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‘But he can’t do that,’ Tavy protested. ‘It’s an important part of village life.’
He shook his head. ‘Sadly, darling, it’s happened to other churches in the diocese with similar problems.’ He sighed. ‘And as you know the Bishop is a moderniser, so we haven’t always seen eye to eye in the past.’
Tavy swallowed. ‘Would we have to leave this house?’
‘Almost certainly. It’s a valuable piece of real estate—more so than the church itself, I fear.’ He added quietly, ‘I’ll probably be asked to join the team ministry in Market Tranton.’
As Tavy brought the omelettes to the table, she said, ‘Dad, we have to fight this closure. Try to raise some serious money to kick-start the restoration fund again.’
‘I’ve been thinking along the same lines,’ he said. ‘But where would we start?’ He shook his head. ‘What we really need is a miracle or a millionaire philanthropist, but they’re in short supply these days.’
It was a good omelette but, to Tavy, it tasted like untreated leather. Because she could think of someone just about to lavish thousands of pounds on a country mansion—just to feed his own selfish vanity.
To them that hath, she thought bitterly. And it had never seemed more true, or more horribly unfair.
Oh, damn Jago Marsh, and send him back to the hell he came from. And where he truly belongs, with his drink and his drugs. And his frightful bloody women.
‘Octavia, my dear,’ the Vicar said gently. ‘I know we must fight, but for a moment there you looked almost murderous.’
‘Did I?’ She smiled at him. Kept her voice light. ‘Oh, dear. I must have been thinking of the Bishop.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
EVEN WHEN SCHOOL resumed after half term, Tavy appeared to be still in the doghouse over the stationery cupboard incident.
On the face of it, this was the least of her worries. But the children’s return kept her busy and stopped her examining too closely the rest of the uneasiness piling up like thunder clouds at the back of her mind. At least in the daytime.
The nights, when sleep was often strangely elusive, were a different matter, leaving her prey to her churning thoughts.
The major worry, naturally, was Holy Trinity and the awaited surveyor’s report. Wasn’t that what judges did before passing sentence—ask for reports? And was that how her father felt—as if he was a prisoner in some dock, his future being decided by strangers?
He was almost as quiet and preoccupied as he had been after her mother’s death, she thought sorrowfully. As if some inner light had gone out.
Four years ago, she’d made a simple choice that she was sure in her heart was the right one. Now suddenly there were no more certainties, and she felt frightened as well as confused.
And Patrick was part of that confusion. Every day she’d expected to hear from him, via a phone call or a text, but there’d been nothing. So she’d called the flat in the evening a couple of times, but found only the answerphone, and had rung off without leaving a message, because she couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make her sound needy.
Yet wasn’t talking over problems what people in love were supposed to do? Especially when they might affect the future. Their future, which now seemed to be a major part of the general uncertainty.
And there were other aspects of the immediate future to trouble her too, with the village grapevine humming with news.
Ted Jackson and his crew had started work on the Ladysmere grounds, as June Jackson importantly informed everyone.
‘Even that old greenhouse place at the back is being rebuilt, and special lighting installed,’ she’d announced in the Post Office, pursing her lips before adding with heavy significance, ‘No need to ask what for.’
Tavy was halfway home before she realised that Mrs Jackson was hinting it would be used to produce cannabis, and wondered if that was what Jago had meant by ‘other ideas’.
Wait till Mrs Wilding hears that, she thought groaning inwardly. She’ll be on the phone to the Drugs Squad in minutes.
Jago Marsh himself had not been seen in the village all week, but the constant gossip about his plans for Ladysmere possibly explained why, when she did sleep, Tavy’s fleeting, disturbing dreams so often seemed to feature a dark-haired, tawny-eyed man.
Proving, she thought bitterly, that ‘out of sight’ did not necessarily mean ‘out of mind’.
