Chapter 1: Sunday morning
The rain fell. The wedding cake crumbled. The people pounced. Closer and closer they came. Shouting. Yelling.
‘Long live George! Long live George!’
The dark robe rose up from behind the gravestone and swallowed her face. She fled naked (apart from a dog collar).
‘No!’
Sitting bolt upright, Liz James felt the empty bed space beside her. ‘Tony... Tony, where are you?’ she called, the panic still holding its grip. ‘Ah, there you are.’
Comfort. Security. Warmth.
‘Those dreams again, Tone,’ she sighed, exhaling a lung full of breath. ‘I don’t understand it. It’s not as if I've got lots on tomorrow... today.’
She held him tight. Her sprinting heartbeat slowed. Her breathing calmed.
‘It was a lovely wedding yesterday,’ she smiled, remembering. ‘So nice Sophie and Matt invited me to the reception too. Shame you couldn’t come. Gorgeous hotel. Tilly certainly made her mark.’ Laughter eased her remaining tension.
In the warmth of the July night, Tony put his mouth to her cheek and then her ear. ‘Not now, Tony. We need to sleep,’ she said with a smile.
Tony jumped off the bed and returned to his basket in the kitchen.
The Reverend Liz James had been vicar at St Mark’s for five years, but early Sunday morning dreams didn't get any easier. She enjoyed preaching but never got much reaction beyond ‘Nice sermon, Vicar.’ She didn't want it to be nice. She wanted to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable, as someone once put it. And, if she was being totally honest, wanted them to do what she told them to. Liz often wondered if she still believed. She'd become so good at doing church she'd almost forgotten how to do God.
She laid down. Naked (apart from her pyjamas).
Night-time thoughts buzzed like bees in a hive as she tossed and turned…
‘They think I only work one day a week. One day off, more like it. They want me to be at their church and nowhere else. There’s five of them.’
…Turning and tossing
‘George Armstrong. Can't do anything right for George Armstrong. Never good enough for George Armstrong. George Armstrong points out which candle wasn’t lit and how he can't hear properly. Turn it to ‘T’, George.’
Tossing…
‘George Armstrong talks about how it was in Reverend Sims’ day. Packed church. Children. Choir. Twenty years ago. Go to hell, George Armstrong.’
…and turning
‘Baptism next week. Katharine or Catherine? Godparents – what do they know about God? Banns. Treasurers’ meeting Tuesday. Joy. Twelve-hour days all week. Visit Mrs Conway. Must arrange. Hymn number 2..7..’
Bags packed, the new Mrs and Mr West prepared to leave the plush hotel on the outskirts of Eastwood Minster.
Breakfast eaten and coffee consumed, they chatted amiably to the proprietor, Thomas Southcott, telling him how lovely their reception and first night had been (one in more detail than the other).
Waiting in the foyer, Matt smiled at the sight of four year-old Tilly running in. ‘Daddy! Sophie! Umm… Mummy!’ she shouted in confused excitement. Still wearing her blue bridesmaid’s dress, the dark-haired daughter from Matt’s first marriage leapt on to his lap. Three years had passed since her mum, Jo died in a car accident which had also left Matt needing to use a wheelchair.
Six feet two when standing (which he could do occasionally), the 30 year-old had recently finished the final draft of his second novel: another story set in the midst of the American civil rights movement. The first book sold well although he distanced himself from a marketeer’s comment that Jo’s death on the evening of the book launch had been ‘good for sales’.
‘She’s worn that dress all night,’ Matt’s mum observed as she followed her granddaughter. ‘We’ve been re-enacting your wedding all morning!’, Jan West added as she kissed her son and new daughter-in-law.
Next Sunday would be Matt’s parents’ own big day. Both now sixty, they were moving on from their respective careers, or callings as they preferred to think of them. Jan, a social worker with Adult Services and Des, minister of the town’s Pentecostal Church.
Having lost a child when Matt was a lot younger, they, like their surviving son, knew how death changed lives. In the coming autumn, they would take ownership of the hotel in which they now stood. No longer a going concern, Thomas Southcott was ready to move on to his own retirement, having gifted the hotel to the charity set up by Jan and Des for a support centre for people who were bereaved. He’d thrown in a year’s salary for the chef to stay on too.
Jan and Des had quickly accepted Sophie Howlett as one of their own. With her long blond hair, petite build and soft Yorkshire accent, she became the daughter they never had. The 29 year-old community nurse had been a fortnightly visitor after Matt’s ten-month hospital stay. She’d been key in arranging accommodation, funding and other support for his independent living. Friendship blossomed and eventually turned to love in a way Sophie never imagined possible (nor Matt for that matter). After a string of unsuccessful relationships, it seemed the only one who could ever reach her was the son of a preacher man, as Dusty Springfield used to sing.
And now they were wife and husband. They had both moved on.
Eastwood Minster is a close-knit community with a few dropped stitches. 26 year-old Steve Archibald is one of them.
His parents separated when he was six and he’d not seen his dad since. He occasionally texted his mum, who had left the market town a few years ago. She’d lived with a string of unsuitable partners, sometimes more than one at a time.
As a teenager, he collected ASBOs for a hobby and once got done for ‘taking without consent’. Drunk and disorderly was another speciality. But when the local Police Community Support Officer took an interest and helped him get a job as a glazier’s mate, Steve’s life began to turn around.
Jess Wilson was two years younger and until moving in with Steve had lived with her parents in what locals called the ‘Upper Quarter’. Always smartly dressed, Jess’s dark brown hair was tied in a chignon bun. A childcare assistant at the local pre-school, her life had been far more stable and secure than her fiancé’s. Her parents took to Steve quite quickly – which was a surprise for all of them. Their welcome and affirmation was an experience he’d never had from his own.
Of not dissimilar height and build, although Steve’s hair was a lot shorter (a number 3 fade), they’d been together for two years and lived in a rented furnished flat above the Co-Op on the High Street. Jess had proposed to Steve a week ago over a box of fish and chips in the park.
She’d seen the difference in him and was proud of all he’d done to get himself into a better place. She wanted them to spend the rest of their lives together. He said he did too.
Steve still had the occasional night out with his mates. Over the years, cheap alcohol often provided more than he bargained for (as the tattooed vulture which peered out from under his left armpit bore witness). His mates were a rough crowd and Jess worried they’d take him back to his old ways. But they’d seen the difference too: some even wished they could do the same.
That Sunday afternoon, Jess and Steve weren’t the first couple to stand outside J. Frampton, Jewellers. Arm in arm like two excited schoolchildren, they looked through the window of the closed shop.
‘That one,’ Jess said finally, with a smile.
‘Let’s come back Saturday, then,’ her fiancé replied.
Chapter 2: Saturday bargains
Michael Frampton kept everything just as his father had before him. J. Frampton, Jewellers had stood in the High Street for over sixty years while other retailers came and went. It was an old-fashioned shop whose clientele received old-fashioned service.
As Jess and Steve opened the door, a bell tinkled in an old-fashioned way. It had sounded the arrival of many customers over the years. Many coming to celebrate. Many not knowing what they wanted. Many just wanting a browse.
Pleasant and customer-focussed, as always, Michael listened as Jess explained they couldn’t afford much. She pointed towards the lone showcase fixed to the wall of the external passageway which ran alongside the shop.
As the shopkeeper returned, requisite tray in hand, the bell tinkled once more. ‘When’s the big day?’ he asked.
‘Not until this time next year,’ Jess replied.
‘Is it going to be at St Mark’s?’
‘Yes,’ replied Jess. ‘In fact, we’re going to see the vicar on Monday. The reception’s at Eastwood Court. There’ll only be a few of us but we’re looking forward to it.’
‘We wanted to go to the hotel on the edge of town,’ Steve added. ‘But it’s closing and turning in to some sort of death and dying place.’
‘Ah yes, I know where you mean,’ Michael responded to his customer’s rather awkward description. He fingered the buttons on his pin-striped waistcoat, partially hidden by a matching jacket. Below his half-rimmed glasses, a smile masked the sadness he felt.
Michael Frampton had found it hard to keep going after his wife’s death three years previously. Nearing retirement, the shop was his life but that too would die soon. Business wasn’t what it used to be, and he wanted to make the most of the next stage of life.
He had some contact with his son and would like to see more of him but they didn’t have much in common. Things had been rather strained since Janet’s death. He smiled to himself at the memory of the day their son was born. He wanted to call the young Mr Frampton, Peter, after the pop singer. Janet sang, 'I want you-oo show me the way' all afternoon, so they didn’t.
‘The vicar’s lovely: you’ll like her,’ Michael continued, remembering the couple whose wedding she’d taken the previous weekend. ‘Would you like to try it on?’ he asked Jess, somewhat unnecessarily.
Sliding it on to her third finger, a nudge took it over the knuckle. ‘Perfect,’ she said. Steve said he liked it too.
Before long, a small red dot marked the price tag, as Michael replaced the tray in the showcase. There it would stay, awaiting Steve’s return with the credit card he’d left at their flat. Michael liked to keep a full display and a red dot was a sign that people where buying.
Jess had arranged to be with her parents for the rest of that day. Trying on dresses, visiting the florist, talking with the people at Eastwood Court.
Steve was going with his mates to watch T20 cricket. England versus New Zealand. They were taking the train so no danger of drink driving this time. He told Jess he’d pick up the ring before he went.
George Armstrong was giving Liz James a hard time. ’Look, Reverend, I’ve given up a ticket to watch the cricket to come and set all this up,’ he said, as she arrived at St Mark’s Church Hall ten minutes late.
‘I can’t be doing with all this faffing about. It’s just wasting time. Fete’s due to open in two hours. Every year, the tombola is here, bric-a-brac is here, the bookstall’s over there…’ Liz switched off as the litany of tradition was recited.
St Mark’s Church Summer Fete had been a fixture on the second Saturday of July for years. The annual event was George’s baby and it was now an awkward and difficult teenager.
No one else had come to help set up (again). ‘People just can’t be bothered these days,’ George moaned. ‘All stuck in front of their tellies, computer or spending hours on twitface or whatever it’s called. So, it’s left to me to lug these trestles about all by myself. And you’re just stood there asking if so and so could have their stall there and thingumabob can be in that place.’
Liz’s halo was slipping. ‘George,’ she said. ‘George.’
‘I haven’t got time to talk about it. Just help me with this, would you?’
‘At last, he’s letting me help,’ Liz muttered under her breath. ‘Of course, George. Where would you like it?’
‘That’s better, Reverend. That’s the right attitude and we’ll get it done in no time at all.’
As they carried the tables, he continued his tirade, ‘I do know why people don't like me. I'm not stupid... no one likes people who are angry all the time. But what I’d like to know is what are you going to do when I’m no longer here? Who's going to do all this?’
‘You're not thinking of leaving us are you, George?’ Liz asked, trying to hide the faint trace of hope her voice betrayed.
‘Nay, lass. But who knows what's going to happen?’ he replied, as he opened a door.
Liz James glimpsed through the resultant crack. ‘Has something happened, George?’.
‘Aye. But another time for that. We need to get on.’ The door was shut again.
Just as he had predicted, in no time at all, with half an hour to go, twelve trestle tables were set out ready to welcome the usual stallholders, in their usual places, with their usual assorted wares.
Mrs Conway’s flower and houseplant stall was sure to win best display (again). Arthur Sprocket’s bric-a-brac saw a large brown chipped teapot make it’s thirteenth annual appearance.
The bookstall was crammed. While some had been before, there were a few new volumes this year. ‘This one was published in 1923,’ Mr and Mrs Bryant said in unison. ‘First edition. And we’ve got Jeffery Archer, Jackie Collins – and Brian Cox,’ they said delightedly. ‘There’s even,’ they giggled and looked around them to check no one was eavesdropping. ‘There’s even a Richard Osman.’
The church clock chimed twice as the Reverend Liz James declared the St Mark’s Church Summer Fete well and truly open. And at half past, the first customers arrived.
By five, everyone had gone and everything was tidy. It hadn’t exactly bustled but enough came to make it all worthwhile. A few more pounds in the coffers, the church treasurer observed.
‘Not bad, that,’ George said, as he and Liz stacked away the tables.
‘Quite a success, then,’ Liz thought to herself. ‘Yes, George, we got there in the end.’
‘Shame you weren’t here at the beginning, all the same,’ George replied.
‘Thanks for all you’ve done, George,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Mebbe, lass. Mebbe.’
Liz watched him put on his gaberdine coat. The belt hanging loose. An envelope fell out of a pocket. George grunted as he bent down to retrieve it. Off he wandered. Stick in hand. A forlorn figure.
‘Poor George,’ thought Liz. At least she had Tony to go back to.
Jess Wilson was the first home that evening. Dress chosen. Flowers arranged. Reception booked. In just twelve months she’d be on honeymoon with her husband. Together until death parted them.
Glass of white. Lasagne ready meal. Two episodes of The Crown. A long, hot soak with a lemon bath bomb from Lush. Now that’s what I call music 87 playing Pharrell Williams. She felt like a room without a roof. ‘Happy’ didn’t describe it.
Steve wouldn’t be home until early morning so she threw the spare duvet and a pillow on the sofa and climbed into bed. It was a quarter past midnight.
Woken briefly by the shutting of a door after an hour or so, she soon went back to sleep. There was more noise later on. Jess looked at her smartphone. 2:48. ‘Never does come in quietly,’ she thought.
