Matty - Part 2

Matty Part 2 - A Change of Plan

Philippa squinted against the bright sunlight as she opened her eyes. ‘She’s coming round.’ It was Reverend John Tillman leaning over her, his round ruddy face concerned. ‘Are you alright Mrs Lord?’

Philippa struggled to sit up. ‘The grave it… there were bones…’ Beside her, the grave was as it was when she arrived, apart from where she had removed some of the grass and weeds.

‘You just fainted, that’s all,’ said a thickly accented voice behind her.

Philippa turned to see a tall, wiry man in dirty, navy blue, overalls. He looked slightly familiar.

‘I saw you weedin’ the grave, an’ then you just fell forward,’ said the man.

‘And then Jim here called me,’ said Rev. Tillman. ‘You were out for a few seconds. Can you stand? It won’t do to sit on this wet grass. Let’s go over and sit in the porch.’

They walked over to the low gable-ended, stone porch that sheltered the old oak door that led into the church, and sat on the benches inside. The portly Rev. Tillman sat beside Philippa as Jim Dorling, the gravedigger and odd job man for the village, sat opposite and poured steaming hot coffee from a Thermos flask into a plastic cup and offered it to Philippa. Still stunned from her experience she took the coffee and sipped it without saying thank you, and without noticing the sickly sweetness of sugar.

‘Have you ever fainted before?’ asked Rev. Tillman. ‘You’re not…’ He looked towards Philippa’s middle, enquiringly.

Philippa followed his gaze and looked down at her own stomach. ‘Oh... no, and… I’ve never fainted before. At least, not since I was at school. I once ran into my friend in the playground and we bumped heads. I fainted in Assembly.’

Jim Dorling grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth, ‘You'll be allreet in a minute lass.’

‘Have you met Jim?’ said Rev. Tillman.

Philippa looked up from her coffee. 'Oh … yes, you rebuilt my mother’s garden wall.'

‘Eye, that’s reet,’ replied Jim. ‘Few years ago now. It were after that tree fell on it. Well, I better be gettin' on. No peace for the wicked.’ Jim winked at Philippa then walked off towards the JCB.

‘Sapphire!’ exclaimed Philippa.

‘Sorry?’ said Rev. Tillman.

‘My horse, I left her at the gate.’ Philippa put down the half-finished cup of coffee and stood up. ‘I must see if she’s alright.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Rev. Tillman, as they left the porch. ‘Are you sure you can ride? Perhaps I should phone your husband.’

‘No, I’ll be fine.’ said Philippa.

Jim came striding across the graveyard. ‘Don’t forget your 'at, luv,’ he said, handing Philippa her riding helmet.

Philippa thanked him, taking the helmet but looking past him towards her grandmother’s grave. Then Sapphire whinnied loudly and Philippa hurried towards her with Rev. Tillman following on behind.

‘Will you walk with me as far as the Vicarage Mrs Lord?’ said Rev. Tillman. ‘I’d like to ask a favour, if I may.’

‘Of course,’ replied Philippa, turning to look at him and smiling for the first time. ‘And it’s Philippa.’ Suddenly Rev. Tillman wished he were twenty years younger and about six inches taller.

They passed through the gate and Philippa untied Sapphire’s reigns and stroked her forehead. ‘You poor thing. You must have wondered where I’d got to.’ Sapphire nodded as if in agreement, while Rev. Tillman gave the horse a wide birth. He was a little nervous around horses.

‘What was the favour?’ Philippa asked, as they walked along the edge of the field. It was a little muddy and Rev. Tillman wished that they had gone via the road.

‘I was wondering if you and your husband might judge the craft competition at this years church fête,’ replied Rev. Tillman. ‘It’s on the Saturday of the Spring Bank-holiday weekend as usual, though it’s a week later this year because of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee. In fact we’ve decided to call it the Jubilee Fayre. We’re expecting a good turnout, with last year’s fête being cancelled because of the foot and mouth.’

Philippa thought for a moment. ‘Okay, but I can’t promise David will come.’

As they reached the small gate at the bottom of the vicarage garden, the young man that Philippa had seen working in the garden earlier tipped a bucketful of weeds onto the compost heap behind the greenhouse. ‘Matty.’ Rev. Tillman waved the young man over. 'Come and meet Mrs Lord.’

The man approached them smiling. He looked to be in his early twenties. A sudden gust of wind blew his blond hair across his face and he pushed it back. He looked pale, as though he was not accustomed to being out of doors. But he had strong handsome features, and very blue eyes.

‘This is my nephew, Matthew,’ said Rev. Tillman. ‘He’s come to stay for a few days and he’s insisted on doing some gardening to pay for his keep.’

‘Hello,’ said Philippa.

‘Hi,' Matthew replied, smiling. He approached Sapphire with no apparent fear and let her sniff the back of his left hand before stroking her cheek with it.

‘You’re a beauty, aren’t you,’ he said to Sapphire, who showed her teeth and tried to follow his hand with her mouth.

‘Matthew’s an artist,’ said Rev. Tillman.

‘Oh, do you paint?’ Philippa asked.

‘I have in the past, but mostly I make Jewellery. I’ve a small shop and workshop in The Jewellery Quarter in Birmingham.’

‘He got a degree at Birmingham University,’ said Rev. Tillman proudly.

Suddenly Philippa remembered the ring and felt in her pocket for it. ‘I found this in the churchyard,’ she said, offering it to Rev. Tillman. ‘Has anyone reported loosing a ring?’

Rev. Tillman took a small metal case from his jacket pocket and opened it. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said, as he put on a pair of wire framed spectacles and took the ring. ‘It looks old. What do you think, Matthew?’

He offered the ring to Matthew and he took it and examined it. ‘I work mostly in silver, but it does look old. It could do with a good clean. Would you like me to clean it and have it valued, when I go back to Birmingham?’ he asked Philippa.

‘But it’s not mine,’ said Philippa, ‘unless… well, I found it on my grandma’s grave but…’ Her voice trailed of as in her mind she went back over what had happened at there.

‘Finders keepers,’ said Matthew. ‘Perhaps it was your grandmothers.’

Rev Tillman nodded but couldn’t help thinking that if it was valuable he could use the money for the organ fund.

***

Samuel Rivers picked up his empty coffee cup and walked from his small office to the even smaller kitchen next door. Years ago this part of The Manor - the west wing - had been servants quarters. But not since the nineteen-sixties had there been any live-in servants.

He washed the cup and dried it on a tea towel, before putting it away in the cupboard and returning the towel to its hook at the end of the worktop. He returned to his office and dialled the third number on the list of six once more, but just as before, there was no reply. He picked up the hand written sheet and an old ledger from his otherwise empty desk, and took one last look around the room before walking down the corridor to David Lord’s study.

Samuel had worked for David Lord since David had bought The Manor in the nineteen eighties. He had in fact ‘come with the house’, as David often said, having worked for the previous owner as Estate Manager. Though the estate had gradually shrunk in size, as parts of it were sold off to pay ever-increasing debts. The previous owner had insisted on a clause in the contract of sale, that Samuel’s employment would not be terminated for at least twelve months. But Samuel had proved surprisingly adaptable and willing to take on new duties. He was an excellent, army trained, driver and often acted as chauffeur ferrying a wide variety of David’s guests, colleagues and customers to and from Durell Industries' factories or to Leeds-Bradford or Manchester airports.

Samuel knocked before entering David’s study and walking over to his desk. David looked up from his pink copy of the Financial Times and the notes he was making. ‘Yes, Samuel?’

‘I’m afraid Peter Stevenson can’t make it tomorrow, Mr. Lord, and I’ve been unable to contact Michael Philips.’

‘What about the others?’ said David.

‘Err…they seemed a little put out, but they said they would be there,’ Samuel replied, glancing at the disarrayed papers on David’s desk and handing him both the sheet of paper and the ledger. ‘Here’s the list of phone numbers. And the estate accounts for last month are ready for your signature, and you’ll find the estimates for replacing the house guttering and fall-pipes inside the cover. I recommend we use Bradshaws. They’re not the cheapest but John Bradshaw has always done excellent work for us in the past. Will that be all, Mr. Lord, or would you like me to tidy your desk?’

‘Oh, no! You get off Samuel.’ David looked at his watch. It was just after twelve-thirty. ‘The last time you tidied my desk I couldn’t find anything for days. How are you fixed for an early start Monday? I’m on the nine-thirty flight to Poland.’

‘From Manchester?’

‘Yes’

Samuel thought for a moment. ‘There’ll be heavy traffic. We’d best be off for six-thirty at the latest.’

‘Okay, thanks, I’ll be ready. Oh, by the way, how’s your sister?’ David asked.

‘Oh, she’s doing fine now. She wants to go to church tomorrow.' Samuel’s sister had recently had a hip operation. After waiting for over a year, with no sign of a National Health Service appointment, she had had the operation done privately at David’s insistence. Both Samuel and his sister, Winifred, had taken a lot of persuading, as they did not like to be in anyone’s debt. But as Winifred’s pain increased they had agreed to let David pay.

‘Glad to hear it,’ said David. ‘Well, give her my regards won’t you.’

‘I will,’ said Samuel, as he left David’s study. ‘I’ll see you on Monday morning then, at six-thirty. Goodbye.’

‘Bye, Samuel.’ David returned to his newspaper as Samuel closed the door and strode down the hallway to the porch, where he put on his overcoat and took his walking stick from the rack and set off for his cottage in the village.

***

After leaving the vicarage, Philippa had ridden down into the village to the sound of Sapphire’s shod hooves on the surfaced road.

‘Village’ was no longer an adequate description of Scarford as it had slowly but surely expanded into a small town, becoming more residential and less farming oriented. It was also a popular spot for tourists and walkers, and the local pubs did a good trade. A few acquaintances bade Philippa ‘Good morning’ or waved as she rode by.

She avoided the traffic in the main street by riding along Back Lane, which took her past some of the newer detached houses, and passed the end terraced house that she had lived in throughout her childhood and until she moved to a small shared flat closer to her work. She glanced at the high stone dividing wall that had been repaired by Jim Dorling, the odd job man, remembering the tree that had fallen against it. Then she grimaced as she remembered the time her brother Peter had told her that if she jumped off the wall towards the neighbouring field, holding up an opened umbrella, she would fly like Mary Poppins. Being a gullible six-year-old, she had believed him and jumped, dropping over six feet to the grass below, and acquiring two black eyes, where her knees had hit her in the face.

It was ten years since Peter had moved to Canada with his wife and three children. When he and Philippa were children he had bullied her shamefully, yet she still missed him and had kept in touch with him by mail, and more recently by e-mail.

After trotting along the narrow tree-lined lane that led towards The Manor, Philippa pulled gently on Sapphire’s left reign to turn her between the stone entrance pillars, but it was hardly necessary as Sapphire knew exactly where she was going.

In the stable end of the old barn, Philippa removed Sapphire’s saddle and groomed her before leading her to the water and feed troughs in her stall. There were stalls for three horses, each with low wooden dividing walls, but only Sapphire’s was used. The other two were used for storing bales of straw, making the hayloft somewhat redundant. Philippa washed her hands in the basin in the corner beside the door that led to the gym via the shower-room. Sometimes she used the shower-room but mostly preferred the luxury of her own en suite bathroom in the house. In any case she was hungry and the shower could wait.

Philippa patted Sapphire’s rump, checked that the stall door was secure and then set off across the yard, leaving the top half of the stable door open. The sky had clouded over and was threatening rain, and the wind had picked up, rustling the few remaining brown leaves that still clung to the ancient oak tree that stood close to the corner of the barn. As she approached the west wing of the house, Samuel Rivers stepped out of the porch door, giving her a curt wave with his walking stick and striding off along the driveway. Philippa smiled and waved back. She was on good terms with Samuel, but felt that he somehow resented her. Perhaps because of all the changes she had wrought in the house and garden. He probably didn’t realise that she had suggested to David that he keep Samuel on instead of letting him go after his year was up. Though it was David’s two-year suspension from driving, after he had been caught over the limit, that had swung it.

Philippa hung up her riding jacket and helmet in the porch and walked along the corridor to David’s study. As she entered, David looked up from his computer. He was working on the newsletter that he had been e-mailing to his executives and office staff each month for almost a year, while wishing he had not created such a precedent in the first place. ‘Oh, hello, darling. Did you have a nice ride?’

‘Yes, lovely,’ replied Philippa. I’m just going to make a sandwich. Would you like one?’

‘Oh, yes please’

‘What would you like?’ Philippa asked. But David was engrossed in his newsletter and didn’t reply.

‘Ham, cheese, brazed donkey?’

‘What? Oh, anything. Oh by the way, I have to go to the Leeds factory tomorrow morning, and I’ve had to bring forward my trip to Europe, to Monday; they’ve had a blasted fire at the Polish factory. Oh, and don’t forget we’re going to the Cravens’ this evening.’

Philippa hadn’t forgotten. Andrew Craven was an important business acquaintance of David’s. His wife loved to entertain, as did Philippa. But unfortunately their dinner parties and the inevitable conversation about business, money and politics always left Philippa bored to tears.

TO BE CONTINUED