Letters to the Lost by Iona Grey Read Free Book Online Page A

services and Holy Communions. Remembering the newsletter she’d discovered in the heap of junk mail, she found herself crossing the road.
    The porch floor was deep in drifts of leaves and crisp packets. Noticeboards lined the walls. Shaking the rain from her hair she peered through the gloom at these, to see if there was any mention of Miss Price on the flower arranging rota or list of Sunday School helpers. There wasn’t. The door to the main body of the church was slightly ajar, and cautiously she looked through the gap.
    The space was huge and completely still, dimly lit by great glass lanterns miles above the aisle. She pushed the door open enough to slip through and took a few tentative steps, which echoed around the high walls. Her breath hung faintly in front of her face, and above the smell of cold stone and furniture polish the enticing aroma of coffee reached her.
    A little area behind the far row of pews had been claimed as a sort of domestic space, with a square of red carpet on the floor, two wicker chairs, a shelf of books and a yellow plastic box of toys. A length of kitchen worktop had been fitted against the wall, and on this there was a coffee machine. As she got closer, drawn by the smell, she saw the plate of biscuits beside it, and a notice on the wall above, written in flowing, churchy writing:
    Please Help Yourself.
    She put the carrier bag down on one of the wicker chairs and looked around. There was no one to be seen. She read the notice again, wondering if it was some kind of trick, but the lure of caffeine and sugar was too strong to resist. Cups and saucers were set out on the worktop. She took one and filled it with coffee, helped herself to one biscuit, then another. She was just reaching for a third when the sound of brisk footsteps made her drop it back onto the plate.
    ‘Ahh, you found our refreshments. Good, good. I hope the coffee’s still drinkable. I made it this afternoon, but if it sits too long it tastes like burnt mud.’
    The most striking thing about the man who’d spoken was that he was wearing the most hideous jumper imaginable; oversized and hand-knitted in uneven, garishly coloured stripes. The second most striking thing was his smile, which was wide and white against his dark beard.
    ‘N-no, it’s fine. Thank you.’
    ‘In that case, if you’re not just being polite, do help yourself to another cup. There’s no choir practice or anything on tonight, so I shall just be pouring it down the sink if you don’t. I’m Tony, by the way. Tony Palmer.’
    He leaned across and held out a hand. She shook it timidly, trying not to stare at the neck of the jumper to work out if that was a dog collar beneath it, or just an ordinary shirt. He seemed very friendly for a vicar. Very normal.
    ‘Are you—?’
    ‘The vicar here, that’s right.’ He stepped past her and poured himself a coffee, then balanced a biscuit on the saucer. ‘Do you mind me asking your name? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’
    She didn’t particularly, but since she was drinking his coffee and eating his biscuits it seemed rude to say so. ‘Jess,’ she said. ‘Jess Moran.’
    ‘Nice to meet you, Jess, and welcome to All Saints. Although on a cold night like this I’d be the first to admit that it’s not the most welcoming place.’
    He shivered elaborately in his ugly jumper and smiled again. It was a nice smile, but she steeled herself against it. She didn’t want him to mistake her for a churchgoer. She and Gran never used to miss an episode of Songs of Praise but they only watched it for the singing – joining in with the words at the bottom of the screen was how Jess had first discovered she had a voice. But the church itself was full of busybodies, Gran said; women with too much time on their hands and nothing better to do with it than arrange flowers and pass judgement on those who were just struggling to get on with things.
    She shrugged. ‘I’m not religious or