The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [84]
‘It’s not a lie. It’s what I’m sure happened.’
The kettle’s still shrieking. I reach over and turn off the gas. ‘Don’t bother with tea on my account,’ I say. ‘I have to go. You’re right. It is a lot to ask. Too much.’
He stands up and, for a second, I think he’ll block my way, but instead he flattens himself against the kitchenette so we don’t have to touch. There’s sadness in his eyes, but they crinkle up with his usual lop-sided smile. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Friends, Indy?’
‘I’ll have to think about it.’
As I walk down the road towards the car, the Smiths blast out again from the caravan, singing about being human and needing to be loved.
CHAPTER 20
1938
I was so upset that I couldn’t summon enthusiasm for church that Sunday. Hard to kneel in front of God, remembering the thoughts in my mind when Mr Keiller tried to wrestle my handbag from me. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw his handsome face leaning over me, felt his hand slide across my bosom, accidental like.
Mam and I usually went to St James’s, where the serpent writhed round the old font and the saint trod on its wicked head. Dad never went; said he’d seen all he wanted of God in the trenches. Nor did Mr Keiller. Sometimes, like this week, we were too busy with guests expecting roast Sunday luncheon. Then I’d go to evensong instead, on my own if Mam was too tired. Sunday supper was always serve-yourself, a cold collation, sandwiches made from the left-over roast, and salad and cheese and pickles, and once we’d laid it out Dad looked after everything while I went to church and Mam put her feet up.
‘I’ll be glad when we’ve done with the guesthouse,’ she’d taken to saying. ‘It’s a chore and no mistake, these days.’
Tonight the evening was too lovely to sit in the dark nave of St James’s, I told myself, knowing it was only an excuse to have an hour to myself, thinking about Mr Keiller and imagining his fingers doing much more than brush accidental against my chest. So I went walking, the laburnum flowers in yellow drifts and the air smelling of fresh-mown grass. Over the footbridge, the Winterbourne shrunken to a reedy trickle, the ground was already pegged out at Trusloe for the foundations of the new houses. Lawrence of Arabia’s brother had put up some of the money. Strange to think these empty fields would one day hold a village.
I’d reached the far side of Longstones field–two big old sarsens down there, facing each other like wary boxers–when I heard bells floating across the air. Not St James’s: these were from the next village on, Yatesbury. My conscience tugged me. It was a fair step, but a pretty church. I’d be too late for the start of the service but I could slip into a pew at the back.
It was further than I’d thought. As I walked up the path between the yews, limping a little on blistered feet, the sun was dipping below the treetops. The wooden door was ajar, and I could hear the deep voice of the vicar intoning the words of the Collect: Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord, and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.
Leaning on a box tomb with his back to me, Mr Cromley was smoking a cigarette; I knew him by the slope of his shoulders in the dark green Morven blazer. I hesitated, but he must have heard my step on the gravel. To my dismay, he turned, dropping the glowing cigarette end onto the ground.
‘Miss Robinson! Beautiful evening.’ He had a winning smile, and I reminded myself it wasn’t his fault, what had happened at the picnic.
‘Didn’t have you down as a churchgoer, Mr Cromley.’
‘I don’t go into the service. I prefer to shrive my soul out here in the churchyard.’
‘You have a soul, then?’
‘You’re very cruel all of a sudden. And you’ve been avoiding me, Heartbreaker. You’ve missed most of the service, so come and sit down on–’ he looked at the slab between us ‘–William Cullis and his fine family and watch the sun go down with me. We can discuss the state of our souls.’
It was the first time he had called me Heartbreaker. The organist was hammering away at the closing hymn,