“It had found its way into the rectory, seeking others of its kind.”

  “They do that. Well, cheerio.”

  Joy drove the few hundred yards to the supermarket, feeling vaguely guilty about doing so. Of course everyone did, here. There was parking everywhere. She’d shopped — it took a lot longer than it had at first, because traversing an aisle meant three conversations. Still, there was a warmth about it. People should know and care, and if that came with a level of curiosity and gossip, that went with the territory.

  By the time she got herself out of there, school was also out, a couple of kids on scooters were hooliganing down the pavement. She’d just got into her car, when she saw Izzy positively bounding along the pavement, still in school uniform but with a carrier bag in her hand. Joy waved, and got a huge grin as the girl came running up to her. “Would you like a lift?” asked Joy.

  “Like, I’d love one. Mum asked me to get some fish, and I think Maddy put rocks in the bag. Well, ice-bricks.”

  “Hop in,” said Joy, moving things off the seat into the back. Izzy got in, and they drove out. “So, like, what did you say to mum?” asked Izzy. “You know what she said to me this morning. She said I should go and get busted kissing Cam at school! And she was, like, serious!”

  “I’d guess she was telling you that she approved, and that would tell certain people he was interested in girls.”

  “Okay…” said Izzy. It was a very considering ‘okay’. A quick glance showed Izzy biting her lower lip. And smiling very widely. “I, like, talked to Maddy about it. Like, about what girls would think about Cam, like, at Uni and so on. She said I’d have to lock him away. Huh. And she said I had caught a beauty. And you were right about mum, yesterday. You’re pretty smart sometimes, Mrs. Priest.”

  “Um. No. But I have help from someone who is.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m a Christian priest, Izzy. Who do you think?” asked Joy as she negotiated the corner, waved to a pedestrian, and pulled up at the gate.

  “Oh. Yeah. Um so, like what you said yesterday…”

  “I said quite a lot. Which bit in particular?” asked Joy rather warily. But she was still unprepared for the direction the reply took.

  “About welding. And engineering. Like, everything any of the other girls ever talk about doing is like… I’m not interested. I like well, doing real stuff.”

  “Why not? It’s real enough, even if very few women seem to do it. But it’s quite a lot more than just welding. You have to do well at math, computing and I think the sciences just to get in.”

  “Um. Actually, I can do that stuff pretty well. I just don’t want to look like a nerd.”

  “Similar to having a boyfriend,” said Joy, smiling, “Sometimes you have to decide whether what people think of you is important, or the thing itself. I had to take that decision when I entered the ministry. A lot of people thought I was crazy, but it was important to me. There are a few people I really do care about what they might think of me, but really, what the world thinks is not that important.”

  There was a pause. “Yeah. It was funny. I, um, decided I’d tell Gramps about Cam and me. Like, Mum said I should. And you know what? He said if I wanted to keep the fact I was kissing Cam secret from him, then I should remember that shiny metal makes a great mirror. And he said I could do worse, but couldn’t I find a mechanic or an engineer instead? Like, he was teasing me. He likes Cam.”

  “I’ll arrange for you to meet my engineering friend sometime,” said Joy. “If you’re really interested, I know they take some year 11 students to do a bit of work-experience. And he’s got two sons about your age, so he’s quite used to talking to them. He says they know everything about engineering. Now that he’s fifty he knows he knows nothing.”

  Izzy got out of the car. “Thanks for the lift,” she said, and went on her way, so Joy did too, knowing that sometimes seed fell on good ground.

  CHAPTER 15

  There was no escaping the fact old Mr. Porter’s health had gone downhill in the last few weeks. He’d been at her first two services, but not this last Sunday. Mary had noticed of course, and had followed up through her own local channels. She let Joy know, late in the afternoon, that it might be a good idea to visit that evening. Joy took her little travelling communion case, her bible, and drove over to his house. There was another vehicle parked outside, and as she drew up Doctor Hammond came out.

  He looked at her. “You’re quick off the mark,” he said. “I was actually considering ‘phoning you, simply because you might have some influence on the old boy.” His tone said he did not think priests were a first resort. “Look, he needs to go into care. He’s refusing to leave.”

  “I’ll try to talk to him,” said Joy. “What’s wrong with him? And if you tell me its patient confidentiality then I shall ask him. And he will tell me, and get it wrong, because his hearing is awful. And that won’t help either of us.”

  “Emphysema. He smoked all his life and his lungs have had it.”

  “I wondered about his struggle to talk. Look, I will do my best. I know you probably won’t tell me, but if it was those marks on Father Peter’s neck that worried you…”

  “No,” said the Doctor, tersely. “I knew all about the lupus, of course. I was treating him. It was the oleander branch in his mouth that I didn’t expect to see!”

  “Oh,” said Joy, somewhat nonplussed. “Well, let me see what I can do for old Mr. Porter.”

  As he had just been nebulized, the old man was breathing easier, and he was sitting up against his pillows. He still did not look well, but gave her a weak smile. “Where… where’s my… ear? Took it out… so that sawbones… couldn’t lecture me.”

  Both Joy and his wife had to do a bit of searching until the device was excavated from under a book, inserted, and with a high-pitched squeal switched on and settled in. “Really, Sam. Why didn’t you just switch it off like you always do,” said his wife, Sarah, crossly.

  “Heh… he’s got wise… to that one. Made me… switch it on.”

  Joy gave him communion, and prayed with him. She told them both about what Dr. Hammond had said. He shook his head. “That’s in… Hardacre. Sarah can’t drive… anymore.”

  “But can you look after him?” Joy asked of Sarah.

  She nodded. “Mostly. And our daughter Sandy is coming home at the end of the month. She’s taken the nursing job in the surgery.”

  “It’s… winter. Always hard…. on chest. Spring… is getting here.”

  Joy heard more about the excellence of the daughter, and how she’d be able to manage the nebulizing so much better. And going into care would mean either selling their home or it would cost an arm and a leg. That Dr. Hammond didn’t like being called out, and was always trying to get the older patients to go to Hardacre, where he wouldn’t have to be. At length Sarah trotted off to the kitchen, still quite spritely for her late seventies, and the old man, when he heard the clatter there, said: “Wanted to tell you… while Sarah was out… everyone thinks… I’m deaf. Always switch… the hearing-aid off. So they forget… I can hear… with it on. Was sitting… down on the bench, next to the rectory… Day before the vicar was killed. Was doing better…I went for a walk… got tired. Vicar came out… and he got a call on his mobile. Didn’t… hear a lot. But he said… ‘If I don’t die first… your marriage will kill me.’ Woman was… talking to him. Couldn’t hear … what she said. But… he said ‘Well… I think it’ll be the… death of me, too.”

  At this point, Sarah returned, saying that his tea would be ready in a few minutes, and Joy took the hint and left.

  As soon as she got home, Joy promptly looked up Oleander. She’d had it pointed out to her as a poisonous flower before. And it was… but it was not that poisonous. Not strong enough to kill someone with a branch still in their mouth. They’d have to eat the stuff, and a fair amount of it, and then they’d be sick and in most cases, live.

  Shaking her head she looked up lupus. She’d heard of the auto-immune disease, but knew little about it. On reading the symptoms, many of the little mysteries about Peter Hallam cleared up — his sensitivity to sunlight, his reputed flares of temper, his allergies, his medications…even possibly the goji berries. The mention of heart conditions… perhaps that tied into the Oleander, which, did after all cause cardiac reactions.

  Well, she was somewhat better informed, but not, it seemed to her, much wiser.

  Joy had been rather nervous about Wednesday art classes, and had wondered who, if anyone, she could ask to help her. She’d eventually decided that at least for the first session, she’d just do it herself. She had a long hard look through the sketchbook to try and pick on areas that needed work. Inevitably perspective was an issue — a minor one, but at least it gave her something to look up, to refresh her own memory about. She found she had not forgotten, so much as just not thought about it, which helped her confidence at least.

  In the event, she need not have worried. She did a little fishing when they arrived, and established that Peter’s ‘method’ for what it was worth, was to pick on a different type of drawing, each time. He let them have a go, and helped as they went along, if they wanted it. Joy did a bit of explaining about geometric perspective, and how it worked and the math thereof. She suggested that as structures with parallel lines were easiest to learn to do it in, and their view of architecture from here was limited, maybe the shed and the ruined chookyard would have to do. Yes, of course, if Megan wanted to draw gnomes and bikers in it that was fine. So long as the further away gnomes were not bigger than the closer bikers.

  After a while she went out to get some tea, and heard a clattering sound in the direction of church. So she looked out, to see that Isabella had obviously dropped a metal bucket, in her attempt to carry too many things up the stair to the little door to the sacristy. So Joy went across to help. The artists could do without her for a minute or two.

  Of course, by the time she got there, Isabella had retrieved her bucket, and Mary had emerged to help.

  “I thought you were at work?” said Joy with a smile to Mary, having greeted them both.

  “I do a couple of hours on the Saturday morning, at month end. They let me take time in lieu to come and do my turn. I set the roster up, I need to do my bit!” explained Mary.

  “Oh, well, you don’t need me. I’d better get back. Um, I’m attending to something,” said Joy.

  “Ah,” said Mary. “Yes. Well, quickly come and look at this. Isabella and I were talking about shifting furniture around back here. It’s just impossible to get through that door if you’re in a hurry without banging into that little cabinet. I wanted to move it over there to that corner,” she pointed, “but Isabella thinks it’ll be better over next to the hanging rack.”

  “Is closer to the basin. We use for flowers,” said Isabella.

  “Yes, but you’ll have to walk around the robe hangers.”

  “Talking of flowers,” said Joy. “Oleanders…”

  “They’re finished now. We had the very last from Lorna’s garden, just the week before poor Reverend Peter died.”

  “Someone tip them out next to the altar,” said Isabella, showing the first sign of anger Joy had ever seen on her tranquil face. “No respect! Like they sick in the toilet and don’t flush.”

  “Oh. When?”

  “I see it when I clean the day Reverend Peter died.”

  “Yes. Well, about this cabinet,” said Mary, obviously keen to move the subject on.

  “What’s actually in it?’ asked Joy. “I must admit I found dodging around it to get out of the door awkward. But do we need it in here at all?”

  In answer, Isabella opened it. “Is cleaning stuff on the bottom. Brasso, mothballs, window cleaner, some polishing cloths, some small vases. Here,” she pointed to the second shelf, and then leaned forward and pulled things out. “We keep the candles, matches, the little watering-can for the flowers, clothes for the small hall-stand…” The next item was a well-worn, rather ordinary bible. “Is Reverend Peter’s. I find on one of the pews, the day he died,” she said sadly. “I do not want to leave it there.”

  Joy took a deep breath. She could see various bits of paper protruding from it. “I think I will take it back to the rectory,” she said, priding herself on keeping her voice even. “I’ll think about the cabinet. I must get back.” And she took the bible from Isabella, and ran.

  Back inside, she looked in on the three budding artists before she could start to look at the bible or its contents. There seemed to be cause — there were gales of laughter coming out of the room. Joy found that Megan had drawn a biker kissing a gnome in her dilapidated shed. She wasn’t a bad artist either, really. Joy cheerfully pointed out the problems in her perspective, while admiring the biker. Of the three young artists, Megan had by far the most imagination, Izzy the most methodical approach, and Cameron had natural talent in abundance. She disciplined herself to spend the fifteen minutes with them, until they took their leave. This secrecy had to end, and soon she decided, but it was good to see them comfortable and easy with her.

  When they’d left she opened the bible. And, yes, one of pieces of paper in the back of it read ‘Last Will and Testament of Peter John Hallam’.

  Joy decided she was going to look at it. It wasn’t sealed, and was germane to her work here. Then she would call Dean Mellors.

  It was both simple and startling enough. As Tom had said, his personal possessions were to be used by the parish or sold if they were of no use to them, with the proceeds donated to St Andrews Children’s home. There were a series of small bequests, including one to Lindsey McCassil — ‘as a small thanks for her services as the Parish treasurer where her kindly work had not gone un-noticed.’ Well, well. That would surprise her. Mary got a gift of several books. It was the rest of the will that was startling. It seemed that Reverend Peter Hallam owned a home in a good suburb of Melbourne, and had various investments for his retirement, which were lodged with a respectable firm of solicitors in Melbourne. The house was to be sold, and the proceeds to be held in trust with the investments, and disbursed as deemed necessary by the nominated trustees for the education, board and lodging and such discretionary expenses as they saw fit, at a prestigious Fine Art college, or an equivalent institution, for Cameron van den Vaestermark to study art, fine art or design or a similar course. Should that not prove possible, Cameron van den Vaestermark, (and his age and home address were carefully stated) was to be given the sum of 50 000 dollars when he reached the age of twenty-one in the hope that he would pursue further training in art. The Trustees were named as Dean William Werthe and Mary Truman. There were similar, smaller bequests left to the other two children, but simply for their choice of further education. Any remaining monies were to be equally divided between the Parish of St. James and Bush Church Aid.

  It was, considering the value of property these days, not the trivial amount Tom Truman had thought it would be. It was also going to be a hot potato. She turned the will over. It was neatly signed and dated some weeks before his death. In doing this she noticed that the next thing in the bible was a letter, with a stamp on it, addressed to Dean William Werthe, Dean Mellors late predecessor. Attached was a bright puce post it note with a morbid message: ‘To be posted in the event of my death.’

  Joy picked up the phone, and spent the next twenty minutes explaining to Dean Mellors that she’d found the will, the contents and what complications it was going to create.

  “The other trustee, this Mary Truman. What do you know of her?” asked Dean Mellors.

  “She’s efficient, knows the boy and his father, and is probably the best possible choice for the job. Peter Hallam knew what he was doing, naming her. Now, there is the letter addressed to Dean Werthe...”

  “I suspect that Peter Hallam must have been unaware that he had died during the trip he took to his native Germany,” said Dean Mellors. “It happened around that time. I think this probably comes under the heading of business correspondence, and thus will be my concern now. Have a look inside and tell me. If it is personal, well, I can forward it on to Dean Werthe’s son. If not, you can read it to me and send it on if need be.”

  The letter was addressed to ‘Dear Bill’. Joy rapidly decided she had better read it out aloud.

  “Dear Bill, If you are reading this, it will mean that I have predeceased you after all. The disease proceeds at an uneven rate, and I have been in much pain, lately. This, and the circumstance I have found myself in, have motivated me to make my will, and to name you as a trustee in it.

  My dear friend, I know I am handing you a problem. I also want to tell you that you were right, all those years ago, after Edith’s death. God gave me a talent and I should not have just buried it in the ground. I can see that now, with blinding clarity. At the time, with my beloved wife’s death so raw I never wanted to draw again. I eventually tried to move past it here, and try painting instead, as a way of reaching out into the local community. Alas, watercolor was not something which I had any skill at. But God works in mysterious ways, and I saw his hand in some of the most brilliantly executed pictures painted by some young ‘vandal’ on the town’s walls. My fellow townspeople here saw graffiti — I saw purity of line. I followed it up, and found the artist. And he has talents which far eclipse any I ever had. He’s also fated to have a parent who will not consider the boy using this talent. I tried on several occasions to reason with him, but he is a somewhat aggressive atheist, who slammed the door of his shop in my face when I tried to go and plead, for the boy’s sake, that he see to his training and education. The boy needs help to be able to use this marvelous gift to its full potential. It seems that his father has taken me into a personal vast dislike. I am hoping to enlist some help in speaking to him — the lady I have nominated as your co-trustee has some influence with him. Anyway, this letter is to plead with you, for the sake of an old friendship to undertake this trusteeship (or to appoint someone suitable to act for you), should I have been re-united with my beloved in the mansions of our Father. It was something I have longed for, but you helped me understand that I still had work here to do. Now I know what it was, and, if you are reading this letter, I pray that you will help me to finish it.”

 

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