The Dream Weavers by Barbara Erskine (books you have to read txt) 📕

being a parish priest more than he had expected. The promotion to canon in the cathedral had been a temptation he could not resist. He knew there were other equally good candidates for the vacancy and it surprised him how much he wanted the job once his application had gone in. It was the perfect position, with his family background in the world of finance and an aptitude he had firmly turned his back on but which he still possessed. It had not occurred to him that Bea would be uncomfortable with his decision. He discussed it with her, of course, again and again before he had accepted the position, but they agreed they would be happy with whatever God decided and as Mark proceeded through the interviews and discussions that preceded his appointment they hardly spoke about it at all. He had perhaps assumed an enthusiasm in his wife which was not actually there.

The house in the Close with its Georgian façade and secluded walled garden was a huge bonus and they both loved it, but neither of them had quite realised how much of their privacy would be sacrificed, how close to the job it was, how easily they could be watched. Not all the partners of the clergy were involved with the Church. Some kept their distance completely and their decision was respected. Mark had promised her that that was the case. Bea thought it should apply to her as well. It appeared not.

‘I am so sorry to insist on this meeting, Canon, but I felt it was my duty to tell you what is being said.’ Sandra had cornered Mark as he was leaving the cathedral office. The cathedral itself was closing to the public for the night and they made their way slowly back along St John’s Walk and out into the Close. ‘It’s just that people talk and, as you know, gossip can do such damage. In a tightly knit community like ours there is bound to be speculation.’ She sat down on a bench beneath one of the lime trees and patted the seat beside her.

Mark knew Bea would laugh if she could see him. He was conscious of his attentive face and the tightly controlled calm it displayed. She would not be laughing after Sandra’s next words.

‘It’s about Beatrice. People are asking questions. I thought it important you know.’

‘Questions?’

‘Her job. I take it she is actually a teacher?’ Sandra’s smile reminded him of a cat, watching a bird hop closer, oblivious to the hidden threat.

He looked at her with concern, his irritation carefully masked. ‘You know she is. And if she is at home at present, that’s because it’s the school holidays. I’m sorry, Sandra, but I really don’t see what business it is of other people what Bea does. It’s fully understood within the Chapter that the life of the partners of our clergy are their own affair. Who is it who’s asking these questions?’

‘Ah, that’s not for me to say. I respect their confidence.’ She looked smug.

‘Then please respect mine. If people ask you, you now know what to tell them.’

Fury and frustration flashed across her face. She was not nearly so good at dissembling as him. ‘They need to know something more than that.’

‘No, they don’t.’ He gave her a benign smile. ‘And I know I can rely on you to remind them of the discretion we all give one another. It’s what makes the Chapter run smoothly.’ For a moment he found himself envying Heather Fawcett, who, like Sandra, worked with the volunteers, in her case, helping to run the cathedral shop, her status as a clergy widow recognised and above suspicion. He stood up abruptly. ‘And now, I’m afraid, Sandra, I must get on. Please, don’t concern yourself any more about Bea.’

There was nothing she could do but stand up too and return his smile. She watched as he walked away from her across the grass, disappearing behind another of the great lime trees that shaded the Close. There was no point in following him. Besides, it was Bea she was interested in. She hadn’t been able to get the boy’s phrase out of her head. Ghostbuster. And the newspaper clippings had given her all the proof she needed.

Why could the annoying woman not let it go? Mark had agreed to take evensong at a church some miles from Hereford and, climbing into his car, he headed north out of the city, following winding country lanes through tunnels of white blossom. The church he was going to was a favourite of his and he had volunteered to take more than his share of services there while its priest in charge was in hospital. It was a small church, ancient and beautiful, redolent with history. Bea would love it. The thought of Bea reminded him yet again of his encounter with Sandra, and a mile or two before he reached his destination he pulled into a field gateway and reached for his mobile. As usual, Bea’s phone was off. ‘Darling, I thought I should warn you. Sandra is after you in full cry. Wretched woman! I suggest that if you don’t want her to give you the third degree again you lie low and don’t answer the door. I shouldn’t be too late. The service should be over by about eight and I will come straight home after that. Love you.’

He switched off his phone and put it down on the seat beside him, then he sat for several minutes in prayer. He was praying for the priest, an old man, struggling so bravely against cancer, for the man’s congregation, for the village that missed their pastor so much, for the world, so riven with evil on every side. Lowering the window, he closed his eyes as the scent of flowers and grass filled the car. The evening was completely silent, save for the cry of a lamb for its mother and the answering reassuring bleat, and in