Dagenham, my lovely golden retriever, gives me a long pitying stare when I grind to a halt, lungs heaving and face burning. I must have tackled this driveway ten or twenty times and it doesn’t get the slightest bit easier, despite my twice daily dog walking. I wipe my forehead on the back of my hand, my blond, curly hair damp with sweat. Sorry, Mum, lady-glow. She regularly recycled that old saying, ‘horses sweat, men perspire, ladies merely glow’. Dag, restless to meet his doggy pal Barking, scampers off again, towing me the final twenty metres up to the 1970s vicarage.   

My friend Scott Willoughby stands at the open door, and I wonder if he’s heard my approaching gasps but as we step into his cool hallway, I realise he can see the driveway from his study, and I laugh. 

‘Hours of endless entertainment, eh, Vicar?’ 

He follows my eyeline and smiles. 

As we pass from the public arena into his domestic one, I’m greeted by the massive black and grey furball of Old English Sheepdog that is Barking. Or rather Dag is, there’s absolutely no interest in me or even Scott, and the two hounds tumble around, through the kitchen and out into the garden. 

‘Useless guard dog!’ Scott gazes after his dog, looking like a proud father watching his child erupt into a playground. ‘Good listener, though!’ 

‘Aren’t they just!’ My six-month-old pup has seen me through many a lonely night since I moved into the village. It was Scott who suggested I needed a pet, though he was at pains to point out I shouldn’t see it as filling the hole left in my life by my erstwhile straying husband.   He’d even loaned me his own rescue pup Barking for a few days. When my own rescue hound arrived, it seemed only right to name him Dagenham after the London Borough, sure even then that they’d be the best of canine companions. And what a difference Dagenham has made, not only as the ever-willing listener and ever-keen sharer of affection, but also as the most effective finder of friends. Within a week I knew more people than in the previous two months in the village before I got him and there are few in Much Slaughter who don’t know him by name. He’s been the catalyst to a dozen supper invites. Sadly, no romantic interludes as yet. But hope springs eternal in the Catney breast. 

I lower my rucksack carefully onto the floor, which leaves me with an unpleasant damp patch at the bottom of my back, so I’ll need to make sure I keep facing Scott. And I’ll definitely need to keep my arms plastered to my side. My calves are aching, but all the chairs are plastered with newspapers or worthy-looking books and the coffee table is submerged under the remains of breakfast and a whisky glass I hope was a nightcap, rather than a hair-of-the-dog from this morning.  

‘No Cherry this morning?’ Cherry is Scott’s… well, no-one seems quite sure what she is. Partner? Long-term girlfriend? A few other less savoury descriptions have also been suggested but she’s actually well liked and arrived here with Scott and has been accepted along with him despite (or perhaps because of) the air of mystery.  

‘No – she’s spending this week working on the renovation of her cottage back in Much Snoring. Unfortunately.’ He gazes around the room with a bewildered lost-puppy look. ‘Cat, I’m sorry but I can’t stop. My clergy colleagues are due any minute and I’ve got masses to do – sorry, no pun intended.’ 

I smile. Yes, he does look rather haggard, so I suppose he must be missing Cherry’s presence. In more ways than one. He’s tall, broad-shouldered and has the classic sharp jawline but his eyes look puffy and dark and there’s the start of crow’s feet at their edges, even though I reckon he’s probably only in his early forties. He’s got a couple of days of beard stubble and being black-haired it looks as if it’s been drawn with a felt-tip pen.  

I take out a box of my favourite chocolate macaroons which I’d baked just a couple of hours earlier and hold them up proudly. ‘Fifteen people, I think you said? I’ve done 25.’ And though I say it myself, they’re some of my best.

Scott seems pleased. ‘Good move, Cat. I have to say that, judging by their waistlines, our local clergy are rather fond of their fodder. They seem to descend on food like locusts – very Biblical but not very edifying! Now, where on earth did I put my clerical collar?’ He stands in the middle of the room and spins around, then just stands motionless.

It’s disconcerting to see Scott so flustered. I’ve always thought of him as the archetypal cool, unflappable cleric, hovering saint-like above distractions. ‘Look, I’ve nothing in the diary. Why don’t you start in here while I set up the kitchen?’ I’m not at all sure what I’ll find if I tidy the sitting room, so I reckon I’ve got the better job. 

Moments later, I’m not so sure. Dirty dishes and saucepans are piled in the sink and across the draining board and there are dirty plates, glasses and cutlery on the table, along with a half-empty bowl of shrivelled salad, probably older than last night. It all feels worryingly unlike Scott. 

Ten minutes later, with a packed dishwasher churning away, the overflowing items have been washed and sit draining, and the emerging wooden work surfaces have been scrubbed clean. My search of the cupboards has located fifteen matching cups, saucers and side plates, admittedly in the typical shade of church green. Two huge metal kettles rumble away on the gas stove, while my macaroons stand like a valley of pyramids on a large stainless-steel platter.  

Just as I drop the final teaspoon onto the final saucer, Scott returns. What a transformation. He already looks so much better. His dog collar has been found and inserted into his shirt, his still-damp black hair is brushed into place, he’s clean-shaven, there’s more than a hint of Old Spice in the air and he looks –and smells – like the vicar of old. I wonder if he misses Cherry’s presence rather more than he’d prepared to let on. 

‘I hate these meetings, Cat. They can get so, well, argumentative. It’s as if they bring all their frustrations from their parishes and vent them here.’ He shudders. ‘That’s why I’m so tense.’ The eye contact lasts a moment too long to be convincing and my heart lurches. He leans on the (now pristine) kitchen table. ‘It’s the only time I ever miss the City.’

‘Gosh, yes, I’d forgotten that. Stock market, wasn’t it?’ 

‘Investment banking, actually. Twenty years. Sorry – I know, I know!’ He holds up his hands in surrender.  

‘Scott, let’s face it. I’m in no place to throw stones. Don’t forget, I was ten years managing an advertising agency! Twenty staff and no holidays.’  

‘Don’t you ever miss anything?’ 

‘You mean the ridiculous deadlines, stroppy clients and colleagues and a mound of paperwork? Hardly!’ 

‘Sounds to me like a vicar’s job, Cat.’ We both laugh, a little falsely. 

‘And, let’s face it,’ I turn to face him, ‘it was my choice to up sticks and move here, so I can hardly complain, can I?’ 

He looks so desolate, my heart hurts and I add, quickly, ‘I do know your story’s very different.’ 

He stares. ‘It felt as if my world was caving in. Getting made redundant and my wife running off. And that ridiculous business in my last parish.’   

Now that last bit has intrigued me ever since I first heard there was something. But before I can say anything more, Scott glances at his watch as, bang on cue, the doorbell rings and in his eyes I see the shutters crash down. ‘I’ll be off and leave you to your vicaring,’ I say. His face pales and a vein throbs in his neck, making him look like he’s been condemned to a firing squad. ‘But, Scott, you know where I am…’

I squeeze his arm and plant a quick kiss on his cheek. 

I’m tempted to slip out the back way but even I realise that the sight of someone furtively slinking out by the tradesmen’s entrance might not be a good look. Especially a blond babe. Okay, Cat, in your dreams!  

‘Dag – here boy.’ Both pups look up and carry on racing around the garden. So much for obedience classes. Although, in fairness, my investigations into the horrible murder at the recent village fête – fair – meant we had missed a few classes. ‘Dag – now.’ He looks at Barking and I swear he rolls his eyes, before ambling across the lawn, tail drooping, while Barking remains glued to the spot as if he can’t quite believe anyone would spoil their fun. 

We pass quickly through the house. The open front door reveals three black-coated clergymen whose florid faces and rotund figures suggest they might be better served by a gym session than a meeting. Behind them are three battered old cars. The men push straight past me and don’t even greet Scott: they clearly know where they’re heading. Even Dag shows little interest in them which must be a first – but maybe he’s sulking at being dragged away. 

Behind them traipses a woman who seems to have tackled the driveway far more comfortably than her colleagues and looks remarkably cool despite sporting a rather resplendent flowing cardigan that flaps around her calves. 

‘The Area Dean. A good thing,’ Scott whispers in my ear, as if I should know exactly what that means. All I do know is that she’s a rather wrinkled woman, probably in her late fifties, with a taste for a long, knitted cardigan. She does at least nod at me as she passes and then greets Scott with a warm hug and, I swear, a flirtatious wink. She pauses and I wonder if she’s also noticed something odd about him. But then she rushes inside, followed by Scott. The door closes. 

Dag suddenly pulls on his leash, his tail wagging nineteen to the dozen, which is the way he greets long-time friends. All I can see is an elderly man in a purple shirt, his alpine sticks clicking to aid his ascent. His face lights up as he glimpses me, and his smile shows a full set of gleaming white teeth. ‘Please tell me you’re a lovely addition to our clergy team, my dear. I’m Bishop Norton…’ 

‘Catherine de Barnes, Bishop. Usually known as Catney. And, no, I’m afraid I’m not.’ 

‘Shame – could’ve done with someone to lighten the proceedings!’ He grins, bends down to tickle Dag’s ears, thereby wining a friend for life. ‘Ah well, I’d better face my penance, I suppose.’ He clicks across to the vicarage and disappears. 

Good grief, what a motley crew! I’m not surprised Scott… I get no further as a young woman in a bright red MX5 sports car roars up the driveway and screeches to a halt, almost mounting the doorstep in her enthusiasm. She hops out, showing rather more bare thigh than I’d have thought appropriate for a cleric, before following the tribe inside.  

This morning’s encounter with Scott and the foray back into both our pasts has left me feeling quite disorientated for some inexplicable reason, so I meander across the churchyard and push on the heavy oak door. Inside, it’s refreshingly cool and I select a wooden pew about halfway down and sidle in by a pillar. The silence is immediately comforting, and in some weird way there’s a sense of being surrounded by hundreds of years of prayers which have soaked into the limestone walls. Everything is plain and simple. Even the altar has only a single wooden cross and a rather battered candlestick on it; these days, the main silverware is securely locked away in a huge vestry safe. That’s when I realise my hands are shaking. And it’s not the cold. 

I stare up ahead at the beautiful stained glass of the East Window and the colourful patterns it throws on the stone floor, my mind a jumble of thoughts and feelings. I have to admit, I wasn’t being entirely honest with Scott. Or with myself. I find it quite hard to pretend when I’m in church. I know that might just be me. I’m not religious and I have no idea what I believe. And although I’ve probably sat in church more times in the ten months I’ve been in Much Slaughter than in my previous forty-two years, that’s simply because it’s much more prominent in a village. It’s a very good way to meet people. 

Anyway, Scott’s words have made me realise something’s missing. I’m sure it’s not the gaudy, buzzy superficiality of the advertising world: that had lost its sheen long before I left. Although maybe I miss the cut-and-thrust of managing a business. I loved my tiny docker’s cottage in a trendy part of East London. But the area was also noisy and dirty! So, not that either. And, while I certainly don’t miss the philandering lump I called my husband, actually, I do miss male company.

Well, I guess a church is as a good place as any to count your blessings. I have a small cinema half an hour away and several theatres within an hour. And soon after I arrived in Much Slaughter, I realised that I didn’t have friends in London, I had acquaintances. Whereas in the country, even if it’s taken me a while, I’ve got my next-door neighbour, Wickham; Scott, of course, and Rose and her niece Skye at the café. Plus at least a dozen dinner guests. Now I’ve got twice the living space in my house, a huge garden and country walks from my doorstep. And my trusty pup Dagenham and my growing chocolate business. No mortgage and a small financial cushion in the bank. This was the independence I’d been craving. And I love it, I really do. Okay, so a nice hunk of man to cuddle up with would be the icing on the cake, but hey, you can’t have it all, can you?

Mind you, a girl could do far worse than that nice Chief Inspector Parva: the man I helped a few months back. Together we solved the murder of a local celebrity chef. Although he did think me an interfering busybody… there have been worse starting points. And recently, one of the village worthies seems to have popped up significantly, more frequently than I’d have reason to expect…

Any further romantic conjectures are shattered as the church door is flung back, the crash echoing around the stones, and Scott’s clergy colleagues tumble in. A couple of them seem to be continuing a dispute, something about who wrote some Bible book or other. Another is on the phone muttering about funeral arrangements. The Area Dean emerges from the vestry with all the communion paraphernalia (I never was very good at terminology) and as she arranges them on the altar, she starts a loud conversation with someone else whose church service it appears she’s taking on Sunday. Bedlam! I know there’s something wrong but all I can do is slip out for a much needed and very strong coffee.  Scott has my sympathy…