I stumbled the mile and a half walk to St Martin's church in a sick fog of exhaustion. I'd managed to tease my medusa-hair into a long, dark plait and put on my one skirt, mostly to keep Dad off my back. In his opinion jeans and church didn't belong in the same time-space continuum. I was in a foul mood and not at all certain there wasn't going to be an unfortunate incident involving gossipy old ladies and the font. Sleeping in the vicarage had become a health hazard. A mental health hazard, anyway.
By the time I reached the weathered-grey, iron-studded door of the church, it was past 8.00am and I still didn't feel awake. There were voices coming from inside St Martin's. The feted ladies of the congregation were already here, then. Was it possible to be a vicar's pet? I grumbled to myself and pushed the heavy door all the way open.
"Ah, here she is!" A large, billowy woman was bearing down on me like a ship in full sail. I stiffened, bewildered and horrified, as I was enfolded in a fleshy embrace. The woman was dressed entirely in salmon pink calling up the mental image an over-enthusiastic ham. Her hand clamped on my arm and dragged me after her up the aisle. Maybe more of a lobster than a ham. Lobster-woman pulled me to a halt before two other ladies. One was paper thin and faded. She smelled unmistakably of mothballs.
The other woman was shorter with a large bosom resting on a larger stomach. Her ankles overflowed her orthopaedic shoes. She smiled, showing off gappy, yellowed teeth.
"This is Miss Greers." The lobster-woman still had a grip on my arm. She flapped a hand toward the thin, faded woman, whose lips lifted in what might have been meant as a smile. "Mrs. Edwards." The lobster's hand was flapped at the shorter woman this time. "And I'm Mrs Holden."
I decided that I hated all of them. And this stupid church.
A breathy laugh from one of the pews made my head snap up.
"Oh, and not forgetting Mrs Cranford, who came all the way down here to see if there was anything she could do." Mrs Holden's tone suggested that the best thing Mrs. Cranford could do was bugger off. I peered into the dimly lit pews. A little old woman with wispy white hair and fragile looking bones was eyeing me back. Her dark eyes were bright and snapping with intelligence.
"Doesn't that young lady have a name too, Cynthia? I'm sure you were getting to it of course." Mrs Cranford's wispy voice was full of wry pleasure.
Mrs Holden's pleasant expression tightened. "Of course. This is Emily Lynette, ladies. Our new vicar's daughter." They all mumbled pleasantries except for Mrs. Cranford who just continued to watch me keenly.
It was as mind-numbingly dull and confidence-shatteringly awful as I had expected. Being the youngest person in the room by at least forty years, I was sent running for water or up ladders or to carry anything heavy. The boring task of matching and arranging flowers definitely wasn't helped by the women’s attitudes to me. Mrs Holden talked to me as though I was four. After half an hour I wanted to ram a carnation down her throat and see if she could still use that sickly-sweet voice.
Miss Greers went into absurd levels of detail over how to layer the flowers, finishing every sentence to me with 'dear'. "Do be careful, dear". "Place it here, dear", "no not like that, dear." Mrs Holden may as well have not bothered telling them my name. None of them used it.
Mrs. Edwards was the worst. She huffed her immense girth around, face purple with effort. She had no concept of personal space. Every time she exhaled I was bathed in a warm spray of halitosis. Mixed with the camphor smell of moth balls and the lavender water they had all splashed on with reckless abandon, on top of two sleepless nights, and my head rang like hammered iron. I was going to make village history by being the vicar's daughter who spewed in the church.
What I hated most were their transparent attempts to get me to talk. Fire-engine-red with humiliation, I clenched shaking hands into fists while Mrs Edwards wheezed on about "not being embarrassed about your speech, dear."
"We're all in God's house now. Practice speaking with us. I'm sure he will take pity on you," chirped wafer-thin Miss Greers.
I wondered if I could drown them all in the font before one of them got away and raised the alarm.
I punished them in the only way I was able. Complete and absolute silence. I felt them exchanging glances behind my back. There might be trouble with Dad if this got back to him. Right now, I didn't care. He’d dumped me in this mess without considering my feelings at all.
From her roost in the pews, Mrs. Cranford occasionally offered her opinion on one of the other ladies' arrangements. I soon noticed that her remarks were designed to annoy and distract, instead of help. Her eyes glinted with mischief. After fleshy Mrs. Holden lugged a great urn of carnations and greenery up to the altar and then pink-faced as her suit, and huffing with effort, brought it back again because "no it really didn't look right there, after all," I decided I liked Mrs. Cranford. She caught my eye and gave me a slow wink.
Centuries later, the flowers were done. I thought I might wander outside for half an hour, and calm down before Dad showed up to give his first service, when Mrs Holden said, "And now, dear, you can set out the tea things for the group meeting afterwards."
I considered screaming.
"Cynthia, I think you were right. I've over done it." Mrs. Cranford's voice was impish. "I think I shall go home."
"Oh. Oh dear. But you'll miss Reverend Matthews' first sermon." Mrs. Holden was distressed. Unreasonably so, I thought.
"Well, Cynthia dear, I'm sure you can tell me all about it. Emily would you mind helping me up?"
That was the closest anyone had come to using my name all morning. I would have given her a lot more than a hand. I held out my arm and she grasped it with unexpected strength.
She didn't need my help at all. I narrowed my eyes.
"Emily will just walk me back as far as my house. Then she can run back in time for the service." Mrs. Cranford said this as though there was no question of her being obeyed.
"Oh. Do hurry, dear," Miss Greers called to me. "You don't want to be late, dear." They were all seriously taken with Dad as the new vicar. No wonder they wanted to get me talking. I wondered which of them came up with the fantasy of presenting me to my dad, stammer cured. The miracle of the talking daughter.
"I daresay your father will find a way to deal with the fan club," Mrs. Cranford said as we went outside. I started. "Don't look so surprised, Emily, I came to the church to meet you."
I didn't know how to reply to that. I stared at her in confusion. She nodded once as if deciding something. "Look here." She led me across the small churchyard outside St Martin's, into a part that had graves much older than the rest. "There, Emily." She pointed to a great, archway shaped tombstone. I couldn't read the engraving, of course. But for some reason I picked out the date.
1789.
Bile rose in my throat. My ears buzzed with white noise and I gasped for breath without knowing why.
Except I did. It was her. It was her grave. Kate.
"Yes. Kate. Exactly." Mrs. Cranford nodded. I glanced at her. Had I said that out loud? "I think, Emily, that you and I should have a talk. You've been chosen to play the witness."
"Wuh wuh witness?" I still couldn't breathe properly. What was Mrs. Cranford saying?
"We'll go to my house," she said in the same tone that defied disobedience.
Not that I wanted to disobey. I was too confused to protest. I made a pretence of helping her but she didn't need me. I was the one with wobbly legs. Her stick was just a prop. We stopped half-way down the village main street in front of a small cottage with a slate roof. She opened the garden gate and ushered me through.
"Yes, it's you alright." Mrs. Cranford pulled out a huge key for the front door. "And you're not the first Emily to stay in that vicarage." She fixed me with a dark, beady gaze. "It may give you more power than those unfortunates who came before you."