Up from the Grave Read online

  “He says that the money could be better spent on people in need, and the church is being irresponsible.”

  “Oh. Well, we do give generously to many charities and missions of course.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Elliott. We all know that. He knows that. But he insists the whole affair diminishes both the church and God’s honor.”

  Berdie knitted her brow and shook her head. “That seems a bit extreme.”

  “Mrs. Elliott, I’m afraid he’s going to do something daft, and it’s creating a great deal of tension in our family.”

  Berdie noticed the moisture building in Cherry’s generous eyes.

  “How daft, exactly?” Berdie asked cautiously.

  “Who can say? I’ve never seen him this angry before.”

  Berdie could see a silent plea in Cherry’s face.

  “I wish someone could help my grandfather see sense.”

  Berdie became instantly aware who ‘someone’ meant to Cherry Lawler. “Would you like my husband to have a word?”

  Cherry wore relief like a lavish Easter bonnet. “Could he? Oh, that would be brilliant…and before the ceremony?”

  “I’ll give Hugh the message straight away. You have my word. I’m sure he’ll be glad to help. He’ll speak with your grandfather as soon as possible. Don’t trouble yourself on the matter anymore.”

  “I’m grateful,” Cherry tittered with relief. “I’ll just go catch Ivy up.” With a decidedly lighter step, the young woman departed.

  Berdie made haste for the church. She wondered why Wilkie Gordon was going on so. He had been the church gardener for several years but had quit the position just a few months before Berdie and Hugh arrived. It seemed, Berdie reasoned, he should be one who would delight in a water feature for the church garden. But she didn’t have time to think about it now. She not only had to greet the Golden Season Tour guests who were to arrive soon and help service the tea for them; but she was also the greeter for the ceremony proceedings. Now she needed to have a quiet moment with her husband before the sod turning.

  “And I’m already late,” she announced to the warm sun.

  ****

  “Watch your step.” Hugh Elliott assisted an elderly woman from Golden Season Tours down the large coach steps. “Welcome to Saint Aidan of the Woods Church.”

  Berdie eyed her tall husband. Even after twenty-seven years of marriage, he held a magnetism that pulled Berdie like an arrow to due north. His military bearing, a leftover from his former career, enhanced his clerical collar and couldn’t hide his kind, keen interest in people. And then of course there was his rugged build, silvery hair, and striking blue eyes.

  “Hugh, may I have a word?” Berdie asked.

  “Of course, love. Can you first attend to our guest?” Hugh smiled, and Berdie recognized his lifted left eyebrow as his gentle reprimand for being late.

  When the woman he was assisting reached the ground of the church garden, Berdie took the old dear by the elbow.

  In a whisk of impatience, a man alighted from the coach and pushed through, nearly knocking the frail pensioner over. Berdie felt the woman’s weight against her but caught the visitor in a firm grasp that held the woman steady as the fellow passenger moved across the garden towards the terrace near the woods.

  “What a boor!” A woman wearing a broad orange hat voiced her annoyance.

  “Sir!” Hugh’s voice commanded respect that all could clearly hear.

  The man stopped short and turned. “Pardon.” He offered little penitence towards the woman Berdie had by the hand. Then, once again, he continued moving towards the back garden.

  “Sir.” Hugh made it sound more a command than a title. “Please attend to your meeting inside the church if you will. The tea on the terrace is still in the ready.”

  The man stopped and angled his body towards Hugh. With a sullen nod, he retrieved his steps and entered the front door of the church.

  “I say”—fired the orange hat female—“so rude and all!”

  Berdie made sure her little guest was steady. “Are you quite all right?”

  The white head made an uneasy nod.

  “I’m Mrs. Elliott, Reverend Elliott’s wife.”

  “Here now, I’ll see to her.” Miss Orange Hat took the woman’s arm. “Come along now dear.” The vocal woman looked at Berdie. “Are we going to hear a sermon?” she asked baldly.

  “Oh, no.” Berdie grinned. “Mathew Reese, your tour organizer, will inform you about the particulars of your stay here, quick as you like. Then it’s tea.”

  “Oh, tea!” A large smile spread across both visitors’ faces as they made for the door.

  Berdie excused herself and turned just in time to observe the huge coach pull away, wheezing black diesel smoke like a cottage chimney. It took to the road like a giant on its way down an elfin lane.

  She glanced back toward the church, but Hugh was not in sight. “Oh, dear.” She thought to go find him but then spotted Ivy scooting across the garden with a tray of yellow dafs in little posies. Just the thing to add a touch of spring to the tables being laid for tea.

  “Have you by chance seen my husband?” Berdie called out to the busy woman.

  “Sorry, no. Did all go well with Cherry?”

  “It did,” Berdie assured. “And all will be set when I find Hugh.” She watched Ivy try to manage the tray while placing the posies. “Do you need some help?”

  “Oh, yes, please.”

  Just a twinkle of time, and all was in the ready. Berdie noticed guests beginning to trickle from the church door towards the tables.

  The slate terrace was just large enough to seat the crowd at tables for eight and still have a bit of leeway for the servers. The goods in place, the tea commenced.

  Berdie was grateful for the ideal weather. Mostly blue sky, the sun felt warm. She wondered if its brightness on her hair betrayed the enhanced red highlights resulting from the recent trips to Michael’s Coiffure in Timsley, the bustling market town not thirty minutes away.

  “Lovely today.” Berdie poured hot liquid from a bright yellow teapot into awaiting cups that held splashes of milk. She found herself at the table where the little woman she assisted sat with Miss Orange Hat and several others.

  “’Tis lovely,” spoke Orange Hat. “But I rather hope that one, Mister Rude-and-Unfriendly, has curdled milk for his tea.”

  Berdie followed the woman’s gaze to a table where the impatient gentleman sat with the youthful Mathew Reese. The middle-aged man appeared rather non-descript—regular features, salt and pepper hair combed flat, medium build, moderate clothing.

  “Even though it’s Lent, all our milk is fresh,” Berdie offered with levity.

  Orange Hat bypassed the well-intended humor. She brought the dainty teacup to her lips and took a rather voluble slurp.

  With a courteous nod, and smothered giggle, Berdie moved to the next table where she glanced round searching for Hugh, but he wasn’t to be found.

  In the midst of pouring tea, Mathew approached her.

  “Mrs. Elliott, may I speak to you a moment?”

  The tall and remarkably handsome golden haired university student cum tour director had grown up a parishioner of St. Aidan’s. Though currently attending university some distance away, he returned often. And now his special course project, organizing and leading a Senior Lenten tour, brought him back to his home parish. The tour, almost a pilgrimage really, visited several of the larger cathedrals. The few days in Aidan Kirkwood were to be a quiet respite in the midst of the travel. Mathew took Berdie aside.

  “The business end of things I do brilliantly, but I’m desperately poor at making artful conversation. Do you think you could give it a go, artful conversation, I mean?” He made a quick nod towards the now solitary man with whom he had been seated.

  “I’ll do my best Mathew.” Berdie was none too confident the guest would be keen on speaking with her.

  In a moment, she was offering to top off the gentleman’s tea. Berdie
lifted the yellow pot and smiled. But the stranger waved her off. Not deterred, she set the pot on the table and proceeded. “I do hope you’ll enjoy the next event. It’s our sod turning for a new water feature in our church garden.”

  The gentleman blinked and at last directed his gaze towards her.

  “I’m the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Elliott. Welcome to Saint Aidan of the Wood.”

  “Groundbreaking, you say?” The man was suddenly alive and not especially gracious.

  “Yes.” Berdie pointed towards the edge of the wood on the far end of the church garden. “Just there where the wild geranium grows.”

  The man’s brow made a deep furrow. “By the Lenten roses?” His voice became animated. “You’re digging a church garden pond by, what I presume to be, a protected wood?”

  “Just at the edge, and it is church property.” Berdie suddenly found herself on the defensive.

  The man thrust his hand towards the trees. “What real benefit is a garden pond? Leave the flora and fauna as intended.” His voice grew fiery and none too calm. “That wood is the heritage of our great isle. We’ve all but destroyed most our forests. You’d give that up for a church pond?”

  Eyes across the terrace settled upon Berdie and the loner who had become molten lava. She sat and pulled her chair close to the fellow.

  “It’s all quite legal. We have appropriate approval.” She spoke in hushed tones. “The wood will hardly be touched. It will not be exploited; there is an eco-preservation scheme in place. Our parish council has crossed all their T’s.”

  Berdie wondered how the man would carry on if he knew Grayson Webb’s primary interest for creating the pond: to build church attendance. She rested her hand on the man’s arm. “You can be assured it will be well looked after.”

  The gentleman stiffened, and his eyes expanded. As he did so, Berdie sensed that she had seen him somewhere before. He glanced at her hand on his arm and cleared his throat. Berdie quickly removed the comforting gesture.

  “If you pardon me, sir, have we met before?” She couldn’t help but ask.

  “Most certainly not.” The disgruntled male, face turning pink as a spring sunrise, arose.

  Berdie watched him walk swiftly towards the front garden and hoped he didn’t rally the Green Army to Saint Aidan’s little church garden. Realizing that silence had draped itself over the gaping onlookers, she stood confidently with great grace, smiled, and moved on to the next table. It was a signal that the crowd could return to their fairy cakes and conversation.

  Ivy approached. “I say, what was that all about?”

  “You know, I’m not quite sure, Ivy. But I have a sense that today’s sod turning could be a bit lively.”

  “But it’s only a wee little water feature,” Ivy replied.

  Berdie pursed her lips. “And Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte was only a wee little man.”

  2

  In what seemed to Berdie a skip of time on the heels of the tea, the physical arrangements for the groundbreaking ceremony were in place. And very timely at that. Villagers were arriving. Spectators’ chairs were positioned across the back garden. A single row of seats faced the audience. They were for Hugh and the parish counsel and included a chair, decorated with white and gold ribbons, next to where Mr. Webb was to sit. There it was, Berdie perceived, the spot reserved for the mystery guest who engendered rumors, betting pools, and questioning of values.

  The beautiful wood was an enchanting backdrop to the whole arrangement. A large spray of flowers near the line of chairs added a sense of decorum and also signaled the spot where the women’s chorus would stand to perform.

  In the tranquil yet festive setting, Berdie greeted parishioners who found their way to seats.

  Ivy, having finished tidying up the tea, was joined by her husband, Edsel, and all six children.

  Ivy cradled the newest member of the Butz family, seven-month-old Dotty Elizabeth, in her arms. “The tea went splendidly, didn’t it Mrs. Elliott? I mean apart from that odd ‘tree’ fellow.” Ivy glowed.

  “Splendidly.” Berdie smiled at the two oldest Butz girls. “Hello Lila, Lucy,”

  Lila looked just like her mother, but for very large eye glasses. She nodded her fifteen-year-old head shyly.

  Lucy, the first-born, was in her sixth form with an eye on technical college. The sixteen-year-old sported enough lip gloss to fill Boots Pharmacy. “I hope this isn’t too long. I have a study date after.”

  “Only the time needed to dignify the event,” Berdie assured.

  Preteen twins Martha and Milton filed past Berdie in their usual nonchalant manner.

  “Where’s little Duncan?” Berdie quizzed. The two usually had their four-year-old brother in tow.

  Milton threw his thumb towards Mr. and Mrs. Raheem. Sharday, her sari flowing, and Hardeep both clutched Duncan by his pudgy hands.

  “We’re keeping the eye on him as family friends do,” Mr. Raheem informed.

  “Have you shut up shop, then?” Berdie asked the green grocer.

  “Oh, yes, we don’t want to miss this surprise.” Mr. Raheem nodded towards the mystery chair.

  Berdie smiled. “I dare say that’s the reason most everyone’s here.”

  “My money’s on Mrs. Flora Preswood”—Edsel whispered Berdie’s way—“in a manner of speaking.”

  “Ah. That manner of speaking wouldn’t have to do with Dudley Horn at the Upland Arms, would it?”

  Edsel laid his finger aside his nose.

  Berdie was fond of this man with his big barrel chest and easy laugh. He and his toolbox had intervened in a time of danger for Berdie, and she would be eternally grateful.

  “Oh, no sooner said.” Edsel grinned and discreetly pointed his shoulder in the direction of the arriving Preswoods.

  Berdie spied Colonel Randal Preswood, his thin body stick straight and shoulders back. He appeared quite uninterested coming alongside his wife, Flora, who chaired the county Family Heritage Circle. Classically dressed as befitted those of rank, they were the current Preswoods that resided at Bampkingswith Hall, or Swithy Hall as known by locals. The handsome estate had been held by Colonel Preswood’s family for just over two hundred years. He was still considered the village squire by some.

  “I see they have a nose for curiosity as well,” Berdie confided to Edsel.

  This was a rare appearance for the Preswoods who really had no true regard for the church but felt a sense of obligation to keep astride village dealings.

  “Good afternoon, Colonel, Mrs. Preswood.” Berdie nodded.

  The colonel simply grunted, but the well dressed and nicely coiffed Mrs. Preswood spoke, her distinctive chin moving rhythmically. “Rosalie’s singing in the women’s chorus today you know.”

  Their niece, Rosalie, was more a daughter than a niece, really. Berdie had a certain respect for this couple simply because they were surrogate parents for both Rosalie and her twin, Roberta, or Robin, as most called her. The girls had come to the Preswood household at an early age.

  “Robin, dear.” Mrs. Preswood sat and patted the chair next to her.

  Roberta Darbyshire scooted past Berdie just bumping her shoulder. The twenty-five-year old bestowed a quick glance with her aqua eyes and gave her short dark hair a quick toss.

  “Excuse me,” she offered in a rushed manner and went to the chair next to her aunt.

  Berdie politely tipped her head. Robin, in the past three years, had spent most of her time near London. And it would appear that London was now spending time in her.

  Mrs. Preswood, dressed in linen, laid her hands in her lap, and directed her words towards Berdie. “Robin inherited my father’s keen business acumen. Now Colonel Preswood is grooming her to become managing director of Preswood Enterprises.” She smiled, then the expression went a bit limp. “Rosalie, it seems on the other hand, took after her mother in that she is gifted with vocal abilities. My sister, Rose, had a brief professional musical career.”

  Singing in the follies at Blackpo
ol is what Berdie recalled being said somewhere. “Rosalie has a fine voice. We enjoy her being a part of the choir,” Berdie confirmed. “I’m so glad you came to hear her perform.”

  “Mrs. Elliott, hello,” Jamie Donovan called. His handsome face, rimmed with black locks, beamed as he approached the row behind the Preswoods. In his muscular arms, the young man held his first born, ten-month-old Katy, christened Kathleen Grace after her two dearly departed grandmothers. She had her father’s dark hair and her mother’s grey eyes, all shown off nicely by a dainty pink dress.

  “Good afternoon,” Berdie greeted. “And hello little precious one.” Berdie made a cooing noise that made the baby giggle.

  “Happy as she goes.” Jamie shook his head.

  “Quite fussy actually,” corrected Cara Graystone Donovan, the beautiful wife and mother whose arm slipped around her husband’s elbow.

  The long blonde hair that usually cascaded down her back was caught back in a twist. The shapely shoulders that once held a beauty contest banner now carried a strap attached to a bag of baby goods. “Of course when her father’s about, she’s an angel.”

  “Isn’t that the way?” Berdie laughed. “It was the same with my Clare.”

  “And my father is spoiling Katy pitifully,” Cara said under her breath.

  Preston Graystone stepped close to his daughter. His angular features and salt and pepper hair fit his surname quite well. Berdie had to grin at the sophisticated village solicitor who handled all the residents’ legal matters, as he now carried a small Paddington Bear and a pink sunbonnet. He gave Berdie a polite nod.

  “Hello Randal, Flora,” he spoke to the couple in the row forward. He gave a deliberate nod to Mrs. Preswood who responded with what seemed only a furtive glance.

  How odd that she didn’t respond to him.

  Mr. Graystone took a deep breath then proceeded to the chair next to his daughter. He gripped the baby wares like a holiday hare unwilling to give up its carrots.