"What age would he have been?"
"How would I know?"
"The man who spoke to you. If he went to school with this Otis Joy they must have been about the same age."
Gary thought for a moment. "Younger than me. More like your age. Pushing thirty."
"That's another coincidence, then, the age. Otis can't be any older than I am. A Canadian, you say?"
"If they were at school together in Toronto he must have been."
"Did you tell him you knew a priest with the same name?"
"No, it would have spoilt his story, wouldn't it? I mentioned it to the lads later on. They;reckoned Otis is a more common name over there."
"Is it?"
"No idea. There was Otis Redding, the soul singer."
"I've heard of him."
"You have? Big deal. He only sold about a billion records."
She was silent, pained by his sarcasm.
He said presently, "Are you going to tell your precious rector?"
"I don't know."
"I might, when I see him next," he said. "Just because he wears his collar round the wrong way people don't like to go up to him in the street. I don't bloody mind. I'd like to see his face when I tell him. Probably thinks he's unique."
She called his bluff: said he was welcome to come and talk to the rector at the harvest supper on Saturday. "There won't be black-eyed beans, but it should be warm food. I offered to help with the cooking."
"You're going overboard on the good works, aren't you?" he said. "What is it with this vicar? Don't tell me you've got the hots for him."
She said, with a force that gave too much away, "It's nothing to do with him. The WI organise it."
"You're not WI."
"I was asked to help."
"And he'll be there. You said he would."
"Of course, but only as a guest."
"Admit it. You fancy him."
"That's absurd, Gary. I'll be working in the kitchen, preparing the food. I won't even see him."
He stepped towards her and pressed the flat of his hand against her chest. The push was a light one, but frightening. "Lying cow."
"Don't do that."
"I'll do as I like. You'll feel the back of my hand if you've been up to anything, you slag." He pushed her again, harder. "Getting in wine like that. It's bloody obvious what you had in mind."
"No, Gary."
"It's a come-on, isn't it? The old man's in America, so come and screw the arse off me. I tell you, Rachel, if that randy preacher got inside your knickers while I was away, I'll give him such a hiding he won't be able to hobble into his pulpit again. Ever. And after I finish with him, I'll sort you out."
Her voice shook. "Will you listen to me, Gary? You couldn't be more wrong."
"No? You want to see your face when you say that." He stabbed his finger towards her several times. "You're lying, woman, and it shows. 1 said I'd beat the shit out of Otis sodding Joy, and your red face just bought him a month's worth of hospital food."
"Don't. Don't be so stupid."
He leered at her. "We'll see if his reverence tells the truth or not. You're really wetting yourself now, aren't you?"
"Please, Gary."
He mimicked her. "Please, Gary."
"What can I say? If you don't want me to go to the harvest supper, I won't."
"Do what you bloody like."
"Please don't talk to the rector. It's going to make fools of us. It's so humiliating."
He walked away from her. "And you can fix me some supper the night you go out. A curry," he said. "And I mean a curry worthy of the name, with some flavour to it. After what I had in New Orleans, the shit that passes for food in this country is bloody tasteless."
She had one ready in the freezer, thank the Lord. And if he wanted extra flavour, he could have it.
She didn't bring up the subject of Otis again, hoping Gary would reflect on the stupidity of accusing a clergyman of immorality. She wasn't all that confident. His time in America had made him even more confrontational. He swore at the paper boy when he left the gate unlatched. And late on Friday evening he opened the bedroom window to shout at some youths who were making a noise in the street.
On Saturday, he went up the street to the village shop to pay the paper bill. Rachel watched him from the front garden, where she had gone to prune some of the roses. He was in what he called his weekend togs, a disgusting old green pullover and jeans, and of course the greasy flat cap that disguised his baldness.
Then, to her horror, she spotted Otis striding towards the shop from the other end of the village. Please God, no, she thought.
Was it her imagination, or was there a sudden change in Gary's style of walking? He put one foot in front of the other in a more sinister, purposeful way, and she knew, just knew, he fancied himself as a gun-slinger in a western. He'd taken his hands from his pockets and was swinging his arms in a pathetic parody of John Wayne.
She watched in torment, gripping the pruning shears, openly staring, willing Otis to stop and talk to someone else, or call at one of the cottages, or think of something he'd forgotten and turn back.
But Gary marched right up and confronted him near the door of the shop, and Rachel's stomach clenched and her mouth went dry. The two men talked earnestly, it seemed to her, and for longer than a polite exchange. She wasn't close enough to see Otis's reaction, and didn't really wish to. In despair, she turned away and deadheaded more of the roses.
Gary looked smug when he returned. He'd treated himself to a bottle of whisky and he opened it straight away and slumped in front of the television with his feet over the arms of her favourite chair. He said nothing to Rachel about what had passed between Otis and himself and she was too afraid to enquire, in case it started a fight.
She made ham sandwiches for his lunch. She didn't want to eat. Trying to sound normal, she reminded him that she had to go early in the afternoon to help cook the harvest supper. She told him she'd defrosted the curry and put it in the oven on the timer, to be ready whenever he wanted it during the evening. He didn't thank her.
"I'll have it when I get back."
"You're going out?"
"Only up to the rectory. Unfinished business." He hadn't looked away from the TV screen.
Rachel froze.
Eleven
A casserole — or beef stew-was the traditional meal for the harvest supper. Traditional since the WI had been in charge, anyway. Probably in the days of Waldo Wallace's tithe dinners, more ambitious dishes were served. The advantage of a casserole was that it could be cooked hours ahead of time and kept simmering in a large stewpot that had once been used for the school dinners. The team of Daphne, Dot and Joan, with help from Rachel, worked through Saturday afternoon. Into that pot went diced beef, floured and lightly fried, then a real harvest crop of vegetables: onions, carrots, turnips, parsnips, peppers, aubergines, chopped celery and potatoes. Pearl barley was tossed in with favourite flavourings from bayleaves to garlic. And of course beer and water. No other cooking was required. Bread rolls were put out on the tables with jugs of cider and lemonade and there were packets of crisps for the children.
It might seem from this that Foxford's entire harvest went into the pot, but no. The hall was decorated with produce from the fields and gardens: some old-fashioned sheaves of corn made up for the occasion; overgrown marrows and pumpkins nobody would eat; baskets laden high with apples and pears; tomatoes, eggs and the harvest loaves with their plaited designs. All this would be moved to the church at the end of the evening and rearranged for the Sunday morning's Harvest Festival service, along with the tins of grapefruit and baked beans that were always donated, reminders that "all good gifts around us" were sent from heaven above, even if some were packaged by Tesco's.