Hiding From the Light by Barbara Erskine Page B

scanned her daughter’s face.
    Emma shook her head. ‘I made the offer because I was in a complete panic in case I lost it. It’s pretty, but not especially so. I’ve seen prettier. It’s not in particularly good condition. The garden is too big for a holiday cottage and Piers hates the idea. I should tear this up –’ she waved the papers in front of Peggy’s face – ‘and forget all about it. Even the estate agent thought I was mad.’
    ‘But?’ Peggy’s eyes were fixed on her face.
    ‘But! I couldn’t be rational about it. From the first moment I saw the ad in Country Life , I knew I was going to live there.’ She opened the fridge door and brought out a plate covered in foil. ‘Mummy, this is weird. I know it more than anyone.’
    Peggy frowned thoughtfully. ‘You’re prepared to risk your relationship with Piers over this house?’
    Her daughter nodded. She was near to tears.
    ‘Take a day off next week. I’ll come with you. Dan too, if you’ll let him. And we’ll go and see it again.’
    ‘Tomorrow?’ Emma looked up thoughtfully. ‘I’ll call in sick. I am sick!’ She looked round wildly, found a roll of kitchen paper sitting on the draining board, and tearing off a sheet she blew her nose. ‘Can you get someone to look after the shop?’
    Peggy nodded. ‘I’ll ring Edward. He’s always willing to do a day there for me.’ Edward was her next-door neighbour, a retired colonel whose heart had been soundly broken when Dan had arrived on the scene.
    ‘Don’t tell Piers,’ Emma pleaded suddenly.
    ‘No. I won’t.’ Peggy sighed. ‘But I think you should, Emma. What you and Piers have here is too good to lose, sweetheart. It really is.’

11
     
Sunday morning
     
     
    Mike had walked over to the church early. After the early fog it was a glorious day and he could smell new-mown grass from the churchyard where Bill Standing, in his job as groundsman, had been trimming round some of the old graves. A retired professional gardener, Bill liked nothing more than to mow the grass and trim the hedges, training the cascades of rambling roses which grew over the lych gate and across the wall into a glorious patchwork of pink and red. He denied, however, having had anything to do with the mowing in the rectory garden, and had, to Mike’s certain knowledge, never set foot inside the church itself. To Mike, this last information had been an amazing piece of news. He didn’t understand it at all, especially as the old man seemed so fond of the place. Mike stopped at the gate and raised his hand in greeting. One day he would love to talk at length to the old boy, who, he suspected, was a fount of local knowledge and wisdom, and ask him why he wouldn’t go into the church, but so far his attempts to engage Bill in conversation had met with little success.
    Bill had been staring down towards the estuary, a worried frown on his face. Mike followed his gaze. There was nothing to see but the bright strip of water and a few wheeling gulls. As Mike watched he shook his head thoughtfully and turned away. The expression on his face was grim. Mike paused and called his name. Bill glanced up, nodded, and turning the mower trundled it off in the opposite direction. Mike shrugged and paused to glance round the churchyard instead. The weathered headstones were mostly illegible now. The salt-laden east winds off the estuary had long ago beaten the inscriptions into indecipherable lichen-crusted anonymity, but there was a quiet warmth in the shelter of an August morning which made it seem a good place to lie in peace.
    He opened the gate and walked up the path. The church was already unlocked, one of the churchwardens there before him, making ready for the service. Donald James, who had retired three years before from his position as manager of one of the oldest banks in Colchester, was carrying prayer books through from the vestry and laying them out on the shelf by the door. ‘Morning, Rector.’ Donald smiled