Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  “Nice views,” Annie repeated, thoughtfully. “Ernest liked a nice view.”

  “There we are, then.”

  “Are you ready for this?” Annie asked. “After — what’s happened?”

  “Probably not,” Ophelia said. “But if I wait until — until this doesn’t hurt so much, I may have to wait for ever. And I’d love to go away with you, Gran.”

  “Whatever will your father say?”

  “He’ll say ‘And what are you going to use for money, Ophelia?’” Ophelia said, in a passable imitation of Billy. “And I suppose he’ll have a point.”

  “I’ll pay,” Annie said. “Your grandad had a building society account. I never knew what was in it, but he had seventeen thousand pounds. Imagine that, Ophelia! Seventeen thousand pounds, and it’s all mine.”

  “But don’t you need it?” Ophelia said.

  “No,” Annie said firmly. “I want to fritter it away. That’s what Ernest always said. He said if I got hold of any money, I’d just fritter it away, so he never gave me any. Well, we can fritter it together, can’t we? Some of it, anyway.”

  “I wonder how we’ll get him through customs,” Ophelia mused. “There are probably regulations.”

  “We could divide him up into little bags,” Annie suggested. She knew nothing at all about customs, but had heard that they could be awkward.

  “No. They might think he was drugs. I’ll make enquiries. Someone’s bound to know. Let’s look for a suitable mountain.”

  Annie fetched Ernest’s atlas, and together they examined it. There seemed to be a great many mountains, and Ophelia’s (failed) GCSE geography and Annie’s limited knowledge of the world didn’t amount to much, but they agreed that Austria looked manageable.

  “I’ve always fancied Austria,” Ophelia said. “Edelweiss and gentians, and those pretty wooden houses with balconies and geraniums.”

  “And those funny little leather trousers?” Annie asked.

  “Lederhosen. Yes, I expect so.”

  “They wouldn’t have suited your grandad,” Annie said.

  “Quite possibly not.” They both laughed.

  The knock at the front door make them both jump.

  “Who can that be, at this time of night?” Annie said.

  But Ophelia knew exactly who it was. She got up slowly.

  “I’ll go and let him in,” she said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Andrew

  Andrew sat on in his car for some time, and was eventually disturbed by two policemen, who pulled up beside him in a panda car. He wound down his window.

  “Is everything all right, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you, officer.” Andrew wished he was wearing his dog collar.

  “It’s just that you looked distressed.”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I breathalyse you, sir?”

  Did he really look drunk? He may have appeared a bit dishevelled, but he was respectably dressed, legally parked, and it was 7.15 in the morning. Had the police nothing better to do?

  Andrew duly obliged.

  “That’s fine. Thank you, sir. Have a good day.” The police car roared off down the road, officious, businesslike, purposeful.

  Unlike me, Andrew thought; because for once he had nothing particular to do. The conference wasn’t due to finish until lunchtime, and he didn’t want to arouse suspicion by arriving home too early. He longed to talk to Ophelia — to make sure she was all right, to hear the sound of her voice — but she didn’t finish work until 5.30 and he didn’t want to phone her and risk causing her further upset.

  I have no one, Andrew thought, in a rare moment of self-pity. There is no one I can talk to; no one who will listen and understand. Once, he would have prayed, secure in the belief that God at least would be there for him; would hear him and guide him. But his recent relationship with God had become increasingly fragile, and he was aware that guilt and self-doubt could be bigger barriers than a mere dwindling of faith.

  Then he remembered Father Matthew, and the words which were almost the last he had spoken to him: “I shall be here, if you need me.” In his unassuming way, Father Matthew had of course known that sooner or later Andrew would have need of him; that he was the only person to whom Andrew could turn when his life reached the crisis which had become inevitable. At the time, Andrew had wondered whether he would ever see his spiritual adviser again; after all, what he was doing was so incompatible with his calling, that involving Father Matthew seemed an indulgence he didn’t deserve. And yet now he knew that that gentle, wise man was precisely the person he needed.

  He looked at his watch. It was still only half past seven, but he knew that Father Matthew was an early riser, and it would take him some time to get there. He switched on the ignition.

  An hour later, Father Matthew, not looking in the least surprised at this early and unscheduled visit, was holding the door open for him.

  “Ah. Andrew. You’re just in time for breakfast.”

  “Thanks. No breakfast, thank you, but coffee would be nice.”

  “Coffee it is, then.”

  Andrew had never been in the kitchen before, and was reassured by its state of mild bachelor chaos. There were books and papers strewn on work tops, unwashed cups and plates on the draining board, and a pile of crumpled laundry on a chair.

  “I would ask you to excuse the mess, but I always think it’s such a ridiculous thing to say.” Father Matthew, having hunted down the coffee, was spooning it into mugs. “All it really means, is ‘I acknowledge the untidiness, but have better things to do than deal with it.’” He put the mugs on a tray, together with a plate of buttered toast (“I’m hungry even if you are not”) and led the way to the study.

  “You’ve been expecting me, haven’t you?” Andrew said, as he sat down.

  “Not exactly expecting you. More waiting for you.” Father Matthew took a bite of toast. “I suppose I hoped you would come. You could say that I needed you to come. I felt that we had unfinished business.”

  “We?”

  “Don’t look so surprised. When you told me — well, when you told me what was happening in your life, I was unable to offer much in the way of comfort. Maybe now I shall be able to do more.”

  “I’m not sure anyone can offer comfort now,” Andrew said.

  “Try me.”

  So Andrew told Father Matthew everything. He talked of his love and his fears, of his guilt and his doubts, and of the enormous joy and the utter despair of loving Ophelia.

  “I was greedy,” he said, as he reached the end of his story. “Just for a while I thought I could have it all. I managed to persuade myself that I owed it to Ophelia. I even managed to convince myself that I deserved it. But all I’ve done is hurt Ophelia, and probably Annie too, and put everything else in my life at risk. I’ve done so much damage. How can I begin to put it right?”

  For a few moments, there was silence. Father Matthew sat peaceably, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes on Andrew’s face.

  “But have you really done that much damage? Think about it. You’ve given love to Ophelia, and that is never bad. And you have received love yourself. Annie sounds to me as though she’s had a lot worse to contend with than this. And you say you don’t think that Janet knows, so your marriage may well survive. As for God, well, He’s always had a soft spot for sinners.”

  “I feel I’ve lost my grip on God,” Andrew said.

  “Ah, but has He lost His grip on you? That’s what matters.”

  “I suppose I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “Well, perhaps you should.”

  “Yes. Perhaps I should. For a long time, I’ve felt that my faith’s been dwindling, and yet when it comes to it, I can’t let it go, either.” Andrew stirred his coffee. It was almost cold. “But what shall I do now? What’s the best thing to do?”

  “Well, I can’t answer that. It depends on what you come to feel is right. If you want to remain in the pr
iesthood — and I hope you will — it’s possible you may need a break of some sort. Perhaps a retreat. And then maybe you might consider a change of parish.”

  “Would it be right to run away from Ophelia?”

  “A great deal better than leaving her to run away from you. A new parish might be a challenge, for you and for Janet. A fresh start for both of you.”

  “Janet and I aren’t happy. We haven’t been happy for years.”

  “I know that. But when did the two of you last really talk to each other?”

  “Oh, ages ago. Janet won’t.”

  “Janet won’t?”

  Andrew thought for a moment. It was certainly a long time since he had tried to talk to Janet, and recently there had been indications that perhaps she was ready to make a move towards him. The purchase of the kitten had been a big step for Janet, and yet he hadn’t been especially gracious.

  “Perhaps I haven’t tried hard enough,” he admitted.

  “Then try. What have you to lose? At least find out what she feels; what she wants. Communicate with her.” Father Matthew got up and opened the window to release a fly which was buzzing against the window pane. “It will be difficult,” he continued, as he sat down again, “because you want Ophelia, and wanting Ophelia will get in the way of trying to make things work with Janet. Also, at the moment you are heartbroken, and heartbreak’s like an illness. It takes time. But, believe me, Andrew. One day, you will be happy again. It may not be for some time, but there will come a day when happiness will surprise you. Whether or not you stay with Janet; whether or not you remain in the church. The human spirit — your human spirit — will find something to rejoice about, and you will know that you have turned a corner. That you are alive again.”

  For the second time that day, Andrew found that tears were running down his cheeks, and he buried his face in his hands.

  “Have hope, Andrew.” Father Matthew put his arm around Andrew’s shoulders. “It will be hard, but have hope. Thank God for Ophelia’s love, and then let her go, as I believe you already have.”

  “How will I bear it?” Andrew asked. “How does anyone bear the pain of parting from someone whom they love so much?”

  “You will bear it because you have to; because in a way you have never given yourself any other choice. And because it’s the right thing to do. It’s sometimes easier to live with this kind of pain than to live with the knowledge that you have paid for what you want with the happiness of others. Believe me. I know.”

  “It’s happened to you?”

  “Oh yes. As I believe I mentioned. And I thought I should never get over it. But I did. I have never forgotten — one never does forget — but I have healed.”

  “May I see her again?” Andrew asked, after a moment.

  “That’s not up to me. But yes. I think you owe it to her to see her again and say goodbye. And I shall be here. If you need me.”

  When Andrew got back to the vicarage, he found it in a state of mild pandemonium.

  “Oh, Vicar! Thank goodness you’re home.” Josephine met him at the door. “Janet’s mother’s been taken ill, the heating’s broken down in the church, and that dratted kitten’s gone missing.” Josephine felt much the same as Andrew did about the kitten, and made no attempt to disguise her feelings.

  “Goodness.” Andrew hung up his coat. “Where’s Janet now?”

  “She had to go. Her mother’s in hospital in Birmingham. She tried to get hold of you, but your mobile was switched off. The heating engineers can’t get here till next week. As for the kitten, it’s probably been run over by now.”

  “Josephine!”

  “Well. Nasty little thing, with its snooty little face. You don’t like it either, Vicar. You know you don’t.”

  “No, but I try.”

  “I don’t have to try,” Josephine said loftily. “It’s nothing to do with me.”

  “Janet will be upset if anything happens to it,” Andrew said. “She’s become quite fond of it. And Josephine, please put that duster away.”

  “What did you say?” Josephine was becoming forgetful, and often neglected to wear her hearing aid.

  “The duster. Don’t bother with that.”

  “Your study’s a disgrace. What will people think?”

  “People will think what they’ve always thought. It’s always been like this. Just sort out those agendas for next week, there’s a dear.”

  “I’ve done them.”

  “Then do go home. Before it starts raining again.”

  After Josephine had gone, Andrew sat on in his study for a long time. The phone rang several times, but he ignored it. The clock struck three and then four o’clock. Someone came to the door to ask about a wedding. Eventually, Janet rang him on his mobile to tell him her mother wasn’t expected to live, and she would be staying on.

  “Do you want me to come and join you?” Andrew asked. “I could get away for twenty-four hours. If it would help.”

  “No. I’ll be fine.” Janet’s voice sounded unsteady. “You’ve got enough to do without this.”

  “Well, keep me in touch, won’t you.”

  “Of course.”

  Poor Janet, Andrew thought, as he went to make himself some tea. She was close to her mother, and would take her loss badly. Whatever had happened between himself and Janet, he cared about her, and hated the idea of her being alone and distressed in Birmingham. They were still a couple; she was still his wife. And if their marriage was a disappointment to him, it must be just as disappointing for her. We’re both trapped, he thought; like Annie and Ernest. What was it Annie had said, when he last saw her? That she had been determined to survive. Whatever fate threw at her, Annie was going to survive it, and she had done just that.

  But Annie was made of sterner stuff than he was, and Andrew wanted more than mere survival. If he couldn’t be happy — and at the moment, happiness didn’t appear to be an option — then perhaps the answer lay in change. A change of direction for his ministry, and perhaps even for his marriage. If he and Janet could involve themselves in a new parish with new demands and new challenges, they might at least become more of a team. Father Matthew had been right. They needed to talk, and he was the one who would have to instigate it. Andrew had never been particularly assertive. Perhaps now was the time to start.

  There was a knock at the front door. Andrew went to answer it.

  “I think this is yours.” A small boy was standing on the doorstep holding a very bedraggled-looking and not very white kitten.

  “Thank you. Yes, it is.” Andrew fumbled in his pocket for some change. Whatever he might think of his pet, its safe return was certainly deserving of a reward.

  The kitten seemed humbled by its experience (whatever that had been) and pathetically pleased with the saucer of milk Andrew offered it. Maybe it, too, was not beyond redemption.

  Andrew must have dozed off in his chair, for the next thing he knew, it was dark outside and the clock was striking seven. He awoke to a feeling of doom, without fully remembering its cause, but within seconds the events of the day and of the previous night came back to him, and he was filled with a dull despair.

  It was raining again, the bright drops caught in the lamplight as they splashed against the uncurtained window. The room had grown chilly, and Andrew shivered. He got up and went into the hallway for his coat and car-keys.

  He had a visit to make.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Annie

  The murmur of voices in the hallway continued for some time, and Annie wondered what she should do. She didn’t like to go through to the living-room as that might disturb them, so she decided to stay where she was. She was glad that Ophelia had closed the kitchen door, for while a part of her longed to know what was going on, she disliked the idea of eavesdropping at a time like this.

  She went to the sink and washed up the tea things, wondering what she should do with the cake, which was sitting reproachfully in its moat of sticky pink jam. She herself was q
uite hungry, for neither she nor Ophelia had eaten much supper, but to sit on her own in the kitchen eating cake while Ophelia and Andrew had their talk seemed heartless, so she put the cake in the larder and buttered herself a piece of bread instead. Bread was serious stuff. No one could be considered thoughtless for eating a piece of bread.

  The hands of the electric clock jerked towards nine, and she turned on the radio to listen to the news. A blizzard was forecast, and someone famous had fallen off a cliff. Annie wasn’t interested in the blizzard, since there was little she could do about it, and she’d never heard of the dead person. There seemed to be an awful lot of people she hadn’t heard of these days. She sometimes read about them in magazines at the hairdresser’s. They seemed to spend much of their time getting their noses and bosoms rearranged and having posh weddings and then getting divorced.

  After what seemed an eternity, the kitchen door opened and Andrew and Ophelia came in. They both looked drained, and Ophelia had been crying again.

  “Hello, Annie.” Andrew kissed her on the cheek. “I’m so sorry to descend on you like this. Ophelia and I needed to talk.”

  “Would you like me to go?” Annie asked, making to get up from her chair.

  “No. No, of course not. But I’ll sit down for a moment if I may.”

  “Tea, anyone?” Ophelia took the kettle over to the sink.

  “There’s some wine in the cupboard,” Annie said, thinking that perhaps something stronger than tea might be helpful and recalling Ernest’s secret cache. The whisky had long gone, but Annie had never cared much for wine.

  “Wine?” Ophelia looked doubtful.

  “Yes. It was your grandad’s. I think he won it in a raffle.” Perhaps wine wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  “Oh, why not?” Andrew said. “Thank you, Annie. Wine would be very nice.”

  Annie found the wine while Ophelia dusted three glasses. There didn’t appear to be a corkscrew, but Annie remembered Ernest’s Swiss army knife, which had all manner of exciting gadgets, so they used that.

  It was a long time since the three of them had sat together round the kitchen table, and Annie thought with a pang that it might well be the last. She took a sip of her wine. It tasted sour, not nearly as nice as whisky, but the other two didn’t seem to mind. For several minutes, nobody spoke. Ophelia looked dangerously near to tears again.