Brian sat in his church and, yet again, mulled over what Joan had said the day before. He’d barely thought about anything else now, for the best part of twenty-four hours, and he hadn’t managed to come up with a better solution than the one Joan had suggested. He could only come to one conclusion – she might be right; his parishioners didn’t need to be troubled with his problems. Could he continue to provide a service, go through the motions, until everything righted itself? Would they twig that it was a sham, a façade? Why would they? he decided. So, as a plan it might work. And if this was only a temporary bad patch, a glitch, and even though he was frightened and depressed by the turn of events, he had to hope and pray it would pass and until it did... well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. He didn’t need to broadcast his own problems. One day, he had no idea when but, one day, surely, his faith would return. Until then, because the parishioners needed him, Heather was happy here, to say nothing of the more trivial reason that he liked this living... he should try to muddle through.

Given the place he now found himself in, he’d find it tricky to encourage his flock to pray when he personally doubted that prayer was going to do any good, but as long as they remained unaware and they believed it would help, was it going to do any harm? Hypocritical it might be but, as far as he could see, it was the only way forward without the town losing its vicar and Heather losing her home.

Brian breathed out. He needed to accept the situation as it was – maybe it was some kind of test. Maybe not quite as extreme as being thrown into a fiery furnace like Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, or being fed to the lions like Daniel, but it was still a test and he felt acceptance, and a trust that it would end, were the key to survival. He wasn’t sure he wanted to accept this new state. He wanted the old one back, he wanted the old certainties. Maybe he’d stay in the church a while longer and see if something approaching acceptance materialised. He shut his eyes and tried to pray.

*

Why, thought Joan, wasn’t Bert going off out to his allotment, like he did most days? She’d made a promise to the vicar that she’d get an appointment to see the doctor and, when she went to church on Sunday, she wanted to be able to tell him she’d kept her side of the bargain. But unless Bert buggered off, and pronto, she wouldn’t be able to ring the surgery until after the weekend and she couldn’t do that with him hanging around like a bad smell. She didn’t want him worried – not at his time of life. Her being worried was quite enough anxiety in the house to be going on with, thank you. And, if she was completely honest with herself, that last turn in the church had scared her quite a lot. The other twinges had been quite nasty but they’d passed relatively quickly and hadn’t hurt half as much as that last one had. And now she’d noticed that, even when she was lying down, her chest ached. There were no two ways about it, it was getting worse and she wasn’t just concerned for herself. What would happen to Bert if anything happened to her? He could barely make a cup of tea. Fine, he was great at growing stuff but when it came to what to do with it, he knew the square root of sod all.

Joan came out of the kitchen and saw Bert sitting on the sofa, reading the local paper.

‘You can’t sit around here all day,’ she grumbled at him.

‘Why not. I’m retired, ain’t I?’

‘I want to get the hoover out.’

‘And I’m not stopping you.’

‘Yes, you are. You’re underfoot.’

Bert put the paper to one side and sighed. ‘What’s the matter with you, Joan? You’ve been right tetchy all day.’

‘No, I ain’t.’

‘If you say so, dear.’

Joan glared at him. ‘I do. Haven’t you got summat to be doing at the allotment?’

‘Not specially.’

‘Thought you said your beans needed tying up.’

‘They can wait.’

Joan stamped out to the kitchen. Being riled by her Bert wasn’t going to help things if she were poorly. She clattered around at the sink, putting away the lunch things that had dripped dry.

‘OK, have it your way,’ said Bert from the door. ‘I give in, I’ll go and do some weeding, give you some peace and quiet, if that’s what you want.’

‘I don’t. I just want to get on.’

‘Yes, dear.’

Joan bit back a retort. Bert infuriated her when he got so conciliatory and reasonable.

Two minutes later she heard the front door slam. Thank the Lord for that. She headed back to the sitting room, picked up the phone and dialled the doctor’s. First an automated voice told her to press ‘one for repeat prescriptions; two for appointments...’ Joan fumbled with the buttons and hit two. Then she got some violins playing. No, she didn’t want that, she wanted a person.

‘Please hold, a receptionist will be with you in a moment. Your call is important to us,’ said another automated voice, before the violins carried on.

‘Like heck it is,’ said Joan to nobody. Finally, after several minutes, her call was answered. She was so pleased to hear a real person on the other end of the line she failed to hear the click of the front door as Bert, who had discovered he had forgotten his gardening twine, retuned to get it.

‘Yes,’ she said to Dr Connolly’s receptionist, ‘I’d like an appointment with the doctor as soon as possible.’

‘Can I ask what the matter is?’

‘No, you blooming can’t. That’s between me and the doc but I need to see him and I won’t take no for an answer.’

‘I’m sorry Mrs...?’

‘Mrs Makepiece.’

‘Well, unless you can be a bit more specific...’

‘I’ve had a couple of chest pains,’ she admitted grudgingly.

‘I see. How bad?’

‘Bad enough and I’m worried.’

‘Do you think you might be better going to A&E?’

‘I’m not that worried. I just want to see the doc.’

‘In that case, we can fit you in on Monday. Ten o’clock.’

‘Ten, on Monday. I’ll be there.’

Joan put the phone down and Bert tiptoed out of the house again.

*

On arrival back home, Bex had phoned the school while Megan sat on a kitchen chair and listened to Bex’s half of the conversation. As the telephone call went on, Heather took charge of making tea.

‘Yes, I know she left school without permission but under the circumstances I am, frankly, not surprised... And did Mrs Blake tell you the exact cause of Megan’s upset? So you can see why... Indeed, she was very distressed... No, no she doesn’t but I sincerely hope you’re going to find out... I absolutely agree.’

Megan squirmed in embarrassment at being the subject of the conversation until, finally, Bex put the phone down.

‘The good news is that Mr Smithson is taking it all very seriously indeed.’

Heather handed round steaming mugs of strong tea.

‘And the bad news is...?’

‘No one is owning up.’

Megan snorted. ‘Like anyone would.’

‘I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of it.’

‘In the meantime everyone knows what I did and it’ll be as bad as it was at my old school.’

‘No, it won’t,’ said Heather.

Megan swivelled to look at her. ‘How do you figure that out?’

‘Because no one here knew Stella personally. No one here was her friend – or thought they were her friend.’

‘So?’

‘So, she is just a name. People lose interest very quickly in things that don’t personally affect them. It’ll be a seven-day wonder, mark my words.’

Megan looked unconvinced. ‘It’s easy for you to say, it wasn’t your name on the board,’ she grumbled.

Heather sat on a chair next to Megan. ‘And I think that if you tell the truth about what happened—’

‘No! No, I can’t.’

‘I think Megan would really rather put it all behind her. Telling people about what happened would be so painful,’ explained Bex.

‘OK, it’s just a suggestion. I sincerely hope John Smithson can get to the bottom of who is behind that horrible message. And I’m sure he will.’

*

Heather let herself into the vicarage, shut the front door, leaned against it and let out a heavy sigh. What a week! First Olivia and her revelation that she thought Nigel was having an affair, and then poor little Megan’s horror story about her part in Stella’s death. Heather knew she was being quite unchristian but it sounded to her as if Stella had been a thoroughly spiteful child and, while she hadn’t deserved to die, she certainly didn’t deserve much sympathy either. Architect of her own downfall, thought Heather.

Wearily she made her way to her kitchen and put the kettle on. A nice cup of tea was what she needed.

‘Brian? Brian, I’m home,’ she called out of the kitchen door.

Silence.

‘Brian.’

Still nothing. Leaving the kettle hissing and gurgling she went to her husband’s study and knocked on the door. Maybe he had a visitor. She knocked again, louder. She opened the door. The study was empty. Oh well, he must have gone out.

Heather made herself a cuppa and went into the sitting room and sat on the functional but tatty sofa opposite the hideous green and cream tiled fireplace and put her tea on the table in front of her. She leant back on the cushions and wondered what she might be able to do to help Olivia and Megan. When she awoke her tea was stone cold. She rubbed her eyes and yawned and saw that the clock said it was after five. She ought to get supper on.

Taking her mug of cold tea she made her way into the kitchen. As she walked down the hall she realised that the house was utterly silent. Surely Brian wasn’t still out?

Once again she called his name and listened for a response. Once again there was nothing. Where was he? Heather changed direction and headed into the study and flipped open Brian’s desk diary. Maybe he had a meeting with someone that she’d forgotten about. Nope – the page for that day was blank. Maybe someone had needed him in an emergency. Yes, that was probably it. In which case, when was he going to be home?

Heather retrieved her handbag from where she’d left it on the counter and rummaged in it till she found her mobile. She pressed the buttons to find Brian’s number and called him. Straight to voicemail. Damn it. Mind you, she thought, it wasn’t entirely unexpected; they were as bad as each other when it came to being contactable on their mobiles.

Under normal circumstances Heather wouldn’t have had the least twinge of worry but circumstances seemed to be far from normal at the moment. He’d been so distracted, so distant these past weeks, and then there had been that occasion when she’d caught him actually crying in his study. She suspected there had been other occasions – only she hadn’t witnessed them. No, she told herself firmly, his absence wasn’t an indication of anything more sinister than that he was out visiting a parishioner or had been called away unexpectedly on church business. To take her mind off her niggling worries she went into the kitchen, switched on the radio, and began to think about supper.

At eight o’clock she put cling film over the plate of food she’d prepared for Brian and put it in the fridge. She finished the washing up and was wiping down the kitchen surfaces when she heard the key in the lock.

‘Brian!’ She raced out of the kitchen and down the corridor. ‘Brian, thank goodness you’re home. I’ve been so worried.’

‘Worried?’ He looked bemused and confused.

‘Where have you been?’

‘In the church.’

‘But you’ve been gone hours.’

‘Have I?’

‘Brian, it’s gone eight.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘Oh, I hadn’t realised.’

‘What were you doing all this time?’

‘I’m a vicar, I was in church, what do you think I was doing?’

‘I’m sorry. Yes, of course. I’ll put your supper in the microwave. It’ll be ready in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

‘Thank you. I take it you’ve eaten.’

Heather nodded. ‘I didn’t know how late you were going to be.’

‘No, I understand. Have we got any wine?’

‘There’s a couple of bottles in the cupboard under the stairs.’

Brian pottered off to find them and came back, unscrewing the top of one. ‘Would you like a glass?’

Heather shook her head. ‘No, I think I’ll stick to tea.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Brian reached for a glass and filled it. By the time the microwave had pinged he’d finished that one and was onto a second.

Heather looked at him; she desperately wanted to winkle out of him what it was troubling him but she knew it was hopeless. Even though her worry was tearing her apart she knew she had to bide her time.