tried to keep the fight out of his voice and to remember the good times: her reading to him when he was very small, putting on silly voices to make him laugh, her cheering him on at sports day, telling him how well he’d done even when he came next to last. Telling him, and everyone else who would listen, that he’d grow up to be a great preacher.
‘Susan Shapland’s here,’ she said. ‘She’s out of her mind with worry.’ It sounded like an apology of sorts.
They were standing in the hall. There was the same woodchip wallpaper. His father had put on a fresh coat of paint every two years. It still looked clean and bright so perhaps he’d done it just before he became ill. His mother continued speaking in a whisper. ‘She came here because she didn’t know what else to do. She thought you’d be able to help.’
Susan Shapland was a widow, his mother’s closest friend. She would have been by her side at the funeral, taking Matthew’s place. He didn’t know what to say.
‘Come on through,’ his mother said. ‘She’ll explain herself.’
He stepped into the front room and back in time. This wasn’t a Proust madeleine moment. Memory here was triggered by a series of objects, not taste or smell. There was the paperweight with a dandelion seed head trapped in the glass, the wooden solitaire set on the coffee table, the beads smooth and in their place, his parents’ wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, next to the picture of him in his uniform, his first day at the Park School, a mug he’d made in pottery class when he was eleven. Susan was sitting in the easy chair next to the gas fire, where his father had always sat, and Matthew felt a moment of affront. But the woman had been crying and the feeling passed quickly.
‘It’s Susan’s Christine,’ his mother said. ‘She’s missing.’
Only then did Matthew remember that Susan had a daughter, about the same age as himself. They’d played together occasionally when Brethren meetings dragged on, the members lingering to discuss esoteric points of dogma and practice. Should hats be worn or not worn at meetings? What was really meant by the virgin birth? As he recalled, both questions had been considered equally seriously.
Christine had been a quiet little thing, dark-haired, browneyed, with an awkward gait and slow speech. As he’d matured, started to grow up, she never had. She’d always looked different. When she was thirteen she still brought a doll with her to meetings, still sucked her thumb. His mother had explained that she’d never grow up, because she had Down’s syndrome and had been born that way. A cross that Susan and Cecil had to bear, but a blessing too, because she’d always be innocent. As Matthew remembered, Christine had never left home.
He took the seat next to Susan’s. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’
‘I didn’t want Christine to be at your father’s funeral. She gets bored and I was worried she’d start wandering around, upsetting people, getting in the way. My sister lives in Lovacott and she said she’d have her to stay. You remember Grace? My sister? She’s not the most sociable of people and she didn’t mind staying at home. She said Dennis would be there to represent them both.’
Matthew nodded. Of course he remembered Grace, but more because she was Dennis Salter’s wife than in her own right. She’d been kindly enough, but shy, happy to stay in Salter’s shadow. Dennis Salter had a huge personality, and a warmth that held the Brethren together. Until Matthew’s outburst at the meeting, he’d taken the young Matthew under his wing, encouraged him. It was not surprising perhaps that Matthew’s memory of the woman was sketchy. Occasionally she’d brought sweets along to meetings for the children, secretly slipping them from her bag when she thought none of the adults were watching, but he remembered little else about her now. ‘Of course.’
Susan continued:
‘So, Dennis came to collect my Christine on Monday morning and the idea was that she’d stay with them until last night. I was expecting her back before bedtime. When they didn’t bring her home, I assumed they’d decided to keep her an extra night. To give me a break, like. I tried phoning, but Grace don’t always answer. They go to bed early. I thought if there’d been any problem they’d have let me know.’ As the story continued and she became more upset again,