Ann Purser - Threats At Three

It would have been a perfect sanctuary, if only Paula had not been working at the hall. Much as he loved to see her now and then, even if she was as cold as charity towards him, he realised that sooner or later she would split on him. Probably tell her boss at New Brooms. But would it matter? He’d got so used to living rough and keeping out of sight, that he had almost forgotten why he was doing it. At first it had been because he couldn’t think of an alternative. Paula had chucked him out with threats of going to the police, so he’d gone. But if she’d not put them on to him by now, she was probably not going to.

There was still that bloke he’d punched. Nasty piece of work, he’d been, and swore to get back at Jack sooner or later. That sort never forget. No, it’d be safer if he kept to his secret life for a while yet. He’d learned so many tricks and dodges now, that he was quite capable of disappearing at a moment’s notice, should the need arise.

One thing he had learned and was sure he would never forget. He would never hit anyone, especially Paula, ever again. The thought sickened him now. But what would he do if he found somebody else threatening his kids? They were still his kids, and he was only too well aware of how vulnerable they could be without a father to defend them. Not against violence, perhaps, but bullying and all that stuff that schoolkids had to go through. That would be the test.

He opened the padlock and walked inside. The pheasant seemed to accuse him with its milky eye. “You needn’t look at me like that,” Jack said. “I’ll have your head off and your feathers out in no time, see if I don’t.”

FATHER RODNEY WOKE EARLY. HE TURNED IN HIS LARGE BED and looked at the clock. Half past six. Too early to get up, even though Sunday was his busiest working day. His first service was a nine o’clock Communion over at Waltonby. The sun was shining strongly through the flowery curtains his late wife, Anthea, had loved so much, and he wondered whether to get up and get some fresh air before spending most of the day in the cold, stony interiors of his village churches. He had four parishes in his benefice: Long Farnden, where he lived, Waltonby, Fletching and a tiny village, Hallhouse, with only half a dozen cottages and an ancient Saxon church, beautiful in its plainness. He tried to give them all services most Sundays, and today Holy Communion was in Waltonby, followed by Matins in Farnden church, and then home to a cold lunch. Evensong was at Fletching, and the tiny village had no service until next Sunday.

His wife had died unexpectedly, five years ago, when she was only thirty-nine. She had been a successful athlete, particularly good at short-distance sprinting. They had had no children, and she was the centre of his world. When she collapsed one hot afternoon at an athletics meeting, he had prayed as he had never prayed before for her recovery, but in vain. She had died four hours after being taken to hospital, where they discovered she had had an undiagnosed damaged heart.

Now he soldiered on alone. He knew he was regarded as an eligible bachelor by presentable spinsters in his parishes, but he could not imagine sharing his life with anyone but his beloved Anthea.

He put his legs over the side of the bed, thinking that by doing so the rest of his body had no alternative but to follow. This always worked, and once upright, he drew back the curtains and was glad. It was a beautiful morning, and he pulled on some casual clothes and set off up the Waltonby road at a brisk pace. Anthea would not have liked to see him go to seed.

As he passed by the hall he quickened his pace. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted by Mrs. T-J and forced to listen to her version of the Gospel according to St. Mark. She must, as a child, have been made to absorb the entire Old and New Testaments by heart. He had learned very early on never to contradict her on a matter of dogma or Biblical reference. She would have made an excellent bishop!

He had been astonished when he heard she was intending to drive the WI soap box. Was there nothing this woman could not do?

“Father Rodney! Helloeee!”

Dear God, could you not have held her back until I was well out of sight? Father Rodney turned and saw a perfectly turned-out Mrs. T-J striding towards him. He smiled his friendliest smile, just to show he could, and wished her good morning.

“Just the person I wanted to see!” she said. “There’s always such a crowd waiting to speak to you after the service, and now here you are and I’ve got you all to myself!”

Alarm bells rang. Surely she was not about to make him some discreet partnership proposal-or worse, suggest… But no, she was years older than him, and could not possibly…

“How can I help?” he said coolly. “I am up and about early to make the most of this beautiful morning before the nine o’clock at Waltonby.”

She looked at her watch. “You’ve got another hour yet. May I join you? I am quite a fast walker.” And a fast worker, Father Rodney said to himself in dismay.

“I was just thinking of turning back,” he explained. “Have to get showered and togged up in ecclesiasticals, you know. My Sunday best, as they say.”

“In that case,” she said, “we’ll walk up the drive to the hall, you shall have a quick glass of water and I’ll run you back to the vicarage.”

Father Rodney gave up. He fell in with her now much slower pace, and to his relief she announced that she had a problem with her gardener. “He is such a good worker, but I find it difficult to get much out of him about his private life.”

“Perhaps he regards that as his private affair,” Father Rodney said gently.

Mrs. T-J puffed up like a pigeon. “Oh, no. I think as his employer I have every right to know what kind of man I am allowing free run of my estate, don’t you? He gave me his name and address, and that is all. I have checked both, and find them fictitious. No such name at no such address.”

“So what have you done about it? That surely is enough to justify asking for an explanation?”

“Of course. But so far I have done nothing. There is something about the man that warns you off. As you know, I am a strong character. Used to be called fearless on the back of a horse! But I feel I must tread warily. For once, Father Rodney, I am not sure. That’s why I wanted your advice. What do you think?”

He reflected that she probably would take no notice of anything he advised, so it didn’t much matter what he said. “I think your instincts are probably right,” he said. “Go slowly. Perhaps you could ask around and find out if anyone knows anything about him? You must have a friendly policeman you could consult, you being a magistrate and so on?”

“Of course I know the commissioner, but it’s rather a small matter…”

“So far it may be,” said Father Rodney. “But he must have a reason for giving false details. Obviously he doesn’t want his real identity known. Why? That is the question you need answering. Have you thought of asking Mrs. Meade at New Brooms? Her girls go cleaning all round the county. They are sure to know something about him. Doesn’t one of them work for you?”

Mrs. T-J nodded. “Mrs. Hickson, yes. But she doesn’t seem to want to have anything to do with him. I’ve watched her, and when he comes towards the house she retreats upstairs.”

“There you are, then!” he said triumphantly. “She knows something about him, and maybe something bad, if she seems scared. Ask her, Mrs. T-J, that’s my advice.”

They had now arrived in the stable yard, where her large limousine was parked. In no time at all, he was more or less ejected outside the vicarage with plenty of time to prepare for the service. So much for his solitary, contemplative morning stroll! Ah, well, no doubt He had a reason that would in due course emerge.