You Owe Me Five Farthings Read online

  “Miss Barnard, I think you’d better have a look at this one.”

  It was a large book, leather-bound in light-brown calf. Mike knew enough to realise that it was seriously old, but what amazed him most was the content. The heavyweight paper bore words that he struggled to make sense of, though it was obviously written in English of some kind.

  “My God,” was Miss Barnard’s reaction. “We’d better keep this for Mr Hellyer to see.”

  “I suppose so.” Mike felt slightly disappointed. He had dreamed for a moment of putting all his pocket money in the tin and buying the book himself.

  Miss Barnard was quick to notice his disappointment. “It might be quite valuable,” she explained. “If so, we’ll take it to the antiquarian bookseller in Winchester, and get a better price than we could on the stall here. I wouldn’t know what price to put on it, anyway, would you?”

  Mike shook his head and mentally put his £20 note back in his pocket. “I’ll put it on one side, then, shall I? It looks fascinating,” he added slightly wistfully.

  “Can you actually read it, Mike? It looks indecipherable to me.”

  Mike hesitated and then shook his head. “Not really. But it is English, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I think so. I don’t know a lot about early English, but Simon does. We’ll ask him.”

  Mike nodded and stored the book away safely in a polythene bag. “Where shall I put it?” he asked. Things could easily vanish at the Fayre if they weren’t kept out of the way.

  Miss Barnard took it from him and stowed it in a big plastic carrier under the stall. “It’ll be safe enough there, I expect.”

  Mike hoped his father would be able to come and pick him up. He would be sure to want a look at the book before it went to the antiquarian bookseller.

  ~ * ~

  Jeremy read the text from his son at two-thirty and drove straight from Two Marks to Northchurch to join him. He always enjoyed the College Fayre and regretted that this year a funeral visit had clashed with it. But parish duties were parish duties, and he had had no choice but to deal with the matter, since the deceased’s middle-aged son and daughter had taken the trouble to drive down from the Midlands to meet him.

  Mike greeted him with enthusiasm. “Hi, Dad! We’ve sold lots of stuff.”

  “Good. Anything special I missed?”

  “Whitehill Abbey sent some theology stuff––that’s still over here if you want to look at it. There were a couple of crime novels I thought you might like,” added Mike. “But they were bought early on and I didn’t think I should keep them back in case you didn’t want them.”

  “That’s fine,” Jeremy reassured him. “You know Mum always says I have far too many books on my shelves anyway. I’ll take a quick look at the theology books, though. Whitehill often throws out useful stuff.”

  “There was something else from there, too,” went on Mike eagerly, looking under the table for the bag where he’d put the ancient book. “Hey! That’s odd. Where is it? Miss Barnard, where did you put the book we were going to show Mr Hellyer? I know Dad would be interested.”

  “It’s still under the table, I think,” said the teacher. She bent down to look more carefully.

  But the carrier bag and The Book had vanished.

  Three

  “Shit,” exclaimed Miss Barnard; and then, “Sorry, Vicar.”

  Jeremy made a gesture dismissing any offence.

  “It’s my fault,” she added after a moment, shaking her head with annoyance, and, Jeremy thought, embarrassment.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “There was a woman who bought several books,” she said. “And she wanted a carrier bag to put them in. I must have given her that one without realising it.”

  Before his father could react, Mike said, “I expect the lady will notice when she gets home and unpacks the bag. Then she’ll bring the book back, won’t she?”

  “Let’s hope so,” said the teacher, smiling at his faith in the honesty and responsibility of this unknown Fayre customer. “But College is closed after today for the Christmas break, remember, so we’ll just have to cross our fingers that she doesn’t put the book somewhere and forget about it.”

  Jeremy thought of all the times that people forgot things over Christmas and thought that scenario all too depressingly likely.

  “That would be dreadful!” exclaimed Mike. “The Book was fascinating, Dad. Written in ancient English, and in a leather binding. We were going to show it to Mr Hellyer and maybe take it to the antiquarian bookseller in Winchester.”

  Mike wanted to buy it himself, Jeremy thought, reading his son without much difficulty. Pity he wasn’t allowed to.

  “We’ll just have to hope it’ll turn up,” he said. “Come on now, Mike. Time we went home. I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast, I don’t know about you.”

  The rest of the day passed peacefully at the rectory. After a substantial snack, Mike went off to complete some homework for Monday, and Jeremy took himself and a sandwich to his study to look over the first draft of his sermons for the weekend’s Sunday services.

  The younger children arrived home from their various activities with friends in the village for the evening meal before dispersing again to other parts of the house for the evening. Saturday was Lorna and Mike’s evening for washing up, so Jeremy and Liz were able to enjoy a cup of coffee together after dinner before he went off to the study as usual for the rest of the evening.

  As he drank his coffee, Jeremy suddenly conceived a new idea that might explain Rose’s distress, and having Liz to hand, he took the opportunity to run it past her.

  “Do you think,” he suggested, “Rose feels that if she and Clive are trying to mend their marriage, she should give Simon the cold shoulder? Could that be what is wrong?”

  Liz considered for a moment before answering. “I suppose if Rose felt that her friendship with Simon was threatening Robert’s wellbeing, she might just cut off all contact with him. In fact, she wouldn’t hesitate.”

  “Whatever the cost,” added Jeremy.

  “Absolutely––to her or Simon. But—”

  Jeremy looked at her enquiringly.

  “I can’t immediately see why she would feel Robert would be threatened by her being friends with Simon. He is so good with youngsters––look at the way he dealt with the children that evening when he cleared up the mystery of what had happened to Robert. The twins were mesmerised, I know, when he was telling them the story of what he thought had happened, and remember how Robert trusted him and spoke up, when he hadn’t done before.”

  “True.” If anything, Jeremy thought Robert probably had more confidence in Simon than he did in Clive, his father. The latter had never taken much interest in him, after all. But that didn’t really help in the current situation.

  “Rose told us she and Simon were just friends, remember? After they danced together at the St Martin’s ball and we were worried about it. She wouldn’t feel able to take things further with Simon if she was trying to keep her marriage together for Robert’s sake, to give him some stability.”

  “No,” Jeremy agreed slowly. “I can see that.”

  “But––am I being over-romantic? Supposing Simon is in love with her. It would upset her terribly if she had to hurt him, after all the support he gave her when Robert was ill and Clive was nowhere in sight, whatever her own feelings are. Perhaps we need to find out more––that is, if she will confide in us.”

  Jeremy moved uneasily in his chair.

  “Clive is a scumbag, Remy. We really don’t need to have any qualms about taking Rose’s side. Besides, she’s my friend.”

  “Talking of Simon, Liz,” said Jeremy, changing the subject. “We haven’t asked him over to dinner, and I promised we would––a few weeks ago, before we got embroiled in all that business with Brian Warrendon’s death. I have to admit I’d forgotten all about it, and I don’t think I even mentioned it. ”

  “You didn’t,” Liz confirmed. “
I suppose as long as we don’t invite Simon and Rose at the same time, we can’t cause any more problems. Though I’d rather have Simon than Clive any day––and I bet he’d be much kinder to both Rose and Robert.”

  Jeremy grunted. He didn’t feel altogether comfortable with Liz’s confident judgements about the Rose/Clive/Simon situation. But he wasn’t sure, when it came down to it, whether Rose and Clive’s marriage was worth saving––except perhaps for the stability it might offer Robert at a vulnerable moment of his young life. Maybe he should put aside (even though it would cause him some difficulty) his clerical convictions about the sanctity of marriage. But then there was the possibility of repentance and reform on Clive’s part, which as Clive’s pastor he should be supporting.

  What do I know, after all? he asked himself, sitting at his desk later with The Times crossword, a regular Saturday evening indulgence. I’m one of the lucky ones with a wife who loves me and has always been faithful and supportive. What a blessing it was always to be able to talk things over with Liz, knowing that her discretion was absolute and her human wisdom greater than his own.

  He finished the crossword a little before ten o’clock. It had been a particularly nasty affair, full of convoluted clues which required for its solution a liberal helping of lateral thinking as well as the usual flair for anagrams, and on the whole he was quite relieved to have completed it. He folded up the newspaper and settled down to read through tomorrow’s sermons and pray. The rest of the family was in bed, for Liz always retired early on Saturday nights, and these late hours had become precious to Jeremy as a time of peace before the demands of a clerical Sunday.

  He made a few corrections to the sermon he would preach, first at St Martin’s at nine-thirty, then at St Andrew’s Southover at eleven. But before long he laid the sermon notes aside. He was aware, not for the first time, of a feeling of frustration, a kind of creeping paralysis of the spirit. Looking back on his life as a clergyman, he could not quite understand how it had brought him to this particular benefice rather than another. His theology was not really suited to a conservative rural parish, nor were his sense of humour and his occasional flashes of what seemed sometimes like almost telepathic insight. He cared deeply for his parishioners, and if need be would have given his life for them, but increasingly, he didn’t feel he really fitted their template for a vicar.

  He left the desk and settled into his armchair. A Bible lay on the small table at his elbow, and he picked up his old pipe to hold between his teeth. The pipe was unlit and empty of tobacco, since Liz hated smoking, and if he lit up, her excellent nose would inform her of the fact in the morning; but the feel of the stem in his mouth was comforting.

  Deliberately turning his mind outward, away from his own concerns, he let it run freely over the village, stopping at one house, considering the problems of a family or an individual, moving on to the needs of the community as a whole. It was a way of coming to understand his parishioners better, to see the truth behind their façades, and whilst he was often amused by their idiosyncrasies, he genuinely tried to find ways to help them. His often penetrating insights into their lives would undoubtedly have horrified many of them, but he usually kept them to himself unless the parishioners in question came to him for advice.

  Rose Althorpe, now. Jeremy sucked on his pipe with greater concentration as he reviewed the conversation he’d had with Liz on the subject. He and Mike had passed her that very afternoon on her way home from the church––seeing to the flowers probably, as she was on the rota. Robert had been walking beside her and yet she looked unhappy and exhausted. Robert was her life’s light, her joy and pride and anchor, though Liz sometimes wondered how healthy that was. Still, at least she usually looked happy if he was around. Jeremy wondered again what had happened to threaten her peace of mind. He hadn’t seen Simon lately and was glad they had agreed to ask him over to dinner––it had better be on a Monday, which was Jeremy’s day off from parish duties, so that they would meet as equals. Simon was an agnostic and didn’t recognise any special status in his being the local rector. Why should he, after all? Jeremy asked himself. Maybe if Simon paid them a visit, it might become clearer whether he had anything to do with Rose’s unhappiness.

  The clock began to strike insistently. It was midnight. He must get some sleep soon. He made a mental note of Rose’s name for special prayer in his private intercessions, promised himself a small investigation into the mystery of what was upsetting her, and moved his attention to another parishioner. George Warrendon, whose brother had died a violent death in November, was also much in need of help. He must try to visit the farmer as soon as possible, but there was never much time for pastoral visits just before Christmas. Prayer would have to do for now.

  ~ * ~

  On Sunday morning, Clive insisted that Rose go to ring the bells for morning service. “I can organise Robert,” he said. “If he wants to come to the service, I’ll bring him along in half an hour. Otherwise I can mind him until you get back––so stay on to communion if you want.”

  In the face of this, Rose found herself unable to marshal any arguments against going, not least because she was aware how few ringers would be available. If Geoff couldn’t put together a band of Sunday ringers, Clive would find out, and he would be sure to blame her, since he had been willing to look after Robert while she went to take part.

  I knew I’d feel an obligation to the bells, she thought desperately, as she walked down the lane listening to the ringers raising the bells three at a time rather than in peal. Ding dang dong, ding dang dong, they shouted to her. If there weren’t enough good ringers to ring up the six together, then Geoff was indeed short of help this morning. Was it only on Friday I thought I couldn’t face ringing on Sunday again?

  She entered the tower in great trepidation, using the side entrance as the bellringers usually did, and was relieved to find that Simon had not turned up. Term would already have finished, she remembered, at the independent school in Northchurch where he taught, so perhaps he had gone away for Christmas. Simon never said much about himself in general, but in their few private conversations he had sounded so alone that she didn’t think he had much in the way of relatives to visit at Christmas. Surely he wouldn’t have stayed away from Sunday ringing because of her? Yet after all, she had been tempted to stay away because of him.

  She flung the thought away from her impatiently and took the treble rope.

  “We’ll ring Plain Bob Doubles,” Geoff, the tower captain, told them. “Just a plain course, no bobs and singles.”

  Rose nodded, relieved. The calling of “bobs” and “singles” in the course of a method subtly changed the order in which the bells rang, and that was often sufficient to dent both her confidence and her accuracy. With only six ringers available that morning, no one was free to stand beside her and keep her up to the mark.

  At five to ten they rang the bells down and left Geoff chiming the treble for a few minutes to signal to any latecomers that there was need for haste. Rose, feeling cowardly, darted out of the side entrance with Geoff’s son Ken and Janice, another local ringer, leaving Lesley to go through into the church alone for the service. But halfway down the path she met Clive and Robert.

  “We decided to come,” said Clive.

  “Oh,” said Rose, feeling foolish. “And I’d thought I’d come back and spend the morning at home today instead!”

  “I’ll come home with you, Mummy,” offered Robert. “I don’t find church very interesting, usually. Except the Family Service,” he amended. “That’s quite fun sometimes. I’d much rather have time with you at home. Can we decorate the tree?”

  Rose looked at Clive over the top of his head while she considered this suggestion. Robert was offering her the easiest of ways out, and she very much wanted an excuse to miss the service. But what did Clive want? Normally he came to church only on special occasions. If Robert hadn’t asked particularly to come this morning, why was he here? Had he hoped for a family outing
together?

  “If you two are heading home,” he said unexpectedly, “I’ll go to church on my own for once. You go and enjoy yourselves.”

  Rose hesitated, but Robert’s hand slipped into hers and gave a little tug. He seemed more normal this morning, and it would be good for him––for them both––to decorate the Christmas tree together in a renewal of their old companionship. She nodded at Clive. “All right. We’ll see you later.”

  Clive waved to Robert as they walked away and went into church to listen to Jeremy preach about John the Baptist. Robert’s alacrity in choosing his mother’s society over his own had not escaped him. He was trying hard to rebuild the fractured relationship with his wife and son, and with it discover the solace that so many men seemed to find in their family, but that had always escaped him. It seemed there was a long way to go.

  Jeremy was as surprised as Rose to find Clive attending church without the rest of his family, and at first he wondered whether Robert was ill again. But in some ways he was relieved that Rose was absent, because his sermon on John the Baptist had somehow developed during its preparation into a stern reminder to his more-or-less affluent and complacent congregation that Christianity was not meant to make them comfortable, but to challenge them. And whilst many of them––including Clive, probably––needed to hear that message, Rose did not.

  He wondered again whether he should visit her and try to help. I always find my sermons turned upon myself, he thought, as he unfolded the piece of paper on which he had written the intercessions for the day. Whatever I think the congregation needs to hear, I usually need to hear too. And what comfort have I got to give her anyway?

  ~ * ~

  Rose and Robert dragged the big Christmas tree, still wrapped in its protective net, in from the wet garden and set it up in the sitting-room. It dropped a few needles on to the carpet, no doubt a harbinger of serious depilation in the New Year, and stood nakedly awaiting the application of tinsel, lights and baubles. Robert opened the plastic-lidded crate in which the decorations resided for most of the year and helped Rose to festoon the tree with them. The lights were in working order, she was glad to see, and she left Robert to choose the decorations they would use, contenting herself with putting up those he wanted on the branches that were out of his reach.