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  She put on make-up, combed her hair and prepared to go down for her shift in the shop. The first part of the day was usually quiet, and the shop staff operated behind bullet-proof glass, so she was allowed to take her turn. He was so protective of her. As a dyed-in-the-wool operator, Chas liked to think ahead. No bugger was going to burgle him or hurt his family. Set a thief to catch a thief? He went further than that. Chas, well versed in the art of redistributing the wealth of the nation, was also adept when it came to outwitting his fellows. No Scally-Scouser would outwit him. As for the Woollies – they had no chance at all.

  Eve shook her head. Just because folk round here talked slowly, he thought they weren’t as quick-thinking as the Scallies. But he was wrong. A bad Woolly was hard to spot, but he could do as much damage as a Scouser any day.

  Anyway, none of that mattered, because her Chas was going straight from now on. She’d straighten him herself. Even if she had to use an old flat iron to do it.

  Philomena Gallagher rushed home to her little stone-built weaver’s cottage. It sat on the end of a row next to three of its siblings, all pretty and well kept, all owned by proud people who knew they were sitting on potential gold mines. The rich often bought a pair of such cottages, knocking them together to make a substantial semi-detached house, and the end of a terrace usually attracted a slightly higher price.

  She entered an exterior porch, opened her front door and stepped straight into the parlour. Philly’s Irish grandmother had christened the room parlour, and Philly carried on in the same vein. A mirror over the cast-iron grate showed a flushed face, so she ran into the kitchen to splash a bit of cold water on her cheeks. She didn’t want to appear over-excited, because that was hardly a Christian thing to be.

  ‘Why me?’ she asked herself. ‘Not much special about me.’ Still, she had done nothing wrong, and he had spoken to her pleasantly while announcing his intended visit. A priest coming to the house while nobody was ill? It wouldn’t be for money, since Philly had made her pledge and the specified amount went into that little brown envelope each week, rain or shine. But she had better not appear too excited. Nevertheless, a cake stand appeared, both layers covered in her home-made baking.

  Her hair was tidy, the house was tidy, the coffee trolley was tidy. Was the garden all right? She rushed to the window and cast an eye over alyssum, lobelia and French marigolds in pretty beds surrounded by pebbles. Yes, the path was clean; yes, the paintwork outside had been wiped only yesterday. The honeysuckle round the door had been given a haircut quite recently, so there was nothing to offend the eye.

  Father Walsh. His first name was Michael, but she would never dare use it. There was no respect these days, especially where young priests were concerned. They seemed to neither ask for nor expect it, so it was probably as much their fault as anyone’s.

  He would be here in a minute. She had better compose herself, or she would be needing a priest for the wrong reason. With her heart in overdrive, she sat and waited for Father Walsh to come. What did he want? Breathe deeply, breathe deeply. All right, then. Just breathe.

  A very handsome man presented himself at the counter. He wore faded jeans, and his pale blue short-sleeved shirt was open at the throat. ‘Roses, please,’ he said.

  ‘Colour?’ Lily asked. ‘I have red, yellow and cream.’ She didn’t look directly at him. Lily didn’t trust men who were overly good-looking. She knew all about the confidence they owned, the way they managed to exert power over people they considered to be mere mortals. He was probably just another god with clay feet.

  ‘Cream, I think,’ replied Adonis.

  She went to select the flowers. ‘Some are still in bud,’ she said. ‘I’ll pop in a bit of plant food. Oh, make sure you take the ends off the stems. Some people crush the wood, but I’ve never found that to be any use. A diagonal cut is enough.’

  He handed over a twenty-pound note. Lily used the till, then counted out his change.

  ‘You’re doing very well,’ he commented. ‘Lovely flowers.’ He sniffed the roses. ‘Are you from Devon?’

  ‘Yes,’ she lied.

  ‘Then welcome to the dark satanic mills.’ He extended a hand. ‘I’m Michael Walsh, parish priest to St Faith’s and a couple of other village churches.’ He turned and glanced across the road. ‘That’s my presbytery on the market. I’m such a nomad, I’d do better with a caravan.’

  Lily swallowed. She went from fear to astonishment in a split second. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a priest in mufti, but he looked so . . . so normal. No. Hardly normal – he was muscular and very well put together. ‘Catholic?’ she asked.

  ‘Indeed. You?’

  She shook her head. Lily wasn’t anything any more. From a family of Baptists, she had lost all faith when . . . ‘No.’ When everything had been stamped out of her, when Leanne had begun to die, when the world had gone dark. Lily was a shell, an empty house waiting for furniture, for warmth and safety, for a comfortable chair in which life might just seat itself and begin all over again. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘I’m not anything, really.’ In that house, there should be curtains opened wide to the world. Not yet, though.

  Michael Walsh stared at her. There was something wrong, something missing. She had no light in her beautiful blue eyes. A man of astute instinct, Michael lowered his tone. ‘Lily, I deal with many people who are not of my faith. One thing you can be sure of in a priest is that he will use his ears, but not his mouth. Like a doctor, I keep secrets – and not just for my immediate family, my parishioners. Should you need to pray, come in and sit. Should you need to talk—’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She still could not meet his eyes. The talking had all been done. One-to-one therapy, group therapy, physiotherapy, baby-steps therapy, hypnotherapy, acupuncture, yoga.

  ‘The offer stands.’ He picked up his change and left the shop.

  Lily Latimer sank into her chair. ‘Hurry up, Babs,’ she muttered. She could talk to Babs. Babs was the only one who could begin to understand Lily. Babs had known Leanne. It was suddenly important that the one person who knew everything should be here. Oh, how she wished that she might have stayed at home, that she could still be Leanne Chalmers, possibly the most successful and gifted interior designer in the west country.

  But she had to stay away, must make the best of what remained, which was the money. She had inherited some, had earned some, was waiting for some from the sale of the property in Taunton. The rest – her funny money – should also be used. Compensation? How could any amount wind a bandage round her soul, the most damaged of her components? ‘Put together enough of it, then make it work for you.’ Such a clever man, Grandpa had been.

  So. She might well be putting the modern, look-at-me priest out of house and home, because the Catholic church in England could no longer afford to hang on to presbyteries that stood empty for half of the time. Over the phone, she asked the estate agent for details. It needed work. It had over an acre of land with it. It was freehold, and there was an apple orchard in the grounds. She booked an appointment to view.

  When the call was over, Lily smiled to herself. She came from scrumpy country, so an orchard would be lovely. He didn’t need it any more, did he? And Cassie could stay with her sometimes. The smile broadened, just as it always did when she thought of the child. But she knew it didn’t reach her eyes. She remembered the giggling, rosy-cheeked girl she had been. Perhaps, in the orchard across the road, she might find herself again. Perhaps . . .

  Philomena was flustered. He could tell that she was excited and not a little nervous, because her breathing was shallow, while pink cheeks spoke volumes about her steadfast, old-fashioned attitude to the representatives of her religion. This was another woman who needed help and encouragement. But at least a person saw what he was getting in Philomena Gallagher. With the florist, there had been a deadly emptiness, a quality that was sometimes apparent in the terminally ill once they had come to terms with the dictates of destiny.

  �
��Tea or coffee, Father?’ she enquired.

  ‘Tea, please. When I’m not in uniform, I’m Michael.’

  She didn’t like that. Nor did she approve of his clothes, though she made no comment. ‘I’ll just . . . er . . .’ She went off into the kitchen.

  While Philly just-erred, Michael looked around her neat little house. One of these would be big enough for him, surely? There was a second bedroom if anyone wanted to stay, and he didn’t take up a great deal of room. Except for his books, of course. He looked at the alcoves that flanked the fireplace. He could put some in those, others in a bedroom.

  She returned and poured tea with a hand that was noticeably unsteady.

  ‘None of these properties up for sale?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so, Father. If I hear of anyone wanting to sell, shall I let you know?’

  ‘Please.’ He took a sip of tea.

  ‘Is that all right for you, Father?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘More milk? Not too strong? Are you sure?’

  He told her to sit down and stop worrying, knowing that she would never achieve the latter. Philomena Gallagher might be a woman in her forties, but she still carried within her all the older mores pertaining to the Catholic faith. As an enlightened priest with a broader attitude, he worked hard to understand people like Philomena. They were inestimably valuable, though he wanted to extend their horizons. He was here today to make an effort with this woman’s self-confidence. It might all backfire, but it was time to take a risk, time to enliven her if at all possible.

  She sat, hands clasped on her knee, looking for all the world like a junior school child waiting to come face to face with the head teacher’s wrath.

  ‘Amdram,’ he said.

  ‘Pardon, Father?’

  ‘Amateur dramatics. We should use the school hall, bring everyone in, try to liven the place up a bit.’

  Philly nodded absently.

  ‘The community needs to come together for projects. There must be some around who’d enjoy being on the stage.’

  ‘But I don’t—’

  ‘But you’re not one of them. Don’t worry about that. All I want is for you to ask Dave Barker if you might use his computer to print some flyers – I’ll ask him myself, in fact. Then, if you would organize distribution throughout the parish, we might just get something going. You could perhaps consider being secretary cum treasurer. Keep people in line, so to speak. Your honesty is obvious, and I thought of you straight away.’

  Philly nodded again. Why her? Why couldn’t he have chosen somebody who didn’t mind knocking on doors and giving out leaflets? ‘Just Catholics, then?’

  He laughed. ‘Not on your nelly. We want all kinds of people.’ He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. ‘You see, Philomena, priesthood these days is about community service, and I thought—’

  ‘Isn’t community service something criminals do instead of jail?’ She felt her cheeks burning; she had interrupted a man of God.

  ‘They don’t even have to be Christians. A shepherd looks after all his sheep – he can’t choose the prettiest or the woolliest ones, can he? This isn’t about religion, it’s about giving people something interesting to do.’ He paused. ‘Will you help me?’

  She nodded.

  ‘If it gets too much, I’ll find a helper for you.’

  Philly had her pride. ‘It won’t get too much, Father. I shall do it. Of course I shall.’ She’d make sure it didn’t get too much. Even a priest needed showing a thing or two from time to time. Especially a priest who wore the clothes of an errant teenager.

  ‘Settled, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. She would show him.

  He looked at the slight glint of determination that entered her eyes in that moment. He had done his job, and the mouse would roar.

  Life sentence. Bloody life for a kid that never even existed. And what will Madam do now with her so-called freedom? She knows I have friends on the outside, knows there’s money hidden. But she’s no idea about where, has she?

  Starting off on 43, stuck on a landing with nonces and perverts. I don’t belong here. She put me here – they both did. I’ve got curtains because we’re special up here and none of us expect to see the outside again. Parole board? My name won’t be on the list. Still, they’re thinking about moving me away from the nonces, said they’ll see how it goes. I suppose if I get attacked, I’ll be shoved back up here.

  They watch me for suicide. As if. Ways and means, Leanne. Just you wait. There’s always ways and means . . .

  Two

  Somewhere along the line, wires must have been crossed. The man from the estate agency turned a remarkable shade of purple and clapped a phone to his ear as soon as he realized that a mistake had been made. Eve adopted her ‘posh’ voice, though distorted vowels continued to betray her provenance. ‘He’ll be having a stroke if he doesn’t watch out,’ she told her unexpected companion. ‘My mam had wallpaper that shade of yuk in the back bedroom. God, look at the colour of him. Is it aubergine?’

  Lily stood in the hallway of the presbytery, a clearly agitated Eve Boswell by her side. ‘Poor man,’ she said.

  Eve’s jumpiness was soon explained. ‘He doesn’t know I’m here,’ she said. ‘My Chas, I mean. I’ve been trying to make him see sense, only it’s like knitting fog. “I want a house,” I keep on telling him. But I will get my own way in the end, ’cos I always do. A house makes sense, anyway. See, there’s our Derek’s music for a start, then there’s—’

  ‘So sorry, ladies.’ The troubled representative of Miller and Brand clicked his mobile phone into the closed position. ‘What can I say? Someone’s head will roll, I can promise you that.’

  Eve tutted, then discarded her posh voice. ‘Ar ’ey,’ she said in her best Toxteth accent. ‘Don’t get some poor devil the sack just on account of me and Lily. We’re neighbours, aren’t we, love?’

  ‘Indeed,’ answered the florist. ‘Don’t do anything, please. My friend from Som— from Devon should have been here to help me choose a house, and she hasn’t arrived, so Eve and I will look together.’

  He calmed down a little. ‘Nevertheless, this is all highly unprofessional. You are interested separately – am I right?’ When both women nodded, he clung to his portfolio and sighed sadly. ‘Follow me,’ he suggested. Hoping that world war would not break out, he led the way.

  But Eve and Lily weren’t going to follow anyone. Both women had stood in the hall; both had realized immediately how badly they wanted this house. No matter what the rest of it was like, the solid door with stained-glass panels, and those matching windows at the sides, were enough for them to have fallen head over heels before taking two paces. ‘It’s lovely,’ breathed Eve. ‘Needs a bit of work, like. Look at this kitchen for a start.’

  Lily was looking at the kitchen. It was wonderful, because it put her in mind of Grandpa’s farm. It contained an eclectic mix of items, yet they all seemed to rub along splendidly. Apart from two sets of built-in floor-to-ceiling cupboards flanking the hearth, nothing but sink and cooker was fixed. Three Welsh dressers displayed a mixture of pottery, while two old meat safes, painted cream, stood side by side just inside the rear door.

  ‘I’d have it Shaker,’ pronounced Eve. ‘What would you do?’

  Lily cast an eye over the old pulley line, admired a scrubbed table big enough for six or eight, glanced at the hearth and at a grate that still needed blackleading. ‘I’d change very little,’ she answered. ‘I like it just the way it is.’ She was no lover of brushed stainless steel, was not a paid-up member of the fully-fitted brigade. ‘I’d open up the fireplace if it’s blocked off – I might even bake bread in the coal-fired oven.’ She sighed. ‘It’s perfect.’

  Eve smiled to herself. Lily Latimer’s voice had lifted slightly, and there was a faint glimmer in her eye. If this house would fetch her out of the doldrums, then she should have it. Lily’s need was far greater than her own. Something on one of
the fast-encroaching modern estates would do for the Boswells. There were several nice five-bedroomed detached with double garages and up-to-the-minute streamlined kitchens – there’d be no stained glass, but so what? Lily suited this house, fitted in as if she had always lived here. But Eve would play the game. If she stayed and pretended to be fighting for the property, she might just wake up her listless tenant.

  There was a morning room, a study, a formal dining room, a big sitting room and a lean-to that held washer and dryer. Crucifixes and holy pictures made the place grimmer than it needed to be, but the two women were trying to look past the decor. Upstairs, no fewer than five bedrooms and two bathrooms completed the tour. Oh, no – there was another little staircase up into the roof. Lily remembered noticing the odd-shaped dormer.

  It was breathtaking. The window was circular. Lily imagined waking up here, with her bedhead against the glass, knew that her white coverlet would be spotted with colours borrowed from leaded lights. There was a small shower room on this top floor, and Lily knew with undeniable certainty that she would fight to the last for this place, that the room in which she currently stood would be her own.

  ‘Lot of money,’ said Eve.

  ‘Yes.’ Lily scarcely heard the remark. It was worth every penny.

  ‘I’ll go home and talk to him,’ Eve said. ‘Mind, I might as well talk to the fireback for all he cares. But I will be putting in an offer. If he’ll listen for once. I’ll make him, I will, I will . . .’ She left, her grumblings drifting back up the stairs until she was finally out of range.

  Lily followed the man down to the first floor. On the landing, he stopped and looked at her. ‘Would you like another look round?’