Half Broken Things Read Online Free PDF Page B

interest in devotional objects. He was a curate; disappointed and philosophical, but (because they all were) demonstrably, quintessentially
nice
.
    Nicely, he said, ‘It’s my own fault, I should have planned better, but sometimes it’s good to wander whither one wilt, so to speak, and just drop in. Ah well, back to Norfolk, disappointed! Unless we can prevail upon someone else ...’
    â€˜Oh, Norfolk! I’m very fond of Norfolk! So where is your church, exactly?’
    Michael swallowed and tried not to stare at her with the naked hatred he was beginning to feel.
    â€˜St Margaret’s, Burnham Norton,’ he told her, also reminding himself that today he was Jeff Stevenson of St Margaret’s, Burnham Norton, and that there was no need to panic. He could, if required, reel off the biographical details of Jeff Stevenson that he had memorised from Crockford’s Directory of the Clergy. Part of Michael’s brain now pictured the real Jeff Stevenson going about his pathetic business in Norfolk, unaware that he was being impersonated (and rather well) on the other side of the country. Michael knew that whatever the day might hold in the line of duty for Jeff Stevenson, it would include a little light comforting of the old, the lonely, the sick: jollying up, calming down, smoothing over the truth that most people’s lives stank whether there was a God or not. Michael believed that comforting was just another form of lying, which made Jeff Stevenson no better than he was.
    â€˜Oh, yes, but just where
is
that?’ asked the woman, her voice squeaking with what sounded, unbelievably, like genuine interest. How was it possible? Michael wondered. Really, how was it done? And most of all,
why,
why this curiosity, this caring about details in the lives of strangers? Then the thrill that had been missing from the day stole over him. Beyond its being in Norfolk, Michael had not a clue where Burnham Norton was. And it would be such an exquisite disaster if, by one of those coincidences that were so common, he was about to be found out. He waited, perhaps half wanting it, to hear the ‘because my sister lives there, you
must
know her!’ or the ‘but the curate of St Margaret’s is my goddaughter’s nephew. You’re not the curate of St Margaret’s!’ One day it was bound to happen. Was it to be today? The more little trips he made the more he risked it, and with every time he got away with it, the closer came the day when he would not.
    â€˜Is it on the coast?’
    The question seemed to ring off the walls of the church and eddy round the display case where the pair of effigies stood smug behind the glass. Michael moved casually towards the door.
    â€˜Well, if you know where Norwich is it’s not so far from there, I suppose. Look, I think I’d better—’
    â€˜But in what direction? How many miles? Is it anywhere near oh, what’s it called . . . I can picture the place, I went there as a girl—twice in fact—’
    â€˜Oh, is this your leaflet?’ Michael blurted. ‘May I take one?’
    â€˜Oh, do! Here, take a few and you can hand some on,’ she said, pushing a wad of pale green leaflets at him. ‘There’s quite a bit there about our effigies, we are rather proud of them! And we do like our visitors!’
    â€˜Oh,
may
I? Thank you.’
    â€˜Take plenty, do. Well, remember where we are, won’t you? The vicar’ll be back by the end of this week. Have you signed our visitors’ book? There
should
be a pen but they do walk!
    â€˜Oh, not to worry! It’s been lovely just to see the church. Yes, I’ve signed the book,’ Michael gushed back. ‘As soon as I arrived, before you came in. Thanks so much!’
    â€˜And do,
do
come back at the end of the week when the vicar’s here!’
    â€˜If I possibly can, I will! Thank you!’
    â€˜Give my regards to