An All-Consuming Fire Page 8

  “Drue.”

  Good, that was progress. “Drue, would you please go ask Alfred for some trash bags?”

  Drue looked at Syd for instructions. Syd raised one shoulder in a languid shrug. Drue gave a jerk of a nod and set off on his mission.

  A hollow-eyed girl in a jacket too small for her stood next to Felicity. “I’m Tanya, Drue’s sister.” Wisps of straw-colored hair hung below her knit cap.

  “How nice. I have brothers, too.” Felicity hoped that would at least show a willingness to form a bond. She turned to the dark-haired boy and girl on her right.

  “Habib,” the boy said. “My sister, Aisha.”

  Felicity greeted them, trying to cover her surprise that youngsters with Arabic names would be involved with the St. James Centre. Of course, one of its goals was to promote community integration, but that noble goal often fell far short of its vision. Surely they wouldn’t be here if their family were Muslim extremists, so she needn’t worry about stirring up political tensions by involving them in a Christian celebration.

  Drue returned with the requested trash bags and a box of disposable gloves. “Health and safety,” the youth explained when Felicity asked what the gloves were for. Surely everyone would already be wearing gloves in this frigid weather. But maybe not. Young males seemed to be universally impervious.

  “Right, you hand out the gloves.” She directed before pulling a trash bag from the roll and confronting Syd. “You might want to start by putting your fag ends in there.” Without waiting to see whether or not he obeyed she handed one likewise to Tanya. “You, too. We’re here to make it better, not worse.”

  Hoping she wasn’t pushing her luck too far, but not knowing anything else to do, Felicity led the way around to the back of the stage. She was relieved when the sound of feet trampling in the weeds told her they were following. She halted, though, at the gaping door of the stone structure. The open hollows of door and windows looked like sockets in a skull and she could only imagine what the black interior held. For all her fearlessness Felicity had a horror of spiders. Especially spiders in dark, enclosed spaces. “Er—it’s going to be too dark to accomplish much in there. You lot go on and get started just inside,” she indicated where the winter-white sun penetrated the darkness just beyond the openings. “I’ll see if Alfred has some torches.”

  “Never mind, I’ll go.” Tanya, following at the back of the group, had already spun around.

  Felicity gulped. “Right then. Forward. Be careful, though. There may be nails, rusty tins—who knows what?”

  “Snakes?” Alisha’s voice was small beside her.

  Ah, Felicity would much rather think of snakes than spiders. “Oh, I doubt it. But they’ll be harmless if there are. If you see a snake I’ll catch it for you and you can chase your brother with it. I did that once when I was about your age.” Felicity could feel the group’s respect rising. Now, if she just didn’t blow it by going hysterical over a spider.

  “And everyone be careful not to bang your heads.” The shorter ones of the group would be able to stand upright, but Felicity feared she and Syd would be in danger of grazing the tops of their heads. Just inside the door she dropped to her hands and knees and began thrusting an old newspaper tangled in other trash into her bag.

  Tanya returned with two torches which Felicity suggested Tanya and Syd use with their groups so they could begin working further back under the stage. For a time her little crew worked steadily, each filling their bag with weeds, broken bits of crockery, various decayed boxes and scraps of fabric and bits of junk. Felicity had no idea what some of it was, and figured she was better off not knowing.

  She was just about to congratulate herself on the success of her mission when Syd gave a guffaw. “’Rue, Habib, cum ’ere.” He called them into the back corner. Sniggers and sotto voce comments that Felicity intuited were lewd remarks echoed through the low-ceilinged space.

  Felicity had resisted leaving the relative comfort of the daylit area, but forced herself to plunge into the dark recess to investigate. It was no more than she had suspected. Syd had pulled discarded condoms over his gloved fingers and was doing an energetic shadow play for the amusement of his mates.

  “Shall I help you clean this out, Syd?” Felicity held out her bag. The youths who hadn’t noticed her approaching had the grace to look slightly abashed, although their amusement remained.

  “I can take care ’uvit.” Syd dismissed her offer of help.

  She started to return to the air and light below the window openings when a squabble broke out between the girls working in the other corner.

  “No, it’s not right,” Aisha protested.

  “Shhh,” Tanya gave a sharp warning.

  “I won’t—”

  “What is it? Something I can help with, Tanya?” Felicity peered into the circle of light shed by Tanya’s torch, hoping she could see what was causing the contention.

  Tanya shifted the beam of her light. “No. It’s nothing. We can handle it.” Her deep-set eyes darted around as if desperate to find something to distract Felicity.

  “That’s fine, I’m glad to give a hand.” Felicity dropped to her knees, trying to peer into what seemed to be an old cupboard against the back wall. “Can you shine your light over here, Tanya?”

  The girl reluctantly obeyed. At first Felicity thought it was just another pile of cigarette butts in the corner. Then she realized these white, slightly cone-shaped butts didn’t look like any cigarettes she had ever seen. She picked one up and sniffed, although she wasn’t certain she would recognize marijuana if she smelled it.

  She was spared showing her ignorance. “Yeah, they’re joints. But the silly git who smoked them left some good weed. No sense in wasting it.” Tanya thrust her trash bag behind her.

  “You’re probably right, Tanya. They shouldn’t go into the trash.” Felicity sat back on her heels. “Does anyone have a sandwich bag?” Sergeant Silsden might find this interesting. She couldn’t help noting that the joint butts seemed much fresher than most of the decayed rubbish littering the Quarry Theatre.

  The fact that they were clearing the space for a public event should be enough to discourage a recurrence of any illegal activity here, but she certainly wouldn’t want to be bringing the St. James youth into contact with area druggies. Unless some of them were the druggies, of course.

  Chapter 8

  “Comfort ye, Comfort ye, my people, sayeth your God! Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem…” Nick’s fine tenor voice carried to the curving ceiling of the Community Church, filling Felicity with anticipation for the coming season.

  When the echoes of the organ faded Corin stood for the brief second reading. As his clear voice proclaimed Jeremiah’s prophecy of the coming King Felicity marveled at how right this sometimes clumsy, contradictory young man seemed in the sacred service.

  The service moved on to the next hymn, “The Lord Will Come and Not Be Slow.” Antony was the reader for the third lesson, this from the prophet Isaiah. Felicity wondered if she would ever get over the prickles of pride she felt whenever she watched Antony performing his duties at the altar. She hoped she wouldn’t; it was such a lovely warm feeling.

  At the end of the reading the congregation stood again to sing the Advent carol “Hail to the Lord’s Anointed” and the familiar service moved on through its set pattern of nine readings foretelling the birth of the Christ that was to come, each followed by a hymn or anthem. This was not the more familiar Festival of Christmas Lessons and Carols made famous by King’s College, Cambridge, but a strictly Advent service that took worshippers through the Old Testament prophets up to the Annunciation by the Angel Gabriel to Mary. Accounts of the Babe in the manger and singing of familiar Christmas carols would await midnight on Christmas Eve, then continue for the full twelve days of Christmas.

  Father Anselm led the community and their guests in the Advent Responsory following the ninth lesson and hymn. “My soul waits for the Lord; in his Word is my hope.”
When Felicity repeated the words with the congregation she became aware of a particularly resonant male voice behind her, but checked her impulse to turn around.

  “Almighty God let not our souls be busy inns that have no room for You, but quiet homes of prayer and praise where You may find fit company…” Father Anselm pronounced the final collect and the organ boomed forth the recessional “The King Shall Come When Morning Dawns.” The white-robed crucifer and thurifer led the readers and monks from the choir and Felicity turned to watch their progress down the aisle.

  When she did she saw the man whose sonorous voice had so enriched the responses. She blinked to be certain. No, Corin had been a participant in the service. He was recessing with the monks. Besides, this man was older, more weathered. But the likeness was remarkable. The same blond hair drooping into his eyes, the same large-boned height and prominent nose and cheekbones. On second look, though, this man had none of Corin’s rangy coltishness. This man exuded a self-assurance that had long outstripped any awkwardness he might have possessed.

  “May the Daystar from on High shine upon you and fill your hearts with joy as you await his coming…” Felicity wrenched her thoughts from the visitor to the benediction just in time to join in the final “Amen.”

  “Go forth in peace to greet the coming King!” Anselm pronounced.

  “Thanks be to God.” Again, the voice behind her boomed above the rest of the responses.

  Felicity was still gathering her belongings when Corin approached. “Felicity, I want you to meet my parents. Stanton and Elsa Alnderby, Felicity Howard.” Ah, so Corin was capable of displaying social graces when the situation demanded it.

  Felicity held out her hand as she turned. So she was right that the man with the strong resemblance to Corin was his father. Now she looked at the small woman standing beside him. Elsa Alnderby seemed half her husband’s size with rather mousy brown hair, but when the women shook hands a warm smile lifted the lines of weariness in her face and Felicity realized that Corin’s intelligent blue eyes were his mother’s gift to her son, whereas the father’s were a much colder steely grey.

  “How lovely that you could be here tonight,” Felicity said. “But I’m surprised, I thought Corin was going home tonight.” She didn’t add that she was also surprised because Corin said his parents had never come to anything at the community, although the sixty-something mile drive across the North Yorkshire moors seemed practically next door to Felicity who still thought of distances in American terms.

  “I’m so pleased, too.” Elsa beamed at her. “I’ve wanted to see all this ever since Corin came here to study, but it’s just so hard to get away from the farm. The beasts always need something.”

  “It’s nice to know they put me ahead of the sheep.” Corin’s grin didn’t quite hide the edge to his voice.

  “Don’t get above yourself. It’s actually me they came for, you know.” Nick gave his friend a sharp nudge with his elbow.

  While Elsa Alnderby was telling Nick how much they had enjoyed his solo and how pleased they were that he could spend Christmas with them Corin explained: “I knew the rust bucket was on her last legs—well, wheels—but thought she’d do. When I went to pull her up to the dorm to pack this afternoon, though…” He shook his head. “Lucky the parents could come collect us.”

  Stanton gave a jerk of a nod. “Best be off now.”

  “Oh, must you go just yet? There’s mince pies and mulled wine in the Common Room.” Felicity beamed her best smile at Corin’s father.

  But her plea found a cold reception. Stanton shook his head. “Hour and a half drive across dark moors.” For all the melody of his voice, Alnderby senior was apparently a man of few words. Their departure was delayed only briefly by Antony’s arrival which made another round of introductions necessary.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr. And Mrs. Alnderby. Corin is one of my most promising students. You must be very proud of him. I think he’ll make a fine priest.”

  Elsa’s warm response covered her husband’s silence.

  Felicity was still thinking about Corin’s parents a few minutes later as she bit into the warm, flaky crust of a mince pie.

  “So they call these mince pies?” Cynthia broke in on her reverie. “Your grandmother always made mince pie, but it was nothing like this. It was a real pie,” she indicated the nine-inch diameter with her hands. “And she poured this wonderful rum raisin sauce over it.”

  Felicity nodded. She could just remember the grandmother who had died when she was a child. Yes, there had always been mince pie at family gatherings at her aunt’s home, but she hadn’t thought of it for years. “Mince pies are a hallmark English custom, Mother. I think they’re delicious. Why don’t you get a cup of mulled wine to go with it? I’m sure you’ll like that.”

  Cynthia’s place at her side was taken by Antony. “What a surprise to meet Corin’s parents.” He picked up where Felicity’s earlier thoughts had been interrupted.

  “I really liked his mother. But I don’t think his father was very happy to be here. He seemed to enter into the service, but I had the feeling he would rather be back on his farm.”

  Antony nodded. “Poor Corin, it must be hard with his father so determined that his son become a sheep farmer.” Then he added, “And hard for Stanton, too, I suppose. It seems the land has been in their family for well more than a hundred years.”

  “That must be a lot of pressure on Corin, especially since he’s an only child. It probably explains why he’s so moody and rather awkward at times. Too bad he doesn’t have an older brother to take the family land and leave him free for the Church in the old tradition.”

  “You’re right, darling. This wine is absolutely lovely!” Cynthia rejoined them. “We must serve it at your reception.” She took another sip then rushed on. “And while we’re on the subject, I’ve been thinking about the cake. I know you said you wanted a traditional English wedding cake, but, darling, you can’t seriously expect your brothers to travel all this way to be served fruit cake. You know Charlie doesn’t like anything but chocolate. And what will Judy think? You know how beautifully your sister-in-law’s family always entertains.”

  Felicity was delighted to see Father Anselm approaching. “Ah, Father Antony, how is the television series coming?” he asked.

  Antony gave a vague answer, then presented his future mother-in-law to the Superior of the Community. It was hard to tell who was the more charmed by the introduction, Cynthia or the elderly monk, but they were immediately absorbed in one another’s company as Cynthia enthused about her rapture of spending Christmas in a monastery and asked about the history of the community, then hung on every word of his reply.

  Felicity could only shake her head in amusement as she watched. That was her mother in good hands. Now she was free to steer Antony into the corridor for a good night kiss thorough enough to put irritation with her mother, concerns about Corin’s family and worries about the success of the pageant entirely behind her.

  And she awoke the next morning still wrapped in the euphoria of that kiss and the thought that soon she would waken wrapped in Antony’s arms.

  Some time later Felicity picked up her hairbrush, wondering whether or not she should waken her mother for church. She had heard nothing from Cynthia’s room and the community bell would be ringing soon.

  She jumped when her door flew open and a fully dressed Cynthia strode in. “Oh, good, darling. You are awake. I was thinking you must have overslept.” Cynthia took the brush from her daughter’s hand and began brushing the long blond tresses with smooth strokes. “You weren’t thinking of braiding it this morning, were you? It’s so beautiful. Do leave it loose over your shoulders. Like an angel.” Cynthia kissed Felicity’s cheek, then pulled back and looked at her. “What a beautiful bride you’ll make. Just the thought of it takes my breath away. I wonder if Antony has any idea what a lucky man he is?”

  “Almost as lucky as I am, Mother.”

  The bell rang
out across the crisp December air as they made their way up the hill. A pallid sun shone bravely turning the drops of moisture clinging to bare branches into chains of diamonds. On a morning like this Felicity could almost forget her exasperation with her mother. In fact, she renewed her determination to do so. This was the last Sunday of Advent. Only two days before Antony would be going to Blackpool to spend Christmas with his family. She couldn’t let anything spoil this time.

  She took in a deep invigorating breath. Yes, love, joy and peace. That was what the season was all about. And Felicity resolved to exemplify it. She took her mother’s arm and they entered the purple-draped, incense-filled church together.

  At the end of the service Felicity’s warm glow of affability swelled to its fullest as they sang her favorite Advent hymn for the recessional:

  Lo! He comes with clouds descending,…

  Thousand thousand saints attending,

  Swell the triumph of His train:

  Hallelujah! Hallelujah!…

  God appears on earth to reign.

  Felicity didn’t think her good will toward her mother could possibly rise any higher but then Cynthia topped it all by preparing a traditional Sunday dinner for the three of them at the Nab Lane cottage. Felicity gazed in wonder at the perfectly browned roast beef surrounded by Yorkshire puddings and a platter of three vegetables. She blinked, trying to remember when she had last eaten such a meal prepared by her mother. Throughout Felicity’s growing-up years Cynthia was always entombed in her office, working on her latest legal brief, to be summoned forth at the last minute when Felicity’s civil servant father had everything on the table and Felicity and her brothers were already gathered awaiting Cynthia’s arrival.

  “Mother, where on earth did you learn to cook like that?”

  “Well, really, darling. I can read. And how hard is it? You put the beef on a pan and stick it in the oven. I did it when I first got up this morning. Can you believe you can just buy the Yorkshire puddings off the shelf here? And the veg come in bags ready to steam.”