‘No, I’ll do it.’ Niall’s heart was thumping so hard he expected it to crash out of his ribs. ‘I think I’ll stay and pray a bit.’
‘Do that. Sorry to be blunt, have to be cruel to be kind.’
As the door clanged behind him, Niall looked down at his white surplice, slightly pink from a red handkerchief in the washing machine. What would his parents say? They hadn’t really got over the fact that he was gay, how would they cope with a failed priest?
He tore off his dog collar and slumped to his knees in the third pew, catching sight of the little whippet, ever watchful, supporting the bruised, chipped feet of the first Sir Francis Framlingham. Such a beautiful church, such a lovely village, and Niall was beginning to feel such a part of it. He had hoped to do so much good.
He tried to pray, but loss and sadness overcame him, great sobs racking his body. The stained glass saints looking down could offer him no comfort. ‘Oh help me, God.’
Suddenly he felt a warm hand on the back of his neck, steadying him when he started violently, then a voice with a soft, infinitely tender Larkshire accent saying:
‘Don’t be sad, there’s no need to be sad, I’m here.’
Staggering to his feet, clutching the back of the pew in front, Niall discovered Woody, looking gentler in a grey T-shirt and jeans than in his regulation tree-surgeon green shirt and trousers and ropes. Concern was written all over his beautiful open face, intense kindness in his big turned-down grey eyes.
‘There there, my lamb. Come back home to breakfast and we can talk. Things will seem better.’ He put out a thumb, smoothing away Niall’s tears. Then, looking down and smiling: ‘You’re kneeling on the hassock my mum embroidered of a lamb, that’s nice. She’d have been pleased.’
He put an arm round Niall’s still shaking shoulders.
‘Sorry to be such a wuss,’ Niall gulped. ‘It was just having no one turn up except Major Cunliffe. He said I ought to pack it in, I’d lost the hearts of the people here.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Woody, then, looking up to the roof: ‘Sorry, God. Don’t listen to the insensitive bastard. You saved my horse chestnut, now I’m going to save you.’
Standing on the check-tiled aisle, they gazed at each other.
Their mouths, one trembling, one smiling and reassuring, were so close, their eyes meeting, the next moment they were in each other’s arms, for a kiss that went on and on and on, until they were both giddy.
‘You may kiss the bride,’ murmured Woody. ‘Don’t be frightened, nothing so miraculous as that could be blasphemous. I’ve wanted to do that for such a long time.’
‘Have you?’ said Niall in amazement. ‘Oh Woody.’
‘Come home for a fry-up,’ Woody took his hand, ‘my mum’s been taken out for the day.’
Inside the church, the candles burnt on.
Outside in the churchyard, Niall praised the limes Woody had pollarded so beautifully, like women in tight dresses spilling out at the knee because the leaves shoot like mad round the base. Piling into the stump-grinding van, they rolled back to the Salix Estate.
‘I’ll tell everyone you’ve come to talk to me about Mum,’ said Woody, locking the front door and leading Niall straight upstairs, where light filtered through already drawn curtains on to an unmade bed. The shelves were filled with books on trees, the walls adorned with photographs of more trees including one of the Willowwood Chestnut in spring, its candles driven crooked by the rough winds of May.
There was no more time to look. Niall was shivering like a poplar, but didn’t resist as Woody pulled off his surplice and black shirt, and slowly kissed him on each shoulder.
‘You’ve got a great body.’
‘I must sound more of a wuss than ever,’ muttered Niall through desperately chattering teeth, ‘but I’m a virgin.’
‘Very right and proper,’ said Woody, ‘I don’t like slags. I can break you in as I like.’
Niall’s trousers fell to the floor as Woody pulled off Niall’s shoes and socks. His spectacles were the last thing to go.
‘You’re so beautiful, Woody.’
‘You’re certainly not a beast, Niall, you just need building up physically and spiritually, and that is a great penis.’
Dropping to his knees, Woody put his beautiful lips over Niall’s cock, sucking and licking, then gently parting his buttocks and probing and jabbing with his right hand, until Niall gasped and gave a sob and shot into Woody’s mouth.
This was the only breakfast Woody had until four o’clock in the afternoon, when he cooked bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes and black pudding for himself and Niall.
Niall, his eyes drowsy with love, wearing Woody’s red and black
dressing gown, a present from Etta, said, ‘Do you think what we’ve done is terribly wrong?’
‘Terribly right,’ said Woody, pouring himself another cup of dark brown tea, ‘because we love each other.’
Niall had to dress very fast and pretend he was just making a social call on Woody’s mum, when her carer brought her back.
Woody insisted on walking Niall home.
‘You oughtn’t to go out without your dog collar,’ were his parting words. ‘I’m going to microchip you, so I never lose you. I love you, Mr Forbes.’
Term came to an end at Greycoats, bringing home not only Drummond and Poppy but also a beautiful patchwork rug made for Mrs Wilkinson by the children of Willowwood. It was snugly lined with felt and had a weeping willow embroidered by Tilda on each side.
The presentation was made to Mrs Wilkinson as she hung over the dark blue half-door of Valent’s former office. Chisolm was presented with a straw hat which she promptly ate, reducing the children to helpless laughter. Both Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm consumed so many treats, it was surprising their good and bad legs still held them up.
‘When’s she going to run again?’ the children pleaded.
Poor Tilda looked very tired, thought Etta, who hoped she would get a break now, then remembered that she had to organize Shagger’s holiday lets during their busiest time, which meant five or six lots of sheets a week, and seeing the house was clean and tidy. Judging by the wilting balloons on the gate of Shagger’s cottage and empties which included a case of Jacob’s Creek, twelve bottles of champagne and three bottles of vodka, a hen party had taken place over the weekend.
‘They were all asking where Seth Bainton lived,’ winked Chris, as Etta walked Priceless past the pub.
Poor Tilda, it seemed so ironic that, when she had a long break and could go to the races, Mrs Wilkinson was out of action. And with the monthly payments eating up her salary, she could no longer afford to take a nice hot holiday.
Meanwhile Etta’s crush on Seth, although not over-encouraged, raged on. Priceless was living with her almost full time and greeted his master, when he dropped in, with toothy
smiles and head snakings along Seth’s increasingly lean hips, but showed no sign of following him when he left.
After a holiday in Ibiza, Trixie was also staying in Willowwood, mostly at her grandmother’s, where she retreated to Etta’s bed-room to text. She was glued to her laptop or Etta’s portable television, sharing the bed with Priceless, her legs longer and browner than ever, her hair longer and messier. She was moodier and more abstracted and irritated by Poppy and Drummond, at whom she kept shouting, so Etta was doubly delighted one evening when Seth dropped in armed with
The Merchant of Venice
and a DVD of himself in
Much Ado
.
While Etta heard him as Bassanio, eyes on the text, quivering at the beauty of the language and his voice, Seth gazed lazily at Trixie, who appeared far more interested in
Hello!
and
Cosmopolitan
.
‘
Merchant
’s a difficult play to stage,’ said Seth, as he paused to refill everyone’s drinks. ‘If you make Shylock too much of a villain, you’re being anti-Semitic. If you make Antonio too much of a shit, you’re being homophobic.’
‘Bassanio’s a wuss,’ said Trixie scornfully. ‘He’s a gold-digger, and I loathe Portia. I hate teasing, playful women like Aunt Romy.’
‘“In Belmont,”’ said Seth huskily, ‘“‘is a lady richly left;/And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,/Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes/I did receive fair speechless messages.”’
He smiled wickedly at Trixie.
‘I still hate her as a character. “Richly left” sounds like Harriet Harman.’
‘Seth’s doing Antony in the spring,’ said Etta, sensing tension, ‘and Corinna’s playing Cleopatra. Isn’t that exciting?’
‘Not particularly,’ said Trixie, ‘
Antony and Cleopatra
is sooo boring. Antony’s going through the male menopause like my dad and Uncle Martin, and Cleopatra’s a silly old tart like Dora Belvedon’s mother. Dora won the Most Embarrassing Mother competition at Bagley on Speech Day, she laced her mother’s breakfast orange juice with neat vodka. All the Lower Sixths went to sleep during a production of
Antony and Cleopatra
at the National.’
‘That would never happen if Seth was on stage,’ said Etta warmly.
‘The boys only woke up when Cleopatra bared her breasts to plug in the asp,’ added Trixie.
‘Plenty of asps living in Mrs Travis-Lockjaw’s compost heap, according to Pocock,’ said Seth.
‘Yuck,’ said Trixie, ‘Mrs T-L pees on it every night.’
‘Compissed heap,’ murmured Seth.
Trixie’s mouth lifted a quarter of a centimetre at one corner. ‘Josh took a photograph of her which they refused to print in the parish mag. She’ll probably get stung on the bum.’
‘Bolton’s got a crush on her,’ said Seth. ‘He roves around Willowwood with a camera at the dead of night. Better draw your curtains, Etta, he likes pretty ladies.’
Etta blushed.
Gwenny came in mewing. Trixie got up – her dark hair so long it reached the top of her legs – and gave Gwenny some cat sweets.
Seth picked up the packet.
‘They always tell you to provide drinking water. Ought to insist you provide drinking water and whisky.’ He drained his glass.
Unable to bear him going, Etta suggested she pop up to the pub and get another bottle.
‘I’ve got to go,’ said Trixie.
‘I’ll see you home,’ said Seth. ‘Come on, Priceless.’
Priceless raised his tail a centimetre off the sofa, but showed no inclination, unlike Etta, to follow his master.
It was very hot outside, the sky crowded with stars, the air heavy with the scent of honeysuckle. The stream gleamed silver in the moonlight.
‘“The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,” ‘ said Seth. ‘Let’s take a detour through Valent’s garden, they’re both away.’
‘How do we get out of the locked gates on the other side?’
‘I’ll lift you over the wall.’
Her face was expressionless.
‘How’s Josh?’ he asked.
‘“He doth nothing but talk of his horse,”’ said Trixie lightly.
‘Good girl, you’ve read the play,’ said Seth approvingly.
Valent’s house reared sombre in front of them. With satisfaction, they admired their two black shadows, hers so willowy, his broad of shoulder, svelte of hip. Seth, who seemed to know all the paths, took her arm. She froze for a second but didn’t shake him off.
‘“In such a night/Stood Dido with a willow in her hand,” ‘ murmured Seth. ‘Ker-ist!’ He leapt behind Trixie as a great white face loomed over the half-door. ‘It’s the ghost of Beau Regard.’
‘It’s darling Wilkie.’ Showing tenderness and animation for the first time, Trixie rushed up and patted her.
‘Oh lucky horse to bear the weight of Trixie,’ sighed Seth.
To her surprise, given he had such a terrible reputation, Seth didn’t try to kiss her.
Once home, she texted Dora. ‘Granny’s got a thumping great crush on Mr Bulging Crotchester.’
Feeling rather flat, Etta made herself a cup of tomato soup and a piece of toast and decided to watch Much Ado, but she couldn’t find the DVD anywhere. Perhaps Priceless had stolen it.
Aware of Seth’s lethal charm, Alan didn’t want his mother-in-law to get hurt. The following evening, glad to have an excuse to stop writing, he gathered up a couple of bottles and wandered down to the bungalow. Here he found a shattered Etta trying to referee a squawking match between Drummond and Poppy on whether they should watch
Shrek or Harry Potter
.
‘You stupid bumhole,’ yelled Drummond, hurling a green glass paperweight at his sister.
‘Out!’ roared Alan, ‘O-U-T.’ Then, getting four pound coins out of his pocket: ‘You can each have two of these if you bugger off until I tell you to come in.’
‘Go and see Mrs Wilkinson,’ said Etta, giving them her last two carrots.
Outside the back door, she had been sorting out her indoor bulbs, seven white ones in one blue bowl, pink in another, dark blue, pale blue and more white in others. Like making sloe gin, it was one of the rituals of late summer to ward off the cold and darkness of the coming winter. Pocock had very kindly given her the bulbs for looking after Gwenny, but she was not sure she’d be able to afford the gin to go with the sloes.
After pouring two large glasses of red, Alan handed Etta some cuttings. ‘Your boyfriend’s all over the newspapers today.’