‘Lol once told me, in one of his more embittered moments, that the majority of shrinks rise to the top by having nothing at all to do with people but just writing papers for dismal publications like this. I mean, Lord Shipston? How many neurotics has he ever had on the couch? Let’s go back and snatch Fyneham when he leaves the house.’
‘We’re supposed to be minding the phone. We’ll just have to sit here and amuse ourselves.’
‘Actually, Irene,’ Jane said, ‘I think I’m probably having a frigid day. Too much exposure to male greed, male dishonesty, immorality, hypocrisy — that kind of stuff.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t you put your bloody Huw Edwards chapel face on, you’re no better. You told me you weren’t a virgin. You totally spoiled my first experience. All the time I’m thinking, Oh no, I’m going to be such a disappointment compared with all the others.’
‘What do you think
‘I remember exactly what you were feeling, I just didn’t realize you’d never felt one before.’
The phone rang. Jane snatched it.
‘She’s still not back?’
‘No, I’m sorry, Sophie.’
‘I see.’ Sophie still thought Jane should call her Mrs Hill. Too bad.
‘What did you want, exactly?’
‘I wanted to talk to her, Jane.’
‘Sophie,’ Jane said. ‘How old will I have to be before you recognize me as someone of mature intelligence and perception?’
‘In your case, Jane, although it’s possible I may live long enough to change my mind—’
‘Yeah, yeah… Look, can I sound you out about something, while you’re on? Eirion and me, we’ve been talking to this guy who was set up to interview Lol, maybe to find stuff out about him and Mum.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Guy called J.D. Fyneham. His dad’s a magazine publisher. Fyneham does this… have you come across this Parish Pump thing, offers to revamp parish magazines?’
‘I have, actually,’ Sophie said. ‘Bryce Orford left some leaflets for me to hand out to—’
‘Who’s Bryce Orford?’
‘The Dean. What’s this about, again?’
‘Somebody’s trying to damage Lol and Mum, that’s the bottom line. I mean, you must know that’s happening.’
‘Yes, I believe it is. I just hope this isn’t one of your—’
‘This is absolutely on the level, Sophie, I swear on… on the grave of Lucy Devenish. And I think you know something, don’t you?’
Jane held her breath, watching Eirion’s stony chapel face awaken into human interest.
‘All right, tell me everything,’ Sophie said.
Jane had relented and, about twenty minutes later, she and Eirion were into some mild petting on the rug by the desk when Sophie called back.
‘That was, um, quick.’
‘Jane, I’m in the office now, and it’s very important that I talk to your mother.’
‘Well, Lol’s gone over to Ludlow now, and he’s got a phone, so we expect to be in contact soon.’
‘The best we can hope for, I suppose. Jane, you should know that I’m now treating you as a person of mature intelligence.’
‘Right…’ Jane had a hand under her top, repositioning her bra. She blushed. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’ve had to come into the office after a call from the Bishop. Something’s happened, and the Bishop was in a quandary and, in the absence of Merrily, I’m afraid, he was forced to refer it to the Deliverance Panel. Telling me at the same time, of course, in the hope that the information would also reach Merrily.’
‘She rang,’ Jane remembered. ‘The Callaghan-Clarke woman.’
‘When?’
‘This morning. She thought the media might be after Mum. I forgot. So much was… Do you know what that was about?’
‘I think I do, but this is something else that’s just developed. Merrily probably knows about it already, which is why she hasn’t been in touch. Jane, I can hardly believe it.’
Sophie’s tone indicating that she just had to talk to somebody or she’d go crazy.
‘What’s…?’ Jane raised her eyebrows at Eirion, who was on his feet, face full of questions.
‘It’s the castle again,’ Sophie said bleakly. ‘Another child.’
PART FOUR
Sam
‘If man does survive, does he produce ghosts? I think this could only be assumed if he retained his psyche- field.’
‘Rapping on the windows
And crying through the locks…’
41
Big Bump
When Merrily came hurrying onto Castle Square, the whole space seemed to be vibrating —
She crossed the square and stood by the tourist office and looked around through the crowd.
Bell… where the hell are you?
The clarity had gone from the sky. Gauzy, mauvish clouds were smothering the sun, and there was no breeze to flutter the red and white pennants hanging between gables like a row of teeth set in bleeding gums.
She’d been down to the bottom of Corve Street to fetch the Volvo, a parking penalty under one of the wipers. Turned the key seven times, and it kept failing to start — another sign of mortality to join the ticking behind the dash, the rattle under the chassis, the grinding on corners. She’d still been shaking the wheel in frustration when she found that it had somehow started, two wheels crashing down from the kerb.
To charge up the battery or whatever, she’d driven through town, down by the side of the castle to the stooping community of Dinham with its twelfth-century chapel dedicated to murdered St Thomas, and then to the hissing River Teme — a vain search for the woman who wanted to fly like Marion. Back in the car park at the top of town, she’d paid for a full day, near enough, and then found a phone box to call Jane… engaged.
Single-lane vehicles were threading around the square, but the main traffic was people, scurrying about like figures in a Brueghel. So many clothes now — T-shirts, sweatshirts, fleeces and hooded tops — reflecting, in their myriad colours, the outerwear of Merrie Englande. And so many people talking to one another — a sense of community you seldom saw anywhere else.
