Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  But that was then. Now, he felt that lust would have been far easier to cope with than the emotions aroused in him by Ophelia, which were more complex and held within them the potential to be infinitely more dangerous. There was tenderness and a sense of kinship, but also a desire to look after her, which was ridiculous, because no doubt Ophelia was perfectly capable of looking after herself.

  Andrew looked at his watch. It was still only midday, and he had the rest of the day ahead of him. He had plenty of paperwork and reading to catch up on, but he didn’t want to go home yet.

  Janet was holding some sort of meeting in the vicarage — a “working lunch”, she called it — and he knew the house would be swarming with those loud, upholstered but well-meaning women upon whom the church depended for so much but whom he found so wearying. Since the death of Tobias, he had found his home even less welcoming than it used to be. Apart from the days when the loyal and adoring Josephine was working, there was no one to greet him when he returned, unless you counted Janet’s “Is that you, Andrew?” (who else could it possibly be?), or the numerous answerphone messages, all, it seemed, from people demanding his immediate attention. In an attempt to build at the very least a small bridge, Andrew had suggested that he and Janet do something together this afternoon, but the idea had been brushed aside, its good intention unacknowledged. Janet, it seemed, had more important things to do.

  But we can’t go on like this, he thought. The death of Tobias had marked a crisis in their marriage, and yet neither he nor Janet had mentioned it since. Tobias in death was far more of a threat to their relationship than he had ever been in life, and Andrew was aware that now they both tiptoed round the subject, anxious not to disturb it in case it should explode and wreak further damage. If he was honest, he thought that Janet probably regretted what she had done, but she had never been much good at apologising. As for Andrew himself, he thought that if he were ever to allow himself the luxury of saying all the things he wanted to say, he might never stop. It seemed that all the anger and resentment and disappointment he had ever felt in his marriage was concentrated on that single act of betrayal. Now, when he said the Lord’s Prayer, he found himself unable to complete those most-familiar of words, “as we forgive them ...”. He would get so far, and then falter, for try as he might, he couldn’t forgive Janet. He had prayed about it; he had tried to see the situation from Janet’s point of view; he had even spoken about it to Father Matthew, the gentle elderly priest who was his spiritual adviser. But the forgiveness wouldn’t come.

  It had become a sticking-point not only in his marriage but in his fragile relationship with his God; perhaps the last straw for both.

  Ophelia wouldn’t have done a thing like that, he found himself thinking, and was shocked at himself. Ophelia again. What was Ophelia to him? She was simply the granddaughter of an elderly woman he visited. He had met her once, and then fleetingly. He met many young women in the course of his work, and didn’t give them a second thought. Some of them even he could see were more beautiful than Ophelia could ever hope to be; many were more successful (Annie had told him of Ophelia’s abrupt exit from the nursing home), but there had been something about her which he had found irresistible.

  But I must resist, he thought, as he turned on the engine and started up the car. Life was quite difficult enough without inviting further complications. Andrew determined that he would make sure that he never saw Ophelia again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ophelia

  “He’s nice, your vicar,” Ophelia said casually, as she sliced tomatoes for lunch.

  “He’s been very good to me,” Annie said, getting plates out of a cupboard.

  “How did you get on this morning?”

  “It was difficult.”

  “In what way difficult? He seems very — approachable.”

  “Oh, he’s easy enough to talk to, but it’s what I have to say that’s difficult. Painful, I suppose. Going over the past. But there’s worse to come, and that’s something I’ve never talked about.”

  “Haven’t you ever told anyone at all?” Ophelia grated some cheese. It was hard round the edges, and there were slight traces of mould. She scraped them off.

  “No one at all. No. Ernest — Grandad — wouldn’t let me.”

  “Did you always do what he told you to?” Ophelia asked.

  “Didn’t have much choice.” Annie paused in what she was doing. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

  “Sorry. I suppose I’m interested. Family history and all that. We don’t really know each other, do we, Gran?”

  “I suppose we don’t. I did try, though. When you were little. But I don’t think your mum trusted me.”

  Ophelia laughed. “Mum didn’t trust anyone. She used to turn up unexpectedly at school. There was always some excuse, but I think she was trying to catch the teachers out, though what she thought they might be up to I’ve no idea. Is there any pickle?”

  “There might be some in the larder.”

  Ophelia hunted through the jumble of half-empty jars and bottles and unearthed an ancient jar of chutney.

  “That was your grandad’s favourite,” Annie said.

  “It’s a bit — old.” There was an unpleasant black crust round the rim of the jar and the contents smelt unappetising.

  “Well, he’s been dead a few months now, hasn’t he?”

  They both laughed.

  “Oh dear. We shouldn’t laugh, should we?” Annie said, looking suddenly stricken.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not as though we’re doing any harm, are we?”

  “I suppose not. We didn’t laugh much, your grandad and I.”

  “Were you — were you very unhappy?” Ophelia ventured, aware that she could be treading on sensitive ground.

  “A lot of the time, I suppose. Yes, I was. I think I’ve only recently realised how unhappy. Talking to Andrew’s made me understand much more than I did.”

  “Will you tell him — everything?” Ophelia asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I think I might. It was difficult at the beginning, but now I’ve got started it’s getting much easier. Did you buy any bread?”

  “Yes. It’s unsliced, I’m afraid. All I could get.”

  “That’s all right. Your grandad wouldn’t eat the other sort.”

  How odd, Ophelia thought. In some ways, she still behaves as through Grandad’s alive; she’s still pandering to his little idiosyncrasies. Ophelia wondered whether Annie had got rid of any of Ernest’s things, and rather doubted it. She had noted the raincoat hanging in the hallway, the Wellington boots in the porch, a worn shaving brush in the bathroom.

  “And Andrew,” she said now, buttering a slice of bread. “How often do you see him?”

  “Once a week usually. Occasionally twice, if he happens to be passing. Depends what he’s doing.”

  “Am I — am I likely to see him again?”

  Annie eyed her sharply.

  “You might do. Why?”

  “I just wondered,” Ophelia said, puzzled as to why it was she was having such trouble getting this stranger out of her head.

  Ever since she’d met him that morning, something about him had haunted her. His pale, sensitive face, his grey-green eyes, the way his hair (mouse-brown like her own) flopped over his forehead, the affectionate embrace he had given Annie when he’d arrived (when had anyone last embraced her grandmother, she wondered?). Perhaps it’s just that I automatically take to anyone who shows real kindness to elderly people, she thought. Maybe that’s it. The old are so often sidelined; treated as though they are invisible. This man really seems to care. This man is kind.

  “Has he got children?” she asked now. It seemed a bit less direct than asking if Andrew had a wife.

  “No. But he is married. Not very happily, reading between the lines. But then, who is?”

  Ophelia thought of her own parents. Were they happy? Certainly, their marriage appeared to work. At any rate, they were still toge
ther. They didn’t have rows. Each had their role in the relationship, and nothing was allowed to rock the boat. If they had a difference of opinion, the subject was immediately closed, as though allowing it to be aired might pose some threat or, at the very least, upset the carefully balanced status quo. They had their separate interests, but always holidayed together, although Billy hated going abroad (Sheila’s choice) and Sheila disliked hillwalking and golf (Billy’s). Another child might have helped (it would certainly have helped Ophelia to have someone to share the load of parental expectation), but none had been forthcoming, although Sheila made no secret of her disappointment and Billy would certainly have liked a son.

  “Have you met his wife?” Ophelia asked.

  “No reason to,” Annie said. “They live in town, of course, and I don’t go to church, so our paths don’t really cross. I have to admit, though, I’m curious.”

  Ophelia, who was also curious, but for quite different reasons, wondered how she could engineer a visit to church for the two of them without arousing suspicion.

  “Is it a nice church?” she asked.

  “The little one in the village isn’t much, but it’s only used about once a month. The main one’s in town. Quite nice, I think, but I’ve only seen it from the outside. I never did know much about architecture.”

  “We could go and see it while I’m here, couldn’t we? I’ve got the car,” Ophelia said. “It would be nice if you were to show an interest, after all he’s done for you,” she added.

  “You seem to be showing quite an interest yourself,” remarked Annie.

  “Nothing wrong with exploring a bit. We could go this afternoon if you’ve nothing else planned. And then maybe find somewhere to have a cup of tea,” Ophelia said, cutting the sandwiches she had made into neat triangles. “Let’s have lunch, shall we?”

  Later on that afternoon, when Annie had had her customary nap and Ophelia had washed up the lunch things, they set off together in the car.

  “You’re lucky living here,” Ophelia said, as they drove past fields of black and white cows and ripening wheat. “I’d love to live in the country.”

  “It’s pretty lonely,” Annie said. “When we first moved here, there was a shop and a post office. You could meet up with people and have a chat. Now there’s nothing.”

  “But you were brought up in the country, weren’t you?” Ophelia knew little about the countryside and had romantic ideas about rural life, which she imagined to be an idyll of meadows and sunsets and the trilling of skylarks (Ophelia had never heard a skylark, and wouldn’t have recognised one if she had). She couldn’t imagine wanting to exchange all that for the noise and bustle of crowds and shops and traffic.

  “That was different,” Annie said. “I was useful then. I’m not much use to anyone now, am I?”

  She’s right, Ophelia thought, remembering the residents in the home. It’s being needed that people miss as they get older. However much help they are given, however many treats may be arranged for them, nothing compensates for being unable to make a contribution themselves. She recalled last Christmas, when the old people had been loaded onto a coach to be taken to, of all things, a pantomime. The other staff had thought it a charming idea, but the expressions on the residents’ faces had told a quite different story. One elderly woman, who had bravely refused to join the party (although she was accused of being awkward and ungrateful) had defied the health and safety regulations to spend what had seemed to Ophelia to be a far happier afternoon helping the kitchen staff prepare vegetables for supper.

  “You’re of use to me,” Ophelia said now, patting Annie’s hand.

  “What use?”

  “If I hadn’t come to stay with you, I’d be at home listening to Dad telling me what a dreadful disappointment I am.”

  “We’re both dreadful disappointments then, aren’t we?” Annie said. “Your grandad was pretty disappointed in me. I don’t think I was at all the sort of wife he’d hoped for.”

  They both laughed.

  “Well, we’d better make sure we don’t disappoint each other,” Ophelia said. “This must be the church.”

  Rising from sturdy Norman origins, the church sported various later additions and some spectacular stained glass.

  “It’s rather beautiful,” Ophelia said, impressed, as they wandered together down the nave. Two women were dusting the pews, and a third was arranging flowers on the altar. She wondered whether any of them could be Andrew’s wife, but there seemed to be no subtle way of finding out.

  “You were christened here,” Annie said.

  “Was I?” Ophelia was surprised.

  “Your grandad had just had his hip done, and couldn’t travel,” Annie said. “You wore frills and screamed a lot,” she added.

  “Why do you suppose they had me christened?” Ophelia asked. As far as she knew, her parents had never been churchgoers and held no particular religious belief.

  “Probably to be on the safe side,” Annie said. “Like an insurance policy. I’ll say one thing for your parents. If there was anything going, they wanted you to have it.”

  After Ophelia had prolonged the visit for as long as she reasonably could (no sign of Andrew or, as far as she could tell, his wife), they adjourned to a tea shop for refreshment.

  “My treat,” Ophelia said, ordering chocolate eclairs.

  “I thought you were out of work,” Annie said.

  “I am. I’m also supposed to be trying to lose weight. But what the hell?” She grinned. “Hey, Gran. I could do your hair for you if you like. I’m quite good with hair.”

  “What’s wrong with my hair?” For years, Annie had made a fortnightly trip into town to have her hair shampooed and rolled into rows of identical grey curls. Every three months, she had a cut and perm. It had never occurred to her to have it done any other way. Besides, who was there to care what she looked like?

  “Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s just that it looks — old. Like everyone else.” Ophelia had often wondered why the residents in the home had all seemed to go for the same stereotypical grey perm, emerging from their weekly hairdos (a hairdresser visited the home on Thursdays) like so many elderly clones.

  “Well, I am old.”

  “Not that old, you’re not.” Ophelia took a bite of her eclair. “What colour did it used to be?”

  “A sort of strawberry blonde, I suppose. Not a bad colour at all. I used to be quite proud of it, though Ernest always said he preferred brunettes.”

  “We could rinse a bit of that blonde back in if you like,” Ophelia said. “Not too brassy, but just a hint, to liven it up. What do you think?”

  “I think,” said Annie, wiping cream off her chin, “it’s a mad idea, but what have I got to lose?”

  “Good for you, Gran! And now, shall we have another eclair?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Annie

  The following evening, Billy phoned.

  “How are things, Mother?” he asked. “How are you coping with Ophelia?”

  “You don’t usually phone on a Tuesday,” Annie said. Saturday was Billy’s day for phoning her. He always rang at five o’clock on the dot, so that he and Sheila had time to prepare for any social engagement they might be planning, and Annie and her son usually spoke for about ten minutes. They rarely had much to say to one another.

  “Well, I’m phoning tonight.” Billy’s voice had that patient tone that Annie found so patronising. “How are you and Ophelia getting along?”

  “Fine. We’re getting along very well.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “How’s she been? Is she behaving herself? Has she given you any idea of what she wants to do?”

  “Well, yesterday she made some lovely cheese and tomato sandwiches for lunch. We didn’t bother with pickle, though, because it looked a bit —”

  “No. I mean what she’s going to do. With her life. A career. That sort of thing.”

  “Oh, I don’t think she wants t
o do anything. She hasn’t said, anyway.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” Billy sighed. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into her.”

  It was a long time since Annie had been invited to talk sense into anyone, and she certainly wasn’t going to jeopardise this new relationship with Ophelia by trying to subject her to anything of that sort.

  “I don’t really think it’s my job,” she said. “Besides, Ophelia seems a very sensible girl. Probably more sensible than me, if the truth be told.”

  “Quite possibly.” There followed a silence in which Billy’s exasperation was palpable. “And when is it she’s coming home?”

  “I think she said Thursday. That’s right, isn’t it?” Annie turned to Ophelia, who was listening in to the conversation with some amusement. “You’re staying until Thursday?”

  “Make it next Thursday,” said Ophelia recklessly. “If you’ll have me, that is.”

  “Next Thursday,” Annie told Billy. “She’s not coming home until next Thursday.”

  “But she told us this Thursday!”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “I was just making sure. Finalising, you could say. Just as well I did, as it happens. But she can’t possibly stay an extra week. It will be far too much for you having a visitor for all that time, and her mother needs the car.”

  “Your mother needs the car,” Annie told Ophelia.

  “Tell him you need my company,” Ophelia said. “Tell him it’s a shame to come all this way for such a short time.”

  Annie relayed the message.

  “He wants to speak to you,” she said, handing Ophelia the phone.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  The receiver buzzed angrily for several minutes.