He mimicked her. 'Please, Gary.'
'What can I say? If you don't want me to go to the harvest supper, I won't.'
'Do what you bloody like.'
'Please don't talk to the rector. It's going to make fools of us. It's so humiliating.'
He walked away from her. 'And you can fix me some supper the night you go out. A curry,' he said. 'And I mean a curry worthy of the name, with some flavour to it. After what I had in New Orleans, the shit that passes for food in this country is bloody tasteless.'
She had one ready in the freezer, thank the Lord. And if he wanted extra flavour, he could have it.
She didn't bring up the subject of Otis again, hoping Gary would reflect on the stupidity of accusing a clergyman of immorality. She wasn't all that confident. His time in America had made him even more confrontational. He swore at the paper boy when he left the gate unlatched. And late on Friday evening he opened the bedroom window to shout at some youths who were making a noise in the street.
On Saturday, he went up the street to the village shop to pay the paper bill. Rachel watched him from the front garden, where she had gone to prune some of the roses. He was in what he called his weekend togs, a disgusting old green pullover and jeans, and of course the greasy flat cap that disguised his baldness.
Then, to her horror, she spotted Otis striding towards the shop from the other end of the village. Please God, no, she thought.
Was it her imagination, or was there a sudden change in Gary's style of walking? He put one foot in front of the other in a more sinister, purposeful way, and she knew, just knew, he fancied himself as a gun-slinger in a western. He'd taken his hands from his pockets and was swinging his arms in a pathetic parody of John Wayne.
She watched in torment, gripping the pruning shears, openly staring, willing Otis to stop and talk to someone else, or call at one of the cottages, or think of something he'd forgotten and turn back.
But Gary marched right up and confronted him near the door of the shop, and Rachel's stomach clenched and her mouth went dry. The two men talked earnestly, it seemed to her, and for longer than a polite exchange. She wasn't close enough to see Otis's reaction, and didn't really wish to. In despair, she turned away and deadheaded more of the roses.
Gary looked smug when he returned. He'd treated himself to a bottle of whisky and he opened it straight away and slumped in front of the television with his feet over the arms of her favourite chair. He said nothing to Rachel about what had passed between Otis and himself and she was too afraid to enquire, in case it started a fight.
She made ham sandwiches for his lunch. She didn't want to eat. Trying to sound normal, she reminded him that she had to go early in the afternoon to help cook the harvest supper. She told him she'd defrosted the curry and put it in the oven on the timer, to be ready whenever he wanted it during the evening. He didn't thank her.
'I'll have it when I get back.'
'You're going out?'
'Only up to the rectory. Unfinished business.' He hadn't looked away from the TV screen.
Rachel froze.
Eleven
A casserole — or beef stew-was the traditional meal for the harvest supper. Traditional since the WI had been in charge, anyway. Probably in the days of Waldo Wallace's tithe dinners, more ambitious dishes were served. The advantage of a casserole was that it could be cooked hours ahead of time and kept simmering in a large stewpot that had once been used for the school dinners. The team of Daphne, Dot and Joan, with help from Rachel, worked through Saturday afternoon. Into that pot went diced beef, floured and lightly fried, then a real harvest crop of vegetables: onions, carrots, turnips, parsnips, peppers, aubergines, chopped celery and potatoes. Pearl barley was tossed in with favourite flavourings from bayleaves to garlic. And of course beer and water. No other cooking was required. Bread rolls were put out on the tables with jugs of cider and lemonade and there were packets of crisps for the children.
It might seem from this that Foxford's entire harvest went into the pot, but no. The hall was decorated with produce from the fields and gardens: some old-fashioned sheaves of corn made up for the occasion; overgrown marrows and pumpkins nobody would eat; baskets laden high with apples and pears; tomatoes, eggs and the harvest loaves with their plaited designs. All this would be moved to the church at the end of the evening and rearranged for the Sunday morning's Harvest Festival service, along with the tins of grapefruit and baked beans that were always donated, reminders that 'all good gifts around us' were sent from heaven above, even if some were packaged by Tesco's.
Rachel busied herself cutting vegetables, saying little, wondering if Otis would have changed his mind about coming.
The evening was supposed to start at seven, but most of the tables were full a quarter of an hour before. The appetising smell drifting downwind from the church hall must have had something to do with it.
A cynical observer might have said that tonight was the pagan part of the harvest celebration, reaching right back to pre-Christian feasts. No hymns or prayers. No reminder of the holy, aweful Reaper with the fan of judgement winnowing 'the chaff into the furnace that flameth evermore.' Just the Warminster Folk Group with country songs and dances. The local cider ensured a boisterous atmosphere.
Cynthia came into the kitchen like the lady of the manor visiting the skivvies. She'd squeezed herself into a black glittery dress with thin shoulderstraps and a rollercoaster of a plunge.
'The casserole smells divine, darlings. You've done brilliantly, as I knew you would. I can't wait to try it, but I'll have to be patient, for Otis's sake. He's a little late. Unusual for him.' She came over to Rachel. 'You look pale, dear. If you want to sit down, the others will understand.' In a lower voice, she added, 'You
Cynthia's intentions were the least of Rachel's worries. She hoped Otis would stay away, but not to thwart her friend. She hadn't spoken to him since that blighted evening in her cottage, and now she wondered when she ever would. In church she'd twice managed to slip past him after morning service while he was in conversation with someone else. The fiasco on the sofa and the spilt wine had been galling enough and now Gary playing the jealous husband was just tod much.
The truth of it was that Otis still obsessed her. She knew he had been aroused by her and they had been tantalisingly close to making love. The possibility was there, and she desired it, dreamed of it, wicked as it was. Now Gary was back from America and breathing fire, she ought to dismiss Otis from her thoughts. She couldn't, and she wouldn't, so she had to suffer mental torment.
Cynthia went off to look for him.
'I think we should start serving,' suggested Dot. 'We can't keep everybody waiting for the rector's sake.'
Thankful for something to do, Rachel ladled the steaming casserole into bowls and handed them across. In her apron and with her hair wrapped in a scarf, she was clearly not there to socialise. There were several mentions of her arm being freshly out of plaster, and she smiled and nodded, but it was obvious to anyone that she didn't have time to talk.
Then, God help her, Otis arrived in the hall. Cynthia pounced, leading him by the elbow to a reserved seat at the far end of the room where the folk musicians were playing. When he was settled, she put her handbag on the seat beside him and went off to collect his food as well as her own. Mercifully Rachel was spared having to speak to him.
In his cream-coloured summer jacket, he was looking relaxed and attractive and evidently telling more of his jokes, because every so often the whole table burst into laughter.
Rachel ladled a spoonful for herself and went into the poky kitchen to eat with the other helpers. One of them advised her to sit down. There was still the washing-up to come and it all had to be done by hand.
