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So Paul is not a liar. He’s still an arsehole though.
I turn to check he’s not watching me from the window – he isn’t – and the open garage door catches my attention. I glance inside. It used to be almost empty, but now it contains spades, forks and a wheelbarrow, along with ladders, a workbench and tools.
I assume they belong to Paul, but why has he left them here? And how did I miss it?
CHAPTER 8
REVEREND EDDIE EDWARDS
‘Morning Connie, how are you?’
‘Oh hi, Reverend Edwards,’ she exclaims, as if only just noticing me. Moments earlier I spotted her reflection in the thick plastic counter screens at the post office in the village supermarket. She appeared to be hovering in the aisle, as if waiting for me to finish sending my parcel before approaching me. ‘I’m good thanks,’ she continues. ‘And you?’
‘Can’t complain,’ I say. ‘Well I can, but then you might be here all day.’ We both chuckle but I suspect neither of us actually found it that funny. ‘And it’s Eddie, please. How’s your mum? She was in good voice at Sunday’s sermon ... singing her heart out to “How Great Thou Art” without even opening the hymn book.’
‘This week feels like a positive one.’
‘Absolutely. And perhaps one day we might even see you in our congregation.’ I make sure to smile so that she knows I’m kidding. As much as I enjoy seeing every new face under our roof, I’m not one to guilt-trip anyone into attending. We all believe in something, whether it’s ourselves, a loved one or Him.
‘I’m afraid organised religion isn’t my thing,’ she tells me. ‘But I appreciate how much it means to so many, like Mum.’
‘As long as you’re aware that you don’t need to be a Christian to come and talk to me if you ever need an ear. I know from witnessing other parishioners’ families and carers on the same journey as you and Gwen are on, just how tough it is. My door is open any time you’d like to chat or just to raid the biscuit barrel.’
She thanks me with a nod and a half-smile. There’s a brief pause in the conversation as I await the real reason she’s engaging me in conversation.
‘I’ve been meaning to say thank you for introducing us to Paul,’ she says.
‘Paul?’ I reply, trying to place the name.
‘Yes, the man from that charity who’s been tidying up Mum’s garden for the last fortnight.’
‘Oh yes. I’m glad he was able to help. He’s done wonders, hasn’t he? You don’t need to cross the road to use the path anymore.’
‘Actually, he’s still here,’ she continues. ‘Just when I think he’s about to finish, he finds something else that needs doing.’
‘Oh really? Gwen said she wanted someone for a few light gardening duties.’
‘Yes, but he’s very keen. Have you used him before?’
‘Not for any of my parishioners, but he comes highly recommended by the charity.’
‘What’s it called again?’
There’s a subtext to Connie’s questions but I’m struggling to find it. ‘Help for Homes,’ I reply. ‘They’re a non-profit organisation.’
‘I suppose they must really vet the volunteers they recommend. There are a lot of cowboys out there.’
‘That’s why we use them. We can’t take any risks with vulnerable people like your mum.’
‘Out of interest, what kind of checks might they include?’ I think she intends the question to be casual but it comes across as rehearsed. ‘I’m thinking of volunteering,’ she adds.
‘I can’t say for sure, but I assume they check criminal records, probably trading standards too, to see if there have been complaints made against them. I think they even look at places like Checkatrade and online reviews. I can put a call in and find out for certain, if that’d ease your mind?’
‘No, no,’ she backtracks and holds up two conciliatory palms to her chest. ‘No need at all. It’s something I’m considering in the future for after, well, at some point when ...’
She struggles to finish her sentence and my eyebrows knit. ‘Connie, is there something I can help you with?’
She hesitates and then slowly opens her mouth. ‘Are you sure ... Paul can be ... trusted?’
