“Yes. I think I probably could.”
There was a long pause. A few drops of rain spattered against the window (not such a lovely day after all) and the sounds of shuffling footsteps and the scraping of chairs heralded the start of supper.
The matron stood up.
“I can’t sack you, Ophelia, although I’d like to. To my mind, putting Edie at risk and your gross insolence would more than justify your dismissal. But the procedure is, as you know, three formal warnings. You can consider this to be the first. You will, of course, receive it in writing. From now on, I would advise you to watch your step.”
“Don’t bother,” said Ophelia, surprising even herself. “I’ll save you the trouble and sack myself. I’ll work my notice, of course, but after that, you’ll no longer be troubled by me.”
“In that case there will be no need for you to work your notice,” said the matron, standing up and closing Ophelia’s file. “I think we can just about manage without you, Ophelia. You will receive a month’s pay in lieu, but I think that under the circumstances you will understand that you can hardly expect a reference.”
“Bugger the reference,” said Ophelia, taking a leaf out of Edie’s book and feeling strangely liberated. “Bugger the lot of you.” And she left the room, closing the door carefully behind her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Annie’s Story
“You’d like me to continue, wouldn’t you?” Annie said.
She and Andrew were sitting drinking tea. Ernest’s ashes, which Andrew had just collected from the bus depot, were safely back in their place beside the pickled onions in the larder.
“If you’re ready, yes, I would. I think it might help you, and besides, I’m, well, I’m—”
“Curious?” Annie suggested.
“Yes, if you put it like that, I suppose I am.”
“Well,” Annie put down her cup, “I don’t know where to start. You see, this is the difficult bit.”
Andrew nodded.
“I told you Ernest was getting keen, didn’t I?”
“Yes. You did.”
“I didn’t want to marry him. I really didn’t. But, you see, in the end I had no choice.”
Ernest had decided to propose; Annie guessed that. They might only have been seeing each other for a few months, but she could see the signs. He would start to speak and then suddenly change the subject. He would blush and become confused, and then make some remark about the war or the weather. If Annie had loved him, she would have made things easier for him, but she didn’t love him. If Ernest wanted to ask her to marry him, then she certainly wasn’t going to assist him in his efforts to propose to her.
In the end, perhaps aware of Annie’s lack of enthusiasm, Ernest approached her father.
“Ernest wants to marry you, our Annie. What do you think about that?” her father said, after Ernest’s visit.
“I don’t want to marry him, Dad. I don’t love him.”
“He’s a nice enough lad and he’s got a steady job. You could do a lot worse. And he seems to be pretty keen on you.”
“Does he? He’s never said anything,” said Annie guilelessly.
“Maybe you didn’t give him the encouragement. Anyway, he says he’ll wait as long as it takes. He’ll not take no for an answer.”
“Well, he may have to,” Annie said. “I’m not marrying anyone I don’t love.”
“Then maybe you’ll not marry at all. You can’t afford to be too choosy, our Annie. Where are you going to meet anyone better? You’ll not get another offer as good as this.”
But Annie had no intention of marrying Ernest. He was all right for the time being; for a walk or a drive or the very occasional treat of a night at the pictures. She could even put up with the wet kisses and the moustache. But not for life. Annie had set her sights a lot higher.
Long afterwards, Annie wondered that she could have been so high-handed. She should have let Ernest go, releasing him to find a girl who would love him, and she should have had the patience to wait for a man whom she herself might love. But the enslaving of Ernest had given her a pleasing sense of power, and she was in no particular hurry to relinquish it.
That harvest seemed more hot and more exhausting than any Annie had known. Long days out in the baking fields were followed by all-too-short nights, frequently disturbed by a combination of heat and mosquitoes. Sometimes Annie was so tired that she fell asleep as she was, and would wake to find that she was still wearing the previous day’s grubby shirt and trousers, her head still itching with yesterday’s dust.
In the midst of all this, Ernest remained attentive and occasionally even sympathetic, and since their outings together constituted the only breaks Annie ever had (her father sparing her from her duties presumably in the hope that these expeditions might further Ernest’s cause), she found herself actually looking forward to them. It was a treat to be able to bathe and put on a frock and have a change of scene and company, and Ernest’s accounts of his work at the bank, dull as they were, at least made a change from discussions about corn yields and the all-important question of whether the weather would break before the rest of the harvest was brought in.
By now, the shortage of petrol was such that the majority of drivers had been compelled to take their cars off the roads, but here again Ernest had the support of Annie’s father, for while much of the time he was reduced to using a bicycle, he was allowed sufficient petrol from the farm’s supplies to enable him to take Annie for the occasional drive. In those difficult days, this was luxury indeed.
Ernest rarely drank alcohol. If they went to the pub together, he might have half a pint of beer, but more usually he would drink lemonade. So Annie was surprised when he turned up to fetch her one evening in an unusually good humour and smelling strongly of spirits.
“Shall we go for a drink?” he asked her, as they drove off down the farm track.
Annie wondered whether she should mention the fact that Ernest had apparently already done just that, and maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to add to the quantity he had already had. She hesitated.
“Oh, come on, Annie. I’ve got some celebrating to do. The least you can do is come and celebrate with me.”
“Celebrating?”
“The chief clerk has left the department, and his job is almost certainly mine.”
“Congratulations.”
“Congratulations? Is that all you can say?” The car swerved dangerously near the ditch, and Annie held on to her seat. “It’s wonderful news, and you should be pleased for me.”
“Of course I’m pleased for you.”
“Well then. We’re going to celebrate.”
Annie too was unaccustomed to alcohol, and after three glasses of cider, which had always seemed to her to be one of the more innocent alcoholic drinks, she was inclined to take a much more favourable view of the world in general and Ernest in particular. As for Ernest himself, it only took a couple more drinks to render him uncharacteristically uninhibited and affectionate.
“Lovely Annie.” The moustache tickling Annie’s ear felt almost pleasant. “Lovely lovely Annie.”
Annie bridled and simpered, and ignored the hand which was straying upwards from her knee. Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all, and in the forgiving light of early evening, Ernest was looking almost handsome.
The journey home in the dusk was slow and precarious. The car meandered all over the road as though it had a will of its own, while Ernest’s free hand had somehow reached the top of Annie’s thigh.
“Shall we go for a little walk?” Ernest said, as he parked outside the farm gate and opened the door for Annie to get out. “Just a little walk in the country?”
Annie resisted the temptation to remind him that most of her life was spent walking in the country, and found herself agreeing. It was a lovely evening, the air blessedly cool and the lemony light of the setting sun throwing long shadows behind them. Arm in arm they walked unsteadily back down the lane and through the recently
-shorn cornfields.
“Very prickly,” remarked Ernest, as he picked his way through the stubble.
This struck Annie as terribly funny, and she burst into a fit of giggles.
“Prickly tickly stubble,” said Ernest, pleased with the effect he was having. “Prickly tickly Annie. Pretty prickly tickly Annie.”
“Silly Ernest.” Annie giggled again.
“Shall we sit down?” Ernest spread his coat on the grass under the hedge and pulled Annie down beside him. “Pretty tickly Annie,” he repeated, fumbling with the buttons of Annie’s dress. “Pretty girl.”
Afterwards, Annie was to ask herself over and over again why she hadn’t stopped Ernest while there was still time. Tipsy as she was, she wasn’t particularly tempted to cooperate in her seduction. It would have been quite easy to get up and go home, for Ernest was in no state to prevent her. But her judgment was clouded, and a small part of her felt that she owed Ernest something after all he had done for her. And where was the harm? She was even a bit curious, and it would certainly be some time before she had another opportunity like this.
Annie knew little about sex, and it had never occurred to her that it was meant to be pleasurable, but now, with her head pushed back into the stubble, sharp corn stalks pricking the backs of her calves and Ernest rootling about somewhere in between, she wondered why anyone ever bothered to do this strange and extraordinarily rude thing. Ernest had stopped murmuring his little endearments, and appeared to be concentrating on the job in hand, while somewhere outside it all, as though removed from the whole business, all Annie could think of was that if only she had known what was going to happen, she would have put on a more respectable pair of knickers.
The pain, when it came, was sharp and unpleasant, but the lingering effects of the cider were sufficient to dull Annie’s sensibilities, and she bore her ordeal with stoicism. Ernest, meanwhile, seemed to be finding the whole thing terribly hard work, and there was a great deal of puffing and panting as he pumped energetically up and down over her recumbent body. Annie watched the first pale outline of the moon appearing and disappearing rhythmically beyond Ernest’s shoulder, and wondered whether he had done this before. She also hoped very much that he would finish soon.
Afterwards, Ernest rolled off her and stumbled to his feet, turning away to do up his trousers. Any hint of the humour and affection which had preceded their lovemaking — if indeed that was what this was — appeared to have evaporated, and he seemed anxious to be on his way.
They returned to the car in silence, Annie hopping and stumbling after Ernest’s hurrying figure (no complaints of prickly stubble now), carrying her shoes in her hand.
“What’s wrong? What’s the matter, Ernest?” she asked when she finally caught up with him.
“You don’t know?” Ernest turned to face her, and while it was by now too dark to see his face, Annie knew that he was angry.
“No,” she said, with absolute truth. “I don’t know. I thought — that — was what you wanted.”
“What you wanted, you mean.”
“What I wanted?” Annie was stunned. Did Ernest really think that what had just happened had been an enjoyable experience for her?
“That’s what I said.” Ernest opened the car door and retrieved the starting handle. “What you wanted. We shouldn’t — you shouldn’t — well, it’s too late to talk about that now. I just never thought you were that sort of girl. You’ve surprised me, Annie. You really have. In fact, I think I’d better be going. You can find your way back from here can’t you? You’ve only got to cross the yard.” Rather unsteadily, he began to crank up the engine.
“Yes,” Annie whispered, tears springing to her eyes. The effects of the cider had worn off, and she felt sore and humiliated and ashamed. All she wanted now was to get home, have a thorough wash and regain the security of her own bedroom. She bent down to put on her shoes, wondering why it should matter if Ernest was displeased. After all, as she had told her father, she didn’t really care for him, so why should she worry if she had somehow incurred his displeasure?
And yet how dare Ernest talk to her the way he had? How dare he? “That sort of girl”, indeed! Who did he think he was? He was no more entitled to occupy the moral high-ground than she was, and yet he seemed perfectly happy to lay all the blame on her. If he never came back, she was well shot of him. In fact this evening had shown Ernest up in a new light. It was a good thing she hadn’t made a permanent commitment before discovering this new and decidedly unpleasant side to him.
So why did she feel suddenly so afraid? As Annie turned towards the house, she shivered. She had a dreadful feeling that she had not seen the last of Ernest.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Andrew
“Bad news, I’m afraid. Your cat’s dead.”
Your cat. Not our cat, nor even the cat, but your cat. Andrew’s cat. Tobias. Tobias, whom Janet had always disliked. And now it was she who was breaking the news to him on his return home after a particularly stressful day.
Andrew sat down.
“How? I mean, what happened? He was fine this morning.”
“No, he wasn’t. He hadn’t been fine for ages. He’d been going downhill for months, and you wouldn’t do anything about it. It was inhumane to keep an animal like that alive at his age. Nearly twenty—”
“Seventeen, actually.”
“Well, seventeen, then. Anyway, he’d been having accidents all over the house —” (two accidents, and one had happened in Andrew’s study, and therefore didn’t count) “— and someone had to do something.”
“You mean you.”
“Well, yes, as it happens. Me. Somebody had to take charge, and I knew you’d never get round to it. He managed to get out of your study and made a mess on the sitting-room floor. It was the last straw. We really can’t have that sort of thing in the vicarage. I phoned the vet and told him all about it, and he said that what with that and his age, it might be the kindest thing to have him put down. So I took him along this morning, and the vet said I’d done the right thing. Heart failure or kidney failure; something like that. Anyway, he said there was nothing anyone could have done to make him any better, and his quality of life was minimal.”
Andrew felt a swell of grief and rage which amazed even himself, and he clutched the edge of the table to steady himself.
“You mean that you took it upon yourself to have my cat put down when I was out, and when I couldn’t be around to give my opinion? You, who have never taken any interest in him at all, decide when it’s time for him to die? I can’t believe you’ve done this, Janet. I just can’t believe it. I thought even you had a little more — compassion.”
“What do you mean, even me? No one’s ever accused me of lacking sympathy! I always do my best to consider other people and do what’s best, you know I do.”
“No you don’t!” Andrew shouted, beside himself. “You knew how fond I was of that cat! You’ve never liked him, and you took the opportunity to — to do this thing while I was out of the house and couldn’t do anything to stop you!”
“I tried ringing you on your mobile, but as usual it was switched off.”
“I was taking a funeral, Janet. It would hardly have been appropriate for me to have my mobile switched on during a funeral.”
“Well, it’s done now.” Janet turned back to the papers she was sorting. “There’s nothing anyone can do about it now. And I think it’s for the best.”
“I don’t know how you could do this, knowing how much he meant to me.” Andrew swallowed hard, trying to regain some self-control. He pressed his fingers against his temples, and took a couple of deep breaths before speaking again. “And am I allowed to know where he is now?”
“Where he is?”
“Yes. His body. Where’s his body? What did you do with it?”
“Oh, I didn’t do anything with it. I left it at the vet’s. He said he’d deal with it.”
Andrew stood up.
“Where are y
ou going now?” Janet asked.
“To fetch my cat,” Andrew said. “I wasn’t allowed to make the decision about his death; I wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye to him. I hope I may at least be allowed to decide what to do with his body.”
On the way to the vet’s, Andrew wept. It was years since he had shed tears — in fact, quite recently he had wondered whether he was still capable of crying — but now he wept unashamedly. He wept for the tiny rescued kitten who had been brought to his door (“We knew you’d look after him, Vicar”), and for the seventeen years of companionship which had followed; for the evenings reading or writing sermons, with the warm softly-purring body twined round his neck (more latterly, curled on his knee, for Tobias in old age had lost his athleticism); for the sinuous twisting round his legs when he managed to smuggle a treat — a little cream, or maybe some sardines — into his study. But most of all, he wept for Janet’s total disregard for his own feelings. For if she could do this to him, then it was quite clear that she could no longer care for him at all.
The nurse at the vet’s was very pleasant. No, they hadn’t disposed of the body yet, and if Andrew would care to wait, she would bring it to him.
Andrew waited. Around him, people sat on hard, waiting-room chairs holding dogs’ leads or carrying cages or boxes from which emanated a variety of scratchings and squeakings. Someone even had a glass bowl with an obviously dead upside-down goldfish in it. If this wasn’t so awful, Andrew thought, it would be funny. How seriously we all take our pets, we British. Could it be that all these people were, like him, looking for a type of companionship they couldn’t get elsewhere? Were they, too, lonely and disappointed?
“Here you are.” The nurse handed Andrew a cardboard box. It felt surprisingly heavy considering the frailty of the body inside.
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