The Chorister at the Abbey Read online

  ‘Freddie, sweetie.’ Wanda had zoomed like a squirt of air-freshener on a nasty smell. ‘I ought to remind you of the time.’ She turned to the group. ‘Freddie has offered to help with some young people’s music, at a church in one of those grim villages over towards the coast.’

  ‘I was born in Fellside,’ David Johnstone had said crabbily.

  ‘That’s it, Fellside. Such potential!’ Wanda pushed her cleavage at him.

  ‘Fellside!’ Freddie had trumpeted. ‘A terrible village. But you know, with some modern development . . . I have tried to persuade Wanda to look at buying a house up there. There are some very big unused places. With money, what could be done! As long as you bribe the council, of course!’ He nudged David Johnstone in a grotesque stage gesture. Everyone joked about Johnstone’s methods behind his back, but only Freddie would have dreamt of doing so to his face.

  ‘I really think it’s time you went, darling,’ Wanda had said, slightly hysterically. ‘We’re becoming very Green, aren’t we, Freddie! Freddie’s going on his bicycle!’ The idea of Freddie driving the car after the amount of toxic substances he consumed had encouraged Wanda to buy him a super speed-bike. He had taken to riding it in all weathers, wearing an enormous cape.

  ‘Ja, I must be going . . . See you at the Chorus!’

  Edwin and Alex had been amongst the last to leave. Edwin had actually enjoyed himself. He’d had a really good chat with the Principal for the first time since withdrawing his candidature for Head of Music. The Principal had been furious at the time, but now seemed keen to build bridges.

  ‘Tell me, Edwin, why you withdrew?’ he had asked. ‘Was it really personal reasons?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I’m sorry. But things have worked out all right, I think.’

  The Principal followed his eyes to where Wanda was gushing over the Dean.

  ‘I hope so,’ said the Principal. ‘Excuse me. I need to speak to David Johnstone. He’s been advising me on the sale of some sports playing fields.’

  Now, on the way home, Alex and Edwin were talking animatedly about the Stainer concert and the problem of the soloists.

  Edwin said, ‘If locals don’t sing the solos, they get resentful. It’s already bad enough with the Stainer because there are no women’s parts, just a tenor and a bass. At least we’ve got some little bits of recitative for the other men. But we need two really strong people’

  ‘So who’s the best tenor?’

  ‘You know, I’m beginning to think it really might be Tom Firth. But he’s very young . . .’

  ‘Well, that would be good box office, wouldn’t it? I mean, Tom’s got a lovely voice, you’ve said so before, and he’s still the object of a lot of local attention because of Morris. And it might be good for his self-confidence.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s still a teenager. He might screw up through nerves. The bass soloist would have to be really special to support him. And it would need to be someone who wouldn’t mind sharing the limelight with a kid.’

  ‘Edwin! What about Freddie?’

  ‘Freddie Fabrikant? Norbridge’s answer to Meatloaf? You must be joking.’

  ‘No, I’m not. He’s joined the choir in good faith – OK, he’s missed a few practices. But he can sing. You can help him. And it would be such fun!’

  It was then that Edwin had driven into the pub car park. A few minutes later he and Alex sat in the bar, with their heads together, discussing the possibilities.

  ‘You know,’ Edwin said as they got back into his car, ‘it could work. Tom would have to develop a bit, though. I won’t commit to him for a while. I want to see how he comes on. But we could approach Freddie straight away. If he’s interested I’d like to try the idea out on a few sensible people before putting it to the committee.

  ‘ The committee was at least ten strong, in an attempt to be democratic, with the result that it only ever discussed things that were faits accomplis.

  ‘Alex, why don’t you come round to my place one night this week? We could talk it over. I owe you big-time for coming today anyway; I can hardly pretend lunch at Wanda’s is a pleasure. And I tell you what. I’ll ask Robert Clark to come too! He’s very sound on Chorus matters.’

  Alex sat in the front of the car and shut her eyes. She had known that if she stayed around, becoming more sociable, then at some point she would have to face up to this. But she had dreaded it happening so soon.

  Edwin saw her face set, and her mouth pulled down, as it had been when he first met her. Her large dark eyes had narrowed behind her new glasses.

  ‘No, I don’t think so, Edwin. Chorus matters aren’t really anything to do with me. I think you’d better get me home. Thanks for everything.’ Her voice was final.

  ‘OK.’ Edwin did a neat three-point turn out of the car park and set off for Fellside without speaking. He felt absurdly disappointed.

  At Fellside Fellowship, as Mark Wilson stood up to go, Suzie followed his gaze. A huge man in a flapping cape was coming towards them, in danger of overbalancing the flimsy tables.

  ‘Mark! Hello. Are you well? Sooo good to see you. So, I am here, and will advise the boys.’

  ‘Freddie!’ Mark Wilson leapt up. ‘It’s wonderful of you to come.’ He turned to Suzy. ‘Do excuse me, Mrs . . .?’

  ‘Ms,’ Suzy said firmly. ‘Ms Spencer. But please, call me Suzy.’

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your coffee, Suzy. Freddie and I have got some serious gigs to discuss.’

  Freddie Fabrikant burst into loud, exuberant laughter, and swept all before him on his way out through the doors, towards the stage. In his wake, Mark moved lankily after him with the gait of a younger man. In the doorway he turned back to Suzy and winked.

  To her surprise she found herself blushing. Then she caught the eye of a severe young woman behind the counter, with a toddler on her hip, and she went hastily back to her book.

  19

  As soon as they hear of me, they shall obey me; but the strange children shall dissemble with me. Psalm 18:45

  A week later, Lynn Clifford sat in the coffee shop in Norbridge’s oldest department store and stared into her cappuccino. She had worked at the Abbey shop for three days that week, but on Wednesday she had the morning off. She was becoming increasingly worried about her daughter and in desperation she had called Suzy Spencer. She needed to talk to someone – which was a dangerous weakness for a priest’s wife – but when she assessed her friends she was surprised to find that she thought Suzy would be the most sympathetic. And the most discreet.

  ‘Chloe’s still at home and she’s very on edge,’ Lynn said. ‘Sort of jumpy. She’s back from university, with post-exam stress. I’ve no idea when she’s going to Leeds again. She’s really uptight. She won’t have a glass of wine with us in the evenings. She doesn’t wear make-up any more and her clothes are just downright shapeless.’

  ‘Do you think it’s just reaction? It sounds like she had a pretty rough New Year’s Eve? And Christmas wasn’t so easy either. If your friend finds a body it could make you a bit shaky.’

  ‘But I don’t think it’s that.’ Lynn shook her head. ‘I realize my daughter is turning out to be a mystery to me, but I doubt she’d let the Little murder get to her.’

  ‘You don’t think it could be the Moonies or anything?’ Suzy was thinking of the frumpy clothes.

  ‘Good heavens!’ Lynn wrinkled her brow. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But Chloe can’t be into a cult,’ she said after a pause, with some relief. ‘She asked to come to the Chorus with us last night to hear the Stainer. And she says she wants to go to Fellside Fellowship next Sunday.’

  ‘Well, the Fellside Fellowship is fun. Jake goes there. All that seems positive. Perhaps you’re worrying for nothing. Remember how when they were babies, phase followed phase so fast, you scarcely had time to face up to how scary it was?’

  ‘True.’ But Lynn still looked worried.

  ‘Listen . . .’ Suzy leant forward. ‘Ask Chloe to come over on Friday and babysit for
me when Molly gets back from Brownies. Rob and I can find somewhere to go to.’ Though we do very little together at the moment, Suzy thought. But Lynn didn’t need to know about someone else’s problems. ‘I’ll try chatting to Chloe. Maybe she’ll let something slip to me that she wouldn’t tell her own mum. We all did that, don’t you remember?’

  But Lynn didn’t. She’d had no mother to snub. The thought of Chloe confiding in someone else cut her like a knife, but at least it was a plan. For the first time in twenty-four hours, Lynn felt better.

  ‘That’s a good idea. I’ll ask her.’

  Lynn finished her cappuccino and put down her share of the bill. Then she doused a hot flush by putting ice cubes from her glass of water on her wrists, smiling as Suzy watched her with surprise.

  ‘You wait,’ she said. ‘It’ll be here sooner than you think!’

  Then she grabbed her carrier bags and made for the car park. She needed to be back at the shop. Maybe I’ve helped, maybe not, Suzy wondered, watching her friend hurry away. So what’s really wrong with Chloe? It all sounded extremely odd. Perhaps I can get something out of her, she mused. Then Suzy let her thoughts go back to Robert.

  He had said he would be away soon on a writing course in London. Suzy had been astonished, then alarmed. He had missed the Chorus rehearsal the week before because he said he wanted to try writing, and had shut himself in his study. It was unlike Robert to be withdrawn, or to take any time off.

  The thought made her feel slightly sick and she noticed her hand was shaking as she paid the bill. But in their new, cool relationship she couldn’t ask Robert what was going on.

  It was ironic that Lynn Clifford had asked for her help at a time she felt so inadequate. Suzy put the money down on the table, picked up her bags, and tried to focus her mind on work, and that evening’s recording of the newly entitled Geordies in Space.

  ‘You look different!’

  ‘Do I? I’ve been on a diet.’ Poppy Robinson dumped her backpack at Tom Firth’s feet. Figaro’s was crowded because it was Friday. Poppy had just got off the bus from Newcastle so she could have a weekend at home. She had arranged to meet Tom and Chloe.

  ‘No, it’s your hair.’ Tom Firth looked at her critically.

  ‘Oh, I’ve had it cut. D’you like it?’ Her stringy long brown hair had been cut into a neat and shiny bob, with blond stripes. It was much fuller.

  ‘It’s not bad,’ said Tom.

  Actually he was pleased by how good Poppy looked. It was quite nice to be seen with her. She still had her woolly scarf and gloves, but she was wearing tight jeans and a military-style jacket which had enough buckles and pockets to look fashionable. But it was warm and squashy too, and Tom liked that. There was something cuddly about Poppy.

  ‘Is Chloe coming?’ he asked. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Perhaps he had been a bit rude to her at Christmas, but he wasn’t going to apologize. Chloe had always been high-handed in the past, which was part of her attraction of course, but he’d had enough of being patronized.

  ‘Yeah – like I told you, she’s at home from uni at the moment. Says she’s not been well.’

  ‘I know. I saw her sitting at the back of our Chorus rehearsal on Tuesday but I didn’t get a chance to speak to her. What’s she got?’

  ‘Not sure. Flu probably. I texted her when I was on the train. She must be getting better because she says she’ll be here at five. It’s nearly that now. D’you want a coffee?’

  ‘OK.’

  Tom was surprised to be asked, but he quite liked it. It was annoying the way most Norbridge girls expected you to pay first. Perhaps Poppy wasn’t as conventional as she looked. Her dad was something to do with the National Health and her mum was a craft teacher, given to wearing long flowing skirts and layers of crocheted tops. Mrs Robinson’s hair was long and stringy, usually put up in a wispy bun.

  ‘Does your mam like your hair?’ he asked as Poppy stood up.

  ‘She hasn’t seen it yet. But she won’t,’ Poppy said with some satisfaction. ‘She likes the natural look.’

  ‘Parents!’

  ‘Too right. Chloe can’t stand hers, you know. I thought wild horses wouldn’t drag her back to Norbridge in term-time.’

  ‘She must have been pretty sick.’

  But Chloe didn’t look sick when she came into the coffee shop. The Goth make-up and the jewellery were gone and her face was a plump wholesome pink. She was wearing Lynn’s Gortex anorak and a red velvet scarf tied around her head.

  ‘You look like one of them terrorists. What’s up with your hair? Still that funny black colour?’ said the new, braver Poppy.

  ‘Yes. I hate it.’ Chloe unwound the scarf to reveal jet black flaps of unkempt hair, already topped by a pale brown, softer stripe on her scalp. ‘I’m growing it out.’

  ‘What, back to brown? I thought you said you couldn’t understand why anyone would want to be a mouse!’ Poppy tossed her new shiny bob with its blond highlights.

  Chloe shrugged. ‘It’s the way it’s supposed to be.’

  Poppy shrugged back. ‘Well, you’ve changed your tune. Want a coffee?’

  ‘Just a peppermint tea, please.’

  ‘Detoxing?’

  ‘Yeah, sort of.’

  Poppy had moved towards the counter, and Tom was alone with Chloe – once his dream. But suddenly he found he had nothing to say to her. He searched for something to talk about. She might be able to cast some light on the psalter mystery. Chloe had sung in a choir, too, and Edwin Armstrong was her uncle, so he wouldn’t be speaking out of turn. There was a silence between them he wanted to fill, so he said: ‘You know Morris Little?’ He leant forward confidentially.

  ‘Yes. Well, I did.’

  ‘When he got beaten up by the Frosts, I reckon he was carrying a psalm book. A psalter. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Well, why shouldn’t he have been? He was into singing, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’ Tom didn’t know what to say. How could he explain that the book had looked like some sort of antique, not the usual sort of thing you’d have at choir practice? But Chloe wasn’t helping him. In fact she looked a bit preoccupied and her eyes kept wandering around Figaro’s as if she was looking for someone else. Poppy came back with the drink, and Tom was relieved to see her.

  ‘How about coming up to Newcastle to stay one weekend?’ Poppy suggested, not very optimistically. The previous term Chloe had refused her invitation on the grounds that she was just too busy with her new friends. On the spur of the moment she added: ‘You as well, Tom. Both of you?’

  Chloe shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think I can, Pops. I’m staying in Norbridge for a while.’

  ‘You’re what?’ Poppy looked at her friend in amazement.

  ‘It’s not that strange,’ Chloe said with a hint of her old sharpness. ‘There are lots of good things about Norbridge. You can get carried away by these big cities, you know.’

  ‘I’ve not been carried away,’ said Poppy.

  ‘No, well you wouldn’t.’ Chloe put her cup down. ‘I’d better go now. I’m babysitting tonight.’

  ‘So you don’t want to meet up in the Crown and Thistle?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘I do,’ said Tom suddenly. Poppy stared at him and crossed her eyes. He laughed.

  Chloe Clifford had already stood up. ‘See ya,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’ll text.’ And she drifted out, the long scarf trailing.

  ‘She’s gone weird,’ said Tom, in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Too weird. Poppy, are you interested in music?’

  ‘A bit. Bands and that.’

  ‘I mean classical music.’

  ‘Classical music?’ Poppy bit back her initial response. ‘Well, I could be,’ she said carefully. She thought of her parents with their embarrassing Bob Dylan fixation. ‘I wouldn’t mind classical, actually.’

  Later that night, Molly Spencer was sleeping soundly after a riotous game of hide-and-seek with her babysitter. Jake Spencer was rehe
arsing the new rock and jazz band sound at his mate Oliver’s. Suzy Spencer and Robert Clark were still out.

  Chloe was the only person awake in The Briars in Tarnfield. She had a long conversation with someone on her mobile phone. Then she crept along the landing with a pair of scissors she’d found in the kitchen drawer. Slowly and thoughtfully she started to chop off her black dyed hair till all that was left was short brown fuzz all over her scalp and a pile of inky tresses on the tiled bathroom floor.

  Suzy and Robert returned after a couple of hours in the pub at Tarnfield. Suzy had hoped that having some time on their own would have helped her and Robert to talk things through, but there had been a live country band playing and half the village had been there, so there had hardly been room to move, never mind have a private chat.

  ‘What have you done to your hair?’ Suzy gasped at Chloe, who had been waiting for them in the hall and was standing there, by the open front door.

  ‘The dye was ridiculous.’ Chloe smiled. ‘Look, one of my friends is picking me up straight away. There’s no need to give me a lift home. I must run . . .’ She sprinted past Suzy, cropped head forwards into the wind, waving cheerily, hurrying out of the door and into the garden.

  ‘Chloe, don’t you want a quick chat?’ Suzy called after her.

  She moved to follow her, but paused. She felt slightly ridiculous at the thought of running down the path, calling to Chloe to come back. She heard a car on the main road starting up.

  Suzy phoned Lynn a few minutes later. ‘Chloe’s left here,’ she said. ‘She’s gone with a friend in a car. I’m sorry I didn’t see who it was. She hardly stayed long enough to say goodnight. I feel I shouldn’t have let her go. Will you phone me to let me know she’s got home safely?’

  Then she waited, anxiously. For some reason she felt disturbed. But why? If Chloe wanted to dash off, surely that was OK, even if it hadn’t been the plan? Suzy stayed up after Robert went to bed, mooching in the kitchen, drinking hot milk and worrying. As a mum, she felt she had let Lynn down by not getting Chloe to talk as she’d promised. Half an hour later, the phone rang and Suzy jumped to answer it. It was Lynn. Yes, Chloe was safely home. But her friend sounded distraught.