‘So, do you like our little church? It’s thirteenth century, you know.’ The voice behind her made her jump as she leaned thoughtfully on the lych gate staring up the path which disappeared round the church.
Behind her a tall, thin man in a dog collar was propping his bicycle against the hedge. He saw her glance at it and shrugged. ‘My car’s in dock. Something wrong with the brakes. Anyway I enjoy cycling on these lovely autumn afternoons.’ He had seen the pensive woman as he turned out of New Barn Road. Coming to a stop he had watched her for several minutes, impressed by her stillness. As she turned now and smiled at him he saw that she was youngish – late twenties or early thirties perhaps – and attractive in a quirky sort of way. Her hair was dark and heavy, cut in a bob with a fringe across her eyes – eyes which were a vivid Siamese cat blue. He watched as his bicycle subsided into the nettles and gave a humorous shrug. ‘I was just coming to collect some books I left in the vestry. Would you like to see round before I lock up?’
She nodded. ‘I was actually looking for the Hall. But I’d love to see the church.’
‘You can reach the Hall through the gate over there, behind the yews.’ He led the way up the path. ‘It’s empty, alas. Has been for many years.’
‘Did you know the people who lived there?’ The intensity of the gaze she fixed on him disarmed him slightly.
‘I’m afraid not. It was empty when I came to the parish. It’s a shame. We need a family there.’
‘Is it for sale then?’ She was dismayed.
‘No. No, that’s the problem. It still belongs to the Duncan family. I believe Mrs Duncan lives in France now.’
Mrs Duncan. Laura Catherine. Her mother.
‘You don’t have her address, do you?’ Joss could hear her voice shaking slightly. ‘I’m a sort of relative. That’s why I came.’
‘I see.’ He gave her another quick glance as they reached the church. Taking out a key he unlocked the door in the porch and ushering her into the dim interior he reached for the light switches. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know where she is, but my predecessor might. He was in the parish for twenty-five years and I think he kept in touch with her when she left. I can give you his address at least.’
‘Thank you.’ Joss stared round. It was a beautiful small church, plain, with a whitewashed interior which showed off the carved stone of the thirteenth-century windows and the arched doorways and the brasses and plaques with which it was lined. On the south side there was a side aisle where the oak pews gave way to rows of rush seated chairs. The church had been decorated for Harvest Festival and every window sill and shelf and pew end was piled with fruit and vegetables and flowers. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘Isn’t it.’ He surveyed it with fond pride. ‘I’m lucky to have such a charming church. I have three others of course with three other parishes, but none is as nice as this.’
‘Is my –’ Joss was looking round. My father, she had been going to say. ‘Is Philip Duncan buried here?’
‘Indeed he is. Out by the oak tree. You’ll see his grave if you walk through to the Hall.’
‘Is it all right if I go and look at the house? Is there a caretaker or something?’ Joss called after him as he disappeared to collect his books.
‘No. I’m sure it will be all right if you go and wander round. There’s no one to mind any more, sadly. The gardens used to be beautiful, but they’re a wilderness now.’ He reappeared from the shadows and closed the vestry door behind him. ‘Here, I’ve scribbled down Edgar Gower’s address. I don’t know his phone number off hand, I’m afraid. He lives near Aldeburgh.’ He pushed a piece of paper into her hand.
She watched from the churchyard as he strode back to his bike, vaulted onto it and rode away, his pile of books heaped in the bicycle basket. Suddenly she felt very lonely.
The grave stone by the oak tree was simple and unadorned.
Philip Duncan
Born 31st January 1920
Died 14th November 1963
Nothing else. No mention of his grieving widow. Or his child. She looked down at it for several minutes. When at last she turned away pulling the collar of her coat up with a shiver against the strengthening wind she found there were tears in her eyes.
It was a long time before she could drag herself away from the old house and walk, thoughtfully, back to the car. Climbing in, savouring the familiar atmosphere of home, she leaned back in her seat and looked round. On the shelf lay one of Tom’s socks, pulled off as he sat in his car seat behind her, as a prelude to sucking his toes.
She stayed slumped for several minutes, lost in thought, then suddenly she sat upright and gripped the steering wheel.
In her pocket she had the address of someone who knew her mother; who remembered her; who would know where she was now.
Leaning across the seat she reached for the road atlas. Aldeburgh was not all that far away. She glanced up. The sky was a patchwork of scudding black clouds and brilliant sunshine. Evening was still a long way off.
2
Pulling into the long broad main street in Aldeburgh she sat still for a moment peering through the windscreen at the shops and houses. It was an attractive place, bright, neat and at the moment very quiet.