and at least a stone and a half on you.”
“Well, some detractors say a cassock looks like a party frock, so you won’t be the only one in a skirt. Here, let me,” he said to Judith, reaching into the open boot of her car and gripping a valise.
“Thank you. I’ll take the other.”
“I can take it,” John said.
“You’ve got your bagpipe case.”
“I have two hands.”
“You do all insist on chivalry.” Judith handed over the case. “Give me your torch, then. I should have thought to bring one. I forgothow dark it gets in some villages. And if there’s a moon, it’s not visible.”
They all looked at the starless black sky emptying its burden. The falling snow seemed unceasing.
“I didn’t expect ‘Waltzing Matilda’ to be quite so … moving on bagpipe,” Judith continued after some moments passed. They had reached the gate at the bottom of the garden, still open and now firmly rooted in a drift of snow. “It was the
lento
, I expect.”
“We can pull together when we need to.” John grunted, sidling through the opening with the luggage.
“One person told me I would be pleasantly surprised by the Burns Supper,” Tom added. “And another said I would be simply surprised. I didn’t expect to be so shaken. I can’t think what this will do to Caroline …”
“Is Mrs. Moir a blonde?” Judith interjected.
“Yes,” Tom replied, startled. “Why would you ask that?”
“Oh … I knew her father when I was young. He was very blond, although I suppose for a man I should say ‘fair-haired.’ ”
“A not unusual hair colouring in these isles,” Tom pointed out.
“No, I suppose it isn’t.”
“And with Will being blond … fair-haired, too, they’re … they were a very striking couple.”
“Odd, whenever I imagine Australians, I always think of them as blond. My good friend Phyllis, in Melbourne—I was at school with her at Leeds—she married an Australian and, of course, he’s blond. Or was, rather.” Judith flashed the torch down Pennycross Road. “Look, the Tidy Dolly! And the Church House Inn! How everything looks unchanged! It’s like a dream.”
The pub windows’ golden glow beckoned in the darkness. Beyond, at the end of Church Walk, past the lych-gate, the tower of St. Nicholas’s rose above the tangle of the ancient yew, burnished by a floodlight timed to shut itself off by eleven. Tom realised he had paid little heed to the hour, but it couldn’t yet be eleven if the pubwas still open. How unimaginably long the evening felt, now that he was just about on the doorstep of his home.
“I hope Nick doesn’t take a notion to run up to town or to Noze,” Tom said, his mind shifting again to Caroline. That she couldn’t be reached by telephone, that she didn’t know her husband had died, seemed horrible and deeply unfair, but Nick as herald seemed insult to injury.
“No danger there, Tom.” John gripped Judith’s case under his arm, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a set of keys, which Tom illuminated with his torch. “I took these from Nick’s jacket when I went for my mobile. That young idiot’s not going anywhere tonight.”
“Wise man.”
“Is Nick’s mother living?” Judith asked as abruptly as she had earlier.
“She predeceased his father,” John replied. “I think. Do you know, Tom?”
“I know very little about Nick Stanhope. Other,” he added grimly, “than what I’ve learned tonight.”
The illumination from the pub window traced the stone wall separating Church Walk from the vicarage garden. “If the girls aren’t asleep, and—” Tom glanced at the flicker of light against the sitting room window drapes. “—and they may well not be, then we must be very careful what we say and how we behave, for Ariel’s sake.”
“Poor poor child,” Judith murmured. “Do you have children, Mr. Copeland?”
“No, I don’t.”
The wooden gate moaned when they pushed it open, eerily amplified in the night
“Well, some detractors say a cassock looks like a party frock, so you won’t be the only one in a skirt. Here, let me,” he said to Judith, reaching into the open boot of her car and gripping a valise.
“Thank you. I’ll take the other.”
“I can take it,” John said.
“You’ve got your bagpipe case.”
“I have two hands.”
“You do all insist on chivalry.” Judith handed over the case. “Give me your torch, then. I should have thought to bring one. I forgothow dark it gets in some villages. And if there’s a moon, it’s not visible.”
They all looked at the starless black sky emptying its burden. The falling snow seemed unceasing.
“I didn’t expect ‘Waltzing Matilda’ to be quite so … moving on bagpipe,” Judith continued after some moments passed. They had reached the gate at the bottom of the garden, still open and now firmly rooted in a drift of snow. “It was the
lento
, I expect.”
“We can pull together when we need to.” John grunted, sidling through the opening with the luggage.
“One person told me I would be pleasantly surprised by the Burns Supper,” Tom added. “And another said I would be simply surprised. I didn’t expect to be so shaken. I can’t think what this will do to Caroline …”
“Is Mrs. Moir a blonde?” Judith interjected.
“Yes,” Tom replied, startled. “Why would you ask that?”
“Oh … I knew her father when I was young. He was very blond, although I suppose for a man I should say ‘fair-haired.’ ”
“A not unusual hair colouring in these isles,” Tom pointed out.
“No, I suppose it isn’t.”
“And with Will being blond … fair-haired, too, they’re … they were a very striking couple.”
“Odd, whenever I imagine Australians, I always think of them as blond. My good friend Phyllis, in Melbourne—I was at school with her at Leeds—she married an Australian and, of course, he’s blond. Or was, rather.” Judith flashed the torch down Pennycross Road. “Look, the Tidy Dolly! And the Church House Inn! How everything looks unchanged! It’s like a dream.”
The pub windows’ golden glow beckoned in the darkness. Beyond, at the end of Church Walk, past the lych-gate, the tower of St. Nicholas’s rose above the tangle of the ancient yew, burnished by a floodlight timed to shut itself off by eleven. Tom realised he had paid little heed to the hour, but it couldn’t yet be eleven if the pubwas still open. How unimaginably long the evening felt, now that he was just about on the doorstep of his home.
“I hope Nick doesn’t take a notion to run up to town or to Noze,” Tom said, his mind shifting again to Caroline. That she couldn’t be reached by telephone, that she didn’t know her husband had died, seemed horrible and deeply unfair, but Nick as herald seemed insult to injury.
“No danger there, Tom.” John gripped Judith’s case under his arm, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a set of keys, which Tom illuminated with his torch. “I took these from Nick’s jacket when I went for my mobile. That young idiot’s not going anywhere tonight.”
“Wise man.”
“Is Nick’s mother living?” Judith asked as abruptly as she had earlier.
“She predeceased his father,” John replied. “I think. Do you know, Tom?”
“I know very little about Nick Stanhope. Other,” he added grimly, “than what I’ve learned tonight.”
The illumination from the pub window traced the stone wall separating Church Walk from the vicarage garden. “If the girls aren’t asleep, and—” Tom glanced at the flicker of light against the sitting room window drapes. “—and they may well not be, then we must be very careful what we say and how we behave, for Ariel’s sake.”
“Poor poor child,” Judith murmured. “Do you have children, Mr. Copeland?”
“No, I don’t.”
The wooden gate moaned when they pushed it open, eerily amplified in the night
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