The Chorister at the Abbey Page 6

  She had a vague, disturbing memory from the night before. ‘Wanda, I would like to go back up to Norbridge for New Year,’ Freddie had announced.

  ‘Why on earth do you want to do that?’

  ‘Oh, you know, it sounds fun. First footing and all that. I would like to try that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Seriously, Wanda, I miss the cottage in Norbridge. We always go to your friends’ New Year party in Bayswater. Let’s have a change this year.’

  ‘I can’t believe you mean this, Freddie.’

  Is that what had happened? The conversation was the last but one thing before they crashed, muffled by drink and dope. But I wouldn’t be bothered if Freddie took off over New Year, Wanda thought. He wasn’t quite the accessory he had once been.

  ‘Well, you do what you like,’ she had said. ‘But you’re not getting me back to Norbridge till I have to go!’

  ‘Lieblich, let’s see.’ Freddie had started playing with her, pulling her towards him. ‘Come here . . .’ Wanda had sighed theatrically but had fallen into his arms, thinking, why not? He was different in London . . . less Germanic, less manic even. In Norbridge he was a caricature, which meant sex with him just couldn’t be taken seriously. But here, in the flat, for a few minutes, it had been like old times.

  But not for long. In the cold light of Christmas Day, looking at the blubbery mass beside her, Wanda thought that Freddie was welcome to go back to the north for New Year’s Eve, alone. But she would stay put. She lay relishing the idea of being at home in the flat. Then, perhaps because of the contrast, her thoughts rambled back to the grisly cottage.

  They had rented what they’d assumed was a vintage gem on the outskirts of Norbridge. But what Wanda had mistaken for cosy charm was a fake. It was a drab nineteenth-century labourer’s home, extended and ‘prettified’ in the 1930s. It was wrinkled with beams and open stonework, inglenooks and fitted shelves. The windows were small, with leaded-light sections of frosted glass. The walls were panelled, and the ceilings were alarmingly low. When the previous tenant had moved out, taking the china animals and costume dolls, the built-in shelves looked stained, ringed and shabby.

  To replace the ornaments Wanda had bought some small modern sculptures, which looked as if a collection of unidentified garden tools had been left on the mantelpiece. She had to admit that the cottage just didn’t work.

  Freddie liked it, of course. ‘It’s really cute! I think we need to grow some herbs, here at the back where it’s warm near the kitchen. And in the summer there will be tomatoes and beans.’

  So far, Freddie was all talk where the garden was concerned. The square of grass at the back was now coated with rotting leaves and the kitchen was a continual swamp. There was a cleaner once a week, but often she didn’t come, leaving an incoherent phone message. And there was no back-up, unlike in London where a proper agency did the job.

  Wanda became restless, throwing the duvet about. She hadn’t wanted to think about the north. She just couldn’t relax in Norbridge. And that stupid man getting himself killed in her department was just typical. Everyone would be yakking about it, of course, and there would be some sort of scare about security. What had Edwin Armstrong said? The bloke had been beaten over the head by some local ASBO yob? It was just hard luck it had been in the Music Department. Wanda had gone to Newcastle to take the plane south as arranged, leaving Edwin Armstrong in charge. If he were so at home with the local community, he could take care of this!

  Edwin had said on the phone, ‘The police are now pretty sure it was the Frost brothers. They’re well-known trouble-makers.’

  ‘So they weren’t enrolled at the college?’

  ‘Not really. They’ve been seen hanging around, though. Years ago one of their older sisters was a student for a time, but she didn’t finish the course. And lots of people use the college. People can go anywhere.’

  ‘So why did they choose to beat this man to a pulp in my department?’

  ‘A lot of kids hang about the Music Department, Wanda. You know that. Security’s a huge issue because of that separate exit. The guys in the admin office say they thought they’d seen them earlier that day. Maybe they just spotted Morris and went for him.’

  ‘So these people walk around with planks of wood at the ready?’

  ‘It’s the building work. Things like that are available.’

  Edwin thought it odd himself, but the police appeared to be satisfied. Wayne and Jason Frost had both been remanded in custody and carted off to Carlisle. At least two people had seen Morris arguing with them in his shop. One witness said he had seen Morris throwing out Jason, who was a little runt. The general view seemed to be that Morris had caught the Frosts shoplifting, and that they’d recognized him in the college and gone for him. There had been a spate of unprovoked attacks all over Britain that winter, with drugged-up hooded youths attacking anyone who tried to argue with them.

  The idea of the Frosts killing someone didn’t surprise Edwin. But no one was asking why Morris was in the college. Of course he could have gone there for a number of reasons: to meet someone, or pick up some music, or just to spend time in the library. It was the ‘Community College’, after all. And Robert Clark had only assumed Morris was going to the pub after the rehearsal. Morris must have changed his mind.

  But Edwin felt uncomfortable about it all. Morris was an inverted snob who would taunt anyone he thought was intellectually pretentious, yet like many similar people he would show off all the time himself. It seemed odd that he would have business with the Music Department which he hadn’t trumpeted to everyone.

  Edwin had mentioned this to Wanda Wisley.

  But all she wanted was for the issue to go away so she could have a sophisticated London Christmas.

  At The Briars, Christmas Day suddenly fell into place after Suzy’s manic planning. When the last preparation was over, a sense of calm descended and Robert realized that the Christmas he had hoped for was going to happen.

  Even so, he had no idea how complex the day’s arrangements would be. With his late wife, Christmas had been centred on the church and on the two of them: midnight mass, late breakfast, matins at eleven, a quiet sherry with Phyllis Drysdale who was Mary’s oldest friend and had since died herself, an exchange of thoughtful gifts and a pleasant evening watching TV.

  With the Spencers it was a different world. Midnight mass was followed by racing home to set out drinks and mince pies for Father Christmas, not to mention a carrot for Rudolph the reindeer. Then they were up at six thirty to see Molly open her stocking and throw paper everywhere, her messiness forgiven. Then it was Jake’s turn and, despite his grown-up attitude, he was still thrilled. Then Grandma had to open her stocking.

  And finally, to Robert’s surprise and embarrassment, there was a stocking for him, all wrapped and organized by Suzy, but with little presents which either Molly had made or Jake had chosen – who else would have bought him the classic Little Britain episodes? Next was a big breakfast with buck’s fizz, then a walk to give the kids some fresh air, and a drink at the neighbours’. Then back for a late lunch which was a huge, jolly, messy affair culminating in a flaming pudding which set fire to the paper napkins. They damped it down by chucking mineral water everywhere amid hysterical laughter, and then followed the crisis by pulling really vulgar crackers.

  And after lunch there were presents from round the tree. When it came to the bracelet for Suzy, her eyes filled up.

  ‘Thank you, Rob. It is lovely.’

  ‘Well, it’s safe anyway. You can wear it in the bath.’

  Later on, the early evening quietened down, but there were still party games with Grandma and a drink with Jake’s friend Oliver and his family who were ‘just passing’. No one had ever ‘popped in’ on Robert and Mary – especially not on Christmas Day!

  It was great, but it was completely exhausting. When everyone had gone to bed, Robert and Suzy slumped on the couch.

  ‘Fancy a night
cap?’ he murmured.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask!’

  ‘It’s been great, Suzy. I know how hard you worked.’ He smiled and got up to pour the drinks.

  ‘Well, we’re very lucky. When you think about what it must be like for people like the Little family . . .’ It was an olive branch from Suzy.

  Robert leant on the mantelpiece and looked reflective. The fire was dying down now, a cosy glow. ‘Norma Little refuses to believe it was the Frosts who attacked Morris. She says they had no reason to kill him because he would never have had the guts to report them to the police for shoplifting. She says he let them take drinks and magazines all the time. He was a bit of a wimp in some ways. People who tease and torment usually are.’

  ‘Interesting . . .’ Suzy tried to sound engaged, but Robert could see that she was tired out. For all the success of the day, there was a drawn look on Suzy’s face.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just poor Nigel. Without his kids or his family while we’re here . . .’

  Robert frowned. Suzy was planning to take her mother and the children over to her husband’s before New Year. Then they would all travel to the north-west for a get-together. She had relatives to see, and friends in Manchester to catch up with. Nigel was still staking his claim to his family, and demanding holiday time with them, so it had seemed a good compromise to spend Christmas with Robert and New Year with Nigel. But it wasn’t the best arrangement in the world.

  Since the evening when Robert had suggested marriage, he and Suzy had discussed nothing more personal than who should carve the turkey. There was an amnesty on emotions. Nothing was really resolved. But Robert was painfully aware that he wanted it to be. He pulled Suzy to her feet and held her for a minute, feeling her warmth.

  Then he kissed her on the nose. ‘We’ve had a great day. You’re seeing Nigel in forty-eight hours. Put him on hold and come to bed with me.’

  ‘OK,’ she whispered softly.

  In Notting Hill on Christmas night, Wanda whispered ‘Freddie’ again, to no response. She wiggled her toes and wondered why she felt irritated. It could be because of Freddie’s comatose sleep, but over the years she’d grown used to his inert body beside her. Strange how something so still and heavy could emit funny noises – little piping snores or great rumbles, booming farts or whimpering sighs.

  So what was on her mind? They had had a marvellous dinner party with two local gay friends of hers from the BBC, who were experts on all the latest TV chefs’ recipes, and she and Freddie had been able to walk back to the flat which was so clean and white and chic after the bric-à-brac horror of the Norbridge cottage.

  But during the conversation one of the guests had mentioned going to midnight mass, much to the amusement of the others, and it had jogged Wanda’s memory. Whatever her failings, Wanda Wisley was conscientious. She had a nagging feeling that she ought to check her emails. She swung herself out of bed and, naked, padded over to the real beech-wood desk where her computer sat waiting.

  What had Edwin asked? Why had that man Morris Little been in the Music Department? With a horrible sense that she might know the answer, she logged on.

  Here it was, the correspondence between herself, and a man called . . . shit. Wanda had been so busy and preoccupied, she really hadn’t put two and two together. When Morris Little had started to email her she had just written him off as the church music nutter.

  I’d like to talk to someone really knowledgeable about music in Norbridge, he had written, flattering her. He had some pet theory about ‘church music with a local connection’. He had emailed her every day until she had given in and agreed to a meeting.

  Wanda glanced quickly through the correspondence. Now she knew why Morris Little had been in the Music Department. It was because she had invited him – and completely forgotten about him. The Friday before Christmas, she had suddenly decided she couldn’t bear another minute at work and had left without even picking up her expenses. But would anyone believe her? What a pain! Wanda logged out and padded back to bed.

  There was no way she was going to mention this to anyone.

  10

  Thou shalt not be afraid of any terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day. Psalm 91:5

  Six days later, the only spot of nightlife in Norbridge which was still rocking in the New Year at two in the morning was Strumpets on Fletchergate. Chloe Clifford pulled a reluctant Poppy Robinson after her and they sidled down the alley beside the club.

  ‘Go on, Poppy, try it.’ Chloe was giggling and trying to light up a badly made joint. She succeeded in starting a small fire at the end of the paper but after a minute the shreds which had flared up calmed down. Chloe had already spilt bits of grass and tobacco down her new black silk-effect jacket. She’d dropped the grinder and Rizla papers a few times because she’d already drunk six shots of vodka in an hour after meeting Poppy in the Crown and Thistle.

  ‘I don’t think it’s for me,’ Poppy said nervously.

  ‘Oh, go on, twit. Everyone does it in Leeds.’ Chloe took a huge drag and then poked the mangled bit of paper and vegetation towards her.

  ‘All right.’ Poppy put the soggy end in her mouth and inhaled. But nothing happened except that a badly ground bit of hot grass detached itself and stuck at the back of her throat. She coughed and spluttered so much, the joint fell out of her mouth, hit her ample bosom in its lurid top, and dropped into the muck around their stiletto heels.

  ‘Oh, fuck you!’ shouted Chloe angrily.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chloe. I couldn’t help it,’ Poppy whined.

  ‘You should have watched what you were doing with your fat fingers.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’

  ‘Not fair, not fair. Christ, Pops, what a baby you are!’ Chloe put out her own plump fingers and jabbed Poppy in the chest.

  Poppy squawked. ‘Stop it,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Well, you’ve cost me good money wasting that spliff. You deserve a bit of a slap.’ Chloe advanced on her friend, her eyes narrowed and her bright varnished fingernails at Poppy’s eye level. Poppy’s eyes crossed dramatically.

  ‘Well, fuck off yourself!’ Poppy suddenly yelled. ‘I’m sick of the way you’re behaving. You’ve been foul since Christmas. You’re a slag, Chloe Clifford.’

  Chloe was taken aback for a second. Poppy had never dared to speak back to her. What was happening? She felt a tight band round her head and was unsure whether it was anger or shock. She opted for anger, but for once she couldn’t find what she wanted to say.

  ‘Who d’you fuckin’ fink you is …?’ she heard herself screaming, all the words coming out wrongly.

  But Poppy had backed away and slid past her out of the alleyway and into the street. Chloe realized she had been left. She called after her: ‘Sowwy, Pops. Reeely sowwy now . . .’ But Poppy’s silhouette hardly paused before, plump legs wobbling, she disappeared.

  Fuck, thought Chloe. The ground was swaying a lot and her head felt as if it would burst. All she wanted to do was sit down, but the ground was filthy, she knew that. She leant back against the wall and felt a huge lump of sick rising in her stomach. Then it went down again, which was worse than coming up. The weed was making her really nauseous. She had tried a few pills before now and the effect had been great – dreamy, weird, and maybe headachy in the morning – but not this awful tidal sickness.

  I have to get back into the club, she thought. Suddenly she felt cold and then scared, out there in the dark alley by herself. How could Poppy do this? Chloe tried to walk, but her high heels stuck in the cobbles. She was concentrating on her feet, so at first she didn’t see another figure at the end of the alley. When she looked up, she noticed the outline of a man. She couldn’t go back because the alley was blocked off at the far end. She could only go forward and even then very slowly.

  ‘It’s Chloe Clifford, isn’t it?’ said the man, who spoke very softly and seemed to be all dressed in black, and very big. ‘I’ve just seen Poppy r
unning away. Let me help you walk.’

  Chloe wanted to ask him how he knew her, but she couldn’t look at him and concentrate on her feet at the same time. She felt his strong arm under her shoulders, but no other part of his body touched her, which was all right, really. She realized he smelt of masculine sweat, overlaid with deodorant. It was a nice smell but at the same time it seemed to attack the pit of her stomach like a punch in the gut. She was going to say, ‘I’m OK, leave me alone,’ when the vomit really did come up. It shot out in a stream of white liquid, catching the light from a street lamp on the main road. It looked like slime and it was all down his coat. She retched even more and caught the acrid smell of sick in her nostrils. The shame was as bad as the smell. She had to shut her eyes.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time someone got you home. Come with me to the car.’

  No, she wanted to shout, I don’t know you . . . where’s Poppy? But the strong arm was propelling her into the main street, and then she felt her legs give way and all she could do was keep her eyes shut and pray that her feet kept moving.

  At the rectory Lynn Clifford couldn’t sleep because of the night sweat from hell. She grabbed her dressing gown. She couldn’t get back into the bed: it was soaking. She could see the outline of her own body in the dark damp blotches on the sheet. Like the Turin shroud, she thought.

  Neil rolled away from the wet patches and pulled the double duvet round himself. There was an easy chair in the bedroom, with Lynn’s clothes on it ready for New Year’s Day. She perched on the edge of it.

  They were going to Edwin’s for New Year’s lunch, with her father and stepmother. Lynn was dreading it. She found her father’s constant digs about religion very trying. Once an easy- going, soft-hearted man, he had become bitchy in old age, as if being over eighty gave him a licence to be rude. Lynn was no fan of her stepmother, but she found herself sympathizing. The old man was very hard work. Marriage! You never knew how it would end up.