‘Yes,’ said Thelma.
Again, that image came before her, a wrecked car at the side of a moorland road.
Golden lads and lasses.
There was a sigh down the end of the phone. ‘There’s something I need to say,’ said Caro. ‘I lied to you. I mean I could try and dress it up because I know there’s no way Chloe Lord went to confront Neville. I just know,but—’
‘But you didn’t actually follow her home, did you?’ supplied Thelma. ‘Yes, I rather thought so.’
‘Am I such a bad liar?’ There was an ironic tone in Caro’s voice. ‘Maybe that’s something to be thankful for.’
‘It was what you said to me,’ said Thelma. ‘How you went on to a PCC meeting after the ceremony. I know PCC meetings – and I don’t know of any that start any later than seven thirty. People are so prone to ramble on. And I’ve certainly never heard of any that last just an hour.’
‘I see,’ said Caro. ‘Well, I’m sorry anyway, but you have to trust me – there is no way Chloe confronted Neville.’
‘I wonder, Caro,’ said Thelma. ‘Could I ask you something? It may seem unconnected but believe me it’s important.’
‘Of course.’ The voice sounded slightly sharpened by curiosity.
‘The memorial service. That sonnet Bun Widdup read out.’
‘Yes? What about it?’
‘Did you happen to film it?’
There was a pause. Then: ‘Yes, I did.’
‘I’m wondering, could you send me a copy? I can’t say why, but it’s important.’
‘I can’t, I’m sorry,’ said Caro. ‘I deleted it.’
‘I see,’ said Thelma.
‘I’m telling you the truth,’ said Caro. ‘Annie asked me to.’
‘Annie did?’
‘It was the last time I saw her – a couple of days ago – she asked if I had it on my phone. She said how Son didn’t want any recordings of the service and asked me to delete it. So, it’s gone. But I can remember the poem. I could send you a link if you want to read it.’
After the call had ended, Thelma stayed sitting on the bed, hands no longer trembling but folded.
Son didn’t want any recordings of the memorial?Why?
Chapter Thirty
Tuesday 29th July
Met Office weather forecast:
A cool front bringing cloudy and patchy showers will make its way down from the north during the later part of the night, bringing lower temperatures across England and Wales.
During the small hours, welcome clouds gathered over the moors, hills and rooftops of Thirsk and Ripon.
In the grey of that cool early morning, Thelma dreamed.
She dreamed she was back at St Barnabus, the school she’d worked at for all those years, walking through its empty corridors and classrooms. In her heart and throat was the most terrible aching sadness, for she had the knowledge that soon the school was to close, that the miniature chairs, the stacks of reading books, the plastic trays of glue sticks were to be removed, leaving the rooms where she’d spent so much of her life bare and empty shells, stripped of purpose and meaning.
And then she was in the staffroom – with staff from the old days, Pat and Liz, Feay and Topsy. They were watching a Zoom call, not on a laptop but on the old school television on itscumbersome, wheeled stand. They were all looking at Noah, who was gazing blearily back, duvet hunched round him. Only Thelma knew Noah wasn’t in his attic room, but in Teddy’s study with its thick drapes, and that for some reason it was vitally important no one watching should know this. If only she could close those thick drapes no one would know …
