Free The Loner by Rachel Ennis Page A

drive to the vicarage. A square Victorian house with a pillared porch, it looked drab and neglected with cracked paint on the window frames, and a front door weathered to dullness. She gripped a tarnished brass knocker, and banged it twice.
    She waited, and waited. She was wondering whether to knock again or walk round the back in case Mrs Griffin was in the garden, when the door opened.
    There was no smell of alcohol. But it was obvious Claire Griffin had been drinking. Was that what Gill had been hinting at?
    â€˜You’re Jess Trevanion. I heard all about your talk. If you want Paul he’s not here.’
    â€˜Oh. Sorry, I should have phoned –’
    â€˜No, don’t go.’ Claire started to reach forward, then shoved her hand into the pocket of her long cardigan. ‘He shouldn’t be long. Come in and have a … cup of tea.’
    Jess didn’t want to. But nor did she want to appear rude or condemning. Tom’s words echoed. Not your responsibility.
    â€˜You don’t have to. I expect you’ve got better things to do.’
    Jess knew she was being manipulated but she also recognised loneliness. The Griffins had only been in the village since November. During the first month following Alex’s death she’d had lots of visitors. Three weeks later there were few, though Sam and Rob still phoned every Sunday to check that she was all right.
    Of course she wasn’t all right. But she lied and said she was. What else could she do? Their lives hadn’t changed. Hers had, but there was nothing they could do about it.
    She smiled. ‘I’d love a cup of tea, Mrs –’
    â€˜Claire,’ Her fleeting smile was tinged with surprise as if she hadn’t expected Jess to accept. ‘Come through.’ She pushed a hand through her thick untidy hair and led the way down a wide passage tiled in squares and diamonds of brown, cream, and deep red and dulled by dust and footprints.
    Jess closed the door. Above the half-landing of a wide staircase with a threadbare beige carpet, light streamed in through a tall arched window with narrow side panels of red and blue glass. She followed her hostess into a large untidy kitchen.
    Claire checked the water level in the kettle then clattered it onto the Aga’s hot plate. She slumped onto a chair by an oblong pine table covered in clutter.
    Jess saw a tumbler with an inch of clear liquid in it. Vodka? None of her business.
    â€˜How is your daughter?’
    Claire gave a bitter laugh. ‘I wish I knew. It’s ages since we had a letter. Ginny could have got a job in this country. British hospitals are crying out for trained nurses.’ She pushed a brown pottery teapot towards Jess. ‘Would you mind? Not at my best today. What was I saying?’
    â€˜About your daughter?’ Jess emptied the pot, rinsed it, added two teabags from an open box on the worktop, and poured in boiling water.
    â€˜Exactly. Why did she have to take off for some hellhole country in Africa where the water isn’t safe to drink, ten-year-olds carry guns, every disease is lethal, and there’s a chronic shortage of even basic medical supplies? Milk’s in the fridge,’ she waved vaguely.
    Taking two mugs from the draining board, Jess quickly rinsed and dried them then poured the tea. Mentally crossing her fingers that it hadn’t gone off, she added milk, relieved when the liquid didn’t curdle. Placing one mug in front of the vicar’s wife, she sat down and drew the other towards her.
    â€˜Ginny was always more Paul’s than mine,’ Claire said. ‘She shared his sense of vocation. It’s years since she left home but I still miss her. Silly, isn’t it? I should be happy. I am really. She’s doing what she loves. It’s just – Why Africa of all places?’ She dug in her cardigan pocket for a crumpled tissue.
    Jess sipped her tea. ‘Did you ask her?’
    As Claire