gait, as though she were on castors.
George went back into the study. He felt both unnerved and irritated. The sofa bore, still, the impression of her massive bottom and there was a faint whiff of peppermint. Her jaw, at the points when she had sat in stolid silence, had champed at something. He opened the window and sat down at the desk, where the Restoration Appeal notices awaited him.
* * *
Clare, walking the thirty yards from her own door to the vicarage, thought, I wonder who'll be chairman. Not me, anyway, that's for sure. Oh dear, last arrival, there they are all round the table already, that'll be a blackmark to begin with. She saw George Radwell get up from his chair and stand waiting at the vicarage front door, which was badly in need of a coat of paint.
They inspected her, covertly, as George, getting things off to an inept beginning, bumbled through what had to be done and what people had suggested and what he himself was about to propose.
Miss Bellingham thought, those blue canvas trousers like children wear, for a committee meeting, you'd have thought a skirt at the very least, and the jersey's seen better days. John Coggan, receiving across the table Clare's large grin, smiled weakly back and became absorbed in the notepad in front of him; Church Restoration Appeal Comm. he wrote busily, and then the date, twice, and a list of committee members. He would end up as chairman, he supposed: no bad thing, look good in the local papers—Chairman, J. Coggan, Esq. Make a better job of it than the vicar, too. He stretched a leg out, under the table, clipped what must be Mrs. Paling's shin, and felt a warm glow creep above his collar; there was something about that sort of woman that made you put yourself in the worst possible light. Harry Taylor, solicitor and chairman of the Parish Council, took his pipe from his mouth and nodded: pity Paling hadn't joined the committee himself, would have been no bad thing to get to know him better, one of the high-ups at United Electronics. Sending his wife instead rather put local affairs in their place, not altogether tactful; odd-looking woman, too.
Sydney Porter, talcing the minutes, recorded Clare Paling's presence and left it at that.
George Radwell, plunging on, not looking her way, could feel her on his right like the threat of some unstablesubstance, a fuse that might be sparked off by any unwary movement. He talked faster and worse to cover his unease; incoherence compounded with repetition. Was checked at last by Taylor, wondering smoothly if perhaps the election of some officers, and an agenda, might be an idea at this stage.
John Coggan was elected chairman, Harry Taylor having declined to stand, on the grounds of existing commitments. John Coggan said, “Well, of course, if that's what the general feeling is, glad to do it. Sure that's all right with you, Vicar?” George, simultaneously offended and relieved, said, too lengthily, that he didn't at all, good heavens no, much better that someone else take over.
They discussed fund-raising methods: sponsored walks and fetes and raffles and jumble sales.
Harry Taylor said, “Small beer.”
Miss Bellingham, inferring criticism of a lifetime thus engaged, said huffily that well if Mr. Taylor was used to doing things on a bigger scale, Oxfam and all that, then it would be nice if he could give them some ideas. Personally she'd always found that a good summer fete, if the weather was kind…
John Coggan remarked that even nowadays fifty thousand was a lot of money.
“What is the church worth?” said Clare. “On the open market. As a piece of real estate. Just out of interest. Mr. Coggan, you know about that kind of thing?”
There was a startled silence. Miss Bellingham pursed her lips and sniffed. George murmured, “Yes, interesting. I wonder,” and avoided her indignant stare. Next time he was going to make a point of not sitting next to Mrs. Paling, not that he'd chosen to this time, she'd just
George went back into the study. He felt both unnerved and irritated. The sofa bore, still, the impression of her massive bottom and there was a faint whiff of peppermint. Her jaw, at the points when she had sat in stolid silence, had champed at something. He opened the window and sat down at the desk, where the Restoration Appeal notices awaited him.
* * *
Clare, walking the thirty yards from her own door to the vicarage, thought, I wonder who'll be chairman. Not me, anyway, that's for sure. Oh dear, last arrival, there they are all round the table already, that'll be a blackmark to begin with. She saw George Radwell get up from his chair and stand waiting at the vicarage front door, which was badly in need of a coat of paint.
They inspected her, covertly, as George, getting things off to an inept beginning, bumbled through what had to be done and what people had suggested and what he himself was about to propose.
Miss Bellingham thought, those blue canvas trousers like children wear, for a committee meeting, you'd have thought a skirt at the very least, and the jersey's seen better days. John Coggan, receiving across the table Clare's large grin, smiled weakly back and became absorbed in the notepad in front of him; Church Restoration Appeal Comm. he wrote busily, and then the date, twice, and a list of committee members. He would end up as chairman, he supposed: no bad thing, look good in the local papers—Chairman, J. Coggan, Esq. Make a better job of it than the vicar, too. He stretched a leg out, under the table, clipped what must be Mrs. Paling's shin, and felt a warm glow creep above his collar; there was something about that sort of woman that made you put yourself in the worst possible light. Harry Taylor, solicitor and chairman of the Parish Council, took his pipe from his mouth and nodded: pity Paling hadn't joined the committee himself, would have been no bad thing to get to know him better, one of the high-ups at United Electronics. Sending his wife instead rather put local affairs in their place, not altogether tactful; odd-looking woman, too.
Sydney Porter, talcing the minutes, recorded Clare Paling's presence and left it at that.
George Radwell, plunging on, not looking her way, could feel her on his right like the threat of some unstablesubstance, a fuse that might be sparked off by any unwary movement. He talked faster and worse to cover his unease; incoherence compounded with repetition. Was checked at last by Taylor, wondering smoothly if perhaps the election of some officers, and an agenda, might be an idea at this stage.
John Coggan was elected chairman, Harry Taylor having declined to stand, on the grounds of existing commitments. John Coggan said, “Well, of course, if that's what the general feeling is, glad to do it. Sure that's all right with you, Vicar?” George, simultaneously offended and relieved, said, too lengthily, that he didn't at all, good heavens no, much better that someone else take over.
They discussed fund-raising methods: sponsored walks and fetes and raffles and jumble sales.
Harry Taylor said, “Small beer.”
Miss Bellingham, inferring criticism of a lifetime thus engaged, said huffily that well if Mr. Taylor was used to doing things on a bigger scale, Oxfam and all that, then it would be nice if he could give them some ideas. Personally she'd always found that a good summer fete, if the weather was kind…
John Coggan remarked that even nowadays fifty thousand was a lot of money.
“What is the church worth?” said Clare. “On the open market. As a piece of real estate. Just out of interest. Mr. Coggan, you know about that kind of thing?”
There was a startled silence. Miss Bellingham pursed her lips and sniffed. George murmured, “Yes, interesting. I wonder,” and avoided her indignant stare. Next time he was going to make a point of not sitting next to Mrs. Paling, not that he'd chosen to this time, she'd just
Similar Books
