The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (read full novel TXT) 📗

my instincts kick in. ‘I have a clipboard.’ What instinct is that? The instinct to be a complete and utter weirdo?

‘Right …’

‘Yes. I, err … need to check something.’

‘Let me take those off you.’ He pushes his wavy hair behind one ear and reaches over to take the tray from me. I forget to let go and for a moment we both stand, clutching two dozen eggs between us, the memory of why I came here momentarily absent. ‘Or you can keep them?’ he says, removing his hands.

‘Shit, no. Sorry. Thanks.’ I push the tray towards his chest and take out the clipboard that I’ve tucked under my arm. The page crinkles as I run my finger down the list and stop over a name I don’t truly believe can belong to him. ‘Reverend Dingwall?’

‘Dingwall? No. Reverend? Almost.’

‘Sorry, I must have written something down wrong.’

‘I doubt it. If it’s a church you’re expecting, this is the only one around for a fair few miles.’

‘Oh, right. I’m not familiar with the place yet.’

‘Your accent is a bit of a giveaway. Mine is too, according to the locals.’

He sounds the same as everyone else I’ve met so far, but I’d made the mistake of referring to my Caledonian cabin buddy as having a ‘generically Scottish accent’ and that went down like a sack of spuds, so I’ve learned my lesson.

‘How’s it going up at Braehead?’

‘I’ve been demoted to egg delivery after I crashed a quad bike earlier in the week.’

‘I see,’ he says, smiling. ‘I shan’t pass judgement.’

‘No. That’s, like, your thing, isn’t it?’

‘We’re all judged in the end, so I don’t see how doing it prematurely helps.’

‘I don’t know about that. It would make talent shows pretty boring.’

‘That’s true.’ He holds my gaze for a moment and I realise that I’m staring at him like a weak-willed Labrador.

‘The eggs,’ I say, surfacing for air.

‘The eggs!’ He looks down at them and scratches his chin. ‘I think we can blame Doug Dingwall for these.’

‘I’ll tell him when I see him.’

‘You can’t,’ he says, brow furrowed. ‘How shall I say it … He’s moved on to a better place.’

‘Oh God. How awful. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise, I—’

‘No, no – not like that. Doug has gone in for a knee replacement.’

‘Oh! Ha! Good one!’ I say, overcompensating for my excusable gullibility by laughing like a maniac.

‘Yeah, I’m on loan. Like a footballer, except –’ he narrows his eyes, concentrating ‘– not like one at all, actually. I mean, we both draw a crowd at the weekend, but their songs use “fucking wanker” a lot more than ours do.’

I feel like I’ve bitten a lemon, my smile so tight my dimples feel pincered with callipers.

‘That’ll be a few more years in purgatory for me. Ava – that’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Mmm,’ I reply, already replaying the way he says my name on a loop inside my head.

‘Ah, nice. My grandma was called Ava.’

I smile, not sure what to do with this particular piece of information. From the wall, a clock ticks, the minute hand ticking round to a quarter to three. Ross notices my side-eye and springs towards the kitchen.

‘Sorry, I’ve kept you. I’ve clearly been here too long. Couldn’t convince anyone to stick around for a chat back in my regular parish, but I’ve got the opposite problem here. Even the sheep won’t stop baa-ing at you when you run to the shop for a pint of milk.’

‘Well, I’ve only met a handful of people so far and wouldn’t say that’s true of everyone.’

‘Ah, Donovan?’

‘No.’

‘Glenda?’

‘No.’

‘Seamus?’

‘No.’

Jesus Christ, what kind of reputation does this place have? I don’t know whether I should mention Jacqui, because it seems a bit bold to gossip with a priest, but he did start it, so it seems fair to me.

‘Jacqui, have you met her?’

‘Jacqui? Unfriendly? I wouldn’t have thought so.’

‘Oh, not you too.’

Ross folds his arms, a half smile playing on his mouth. His forearms are taut, like he’d be really good at bell-ringing, or tossing a caber. Hmm. Must stop thinking of innuendo-fuelled hobbies.

‘Have you made an enemy of our Jacqui?’

‘I thought you said you hadn’t been here that long.’

‘I haven’t. Three months. But the cakes, have you tried them? I’d leave my parish in Edinburgh for them on a permanent basis. Can’t say the same for the coffee. I wouldn’t be surprised if the delivery guy got something mixed up, John Gilmore, I think? He sells bags of manure on the side, so it’s not an impossibility.’

‘Taste like shit, does it?’

‘Your words, not mine,’ he says, dropping his chin.

How? How are there quite literally thousands of men in London and yet the only attractive one is here? And a priest, at that? I take a deep breath, refocusing on my clipboard.

‘Speaking of Jacqui, she’s next on my list.’

‘Ah! Fantastic. Can you give her these from me?’ Ross jogs through to the kitchen. I hear dishes shifting and cutlery clattering into the sink, before he reappears with two loaf tins, their non-stick sides slick with droplets of water. ‘Only if you don’t mind. She brought round a coffee cake yesterday. Stupidly delicious.’

‘And the eggs?’

‘I’ll keep them, but maybe we’ll go for six next time? I wouldn’t want to criticise a colleague, but I think you’d agree that twenty-four in a week is excessive.’

‘I’d say so, yeah.’

‘Right you are. Look, if you want to drop in again or come to the service next Sunday, don’t hesitate.’

‘Not really the religious type, but –’ I could be? Too keen? ‘– I’ll think about it,’ I say, my hand on the doorknob. As I duck to head beneath the ivy, I turn back towards Ross.

‘Hey, if you’ve been here for three months, surely you’ve been getting a tray of eggs every week before now?’

‘Yeah,’ he says, rubbing his jaw. ‘Your appearance has made complete sense compared to my last theory. I’ve only ever been a city boy – didn’t really know how things worked in the country. The rural villages are known