And it was as she stood there that she realised there was a second thing wrong with the scene she’d just witnessed. It had been driven out by the sight of Mr Hilton. It wasn’t that it was exactlywrong– not in the way a dead body was wrong (her shivering intensified) but itwasodd. Different.
Sinister.
She shivered again. How long would whatever was coming take? She remembered the idea she’d had of taking a selfie by the flowers and posting it on Instagram. And suddenly she realised on some deep, sad level that she would never post on social media again.
Chapter Two
Tuesday 8th July
From the Hambleton Five Parishes Newsletter:
As temperatures soar, all five of our churches will be open for people to pop in and take sanctuary from the heatwave. Please remember to keep the doors SHUT as our feathered friends also like to cool off – and they aren’t too fussy about the mess they leave behind!
From his post at the front of All Saints church, Pickhill, the lanky, bald man in the baggy designer suit frowned down at his tablet.
‘Cut Neville Hilton in half,’ he said confidently, ‘and you’d find the word “education” stamped through him like Blackpool Rock.’
Behind him the Reverend Mare – vicar of All Saints (and four other churches) – gave a well-practised smile of mirth tinged with sadness. From a gilt easel surrounded by waxy white lilies, an enlarged image of Nev Hilton smirked toothily out at the congregation as if acknowledging the speaker’s words.
The speaker – identified on the glossy order of service as Chris Canne MBE, CEO of Lodestone Multi-academy Trust – raisedhis eyes to scan the assembled mourners. It was then he saw the three ladies of a certain age sitting some five rows back. One wore a worried frown; the second, in a wispy black outfit, was adjusting a black pillbox hat; whilst the third – the one with a grey bob and large glasses – lowered her gaze and bowed her head as if in silent prayer. His eyes flicked uneasily back to the iPad. ‘He was a man for whom education was a passion and is, quite simply, amassiveloss to the profession.’ His voice sounded noticeably less certain.
Head bent, Thelma was not praying but considering what Chris Canne was saying about the deceased. Her thoughts spooled back to probably the last time she’d seen Neville Hilton: that staff night out at the Busby Stoop, some years ago now, for her head teacher Feay’s retirement party (hence the presence of spouses and partners). Nev Hilton had been sitting at her end of the table with his then-wife Jax, who had been Thelma’s classroom assistant at the time. Thelma could picture that same toothy smirk, hear that rather whiney voice droning on. What was it they had been talking about? Something that led to him making some rather contentious political point – completely oblivious to the fact that those people he wasn’t boring, he was annoying.
It hadn’t been so long after that, she remembered, that he and Jax had split up. Looking round the church of All Saints, blessedly cool on yet another scorching July day, Thelma found herself wondering about the late Neville Hilton. Aside from the huddle of men and women in expensive suits (obviously Lodestone Education personnel) there didn’t actually seem to bethatmany people, certainly not locals. She contrasted it with the funeral of her friend Laura in that very church the previous Easter. Then the church had been packed, people standing at the sides …
‘Neville Hilton was someone who will be greatly missed,’ said Chris Canne MBE sombrely.
Will he?thought Thelma.
* * *
Yes, thought Pat, Chris Canne haddefinitelyclocked the three of them and wasdefinitelyshooting uneasy glances in their direction. Was it seeing the three of them again after that last, awkward encounter, or was there another reason? She shifted in some discomfort. Despite the cool of the church and the wispiness of the various black layers (her ‘Kate Bush get-up’, as her son Liam termed it) Pat was feeling uncomfortably warm. The black pillbox hat felt like a hot clamp on her head. She wouldn’t have bothered with it had she not been painfully aware her roots needed touching up.
‘All of us at Lodestone Multi-academy Trust were impressed by Nev’s professionalism,’ said Chris Canne – very definitely NOT looking at Pat.
Professionalism?Like Thelma, Pat found herself remembering Feay’s leaving do. What had that silly argument been about? Brexit? Neville had been so irritatingly dogmatic. Pat remembered her husband Rod’s fixed smile and repeated kicks under the table. And then talking with Nev’s wife in the ladies’.
‘Nev just doesn’t know when to shut up,’ Jax Hilton had said in her usual airy tones.
Like Thelma, Pat recalled it hadn’t been that long before the pair had broken up. Or more accurately, Jax had broken up with Nev. Of the many, many break-ups Pat had seen over the years, this had been one of the more amicable ones – a load of cheery assertions from Jax by the photocopier aboutgrowing apart, life beingthe play not the rehearsal, before smartly removing herself off to a flat in Boroughbridge.
From what Pat had learned through the Staffroom Grapevine there didn’tseemto have been anyone else involved. And it was very much one of Jax’s defining qualities, tiring of something and moving on – something Pat had seen happen with various diets, multiple gym memberships, and now her marriage. Presumably therehadbeen some tension, some sadness – though it was difficult to imagine anything removing the smug smile from NevHilton’s face – but notably Jax had never bad-mouthed him and now the former Mrs Hilton even had the cleaning contract for the man’s holiday flat, which presumably meant some ongoing contact with her ex.
Pat looked across to where her one-time colleague was sitting three rows back, her trademark brassy blonde ponytail sprouting energetically from the top of her head bouncing slightly as she dabbed at her eyes. Ten days ago, Jax Hilton (she’d never shed her married surname, Pat noted) had rung out of the blue, with a breezy assumption bordering on an insistence that Patwouldbe as sad as she was andwouldnaturally want to pay her respects. The forceful tones had rather reminded Pat of the way Jax would sell raffle tickets at the school summer fayre, effortlessly shifting book after book. Looking round at the half-empty church she could only assume Jax’s call had been part of an attempt to drum up support for the service. Pat shifted slightly; it really was uncomfortable in this outfit. She couldn’t wait to get home, into her shorts and T-shirt and into the garden. Assuming a certain bronzed somebody hadn’t nicked her favourite sunlounger to top up that improbable tan.
‘In the short time we worked together, all of us at Lodestone were impressed by the sheer work ethic of the man.’ Chris Canne always was one for going on, Pat remembered, discreetly readjusting the pillbox hat. ‘We all saw him as something of an educationalpowerhouse.’
Educational powerhouse? Again, Pat remembered that evening at the Busby Stoop.Bellendhad been Rod’s pronouncement.
The third woman of the trio, grey-haired, in the smart but decidedly well-worn black dress, wasn’t solely there at the prompting of Jax Hilton. Liz was there because her husband, Derek (sitting next to her now, discreetly holding two of her fingers in his left hand), had felt it only right he should be there to represent the Thirsk and Rievaulx Rotarians. As branch treasurer, attending the funerals ofmembers seemed to be something that fell into his remit, along with the stewarding of the Thirsk fun run and selling raffle tickets outside Tesco. And of course it had felt absolutely right that, as his wife, Liz should accompany him – especially taking into account her one-time connection with Jax.
Like her friends, Liz also noted the empty pews. Derek’s sentiments of solidarity and support were obviously not ones widely shared by other Rotarians. She also regarded the smirking image on the easel. A heart attack, Jax had said when she’d phoned to tell her about the funeral.Gone just like that. Had it been Liz’s imagination or had there been somethingelsein that airy, bossy voice, some darker undertone? Maybe some other medical factor had come into play? Instantly she felt her mind flying gloomily off to her meeting later on that week.Alwayswith these meetings she wassoapprehensive before – and afterwards felt sounremittinglyflat. Still, it had to be done.
As though reading her gloomy thoughts, she felt Derek’s grip on her two fingers tighten. Liz sighed and sternly forced her mind back to the service. On the front row she could see the person who Pat had identified as the second Mrs Neville Hilton. Standing in her glossy, tight-fitting purple-black dress, with her ramrod posture, she put Liz in mind of a tightly closed tulip.Hard. Her face and expressionless mask of make-up and Botox had left Liz with the odd feeling that one sharp tap would dislodge the whole edifice, like one of those Venetian masks, sending it clattering to the tiled floor.
From the tone in his voice, and the way the Reverend Mare was stirring, Liz sensed that at long last Chris Canne MBE was winding down to a close. ‘Put simply,’ he said, ‘Nev Hilton was a top guy.’ As the Reverend Mare walked to the lectern, Liz found herself pondering the words.A top guy?Like her friends, she remembered the pompous figure holding forth at the Busby Stoop … nomalicein him, but such a strong sense of his own views. She remembered that immortal phrase of her late father,one used by both her and Derek when talking about Neville Hilton that morning.
Nice chap but nobody likes him.
