Bunburry--Drop Dead, Gorgeous Page 3

  Alfie woke up abruptly, shaken and confused. It took a few moments to register that he wasn’t in his London apartment overlooking the Thames, but in Aunt Augusta’s bedroom, a tranquil oasis of lavender and dove-grey. But he felt anything but tranquil. He had just been dreaming of a woman, but he didn’t know who.

  He groaned. It didn’t take his psychology course to tell him his dream stemmed from guilt about kissing Betty. He had betrayed Vivian.

  His stomach churning, he couldn’t face eating anything. He went out for a walk instead. Betty must be well away by now but even so, he deliberately set off in the opposite direction to her cottage.

  The church. He would go there. It was ironic, given that he was no church-goer, that he found it a place of solace. When he was a boy, spending the summer holidays with his grandparents in Bunburry, he loathed the place, being forced to dress respectably and go to Sunday School, which was the most boring thing in the world.

  But now he often sat in the church, feeling its stillness soothe him. It was a simple building, with whitewashed walls and golden stone. Sometimes there was a lit candle for him to focus on; often there were beautiful flowers, arranged by Marge. Occasionally Liz would come in to practise the organ for Sunday, and Alfie would sit absorbed in the music to stop himself thinking.

  Philip never pressurised him to attend the services, and didn’t seem to mind that Alfie showed no sign of joining his flock.

  “The church is open to everyone, and at any time,” he said when Alfie made a stumbling apology after being discovered sitting in the shadows.

  The elderly vicar was the only person who knew what had happened the day Vivian died. Alfie couldn’t even tell Oscar, his closest friend, who had nursed him uncomplainingly through those first days of grief.

  Philip hadn’t been shocked, hadn’t judged him. And he was now a good friend as well – he and Alfie were the only regular attenders at Betty’s Green Party meetings. The vicar showed no signs of being an eco-warrior, however, and often looked as though he was about to nod off. Alfie suspected Philip only turned up because he felt it was a worthy cause, and his Christian duty to support it if nobody else would.

  And what about his own motivation? Alfie grimaced. Best not to think about that. He pushed open the lychgate and walked under its roofed porch and along the gravel path leading to the church.

  He turned the heavy round handle and stepped into the cool tranquillity. He had never found the church locked – he didn’t know if it was even locked at night. Unimaginable in London. And yet while Bunburry was free of petty crime and vandalism, Alfie had already seen the devastating impact of jealousy and hatred in the short time he had been here.

  “Alfie!” There was concern in the vicar’s voice.

  Alfie realised he was glowering, his jaw clenched. He tried to ease his face into a relaxed smile, but he could see from Philip’s expression that the vicar wasn’t fooled.

  “You look like a man in need of a coffee,” Philip said. “And Theresa’s just given me a bag of croissants. I can’t possibly eat them all myself.”

  The elderly white-haired vicar was even thinner than Alfie: Liz and Marge would advise him to eat bags of croissants at every opportunity.

  “I came in to sit here for a while,” Alfie said.

  “Of course.” The vicar gestured towards the pews. “Take any seat in the house. And when you’ve finished your meditations, come along to the vicarage.” He headed towards the door and then turned back. “Although your meditations might go better if you were fortified with coffee and a croissant.”

  Alfie was about to demur. But it was a cold morning. He only had a light jacket over his shirt, and he was already feeling chilled. He would return to the church after he had warmed up.

  “Thanks. That sounds great,” he said, getting up and following Philip. “I don’t think I know Theresa, but the ladies of the parish all seem to be fabulous bakers.”

  Philip pulled open the heavy wooden door. “After you. Theresa isn’t one of the bakers. The croissants are courtesy of the tea room, made by Nicholas. But Theresa is –” He broke off as he glanced round to look down the side of the church. “Sorry, Alfie, give me a minute.”

  The path from the church to the lychgate was flanked by a higgledy-piggledy mass of ancient weathered tombstones. But the cemetery had been extended beyond the church’s original boundaries, with neat rows of more recent family graves at the side and rear of the building. In the distance, Alfie could see a woman standing in front of one of the graves, head bowed, and from the heave of her shoulders, he could tell she was weeping.

  He watched Philip approach the woman and lay a comforting hand on her arm. She straightened up, and they seemed to exchange some words before Philip headed back. Alfie saw the woman stoop down by the graveside, tidying it by picking up stray leaves.

  “Right,” said the vicar briskly as he reached Alfie. “This weather definitely calls for a hot drink.”

  Alfie followed him to the vicarage and upstairs to the small sitting room and kitchenette.

  “Coffee?” asked the vicar.

  “Please.”

  The vicar only ever had instant coffee; Alfie wasn’t keen on the taste, but he could do with the caffeine hit.

  Philip took two unmatching mugs off the shelf and reached for the coffee jar. “One of us is going to have to commit a grave sin, and since I can’t risk word getting back to the bishop about me, it will have to be you,” he said.

  Alfie blinked. “Sorry, what?”

  “The croissants. Nicholas expressly forbade me to heat them in the microwave – apparently it does dreadful things to the texture. But I’ve never noticed the difference, and it takes too long for the oven to heat up. I can tell Nicholas with a clear conscience that I haven’t microwaved them if you do it. There’s a plate over there – give them a quick blast for fifteen seconds while I’m not looking.”

  Philip was wearing such a mock-pious expression that Alfie couldn’t help laughing.

  “I’m not sure this is ethical,” he said. “But I can feel my desire for a warm croissant over-riding my moral scruples.”

  Philip set a tray with the local farm butter that Alfie had come to love, and damson jam made by a parishioner. No country parson would ever starve.

  Alfie hadn’t thought he was hungry, but the croissant tasted wonderful despite the outrage of the microwaving.

  “I shall miss our Green Party meetings,” said Philip. “But since we’re not actually members, it would be a bit of a nerve to keep them going, even if we had the expertise.”

  “Do you know when Betty will be back?” asked Alfie, watching carefully for the reaction.

  Philip shook his head. “I think it’s quite open-ended.”

  “Or where she’s gone, what she’s doing?” Alfie tried to make the question sound inconsequential.

  “Her plans are fluid, I believe.”

  Alfie had to admire the non-answer, with Philip simply evading the issue rather than lying. He was sure Betty had confided in the vicar.

  As usual, Philip had taken the rickety wooden chair, letting Alfie have the sofa, but he looked relaxed as he asked: “And how about you, Alfie? What’s happening with you at the moment?”

  Alfie had gleaned enough from his church-going grandparents to know that there was no requirement to make a private confession to a vicar, but it was something you could do if you had a troubled conscience. He might not be a believer, but he had a troubled conscience. Might it help to talk to Philip?

  He tried to make a joke of it. “You’ve already talked me into committing one grave sin by microwaving the croissants. I suppose that paves the way for me to confess to another.”

  Philip didn’t laugh, and didn’t speak, but simply nodded.

  Alfie cleared his throat. “It was yesterday. Last night.”

  Philip was lookin
g at him with gentle encouragement, and Alfie dropped his gaze, reluctant to see the vicar’s expression change.

  “I kissed Betty,” he said.

  There was a pause as though the vicar expected him to continue. After a few moments’ silence, Philip said: “And she didn’t want you to kiss her?”

  “What?” Alfie’s head snapped up and he glared at Philip. “I would never – that wasn’t how – and anyway, she was the one who kissed me.”

  “Then what exactly was the grave sin?”

  Was this what vicars did, made you spell everything out, to make sure you understood just how grave the sin was?

  “Vivian,” said Alfie harshly. “I betrayed Vivian.”

  “Alfie.” The vicar’s voice was quiet. “Vivian isn’t here to be betrayed.”

  “I kissed another woman.”

  “By your own account, you simply responded to a woman who kissed you. That sounds perfectly natural.”

  How ironic, that a vicar was playing devil’s advocate. Or perhaps, even though Alfie had previously bared his soul to him, told him what he hadn’t even told Oscar, Philip hadn’t been paying that much attention. Perhaps it had just been one more sob story among the many he heard in the parish.

  “It’s only eleven months since Vivian died,” Alfie reminded him. “How could I have forgotten her already?”

  “You haven’t forgotten her. And you never will.” Philip leaned forward. “These things take their own time, and it’s different for everyone. You can’t predict when someone’s ready to move on. It can be months, it can be years.”

  “I’m not ready to move on.” Alfie spat out the words. “I loved Vivian. I still love Vivian.”

  Philip nodded in understanding. “Of course you do. I’ve no idea whether you’re ready to move on – only you can tell. And you’re never going to replace Vivian. But that doesn’t bar you from future relationships. Love isn’t finite. You won’t stop loving Vivian because you love somebody else.”

  But he didn’t love Betty. She was simply a friend. Was that all she was, simply a friend? If she had suggested he come back to the cottage with her, he would have gone.

  How long had it taken him to fall in love with Vivian? He couldn’t tell – it was as though he had always loved her. He rubbed his brow.

  “It used to be that every day, in those seconds after waking, I would go through it all again,” he said. “Now some mornings I wake up and I don’t even remember she’s gone. Sometimes I even think I feel happy. How can I feel happy when I’ve lost Vivian, and I’ve lost our baby?”

  “Alfie, you have no reason to feel guilty.”

  “I do.” Alfie could feel his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. He had every reason to feel guilty. Those terrible things he had said to Vivian, that could never be unsaid. “I was so angry that she could consider getting rid of our child. I was still angry after she died, I was angry for months. But I don’t feel like that any more. I just miss her. I want her back. So how could I be so disloyal?”

  The vicar shifted back on his seat. “Let me tell you about Theresa Alcott,” he said.

  4. Theresa Alcott

  “I’m not betraying any confidences,” the vicar began, laying down his plate with the half-eaten croissant. “Anything that I tell you is something Theresa is quite open about. You saw her just now, in the cemetery.”

  Alfie pictured the weeping figure, bending to tidy the grave.

  “Poor woman,” said Philip with a sigh. “You’ll understand better than most. Her husband was killed in a car crash. Sometimes I wonder if she’ll ever get over it.”

  Alfie stiffened. And how would Philip describe him to Theresa? That’s Alfie. You won’t understand at all. The love of his life scarcely cold in her grave and he’s off with other women. Didn’t take him long to get over it. The only thing he had in common with Mrs Alcott was that they had both been bereaved through a road accident.

  “They ran a small business together in Cheltenham, a gents’ outfitters, which was jointly their home and a shop. They lost the property when Robert was killed, but ironically he was well-insured – ghastly that someone can be worth more dead than alive, isn’t it? Theresa couldn’t have afforded anything in Cheltenham, but she’s been able to buy a little cottage in Bunburry.”

  He sighed. “So many deaths on our roads every year. Dreadful statistics, tens of hundreds, and every one a tragedy.”

  Alfie gave a grim, tight smile. “I wonder if I’m a statistical anomaly. I didn’t just lose Vivian in a car accident. Did you know my grandparents were killed in a crash as well?”

  “I’m so sorry.” There was no doubting Philip’s sincerity. It reminded Alfie of Oscar. No over-the-top outpouring of shock, but genuine sympathy. “No, I didn’t know. When was that?”

  “Before your time, when the previous vicar was still here.” Alfie could still remember the grim-faced incumbent who didn’t suffer the little children to do anything except sit down and shut up. “Thirty years ago, when I was twelve. It was on one of the narrow roads just outside the village. They were in a head-on collision with a boy racer in a sports car who had just passed his driving test. You might recognise his name – Charlie Tennison.”

  Philip gave an exclamation of disbelief. “The Charlie Tennison?”

  “The very same. ‘Teflon’ Tennison, grandee, crook, philanderer and, in the court case after he killed my grandparents, perjurer. He claimed it was all my grandfather’s fault, and despite all the evidence to the contrary, the forelock-tugging jury believed the posh boy.”

  He took a bite of croissant to indicate that this had all happened so long ago that it no longer affected him. But he had only recently found out about the case, and dreamed of forcing Tennison to face justice at last.

  “My mother used to send me to spend the summer holidays here with my grandparents, because she worked full time in London,” he said. “She was a single parent.”

  Philip said: “I’m sorry I never knew any of them.”

  The vicar could be no help in Alfie’s quest to find out more about his father. He would only be able to offer sympathy, not information. Marge had been about to tell him something, there was no doubt about it, but Liz had intervened to silence her. Liz was normally the placid, self-effacing member of the duo, but on the rare occasions when she imposed her views, Marge obeyed.

  Who else could he ask, with his grandparents gone, his mother gone, Aunt Augusta gone? Losing his grandparents had put an end to his visits to Bunburry. And then, when he lost Vivian and couldn’t face life in London without her, the unexpected legacy of Aunt Augusta’s cottage had brought him back to the Cotswolds. It had a strange circularity.

  “Anyway,” he said, swallowing the last mouthful of croissant and wiping his fingers on the piece of kitchen towel that served as a napkin, “that’s all ancient history. You were telling me about Mrs Alcott.”

  “Theresa and her husband, Thomas, they were childhood sweethearts,” Philip resumed. “I don’t think they ever spent a day apart – they not only lived together, they ran a business together. And to lose Thomas so suddenly and in such tragic circumstances – Theresa had a complete breakdown, tried to take her own life.”

  Yes, Alfie recognised that. He had never attempted to kill himself – he had no energy to do anything after Vivian died, Oscar practically had to spoon-feed him – but he remembered wishing that he could go to sleep and never wake up.

  “She had to spend some time in a psychiatric hospital, which was where I got to know her,” Philip went on. “But I’m happy to see she’s building a new life for herself here in Bunburry. She’s working part-time in the tea-room, but I think that’s more to occupy herself than anything else. She’s in her late fifties – it’s sad to think that she’ll be alone for the rest of her life.”

  Alfie felt himself bristling at the remark. “That’s a bit ha
rsh, isn’t it?” he said. “She could have years ahead of her. Why shouldn’t she find someone else and be happy with them?”

  Philip nodded thoughtfully. “Good point, well made. And someone in his very early forties may have even more years ahead of him. Why shouldn’t he find someone else and be happy with them?”

  Alfie sucked his breath in. “You set me up,” he said.

  “Not at all. You came to your own conclusions. You can see how awful it would be for Theresa to be consigned to a future of nothing but mourning. If you had died and Vivian had been left, would you want to think of her never daring to smile again?”

  Alfie shook his head. “Of course not.”

  “Then stop being so hard on yourself.” Philip got to his feet and picked up Alfie’s jacket from the arm of the sofa. “You know, long before Trainspotting was ever thought of, Moses said ‘Choose life.’ Deuteronomy chapter 30, verse 19. Something to think about.”

  Alfie found himself being gently but firmly ejected from the vicarage. The coffee and croissant were intended to put him in the right frame of mind for meditating, so he dutifully returned to the church. It was empty, and he sat in one of the side aisles, feeling strangely liberated.

  He couldn’t fault what Philip had said, but the situation had actually resolved itself. Betty was no longer around, he had no idea when or if she would return, and it was more than likely that she would have no memory of the kiss.

  And he had managed not to give himself away during her disparagement of the beauty salon. He used to think exactly the same as she did, and had been stunned to hear about Oscar’s regular spa visits.

  “Honestly, you should try it,” Oscar kept saying. “Why should girls have all the fun? A French facial, a bit of body brushing, and a salt scrub. It’s time you became a fully paid-up metrosexual.”

  Alfie shuddered. “Never. It’s not natural.”