Power on Her Own (5 page)

Kate laid her hand briefly on her forearm, and kissed her. It wasn't until she was in the thickly carpeted corridor that she let herself lean back against the wall, eyes closed. What a pity Cassie was one of that lost generation of women whose careers never matched their abilities. The old woman would have made a wonderful general.

Almost as soon as she'd let herself in, there was a knock at her door.

‘Mrs Mackenzie! Come on in!'

‘No, girl, I haven't come to take your time. I thought you could maybe fancy some of this.' She pushed forward a covered casserole. ‘Peas and rice. Since you can't be cooking.'

‘That is kind of you – are you sure you won't step in?'

‘Just out of the rain. Lord, Kate: the smell!'

‘Old ladies and wet plaster. And the dust of ages.'

‘You sure got that, all right.' She hovered. Something was worrying her.

To fill the silence, Kate said, ‘I shall have to get a skip for most of the stuff. Charity shop wouldn't look at it.'

‘No, but an antiques dealer might. You talk to my Joseph. He know these things. Hmm.' She peered at the over-mantel.

Better say something else. ‘The leg's going on fine, thanks to you.'

‘Oh, that's nothing. That business up Heathfield Road: that where it happened? That girl? It was on TV.' Her voice was sharp.

‘I was just on my way from the chippie. Heard a scream. Thought I'd better do something.'

‘And they pushed you down? On to some glass?'

What was she trying to find out? ‘By the skip,' Kate said, non-committal. ‘But it's all in the hands of local CID, now. Hope they get them.'

‘Did you see them? I mean, you were close, weren't you?'

The woman was worried, wasn't she? Worried enough to ask risky questions. Surely she couldn't suspect her own son? Honesty might be the best response. It usually was. ‘Only the back view. I was on the ground. Not much to go on. I hope the poor girl will be more use than I am.' Mrs Mackenzie nodded. ‘She all right?'

‘She was sixteen. She was raped. How all right can you be after that?'

It was terribly hard to yell at anyone who began a phone conversation with the words: ‘I'm sure you wish me at the devil, Miss Power, but I promise you it wasn't my idea.'

‘I believe you.'

‘I was only trying to fill up a silence.'

‘I believe you.'

‘And I have got the feelers out for anyone who could – I suppose, just until I find someone, you couldn't consider it, just for a couple of weeks?'

‘I'm not really what you'd call a Christian.' Not on speaking terms with God. Not now.

‘I don't ask you to pray, just to play. You'd be a god-send. Please.'

‘I couldn't do both services.'

‘You could choose.'

She liked his voice. Admired his cheek. And fingered the wad of fifty-pound notes that her aunt had given her and meekly agreed to play for the morning service.

Whenever their shifts had let them, Kate and Robin had luxuriated in Sunday mornings. Often – if the kids hadn't been round – they'd enjoyed nice relaxed sex, and then the papers over coffee. Then brunch, with the whole cholesterol works: bacon, egg, sausage, though no fried bread latterly. As if looking after his health had helped Robin.

Kate pushed away her plate. Suddenly she didn't want even the modest bacon sandwich, though she'd tried to work up an appetite with an early morning run round Kings Heath Park. A jog to warm up and cool down, but a good brisk run for a mile. The knee had stood it remarkably well. It was good to be getting control over her body again. Except for the matter of Graham Harvey's herbal tea, of course. He still looked at her with disconcerting kindness each time he came across her in the office or along the corridors, as if wanting to ask if she was settling in, but being too tactful to do so. When she'd asked if he could spare her so she could play the organ this morning, he'd insisted that she should take the whole day off.

‘All day on computers,' he'd said, smiling, ‘your eyes and shoulders'll need a break. Not to mention your brain!'

With the young men, he was more often in schoolteacher mode.

‘Thing is,' Sally said, ‘he's straight. Straight as a die.'

Or was it straight as a Dai?

She liked Sally and was getting on well with Colin. Only Selby still seemed to think that honours had to be evened. Best not to think of him on a Sunday before chapel.

Pecking at dry bread she looked at her watch. Ten. Time to get dressed, and in something appropriate, too. With most of her clothes still in Croydon or in suitcases, to avoid all the mess, her choice was limited. The suit she wore to court might be the best thing, except it wasn't, now she came to hold it up, wide enough in the skirt for working the organ pedals. She grabbed the next best, a bottle-green pleated affair in which she always looked hung over.

It would have been nice to get the feel of things first, of course, but there'd really been no time. So it would be in at the deep end with a strange organ, a strange choir and a strange acoustic.

She'd cut it slightly fine and had to go into the chapel as if she were simply one of the congregation. She was intercepted at the door by a stringy woman aged anything between fifty-five and sixty-five – a deaconess whose job it was to welcome the congregation and pass them hymn books. Kate smiled. Maybe the woman smiled back: it was hard to tell. Her handshake was perfunctory, to say the least.

Kate tried again: ‘Hello. I'm Kate Power. I believe Mr Elford is expecting me. I'm your temporary organist.'

The woman's nose thinned. ‘You'll find him in the vestry.'

‘Which is where?'

She was treated to a curt sideways jerk of the head. My God, not another case of the deaconess being in love with the minister? Such relationships, if that was what they ever were, had enlivened her Sunday-school classes and later her time in the chapel choir. Smiling the neat, undimpled professional smile she'd learned, she pushed open the door to the chapel. And stopped short. She'd never seen anything like this. Not your usual plain wood-panelled building, with a big central block of pews and a smaller one each side. No. This was – heavens, it was like a mini Sacré Coeur! All stained glass and polished tiles. There was a central aisle, like in the church where they'd buried Robin. A few deep breaths.

‘Is there a problem, Miss – er –?'

Kate spun round. It was the deaconess. ‘Power. Kate,' she repeated. ‘No, I was just – taken aback – by this.' She gestured.

‘You'll find the Minister through there.'

‘Thanks. I don't know any of your names yet. You're –?'

‘Mrs Walters.' There was a certain emphasis on the title.

Kate knocked on the vestry door, waited a moment, and went in. All she could see was the back of an academic gown, as someone struggled into it. She gave it a firm hitch, and waited for the owner to turn.

He was too busy shifting the gown's weight more firmly on to his shoulders to take in who had rescued him.

‘Hello. I'm Kate Power.'

When he finally looked up and round, she could see nothing but puzzlement on his face. But when it cleared, it was transformed: no wonder Mrs Walters wanted to defend Mr Elford from all comers. Half the women in the congregation must be in love with him. He was classically handsome, with the sort of bones that would go on looking elegant until he died. Since he couldn't have been much more than forty, this might well be a long time in the future.

Mr Elford's smile faded. ‘You can sight read, can't you?'

Kate had probably expected, if she'd thought about it, effusive thanks and apologies, which she would have laughed aside. As it was, she felt put out. It was like being interviewed belatedly for a job she didn't even want.

‘Yes.' Perhaps her irritation showed. Perhaps she didn't at this moment mind if it did. ‘As long as you stick to the old Baptist Hymnal and don't want anything trendier – syncopation's never been my strong suit – we might just get through. Prayer seems entirely appropriate, all things considered.' She found herself laughing away her bad temper.

He joined in. ‘We'd better have a word with Him then: the lady who organises the choir – Mrs Pritchett, that is – tends to rewrite the hymns somewhat.'

It was possible after all that she might like Mr Elford. ‘How much rewriting?'

‘Just enough to get them into the choir's range, I believe. It's a very small choir.'

‘Reedy tenors, one bass and loads of sopranos?'

‘They all work very hard.' He lifted his voice so it would carry. ‘Ah, Mrs Pritchett. Margaret. This is Kate Power, who's so kindly agreed to play for us for a few weeks.'

A few!

Mrs Pritchett was a top-heavy woman, to whom middle age was not being kind. While her body had thickened, her hair had not, and although a talented hairdresser might have done something, Mrs Pritchett was currently displaying an area at the front almost bald. The bags under her eyes suggested chronic sinusitis. When she had swept Kate from head to toe she nodded briefly. Another one in love with Elford, presumably. Kate caught herself wishing that Elford was gay, just to confound the predatory women.

‘Of course,' Mrs Pritchett began, ‘our last organist was BMus, Durham.'

‘I'm B Soc Sci, Manchester. With an MA in Criminal Psychology.' So why was she stung into such a silly boast? Normally she never spoke of her qualifications. It wasn't what you had on paper that counted: it was how good you were at your job. Clearly she had gone too far: Mrs Pritchett's nose, with its rather long tip, reddened.

Not an auspicious start, then. The service was long and enthusiastic, but the choir, for all Mrs Pritchett's training, dawdled badly, dragging the lovely tunes into dirges. And they sharpened and flattened at will. Despite the nice Mr Elford, she'd made a bad mistake – or rather, Aunt Cassie had made one for her. She was too irritated to be uplifted, and the thought that she could have stripped a whole roomful of wallpaper during the sermon alone made her irritation worse.

She was slipping out of the chapel when Elford intercepted her. ‘Are you in a terrible hurry, Kate? Because I was hoping you'd join us for a pre-lunch sherry. I'd like you to meet the deacons – see the sort of community we are.'

Her first impulse was to refuse: but she straightened her shoulders and accepted. If it provided nothing more, it might afford a few moments' grim comedy.

The manse was a modern house, clean and cheerfully decorated. There was a clutter of toys in the hall, and the sweet smell of roasting lamb.

‘Let me have your coat,' Elford said, reaching for it. ‘Maz! Maz, love.'

If Kate had been one of Elford's fan club, she'd have given up. Maz, taking off her apron and stashing it behind an out-of-control Swiss cheese plant, was a couple of inches taller than her husband, slender and blonde. No wonder she hadn't gone to the service: the elderly women who dominated the front pews would have spent their time praying for her instant death.

‘Maz, this is Kate. Our temporary organist.'

‘It's good to meet you. Come along in! Giles: get in there! They're all waiting for you. Hang on, Kate – you'll need a glass. I only put out the usual number.' She grinned as if they were accomplices in something.

And then there was a yowl from the kitchen. Maz turned tail, and Kate followed, running. Two or three children were doing something with apples. One of the girls – she must have been about six – was screaming as blood oozed from her clenched fist.

‘My God! Let Mummy look, love.'

‘Here, let me. Get me a clean tea towel, will you?' Kate uncurled the fist. There was a long slice across the thumb. ‘No, it's not deep. There's a large flap of skin there. Have you some sharp, clean scissors?' She snipped before the little girl knew what she was doing, and squeezed the tea towel. ‘Just hold that, tight as you can. Tighter! What's her name? Jenny? Good girl, Jenny. Got a first-aid box? We could do with those adhesive strips – butterflies. Excellent. Come on, sweetheart, we're just going to put these strips across here – there, you can see it's bleeding less already. Another one just there. Good girl. Now, we'll just clean you up a bit and you'll be as good as new.' She swabbed and dabbed till the thumb was clean, and then rooted through the first-aid box. ‘Non-stick dressing, that's what we could do with. Yes, we could cut a bit off there. And some adhesive. And then it's just a matter of getting the rest of the blood up and Bob's your uncle.'

‘Or even, in these enlightened days,' said Maz, ‘your aunt. Golly, Kate, that was all very brisk and efficient.'

‘First-aid, training. And not being involved.' Then she thought of Mrs Mackenzie's work on her leg: ‘Hey, has she had anti-tet?'

‘Last month.'