felt melancholy. She paused and looked round. Yes, it was overwhelmingly sad. A definite presence seemed to hang about the rooms. She sighed. Being sensitive to atmosphere was not always a blessing, but at least she knew what to do about it.
She focused on it for a moment and shook her head. Not a ghost. A residue. Someone had spent a lot of time here filling the room with unhappy thoughts. She could sense misery, loneliness and resignation and maybe, fear. She sent up a quick prayer of comfort for her predecessor, if it was indeed him, resolving to hold a healing ceremony that very evening to cleanse and bless the place, then over the coming weeks and months, to fill the flat with flowers and music and, hopefully, laughter.
Kieran arrived about an hour later full of apologies for not being there to meet her. He was formally dressed, including the dog collar, and looked exhausted as, having shaken hands and welcomed her again, he followed her into the sitting room and threw himself down on the sofa. ‘This is the trouble with a twenty-four hour job,’ he said wearily. He smiled. ‘So, Sandra looked after you?’
Abi nodded.
‘And you are ready to start work tomorrow?’
Abi sat down opposite him. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting everyone.’
‘And they are all looking forward to meeting you.’ The easy warmth which she had remembered from their first meeting was immediately reassuring. ‘If you shadow me for a few days, just to find out who is who and what is what, then we can decide what part of the load you can take over.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and held her gaze for a moment. ‘I’m going to throw you in at the deep end, Abi.’
Walking into his study on the ground floor of the Rectory half an hour later, Kier sighed, throwing himself down at his desk. He glanced at the answerphone, saw the number six flashing reproachfully and reluctantly he reached forward to press the play button.
‘Kier? Where are you?’ The woman’s voice, exaggeratedly patient, was punctuated with a theatrical sigh. ‘Why don’t you answer my calls?’
Sue.
She knew why. He had been out all day, that was why.
Two calls from parishioners followed, both distressed, both needy, then a second from Sue. The last two were silent.
He put his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair. For a moment he was tempted to ignore her. Let it go for tonight. She knew what he did, she knew the pressures, the hours, the battles he was fighting with work, the two parishes, the mess left behind by Luke. But looking on the bright side, that was about to change. His thoughts strayed to his new curate, upstairs in her flat, the smile of welcome she had given him, the suitcases and boxes and bags strewn around the room, as yet unpacked. The glass of wine she had offered him, the way she had thrown herself down on the chair, crossing her legs in the slim-fitting jeans, and casually pulled off the scarf, shaking the long wild hair free on her shoulders.
He frowned. She was new to the job and obviously still a bit of a free spirit. Time and hard work would cure both character traits and put her on track to being a useful member of the team. He thought back to the interviews before they offered her the position. Enquiries about partners, children, commitments. She was an only child; parents alive and active, so not needing extra help. No partner, no children. One fairly long-term relationship, with a man – he remembered her mischievous smile as she recognised their delicate probing as to her sexuality – no girlfriends in the wings, then, though one glance at her could have told anyone who was interested she was no closet lesbian. It appeared that she had had just the one long and loving relationship which had been brought with mutual agreement to an end when the guy had been offered a job in Australia which he found he couldn’t, hadn’t wanted to, refuse. If she had gone with him it would have put an end to her plans and dreams. They had talked endlessly apparently, and discovered at last that the relationship wasn’t strong enough or deep enough to hold them together. They parted sadly but amicably. Since then, no-one. He pondered the point again and decided that this was probably true, for, as far as he could gather, no-one had accompanied her this afternoon to help her move in. Please God she was as uncomplicated and competent as she seemed.
Slowly his hand strayed to the phone. Parishioners first. Then Sue.
2
The little church of St Hugh’s was tucked away on the edge of the sprawling urban parish up a long deserted country lane. Wedging the door open to let in as much light as possible next morning, Kier ushered Abi inside, then found himself as usual tiptoeing up the aisle between the old oak pews as though afraid someone would hear him. Ridiculous. As though there was someone to hear. He paused, listening. The M11 was less than a couple of miles away and with the wind in the right direction one could hear the reassuring roar of traffic, but on days like today, with no wind at all, he could hear nothing. The silence in the old stone building was profound and it disturbed him. He found himself clenching his fists. It was only in this one place out of the entire parish, that his childhood nightmares surfaced, the certainty that from time to time he could see things, people, hazy images around him; images over which he had no control. He hated it.
He ran a finger round the inside of his dog collar, feeling it suddenly uncomfortably tight. Any day now permission would arrive from the diocesan office, allowing him to tear the guts out of the church, burn the pews, open everything up so people could use it for meetings, for a playgroup, for line dancing, for a farmers’ market for all he cared. Anything to chase out the ghosts. He glared up at the window over the altar. No chance, sadly, of getting rid of the medieval stained glass and replacing it with something cool and clear, which would let in the light. He sighed. Almost as though someone, somewhere had registered his thoughts he watched a beam of sunlight throw a cold blue wash onto the ancient paving slabs at his feet and he shivered violently.
‘So, how do you like it? It’s a bit of an old dump I’m afraid.’ He grinned at Abi. She had been standing staring round the little church with an expression of bemused delight. He shook his head. Until the glorious day came when he could deal with the place, Abi could take the services here. That was one thing she could usefully do where hopefully she couldn’t do any harm and who knows, perhaps she could do something about the atmosphere of the place. One of the things that had attracted him to her, over the other candidates for the curacy, was the fact that she had some kind of indefinable aura of peace about her. If the nightmares got out of hand, he had felt at once, she would know what to do.
There was a sound behind him in the corner and he spun round, his heart thudding with fear. There was nothing there. It was probably a timber flexing. Wood expanded and contracted. That was one of the problems with old buildings. They made noises all the time. He closed his eyes and breathed a quick prayer. There was no place for superstitious nonsense in his rigid discipline. The structure of his Church did not allow ghosts, spiritualism, mumbo jumbo. His beliefs, carefully honed and pared to a minimum, had been constructed to protect him from those whirling shadows. They kept him safe. And sane.
Unfortunately Abi was completely unaware that her new boss had spotted some kind of peacefulness about her, and that he had not asked her to join the team for her opinions, so almost from the start they argued. A lot. The truth of the matter was that very quickly she began to find his churchmanship sterile and rigid and totally unappealing; it was austere, verging on the puritan. ‘Can’t you see, Kier, how much the people long for love!’ She shoved her unruly hair back and clamped it into its clips. ‘The love of Jesus and also a vicar who shows that he or she cares. They want informality these days. Joy.’
Kier shook his head patiently. ‘What these people need is discipline. Without that they are lost. You are too emotional, Abi. You must keep all this passion under wraps.’
Was he being the tiniest bit patronising? She thought so. ‘What about bringing out the mysticism of the Eucharist? That would appeal to so many people here.’
Once more he shook his head – a habit which was soon driving her wild with fury. ‘This is a puritan county, Abi. We don’t do mysticism.’ He glanced at her and for a moment she thought he was going to say something else. She waited for yet another criticism, but it didn’t come. At least not then.
The stresses and strains of the job were a shock, it was so very different from her first curacy. There, the Rev Martin Smith, the training incumbent, had been at pains to help and train her in parish work, to encourage her, and a year into her deaconate, when she was at last made a priest, to stand slowly back, encouraging her to find her
