Winter Wishes (30 page)

She returned to the table with a bright smile pasted to her face.

“I’m going to head off now,” she said lightly. “There’s still a few bits I need to get and I’d better make sure I find them, or Santa will be in big trouble.”

“Do you want me to come with you and carry those bags? We’re all done here anyway,” said Richard, rising to his feet.

“Actually, I’d like a coffee,” Amanda interrupted, catching his arm with a manicured hand. “I’m in no rush. Besides, I wanted to pick your brains about clinical commissioning groups.” She gave Tara a smile that had all the warmth of the deep-freeze aisle in Asda. “No disrespect, Tara, but I don’t think it would interest you.”

Tara was shrugging on her coat. She couldn’t take any more of these games. She was too tired and totally beyond it. She was fonder of Richard than she’d realised but she wasn’t up to matching Amanda’s verbal missiles. Not on the day that her marriage had officially ended, anyhow.

“I’m sure it wouldn’t,” was all she said. “You guys carry on. Thanks for lunch, Richard.”

“It’s my pleasure. We must do it again,” he replied.

“Maybe we could meet up in your restaurant, Tara?” suggested Amanda, deliberately misunderstanding and putting the knife in at the same time. She couldn’t have marked her territory more if she’d stuck a flag on Richard’s head. “You could tell us what’s worth eating.”

“All of it,” said Richard. “The Plump Seagull is a fantastic restaurant.”

“I can’t wait to go,” said Amanda, beaming at him. “And if Tara’s there we’ll have amazing service as well.”

Tara had enough going on in her life without this kind of crap too.

“It was nice to meet you, Amanda,” she said politely.

“And you,” Amanda replied, although the expression on her face said something entirely different. It was clear that for some reason she felt threatened by Tara, but there was no need. Tara knew when somebody was out of her league and Richard, however lovely, was certainly that. Besides, he’d just been taking pity on her. She was vulnerable and had read too much into everything. He was kind. That was all. There was nothing more – and the sooner she accepted that, the better.

Richard kissed Tara on the cheek. “I’ll catch you in the village, very soon.”

She nodded and then left the restaurant as fast as she could. Now that the lunchtime rush was over the coffee shops had cleared a little and Tara was able to find a quiet table in the window of one of them. Spreading out the divorce documents she took a deep breath before scrawling her signature.

She stared down at it. The dark ink was like a wound against the thick white paper. It was a shock to see the end of her marriage laid out in front of her. A shock and horribly real. Amanda’s insults were nothing compared with this.

It was done. Danny had what he wanted and soon they’d both be free.
Free
. Tara shook her head. It sounded more like lonely to her.

As always, she hadn’t seen what was right under her nose until it was too late.

It seemed to be the story of her life.

Chapter 21

“More tea, Bishop? Or maybe another slice of sponge? I made the jam myself, you know.”

Sheila Keverne hovered at Bishop Bill’s side. In one hand she was holding a teapot and in the other she was balancing a platter that boasted an enormous jam sponge oozing with clotted cream. Just looking at it was enough to make Jules put on a stone, so goodness only knew how the bishop must feel after being plied with several doorstop slices. His purple ecclesiastical shirt was looking very snug.

“No, thank you, Mrs Keverne.” He placed his hand over his teacup before Sheila could slosh in more tea. “I’m awash.”

“Surely there’s room for some more cake? Or how about another saffron bun? All home-made, of course.”

The bishop was looking a little green at the thought, but Sheila had been baking for days in preparation for this visit and wasn’t going to give up easily. Before he could protest, she manoeuvred another gigantic slice onto his plate.

“
I’ll
have some more cakey tea. ’Tis bloody handsome. Go on then, give us a saffron bun.” Big Rog held out his plate hopefully, but Sheila was ten steps ahead. “You will not, Roger Pollard! Don’t think I haven’t spoken to your wife about your cholesterol levels. And don’t
you
think you can ask for some and sneak it to your father,” she added to Little Rog, who instantly looked guilty.

Jules decided it was time to start the meeting, before the bishop had a cream-induced heart attack or war broke out between Big Rog and Sheila. Clearing her throat loudly, she shuffled the stack of papers in front of her and looked around at the gathered PCC members. Although she’d yet again committed the cardinal sin of calling a meeting on a Saturday evening, they were all present – with the exception of Danny, who was looking after Morgan. Jules hadn’t seen Danny since she’d left him standing on the quay, and he hadn’t been in touch either.

It hurt but it was probably for the best, especially in view of what she knew was about to take place tonight.

“First of all can I say how delighted I am to welcome Bishop Bill back to Polwenna Bay and St Wenn’s,” Jules began. “As you all know, the bishop visited us back in the late summer and we’ve been very concerned about the future of St Wenn’s.”

There was a ripple of agreement around the table. Not a great deal united Jules’s Parochial Church Council, but the thought that St Wenn’s might become a holiday cottage had certainly brought them together. Although Jules didn’t always agree with their methods of fundraising – naked calendars and salacious novels weren’t the most appropriate options, in her view – there was no doubt that they’d all worked as a team and helped to swell the bank account. The publicity had also increased the congregation and resulted in a few more marriages and christenings on the books.

“Don’t keep us in suspense!” said Little Rog. “Tell us what’s happening! We need to know.”

“Quite right, my boy,” nodded Big Rog, his eyes still fixed on the plate of teatime treats. “What’s going on? We all know why the bishop’s here, and it’s not just for Sheila’s buns.”

His son sniggered.

“That’ll do, my boy, that’ll do,” said his father.

Jules took a deep breath. This was her first announcement of the evening and the one she was looking forward to. The second, however, had caused her several sleepless nights and many long, rambling prayers.

“After a few very worrying months and a great deal of hard work from all of you here, I’m absolutely delighted to tell you that the team carrying out the review of St Wenn’s found that, as a parish and a church, we
are
still viable!”

There was a cheer at this. Big Rog was hugging Little Rog, Richard Penwarren had relief written all over his face, Sheila was planting smackers of kisses on the bishop’s cheeks, and Alice was beaming from ear to ear.

“The safe future of our church is down to you and your efforts,” Jules said, once the cheering had calmed down sufficiently for her to be heard. “You should all be very proud.”

“We couldn’t have done it without you!” This was from Sheila – and it was just as well Jules was sitting down. Her biggest critic was thanking her? Tears flooded her eyes. What she was about to do was getting harder by the moment.

“Three cheers for the vicar!” cried Little Rog, jumping to his feet and flinging his arms around Jules. While everyone shouted their hoorays and then launched into a rendition of
For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow
,
Jules was highly amused to see Big Rog’s hand shoot out to snatch a saffron bun during the distraction.

The bishop raised his hand. “I won’t go over the same ground, but I will say that I’ve been very impressed with the work you’ve done here. Some of your methods were a little
unorthodox
, of course. First there was the calendar, and more recently we’ve had a certain author donating royalties to the pot—”

“Must write a book,” mused Big Rog. “If that great girl Caspar can do it then it can’t be too hard. Maybe my memoirs?”

“Could be dodgy, Dad,” pointed out Little Rog.

“True, my boy, true. I was wild back in the day. Your mother wouldn’t like to read it.”

“How about the history of the village?” Sheila suggested excitedly. “Or the story of St Wenn?”

Jules had a sudden flashback to that autumnal afternoon at the well. She recalled the cool kiss of the water and the foolish request that had risen from her very soul. Even St Wenn couldn’t have made her winter wish come true.

“All wonderful ideas, of course, but not needed quite so much now. Your church is very much staying open.” Years of preaching in echoey spaces had given the bishop a booming voice when needed, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. Instantly the chatter stopped.

“However, there will be one very significant change here at St Wenn’s, and I know it will bring sadness to you all.” He looked at Jules. “Would you like me to continue?”

That would be the easy choice, but since when had she ever plumped for the soft option? Jules shook her head and swallowed down the rising knot of grief.

“This is probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do,” she began, glancing around the table. They were gathered in the vicarage kitchen, which today looked like an explosion in a tinsel factory thanks to Sheila and the WI, who’d insisted that they always took care of Christmas decorations for the vicar. There was even a tree complete with flashing red lights, which right now were making the Pollards glow in a rather sinister fashion.

All eyes were on Jules. Big Rog had even abandoned his stealthy saffron bun mid-chew.

She took a deep breath. This had to be done.

“As of January you’ll be looking to appoint a new vicar. I’m moving on.”

There was a stunned silence.

“You’re leaving?” said Alice finally.

Jules nodded. “Yes. I’ll be heading back to the city.”

“But we need you here!” This was from Sheila, who was dangerously red eyed. “You can’t leave us now. You’re our vicar.”

“You saved St Wenn’s.” Big Rog shook his head in confusion. “You can’t leave now, maid. Your place is here.”

Richard said, “Is this because of the accounting? Are you worried about an investigation? I’ll take total responsibility.”

“It’s my fault.” Alice was white and looked every one of her seventy-nine years as she wrung her hands. “I made all the deposits into the account; it was me who wrote
Blackwarren
. Not Caspar at all. He was just kind enough to cover for me.”

“Bleddy hell,” breathed Little Rog, his eyes the size of dustbin lids. “That was you? You wrote that book? Get on, Mrs T!”

 “Even I’ve read that,” Richard told Alice. “You can certainly spin a yarn.”

Big Rog was nodding. “Bleddy right she can. So go on then, Mrs T; how much cash did you make? Was it hard to do?”

“Who’s Lord B?” demanded Little Rog. “Is it Teddy?”

“That’s not the point! Jules is leaving and we can’t let her!” hollered Sheila. Hands on hips and eyes blazing, she turned to the bishop and added, “That calendar was my idea, so if you’re blaming Jules then you’re wrong! You can’t sack her for something that isn’t her fault. She never wanted to do it.”

There was a chorus of agreement. Bishop Bill shrank into his chair; the speed of his transition from guest of honour to vicar-sacking villain had been so fast that the poor man’s head was probably spinning.

“Nobody has sacked me. I’m resigning,” Jules said firmly. “It’s completely my decision.”

“But why, my love?” Alice was mopping her eyes with a lace hanky. “Aren’t you happy here?”

Jules felt dreadful. She loved Polwenna Bay and leaving the village was going to break her heart. But how could she tell Alice the truth?
I’m in love with your grandson, your married grandson, and I know that I need to give him some space if he’s to make his marriage work.

She couldn’t look Alice in the eye. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Are you sure?” Richard frowned. “It seems very sudden.”

It hadn’t been sudden enough, Jules reflected as around her the meeting descended into chaos. She ought to have left the minute she realised how she felt about Danny, instead of being arrogant enough to think she could handle it.

“It’s a decision I haven’t taken lightly,” she said finally when, looking exhausted and upset, they finally quietened down. “I’ve loved it here and I’ll miss you all, but please, respect my decision. I’ll be here for Christmas and I’ll do everything I can to make it a good one, but then I’ll be moving on. It’s the right thing. St Wenn’s is safe too, so there are good things to celebrate.”

“Don’t much feel like celebrating,” muttered Big Rog, rising to his feet. “Come on, son, let’s go to The Ship.”

Sheila grabbed her bag. “Wait for me, Mr Pollard. I’ll come too.” She looked at Jules reproachfully. “We know when people don’t really want to be with us.”

One by one they left the vicarage, subdued and hurt, and Jules felt terrible. Her announcement had ruined what should have been one of the biggest victories ever for St Wenn’s. How was it that each time she tried to do the right thing she only succeeded in making the situation ten times worse? It was just as well she was leaving.

“That went well,” remarked the bishop drily.

“I didn’t think they’d take it quite this badly.”

“I did warn you, Julia. Leaving so abruptly is never a good thing for a pastor or her flock. People have invested in you and they feel let down.”

She hung her head. “I know you did, and I feel dreadful, but this really is the best thing for everyone.”

He raised a bushy eyebrow. “But is it really? I’m not convinced I know the full story, Julia.”

And you never will
, thought Jules. Her love for Danny Tremaine would be locked away in the furthest corner of her heart. She’d leave it there in the darkness, try not to revisit it too many times and hope that it would gradually fade away until one day it no longer existed.

Since the meeting had finished sooner than she’d anticipated, there was nothing to do except deal with the pile of saffron buns and some washing up – the only evidence that the PCC had been there at all. That could wait, Jules decided, until after she’d walked with the bishop through the village and up to the car park.