Casting Samson (15 page)

Anne awoke on the Monday morning feeling little better. As predicted, the weather had turned wet and windy, and an early call from Clara Babbacombe informed her that the outside rehearsal for Tuesday had been cancelled.

“Not a bad thing for you to have a night off, Anne,” Clara said in her bluff, kindly way. “Alan said you had a touch of flu, so you’d best take it easy, my dear, and get yourself right for the weekend.”

“Yes, I’ll do that. Thanks, Clara.” Anne put down the receiver. Perhaps she would take Clara’s advice and go back to bed. She rang the head of her department at the school.

“Jack, morning. It’s Anne Lindsay. I—”

“Anne! Thank God! So glad you rang, because I was just looking for your number. Des Albright’s got tonsillitis and won’t be in this week, and Flavia has been diagnosed as having preeclampsia. She has to have bed rest from now until her baby is born, and it’s the Ofsted inspection this week! We’re desperate for competent staff here—can you save my life and come in full-time? I know it’s short notice, but if you could get here this afternoon…”

She hesitated. It
would
keep her busy, rather than sitting at home dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed.

“Please, Anne. We really do need you, and if it’s any help, Janet and I would be delighted to have you stay, save you travelling backwards and forward all week, and you know how Janet loves having someone to pamper.”

That decided it.

“All right. I’m not feeling a hundred percent myself today, but that will probably pass off. And I’ll take you up on your offer to stay, at least until Thursday, when I need to be back in Moreton for a meeting.”

She forced herself into action. It would probably be much better for her to keep busy, and once this wretched pageant was over, she would take a holiday. She glanced at the pile of notes she had amassed about St. John’s and Hugh of Moreton. She found herself wishing the Crusades were still going on, so that she could sign up, gain absolution for her sins and then disappear forever into oblivion.

With the sun riding high above them, the army moved out, the richly caparisoned troops of the King of Jerusalem contrasting sharply with the simple harnesses and plain mantles of the monkish knights. Yet it was the Templars, with their discipline and formidable prowess, that the Muslims feared most, and they were ordered to ride at the rear of the army to ward off any attack. The sun reached its zenith, and the full heat of the still, airless summer’s day beat down mercilessly on the Christian army. The dust rose in a choking cloud from the thousands of hooves and feet, filling eyes and noses of men and beasts. The Templar beside Hugo leaned across and touched his arm, pointing to the hills behind them, where a grey cloud hovered on the horizon. “Saladin. His spies have been busy.”

Hugo grunted and loosened his sword in its scabbard.

An hour later the Muslims attacked, small raiding parties darting at the rear of the procession while their archers let fly a hail of arrows. Aware of his kingly responsibilities, Guy de Lusignan pressed on. There was no other way. They had to cross the huge dry plains of Hattin and reach the village and the lake before nightfall, but the Saracens continued to harry them, impeding their progress under the hot sun. The Christian army had not covered a dozen miles before a messenger approached the king with a plea from the beleaguered Templars protecting the rear of the army. The king turned to the Master of the Temple riding beside him.

“Well?”

“My men cannot go on, sire. They have had no respite now for many hours. We must make camp for the night.”

“Here? But there is no water—”

“The men are exhausted. They can travel no further.”

The king shook his head in despair but gave the order to make camp. Hearing the order, Raymond of Tripoli rode back, urging de Lusignan to continue to the lake, but he would not be moved. Raymond looked up at the twin peaks before them, the iron-grey Horns of Hattin rising implacably from the dry plain. “Alas, Lord God, the battle is over,” he said, making the sign of the cross. “We have been betrayed unto death. The kingdom is finished.”

***

Deborah spent Monday wondering just what Alan Thorpe would be saying to Josh. When the telephone rang that evening, she was so eager to reach it she almost dropped the receiver.

“Debs? Hi, it’s Josh. Look, sorry, I can’t come over tonight. Spike’s just phoned, there’s some sort of crisis blown up between Andy and Steve, and he wants me to go to Reading for a few days. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time for your carnival.”

“Oh.” Deborah tried to stifle her disappointment. “What about your meeting with Alan? I’ve been wondering all day what happened.”

“What? Oh, he’s got something new in mind, but it’s a bit complex. The details aren’t settled yet, and he’s still got a few calls to make. I’ll be able to tell you more about it when I get back. Someone’s at the door. Must dash. Bye now!”

She hung up, feeling vaguely discontented. There was plenty of work to do at the restaurant, bringing the accounts up-to-date and clearing out cupboards that hadn’t been touched for months, but by Wednesday lunchtime Deborah felt desperate for company. She tried ringing Anne Lindsay but without success, so she put on her raincoat and walked over to the Dog and Sardine for a change of scene. She took a book with her in case there was no one there she knew, but no sooner had her lunch appeared than Kylie came over to join her.

“Mind if I sit down for a bit? Bar’s quiet enough at the moment and my feet are killing me.” She sat down and kicked off her shoes, putting her feet up on a spare stool. “God, that’s better. First time I’ve stopped all morning. So what are you doing with yourself while your Mum and Dad’s away?”

Deborah shrugged. “Having a general cleanup, mostly.”

“When are they coming back?”

“Friday.”

Kylie settled herself more comfortably onto her chair. “And Josh’s gone too, ain’t he? Spike rang me last night and said he was back in Reading for a few days. I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing much more of him.”

“Oh, why’s that?” Deborah tried to keep her tone causal.

“Got this new job, ain’t he? Spike said Josh told him Alan Thorpe was really pleased at the way he ran the restaurant when the chef was ill. In fact he’s so impressed he’s planning to put him in as chef in one of his new restaurants.”

“Oh. And—and does Spike know where that will be?”

Kylie tossed her head. “Nah. But it won’t be round here, will it? He’ll be going t’other side of Flixton. Everyone knows that’s where Alan’s been looking for his new business.”

Deborah wandered back to the Yew Tree, wishing she had never left it. She felt more alone now than ever. It hurt her to think that Josh would tell Spike about his new job but not tell her, and the only reason to keep quiet would be if it was bad news, that he was going away. What was there for him in Moreton? She was a fool to think he’d want to stay for her sake. The thought wormed its way into her brain during the afternoon, but she tried to forget it by concentrating on making an inventory of the restaurant’s stock. She was counting condiment sets when her father called.

“Hi, Debs, love. Just thought…ring…quick call.”

“Dad? You must have a poor signal there, you keep breaking up.”

“Okay, love…well…wanted to…Alan Thorpe…yesterday and…”

“Sorry, Dad, what was that?”

“…Thorpe rang the guesthouse yesterday…very good offer…accepted.”

“Dad!”

“…given…thought, love, but your Mum and me aren’t getting any younger, and he said…Shamrock Pub…One thing, Debs…give you chance…fresh start…”

“Dad…Dad!”

The line was dead, but Deborah hung on to the receiver, her knuckles white with the effort. How could Alan have reached him? The only person who knew where her parents had gone was Josh. He must have told Alan Thorpe, filled him in with all the details on her mum’s health, and Dad’s worries, so Alan had renewed his offer, knowing Stan Kemerton was vulnerable. She sank down onto a chair. So that was it.

Finished.

Anne noticed the church door was open as she drove home from work on Thursday afternoon, and on an impulse she stopped the car.

Aubrey Bodicote was busy tidying the notice board by the door when she stepped inside, and he smiled at her hesitation.

“I—er—I just wanted to come in for a few minutes. Unless you are about to go?”

“No, no, it’s fine, my dear. I’ve plenty to do so take your time. I won’t be locking up for a while yet.”

She sat on one of the empty pews and looked up at the colourful glass windows, dulled now by the rain clouds outside the church. She ran her hands over the old wood of the seat, the carved ends worn smooth by centuries of such gestures—and yet even these historic treasures were not old enough.

Anne rose and made her way to the Lady Chapel, cool and dark, where Hugh of Moreton’s stone effigy stared out at her, blank eyes wide and a faint smile on the worn face.

It’s all right for you to laugh
.
It’s all your fault. I tried to help this blasted church of yours, and all I’ve done is upset everybody.

Remorse followed quickly on this burst of ill temper, and she put out a hand to touch the stone fingers that were clasped about the handle of the large double-edged sword.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Not your fault at all. Just mine for thinking I’d be clever.”

Anne drew a breath and tried to shake off the mental apathy that had enveloped her during the last few days. She’d come back to Moreton to attend the meeting, so she had better go home and get ready to face her critics.

The atmosphere in the village hall was decidedly gloomy. Miss Babbacombe took one look at Deborah and drew her own conclusions. After all, there were rumours about some young man she’d left behind in London. However, Anne’s ashen face and listless manner were much more worrying. Miss Babbacombe tried for a cheerful note. “You’re looking a trifle pale, Anne. Still suffering from that flu bug?”

“Probably. I’ve been working full-time this week too. Not used to it.” Her smile was strained.

“Well, at least the weather forecast is better for the weekend.” Godfrey Mullett put down his files on the table and smiled at the assembled company as he took off his anorak. “They’re saying now the rain will ease tomorrow, and the weekend should be fine.”

“Oh, good. Now I wonder where Alan can be.” Miss Babbacombe sorted through her notes.

“I’m here. Had to dodge out the back way to miss those blasted reporters. They want me to give them a comment about the pageant. I tell you I’m sick of ’em hanging round my house day and night.”

“Oh dear, how annoying.” Godfrey held out a white paper bag. “Have a humbug.”

Anne kept her head down, her cheeks flushed.

“It must be a nuisance for you, I’m sure,” Miss Babbacombe said. “Now, who are we waiting for…”

At that moment Reverend Bodicote came hurrying in, his round, anxious face creased with despair.

“Oh dear, oh dear. Ruined, everything’s ruined! It is a catastrophe!”

Miss Babbacombe stared at him. “What’s happened, Aubrey?
What
is a catastrophe?”

“The church! It’s flooded!”

A gasp of dismay went round the table.

Alan Thorpe was the first to speak. “Flooded! You mean the roof—”

“No, no. One of the heating pipes under the floor has ruptured. It was just after you left, Anne. I was clearing up for the evening when I noticed that the flagstones were wet, and I could hear water running. Then I saw it, bubbling up by the Lady Chapel. Of course, I turned the water off and called the engineers immediately. But the water damage is considerable, even in such a short time. They want to shift all the pews, take up some of the flagstones and pump out the water, and they’re recommending that the church be closed immediately. It means we won’t be able to have our Thanksgiving service there on Sunday!”

“Now then, Aubrey, don’t be so downcast. This could be a blessing in disguise.” Godfrey Mullett guided the agitated vicar to a seat. “It means we will
have
to install a new heating system.”

“Yes, but the disruption, and this weekend too.”

“Well, thank goodness you were there, Reverend. Heaven knows what damage might have been done if the water had been flowing all night.” Clara Babbacombe was inclined to be philosophical. “We’ll go and have a look at the damage after the meeting, and if the weather’s kind we can always hold our service outside on Sunday, with a contingency to move into the village hall if necessary. I know we’ll be a bit cramped, but it’s better than nothing. What do you think, Alan?”

“Good idea, Clara. It’s a setback, I know, but I don’t think we should waste time worrying about what can’t be helped, so let’s get on with the meeting now. Right. Is everyone happy with the arrangements for Saturday…”

Deborah carefully rehearsed her speech for her parents’ homecoming on Friday afternoon. She had baked a cake for them, which she served with tea in the upstairs sitting room while she asked them about their stay in Bosham. One look at her mother told her that the trip had been beneficial, and even her father was looking tanned and happier than he had done for months. There could be no denying it was time for them to give up the restaurant business.

As soon as there was a lull in the conversation, she took a deep breath. “So, you’ve decided to sell up here.”

“Well, we’ve been thinking about it for some time, Debs, and Alan’s offer…”

“I know, and I think it’s right for you now. And it fits in very well with my own plans.” She forced a cheerful note into her voice. “I’ve been doing some thinking too, and I realise that I need a bit more out of life.”

“Yes, love, we—”

“I feel I’m far too young to settle down in Moreton, so I’ve decided to look for another job in London. Pick up the threads again, you know…”

Stan and Molly looked at each other. Her mother spoke first.

“But what about your friends here? What about Josh? Such a nice young man, and you were getting on so well with him. Has he told you—”

“About Alan’s offer? Yes!” she interrupted quickly, unwilling to let them see her pain. She busied herself pouring more tea. “Well, Josh is fun, but he needs to sort out his career as well. Besides, we hardly know each other.” She glanced at her watch. “Five o’clock. I’ve planned a special dinner tonight, Mum, since we’re not opening again until tomorrow. I thought it would be nice to enjoy a quiet evening together. So if you’ll excuse me, you two just stay there and relax and I’ll start the cooking.”

“Deborah, that was delicious!” Stan Kemerton sat back in his chair and put his hands over his stomach. “Couldn’t eat another thing. Where did you learn to cook lamb steaks like that?”

“From you, of course.”

“Well, he’s a good teacher,” her mother said. “Now, it’s your turn to rest while I do the washing up. No, I insist. I’ve been pampered long enough and it’s time I did something useful—a few dishes won’t hurt me.”

She gathered up the plates and went out, leaving Deborah alone with her father.

“So how is she really, Dad?”

“She’s fine, love, as long as she doesn’t overdo it. But you can see why I have to sell this place. Working all hours, it’s just no fun on your own, and I want your mum and me to have a few good years together.”

She leaned across the table and caught his hand. “I do understand, Dad. You and Mum deserve some time together. What’s your plan?”

He leaned forward, saying eagerly, “Well, there’s this little cottage in Bosham, just right for us, but it’s not cheap, of course, and we’d need the proceeds from this place as well as our savings to set us up comfortably.”

“Of course. And how big is this little cottage? Will you have room for the odd guest?”

He began to search for his handkerchief. “Course we will, love. There will always be room for you.” He threw up his head, listening. “Now who can that be hammering at the door at this time of night?”

They heard voices on the stair and Molly came in, her eyes shifting anxiously from her husband to her daughter. “My love, it’s Bernard Masters.”

“What?”

Bernard stood in the doorway, smiling uncertainly. Deborah had never seen him look so unsure of himself. “Hello, Debs, Mr. Kemerton. Hope you don’t mind me barging in like this, but I wanted to have a word with Deborah.”

Stan rose immediately. “Oh well, look, love, if you two would like to be alone—”

“No!” Deborah stopped him. “It’s all right, Dad. Don’t you move. I could do with some fresh air. Bernard and I will take a walk. Okay with you, Bernard?”

“Um, yes. Fine.”

“So why have you come, Bernard?”

They were walking over the bridge to the High Street. The river ran dull and grey below them, reflecting the early dusk. Deborah set a brisk pace, for although the rain had stopped, the air was heavy with the threat of more.

“I wanted to see you. I need to talk to you, Deborah. I came straight down from work this afternoon, but when I saw the Closed for Holiday sign on the restaurant, I went across to the Dog and Sardine to see if they had a room for the night, just in case there was no one here.”

“That’s just as well, because Mum’s not been well, and I don’t want her bothered with visitors just now.” Deborah was surprised at her own assertiveness. It felt good.

“No, of course not. Wouldn’t dream of it.” He sounded almost humble.

“So we’ll go to the Dog for a drink, shall we?”

She kept up the pace and they didn’t speak again until they reached the pub, where they found a table in one corner. Deborah ignored Kylie’s blatantly curious glances and waited for Bernard to buy the drinks.

He set down a glass before her. “Your hair’s looking nice.”

She blinked. In London Bernard had always insisted she keep it bobbed and straight, but since she’d returned home she hadn’t cut it, and it now reached her shoulders in a thick, wavy mass.

“So, Debs. Have you thought any more about coming back?”

“Give me one good reason why I should,” she challenged him.

“Well, I miss you, for a start.”

“That would soon pass.”

“Well, what about taking your old job?”

She stared at him, and he hurried on.

“Things haven’t been going too well there since you left. The temp we brought in to do your job walked out—”

“Oh? Did you try it on with her too?”

He looked hurt. “Don’t be cruel, Debs. You were a good FM, and you know it, so the job’s yours if you want it. Naturally there would be a salary increase. And I’d like you to come back to the flat, even if you want to use the spare room, that’s all right with me.”

She sipped her drink. It would be a way out for her, a way to move back to London, and a job to keep her going until she found something she wanted, something on her own…

“Well, what do you say, Deborah? We could drive back tomorrow, make a fresh start.”

A small voice inside her urged her to say yes, to give it another go. After all, what was there here for her?

“I don’t know.”

“But we were so
good
together, Debs.” He leaned forward, his confidence rising as her own uncertainty grew. He reached for her hand. “We had some good times, didn’t we?”

She bit her lip, but before she could answer there was a cry from across the bar.

“Deborah, so glad I’ve found you. We have another crisis.”

“Miss Babbacombe! Whatever is the matter? Sit down, please, and I’ll get you a drink—”

“No, nothing, thank you. I
will
sit down, though.”

“So what’s gone wrong now?” Deborah had never seen Clara Babbacombe looking so flustered.

“It’s Alan. He’s broken his arm.”

“What?”

“Yes. He was coming out of the back door of his house—to avoid the press, you see—when he tripped on the steps and landed on his elbow. Smashed the bone. Luckily his housekeeper was still in the house and rang for an ambulance. Anne’s gone to collect him from the hospital, but I’m afraid he won’t be taking part in the pageant tomorrow.”

“So we have no Hugh.”

“Not unless you can think of someone who can ride a horse and isn’t already taking part in the pageant.”

They sat for a moment in deep silence.

Bernard, who had been quietly listening to their conversation, sat forward. “I have a suggestion.”

Deborah jumped—she’d forgotten he was there. “You have?”

“I could do it.”

She stared at him, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Why, what’s involved?”

Scenting a volunteer, Miss Babbacombe said quickly, “We need someone to lead the procession, dressed in armour and riding a horse—a docile old thing from the local riding stables, so there’s no danger there.”

“Well, that’s no problem then. I’m staying overnight, I’ll be your knight in shining armour.”

Deborah stared at him suspiciously, but Bernard merely smiled at her.

“Deborah, I don’t think you have introduced your friend,” Miss Babbacombe spoke in the voice of one not to be denied.

Deborah performed her duty and Bernard, oozing charm, held out his hand.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Babbacombe, and I’d be delighted to stand in for your colleague, if all I have to do is ride down the street in a costume.”

“Splendid, and from the looks of you, Alan’s costume should fit you very well, with a few tucks here and there. That’s solved a major problem for us, Mr. Masters.”

“Oh, please, call me Bernard.”

“Very well, Bernard. Can you be at the Happy Landings car park at nine-thirty tomorrow morning? Deborah will show you the way, I’m sure.”

“Yes, I’m sure she will.” He beamed at Clara Babbacombe.

“Yes, well, now that’s settled I’ll just call in on Alan on my way home, to set his mind at rest. Good night, Deborah, Mr. Masters, and thank you again.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow.” He raised his brows as he saw Deborah’s frown. “Now what have I done? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Why did you agree to take part? I didn’t think country life was your thing.”

“I just wanted to help you out, of course. I know this little pageant means a lot to you. I could see there was a problem, and I thought I could be useful.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Bernard was looking much happier than when they’d first met that night. He grinned now and spread his hands.

“How difficult can it be to ride an old nag down the High Street in your little procession? What can possibly go wrong?”