Andrew Taylor - The Four Last Things

This feeling vanished as soon as Sally reached the living room. Yvonne had laid the table in the window; usually Sally and Michael ate breakfast in the kitchen, often on the move. She had managed to find the wrong plates, the wrong mugs and the wrong teapot. There were paper napkins, a choice of both jam and marmalade, and a tablecloth which the Appleyards had last used on Christmas Day. Sally thought of little girls playing house and tried to suppress her exasperation. She also wished that she had remembered to wash the cloth.

‘Perhaps you prefer honey?’ Yvonne was poised to dash into the kitchen. ‘And is there any butter? I can only find margarine. That’s what I have, but perhaps –’

‘That’s fine,’ Sally lied. ‘Margarine’s fine. Everything’s fine.’

She drank a glass of fruit juice and then sipped a mug of sweetened tea. The first mouthful of toast almost made her gag. She allowed Yvonne to pour her a second mug of tea and used it to moisten her throat between mouthfuls. Yvonne made her feel a guest in her own home, confronted by an overanxious hostess.

Parish reflexes came to Sally’s rescue: automatically she asked questions. Yvonne told her that she worked at Paddington, that her boyfriend, also a policeman, was a sergeant in traffic control, and that they had a small flat in Wembley, but were hoping to move to somewhere larger soon. The illusion of intimacy lasted until Yvonne used the phrase ‘living in sin’ to describe what she and her boyfriend did.

‘Sorry.’ A blush crept up underneath her make-up. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be talking like this. What with you being a vicar and all.’

‘Before I decided to become ordained, I lived with two men.’ Sally inserted a practised pause and then slipped in her usual punchline: ‘Not at the same time, of course.’

Yvonne tittered, and the mask slipped, revealing the youth and vulnerability behind. Usually, Sally thought, she would not have talked so readily to a stranger. But Michael was a police officer, which made Sally an honorary insider, at least on a temporary basis. And Yvonne was nervous – perhaps she had not done this job before. The flail of memory slapped her again: baby-sitting, they might call it, or child minding. For the next few seconds Sally fought the urge to bring up her breakfast over Great Aunt Mary’s linen tablecloth.

The telephone rang.

‘I’ll get it.’ Yvonne was already on her feet. She picked up the phone. She listened, then said, ‘I’m a police officer, sir … Yes, Mrs Appleyard is awake … I’ll ask her.’ She covered the mouthpiece of the handset. ‘Someone called Derek Cutter. Says he’s your boss. Do you want to talk to him? Or he says he’d be pleased to come over.’

Sally opened her mouth to say that she didn’t want to see Derek, or talk to him; and if she never did either again, she for one would not waste any tears. Instantly she restrained herself. This wasn’t Derek’s fault. She had a duty both to him and to the parish. And, more selfishly, it was important to create the illusion that she was in control; otherwise they might starve her of information.

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