‘I was watching in the wings.’
‘Were you?’
‘Yes.’
Her face brightened. ‘Watching me?’
‘Not just you. Everybody. I like to watch scenes I’m not in. I love the play.’
‘Yes, so do I. It’s my favourite. At least, it was.’
‘What you did with the scene, Flora, I think it was right. And terrifically brave. Shocking, actually, but in the right way. It wasn’t like you at all - it was as if you were possessed. You seemed really mad. I think that’s why people laughed. Because it was quite scary and all so unexpected. But I don’t think it was wrong.’
‘Toby told me not to put any of it in tonight.’
‘He said to keep the tuneless singing. And he said you should flirt with Claudius. With your eyes. That was your own idea. And it was brilliant.’
‘D’you really think so?’
‘Yes, I do. Toby just wanted you to… tone things down a bit. Well, quite a lot, admittedly, but he’s kept your basic idea.’
‘He thinks I’m an idiot. They all think I’m an idiot.’
‘I don’t. I think you’re a jolly fine actress. And I just wanted to say… that I don’t think you should give up.’
Flora looked away, shocked that Jack had divined her thoughts, thoughts she had hardly acknowledged, even to herself. She picked up the skull and stared into its eyeless sockets. ‘Acting’s awfully hard, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. It is. Harder than people think.’
‘It’s confusing. You forget who you’re meant to be. I mean, sometimes I think the person on stage - Flora the actress - seems more real than me, Flora the student. I know who Ophelia is, what she’s like, who she loves, I even know how she dies, but the funny thing is, I don’t feel I know myself at all. Because I haven’t got a script, I suppose.’
Frowning, Jack shook his head. ‘What on earth are you on about?’
‘Oh, I’m not explaining it very well. You know that dream everybody has - where you walk on stage and find you’re in the wrong play? You don’t know the lines and you don’t know the moves and all the other actors do and they’re waiting for their cue and hundreds of people are watching. That’s how I feel. Not when I’m on stage - that’s how I feel when I’m living my life. As if I’m in the wrong show. As if I’ve been in the wrong show for years and years and still don’t know my lines. I don’t mind telling you, Jack, there are times when I think I’ll just do a bunk in the interval.’
‘Can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know what they say: “The show must go on.” ’
‘I suppose so.’ Flora sighed then rose up out of her coffin, extending a regal hand towards Jack. He took it and handed her out, then made her an extravagant bow.
‘The fair Ophelia!’
Flora curtsied deeply. ‘Hamlet the Dane!’
‘Break a leg tonight, Flo.’
‘You too, Jack! Break a leg.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Break two!’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘You know your trouble, Flora?’
‘No - what?’
‘You never know when to stop.’
Chapter 5
1959
The source of Mrs Wentworth’s discontent never came to light for in the summer of 1959, within a mere forty-eight hours, she sickened and died of poliomyelitis. The parish was shocked but rallied quickly. The flower ladies surpassed themselves with their heartfelt but tasteful arrangements for the funeral. Father Hugh was inundated with home baking and casseroles, few of which he can have touched to judge by the rapidity with which he lost weight. His hair grew longer; his face was strained; sometimes he even forgot to shave, an oversight his parishioners readily forgave in view of his tragic circumstances. Their minister bore his loss heroically but it was many weeks before anyone caught even a glimpse of his famous smile.
Ettie prayed hard to understand why such a good man should have to sustain such a terrible loss. To lose one’s sweetheart in wartime was a tragedy, but not entirely unexpected. In any case, Ettie told herself, the loss was tempered by the knowledge that the loved one had died making the ultimate sacrifice. One was consoled to some extent by pride and patriotism. Moreover, the loss did not have to be borne alone. Everyone knew people who were in the same boat. No family was untouched. Just look at the Sinclairs and the Dunbars. Two fine young sons lost in the first war; Archie’s brother and Ettie’s Geoffrey killed in the second. But to lose a young wife to polio in the course of a weekend… It would be enough to cause a lesser man to question his faith.
Ettie grieved for Father Hugh and tried hard to think of some personal gesture of condolence she could make. After much deliberation she settled on the purchase of a copy of Eliot’s Four Quartets. She very much wanted to inscribe the volume but hesitated lest this seem over-familiar. In any case, how should she sign her inscription? ‘Ettie’? She doubted Father Hugh knew her Christian name was really Henrietta, referring to her as he always did as ‘Miss Sinclair’. Should she write ‘H. Sinclair’? Or perhaps ‘Ettie Sinclair’? Ettie settled for the last, believing it struck a balance between warmth and formality. She wrapped the book in sober brown paper, tied it with string and set off for the vicarage.
Ettie claimed she was happy with the face God had given her, but that wasn’t strictly true. She wasn’t prepared to tamper with it, but she was aware there was plenty of room for improvement. In an earlier age, with the help of horsehair padding and punitive corsetry, Ettie might have been described as a handsome woman. Her dark, luxuriant hair would not have been tortured into spurious curls by home perms; her large, myopic eyes would not have been screened by unflattering spectacles; her thick, well-defined brows might have seemed alluring, not mannish; her height might have seemed imposing instead of awkward; flowing drapery would have concealed a multitude of sins, including thick ankles and large, turned-out feet.
Ettie bore no resemblance to her pretty, blonde relatives. Her dark features and athletic physique (even Rory admired her tennis serve) harked back to the male Sinclairs whose photos adorned Ettie’s dressing table in place of the lipsticks, powder puffs and bottles of scent so cherished by Dora and her teenage daughter. Three uniformed men, dead war heroes all, gazed solemnly at Ettie from silver frames as she brushed her hair: Henry and Roderick Sinclair, killed in action in the First World War and Geoffrey Summers, pronounced missing, presumed killed in 1941, aged twenty-four.
Ettie was not much given to regrets, which she considered self-indulgent, but if there was one regret in her virtuously uneventful life it was that her strict moral code had ensured young Geoffrey died a virgin and that, in all probability, she would too. For herself, she was not troubled by either curiosity or passion. She’d read several novels by D. H. Lawrence and had concluded that the satisfying of carnal appetites must be both enervating and undignified, but she regretted that she’d not felt able - as many other girls had - to make a gift of her virginity to Geoffrey before he went to the front. At the time it had seemed too great a sacrifice to make, but afterwards, in the light of Geoffrey’s own, ultimate sacrifice, her moral scruples had seemed petty, almost a kind of selfishness.
Ettie was never sure if she’d done the right thing. She’d abided by her religious principles, but it wasn’t at all clear to her whether that was quite the same.
Ettie barely recognised the man who opened the door to her. Stooped, unsmiling, hollow-eyed, Father Hugh seemed to her physically diminished. The strong bones of his face showed beneath his skin - skin that had lost its usual ruddiness. He was dressed in a dark woollen jumper and black trousers and it occurred to Ettie that she had never seen Father Hugh without his cassock before. There was something surprising, almost unseemly, about seeing his legs at last. They were remarkably long and ended incongruously in tartan carpet slippers. Casting her eyes downwards, taking a moment to collect herself, Ettie registered the red-and-yellow tartan as Buchanan, one of her favourites, then immediately chide
d herself for her frivolity. She wondered whether the late Mrs Wentworth had given her husband the slippers. Recalled finally to the sad purpose of her visit, Ettie held out her parcel.
‘Father Hugh, I do hope I’m not disturbing you. Would you please accept this small gift? I wished to…’ She faltered as he gazed at her blankly. ‘I wanted you to know that you - and Mrs Wentworth - are in my prayers. You have my deepest sympathy.’
As if dazed, he appeared to take a moment to recall his visitor’s name. ‘Miss… Sinclair?’ Ettie nodded confirmation. He didn’t reach for the parcel and she began to feel both distressed and embarrassed. She couldn’t leave until Father Hugh had relieved her of the gift, but clearly she was simply adding to his present difficulties. Her extended arm began to ache.
‘It’s a copy of Eliot’s Four Quartets,’ she said, waving the book slightly in the hope of drawing his attention to it.
‘Oh?’ He looked down at the parcel.
‘You said once that you admired Eliot. We were discussing the Amateur Dramatic Society’s production of Murder in the Cathedral.’
‘Were we?’
‘Yes,’ Ettie replied, increasingly desperate. ‘You said you wished you knew his work better.’
‘Ah.’ He reached out slowly and took the book. ‘Thank you, Miss Sinclair. Thank you very much indeed. Such a thoughtful gift. I’m very touched.’
‘Really, it’s nothing. I just wanted…’ All the tactful and encouraging words Ettie had planned to say evaporated and she fell silent.
‘You lost your fiancé, didn’t you, Miss Sinclair? In the war?’
Ettie was taken aback. ‘Yes. I did, as a matter of fact. How on earth did you know that?’
‘Flora told me. She said God had comforted you when your fiancé died.’
‘Yes. He did. My faith was a great help to me. In fact, it was strengthened by my loss.’
Father Hugh nodded slowly but said nothing for a moment, then he sighed and spoke with what appeared to be an effort. ‘I don’t suppose you have time for a cup of tea, do you, Miss Sinclair? It seems rather a long time since I talked to anyone about anything other than death… and funeral arrangements.’ His face was contorted suddenly by an attempt at a smile. ‘Bereavement is a kind of plague, isn’t it? People leave you alone to get on with it, but sometimes all one wants is to hear another human voice. I’ve been talking to God, of course… non-stop.’ Father Hugh raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed his temple slowly as if his head ached. ‘But so far He hasn’t… responded. Either that or I simply can’t hear.’
His distress was so palpable, Ettie felt her own composure begin to crumble. She said briskly, ‘A cup of tea would be very welcome! But do, please, let me make it for you while you sit down. You look absolutely done in.’ She moved forward into the doorway, past Father Hugh and headed along the dismal hall towards the kitchen. The musty smell was not the odour of death, Ettie told herself, merely rising damp and an accumulation of stale air occasioned by closed windows. Aware of Father Hugh’s shuffling footsteps behind her, she breathed a short and fervent prayer for guidance.
The sink was full of dirty dishes and after filling the kettle Ettie insisted on tackling them. Father Hugh seemed either too weak or too relieved to protest and sank down on to a kitchen chair, staring at his parcel, as if trying to summon the energy to unwrap it.
Ettie rolled up her sleeves and glanced round the kitchen looking for an apron. She picked up a frilled, floral garment and then hastily replaced it on its hook. She felt sure Father Hugh would not relish the sight of a woman in his wife’s apron standing at the kitchen sink. As she washed she talked about Eliot, then the last meeting of the Poetry Society. There was no response, nor could she hear the sound of her gift being unwrapped. Unable to bring herself to turn and look at the poor man, Ettie was debating whether to launch into the topic of the next Poetry Society meeting when Father Hugh said quietly, ‘Miss Sinclair, what do you consider to be the worst sin?’
She spun round, dishcloth in hand and stared at him. ‘The worst sin? Good heavens… Murder, I suppose. There’s nothing worse than murder, is there?’
‘No, indeed, but murder is a crime as well as a sin, isn’t it? I was thinking more of the lesser sins we all commit in the course of daily life.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Ettie said, although she wasn’t really sure she did. Turning back to the sink she scrubbed thoughtfully at a stained teacup. ‘Well, deceit is pretty bad in my book. There’s simply no excuse for it. And I’ve always found it well-nigh impossible to forgive cruelty. A weak soul might believe deceit is occasionally expedient - the lesser of two evils, perhaps - but cruelty of any kind is quite unnecessary.’
‘I’ve always told my parishioners that God will forgive anything. If we will only repent and refrain from sin, He will forgive. Deceit. Cruelty. Even murder.’
‘Yes, indeed. Christ died for us so that our sins might be forgiven. All of them.’ Ettie placed the clean cup on the draining board and fished around in the bowl for sunken cutlery.
‘But what about anger?’
‘Anger?’
‘Yes, anger… Anger with God.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’
Father Hugh’s voice sounded uncertain, as if he were groping for meaning. ‘He won’t forgive me until I cease to be angry with Him. So I’m lost. In the wilderness… Not fit to serve God or guide my parishioners.’
She stared at his hands, clenched in tight fists, resting on the table either side of her still-wrapped gift. ‘Are you saying you’re angry with God, Father Hugh?’
‘Yes.’
‘For taking your wife?’
‘No. I’m not angry with God for taking Miriam. I’m angry that He hasn’t let me understand why.’
Poor Ettie. Poor Hugh. He thought she was safe. Just a friend. She was only five years older than him but he thought of her as a middle-aged spinster who shared his love of poetry. Which of course she was. But Ettie didn’t see it quite like that. She didn’t see Hugh for what he was. (But then which of us did?)
Hugh was looking for the ideal woman, the woman who would make him whole, the woman who would hold the key to his happiness, who could solve his puzzle. He had made a mistake with Miriam, whom he worshipped but could not love. He resolved that next time - if ever there were a next time - he’d marry for love and love alone. It was simply a question of finding the right woman.
And that certainly wasn’t Ettie.
The irony was that Ettie, who asked so little of life, might have been happy with Hugh. A life of skivvying for my mother and feeling beholden to relatives meant that her expectations of life were low. Her world fell apart the day after her sixteenth birthday and it was shattered again when she got the news about Geoffrey. After that Ettie made a life out of scraps, like the horrible patchwork quilts she used to make for orphanages.
Ettie wouldn’t have made Hugh happy and she certainly couldn’t have prevented him from falling in love, but she might have turned a blind eye when he finally did.
1962
‘What?’ The saucepan slipped and fell crashing on to the draining board.
‘Ssh, Rory - Ma will hear you! I said I’m going to be married.’ Flora took another wet plate and dried it carefully.
Rory stood with his rubber-gloved hands plunged in the sink and stared at his sister, stupefied. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m in love! Why else would anyone get married?’
‘Who to?’
Flora braced herself. ‘The Reverend Hugh Wentworth.’
‘The vicar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Flor, are you out of your tiny little mind? He’s ancient!’
‘You’ve never even met him.’
‘I’ve seen him. He came to our school once, years ago, to give a talk. About leprosy. He’s old enough to be your father!’
Flora sighed but was relieved to find herself on well-prepared ground. ‘Our father was old enough to be our mother’
s father. Anyway, I really don’t see what age has to do with anything.’
‘Have you told Dad?’
‘No, not yet. I haven’t told Ma either. Hugh wants to ask formally for my hand in marriage, so at the moment we’re just unofficially engaged. It’s a secret,’ she said, smiling shyly.
Rory scrubbed viciously at another pan with a Brillo pad. ‘You can’t seriously be thinking of marrying a vicar!’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because… because you just aren’t cut out to be a vicar’s wife! I thought you wanted to act?’
Flora thought of her brief, inglorious career as a student actress and the gauntlet of importunate male hands she’d run. She flushed and rubbed at the pattern on a teapot, for all the world as if she expected Aladdin’s genie to appear and grant her a wish. ‘Oh, that was just me being silly. I don’t suppose I would ever have been very successful,’ she said wistfully. ‘Anyway, I’d much rather be doing something useful, something worthwhile. Like parish work.’ Flora couldn’t help noticing how vague, even lame, the words sounded as she uttered them. ‘You’ll like him, Rory, I know you will! He’s a wonderful man. A good man… and funny… and so handsome! We talk and talk, about everything under the sun - not just religion.’
‘Have you slept with him?’
Flora caught the teapot as it slipped. ‘Rory!’
‘Have you?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Then how do you know you love him? How do you know he loves you?’ He turned his head and looked at Flora, puzzled. ‘Doesn’t he want to sleep with you?’
‘There’s more to marriage than sexual relations,’ Flora said with the calm conviction of one totally ignorant of both marriage and sexual relations.
‘How far have you let him go?’
‘Rory, for goodness’ sake! He’s a minister of the Church of England!’
‘Well, he’s also a man - I presume?’
Dawning realisation diverted Flora’s mind from the tart reply she was about to make. ‘Have you slept with Grace?’ she asked in a shocked whisper.
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