‘Yes,’ Rory lied. ‘Well, practically… We’ve slept together but we haven’t… done it yet. But I know she wants to.’ Rory pulled the plug with a flourish and watched the dirty water spiral down the sink.
‘How do you know?’
‘I just know.’ He peeled off the rubber gloves and tossed them on to the draining board. ‘There are ways of telling.’
Flora was disconcerted at the thought of her brother in bed with Grace and briefly visualised them both naked. Feeling a blush rise suddenly from her neck she said firmly, ‘Well, I want to be a virgin on my wedding day. I’m saving myself for Hugh.’
‘Why?’ Rory turned round, leaned against the sink and folded his arms. He stared, uncomprehending. ‘If you’re going to marry him anyway, why do you have to save yourself? What’s the point?’
‘Because sexual intercourse outside marriage is fornication. It’s a sin.’
‘Oh, don’t give me that!’
‘Hugh says marriage is a sacrament.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
Flora did know, because Hugh had told her, but she had difficulty now recalling precisely what he’d said. She tended to get distracted from what Hugh said by how he said it. She could remember looking into his kind, brown eyes and listening to his soothing voice talk about matrimony as a remedy against sin. This had sounded comforting at the time but she didn’t think it would satisfy Rory who was clearly trying to confuse her with his awkward questions. He didn’t seem the least bit pleased for her and hadn’t even said congratulations, so she took refuge in resentment.
‘I wish I’d never told you! I wanted you to be the first to know. I thought you’d be pleased for me.’
‘Pleased you’re making the biggest mistake of your life?’ he replied with a cruel smile. ‘You must be joking. You are joking, aren’t you? Tell me you’re just pulling my leg.’
Flora folded her wet tea towel carefully and hung it over the rail of the Aga. ‘No, Rory. I am more serious than I have ever been in my life. In fact your cynical attitude, your flippant remarks have helped me see the rightness of what I am doing. They have strengthened my resolve.’
Rory snorted with laughter. ‘Here endeth the first lesson!’
Flora ignored him and lifted her chin. She spoke in the clear, ringing tones she’d cultivated for her audition speech as Saint Joan. ‘I feel even more convinced now that Hugh is the right man for me and that our marriage will be blessed by God, if not you, Rory Dunbar. I’m sorry you aren’t happy for me. I’m sorry and very disappointed, but I shall pray for you. And,’ she added primly, ‘for Grace.’
As she turned away Rory grabbed hold of her wrist, circling the small bones, crushing them with his long fingers. ‘Don’t you bloody dare.’
Grace decided eventually to let Rory have what he wanted. He hadn’t asked in so many words but in their silent grapplings on her single bed, his state of excitement left her in no doubt. At first Grace found this embarrassing, then she decided it was flattering. Eventually she decided it was - if she were honest - rather exciting.
Before Grace left home for music college her mother had been garrulously informative on the subject of teenage boys who apparently only wanted one thing. Grace had found this to be untrue. Rory wanted lots of different things, some of which she’d let him have and which they’d both enjoyed, but Grace knew there was more to give and more to be taken and that she needed to make up her mind what she wanted.
What she didn’t want was to lose Rory and, despite his passion for her body and her cello-playing, she feared she might. He often had an abstracted air, as if his mind were on other things. Grace feared the other things might be other girls. Rory and Grace didn’t talk a great deal, except about music. He wasn’t good with words. She thought perhaps if they made love it would bring them closer together and dispel some of his febrile tension. Grace was disappointed in these expectations, but Rory’s gratitude and energetic lovemaking almost compensated for the lack of conversation. Grace was satisfied and happy and, with her mother’s warnings still ringing in her ears, she assumed Rory was too.
He wasn’t. He was, however, exhausted much of the time, which at least allowed him to ignore the uncomfortable fact that, despite having almost everything he wanted in life, Rory was neither satisfied nor happy.
Hugh was a few minutes early for his appointment with Archie Dunbar so he lingered by the flowerbeds as he approached the front door of Orchard Farm. He admired the tapestry of plants Dora had woven, noted that much of their colourful effect was achieved by skilful juxtaposition of foliage, not flowers. A woman’s touch. What was a home or indeed a garden without it?
Hugh looked at his watch again and strode up the path. Standing in the porch he checked his shoes for mud and removed a seed-head that had attached itself to the hem of his carefully pressed cassock. He rang the bell and said a rapid, entirely selfish prayer for his own deliverance. The sound of galloping feet on the stairs was followed by women’s voices raised in altercation. Footsteps retreated, then the front door swung open revealing Dora, her welcoming smile already in place as if she’d known who would be on the other side of the door - which she had.
‘Hugh! You are punctual! Do come in, it’s lovely to see you. You must come and look at the roses. Gloire de Dijon is a picture! But maybe later,’ she added tactfully, ‘After you’ve seen Archie?’ The question hovered anxiously, as did Dora, who looked as if she would have been glad of a coat, hat and umbrella to dispose of, but the fine summer’s day had thwarted her.
Hugh glanced up and saw Flora standing at the top of the stairs, her face pale and anxious. He felt a familiar fullness in his heart at the sight of her, smiled broadly but decided against a wave. Flora greeted his smile with an answering flutter of her fingers. Dora indicated Archie’s study and ushered Hugh through the open door.
The room was comfortable if shabby. Faded curtains of indeterminate hue and pattern hung at a window looking out on to the garden. Worn rugs were laid over dark varnished floorboards and the walls were decorated with a few aged botanical prints and an antique map of Scotland. Two walls were book-lined and a side table was heaped with scientific periodicals and newspapers.
Archie, seated at his desk as Hugh entered, rose immediately and walked round to greet him. Hugh noticed that Archie didn’t seem a great deal taller standing than sitting. A short, burly man in his early seventies, bald, but with ears, nose and brows over-compensating, Archie showed no sign of feeling dwarfed by Hugh’s height. A retired professor of botany, he was used to dealing with lanky Cambridge undergraduates who’d acknowledged him a tartar with an infectious enthusiasm for his subject.
Introductions were unnecessary. Hugh and Archie had met briefly at the village fête and discussed varieties of tomatoes, a conversation that had done little to pave the way for what was about to follow. Dora retreated to the door, muttering about something on the hob. Finding his mouth suddenly dry, Hugh was disappointed not to have been offered a cup of tea. As the door shut, Archie extended a plump, freckled hand to indicate an armchair in an advanced state of collapse. ‘Will you take a drink, Reverend Wentworth? Whisky? Sherry?’
‘No, thank you, Mr Dunbar, I won’t.’
‘You won’t mind if I do?’
‘Not at all,’ Hugh said, sinking deep into upholstery. ‘I’m an Anglican, not a Methodist.’
Archie shot him a look from beneath shaggy white brows. An alarming wheeze began to issue from the old man’s throat. Hugh realised with relief that this was laughter. He watched as Archie poured whisky from a decanter, diluting it with a splash of water from a jug. His hands were steady; Hugh noted that his own were not.
‘Before you say your piece, Reverend,’ Archie said, waving his glass in Hugh’s general direction, ‘I’d like to say mine. Then you’ll know how things stand between us.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
‘I don’t want my daughter to marry and I certainly don’t want her to marry
a clergyman. She’s not yet twenty! She may think she’s old enough to know her own mind but her mother and I remain unconvinced. However,’ Hugh detected a softening of the faded blue eyes. ‘We do want her to be happy and she has made strong representations to us that her future happiness is entirely dependent on becoming Mrs Hugh Wentworth.’ Archie sighed and drank deeply. ‘In just over a year Flora will be able to marry whom she pleases, so when all’s said and done, the most I can do is put the brakes on.’
‘Sir, I had no intention of marrying Flora before she reaches her majority, even if you gave your permission. Believe me, I am as concerned as you about her ability to make the right decision about her future. I’m here to request your permission to ask Flora to marry me so that we may become officially engaged. That will regularise our position. I am aware that my friendship with Flora has caused a few eyebrows to be raised in the parish.’
Archie narrowed his rheumy eyes and looked at Hugh, trying to gauge his man. ‘Do you love her?’
‘Yes, sir, I do. Very much.’
‘Aye, she’s a pretty little thing… But hardly domesticated! Not what I’d call wife material - not yet, anyway. Both my children have their heads full of music, poetry, plays, what-have-you. Neither of them lives in the real world.’
‘They’re young, sir. And artistic. I’m sure as Flora grows older she will mature. Especially with guidance.’
‘From you?’ Archie asked, gruffly.
‘And from God.’
Archie gave Hugh another long look but refrained from comment. He emptied his glass and said, ‘You need to know the financial situation - which isn’t good.’
‘Sir, my stipend, though modest, is quite enough to support a wife.’
‘And a family?’
‘Yes. Not in the manner to which Flora is accustomed, it’s true. Ours will of necessity be a simple life.’
‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.’
Hugh nodded. ‘You know your Bible, sir, even if you don’t believe in it.’
‘Oh, aye. Where I come from the Bible was rammed down our throats more regularly and with greater relish than food. I’m afraid my antipathy is born of long and harsh experience, Reverend.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. You’re aware then that the Eye of the Needle was the name for a narrow gate in the wall round Jerusalem?’
‘Is that so?’
‘A camel could only pass through the gate if it was first relieved of its loaded saddlebags. I’ve often wished King James’s translators had made that clear. I think all Our Lord meant was that it might be easier to lead a God-fearing life if one lived it unencumbered by material possessions. He wasn’t saying it was impossible. Christ was a realist.’
‘Flora tells me you used to be a monk.’
‘Yes. For some years.’
‘Why did you leave the monastery?’
Hugh had prepared answers to many different questions but this one took him by surprise. ‘I wasn’t suited. I’m too much a man of the world, I suppose. I missed my books. I missed music. I was happy in many ways but felt… incomplete. “Monks live unloved and die unwept”. Who was it said that? I found I yearned for a wife and family almost as much as I yearned to serve God. It was a rather painful process of self-discovery. Although my spirit was more than willing, my flesh was weak. I hadn’t realised how weak.’
Hugh was conscious he’d said too much - none of it likely to strengthen his suit. Archie was watching him intently, his eyes sharp but not unkind. ‘You’re an interesting man, Reverend. I’m beginning to see why my daughter thinks you might be her salvation. Look, I’ll be frank with you. I’m seventy-one. My wife is fifty-five. The house is Dora’s until she dies and that’s all there is. There’s no money. Such savings as we had have been entirely consumed by Rory’s musical training, then Flora’s damn-fool drama school fees. There is nothing for the children to inherit but this house and another in Wester Ross which no one will take off our hands because it’s falling down. Dora still has some jewellery. That will go to Flora and Rory will get the piano, of course. They’ll have to squabble over the house after Dora has gone. But do you see what I’m saying? You must be able to support Flora. She has no money of her own and shows no inclination to earn a living - nor much talent for it. On the face of it, Reverend, you have to admit you’re not a good catch.’
‘No, sir, I quite agree.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Forty-one.’
Archie shook his head slowly as if this were yet another blow. ‘You want children?’
‘Of course. So does Flora.’
‘Well, take my advice and have them soon. I’d hoped to provide better for mine but I was fifty-one when they were born. Dora had given up hoping and by then we’d ploughed a lot of money into the house and garden. The twins were a late and unexpected blessing, but an expensive one. For much of their lives we’ve lived on my pension and Dora’s family money which is nearly all gone.’
‘Believe me, sir, I had no financial expectations. But Flora is far from being a worldly creature. She’s unlikely to hanker after luxuries, I think. Books do furnish a room, as the saying goes. I have plenty of those.’
‘Aye, she loves books, always has. She lives in a world of make-believe. But books don’t put bread on the table or shoes on bairns’ feet.’
‘No, sir, but you can rely on me for that.’
‘Can I now?’
‘I give you my word. The ministry is not a lucrative calling but the church provides an adequate roof over its servants’ heads. That’s one thing Flora will never have to worry about.’
‘Well, Reverend—’
‘Hugh. Please call me Hugh. As an atheist it must go against the grain for you to revere a minister of God.’
Archie wheezed again, his face crumpling into wrinkles. ‘Aye, it sticks in ma craw, right enough! I thank you for your honesty, Hugh, and your generosity of spirit! Aye, I like you more and more. And if you’re to become my son-in-law - God help you, laddie, if you do. She’ll lead you a merry dance! - we’d best be on first-name terms.’ Archie reached for the decanter. ‘Will you not have a whisky now?’
Hugh, smiling with relief, said, ‘No thank you, sir.’
‘Archie.’
‘Archie.’
‘I wish you joy of my daughter, Hugh - but not yet. Wait a year and then…’ Raising his glass the old man said, ‘I wash my hands of the pair of ye!’
All things considered, Hugh thought the interview had gone well, much better than he might have hoped. As the front door closed he felt a weight lift from his heart and he thanked God for delivering him from this particular lion’s den. The sun was shining and the air was full of rose scent and the humming of bees. He decided to circle the house and look for Dora who would no doubt be working in the garden. Gloire de Dijon was indeed glorious as it rambled up and over the walls of the house.
There was no sign of Dora but Hugh stood on the bumpy croquet lawn for a while admiring the view. Through a gap in the beech hedge he caught sight of the scarlet flowers of a row of runner beans climbing up wigwams of canes. He remembered with a sudden pang long, hot days spent working in the kitchen garden at the monastery. Silent, repetitive and arduous labour had calmed his mind and body and nourished his soul. He’d been happy then, in his way.
The peace of the garden was broken by the sound of a piano. Hugh assumed someone was playing the gramophone or wireless very loud, then remembered Flora talking about her brother who was a music student. Hugh listened more attentively and recognised a Schubert sonata. The music was coming from the ground floor, through French doors that opened on to a small terrace where Dora had placed terracotta pots of cascading ivy-leafed geraniums. Hugh didn’t want to disturb Rory but he did want to listen to the music and perhaps catch a glimpse of Flora’s twin. He walked slowly across the lawn towards the open doors.
Hugh recognised the sonata n
ow as Schubert’s last. He would have known sooner but Rory’s playing of the piece was unlike any performance he’d heard before. He was hearing things in the music he had never noticed, even though he knew it well. Rory eschewed sentiment, even beauty, in favour of stark intellectual clarity. Since the piece was composed by a young man two months before he died of tertiary syphilis, Hugh thought Rory’s bleak interpretation as valid as any, but he did wonder what a nineteen-year-old boy could know of such loneliness and despair.
As he approached the music room Hugh saw that Rory had his back towards the windows. Stepping silently on to the terrace, he listened and looked. Flora’s brother, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, was of slight build, although broad in the shoulder. His forearms were muscular, his skin pale like Flora’s, but dusted with freckles. His hair was a darker, sandier shade of blond, thick and heavy, not flyaway like Flora’s. It swung as he moved his head in time to the music, revealing damp tendrils plastered to the back of his neck. Rory swore suddenly but carried on playing. Hugh had detected no fault. As the music built to a loud climax, Rory’s head bent lower in concentration, his hands moved faster. A line of sweat appeared between his shoulder blades, darkening his T-shirt. As the last chord reverberated, Rory was still, his hands resting in his lap. Without turning round he said, ‘You must be Hugh.’
Hugh was too astonished to reply. He stepped backwards, bumping into an urn. Rory swivelled round on the piano stool to face Hugh. It was Flora’s face, but harder, colder; Flora’s bright blue eyes faded to a wintry grey; Flora’s laughing, mobile mouth stilled into a long, sensuous curve - a curve suggesting that its owner relished Hugh’s current embarrassment.
‘I’m so sorry - did I disturb you? I tried not to move.’
‘I saw you in the mirror.’ Rory pointed to a mirror hanging over the mantelpiece. ‘Ma placed it there so she can view the garden when she’s playing. You’ve been there a while.’
Lifetime Burning Page 8
