At home, Robin and Gillian spoke little to each other. He moved out of their bedroom into the spare room lately occupied by Janey, who in Athol Garrity’s absence had taken over his tent. Gillian was aware of Robin’s nocturnal excursions only if she heard the floorboards creak or his door open and close. Her instinct was to walk out on him, at least temporarily, but as the conscientious wife of a parson her priorities were clear to her: she covered for him, kept him going, held the affairs of the parish together. Sometimes, exhausted, she would say to him, ‘Robin, we can’t go on like this.’ But he would only shrug and mutter that it wouldn’t be for long.
He would have found it easier if she had shouted at him. He knew that he was behaving insupportably, and he longed to have an opportunity to shout back at her. He felt that, in snatching a few days’happiness with Janey, he was for the first time in his life doing what he himself wanted to do, instead of what others expected of him. The pressures of clerical life, and the public’s insistence on a blameless clerical lifestyle, had become more than he could sustain. I’m not just a parson, he wanted to shout at his wife and the world, I’m a person. What about what I want, for a change?
But his wife gave him no excuse to shout at her, and he could never shout at the world because his sense of guilt was too strong. Not that he felt sinful; he was too far out of touch with God for that. His guilt came from the knowledge that if his conduct were made public he would lose his job, his home, and possibly his wife. And he wanted desperately to keep all three.
The hostility that he had expected from Gillian came instead from her father. The Aingers tried to conceal what was happening from Henry Bowers, but the old man was no fool. He had always despised his son-in-law, and now he had cause to hate him.
‘Why you dirty bastard,’ he roared, when full realization came to him. He advanced on Robin, his eyebrows ferocious, his great gnarled hands shaking with fury. ‘I’ll strangle you with my bare hands, I’ll –’
Robin backed rapidly out of the room, and Gillian pulled her father away. ‘Stop it, Dad! I won’t have you making threats.’ The old man stood panting and swearing. ‘Who does he bloody think he is, to treat my daughter like this? A parson? I’ll give him bloody parson –’
‘No you won’t,’ said Gillian wearily. ‘Listen to me, Dad. Sit down and listen. I need your help.’
He had begun to chunter about Janey. ‘That little gal, eh? And I treated her like me own grand-daughter … and all the time she’s nothing but a tart!’ He thumped his fist on the arm of his chair. ‘Bloody Aussies – nothing but trouble. By God, if ever she comes back to this house I’ll –’
Gillian seized his shoulders and shook him. ‘Stop it, do you hear? Robin’s not himself, he’s ill. He’ll get over it as soon as Janey goes, but we must keep this to ourselves. You mustn’t breathe a word of what has happened to anyone, or Robin will be ruined. And if that happens, it won’t just be Robin who suffers, it’ll be me as well. Do you understand? So promise me this: you won’t talk about us in the town, ever, and you won’t say or do anything to hurt Robin – or Janey either, come to that. Say that you promise, Dad?’
The old man shuffled and sulked, but he loved his daughter too much to refuse her anything.
Janey Rolph was bored.
In four days’time, on Tuesday, 31 July, she would be flying to the United States. She had her visa and her airline ticket. England held no further interest for her. She had seen what she wanted to see, had disrupted a stable relationship between two post-graduate students in Yarchester, and completed her thesis demolishing the literary reputation of three contemporary novelists. Her major achievement had been to induce the Rector of Breckham Market to make love to her in his own church, but for once her timing had gone awry. The passionate kiss and its consummation should have been postponed until the eve of her departure. Anything after it was bound to be an anti-climax.
Robin now spent most of his time with her agonizing tediously, over drinks and meals in country pubs, about what he was doing to Gillian. He was still fervent in his lovemaking, but Janey was not particularly interested in sex and she found that the novelty of having it in church soon wore off. The vestry was uncomfortable. So was Athol Garrity’s tent. She decided that she would prefer to spend her last weekend in England in comfort, and to give Gillian – who had showed such bovine confidence in the stability of her marriage – the experience of lying in bed alone and listening to her enjoyment.
She announced her decision to Robin late in the evening of Friday, 27 July, reducing him to impotence by the enormity of her demand. He returned home earlier than usual. Gillian’s light was still on, and he knocked on the door of their bedroom before venturing in and delivering Janey’s message. It would only be for three days, he pleaded … no, of course he wouldn’t share the spare room with Janey, he’d put up a camp-bed in one of the empty bedrooms … yes, of course he saw Gillian’s point of view. ‘Or would you rather go away for the weekend?’ he finished desperately. (‘And if she doesn’t like it, she needn’t stay,’ Janey had told him.)
Gillian stared at him, her eyes hot with misery. ‘Is that what you want me to do?’
‘No. Yes, if you like. I don’t know.’ He put his head in his hands, exhausted by worry and guilt and emotion. He had thought that Janey was fragile, in need of his help and protection, but tonight he had seen a new side of her nature, a strength that drained him completely. ‘She – she’s making threats.’
He explained, haltingly, what Janey had done. They had gone out for the evening in her red Datsun and on the way, having earlier telephoned him at work to arrange it, she had picked up Michael Dade. During the course of the evening she had made amorous advances to the lovesick church organist, encouraging him to think that she would be willing to marry him. Robin had seethed with silent jealousy. But after she had packed Michael off home, Janey had explained that marriage to him would simply be a means of staying in Breckham Market, so as to be near Robin.
‘And I couldn’t bear it,’ he told his wife. He sat on the edge of her bed, sweating with fear. His stomach was churning, as it always did when he was afraid, and his breath was foul. ‘I couldn’t have her living in Breckham with someone else, gazing at me with those great eyes, tormenting me … I begged her not to marry him, and she said she wouldn’t if we’d take her back into the house.’
‘Of course she wouldn’t marry Michael,’ said Gillian. ‘What a cruel thing to let him think!’
‘But she might!’ He shivered. ‘You don’t know her – she might do anything. And I can’t take the risk. I daren’t. Just let her stay in the house for this weekend, to keep her quiet, please.’
But Gillian had reached her sticking-point. She had been humiliated enough.
‘No,’ she said slowly, ‘I’m damned if I will.’
Her sense of humiliation had prevented Gillian from telephoning Alec Reynolds before, but she did so next morning, apologizing for having quarrelled with him over his assessment of her husband’s character.
Reynolds took no pleasure from the fact that he had been right about Robin Ainger. He liked Gillian too much for that. It was a Saturday, and he would have driven straight to Breckham Market to give her what support he could – Ainger was in no position to raise any objection now – but he was about to set off for London and a weekend with his woman friend.
He delayed long enough to listen carefully to Gillian. She asked his advice, and he gave it. Never mind about the parish for a moment, he told her; think of yourself. Until recently you were not at all happy with your husband, and now he’s broken the trust you put in him. Do you still want to remain his wife?
For a few moments Gillian said nothing. Then she answered in a strangled voice, ‘I suppose I’m a fool, but yes, I do. I still love the wretched man, you see. Whatever he does, I’ll stay loyal to him.’
‘All right, then, my dear,’ said Reynolds, half envious of him, half exasperated with her. ‘If that’s what you want, then you must st
ay put in your own home. Don’t let that girl drive you out, or give way to her blackmail. And stay calm, because your husband’s obviously got himself into a mess, and he’s going to need all your strength and sanity to help him out of it. Good luck, Gillian. I’ll call and see you tomorrow evening on my way back from London.’
On the last Saturday in July, St Botolph’s church was busy with weddings. Gillian steered her husband through the long day. When he had heard the third couple make their vows, and had sent them off with his blessing, he returned to the Rectory to change into casual clothes. Then he set off in the evening sunlight to meet Janey.
Gillian watched him leave, hoping that he would do as she had suggested and find a hotel where the girl could spend the weekend. She knew that he had taken his toothbrush and razor with him, and she assumed that she would not see him again before early service the next day. But Robin was careful never to take Janey out in his own car, which was well known in Breckham Market. They always used the Datsun. Janey insisted on driving, and so she controlled the length of their journeys, and their destination.
Robin was back at the Rectory shortly after nine o’clock, twitching with panic.
‘We went to a hotel for a meal, but she refused to stay. She says she intends to sleep here. She’s just gone to collect her things from the tent, and then she’s coming.’
Gillian had tried to go on staying calm, as Alec Reynolds had advised, but this was too much. Anger began to mount inside her, rising up in a red tide that made her feel ready to do battle with anyone; and to hell with being a parson’s wife.
‘Oh no she’s bloody well not,’ she said.
She ran round the house, locking doors and closing windows. Robin hurried after her, protesting. ‘But you can’t keep her out! You don’t know what she’ll do!’
‘She won’t marry Michael Dade, I’m quite sure of that.’
‘She’s not talking about that any more. But she says if we don’t let her in, she’ll make trouble. She’ll wake the neighbours, smash windows –’
‘You know perfectly well we haven’t any neighbours. And if she dares to do any damage, I’ll send for the police.’
‘But then everything will come out! Everyone will know what’s been happening! My whole career – our whole life – will be ruined. It’s not that I want her here, I swear it. I’m trying to protect you, surely you can see that?’
She saw the sweat on his face, and smelled fear on his breath. ‘Having your mistress in my house isn’t the kind of protection I want, Robin,’ she said. ‘If you’re really concerned about our life together – if you really don’t want her here – then you must send her away.’
‘But I can’t … she’s too strong for me! Oh Gillian, please –’ For the first time since his affair with Janey began, he looked his wife in the eyes. ‘I can’t fight her alone. For the love of God, help me.’
Chapter Twenty Two
They stood together at the top of the stairs listening to the ringing of the front-door bell, and then to the knocking at the side door, and at the back. There was a silence for ten minutes, and then the telephone began to ring. When Gillian answered it, the line went dead. After four such calls, she left the receiver off.
The assault on the doors started again half an hour later, with increased intensity. Handles were tried. Flung gravel rattled against the windows. Robin and Gillian, emerging from their separate bedrooms to meet in the upstairs corridor, found themselves clutching at each other in mutual alarm.
It was Henry Bowers who, unprompted, resolved the situation. Exasperated by the disturbance, he pushed up the sash window of his bedroom and bellowed into the warm night air, ‘Be off with you, you noisy trollop, or I’ll come down and shut you up meself!’
To the Aingers’surprise and relief, Janey went.
Robin’s Sunday was, as always, fully occupied, and Gillian accompanied him to all the morning services. Janey’s Datsun disappeared from St Botolph Street during the course of the morning, and Gillian began to think that they had won a victory.
They were about to set off for Evensong when Alec Reynolds arrived on his way back from London, looking so drawn and ill that Robin agreed that Gillian must stay and listen to him. She offered him coffee, but all he needed was a glass. He produced a half-bottle of whisky from his pocket, poured himself a large double, and told Gillian that Lesley had decided to marry a man she had met in London; the weekend had been their last together. Her announcement had taken him completely by surprise. He felt, he said, that his life had now completely fallen apart. Nothing seemed to matter any more.
Gillian said what she could to console and encourage him. He was on his third whisky, and obviously unfit to drive, so she persuaded him to stay for a meal. She expected Robin back for supper by seven-thirty, but when he didn’t appear by eight, she and her father and Reynolds ate without him.
It was nearly nine o’clock before Robin came back, in a state near to collapse. Janey had attended Evensong, walking up the aisle just as the service was about to begin, her hair lighting the gloom. She had sat in a front pew, where all the congregation could see her, and there had been whisperings and nudgings and murmurings of speculation when Robin panicked, stammered, and dried up. And after he had somehow stumbled his way through, she had met him outside the church, whisked him away in her car, and given him an ultimatum.
The congregation had now seen her, she said. During the course of the day she had made it her business to find out who the verger was, and the churchwardens, and the members of the parochial church council. If she wasn’t taken back into the Rectory, she intended to call on them at their homes that evening and tell them that Robin had taken advantage of her loneliness in a foreign country, and had seduced her in the church.
Gillian drew a deep breath. ‘Where is she now?’
‘In the drive, waiting for me to fetch her. And this time she won’t go away. We must take her in, Gillian, or we’ll be finished.’
She walked out of the front door. Robin sat huddled at the foot of the stairs, his head in his hands. Henry Bowers and Alec Reynolds, who had both overheard Robin’s story, stood in the hall listening shamelessly to what was going on in the drive.
The sun had gone down and dusk was gathering. The old man’s roses and peonies and gladioli had closed their petals for the night, and Janey’s hair was the brightest thing in the garden. She leaned gracefully against the inner side of the closed gate, waiting with confidence to be invited into the house.
Gillian paused when she was still some yards from the girl and spoke to her loudly and clearly. ‘It’s no good, Janey. You can’t blackmail us like this. You see, it’s been tried before.’ She knew that her voice was unsteady, but she plunged on. ‘It’s a sad fact that some women fantasize about their relationship with clergymen. It’s one of the recognized hazards of clerical life, particularly when the man is as good-looking as Robin.’
That was true. He had always, throughout his career, had an accompanying flotilla of admiring women parishioners. He was normally adept at fending them off, but one or two, more persistent or less well balanced than the others, had tried to manoeuvre him into compromising situations and then, disappointed, had spread their fantasies throughout the parish. It had been a great embarrassment for him, although Gillian had always felt more keenly for the unhappy women; but then, no one had ever taken their allegations seriously. Gillian knew that if Janey spoke out her story would be totally credible, but she stood her ground and denied it.
‘So no one would believe you. They know Robin’s views on the sanctity of marriage, and they’d assume that you were upset because he’d rejected you. They’d think you were a silly, hysterical girl who was trying to take her revenge.’
Janey’s stance had altered from graceful to taut. She started to say something, but she was interrupted by a cheerful shout of greeting from across the road. Athol Garrity, full of beer after his visit to the Concorde on his return from London, had flopped out for an hour
in his tent before emerging from Parson’s Close to see whether he could find her. After a moment’s hesitation, Janey went out to talk to him. Gillian remained where she was. Her father and Alec Reynolds, both admiring her courage, walked out into the driveway and stood behind her. Robin, hardly daring to believe that her bluff would work, followed them.
Presently Janey returned to the gate. ‘All right,’ she said, looking at the four who now faced her, her voice hard with contempt. ‘I don’t care a toss one way or the other – I’m off to spend my last two nights in London, anyway. Breckham Market’s the most boring place in this pathetic little country, and I’m tired of you whingeing Poms. But listen to this: perhaps people wouldn’t believe me if I told them about Robin, but they’ll believe Athol. They’ll know he’s got no reason to invent things. And they’ve all seen me in church, remember, they’ve seen Robin stutter and lose his nerve because I was there. So I’ve told Athol what to do, and he’s promised to make a start first thing in the morning, as soon as he’s slept the beer off. He’s a good mate, Athol, and he’ll do anything to please me. He’ll drop you in it right up to your Pommy necks!’
She slammed the Rectory gate, kissed Athol Garrity good-bye, climbed into her red Datsun, and went. Garrity stood waving amiably after her, and then wandered back across St Botolph Street towards the gate that led into Parson’s Close.
Drunk or sober, he knew Janey too well to agree to become involved in one of her feuds; knowing him equally well, she had not even asked. Her lie about her conversation with Athol was simply a parting exercise of power. She calculated that, in their emotional distress, her hearers would believe her implicitly. And they did.
A Talent For Destruction Page 15
