Jonny’s mother made little demur when she was moved to a care home which had a view of the sea on the front at Fethering. So long as she had her CD player, on which to listen to her beloved son playing the Beethoven piano concertos, she asked no more of life.
The Rev. Bob Hinkley’s efforts at controlling events in his parish led him to a nervous breakdown. When he recovered, he left the church and went back into industry. And nobody in Fethering ever knew what that ‘industry’ was. His replacement as vicar decided that, given All Saints’ dwindling congregation, it could no longer support a church choir. Recorded music was introduced to services.
Ruskin Dewitt continued to be the life and soul of parties that nobody really wanted him to attend. And he sang, as flatly as ever, in the choir of All Souls Fedborough.
Bet Harrison found a new man, and her son Rory discovered girls.
Elizabeth Browning continued to go on about Glyndebourne and her nodules, and to maintain her lonely seaside vigils, which still proved a very good way of picking up men.
KK Rosser got fewer and fewer gigs for Rubber Truncheon. And no one asked him to give them singing lessons. Nor did he or anyone else revive the Crown & Anchor Choir.
Roddy and Alice Skelton did consult the therapist whom Jude had recommended and worked very hard with him to come to terms with their different problems. The success of the treatment could be measured by the fact that they became the parents of three healthy children. Brian Skelton lived long enough to meet the first of these, but then, with characteristic stoicism – and ‘no fuss’ – succumbed to bowel cancer.
His son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren lived in Sorrento on the Shorelands Estate and, when they were in their teens, the youngsters joined the Fethering Yacht Club.
That did not mean, however, that Roddy and Alice’s lives were all plain sailing. Though things got better, both remained damaged, one by the war in Afghanistan, the other by the attentions of Leonard Mallett. They still had setbacks and advances. Such people’s stories may get better, but they do not have fairy-tale endings.
And, true to her word, Jude never told anyone – least of all Carole – the true circumstances of Leonard Mallett’s death. To her mind, and according to her scale of values, justice had been done.
One weekend that autumn, Carole had her granddaughters, Lily and Chloe, to stay. Among the excitements lined up for them was Sunday lunch with Granny’s next-door neighbour Jude. After the little girls had stuffed themselves with sausages, baked beans and oven chips, and the adults enjoyed local Sole Mornay (with lavish amounts of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc), Jude said she’d tidy the kitchen while Carole read a story to her charges.
The book chosen was The Wheels on the Bus. Lily knew she was really too grown-up for it, but she did love hearing her baby sister trying to join in with the words. It made her feel very proud of her superior language skills.
Carole was so involved that, unwittingly, she found herself leading the singing.
The wheels on the bus go round and round,
Round and round, round and round.
The wheels on the bus go round and round,
All day long.
When she and the girls came to a more-or-less unison close, Carole looked up to see her neighbour in the kitchen doorway, with an amused smile on her face.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘You know, Carole,’ said Jude, ‘that was in tune.’