thought. With Davinia Harris around, everybody knew your business.
‘I am heartened to hear that you’re already a successful recipient of our host’s skills,’ said Father Goss leaning towards John with a diluted smile. ‘I have yet to experience the fruits of her efforts first hand.’
‘I didn’t think we’d met before,’ said Davinia, ‘and I attend most of Aida’s demonstrations.’
‘Oh, I’m not completely new to all this,’ the cleric admitted, ‘in fact it’s something of a specialist subject, though no doubt my parishioners would be alarmed at the thought! But then what is the job of a priest if it’s not to pierce the veil between life and death?’
What indeed? John thought, not the most religious of men.
‘So refreshing to find an open-minded vicar,’ said Davinia.
‘Well, we papal-minded ecclesiastics tend to be more open to the wider possibilities of the universe,’ Father Goss said, ‘I’m of the old church, the original you might say!’
Davinia was clearly confused by this. ‘Oh … what church is that then?’
‘He’s saying he’s Catholic,’ Probert explained, evidently becoming more impatient by the moment.
‘Oh,’ Davinia replied as if someone had just said something unmentionable. ‘Them.’
The doorbell rang one last time and Aida Golding was clearly glad of the distraction. ‘And that makes a full complement,’ she said. ‘We can shortly begin. Let me just refresh the pot.’
She reached for the teapot but Probert grasped her hand . ‘To hell with tea, can we not just get on with this!’
The look she gave the peer then was John’s first glimpse of the real Aida Golding beneath the cosy knitted surface. ‘You forget yourself,’ she said. ‘You are a guest in my home, not I in yours.’
Probert matched her look for a long moment. Clearly, he was not a man used to backing down, but eventually he released her hand and smiled. ‘You’re quite right, of course,’ he said. ‘Forgive me my enthusiasm.’
‘Of course, dear.’
Aida walked out of the room and Probert settled back into his seat. John noticed how viciously his manicured nails dug into the wood of the chair’s arm. A dangerous man, he decided. Like all people who are accustomed to getting whatever they want from life he didn’t take the word ‘no’ well. He tried to remember what he knew of the man, recalling heated tabloid headlines and building a picture of the man’s public persona. There had been affairs, he remembered, but worse than that … a scandal he couldn’t put his finger on. He could picture the man’s snarling face, elbowing a photographer aside. Crowds on courtroom steps, placards thrust skywards as protesters roared their disapproval. All the window-dressing but none of the details.
The door opened and Sandy walked in. She was the very image of functionalism, her wet hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a baggy, black jumper, the sleeves of which she tugged long so that only her fingers poked out of the end.
‘Hello,’ she said, and sat down in one of the empty chairs.
‘Good evening, my dear,’ said Father Goss. ‘Are you a regular at these events? We were just talking about who had had messages before and who hadn’t.’
‘Oh, she’s always talking to her little kiddie, aren’t you, dear?’ said Davinia, offering the young woman a distinctly false smile.
‘Not as much as if he were still alive,’ Sandy snapped back.
‘Well, quite,’ said Father Goss, attempting to be the peacekeeper around the table.
‘I’m sure I didn’t mean to cause offence,’ said Davinia.
‘Of course not,’ agreed Father Goss before gamely trying to change the subject. ‘We’re having more tea in a minute.’
‘Wonderful,’ Probert sighed sarcastically.
The door opened and Aida Golding walked in, the refreshed pot in her hand. ‘All here!’ she announced with enthusiasm. ‘How exciting. Help yourself to milk and sugar. We’ll tuck into the
‘I am heartened to hear that you’re already a successful recipient of our host’s skills,’ said Father Goss leaning towards John with a diluted smile. ‘I have yet to experience the fruits of her efforts first hand.’
‘I didn’t think we’d met before,’ said Davinia, ‘and I attend most of Aida’s demonstrations.’
‘Oh, I’m not completely new to all this,’ the cleric admitted, ‘in fact it’s something of a specialist subject, though no doubt my parishioners would be alarmed at the thought! But then what is the job of a priest if it’s not to pierce the veil between life and death?’
What indeed? John thought, not the most religious of men.
‘So refreshing to find an open-minded vicar,’ said Davinia.
‘Well, we papal-minded ecclesiastics tend to be more open to the wider possibilities of the universe,’ Father Goss said, ‘I’m of the old church, the original you might say!’
Davinia was clearly confused by this. ‘Oh … what church is that then?’
‘He’s saying he’s Catholic,’ Probert explained, evidently becoming more impatient by the moment.
‘Oh,’ Davinia replied as if someone had just said something unmentionable. ‘Them.’
The doorbell rang one last time and Aida Golding was clearly glad of the distraction. ‘And that makes a full complement,’ she said. ‘We can shortly begin. Let me just refresh the pot.’
She reached for the teapot but Probert grasped her hand . ‘To hell with tea, can we not just get on with this!’
The look she gave the peer then was John’s first glimpse of the real Aida Golding beneath the cosy knitted surface. ‘You forget yourself,’ she said. ‘You are a guest in my home, not I in yours.’
Probert matched her look for a long moment. Clearly, he was not a man used to backing down, but eventually he released her hand and smiled. ‘You’re quite right, of course,’ he said. ‘Forgive me my enthusiasm.’
‘Of course, dear.’
Aida walked out of the room and Probert settled back into his seat. John noticed how viciously his manicured nails dug into the wood of the chair’s arm. A dangerous man, he decided. Like all people who are accustomed to getting whatever they want from life he didn’t take the word ‘no’ well. He tried to remember what he knew of the man, recalling heated tabloid headlines and building a picture of the man’s public persona. There had been affairs, he remembered, but worse than that … a scandal he couldn’t put his finger on. He could picture the man’s snarling face, elbowing a photographer aside. Crowds on courtroom steps, placards thrust skywards as protesters roared their disapproval. All the window-dressing but none of the details.
The door opened and Sandy walked in. She was the very image of functionalism, her wet hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a baggy, black jumper, the sleeves of which she tugged long so that only her fingers poked out of the end.
‘Hello,’ she said, and sat down in one of the empty chairs.
‘Good evening, my dear,’ said Father Goss. ‘Are you a regular at these events? We were just talking about who had had messages before and who hadn’t.’
‘Oh, she’s always talking to her little kiddie, aren’t you, dear?’ said Davinia, offering the young woman a distinctly false smile.
‘Not as much as if he were still alive,’ Sandy snapped back.
‘Well, quite,’ said Father Goss, attempting to be the peacekeeper around the table.
‘I’m sure I didn’t mean to cause offence,’ said Davinia.
‘Of course not,’ agreed Father Goss before gamely trying to change the subject. ‘We’re having more tea in a minute.’
‘Wonderful,’ Probert sighed sarcastically.
The door opened and Aida Golding walked in, the refreshed pot in her hand. ‘All here!’ she announced with enthusiasm. ‘How exciting. Help yourself to milk and sugar. We’ll tuck into the
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