The Reaper (4 page)

She giggled. "You made that up."

"No, Waldo said it. Pre-Freud and quite innocent, I'm sure. He never married."

She didn't know what to say.

"Anyway," Otis Joy added smoothly, "he wouldn't have wished this on you."

She said Waldo Wallace sounded a sweetie.

"Oh, sure. But on the other hand," he said, "we all get our kicks some way. If Waldo liked to hear the ladies going 'Ooh!' and 'Ah!,' maybe he had something to do with you tripping over his grave."

"All he heard from me was 'Ouch!' I hope I said nothing worse."

"He must have heard some ripe Anglo-Saxon in his time. We clergymen do, you know."

"Not from a woman, surely? Waldo was never married, you said."

"He would have had a housekeeper, and I bet she dropped a plate occasionally and said something stronger than 'Oh, my word.'"

Rachel was called for the X-ray. There would be a further wait while they processed it and showed it to a doctor. She was feeling guilty about taking so much of the rector's time on a Sunday.

"Don't you have Evening Service soon?" she asked when she returned to the waiting area.

He looked at his watch. "Oceans of time."

"It must be hard, trying to find space for your own life."

"This
is
my own life," he said. "I don't think of it as a job. True, there are fixed points in the week, services, PCC meetings, choir practice, and so on, but I make time for other things when I feel the need. Wouldn't be much use to anyone if I never relaxed."

"So what do you do?"

"In my spare time? Fresh air and exercise. I like to get out. Music."

"What sort? Classical?"

"Catatonia."

"You're kidding?"

"There's some very good bands about these days."

"I'm surprised."

"I grew up with pop. Didn't you?"

"I thought you were going to say Mozart."

"Can't fault him, but I hear a lot of solemn music in church. Give me something with a heavy beat and grunge guitars."

"My husband thinks it's cool to listen to jazz, Benny Goodman and stuff. To me it's more dated than Beethoven." She felt a small stab of conscience for knocking Gary (not to say Beethoven), but it didn't trouble her much because she also felt the hurt of the proposed New Orleans trip. "His jazz crowd like warm beer and late nights."

He grinned. "Thick, floppy sweaters."

"Old jeans and sandals. And cigarettes. Not many women go for jazz, unless they sing with a band."

"How does a jazz musician wind up with a million pounds?" he asked suddenly.

"I don't know."

"By starting off with two million."

She was called to see an orthopaedic specialist. The X-ray showed she had a fracture above the wrist, a common injury known as a Colles' fracture, the doctor explained. The lower end of the radius had broken off and displaced backwards. There was damage to a ligament, but this was normal. It would require some manipulation.

Forty minutes later, she came back with her forearm encased in gleaming white plaster. "What do you think?"

"I think you should get straight on the phone to your lawyers," he said. "Sue the Church of England. Take them to the cleaners. They're not short of a few bob."

"You'll get the sack, talking like that," she told him, speaking with a freedom she wouldn't have dared to employ an hour ago.

"I'm a disgrace."

On the drive back to Foxford, she said, "You've been so kind. I don't deserve such treatment."

"Why not?"

"Well, I'm surprised you talk to me at all after that time I knocked at your door and you were only half-dressed."

"Less than half," he said, and she thought, Oh my God, why did I bring this up?

But he was amazingly untroubled. "It reminds me of the vicar who called on one of his parishioners and got no answer, so he took out his visiting card and wrote on the back,
Revelation, 3,
20.
When the lady checked the verse she found: 'Behold I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come into him, and will sup with him, and he with me.' On the following Sunday the lady in question dropped a card of her own into the collection plate. It read:
Genesis,
3,
10.
And when the vicar checked, he found: 'I heard thy voice in the garden and I was afraid because I was naked; and I hid myself.' "

Relaxed again, Rachel said, "Well, after that, I'd better make it clear I can't offer you supper, but I hope you'll come in for coffee when we reach my house."

He wouldn't this time, he said, and she understood why, considering it was his busiest day.

"One day in the week?" she said, and boldly added, "After all, we do have some unfinished business."

"What's that?"

"Whatever it was you asked me to wait and see you about after church."

"Oh," he said. "Slipped my mind. Just an idea. In view of the accident, it may have to wait."

NEXT MORNING she received a spray of pink, yellow and white carnations. The message inside read, "Sorry about the break. Get well soon. Love Waldo."

"Who the hell is Waldo?" demanded Gary.

She was tempted to say he was someone she'd fallen for, but Gary wouldn't see the humour in it. Already he was suffering hardships because she couldn't use the arm properly to make breakfast. Any sympathy had been short-lived. So she explained whose grave she had fallen over and said the flowers were obviously a joke.

"Bloody expensive joke," said Gary. "Some people have more money than sense."

four

THE TREASURER OF THE Parish Church Council was Stanley Burrows, a retired headmaster. He had taken early retirement at fifty-six, when Warminster reorganised its education system and created a Sixth Form College (a disaster, in Stanley's eyes). He was now approaching his seventy-fifth birthday. Overweight and inclined to wheeze after getting off his knees in church, Stanley was a sober, honest and God-fearing man, treasurer to the last three rectors. Each year he reminded the PCC of his age and suggested a younger person might be willing to take over, but no one else did anything about it. The feeling in the parish was that while Stanley Was up to the job he should continue. Why not, when the accounts were always up to date and never questioned by the auditor? The diocesan quota was paid by standing order. The verger, the cleaner and the organist received their cheques. The rector was given his expenses. Stanley had an excellent relationship with Joy, who urged him not even to dream of giving up.

"But it doesn't give me the satisfaction it used to," Stanley confided this year. "It's more and more difficult to achieve a balance, I find."

"That will be the quota," said Joy. "Between ourselves, Stanley, I think the diocese will undermine everything if they go on pushing up the figure as they do. They don't understand the problems of running a parish year in, year out."

"Precisely what I found in education," said Stanley, helped onto his favourite hobby-horse. "The people at County Hall had no conception what it was like to be head of a school with out-of-date textbooks and temporary buildings. All the money went to that damned great folly up the road, if you'll forgive my language."

"The Sixth Form College?"

"The Ivory Tower, I call it."

"Still, if that's the way our masters want to spend the money ..."

"The men in suits," Stanley said with contempt, regardless that he was never seen in anything else.

"We can only carry on as usual. It's the same with the church. We must trust that the Lord will provide. And the coffee mornings."

"There's a limit to those, Rector. You can't put on more than one a month. People won't come."

"We have the income from the fete," the rector reminded him. "Beat all records this year."

"We couldn't get by without that. I was going to mention that some extra came in late as usual. The unsold secondhand books were offered to a dealer and raised twenty-five pounds, and thirty-eight more came in from door-to-door sales for the raffle. It's cash in hand that we can put into your contingency fund."

"You think so?"

Stanley nodded emphatically. "It's the best thing that happened to this parish for years, that little account with the Halifax. I mean, if all these extras showed as income in the accounts, our quota would be sky high."

"You're happy to continue with this unofficial arrangement?"

"More than happy. It's our salvation, Rector."

The word "salvation" was a little strong for a man of the cloth. "A safety net, anyway. But 1 think we should keep it confidential."

"Absolutely. We don't want the new bishop to hear of it when he's appointed. He'll only raise the quota."

"There's no need for anyone to hear of it."

"Specially the bishop."

"We don't need to personalise it, Stanley. You and I know that the board of finance does the sums and recommends the figure to the Synod."

"Sorry. I shouldn't let it get to me."

"But you're right in principle. They don't need to know every detail. We pay our share to the diocese, Stanley."

"And on time. Do you know, I've heard of churches—no names, no pack-drill—who wait until the end of the year before stomping up. It's unfair on the rest of us, because that money could have been accruing interest for the diocese and bringing down our quota."

"In theory, anyway."

"Well, it wouldn't have to rise so steeply."

"And are you still adding all the columns yourself, without using a calculator?"

Stanley was proud of hi|s mental arithmetic. "It keeps the brain ticking over, Rector. (The day they allowed the damned things into the classroom was a disaster. But if ever you find a discrepancy in my figures, I'll be happy to hand over. Some day it's going to happen. The brain cells don't replace themselves."

"I don't see any sign of yours failing," Otis Joy was quick to assure him.

"That's a relief."

"Truth to tell, Stanley, most of the clergy are duffers with money, and I'm no exception. Finance doesn't excite me in the least. I know it's part of a priest's job and can't be shirked these days. In fact, it seems increasingly to dominate parish business. So it's specially helpful that you manage our accounts so well."

Those words acted like a blessing. Stanley left the rectory in a glow of self-esteem, firmly resolved to continue as treasurer for at least another year. The more he saw of this young rector, the more he liked him.

Otis Joy, too, was quietly satisfied. He had been fortunate with treasurers at the two churches he had served as priest. Retired men, both of them, committed Christians, anxious to co-operate fully in the mundane business of financing church activities. How can a rector effectively carry out God's work if he is worried over money?

Take the matter of expenses. No priest wants to be a charge on the parish. Treasurers always feel embarrassment at being asked by the rector for petty cash. He is their minister, their spiritual father, so it can be uncomfortable dealing with his claims for car and public transport expenses, telephone, postage, stationery, secretarial assistance, office equipment, maintenance of robes, fees for visiting clergy and—a major item for an active priest—hospitality at the rectory. Fortunately his main income, his stipend, is not the business of the parish treasurer.

Otis Joy's solution to the thorny subject of expenses was the contingency fund, a building society account entirely at the disposal of the rector. It was fed by injections of cash. A church takes in most of its income in the form of cash. Collections at services are the prime source, but each fund-raising event brings in packets of coins and notes: fetes, coffee mornings, jumble sales, choral concerts, safari suppers, skittles, barbecues and social evenings. There are boxes in church for visitors to contribute a few pence to the upkeep, to buy candles, postcards and guide-sheets. Cash, cash, cash. Everything is bagged up and counted, but there are always late payments, niggling amounts that add to the work of the treasurer. The remedy was to siphon all the extras—with the treasurer's connivance—into the rector's contingency fund. This money didn't go through the books, so it simplified the accounting. More importantly, it reduced the total amount showing as parish income, and discouraged the DBF from increasing the quota.

Weddings, baptisms and funerals were another source of funds. The parochial fees were displayed on the board in the church porch, and it was convenient (the rector always explained to the families) to have them paid in banknotes, rather than cheques. He received the money in person, on the day, and paid the organist, bell-ringers and choir. The residue was his personal fee and that of the parish church council. It went into the contingency fund.

In return, he didn't pester the treasurer with frequent requests for petty cash. They had an understanding that he would draw a token amount, a nice, round figure—enough to keep the accounting simple, satisfy the auditors and everyone at the Annual General Meeting.

A happy arrangement for all concerned.

LATER IN the week at a confirmation class held in his office at the rectory, someone asked him about hell.

The question came from one of the adult candidates, a ginger-haired chartered accountant with freckles and a dour expression whose only charm was his name, which sounded like a seaside resort. Burton Sands had come late to the faith, but he was not a typical born-again Christian. He had chosen the Church of England after carefully investigating its claims and obligations. He'd picked it as a superior form of unit trust, a low-risk investment that might pay decent dividends in the long term.

"Hell?" said Otis Joy, as if it were a foreign word.

"Yes."

"We give it a low profile. It's a concept we're not too comfortable with in the modern church, but I'll say this"—he smiled and tried to duck out with a quip—"you won't find it in the travel brochures."

"Yes, but do you believe in it?" Sands pressed him.

John Neary, a plain-speaking countryman, said, "It's where you go if you arse about, isn't it?"

Ann Porter, the only woman in the group, sanitised the remark with, "If you err and stray like lost sheep."

"We all do, of course," the rector admitted. "The Bible tells us that all have sinned and come short of the glory of God, so—"

"See you down there, Rector," said Neary.

Everyone except Sands smiled, and the atmosphere improved. In some ways Neary was the saving of this group, the opposite pole to Sands. He watched football, and fiddled with his car and kept a few beehives in the back garden.

Joy tried to strike a more positive note. "Happily, there's redemption. When you're confirmed, you repent of your sins and renounce evil."

"So will I go to hell if I'm not confirmed?" Sands asked.

"Snap out of it, Burton. Be positive. Lead the Christian life and you may enter the Kingdom of Heaven."

"But if we don't," persisted Sands with his interest in the other side of the balance sheet, "if we sin and break the Ten Commandments and forget to say our prayers, what then?"

Neary yawned and said, "Let's face it. It's impossible to keep the Ten Commandments. Everyone breaks the old thou shalt nots."

"All of them?" chipped in Ann Porter. "Speak for yourself."

"No, I'd rather hear it from you, love," Neary was quick to respond. "You must have broken some. Which ones?"

She reddened. "I'm not going into that."

There were children of twelve and thirteen in the class, looking interested. "We don't have to make this personal," the rector cautioned.

"What she means," Neary continued to bait Ann Porter, "is that she has a clean sheet on number six. She hasn't murdered anyone."

"Not yet—but I might, and soon," murmured Ann.

"I guess we're all in the clear when it comes to that one," Neary blithely carried on. "Murder, I mean."

There was a pause.

"Well, don't all shout at once," said Neary.

"I'm still waiting for someone to answer my question," said Sands like a dog with a bone. "What exactly is hell?"

All eyes were on the rector, who for his own reasons had gone quiet. It was Neary who offered a partial reply. "The Bible talks about hell fire, so we know it's hot."

"Oh yes?" said Ann Porter, glad of the chance to get back at him. "With little red demons prodding you with tridents?"

Otis Joy made a serious effort to get back on track. "It may not be the same for everyone. We may all have our personal hells."

"Like a Barry Manilow concert?" said Neary.

"For all eternity," said Ann.

"Do you have to reduce everything to a joke?" said Sands. "You talk about personal hells, Rector. What's yours?"

"Mine?" Joy blinked, startled to be asked. Confirmation classes were not his favourite duty. You could bank on getting some bumptious candidate like this one, wanting to challenge theology. "Losing my job is the worst thing I can possibly imagine."

"But that happens all the time, people being made redundant."

"Not to the clergy," said Neary. "That's a job for life. It's even called a living, isn't it, Rector?"

THERE WAS a day in the week, generally Tuesday, when Joy was free of parish duties. He arranged his diary to preserve that one clear spot, and got in his ancient car and drove out of the village early in the morning and was not seen all day. The lights in the rectory did not come on until late. He never spoke of what he did, and nobody had the cheek to ask.

Theories abounded, however. It was put about at first that he was a betting man and went to the races. Later, that he bought and sold antiques, or books, or postage stamps. There was a strong rumour that he visited a mentally handicapped brother in a residential home in Bath. Another, more earthy, that he had a mistress, a married woman living on the south coast.

Stanley Burrows said, "What does it matter as long as he carries out his duties here? It's none of our business. He doesn't demand to know how we spend every minute, so what right have we to poke our noses into his private life?"

"He is our rector," Cynthia Haydenhall said at the bring-and-buy coffee morning Otis Joy had asked to be excused from. "We expect him to be above reproach." She had become cooler towards Joy since he left her out of his tea party after the fete.

"There's no reason to think he's doing anything to be ashamed of," said Stanley.

Over by the door, Owen Cumberbatch rolled his eyes as if to suggest that the complacency of these people was beyond belief.

His sister, whose inescapable toffee crispies were being offered around, was quick to say, before Owen opened his mouth, "I think our rector is the best thing that ever happened to Foxford. We've had some dull old sticks at the rectory in recent years. He treats the job as if he enjoys every minute. It's infectious. That's why the church is full on Sundays."

Mr. Prior, the eighty-year-old sidesman, came in on the end of the conversation. "What's that? Who's infectious?"

"Our rector, according to Miss Cumberbatch," said Cynthia unhelpfully.

"Is that where he is today—having treatment?" asked Mr. Prior.

So another rumour was hatched.

Between the raffle, the sale and the fifty pence entrance fee, seventy pounds was raised for the church. At the end of the morning, Stanley took it home in a brown paper bag.

He was in for a shock. A burglar had entered his cottage while he was out. Ninety-two pounds was stolen, together with a video-recorder, a Waterford rose-bowl—the last memento of his grandparents—his ivory chess-set and the silver clock he had been given by the school on the day he retired.

George Mitchell, the local policeman, came eventually. He asked to see the place where the break-in had happened and Stanley had to admit that he never locked his back door. Living in the village, he'd thought he was safe. People in villages trust each other. So the thief had just opened the door and walked in. PC Mitchell clicked his tongue and shook his head. He told Stanley he had better not mention to the insurance people that the house was left open. Stanley said he didn't see why it should become an insurance claim if the police did their job and the property was recovered. PC Mitchell shook his head and told him to get real and said theft was the most commonly reported offence. The chance of catching anyone was about one in a hundred. They didn't have the manpower to hunt down petty thieves. Stanley was outraged. He pointed out that it must have been a local person who knew about the bring-and-buy sale and had chosen a time when the cottage was empty. PC Mitchell agreed and said someone would take fingerprints, but if he were in Stanley's shoes he would file that insurance claim.