The Seventh Sin by Caroline England

Caroline England

Author of The Sinner
Published by Piatkus, 21 June 2022.

Though I’m more a listener than a talker, me and Tabitha always have a good old chin wag in ‘Sally’s Cafe’ after the Sunday service at St Benedict’s. I treat myself to a sultana scone topped with butter, jam and clotted cream, and more often than not we discuss the rector’s sermon and pick at a few loose threads, if you take my meaning. Not in a nasty way, that wouldn’t be gracious. It’s more to show we’ve been listening to the word of the Lord and no one can take umbrage with that.

It was a bit chilly this week, so I trusted Tabitha with my keys and encouraged her to stretch those unfortunate cankles by fetching me a thicker coat from home. Though only a twenty-minute round trip, she didn’t half take her time. In truth she can be a touch slothful, but I don’t like to use that word. ‘Well, that was a dawdle,’ I said when she finally arrived at Sally’s. ‘You’ll need to get us a fresh pot of Earl Grey. The last of this has gone cold.’  She scurried off to the counter, so I quickly called after her. ‘And I’ll give that Victoria sponge a go.’

When she returned with a healthy slice and her usual vanilla, I pointed out the reverend’s mistake. ‘Strictly speaking they’re not referred to in the Bible.'  I could tell from Tabitha’s puzzled frown that she wasn’t following. ‘The cardinal sins,’ I said, reminding her of what we’d both heard not an hour ago.

In all honesty I’m never quite sure whether she really is hard of hearing or if she just doesn’t pay attention, but it’s kinder to give her the benefit of the doubt. ‘Seven.’ I licked the strawberry preserve from my fingers. ‘But we needn’t worry about transgressing any of them.’

I peered at Tabitha carefully, then gave her a little sniff. Not cleaning oneself as thoroughly as one should isn’t a vice, and I make it a rule not to judge others even if they do live at the rough end of the village, but it isn’t for me to speak on her behalf.

‘Well, me at least,’ I said. ‘You won’t find a hateful, lazy or unkind bone in my body. And you know what? My chaste and humble life makes me not only a good person, but a grateful one too.’ I popped a forkful of Sally’s cake in my mouth and savoured the taste. It wasn’t a patch on mine, but I thought about all the starving children in the world and it felt wrong to waste it. Tabitha didn’t need to say what she was thinking; her round eyes said it all, but it was only right to interject before she could say something hurtful that Sally might overhear.

‘Now Tabitha! Criticising folk isn’t neighbourly.’ I leaned in closer and gave her arm a little squeeze. ‘But you are absolutely correct. This sponge is a bit… well, sunken for want of a better word. I’m afraid some people don’t know the difference between creaming, beating and folding.’ I smiled modestly. ‘Maybe that’s why yours truly wins the prize at the church fete every year.’

Tabitha took a breath, but I knew what was coming. ‘Yes, yes, my needlework too, a contribution to the community I very gladly make.’ I listed the philanthropic benefits of my famous patchwork quilts. ‘Recycling, turning the rather… shall we say lurid donations from you-know-who into something both pleasing and practical, and of course raising much needed funds for church coffers.’

I felt myself blush. ‘I wouldn’t dream of blowing my own trumpet, but when it comes to a charitable cause, I’m the first in line.’ To save her from asking me with her mouth full, I opened up Facebook and showed her a photo of my latest creation. ‘I know, Tabitha; Sally already mentioned all those “likes”, but quite honestly, I barely notice, let alone count them. That would be boastful and it just isn’t me.’

The poor woman was clearly struggling with her pastry. ‘Shall I help you out with that?’ I offered. I lowered my voice. ‘I know it’s your new teeth, but wouldn’t do to embarrass Sally by leaving it all but untouched, now would it?’  As the custard eased down my throat, I caught you-know-who herself waft by through the window. She was on the arm of her latest squeeze.

‘Good Lord, he must be half her age. That one’s never practised abstinence or self-control, has she now?’ I commented. I gave her young man the once over. Well, twice, if I’m honest; I always did like a fella with a firm bum. I watched her teeter away on her towering heels. Admittedly I’d shake hands with the devil to win the lottery, but tastefulness would be my priority. I don’t think she knows the meaning of finesse; just look at her: too tight designer clothes and all that blingy jewellery. And she’s thin to the point of raggedness. She’d get hypothermia after two minutes if those posh electronic garage doors stopped working.’ I wiggled my eyebrows meaningfully. ‘Though I doubt there’d be much of a change to her frozen face.’

Tabitha was still rudely gawping, so I gave her a nudge. Still, she did have a point.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I said. ‘A bit too full of her own self-importance; thinking she’s better than others.’ It brought us nicely back to our theological chat. ‘And we know what that means, don’t we? Yes, pride, the root of all evil and the deadliest of the seven sins. What term did the vicar use which summed it up to a tee? That’s right: vainglory. Thank the Lord I’m not—’

But the beep of a Facebook notification cut me short, so I peered at the screen. ‘It’s thrust upon me, Tabitha, just like Shakespeare said.’ I gave a self-deprecating sigh. ‘What can I say? My hundredth “like”.’ 

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Caroline England was born in Yorkshire. She studied Law at the University of Manchester.  Caroline was a divorce and professional indemnity lawyer. She turned to writing when she deserted the law to bring up her three lovely daughters.  She also writes under the name of CE Rose. Below is her latest book.

www.carolineenglandauthor.co.uk

The Shadow of Rutherford House
by C E Rose

Christie is still coming to terms with the sudden disappearance of her mother, over twenty years ago, leaving her unable to move on. Through her work as a psychiatric nurse, she becomes drawn to a troubled patient, Lillian, similarly haunted by the loss of her own mother.
As she tries to help Lillian leave the hospital and return to her stately childhood home, Christie finds herself fascinated by the mysterious Rutherford-Percy clan. Why is Lillian so terrified of Rutherford House? Why is she so reluctant to embrace her aristocratic legacy?The more Christie learns about the family and their dark, ancestral past, the deeper the secrets seem to run - until she finds a clue that could help uncover what happened to her own mother. Desperate for answers, Christie puts her job, her family and even her very life on the line. But how much of the truth does she really want to know? twisty, chilling and unputdownable page-turner about family secrets, perfect for fans of Kate Morton, Louise Douglas and Lucinda Riley.

Published by Hera Books,10 November 2022.
Available in Paperback and Kindle format.