distinctive black Chrysler just pulling away, whichif she hadn’t been so preoccupiedshe would have recognised as Evie McRae’s.
She got out of the car and started to walk through the dull April drizzle, trying not to slip on the overspill of gravel from the vicar’s newly gravelled drive. Ignoring the increasingly invasive smell of wet tarmac, which always made her panic, she emerged from behind a bank of hydrangeas with what she liked to think of as a healthy smile on her face.
‘Hi,’ she said across the uneven trail of hydrangea cuttings littering the immaculate lawn.
The Reverend Tessa Walkerit was the vicarlooked up, a pair of secateurs in her hand. She managed to master her annoyance at the interruptionthe second interruption that morningbut it left her face looking glum.
After what felt like a minute’s silence, Kate said, ‘Sorrythisis a bit impromptu; I should have phoned. Actually, I did phone, but no one was in and then I was driving past and I saw you in your garden and…’ She inhaled a lungful of wet tarmac and then panic set in as the memory of long wet suburban days fell over her…She stared blearily at the Reverend Walker, trying to claw her way back into the present moment. ‘I tried to phone, but there was no answer and…’
The Reverend Walker lost the grip on her secateurs so that they hung from the band round her wrist. She didn’t attempt to speak; she just carried on staring at Kate.
‘I’m KateKate Hunter? I come to church here on Sundays. Every Sunday…here to St Anthony’s every Sundaywell, most Sundays…’ She paused, letting out a nervous laugh that made her feel like the only child in a roomful of adults.
The Reverend Walker said nothing. She was too busy thinking…this woman comes to my church every Sunday and I don’t recognise her. It made her feel old.
The drizzle was gaining momentum. There was going to be a downpour, which hadn’t started yet, but there was so much moisture in the air that Kate could feel it collecting on her eyelashes.
The sound of children being let out onto a playing field reached them through the dense, moist air and she started to panic again. Nurseryshe needed to collect Findlay and Flo from nursery. ‘I came here to talk about a child,’ she said suddenly. This sounded epic; she hadn’t meant to sound epic.
The Reverend Walker said, ‘A child?’
‘My sonFindlay.’
‘You want to talk to me about your son?’ the Reverend Walker said, helplessly. Was this the first time the woman had mentioned a child? She didn’t know any more. It just seemed as though she’d been standing on her wet lawn among the hydrangea cuttings for weeks, and now wasn’t a good time for anybody to be talking to her about theirchildrenbecause she was undergoing a crisis of faith; a profound crisis of faith. With an effort, she twisted back to Kate. ‘You’re having concerns about your son?’ she said, trying to sound less helpless this time.
‘Concerns?’ Kate echoed.
‘Spiritual concerns?’
‘He’s five years old,’ Kate said, trying not to yell. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. I just came to check that you wrote the letter to St Anthony’s confirming the fact that Findlay comes to church here on Sundays. You needed to write a letterabout Findlay. It was part of our application, and I just wanted to check that it was done because I got a letter this morning saying he didn’t get a place.’
A place where? Heaven? Full of a sudden dread, the Reverend Walker wondered whether they were talking about a dead childthe woman’s son? Was he dead? Had there been a funeral she’d forgotten to attend? A child she’d forgotten to bury? She started to walk slowly, earnestly, towards Kate.
‘We’ve been coming here to church since he was nine months old and this morningthis morningI find out that he doesn’t have a place at St Anthony’s, and nobody seems to know why. Every Sundaynearly every Sundayfor over four years, and he doesn’t get
She got out of the car and started to walk through the dull April drizzle, trying not to slip on the overspill of gravel from the vicar’s newly gravelled drive. Ignoring the increasingly invasive smell of wet tarmac, which always made her panic, she emerged from behind a bank of hydrangeas with what she liked to think of as a healthy smile on her face.
‘Hi,’ she said across the uneven trail of hydrangea cuttings littering the immaculate lawn.
The Reverend Tessa Walkerit was the vicarlooked up, a pair of secateurs in her hand. She managed to master her annoyance at the interruptionthe second interruption that morningbut it left her face looking glum.
After what felt like a minute’s silence, Kate said, ‘Sorrythisis a bit impromptu; I should have phoned. Actually, I did phone, but no one was in and then I was driving past and I saw you in your garden and…’ She inhaled a lungful of wet tarmac and then panic set in as the memory of long wet suburban days fell over her…She stared blearily at the Reverend Walker, trying to claw her way back into the present moment. ‘I tried to phone, but there was no answer and…’
The Reverend Walker lost the grip on her secateurs so that they hung from the band round her wrist. She didn’t attempt to speak; she just carried on staring at Kate.
‘I’m KateKate Hunter? I come to church here on Sundays. Every Sunday…here to St Anthony’s every Sundaywell, most Sundays…’ She paused, letting out a nervous laugh that made her feel like the only child in a roomful of adults.
The Reverend Walker said nothing. She was too busy thinking…this woman comes to my church every Sunday and I don’t recognise her. It made her feel old.
The drizzle was gaining momentum. There was going to be a downpour, which hadn’t started yet, but there was so much moisture in the air that Kate could feel it collecting on her eyelashes.
The sound of children being let out onto a playing field reached them through the dense, moist air and she started to panic again. Nurseryshe needed to collect Findlay and Flo from nursery. ‘I came here to talk about a child,’ she said suddenly. This sounded epic; she hadn’t meant to sound epic.
The Reverend Walker said, ‘A child?’
‘My sonFindlay.’
‘You want to talk to me about your son?’ the Reverend Walker said, helplessly. Was this the first time the woman had mentioned a child? She didn’t know any more. It just seemed as though she’d been standing on her wet lawn among the hydrangea cuttings for weeks, and now wasn’t a good time for anybody to be talking to her about theirchildrenbecause she was undergoing a crisis of faith; a profound crisis of faith. With an effort, she twisted back to Kate. ‘You’re having concerns about your son?’ she said, trying to sound less helpless this time.
‘Concerns?’ Kate echoed.
‘Spiritual concerns?’
‘He’s five years old,’ Kate said, trying not to yell. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. I just came to check that you wrote the letter to St Anthony’s confirming the fact that Findlay comes to church here on Sundays. You needed to write a letterabout Findlay. It was part of our application, and I just wanted to check that it was done because I got a letter this morning saying he didn’t get a place.’
A place where? Heaven? Full of a sudden dread, the Reverend Walker wondered whether they were talking about a dead childthe woman’s son? Was he dead? Had there been a funeral she’d forgotten to attend? A child she’d forgotten to bury? She started to walk slowly, earnestly, towards Kate.
‘We’ve been coming here to church since he was nine months old and this morningthis morningI find out that he doesn’t have a place at St Anthony’s, and nobody seems to know why. Every Sundaynearly every Sundayfor over four years, and he doesn’t get
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