Caroline Graham - Faithful unto Death

Simone Hollingsworth disappeared on Thursday, June 6. You could have said she had a wonderful day for it. A warm breeze was circulating beneath a sky so clear and bright it was almost colourless. The hedges were thick with blossom and in the fields rabbits and hares were larking about from sheer joie de vivre , as is the way of very young creatures who have not yet twigged what the world has in for them.

The first sign in St. Chad’s Lane that all was not quite as it should be was observed by Mrs. Molfrey, tottering past the house next door on her way to post a letter. Sarah Lawson was struggling to open the Hollingsworths’ gate inwards with her foot while holding in her arms a large cardboard box.

“Let me help you,” said Mrs. Molfrey.

“I can manage if you could keep this open.”

“It looks jolly heavy,” said Mrs. Molfrey, referring to the box. She eased back the wrought and gilded iron. “What on earth’s in it?”

“Some Kilner jars for my stall at the fete.”

They walked along the lane, Sarah courteously moving at a quarter of her usual pace, for Mrs. Molfrey was very old. The clock on the flint and stone church tower struck three.

“Simone invited me for tea as well but she seems to have gone out. I found these on the patio steps.”

“How odd. That’s not like her at all.”

“Can’t say I’m sorry.” Sarah hefted the box up in her arms with a groan. “Once you’re in there it’s goodbye to the next hour at least.”

“I expect the poor girl’s lonely.”

“Whose fault’s that?”

They paused outside Bay Tree Cottage where Sarah lived. Here there was no need for Mrs. Molfrey to do the honours, for the gate was permanently hanging off its hinges. This slovenly departure from the approved norm was accepted with a resigned shrug by the village. Sarah was known to be artistic so naturally allowances had to be made.

“Simone can’t have gone far without wheels. And she’s bound to be back soon. It’s bell-ringing practice at five.”

“Oh, that’s the latest thing, is it?” Sarah laughed. “I suppose there’s nothing else left.”

“Did she stick at your course?”

“No.” Sarah put the box down and produced a key from her skirt pocket. “Came for a few weeks then lost interest.”

Mrs. Molfrey posted her letter and turned homewards, silently reflecting that, as far as Simone was concerned, there was indeed not much left for her to play with.

The Hollingsworths had moved into Nightingales just over a year ago. Unlike most newcomers who were invariably anxious to understand, appreciate and embrace every aspect of village life before the removal vans were out of sight, Alan Hollingsworth had never shown the slightest interest in either the place or the people. He could be glimpsed only when climbing into his black and silver Audi convertible, waving goodbye to his wife and crunching off down the drive. Or, long hours later—for he had his own business and worked extremely hard—driving smoothly back up again and kissing her hullo.

Simone always appeared in the doorway the moment the car door slammed as if she had been poised in some concealed lookout, determined that the man of the house should not go unwelcomed or unreceived for a single second. When kissed, she would stand on tiptoe with one leg flicked up behind her like an actress in a forties movie.

Unlike her husband, Mrs. Hollingsworth, having time on her hands, had made an effort to become involved in local activities. It had to be acknowledged that these were pretty limited. There was the Women’s Institute, the Embroidery Group, the Bowls Club, a Homemade Wine Circle and, for the truly desperate, the Parish Council. The vicar’s wife chaired that.

Mrs. Hollingsworth had gone along to the Institute on a couple of occasions and had sat through a talk on corn dollies and an illustrated lecture on the botanic discoveries of John Tradescant. She had applauded the winner of the most interesting apron competition and enjoyed a slice of Madeira cake. Asked several mildly probing questions about her past and present circumstances, she had replied with a sort of willing vagueness that managed to be both unsatisfactory and unobjectionable. At the third meeting (Intrigue Your Friends With A Tudor Posset) she was seen to sigh a little and was, regretfully, unable to stay for tea and a lemon curd butterfly.

Bowls came next. Colonel Wymmes-Forsyth, the club secretary, watched, goggle-eyed and half fainting with horror, as her four-inch heels, narrow as wine glass stems, stabbed and mangled their way across his exquisitely striped green. She was dissuaded without too much difficulty (everyone was so ancient) from joining.

The wine circle and parish meetings, which took place in the evenings, knew her not. Neither did the embroiderers’ group although Cubby Dawlish put a delightfully illustrated little notice as to their times of meeting through Nightingales’ letter box.

It was thought that either shyness or a sense of decorum led her to ignore the simplest and most pleasurable way of getting to know people, that is, a visit to the Goat and Whistle. Most new immigrants were in there at the drop of an optic. They asked for a pint of the landlord’s best then, foot on the bar rail, would hesitantly broach a subject or drop an agreeable remark into an already established conversation, trying to make friends.

Invariably warmly welcomed, they would return home confirmed in the belief that it was only in the country that people really had time for you. Most remained happily unaware that it was merely the stultifying boredom of seeing the same old faces day in day out that promoted such keen interest. They did not even notice when they, in their turn, became stultifyingly bored.

Bell-ringing, as has already been mentioned, was Mrs. Hollingsworth’s latest humour. To date she had attended half a dozen sessions without apparently exhausting her interest. But she was not always prompt and so, when she hadn’t arrived at half past five, no one was either surprised or concerned.

The vicar, the Reverend Bream, listened with half an ear for her approach whilst tidying a pile of church guides desktop published by his wife. Priced modestly at fifty pence, they were very popular with visitors, at least half of whom put something, if rarely the full amount, in the box.

Mrs. Molfrey wandered in, apologising for her lateness and doing a quick head count.

“She’s not come back then, Simone?” After she had explained the background to this remark, the vicar decided to wait no further and they all hove to.

The practice was for a funeral the following day. Usually requiring nothing more than a somnolent ongoing toll, the bereaved on this occasion had requested a rendering of Oranges and Lemons, a childhood favourite of the dear departed. It was not a peal with which the Fawcett Green campanologists were familiar. But the vicar, who knew it well, had written it out on cards. This was their third run through. Substituting now for their absent colleague, the Reverend Bream swung rhythmically. Arms stretched, he took deep regular breaths, while the heels of his elastic-sided black boots rose and fell and the coarse red, white and blue hemp slipped through his fingers.

Next to him little Mrs. Molfrey shot up into the air, her ringlets flying and unlaced tennis shoes hanging off her feet before descending gravely to the worn flagstones. The team rang for half an hour then, as was usual, repaired to the vestry for refreshments.