Forgot them and the radio waltz
Came out like water from a rock:
Time was away and somewhere else.
Would she ever have a meeting point like that? Isn’t that what she really wants? A partner, a family. The yearning for a baby stirs within her, asleep at present, but never gone. She thinks of Eric, sitting on the stool in Uncle Wilbur’s shop, and of their conversations about ghosts. Of course, he didn’t know that they were ghosts – she wishes now she had told him that. Explained that these ghosts would meet and speak to each other.
She kneels up on her bed and pulls open the window, breathing in great gulps of air rich with the scent of moss and the tang of heather. The cold makes her eyes water, but she keeps the window open, staring up at the great, bold sky above her. This is what she has missed. And yet, part of her is still hanging her head out of her London home, searching for the scent of tobacco and spices, and the smell of tarmac after the rain. She closes the window with a shuddering bang.
The truth is, she doesn’t know what she wants.
She grabs the clothes she left on her bedroom chair and dresses in a rush, keen to get out onto the hills. She has promised her mum she will collect foliage to make a door wreath for her, and she needs some space and time to think.
By the time she comes back off the moors, tired and muddy, carrying great swathes of ivy, holly, snowberries and hawthorn, Jo has made a decision.
In a small stationery shop in North London, a pen-and-ink drawing of a Viking wearing overlarge glasses slips free of its pin and flutters to the floor, where it comes to rest in the dust underneath an oak cabinet.
45
Dear Joanne
Dear Joanne,
As you will see from the address at the top of this letter, I am back home in Hampstead. They say there is no place like home, but I am not sure I agree with this sentiment any more. However, enough of that. I wanted to send you my best wishes and say that I am glad that the funeral plans are progressing well. I do believe your uncle was a good man and no doubt will be missed. It is a shame I did not get to know him better.
I am sitting here now, pen in hand, wondering how best to describe the last few days to you. When I left you, I really had no idea what I hoped to achieve and so remained silent on the subject. I also felt I was not completely honest with you when I mentioned Reverend Ruth’s state of mind. After her text I called her, and she really was very distressed.
The reason for her descent into such darkness was not difficult to surmise: her brother, Donald. She has not described his physical attributes to me, but I find myself imagining a large man with a thick neck and flat forehead. Mere fantasy, I am sure, he may well be a small, pipsqueak of a man, but you will see in my mind I am thinking of a bully; and that is what Donald undoubtedly is. After her visit to him, which as you know was embarked upon in the spirit of reconciliation, the poor woman was crushed. It seems brother Donald dug up every childhood fault her parents had ever thrown at her and added in a few of his own for good measure. I think what hurt her most was his accusation that she was by nature a selfish and un-Christian woman. In short, she was not worthy of her calling. I do believe she might, in time, have dismissed his criticisms; however, I felt something of a personal nature was worrying her and was lending weight, in her mind, to his point of view.
The conversation led us to no clear conclusion, but I hope in a small way I helped her. However, it left me uneasy, which is why I resolved on my little trip. You see, Joanne, I decided to visit her parish and find out for myself if there was more behind her decision to run away. I could not help but feel she had not told us everything. Whilst I had no wish to invade Reverend Ruth’s privacy, I felt a strong inclination to help her if I could. For this I would need all the facts.
Consequently, I have spent the last few days in Warwickshire, talking to her parishioners, members of her congregation and to her team. I even attended a church service. I tell you this because I know it will make you smile.
Below I have outlined my findings. Ever the bureaucratic analyst, I have listed them by topic.
1. Setting.
The parish is situated in undulating countryside and has many pleasant aspects. The sense is of a quaint hamlet that over the years has expanded to form what today is somewhere between a village and a town. There are a number of small shops and two pubs. I stayed in one of these, the Fox and Hounds, and was made most welcome by the publicans, Mr and Mrs Barton. Reverend Ruth’s church is in the centre of the village, parts of it dating back to Norman times.
2. The Church Community.
I was welcomed into the church by a curate named Gordon. I believe him to be the ex-City gent that Ruth spoke about. He had a lot to say for himself, but in the course of this he did introduce me to others. The congregation was mainly made up of older residents and, judging by some comments made over coffee, it appears that the numbers have dwindled considerably in the months since Reverend Ruth’s departure. While this may not be the place in my notes for personal reflections, I have to admit to you, Joanne, behind my nodding concern, I hid a big smile for our friend.
The members of the church and congregation were friendly, apart from, I am sad to say, the new vicar, and Colin Wilkinson, the churchwarden. First I shall describe the vicar. He was a small, nervous man, and my conclusion was that his apparent disinterest in those around him sprang from shyness. It seemed that Colin Wilkinson, in particular, made him extremely uneasy.
As I pause to write about Colin (you see how I am wandering from a clear, concise style), Reverend Ruth’s words come to mind regarding ‘Mr Will-kill-soon’, and I also recalled her saying of Hutch and Karl, ‘I really disliked them’. I would say the same of Colin Will-kill-soon. He is a man whose imperious bossiness crosses the line of what is acceptable, and yet when called up on it, as he was, very bravely, by the curate, Angela (more of her later), his fallback position is to claim that his comments were all part of a joke. This leaves those, like Angela, feeling foolish, and I would suggest reluctant to challenge him again. As an aside, I had to deal with such a character at work once, a Mr Waddington. Suffice to say I relocated him to a small office in Henorsford. (Where the hell, you may well ask, is Henorsford? Which I believe is exactly what Mrs Waddington asked him.)
I am afraid, Joanne, this is getting less and less like a properly structured report. I confess, I write it with my feet up on the ottoman, and a glass of the excellent whisky you were so kind as to bring me, by my side.
My final word in this section is about Angela Green, the second curate. She is a shy but charming woman, who holds our friend Ruth in very high regard. I have included her email address at the end of this letter as I believe we may wish to contact her again.
3. The Nub of the Matter.
First, I should write that, in my general interactions around the village, it is clear that Reverend Ruth is very well thought of, and is missed by many. However, it is apparent there are also rumours circulating about her sudden disappearance. There seems to be a suggestion of some sort of scandal, but I am afraid to say no one I spoke to was prepared to say more. It was rather in the nature of hints and veiled references. I know no more than that, Joanne, but it appears that some kind of slip, an indiscretion, may have contributed to Reverend Ruth doubting herself and her fitness for her calling.
It certainly seems from the feedback I have had of her work in the parish that she has nothing to feel guilty about there. In fact, the complete opposite is true: she seems to have done a great deal of good. I therefore believe a catalyst – something she would view as a serious failing – is at the root of it all.
My dilemma is this: what do we do? I shy away from raising this issue with Ruth directly. Hence my letter, dear Joanne; I felt the need to consult with another who cares for her.
