Peter shivered in the cold morning
air. His prayers finished he got stiffly to his feet, stood back from
the little altar in the war memorial chapel and crossed himself. At
seven o' clock on a spring morning the church was certainly chilly.
The old mediaeval stone walls kept the church cold right through the
year, even in the hottest summer.
He went to stand in front of the main altar and looked around his
church. Soon he'd have been in Turnham Malpas two whole years. When
he'd first come here he hadn't realised how attached to the place
he would become. He loved the deep colours of the stained glass windows,
the ancient tombs slumbering there through the centuries, the banners,
withering away at their posts for almost as many years, and the lovely
country graveyard which was as much a part of St Thomas a Becket as
the church itself. Still treading the village paths were people whose
ancestors had for generations rested so peacefully within the precincts
of this consecrated place. There was an ongoing feel about a village
church, stretching back through the years and on into the future with
an amazing sense of permanence. A city church didn't have quite the
same feel about it.
He began to add up all the things he had achieved since his arrival.
The rectory cleaned and decorated and modernised and refurnished,
the Scout troup, the Brownies and Girl Guides, the Luncheon Club for
the pensioners, the women's meeting, the play group . . . for a moment
his face clouded. The play group. That brought Suzy Meadows to mind.
She'd still perhaps have been here running it if they . . . But they
had and they shouldn't have. He still couldn't avoid the pain somewhere
around his diaphragm. It knifed deep into his gut when he thought
of her. No, it wasn't the thought of her as such, it was the thought
of the crushing pain he'd inflicted on his darling Caroline which
caused his agony. When she'd begged him to adopt the twins Suzy had
given birth to because of him, he had thought he would die of it.
But now he'd only to see their beaming smiles, feel their tiny hands
grasping his, feel their soft sweet flesh against his own, and he
knew Caroline had been right. It was the only course open. They were
his, after all.
He glanced at his watch. Time he was off.
Peter's running shoes made no sound as he marched purposefully down
the aisle to the main door. He carefully locked it behind him, checked
it was secure, and then stripped off his tracksuit and placed it in
a plastic carrier bag he kept for the purpose, under the bench in
the porch. Underneath he wore his old college running vest and a pair
of navy rugger shorts. He hid the huge key beside the grave he and
the verger, Willie Biggs, had decided upon, and set off down the path.
Jimbo Charter-Plackett was limbering up by the lych gate. Jimbo had
been running with him for some time now and the flab he'd been anxious
to lose was beginning to go. He was still a less fit looking man than
Peter, for Jimbo was older, shorter, rounder and going bald: in contrast
Peter was a good six inches taller, with an excellent head of blond
hair, and an athlete's physique.
'Morning Peter. Lovely fresh day, isn't it?'
'Morning Jimbo. It surely is.' The two of them did their stretching
exercises together and then at a nod from Jimbo they set off down
Church Lane, then right into Jacks Lane and onto the spare land. Half
way round their three-mile circuit was a five-barred gate where they
always stopped for a chat. It led into a huge field and from it they
had a view of Sykes Wood. It was a vast ancient wood, once part of
a king's hunting forest, but belonging to Turnham House for the last
three hundred years and possibly more. To one side where the trees
were not quite so tall, the chimneys of the Big House could just be
seen. After he'd wiped the sweat from his forehead with the hem of
his running vest, Peter nodded towards them.
'Catering contract working out OK then, Jimbo?'
'It is. At least the money's more reliable than it was when it was
the Health Club. Fitch plc certainly pays up on the dot, thank goodness.'
'Nice chap, is he?'
'Like all chairmen of big companies he thinks the world revolves around
him, and his word is law, but as he knows I was a City man myself
I do get a bit of respect for my opinions. They certainly do a good
job with their staff training up there. Cracking computer equipment,
video, cinema stuff and the rest. Technology gone berserk. That Jeremy
Mayer's strutting around throwing his weight about, completely forgetting
how grateful he should be that he's managed to sell on to Fitch and
still keep a roof over his head.'
'What does Venetia do?'
'Mrs Venetia Mayer organises the leisure time for the staff, and Mrs
Venetia Mayer organises diversions in the leisure department for the
chairman of the company I think, but don't quote me. I've a soft spot
for Venetia despite her permanent come-hither look.'
Peter laughed. 'Come on then, I've got school prayers at nine, must
get back.' They turned to go, Peter leading the way.
Jimbo followed on, thinking about his jobs for the day. First, on
his way home, he'd stand outside his Store and appraise the window
displays. Each window had to be changed alternate weeks. Thinking
up new ideas for them was a pain, but it was one of his rules. It
had to be done. No fly-brown displays with bleached crepe paper hanging
loose for Jimbo. Oh no! That kind of thing belonged to the 1950's,
not the 1990's. Just recently with the opening of the training centre
at Turnham House there'd been quite a few young trainees in, spending
their money, another boost to the profits, and summertime was always
good, his sales curve went ever upward with the money spent by the
visitors to the church and the old stocks on the green. In fact all
told, this year looked good. The mail-order business was booming,
due to some clever advertising thought up by Harriet, his outside
catering was also booming and the Store itself, the hub of it all,
was also doing better than he and Harriet could ever have imagined.
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