Caroline Minuscule (15 page)

When they were still twenty yards from the porch, the sound of an engine made them stop and turn their heads back to the crossroads. A black Lancia cruised into the forecourt of the Burnham Arms and drew up beside the Mini. Dougal felt almost glad. The waiting was over; the Sunday morning tranquillity was a fake.

The driver's door opened and Lee lumbered out. He was alone, which was something. It also showed how low he rated their potential abilities as opponents – he must have thought Tanner would be unnecessary. But how had he known they would be here?

Without noticing, Dougal and Amanda had been backing towards the porch. But they were too late. Just as they reached the shadow of it, Lee saw them. He raised his right arm in greeting. Or threateningly? His heavy body began purposefully to move across the road towards them.

Panic gripped Dougal and Amanda simultaneously. They turned and ran into the porch, losing the vestiges of their credibility as innocent bystanders. Dougal scrabbled at the heavy iron latch of the door, pushed at it with all his weight and fell into the church with Amanda at his heels.

They both gasped.

Instead of an empty building, the church was full of people, many of them sombre in gowns of purple or black. A sonorous voice was saying, ‘. . . Hymn number four hundred and seventy.'

A harmonium somewhere out of view wheezed the opening bars and was followed by a wave of sound which swam round the dumpy Norman pillars of the nave, ricocheted down from the grimy rafters and overwhelmed Dougal and Amanda as they stood by the door.

‘Q
uite frankly,' said the Reverend H. B. Black, BD, to the plate of cheese and tomato sandwiches which he held protectively to his broad, black-fronted chest, ‘I don't hold with this sort of goings-on at all. Apart from all the Romish tendencies of the service, all these middle-class trappings aren't entirely what
I
call Christianity.' He put down the plate of sandwiches and downed his glass of sherry with one defiant swallow. The mournful, Mancunian voice droned on: ‘I wanted a city parish, of course – some sort of chance to open a valid dialogue with the secular lower-income bracket . . .'

Dougal and Amanda sighed sympathetically and continued to eat and drink. Mr Black represented security: he guarded them in one corner of the large, elegant dining room, while Lee was across the other side of the room, blocking the only exit.

It had been extremely embarrassing in the church, though Dougal realized that the unexpected congregation had saved them, for the moment, from Lee. During the hymn a black-gowned personage, who radiated ineffable superiority, had swept them into a pew beside the Morris Traveller woman. The latter had glared at them and said ‘Shush!' before they had had time to say anything. There had been nothing for it but to fumble through the hymnals with which their guide had thoughtfully provided them. Then Lee had come crashing through the door and had been immediately deflected into another pew.

Gradually the jungle of impressions had sorted themselves out. The godlike beings in black and purple gowns were public schoolboys; one or two girls, similarly attired, were among them. They looked like sixth formers. There were several masters and mistresses, distinguishable, from the rear, by the hoods on their gowns and the greyness of their hair. In the chancel of the little church, two priests, assisted by a pair of servers in surplices, were conducting the service.

Dougal fumbled through the prayer book and discovered that they were in the middle of Matins. He calculated, with the aid of childhood memories, that they were in for Holy Eucharist after this. And probably a sermon at some point. It was a quarter to eleven and it seemed unlikely that Lee would be able to do anything until midday at least, as long as they stayed where they were.

The service lasted for an eternity. They mechanically knelt, stood and sat when appropriate. The sermon, delivered by Mr Black's colleague, a wiry, square-faced priest with flashing teeth and reptilian sibilants, explained what was happening. They were in the middle of a service in commemoration of the foundation of Rosington School.

Tradition claimed, it seemed, that the school had been founded by St Tumwulf himself at Charleston Parva, and had moved to Rosington in the twelfth century to swell the ranks of the Abbey choir school. After generations of medieval obscurity and post-Reformation sloth, the vision of a Victorian headmaster had moved the school's site outside Rosington again and turned it into the major public school it was today. (At this point Dougal thought he detected a nuance of sarcasm in the preacher's voice.) But it was only right that they should gather together to remember their roots – a tiny school in this minute village, struggling to keep alight a small and flickering torch of learning. In such a way, the clergyman concluded, his delivery increasing in speed as the end drew nigh, did God keep the light of love burning in the human soul; and it was our duty, both as members of the school and of the human race, to nourish this precious flame which had been passed down to us from generation to generation. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

The service continued. The only person who appeared to be enjoying it was the chaplain, who scurried about the chancel, occasionally muttering an instruction to Mr Black.

During the last hymn, priests and acolytes processed away to the vestry. The congregation shuffled to its feet and eased its way out of the narrow and hideously uncomfortable pews. Dougal began to panic again and to wonder what Lee was about to do; he felt helpless, incapable of decision. But the immediate future was abruptly removed from his hands when the woman beside them leaned across Amanda and asked loudly: ‘Are you an Old Boy or a journalist, young man?'

‘Neither, actually,' said Dougal diffidently. The old lies came out, in the absence of anything to put in their place. ‘We're researching for a possible television documentary on Rosington and of course we could hardly leave out the school.'

The implied compliment was more effective than Dougal could have wished. The woman blushed with pleasure, which Dougal found oddly disconcerting. She wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

‘How d'you do,' she said gruffly, as if not quite at home with the phrase. ‘My name's Burnham, Molly Burnham.' She extended a large square hand, which was larger than Dougal's and considerably rougher-skinned.

Dougal and Amanda introduced themselves, and in return were invited across the road for a sandwich and a drop of something. ‘Nothing fancy, you understand, but you always need something inside you after a couple of hours in this church. Too damn draughty.'

She shepherded them out of the church, pausing to pick up an elderly lady who had been sitting alone in state in a rather larger pew up by the chancel arch. Molly Burnham introduced her as her aunt, though conversation was limited, since Mrs Burnham was not only very deaf but also seemed frankly uninterested in the world around her.

There was safety in numbers. The entire congregation strolled in a body through the churchyard, crossed the road and went into the Queen Anne house opposite. Molly Burnham let out her dogs on the way. ‘Would have done it earlier,' she said, as if in answer to an unspoken reproof, ‘but I was already late for the service. Should have been up the front with Auntie.'

She talked nonstop to Dougal and Amanda until they reached the dining room, evidently under the impression that ‘you television people – never watch it myself, except the news' required to be subjected to a constant flow of information. She was unexpectedly efficient about it too, despite the continuous demands made on her by her dogs, her aunt and her numerous acquaintances among the congregation.

The different coloured gowns denoted school prefects (black) and Queen's Scholars (purple); the fact that the service was held here rather than at the cathedral was a sop to her wealthy aunt, a granddaughter of the celebrated Victorian headmaster mentioned in the sermon who had in fact inaugurated the tradition of a founder's day service; the rector, Mr Black, disapproved of the whole business, and she, Molly, wished the living was still in the gift of the Burnham family because the bishop simply couldn't be trusted these days.

While this was going on, Dougal and Amanda were surreptitiously looking round to see what Lee was doing. To their despair they saw him deep in conversation with Mr Black. Molly Burnham noticed the general direction of their glance, which prompted her to make a pointed comment that the only local people in his church had been herself and her aunt, and who was that man in the extraordinary raincoat to whom he was talking?

Dougal said he rather thought the man had been staying at the Crossed Keys with them that weekend; perhaps he was an Old Boy? To which Miss Burnham said, ‘Certainly not,' in a very firm voice and led them into the house.

They crossed the hall and entered the dining room. The table in the centre was covered with food; one sideboard was loaded with sherry glasses, while another contained an array of coffee cups. Presiding over this was a plump woman with a lined face wearing a vast apron advertising Heinz Baked Beans. She at once came forward, took Mrs Burnham by the arm and settled her in a wing armchair by the fireplace with a glass of sherry. Mrs Burnham took one birdlike sip of her sherry and appeared to fall asleep at once.

Miss Burnham left them to fulfill her duties as surrogate hostess. The room filled with people chattering, clinking glasses, cutlery rattling on plates. Lee had now come in; he was telling a joke to a mistress with tightly controlled iron-grey hair. Dougal and Amanda swiftly attached themselves to Mr Black who was meandering around the room carrying a plate of sandwiches with the aimless and irritating vagueness of a lonely bluebottle. He was only too glad to find someone to talk to.

It was, however, difficult to concentrate on the rector's monologue. Dougal caught fragments of it and could construct the general drift without effort. Mr Black felt obliged to justify his presence in a place which had, he said, ‘no real meaning at this point in time.' He pointed out that he had gone to a grammar school and that he wished that circumstances could have permitted him to attend a comprehensive. He blamed the bishop – obviously the scapegoat for all seasons, thought Dougal – for the conservatism of the Diocese of Rosington. ‘The smugness of the place kills honest emotions,' he said, his Adam's apple leaping up and down in his emotion above his broad and slightly grubby clerical collar. ‘The only priest here who had some sort of concept of the sociological role of the Church was old Vernon-Jones – and he's just died, of course.' Mr Black frowned at the inept timing of the Almighty. ‘You must have read his book –
My God Among Tbieves
? Bit elitist naturally (his background was against him), but he was basically on the side of the People . . .' Mr Black offered to give them a tour of the depressed areas in and around Rosington – ‘just the thing for truly meaningful documentary material.'

Lee was beside the only door from the dining room with a glass of sherry in one hand and a vol-au-vent in the other. If they were to leave, it would have to be with someone else; preferably with a coachload of sixth formers for maximum security. Perhaps they could say that the Mini had an oil leak or something. But there would probably be an officious amateur mechanic on hand, eager to mend it for them. And even if they could cadge a lift, Lee would only have to trail them in the Lancia until they were alone again. Mr Black's dandruff, Dougal noticed dispassionately while this was going through his mind, had left rich deposits on the black shoulders of his clerical suit.

At this point the chaplain approached, moving towards them through the intervening clusters of people with the adroit efficiency of a natural diplomat. He detached Black from Dougal and Amanda (‘Herbert, could you possibly give Molly a hand with the coffee? She's rushed off her feet over there.') and smoothly introduced himself as Derek Prenderpath.

‘I couldn't help noticing you in church – we get so few strangers at the Commemoration service usually. Of course, it used to be a much grander affair than it is now – between ourselves, the Head only keeps it on for the sake of the Burnhams.'

Mr Prenderpath had gathered, by the bush telegraph which operated in this small social group whose members knew one another only too well, that Dougal and Amanda were connected in some vague and potentially delightful way with television. The tip of his tongue moistened his finely moulded lips. Dougal was reminded of a well-preserved lizard.

Prenderpath's hair had originally been blond, but was now dappled with grey; his movements were faunlike; his teeth flashed frequently with the glaring regularity of a toothpaste advertisement; and his clerical suit was dove grey with a red silk lining.

He was polite to Amanda, but concentrated his conversational efforts on Dougal. These tended towards two ends: to discover more about the proposed programme on Rosington; and to familiarize them with his opinions of the other people in the room.

‘Molly Burnham's on the Board of Governors now we've gone coeducational; I sometimes wonder whether she confuses the school with her dogs and vice versa.'

Amanda was white-faced by Dougal's side. They were both smoking now, inhaling their cigarettes with furious concentration, as if tobacco could bring about a miracle. As the chaplain's waspish voice whined effortlessly on, Dougal began to wonder desperately if they could get out of this by telling the truth – by throwing themselves on the mercy, respectability and common sense which everyone here except Lee presumably possessed. The prospect of such a scene appalled him, which he recognized as mildly ironic. But the main stumbling block was one of belief. They had no proof. Lee need only deny the whole thing. Maybe he should pretend to faint; Miss Burnham would surely let him and Amanda stay for a few hours, by which time . . . but that was no use: Lee would wait.