hoped that she didn't mind too much.

‘So do you, Luce. As always. Love evidently agrees with you,' she added with a teasing smile, and was rewarded by seeing Lucy's fair skin flush. ‘How is dear David?'

‘Oh, fine.' Lucy went on quickly, ‘How about Gabriel? And the children?'

‘All very well, thanks. Gabriel is rushed off his feet, of course, but that's to be expected.'

The bell chimed again, another guest was admitted, and soon it was time for the meeting to begin.

Lucy's talk was enthusiastically received, but afterwards her efforts to reach Emily for a chat were thwarted by all the other women who wanted to speak to her.

Self-importantly, Dolly Topping pushed ahead of them all with another woman in tow. ‘This is Joan Everitt, the wife of our Parish Administrator,' she announced. ‘She wants to know how much you charge for your paintings, but she didn't want to ask you herself.'

‘That depends, of course,' Lucy hedged delicately. ‘We could discuss it, if you like.'

‘I think my husband would like one, but I don't suppose we could afford it,' said Mrs Everitt. A middle-aged woman with a bland, chinless face, she wore her hair in a style inappropriate to her age, long and straight with a black velvet Alice band. Her clothes, too, were far too young for her – not, though, as with some women of mature years who wear short, tight skirts or clothes in the latest teenage fashion. Instead her garb was schoolgirlish: a round-collared white blouse, a modest pleated skirt, and black plimsolls. The effect was mildly jarring.

‘We could discuss it later,' repeated Lucy, before, to the disappointment of Dolly Topping, changing the subject. ‘Your husband is the Parish Administrator? That must be an interesting job.'

‘Oh, yes. Stanley likes it very much.'

‘And how about you?' asked Lucy, wondering how to phrase the question without giving offence, one way or the other. The women at this afternoon's gathering were not likely to have – or even want – careers of their own, but to make that assumption could be equally dangerous. ‘Do you . . . um . . . work?'

She needn't have worried; the tone of Joan Everitt's reply was complacent rather than defensive. ‘No, not me. Not since the children came along.'

‘I should think not,' interjected Dolly. ‘A woman's place is in the home.' She managed to say it as though it were an entirely original phrase. ‘Unless,' she added with a look of pity at Lucy, ‘she's unfortunate enough not to have a husband to support her.'

Lucy couldn't help herself. ‘And especially if she has the temerity to want to be a priest.'

The statement was taken at face value, irony being a quality with which Dolly Topping had scant familiarity. ‘Absolutely,' she agreed. ‘I take it you've heard about the announcement that was made last weekend?'

‘No . . . ?'

Dolly seemed to swell with indignation. ‘The Vicar, Father Keble Smythe, announced that there's to be a woman curate at St Jude's and St Margaret's! Can you imagine anything more ridiculous?' It was a rhetorical question; without waiting for a reply, she went on, ‘I'm quite sure that it wasn't
his
idea – there must have been a great deal of pressure from higher up. After all, Father Keble Smythe is a proper Catholic – he's been a supporter of The Cause from the beginning. Many times I've heard him say that women priests are unnatural, unscriptural, completely contrary to the unbroken tradition of the Church.'

‘Then why did he consent to have a woman curate?' Joan Everitt put in. ‘Not that I blame him, of course.'

‘As I say, he must have been under pressure,' repeated Dolly. ‘Mark my words, this female was foisted on him against his will. I, for one, feel sorry for poor Father. I won't hear a word against him.'

‘Stanley says that it probably won't have much effect on St Margaret's – that things will go on much as before, with priests from other churches filling in for services. After all, she's only a deacon – she can't celebrate the Mass.'

Dolly glowered. ‘For the moment, that is. But she wants to be priested, Norman says. And then what will happen? It will all end in tears, I can tell you. I, for one, will not stand still to see a female desecrate the altar at St Margaret's.'

Lucy had been following the exchange with a certain detached amusement, but the vehemence of the last statement startled her. Realising that the other two women had forgotten her presence, she seized the opportunity for escape, and turned towards the corner where Emily Neville nursed a cup of tea. But almost instantly she was waylaid by several other women who had been waiting their turns to talk to her.

At long last, though, she achieved her objective; Emily beckoned her into an empty chair. ‘You made it,' she observed, smiling. ‘Here – I got you a cup of tea. It's probably cold by now, though.'

‘Never mind. I'm so thirsty I won't even notice.' Lucy took a gulp of the tea. ‘I was beginning to think I'd never get to you – and I don't think I would have agreed to do this today if Vanessa hadn't promised me that you'd be here. Don't you have to pick up the children from school this afternoon?'

Emily looked at her watch. ‘Not for a while yet. They've got music today, so they won't need collecting for nearly another hour.'

‘Great. Then we've got time for a natter.'

‘What's all the fuss about? Any idea?' Emily indicated the knot of women around Dolly Topping; the discussion was clearly a heated one, dominated by Dolly, who seemed to be lecturing about something.

‘It has something to do with their new curate, who had the misfortune to be born female,' Lucy explained wryly. ‘Mrs Topping doesn't seem very keen on women in holy orders.'

‘To say the least!' Emily leaned closer to Lucy, to avoid being overheard. ‘As a matter of fact, I know something about the situation.'

‘Because of Gabriel, you mean? I suppose the Archdeacon's wife knows all kinds of things like that.' Absently, Lucy twisted a curl around her finger.

‘No, he doesn't usually discuss diocesan matters with me. But it just happens that I know the woman who is going to be their new curate – Rachel Nightingale, her name is.'

Lucy couldn't help being curious. ‘How did you meet her?'

‘Actually,' Emily explained, ‘I've known her for years. We were friends at Cambridge – we were at the same college, and we both read English. In fact, when I married Gabriel, and turned down that graduate fellowship I'd been offered, she was the one who took it up. She's remained in Cambridge ever since, living the academic life that I would have had if it hadn't been for Gabriel.' She smiled, without regret. ‘We've kept in touch with Christmas cards and so forth, but I've only seen her a few times since I came down, mostly at college functions.'

‘But if she's an academic, how did she get to be a deacon? And why is she in London?'

Emily sighed. ‘It's a sad story. She married a young man whom she met at Cambridge – Colin Nightingale. He was a scientist, absolutely brilliant. I knew him slightly. Several years after they were married, when they'd practically given up hope that it would happen, they had a little girl.' She looked into her empty teacup; Emily's own efforts to have children had been traumatic, though ultimately successful. ‘Rachel was thrilled, though it meant a few adjustments in her academic workload.'

‘And?'

‘A few years ago, they were all in a car crash, on a foggy road outside Cambridge. The little girl, Rosie, was killed instantly. Colin lived, though in some ways it would have been better if he hadn't – he's virtually a cabbage, and hasn't ever regained consciousness. He's been in hospital, just kept alive, ever since the accident.' She shook her head. ‘Tragic – all that scientific genius lost. Not to mention the little girl, of course.'

Lucy found that her hand was clenched around her cup. ‘And Rachel?'

‘She was wearing her seat belt, and was only slightly injured. But of course the experience changed her life. She'd lost her family – lost everything. Not surprisingly, she had a crisis of faith, and at the end of it she decided that she was being called into the Church, to serve other people who were hurting. To be a priest, in fact.'

‘How brave of her!'

‘It was difficult, especially since at that time the legislation on women priests hadn't yet been passed by the General Synod. She was no strident revolutionary with an axe to grind or a flag to wave – just a woman who felt that God was calling her to the priesthood. So she went through theological college, was ordained a deacon, and started her curacy at a church in Cambridge. Then Colin's doctors decided that they could do no more for him – that he should be transferred to a hospital in London, where they've been pioneering new treatments for brain-damaged people. It was terribly hard for Rachel to leave her church in Cambridge, but she knew that she had to put Colin's needs first, and of course she wants to be near him. She visits him every day, even though he almost certainly doesn't know that she's there.'

There were tears in Lucy's eyes and tightness in her throat. ‘Oh, the poor woman!'

‘Financially she has no worries, of course. The chap who was driving the lorry that hit them had just come from the pub and was well over the limit, so she was awarded substantial damages. Colin is receiving the best possible care, and now that Rachel has moved to London, she's ready to get back to work.' Emily looked over to where Dolly Topping was still holding forth on the evils of women at the altar. ‘It's just her misfortune,' she added with a bittersweet smile, ‘that she has to do it at St Jude's and St Margaret's, on Dolly Topping's patch.'