seven laughing children on one wall. 'Who are they?' I asked, nodding in their direction.
She accepted the change of tack without demur. 'My grandchildren. It was one of those rare moments when they all looked their best.' She gave a little chuckle. 'Usually one of them can be relied on to scowl.'
'Who took it?'
'I did.'
'It's brilliant,' I said truthfully. 'Forget being a vicar, you should have been a professional photographer.'
'I was for a time ... well, semiprofessional. I used to do the weddings at St. Mark's, particularly for the couples who didn't have much money to spend.' She pulled open a drawer in a desk to one side of the fireplace and produced a bulging photograph album. 'I think this might interest you. Most of Annie's neighbors are in here somewhere.'
She passed it across to me and I flicked my way through a pictorial history of weddings, christenings, funerals and feast-day services at St. Mark's. The pictures from the '70s made me smile because the fashions were so dated-men in suits with flared trousers, frilly shirts and chunky identity bracelets; women with big hair, wearing empire-line dresses and sling-back shoes. There was even a picture of me at Annie's funeral, twenty-four years old and desperately self-conscious in a brand-new black maxi-overcoat which hadn't fitted properly and gave me the look of an orphan in someone else's cast-offs. I recognized very few of the faces because they weren't all from my era, but some I remembered.
'Why did you take so many?' I asked Wendy. 'You can't have been paid for all of them.'
'I thought it would be interesting for future generations,' she said. 'I wanted to leave copies with the parish register so that when people came looking for information about their families, there'd be a visual record as well as a written one.' She laughed. 'It wasn't a very good idea. There was so much time and paperwork involved in cross-referencing pictures with written entries that I got snowed under very quickly. After that I went on doing it for fun.'
Wendy moved across to sit next to me on the sofa. 'Paul and Julia, plus two children whose names I can't remember. Peter christened one of them and it howled nonstop throughout the service. These were the christening photographs.'
'Jennifer,' I told her. 'She used to cry all night. Sam went 'round once to read the riot act because we couldn't sleep for the row that was going on, but Julia was so exhausted she burst into tears on the doorstep and he couldn't bring himself to do it. After that we took to wearing ear plugs. Jennifer's about twenty-four now and working as a solicitor in Toronto. The whole family emigrated to Canada in 1980.'
'Goodness me! You
'I recognize this man's face,' I said, pointing to another picture.
'Derek Slater,' she told me. 'He was a horrible brute ... used to beat his wife and children when he was drunk. The poor creature was always taking refuge with us because she was so frightened of him.' She turned a page and pointed to a dark-haired woman holding a toddler in her arms. 'That's her ... Maureen Slater. She had four children by him-two boys and two girls-all of whom got thrashed at one time or another. Derek was always being arrested ... usually for drunk and disorderly ... although I believe he had theft convictions, too.' She placed a finger on the toddler's face. 'Derek certainly spent time in prison because this little chap came long after the other three. As far as I know Maureen's still living on Graham Road, but goodness knows where Derek went. There was a terrible fight some time in 1979 or '80 when his elder son finally found the courage to take a baseball bat to him and told him to leave.'
'That would be Alan?'
'Yes. Did you know him?'
'I taught him English for a year ... a tall, heavily built child with hands the size of dinner plates. They lived next to Annie at the end of the terrace. Number 32. Do you have a picture of Alan?'
'I think so ... but he wasn't in church when I took it. As far as I recall the only time he ever set foot in St. Mark's was to see if there was something worth stealing.' She tut-tutted to herself. 'He was a frightful thief, stole my mother's brooch from under my nose when I offered Maureen sanctuary one day, and I've never forgiven him for it. Mind you, all her children were thieves ... only to be expected, I suppose, with a father like Derek. It's very sad the way the sins of the fathers are visited on the next generation.'
'Did you report the theft?'
She sighed. 'There was no point. He'd just have denied it. And it was my fault, anyway. I should have been more careful. After that I made sure everything was locked away whenever they came to the house.'
I wondered what else Alan had got away with. 'He tried to steal from me, too,' I told her. 'I left my bag on my desk while I went to collect some notes from the staff room, and when I came back he was going through my wallet. I didn't report him either.' I tapped a finger against my lip where a tiny tic of hatred pulsed and throbbed beneath the skin. 'I'd never have let my own children get away with it.'
'No,' she said slowly, watching me with her sharp eyes, 'but I don't suppose you liked Alan much so you overcompensated.'
I didn't answer.
