Some truths can’t be left buried.
The second world war may be over, but for Leslie Cadmore the scars remain. His beloved dog died, there’s a rift between him and his lover Patrick, and his father inexplicably abandoned the family for life in a monastery. Fate’s been cruel.
A chance meeting with Patrick’s sister stirs old memories, and Leslie starts to dig into both his father’s motives and long-unanswered questions around the death of Fergus Jackson. The worst of a group of disreputable pre-war friends, Fergus was a manipulative rake who allegedly fell on his own knife in a training accident. An accident for which Patrick was apparently the only witness.
Leslie’s persuaded to meet Patrick again, and the pair easily fall back into their old dynamic. They uncover connection after surprising connection between their hedonistic old friends and not only Fergus’s murder, but Mr. Cadmore’s abrupt departure. As their investigation deepens, Leslie and Patrick’s bond deepens too. But no reconciliation can occur until Leslie knows for sure that his erstwhile lover wasn’t Fergus’s killer.
I'm going to say it: Charlie Cochrane is a Queen of British Mystery. How she can throw in so many curveballs(sorry I don't know much about Cricket so the sport metaphors, despite being a British mystery will be American😉) and keep everything straight, well no amount of post-it notes cluttering one's laptop can negate the talented storytelling.
I love a well developed amateur sleuthing mystery but I find it rare where both MCs are the amateur which is exactly what Leslie and Patrick are. Yes, Leslie's reasonably hush hush role on the homefront during the war probably elevates him to semi-amateur but you get the idea. Trying to decide just what went down when one of their younger years acquaintances died a few years earlier, the old flames hope to repair their friendship while putting their heads together and wrinkle out the truth. Turns out there appears to be a long list of possibilities with motives considering the dead man's behavior and personality, problem is the list of possibilities with the means to do so is not nearly as long and yet long enough that there is no clear cut without a doubt suspect. By all accounts Fergus was not the nicest of men but did someone kill him? Was it a training accident? or Was it self-inflicted? So many questions, will the renewed friends find enough evidence to turn theory into fact and will it be enough to bring the truth out or just enough to satisfy their curiosity?
These are all questions I won't spoil but boy is it fun riding along on Leslie and Patrick's armchair detecting.
Leslie and Patrick's previous falling out should have been one to easily rectify especially when so many lost so much during the war and made what's truly important first and foremost in one's life. HOWEVER, stubbornness is a plenty between these two and it takes a phone call or two in subterfuge from Patrick's twin sister, Marianne, to get them face to face. Sometimes it's that first step that is the hardest and with that out of the way, their chemistry is once again enflamed although both parties(reluctantly yet honestly IMO) decide not to act beyond friendship and detecting until an answer is found or all possibilities have been exhausted. Certainly doesn't stop Patrick from flirting though😉😉.
Their "friend's"(and I use that termly loosely) death may be the main arc of The Deadliest Fall but Leslie is also dealing with his father having abandoned family life for a monastery with no reason given. It's the "no reason given" that spurs Leslie into some personal snooping as well. Will he accept what he finds? Will the answers even be given? And are the two cases connected somehow? Once again, you have to read yourself to find the answers but I promise you will love every minute of it.
The Deadliest Fall has so much to offer the reader with emotions all over the place. Some might use the term "convoluted" due to all the questions that keeping popping up but you really can't have an armchair detective story without a certain amount of convulsion, it goes with the territory. It's how an author manages it that makes it messy or not and trust me Charlie Cochrane, a Queen of British Mystery, presents not a mess in sight. I was left guessing up until nearly the our-evidence-points-to reveal but even then I had fluttering flags of doubt. As it turns out I was correct in my guessing. Steven Spielberg, while discussing Jaws, said he learned you can only truly shock an audience once but I don't believe that, an author can shock the reader as many times as they like if done properly and Cochrane does it properly.
One last note: I don't often comment on slangs and quotes in a book but I had to in this case. I've been watching/reading British shows/books most of my life and I gotta say I don't recall ever hearing this one before, "If 'ifs' and 'ans' were pots and pans, there'd be no need for tinkers." I imagine there are variations of this saying in all parts of the world but here in the US(at least to my knowledge) we say "If 'ifs' and 'buts' were candy and nuts, we'd all have a wonderful Christmas." Just wanted to put that out there and to thank Charlie Cochrane for teaching me something new😉.
Chapter One
Hampshire, 1947
“Come back, you menace!” Leslie Cadmore broke into a run, but his dog was fleeter of foot than him and absolutely determined, it appeared, to stay at a distance from him. He shouldn’t have let the hound off the lead, although wasn’t it easy to be wise after the event? “Max! To heel.”
Leslie might as well have tried to catch the wind in his cap. The black Labrador was evidently under the impression that this was an incredibly enjoyable game, given the way he repeatedly looked back to encourage him to come closer, before setting off again. Thank God the common was wide, provided good visibility and was always kept clear of livestock at this time of year.
“Max! If you don’t come here, so help me, I’ll—” He never managed to finish the threat, a pair of young women having come into sight. They’d rounded a stand of trees and would soon be within earshot. Damn it.
The dog, still capering about, spotted the newcomers and made for them, slowing to a respectable trot and no doubt putting on his most friendly expression, the devious little sod. The swing of his tail gave every indication of a happy, amenable hound.
“You swine,” Leslie muttered, annoyed that the women had clearly worked the kind of magic he couldn’t, although grateful that Max’s interest in making new friends might allow him to be put back on the lead.
By the time Leslie reached them, Max had transformed into the most well-behaved pet a man could wish to own, sitting compliantly at the women’s feet and letting himself be stroked.
“I’m so sorry.” Leslie raised his cap. “He’s such a pest. Oh.” He paused, breaking into a grin and holding out his hand towards the taller of the women. “I didn’t recognise you, Marianne. How lovely to see you again.”
Marianne warmly clasped his hand in both of hers. “I thought it was you, Leslie, although this fellow made me think I had to be mistaken. Where’s Towser?”
“Gone to his long home, I’m afraid. Four years ago.” He turned to the other woman, who was owed an explanation. “He was my retriever, Miss . . .?”
“Geraldine Simpson.” Marianne’s friend extended her hand. “So pleased to meet you. I’ve heard about Towser already and the fun you all used to have walking him on the common, although Marianne told me less about his owner.”
“She would.” Marianne Sibley had always given the outward impression she was fonder of Towser than she’d been of him, although for a while Leslie had suspected that had borne an element of subterfuge. “I’m far less interesting than my dogs. Leslie Cadmore, late of this parish and a very old friend of the family Sibley.”
“Your mother still lives here, I believe?” Geraldine made such a contrast to Marianne. Compact where her friend was willowy; cheery faced where Marianne always seemed so cool and aloof; brightly dressed in contrast to the autumnal shades the other young woman had always favoured. Leslie had valued his friend’s calmness in those younger days and how different she was to many of the local young women.
“Mother does live here,” he replied. “In Larkspur House, where I was born and grew up. Marianne knows the place well. Do you remember the tennis parties?”
“I do. Towser always had to be tied up, poor lamb, because he wanted to join in. I hope this chap is better behaved.” Marianne bent to pat Max, who was wearing a saintly expression.
“He’s an absolute scoundrel, although I couldn’t guess how he’d conduct himself at a tennis match, as he’s never had the opportunity to experience one. He’s a town dog, Miss Simpson, so doesn’t know country manners.” Strange, though, that Marianne wasn’t aware of what had happened to Max’s predecessor, because Leslie would have expected her and his mother to pass the time of day on occasions. Had the Sibleys also moved away—his mother hadn’t mentioned it, if so—or was there something else that had prevented the doings of Leslie Cadmore being passed on to her? And Geraldine knowing that Mrs. Cadmore was still a local proved she must have been discussed. Marianne’s expression was no help, her face, as it had been from a child, proving unreadable.
“Did I hear you calling him Max?” Geraldine asked.
“Yes. After a distant cousin who once came to visit Larkspur with his family. It’s proved an apt name.”
Marianne burst out laughing. “I remember him. He was what my mother would call a spoiled brat. If he was my child, he’d have spent more time confined to his room than out of it. Any idea what he’s doing now, Leslie?”
“Working his way through the ranks at Scotland Yard, believe it or not. Perhaps he’s seen the light, or it’s a case of poacher turned gamekeeper.”
“He could be paying off the sins of his childhood. All I have to do is think of him pulling my pigtails and my scalp hurts. Worse than your brother was, Geraldine.”
“Oh, George isn’t that bad. Settling down with Victoria and finding himself articled has bridled any wild tendencies.” Geraldine cast her friend a sidelong glance that could only be described as sly. “Like Patrick.”
“How is your brother, Marianne?” Leslie had anticipated Patrick would be mentioned sooner or later and was pleased he hadn’t had to raise the topic. Despite being twins, Patrick and Marianne were as different in personalities as any siblings could be. Chalk and cheese didn’t come near it.
“Working too hard. Throws all of his time into his practice.” She patted the dog’s head. “He’d like you, boy. Prefers his patients with a bit of character.”
Leslie nodded. Patrick had always liked dogs to be dogs and not pampered lap pets. He’d also appeared to prefer animals to the majority of humans. “You can trust them,” he’d say, “unlike much of the human species.” Even as a child, Patrick had seemed to be a veterinarian in the making. He’d no doubt have a successful practice and that wouldn’t simply be a testament to his skills or training. Patrick had the same lean, dark, handsome looks his sister was blessed with. Looks that would see a stream of female clients bringing their pampered pooches to his door.
“You’re right about the hard work. He never seems to be available, that’s certain.” Geraldine’s voice bore a distinct hint of annoyance. “My mother has invited him to a number of events, but he pleads pressure of time. She’s rather given him up as a lost cause.”
“Many people have.” Marianne tossed her head.
“He’ll settle down one day,” Leslie said, not sure that he believed that any more than Patrick’s sister would do. They both knew him too well. Had known him, in Leslie’s case, given how long it was since they’d last spoken. Suddenly, Leslie was filled with a fleeting memory of the three of them as children, the last time they played hide and seek: him, Marianne, Patrick, all of them around twelve years of age. She’d said afterwards they were getting too old for such childish things, possibly because she’d taken umbrage at Patrick being so slow at finding her. Best not to mention that, since it probably still rankled, and the day itself had ended sadly, with a tramp being found dead of exposure in the church porch. Mr. Cadmore had been called on to handle the affair, being churchwarden and with the vicar away on holiday. Still, such rare instances apart, those had generally been very happy days.
“Give my very best to your mother. I do feel guilty for not having kept in touch with her as I should.” Marianne fixed her eyes on Max. “Like you, Leslie, I don’t get down here as often as I would like.”
That provided a partial answer to some of his questions, although moving away from an area didn’t mean she couldn’t send a letter if she really wanted to. Perhaps, like Patrick, Marianne was simply busy. Leslie’s mother had told him that she worked as a legal secretary in Winchester, and he’d assumed—evidently mistakenly—that she travelled there from the Sibley home.
“I will pass on your regards, with pleasure. Are you here for long?” Leslie added. His mother might be pleased to have Marianne over for tea in order to talk over old times.
“Until Monday morning, when my nose goes firmly back to the grindstone. Albeit returning to work will make a pleasant escape from Father’s hunting stories. His enthusiasm hasn’t dimmed over the years.” Marianne gave the dog a final stroke, then took her friend’s arm. “We must get back. Terrible trouble if we come in late for luncheon.”
“Blame me and my wretched hound.” Leslie tipped his cap again. “Nice to have met you, Geraldine. Fond regards to your parents, Marianne, and to your scapegrace of a brother.”
“I’ll tell them all that I spoke to you. Although I’d always assumed you’d have kept in touch with Patrick.” Marianne waved her hand airily. “It shows how mistaken we can be.” She set off slowly, pausing after a few steps to turn and say, “It really is lovely to see you again. We shouldn’t have let it be so long. All of us.”
“Indeed.” Leslie watched the women go, momentarily unable to move himself and not only because he was thinking about the assumption Marianne had made about him and Patrick keeping in touch. Her gait bore the same easy grace as her brother’s, bringing to mind the last time Leslie had seen him. At Waterloo station. Walking away and out of Leslie’s life.
“We’re back,” Leslie called, entering the hall of Larkspur House and letting Max off the lead from which he was clearly anxious to be freed.
“In the drawing room, dear.” His mother’s voice sounded as sweetly as a woman’s half her age.
Alexandra Cadmore was still a handsome woman, despite the events of the past few years. Not for her, however, the lot of so many of her friends during wartime, a telegram bringing the news no wife or mother would wish to receive. Leslie had been based at home, doing something he could never divulge the details of, apart from hinting that it had been vitally important. “Logistical and extremely boring if crucial to the war effort” was how he’d described his work, and that was what his mother had told her friends. He wasn’t convinced she believed the “boring” part, although she’d always kept up the pretence. So, he’d remained physically safe, returning to civilian life tired but intact, if a touch emotionally battered.
It was his father, Jerome Cadmore, who’d been torn from her and not by death. Unless finding a vocation and entering a Benedictine monastery could be defined as crossing into—or having one foot on the doorstep of—one’s eternal rest. It was marginally better, she’d confessed to Leslie when the news had broken, than his having run away with a WAAF, which had happened to one of her old school friends. Worse in some ways, though, because anybody could understand the attractions of a woman in uniform; the attractions of God weren’t so obvious. It had been the third year of the war, so Leslie hadn’t been on hand much to give her support, but she’d coped, as she always did.
“Did you have a nice walk?” His mother glanced up from her knitting.
“Very, apart from Max exhibiting wanderlust. I ran across Marianne, out taking the air with one of her pals. I didn’t realise she no longer lived here with her parents.” Leslie flopped down into his favourite chair.
“I’m sure I told you. I daresay you weren’t listening at the time.” She grinned. “How is she?”
“Not a jot different from how she was at nineteen. Or indeed nine. I was surprised that you haven’t kept in touch with her.”
“I see her parents at church. They keep me abreast of all things Sibley. Marianne’s doing splendidly at work and has a little flat of her own, now.” She paused to count her stitches. “They worry about her living alone, but that’s a cross all parents bear. Which friend was with her?”
“A girl called Geraldine something-or-other. Simpkins. Simpson. Max was most taken with them both.” The dog, who’d sprawled himself on the fireside rug, glanced up at the mention of his name. “Thank goodness they came along or I’d still have been out on the common, trying to get this wretch back on his lead.”
“Marianne always had a knack with animals. Her father’s daughter, every bit, although she’s a better hand with a rod and fly than he is.”
Leslie chuckled. Mr. Sibley had been continually vexed at the fact. “She’s better at taking a trout than most of us. Some zoologist chap once told me that women have a natural unfair advantage when fishing. A natural aroma they produce that attracts their prey.”
“Does it work with men, dear? Is that why some women appear to be irresistible?” She held her handiwork up to the light, nodding approvingly at it before resuming knitting. “Although in Marianne’s instance, I’d say it’s likely a case of her not rising to the male fly. Not yet, anyway.”
Leslie wasn’t sure she ever would. Not every mare had a hankering for the stallion.
“Should we invite her and her friend to tea today?” She continued, with an air that was a little too nonchalant to be entirely convincing. Was this a repeat of the getting-my-son-in-a-room-with-eligible-women ruse? “I’m sure that young Edwin would take an invitation across, on his bicycle. Would sixpence be over-generous as payment?”
“I couldn’t say, not having a housekeeper’s son to run errands for me and so being oblivious to the going rate.” It wasn’t spoken unkindly: Mrs. Edwards was an absolute treasure, a war widow without whom the running of Larkspur House would no doubt grind to a halt. Leslie’s mother was lucky to have her and to be able to keep her. At least his father had only dedicated himself to God and not included his considerable worldly wealth, so his wife had been left with enough to live comfortably.
“But should I invite her? I noticed that expression of disdain at the suggestion, dear.” How his mother could have seen any expression on Leslie’s face, given the way her eyes were fixed on her knitting needles, was a mystery of the arcane maternal arts.
“I wasn’t aware of feeling disdain. Perhaps it was indigestion. Invite her by all means. It’s not like she’ll have that rogue of a brother with her, to drop a teacup or trip over the rug.” Leslie wasn’t sure why he’d felt the need to mention Patrick. Maybe it was simply to divert his mother from any further discussion of Marianne and her matrimonial prospects. It was a topic she’d aired on many an occasion over the years, and one that had subtly featured Leslie as a possible candidate for the woman’s affections, although not so often recently. Could this be her idea of reviving a notion that was always doomed to fail?
“Patrick was certainly the clumsiest child I ever met. He must have grown out of it, or else he’d not have anyone bringing their animals to him. With the exception of women of my age who should know better.” There was very little that escaped the notice of Leslie’s mother, despite the fact that she didn’t do much socially anymore, outside of the church or the local causes she supported. “Is he staying with his parents too?”
“Not that I’m aware of, although to be honest I didn’t ask Marianne the question.” Nor had she offered the information. “I don’t think he works locally.”
“He’s based in Surrey, I believe. Near Epsom, so he can work with horses as well as his beloved dogs. I’d have thought you’d have known that.” That remark was evidently worthy of a direct glance, over the top of her spectacles.
“I haven’t spoken to Patrick in years. Same as I’ve not spoken to Marianne.” Leslie shrugged. “You know what it’s like. People knock around together and are great pals, then they go off in different directions and suddenly find they’ve not spoken in ages. And the longer it goes on, the harder it is to get out one’s pen and paper to jot down a line. It takes an errant hound and some good fortune, like this morning on the common, to re-establish communication.”
It wasn’t just a matter of the length of time. Somehow, the closer you had been to somebody, the trickier it was to make that first move and the more awkward that reconnection might prove. The conversation with Marianne had felt stilted, to say the least.
“Then perhaps a chat over a pot of tea and a scone is exactly what’s called for. I’ll compose a note to Marianne. Was the friend called Geraldine? I shall invite her too.”
Leslie confirmed the name, accepting his fate. He excused himself, saying that a short turn around the garden would be pleasant, before luncheon, although he insisted Max should stay inside, as punishment. The dog snored happily, oblivious of what was being said about him.
Leslie lit a cigarette, hands cupped to protect the match’s flame from the wind. No sooner had he taken the first draw than he heard Edwin leaving the house, heading for the garage where he kept his bicycle. Once Leslie’s mother got an idea in her head, she lost no time on it. Marianne would no doubt accept the invitation, unless she had another engagement that couldn’t be broken. Leslie should use the next few hours preparing himself to be a welcoming host, which was longer than he’d had to gather his wits on the common.
He strolled along the path, glancing with pleasure over the rolling Hampshire countryside. Whoever had laid out the gardens at Larkspur House had known their business, making the most of the south-facing aspect. People were said to have lived in this area for thousands of years, probably enjoying the same view from their villa or roundhouse. When Leslie was a boy, he’d turned up pieces of pottery in the local mole hills, pieces that his father had assured him were Roman. He’d believed it at the time and it might have been true, although Mr. Cadmore did have a plausible way about him.
It was a skill that he’d developed further in the running of his business, gently planting ideas in other people’s heads when it would prove useful, such as the time he’d employed a young man only to find him unsuited to his role. Via a couple of seemingly innocuous conversations, focussed on the young man’s ambitions and happiness, they’d soon reached the point where he’d decided he’d made the wrong choice and would be joining a local brewing company. Leslie grinned in remembrance of the tale.
He’d reached the Larkspur orchard—if half a dozen apple trees and a similar number of both plums and pears could be given that title—which was the place where he’d always been happiest. Sitting in a deckchair in the dappled light or swinging in a hammock, when reading, dozing, studying for exams, or simply enjoying the thrill of being alive in a world untouched by the fingers of war. As a small child, carefully scribing his name and address in his little notebook. Leslie Simon Cadmore, Larkspur House, Kinebridge, Hampshire, England, The World. That world had changed, as so many had warned it would, although some people had still retained the over-optimistic view in 1939 that this time it really might all be over by the first Christmas. Would people ever learn from the past?
The hammock had long since been taken down, and as Leslie wanted to rest his limbs, he had to make his way to the rose garden, where a sturdy wooden bench had been well placed to benefit from any sunshine. Today’s light was watery but bore a hint of warmth to come, and though it would be too early in the year for buds or blossoms on the roses, it wouldn’t be unpleasant to finish his cigarette there, coat wrapped around him.
The bench seemed to fit his shape. When younger, he’d found it too hard, smacking of self-punishment, but now the solidity of it was better suited to his tastes, after years of getting used to discomfort. Bletchley chairs in Bletchley huts. Strange to think how he’d assumed back then that he could easily put the war years and all they’d brought behind him, to return as quickly as possible to his previous life, only to find that the time he’d spent in that place couldn’t be unspent. It would always be part of him.
Be grateful you made it through in one piece—thousands of men and women would have given their right arm to be home for another spring. Some of them did.
It could have been Patrick’s voice in his ear, saying those words, rather than the voice of conscience, but he hadn’t spoken to Patrick in ages and couldn’t even say with certainty when the man had last visited Larkspur House. Yet his presence somehow still seemed to fill the garden, this place where they’d played so often as young children and later as boys on the cusp of manhood. The mentions of Patrick that morning rang accusatorially in Leslie’s ears. How the hell could they have let so much time pass without making contact?
Because you’re a coward. One who didn’t have the guts to ask Patrick either of the two questions you wanted to, afraid that the answers would be too hard to bear.
How easy it should have been to frame the first. “Do you really love me, Patrick, as I really love you, despite everything?” Seeing Marianne had brought that more clearly into focus, had reawakened the need to have Patrick at his side again, whether it was out on the common walking a dog or sitting in the orchard or lying in a bed between cool linen sheets.
The other question would have been trickier, as impossible to ask Patrick as it would have been for Leslie to tackle his father about why he had gone into Combe Abbey. Either question would have risked receiving an answer full of peril, in terms of how it might have irrevocably changed a relationship. Leslie often wondered if he’d somehow driven his father into leaving, perhaps unconsciously forcing the man to consider what it would be like to live a family life in the knowledge that his son was different, and all the disgrace that might bring were it made public. It might have been a safer choice to cut himself off from continually dealing with that. It was easy to love your neighbour—or your family—if you didn’t have to live with them.
But if that hadn’t been his motivation, what had? He must either have been running towards a life of contemplation or running away from something in his secular life that could no longer be borne. Leslie couldn’t shake from his mind the great scandal of 1938, when there’d been an attempted strangling in one of the nearby hamlets. A farmer had given himself in at the local police station, confessing that after fourteen years of constant nagging, he’d snapped and nearly killed his wife. Surely that sudden outburst of violence could never have happened with Leslie’s parents?
There had only been one instance when Mr. Cadmore had shown real aggression, and that had been when on a holiday. He’d killed what had appeared to be an otter with a heavy blow to the skull, much to young Leslie’s horror. It had turned out to be an escapee from a local—illegal—mink farm, about which Mr. Cadmore had been warned.
“Evil creatures, Leslie. Best to get rid of them quickly, before they can cause any harm.” Most anglers would have agreed with him.
More comically, there was a family story about him having boxed the ears of a rival for the love of Leslie’s mother. Yet Mr. Cadmore could be so soft he’d wept at a sermon about the massacre of the innocents.
On the way home he’d explained his distress. “If it’s true—and you take all these Bible stories with a pinch of salt because men wrote them down—then it’s beyond wicked.”
He’d always shown a similar desire to protect his family from harm. Until, of course, he’d broken their hearts by his act of retreat into the life of the cloister. That decision had been so out of character—assuming they had really understood what the man was like and what he wanted. Maybe some part of his father was, and always would remain, hidden and unknowable. Leslie had spent many hours brooding on the subject, having nobody he could discuss such personal things with. Had his father harboured a self-denied yet lifelong devotion to God, one that he was always going to manifest at some point or else be driven mad? He’d left no clue behind when he’d made his abrupt departure, his final note to them, I’ve left you well provided for money-wise. I can’t let you suffer, ringing hollow. Emotional anguish was as hard to bear as financial.
If Leslie was unclear about his father’s motives, he had still less clarity in his thinking about Patrick. The other question Leslie had left unasked was more serious by far. It was almost unthinkable to air, no matter how close the two men had been. Leslie whispered it now, the calm of the garden—as well as the knowledge that nobody could hear—bringing him courage.
Did youmurder Fergus Jackson? And how the hell did you pull it off?
Charlie Cochrane
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.
