It might have been described by one of his team-mates as gathering a hospital pass. Suzanne’s face darkened further.
‘Oh no?’ she snapped. ‘Well, all I can say is that you do if you have to work with them in theatre. That’s one area where political correctness can’t be used to cover up deficiencies, and nothing would induce me to allow a woman doctor to lay hands on me. Take my advice; if there are mascaraed eyelashes above the theatre mask when they wheel you in, get up and get out.’
In the awkward silence which followed, Anthea, who was taking five years out from medicine to enjoy her two small children, bit her lip, and Richard bridled, ready in her defence to make matters worse. But before he could say anything, Piers intervened with spiteful glee.
‘Oooh! Do I detect just the teensiest weensiest whiff of sour grapes? Come on, Suzie darling, we all have to accept our limitations!’
Suzanne, her cheeks crimson, stared at him with open loathing for a long moment.
‘Oh, I do wish you would,’ she said at last, and turned away, leaving the group, with some relief, to drift apart in search of less contentious conversation.
Fumbling for a handkerchief, Suzanne fled to lock herself in the cloakroom where she could have a good howl.
What on earth had possessed her to vent her feelings like that? She had forgotten Anthea was a doctor, though she and Richard would never believe that now. And she liked Anthea: she was young and sweet and funny, and she had hoped that Anthea liked her too.
But probably she didn’t. Suzanne found herself doing things that made people dislike her, but somehow she couldn’t stop herself. She didn’t much like herself, come to that.
And she was upset today. She was so upset that talking to people at all was difficult, without bursting into tears.
She’d been desperately hurt about Ben last night, of course, and angry because she felt so foolish about his deception of her over these last years. But oddly enough, it had been Patrick who had made her feel better.
‘Oh, come on!’ he had said. ‘That’s a very loving deception. Think about it; he probably felt much the same when he found out he’d been kidded about Santa Claus.’
That did set it in a happier light, and she was grateful to him, though she still felt bereft in a way that obviously he did not understand. Perhaps no man ever did, and that was forgivable. Perhaps if they both made an effort to accept the differences between them, things would be better.
After he had gone up, she finished off her preparations then followed him to bed in a mood of comparative optimism, which made the next morning’s discovery all the more shocking.
The meticulously prepared kitchen she had left last night was today a shambles. The little bowls of chopped vegetables, measured herbs and spices had been stripped of their cling-film and tipped into a heap in the middle of the table. The crumbs for the bread sauce had been sprinkled along the edge of the surfaces in loopy patterns, and the ingredients for the stuffing had been taken out of the fridge and mixed together in the bowl where she had some scraps for the dog. After a long search, she found her cooking knives in the dustbin.
Ben, that was her first thought, in some sort of stupid reaction to last night, but when she went up to his room to ask him about it, the child’s bewilderment was transparent. He was awake already, his little face white and miserable, and even if she herself felt distracted, she could not have him looking like that on Christmas morning.
‘Maybe you’re too big for a stocking,’ she said, ‘but it’s a long time till we open our presents in the afternoon. If you’d like to go and look in the cupboard under the stairs, you might find a few things to keep you busy.’
She was rewarded by the transformation in his face, and a strangling hug, and a little of the pain about her heart eased.
But as she came downstairs to tidy up and salvage what she could, her face darkened again. So it was Patrick, was it! What a spiteful, heartless thing to do, even if you did constantly sneer at your wife for her lack of spontaneity.
They had had one of their most bitter and destructive rows about it. Patrick, presumably taken aback by the scale of her anger, foolishly denied it, and then became absurd, suggesting that someone might have broken in, or even, when confronted with the absence of any sign of breaking and entering, accused her of having done it herself.
Remembered rage and indignation dried the tears on her cheeks, and she splashed her face with cold water and renewed her make-up. She would go and seek out Lizzie – always a soothing friend – and offer to help. That was what she was good at – the practical side of things. There weren’t many women who could run a house and family as she did, and hold a job like hers, to everyone’s satisfaction – or almost everyone’s, anyway. Or at least what ought to be to their satisfaction, even if, quite unjustly, it wasn’t. But this wasn’t the moment to be thinking about all her worries.
When she opened the kitchen door, it was to find her hostess kicking the sleek green Aga at the far side of her expensively countrified kitchen.
‘Lizzie?’ Half-laughing, Suzanne stopped in the doorway and stared at her. ‘Whatever are you doing?’
Elizabeth jumped and looked abashed, then turned, holding out a tray of slightly overdone piroshkis.
‘Oh – no one was meant to see that. But just look at these! I can never get the temperature right, never. I hate this bloody thing!’
‘I don’t think you’re allowed to say you hate Agas. They’re an icon of our class. And those look perfectly all right to me, for anyone who isn’t a perfectionist like you.’
Elizabeth gave the pastries a disparaging glance and set them down. ‘I’m sure it’s all my fault. Piers insisted we had to have it, and he says it’s every woman’s dream, but I still can’t get the hang of it.’
‘Ask Laura. She talks to hers.’
‘Oh Suzanne, I can’t ask Laura anything just now! I don’t know what to do about it.’
Their eyes met significantly across the kitchen table. ‘It’s a pretty awkward situation, isn’t it? Did Piers tell you what happened?’
‘Not a word. But then I suppose he couldn’t, really. If you’re a governor you’ve got a duty of confidentiality.’
‘Of course,’ said Suzanne diplomatically. ‘But Laura isn’t taking it well, you know. She always looks so tremendously together and confident, but she’s really quite shaky about herself underneath. She was doing her best to put a good face on it last night, all bright and brittle, but you could see she was thinking about it all the time.’
‘I know.’ Elizabeth’s grey eyes were troubled. ‘I wanted to say something, but I was afraid I’d make matters worse. And they wouldn’t come today. Something about a relative or an old friend coming, but I shouldn’t think she feels very festive. And I know she’s blaming Piers, even though he’s only one of fourteen governors and if all the rest wanted this other woman, there wouldn’t be anything he could do.’
‘No, of course not.’ Suzanne admired Lizzie’s wifely loyalty, and she couldn’t exactly say that it would be just like Piers to ruin Laura’s chances purely for the fun of it.
‘I honestly think you should just leave it, Lizzie. She’ll get over it. She’ll have to, won’t she? There isn’t an alternative, really. After all, we’ve all got our crosses to bear, haven’t we, and we don’t have time to sit about whimpering. There’s always the next meal to cook.’
Suzanne’s eyes scanned the cluttered kitchen. Heaven only knew how Lizzie conjured her elegant cuisine out of this mess – the sink full of pans, vegetable peelings, bowls and spoons and kitchen knives on the work surface. However neat it was when she started, she always got into a fantastic mess when she was cooking, and it reminded Suzanne sharply of her own problems.
‘Lizzie,’ she said slowly, ‘can I ask you something? Am I –’
As she spoke the door opened and Camilla came in. She was pouting, and clutched protectively to the front of her navy Viyella sailor dress was a doll of horrible vulgari
ty.
‘Mummy, Mike Cutler says he’s going to cut Samantha’s hair off.’
‘Mike’s just teasing you.’ Elizabeth began decanting the despised canapes on to a plate.
‘He isn’t, he isn’t!’ The protruding lip was beginning to tremble. ‘He says –’
Elizabeth intervened hastily. ‘Milla, we won’t let him, I promise. Now, why don’t you show Suzanne what you got in your stocking? She’s dying to see, aren’t you, Suzanne? You put most of it over there on the dresser, I think.’
Diverted from her grievance, the child skipped over.
‘Look, Suzanne! This is a pound, and I got that down at the toe of my stocking, and this is an orange...’
Elizabeth paused in her task to direct, across the small fair head, a look of fond maternal complicity at her friend.
Suzanne managed to smile back. She showed no outward sign of the shaft of purest envy that pierced her heart.
***
Margaret Moon carefully put the last of the plates she had used back in place behind the glass of the corner cupboard. They were part of her grandmother’s wedding china, gloriously gilt and beflowered, and she made a practice of using them whenever there was an excuse.
Like the Cutlers, she had enjoyed an excellently trouble-free Christmas dinner for one, also courtesy of St Michael. Would he, she wondered idly, as she covered the remains of a small plum pudding and popped it in the fridge, become by use and wont the patron saint of shoppers? ‘By St Michael, that is a fine piece of steak!’ Or working mothers, perhaps...
She put the Christmas Oratorio on her elderly hi-fi, made herself a cup of Blue Mountain coffee luxuriously topped with whipped cream – it was Christmas, after all – and carried it through, with a small box of Belgian truffles, to put on the table beside her armchair.
‘You do know how to show a girl a good time,’ she murmured appreciatively as she went to sit down.
Pyewacket was in possession already, naturally, since this was the most comfortable chair, and asleep with that air of boneless relaxation specific to cats. It did seem harsh to wake him, when he was so sound asleep...Then she noticed one eye open, watching her, and recognized the power play.
‘Scat, cat!’ she said, suiting the action to the words and sinking into her chair with a sigh. She kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the little Victorian footstool her mother had covered with petit point, and chose a chocolate.
She was very tired. Three services in the last twelve hours – she had not realized how much conducting them, on top of all the planning and preparation, would take out of her, though perhaps she should have.
It had all gone smoothly; no hitches, nothing forgotten, and everyone cheerful, healthy, happy and prosperous, all these bright, middle-class families with their 2.4 children with shining hair and perfect teeth, clutching expensive playthings whose price would feed a family for a week, and which by the day after tomorrow would probably be broken or neglected. They looked as if the only problem they had in the world was how to pay off January’s Barclaycard.
Margaret had always believed that the good things of life were there to be enjoyed, and she was far from being a Puritan – indeed, an ascetic friend had accused her, with asperity and some justice, of being a hedonist – but that sort of pointless, conspicuous waste was hard to stomach.
She hadn’t felt exaltation, or even satisfaction, at her successful organization of the Christmas worship. She had felt – she groped for the word – irrelevant. That was it. They viewed the church as little more than a social club in refined surroundings where you could be sure of not having to encounter the undesirable element.
It was personally depressing, too. She liked her own company; she had chosen to be alone on this her first parish Christmas instead of inviting guests. She even liked this plain little box of a sitting room, furnished with some cherished belongings from her family home, including a few good watercolours, and her books, of course, ranged in long bookcases on either side of the exuberantly tasteless electric fire. She was far happier here – she took another chocolate – than she would be making polite conversation at someone else’s lunch table.
But she did wonder whether a bachelor vicar, new to the charge, would have received not one single invitation for Christmas Day? She thought not; John Anselm, the previous encumbent, had warned her of the pitfalls of accepting one invitation rather than another. She would have valued a chance to talk to him about it, but he had underlined his wisdom by retiring to the West Country to which he felt he still belonged.
Oh, she wasn’t paranoid enough to feel that it was especially personal, at least mostly she wasn’t. Although – well, probably she wasn’t the sort of person the smart sort of person liked, and if she were honest the feeling was mutual. She hoped it didn’t show, but it could be that she hadn’t learned to fake sincerity as well as she thought she had.
On the other hand, it could be simple unease with this oddity, a woman whose office made her a spiritual parent. It could even be hostility; Margaret, whose antennae were usually quite sensitive, had detected aggression in several humorous comments. By their jokes ye shall know them, she thought wearily, but to tackle hostility it must be openly expressed, which in this society was about as likely as turning up to a drinks party and finding they were all wearing shell suits. That was one of the reasons she had preached her sermon.
She sighed again, and ate another chocolate. Three o’clock; her sister Ruth would be phoning later from Canada, where she was married with five children; driven to this excess, she claimed, by the unphiloprogenitive nature of her siblings.
But it was probably a good time to phone Robert, the remaining member of her family. He would have lunched, as usual on Christmas Day, at his club with another bachelor, but should by now be back in his extremely comfortable flat in Bath.
She dialled the number, and when he picked up the receiver heard the strains of the same piece of music sounding from the other end. It had always been traditional Christmas listening in the Moon family.
‘Snap!’ she said by way of greeting, and held the receiver nearer her own recording.
He was never disconcerted. ‘Ah, Margaret!’ he said. ‘I thought it would be you. Happy Christmas! And has Stretton Noble survived the shock of Christmas with the female touch?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said brightly. ‘It’s all gone very smoothly indeed. Not a response missed, lovely singing, lots of happy families. I’m just putting my feet up in the consciousness of a job well done.’
‘I see.’ There was a pause, then, ‘Depressed, are we?’
She sat upright and glared at the phone as if she could see him, wearing his red smoking jacket, no doubt, and the inevitable bow tie.
‘Remind me,’ she said tartly, ‘in my next incarnation, not to choose a brother who’s a psychologist.’
‘Well, I can readily imagine that you might be tired of the Church of England, but I can’t think that Buddhism would suit your temperament. What’s the problem?’
She fought a rearguard action. ‘I don’t know what you mean. What have I said to indicate that everything isn’t absolutely fine? As it is, of course,’ she added hastily.
‘My dear girl, I’ve known you since you were a singularly unrestful addition to the nursery I had happily considered my personal preserve. Unless you’re saying that you’re totally exhausted, haven’t got a moment to yourself and are just dashing off to something else which will probably finish you off completely, you’re miserable.’
Her laugh was a little forced. ‘It’s just a question of adjusting, that’s all. I need to be needed, Robert, and I don’t think anyone needs me here at all. Everyone’s well-fed and well-housed and comfortable, and I even suspect that there are people I could help who don’t come to church because it’s a middle-class preserve.’
‘Oh, I feel sure you can be relied on to take it down-market fast, if that’s what’s needed. A couple of tambourines, a bearded guitarist and some hip-hop for
Jesus…’
Margaret groaned.
‘Hah! Got you there, haven’t I? You don’t like that any more than they do, do you? Look, when am I going to be allowed to come over and inspect this place for myself? You’ve got to let me come sometime, you know.’
Suddenly it seemed a very attractive offer. ‘I did want to get things going myself. And you can’t stay for a service yet, I’m not ready for that. I’m not sure I totally trust you not to try to make me laugh. But if your friends in the police force are going to give you a breathing space over Christmas, why not come down tomorrow for a couple of days? I even have an invitation – the redoubtable Mrs Travers is having a drinks party to which I “and any house guests you may have, my dear” have been, amazingly enough, invited.’
‘I’ll look up the section on paranoia before I come. I’ll be with you around tea time tomorrow, barring forensic emergencies.’
She felt much more cheerful when she put down the phone. It rang again almost immediately, and she picked it up expecting Ruth’s exuberant mid-Atlantic tones.
But it was a parishioner, elderly and distraught, whose husband had been taken into hospital with a heart attack after Christmas lunch.
It was a timely reminder that a turkey on the table and a roof over your head were no guarantee of human happiness. With a sense of relief at the opportunity for service, she grabbed her coat and hurried out.
***
Their guests had gone. Suzanne, leaving Patrick and Ben watching the Christmas movie, had gone to tidy up the kitchen. She ached for her bed; Christmas was bad enough, without the additional stress of having to conceal from Patrick’s mother, who believed the sun rose only to shine on her eldest son, that she was barely speaking to him.
When Patrick unexpectedly opened the kitchen door, her lips tightened and she turned away, busying herself at the sink.
He stood awkwardly in the doorway. ‘Look, Suzanne, can we call a truce for a moment?’
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