“Peter Hallam was trying to, as a way to get to mingle with the local men. There is all the gear he bought for it, sitting in a box in the spare-room. Apparently it is expensive to buy and hard to resell, we’ve got it, so I thought I might try to learn to use it. I wondered if you knew anything about it that was all. I know Tom Truman ties flies, but I gather it would cause something of a local scandal if I got him to teach me.”

  That got a smile out of Lindsey. “I wish someone would cause a scandal with Commander Tom. It was just terrible what that woman did to him.”

  “Well, I stick to judge not lest ye be judged,” said Joy, diplomatically. “But anyway, I am going to try. There’s an instruction book.”

  “It can’t be too hard if men do it,” said Lindsey.

  They ended up looking at the instruction book, setting up the little vice, and finding it was actually both easier and a lot more complicated than they’d guessed.

  “YouTube,” said Lindsey firmly. “I will not be beaten by this,” she said, looking at the odd-shaped creation in the vice.

  “Well, we have produced something. But I think it is already coming apart.”

  “And it doesn’t look much like the picture, but it was quite fascinating, getting there. Well, thank you Reverend Joy… it’s been the best evening I’ve had for a while. Shows how exciting my life is.”

  She took her leave, and that left Joy to wonder if she’d actually achieved anything, except to establish that the church funds were not the reason for Peter Hallam’s death. That in itself was of some value, even if the hole in the budget next year was what came of it.

  She found out the next day that Mary Truman was not the only effectual individual on her parish council, and that Lindsey was just as good if not better at taking decisions and acting on them, if less loudly. There was to be a parish council meeting at three o’clock.

  Lindsey made no excuses and cut no corners. She told them exactly what she’d done, and why. “So: I’d like to apologize to Lorna and I’d like to resign as treasurer.”

  There was a silence. Then Lorna Smithson stopped her knitting and laughed, a warm, bubbling chuckle, which, by the look on Lindsey’s face, was not the reaction she’d expected. “Lindsey, dear, I wasn’t born yesterday and my name isn’t blind Freddy. I’m just a housewife, but I can keep household, and balance a budget. I knew what was coming in, and what the expenses were like. Of course I knew what you were doing from the moment you presented the accounts that first year. But I was glad to be out of trying to do it, and if you wanted to pretend I was bad at it and you were good it, by putting in your own money, eh, well, you have more money than I do. It was good for the church, and saved me time, and all of us a lot of trouble. Good on you, I thought.”

  “Er.”

  “I’ve got four children, and a half a dozen grand-children,” continued Lorna calmly. “They’ve all done the same thing, somewhere down the line. Not all of them have been as good as you at doing it, or at admitting it. And you’re much better at keeping the lid on expenses than I ever was. So I vote you go on being the treasurer.”

  “But I can’t go on…”

  “Of course you can,” said Mary firmly. “We’ve all done things like that. We’ll just have to raise a bit more money, that’s all. We can do it.”

  “I’ll add my vote to the ‘please stay on’,” said Tom. “But that’s only because you said I could have money for a new gutter, and I don’t have another two and half hours to spend getting that okayed again.” The smile said that it was said in jest.

  And by unanimous vote, the treasurer found her resignation turned down, and she was asked to stay on. Joy was good at judging expressions. She’d guess the local church had gained itself a scrupulous treasurer for some years, and the show of support had surprised the woman, and made her a great deal happier than her original showing off had done.

  “Good,” said Tom. “Now can we declare this meeting at an end and make it the shortest parish council meeting on record? All in favor raise your hands and I’ll reward you with extra eggs that I want to give away. That’s called bribery and corruption, Reverend Joy. Just in case you want the secretary to record it.”

  The laughter that greeted his comments showed that at least among the parish council there was a degree of healing and fellowship. “I’ll second the motion, without any corruption, or bribery — I have lots of eggs still, but I want a word with you, and Lindsey, afterwards. About a separate matter,” said Joy.

  “So much for my getting away in a hurry,” he said cheerfully. But he waited until the rest of the available parish council had left. Joy noticed Lorna giving Lindsey a hug. That was all good.

  When the last had gone, Tom said: “And now? What are we in trouble about? Or do you want to spend money on repairs and get the treasurer at a weak moment?”

  “Neither,” said Joy. “How did the YouTube go, Lindsey?”

  The reason for this dawned on Lindsey McCassil. “Not too well. They start by knowing things I don’t.” She looked at Tom. “We were looking at fly-tying.”

  “Likewise. I looked at two displays last night. And I thought we should ask an expert, just to start us off.” Joy turned to Tom Truman. “We were trying to tie a fly with Peter Hallam’s kit last night. We… I thought we might ask a bit of beginner advice.”

  “Or just vice,” said Tom. “Tch tch. Fancy that! Lindsey, what do you think my sister would say about our new priest asking me to help with her vice. I’m shocked. Shocked.”

  Lindsey was not impervious to his banter. “You’re impossible, Commander Tom,” she said with a smile. “Please would you show us your vice skills.”

  “No, just improbable,” said Joy. “So would you? Choose a time, and we will be glad to learn. It’s a chance,” she said to Lindsey, “to reach out into the community. And I really would appreciate not having to do it alone.

  He shook his head. “I’m not much of an expert instructor. I just tie a couple of basic patterns fast, and use them to catch a few fish. But we have one of the best in the country as part of our informal little group. I’ll ask him to come along and give you some basic lessons. If you get the hang of it, if you like I’ll invite you to join the rest of us on the last Wednesday of every month. We set up our vices, eat pizza, and drink whiskey and swap fishing lies. I would love to see the shock on their faces if you two women turn up,” he said, with decidedly unholy amusement. “I don’t think they’ll have ever met a female fly-tyer, let alone two. I’ll talk to him and let you know.”

  Lindsey looked at her watch. “Heavens! I must fly. I asked Mr Wiley to cover for me for an hour,” she said guiltily. “Thank you!” And she scurried out.

  Tom watched her go. “And the trick will be not telling Jeff Wiley that it’s his boss he’s showing his skills to. When I heard Lindsey asking about fly-tying I said to myself: ‘Indeed there is a God and he is both just, good and has a sense of humor’. But then I thought I saw your hand in this Reverend Duck. Am I right?”

  Joy shrugged. “God uses all of us as his tools. It did occur to me that you’d said something about it, but I assumed she’d know. Obviously she does not. Seriously, I saw it as a way to do what a good Christian ought — to mix with the community outside our own comfortable circle of fellow Christians, and, if by nothing but fellowship, show who we are and what we are. I don’t think I could do the shooting and fishing, but I could do the fly tying.”

  He laughed. “I think you should look up ‘cul de canard’, Reverend Duck. If I’d thought it through, and guessed you’d try fly-tying, I might have chosen a different name.”

  “That sounds like a base canard, sir.”

  “I won’t take that up. It would just lead to trouble,” he said waving a farewell.

  CHAPTER 9

  Joy was glad of a relatively uneventful run up to her Sunday, barring calling the Dean to let him know that her treasurer had indeed been quietly supplementing church funds, and would not be doing so in future. He seemed to find that a matter for regret. Joy didn’t think it would be. “In the short term, definitely not. It’s made us stronger as a parish.”

  “They’re getting to you, Joy. They’re yours now.”

  “Yes. I suppose they are. Isn’t that my job?”

  He laughed. “No sign of the will yet? I do suppose you have checked his bible?”

  “Er. I hadn’t thought of looking through all the books. I brought my own bible, of course. I’ll look for his. I’m sure I saw it on the shelf in the lounge.”

  There was one there, but it wasn’t particularly used looking, like hers was — and that was even though she used her Kindle for convenience most of the time.

  She stopped herself from going through all of the many books in the house, by a force of will, and concentrated on preparing her message instead. It struck her, not for the first time, that those who advocated Sunday as a day of rest worked on Sundays. But the cross on the wall seemed to have an answer for that too. It wasn’t so much working as untying the donkey or the ox from the stall and leading it to the water. The real question was: was she the donkey or the ox? Eventually she settled for the donkey. It was small and grey, a humble beast of burden, and extremely stubborn at times. An ox would be strong, slow but enduring, patient, and capable of pulling steadfastly at the command of the drover. She was, she concluded, not a good ox, in physiology or nature.

  After the service, during tea, Tom Truman sought her out — while she was in conversation with Lindsey and Isabella, to say: “I spoke to our fly-tying guru, and told him that the new priest and one of the ladies from the church wanted a bit of basic instruction in fly-tying. He’s agreed, very nervously, so long as I come along, because he doesn’t deal with women easily, for Tuesday about six-ish? Here, rather than in the rectory, if you don’t mind. He likes a lot of bench space. He’s trying to talk old Mac into coming too, to hold his hand.”

  “We don’t bite,” said Lindsey.

  “Well,” said Tom, with a straight face. “You’ll have to be tactful. He’s scared of women, and it took real missionary zeal about his hobby to get him to come along at all. Now, I must get another tomato sandwich before they’re all gone.”

  “Is a joke,” said Isabella, knowingly. “You can tell with Tom. He do this all the time. His mouth doesn’t laugh, but his eyes they do it.”

  Lindsey nodded in agreement. “Well, whichever Lothario it is, at least Commander Tom will be there to keep him in bounds. It’s probably old Seitz. He never manages to come into the Post Office without making some stupid comment. Mr. Wiley has become very good at making sure he deals with him. I was quite surprised at how he read him the riot act the other day.”

  Joy said nothing, but wondered if Tom Truman’s latest jest would backfire on all of them. But she didn’t quite have the heart to spoil it. The normal talk that would follow any service, anywhere was still too punctuated by awkward silences — at least one caused by an accidental mention of Reverend Hallam.

  That afternoon, she took a long walk and read a book, instead of looking through all the books in the place. The walk, chosen to face into the wind on the way out, and blow her home on the way back, was a little further than she should have taken her ankle, and the stinging wind-driven sand on the track next to the beach made it less pleasant than it could have been.

  None-the-less it took her out toward the cape that sheltered Felixtown, and up onto a spit of rock that gave her a view back over the little town and its valley. She could see how the road she’d come in on took a long curve away from town to join the coast road, avoiding the water-meadows. The wind drove wave-patterns across their green, a sea of grass surging up to the road-margin trees. It was still a great deal quieter than the actual sea, today. That was white-flecked all the way out to the horizon — a horizon that visibly wasn’t flat. No day to be at sea today. She turned back to the land, to the neat farms taking their shelter from the geology that led to the cape she had been walking towards. She attempted to work out just where she’d come off the road. About five miles from the town… but because the road curved so, following the higher ground, that wasn’t actually that far from the town. She could see neat patchwork-paddocks with tiny black and white cows, and a huge shed, the corrugated roof glinting in the weak sun, with a house and a smoking chimney next to it, and coming closer some less neatly paddocked land with black cows. Then a mix of bush and the water-meadows to the slight rise of the town.

  It was, she realized, even in this weather, a picturesque area, and the road out towards the cape from the town showed a series of houses set there to take advantage of the shelter and the view of the valley and coastline. Someday she must go up there. But not today, not on foot, her ankle said. So she made her way back to the town, and to her fire and a thoroughly unsatisfactory murder-mystery of Reverend Hallam’s where, as Lorna had put it a few days earlier, Blind Freddy could see who-dunnit. Her meditation was a far more satisfying read.

  The next morning she started going through all the books in the house. It wasn’t in the murder-mystery, which she had decided could go to the book-sale at the church fair.

  The ‘phone rang, as it will, just when a pile of books had to fall over if she let go of it. Ah, well. It would mean starting that row again.

  It was Arthur. “Mother said you called,” he said, sounding as cheerful as a wet weekend at the beach. “Something about the church accounts?”

  Joy had forgotten that Penelope had promised to get him to call her. “Ah. I am sorry to waste your time. It’s all cleared itself up.”

  There was a pause. Then in a low hesitant voice he said: “Oh. Oh, well, I want…”

  “Is that you in there, Arthur?” asked another voice, loudly. The nasal high-pitched tones of his mother, by the sounds of it.

  “Yes Mother, I’m on the ‘phone,” said the slightly muffled voice of Arthur.

  “But why in there, dear?” demanded his mother. “The Major is looking for you!”

  “I’m sorry Reverend Joy. I’d better go. I’m glad it has been cleared up,” said Arthur, loudly and clearly. “Lovely talking to you.”

  Joy was left wondering quite what he had actually wanted to talk to her about. It plainly had not been something he wanted his mother aware of. Really. The man must be thirty, and still living at home.

  She’d just got back to her collapsed book-pile, when the ‘phone rang again. This time it was Tom Truman. “Thought you ought to know for your pastoral visits, that Little Willie is away.”

  That left her floundering a little. “I looked it up, and watched the band sing it on YouTube. Those clothes! But, besides the fact I won’t see the star shoe shimmy shuffle down, why is that important?”

  “I think I was assuming you knew a little more than you do,” said Tom. “Let me explain. Little Willie had words with Reverend Hallam… as in Little Willie lifted him two feet off the ground and told him never to set foot on his property again or he’d… well, not treat him to cream tea. It didn’t help that Peter Hallam turned out to be right, and it was his daughter.”

  “Er. Was his daughter what?” asked Joy.

  “Oh she was one of a bunch of kids that ran a bit wild, eh, about five, six months ago,” explained Tom. “They painted graffiti on a few places, including the fence of the rectory. They nicked the clapper out of the church bell, set the toilet to indicate vacant when it wasn’t and occupied when no-one was in. Of course Grogan caught up with them eventually, and sure enough Izzy was one of the bunch. But by then Reverend Peter had tried to apologize, Mary went down with him, and she got into a yelling match with Willie. It was a mess that didn’t get better. Little Willie won’t have anything to do with the church anyway, but then his mother leaned on him when Izzy got caught, to go and say sorry, and he got Peter on a day, or a moment, when he was antsy, and, well, it made the whole situation worse. He wouldn’t even come out of his house to speak to him. Apparently threatened to call the cops if Willie didn’t leave immediately… Jeanie — that’s his wife — stopped coming to church which I reckon she’d only been doing to keep sweet with her mother-in-law — she wasn’t exactly regular, but you’d see her there on occasions. Christmas, Easter, sometimes when Willie was away.”

  “So… do you think this is the moment to make the peace? I mean, I suspect that she, and probably her husband if he got to hear of it, would think I nipped in the minute he was gone to try and take advantage of that. It doesn’t seem the ideal moment to me.”

  “I’d say you were right, except I called old Mac last night to lean on him about the fly-tying. I practically had to twist both of Jeff Wiley’s arms off to get him to agree to come, and that was on condition he had backup. And in the middle of all the talking to him, Mac comes out and says he hears you did a home visit to Fred Danyard’s place the other day, and were you thinking of going to see his daughter, Jeanie, soon, as Willie was away? And if you knew old Mac like I do, you’d understand that’s practically begging.”

  “Then I’d better go. But I had better ‘phone first,” said Joy feeling the chill in her stomach that potentially nasty scenes always brought to her.

  “Hang on. I’ll give you the number. I’ve got it here from when Willie was working for me. Just tell Jeanie you’re meeting all your parishioners.”

  “Can I tell you how to milk cows, Mr. Truman?”

  He laughed. “My sister is rubbing off on me.”

  “The thought never crossed my lips, Tom Truman. Anyway I think the number is actually on the list your efficient sister Mary gave me. I have it here next to the ‘phone.” She read it out to him.

  “Yes. That’s it. Good thing you hadn’t got that far. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Cheerio.”

  He hung up, and Joy closed her eyes and did her best to compose herself. The procrastination demon was strong, tempting her toward tea at least first. But last time she had put a call off for a cup of tea she had missed Arthur, so she took a deep breath and dialed. It was never easy.

  The woman on the other end of the line sounded both wary, and indecisive. “I don’t know. I really ought not but…”

 

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