A bit OTT?
Not for Otis. Hang the expense. She'd get a vintage red and see if it went to his head.
Early the next morning while most of Foxford was sleeping, Otis Joy drove out of the village in his old Cortina and headed south, humming "All things bright and beautiful." Along the quiet Wiltshire roads rabbits were nibbling at the verges. Freshly drilled wheat fields testified to autumn, yet still it felt like summer. The sun was showing above the downs and the sky was so clear that he could see the fading of the moon. He was wearing jeans and a check shirt. No dog-collar on his day off.
As usual he took the A350 through Warminster and down into Dorset by way of Shaftesbury. He was at Blandford Forum by eight. There, he left the main road and drove into the town and stopped for breakfast at a small cafe that was open from seven-thirty and known to a few locals and early-morning travellers.
He went in and sat at his favourite table by the window, with a good view down the street. They even had the morning papers.
The woman who took the orders and did the cooking as well at this time of day came out of the kitchen holding a menu, saw who it was, smiled and said, "Well, you won't be needing this. Your usual, is it?"
"Of course," said Joy.
She smiled. "Lovely morning. And how are you, Mr. Beggarstaff?"
Nine
She felt terrific in the dress. She had found it in Northumberland Passage, in a shop she didn't know existed. Calf-length and loose-fitting, raw silk in a colour they called bronze, with hints of scarlet in the weave, it wasn't drop-dead, but it oozed style. Which wasn't wasted on Otis Joy. He made no comment when he arrived, yet the glint in those deep-set eyes said enough.
Rachel thought it a pity he hadn't left the clerical collar at home this evening. True, it was only the token strip of white above a pale grey shirt. Otherwise he was casual, but smart, in a dark green jacket and cream trousers fashionably loose in the fit.
He was holding a carton stacked high with account books.
She suggested they did the business part first and he looked mildly surprised as if he couldn't think what the other part was. She told him she had some nibbles to warm up for later and he gave her another glance.
The business part.
She had a coffee table ready for him to spread out the books and she'd placed it in front of the sofa. She would sit beside him and make nothing of it. No other arrangement would work. The sofa was a four-seater that dominated the room, so it wouldn't be a squeeze. The only problem was the enormous soft cushions that threatened to suck you in like a swamp as they took your weight. She let him find out for himself. He sank in some way and then struggled against it and managed to perch precariously on the edge. Without fuss Rachel took her position next to him.
He busied himself leaning over the box to lift out the contents, and they made a daunting collection. When everything was on the table he picked up the main account book, a huge leather-bound volume as big as the lectern Bible in church, and opened it. "Here we go, then. You see how simple it is? The income-that's the money from the offertory, renting out the church hall, fund-raising events and all the rest-goes on this side, and we have the debits on the left, here, with columns for the diocesan quota, petty cash, postage, printing, stationery, insurance, wafers and wine for the eucharist and so forth."
"They're beautifully kept," she remarked.
"Stanley was a tidy writer."
"My figures are going to look crude after his."
"Doesn't matter as long as they add up. Have you got a calculator? Stanley never bothered with one. A bit old-fashioned. Like the elderly civil servant at the Treasury who advised every government since the war." j, He'd lost her momentarily, laying the ground for one of his funny stories.
"Brilliant man. Genius with figures. He could analyse a balance sheet quicker than any computer. Only whenever he was asked for advice he'd first of all go to the safe in his office, unlock it and take out a scrap of paper and look at it. Then he'd fold it and put it back and close the safe before summing up the state of the nation's finances. On the day he died, the people he worked with rushed to the safe and took out the piece of paper. It said, 'Debits on the left, credits on the right.' "
She gave a polite smile. The joke wasn't one of his better ones.
He said, "If you'd like a calculator, get one on expenses."
"I'm sure we've got one. I might have to charge the church for some new batteries."
"Fine. Enter it in the petty cash book. Now look at these regular payments. They're covered by standing orders at the bank."
She studied the columns of figures, trying to focus, and thinking, God, I've got him on my sofa close enough to … and we're talking about standing orders. "Your own expenses don't amount to much."
"True." He didn't elaborate.
We're mature, sexually experienced adults sitting here like virgins on a first date because he's in holy orders and I'm married. Pulling a clergyman must be the ultimate challenge. God, she thought, I must keep that wild streak of mine in check.
"Have we cracked it?" he asked.
"Mm?"
"Is it clear to you?"
"So far. I won't make too much of a mess of it, I hope. What else do I need to know?"
"One step at a time."
"If you don't mind, I'd like to get the full picture." Just a hint that he was patronising her.
"Sure." He smoothed his hands along the tops of his thighs. He was unusually tense and it distracted from the things he was saying. "No pressure at all until early next year. We work to the calendar year, so in January we make sure everything is in shape and hand the books, receipts and so on to the auditors. The audited accounts are ready for the February meeting of the PCC."
"And I must be ready for questions."
"Possibly, but I doubt it. The whole thing went through on the nod last time. And after they approve them, we present them to the Annual Parochial Church Meeting."
"That's all?"
"There are some statistical returns for the diocese that we don't need to bother with at this stage. I'll give you all the help I can."
"Thanks."
They looked at the petty cash book and the box file containing the vouchers and invoices. It was all immaculately sorted in transparent folders. At one stage the chequebook fell on the floor and they both reached for it and their hands touched.
Electric.
She handed the chequebook to him and he returned it to the file without actually looking at her.
"Happy so far?"
She nodded. "Except for one thing."
He said with a note of caution, "Yes?"
"I'm puzzled why you put me up for this when Burton Sands is a professional accountant."
He continued to rearrange the books. "The PCC made the decision, Rachel."
"At your suggestion."
"Well, that's true." Now he turned to her, and their faces were tantalisingly close. His hazel eyes locked with hers, slipped away and then returned. "I wanted you for this. I know you'll do it well. The others simply agreed with me."
"Why me?" she pressed him.
He turned aside, clearly reluctant to say more. "This job doesn't really require a professional. What matters is how it's handled. The right touch."
She wished she had waited until after the wine to ask that question. She might have got the answer she was fishing for.
She said the eats should be ready and he said he hadn't expected anything, but he sprang up and offered to help with the carrying.