by Jill McGown
‘Here we are,’ said Mrs Brewster.
‘Three,’ George said.
‘Did you have a lovely time?’ Eleanor asked Tessa. ‘Stay and have a cup of tea, won’t you, Mrs Brewster?’ She turned back to George. ‘Three?’ she said. ‘I’ll get there for about half past two, then. All right?’
‘Lovely.’ He ruffled Tessa’s hair, and passed the time of day with Mrs Brewster. ‘Thank you again, Mrs Langton,’ he said, as he left.
And beyond the door, where the others couldn’t see him, he smiled at her again. And winked.
Eleanor turned back to Mrs Brewster. ‘You couldn’t possibly keep your eye on Tessa for another ten minutes, could you?’ she asked. ‘I have to make a phone-call.’
Marian stared coldly at the young man on her doorstep.
‘I just want to talk to her,’ he said. ‘She is my wife.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘We can’t go on like this for ever,’ he said.
‘She isn’t here, Graham. Not at the moment.’
Graham Elstow looked every inch the successful young accountant that he was. He dropped his eyes. ‘I’ve got to see her,’ he mumbled.
There were steps up to the vicarage door; Graham had retreated after ringing the bell, and for once Marian had the luxury of looking down at someone. The parting in his well-cut fair hair was neat and straight, like a schoolboy’s. Behind him, beyond the porch, the weather grew wilder, and Marian began to be a little worried about Joanna, who had gone into Stansfield to do her Christmas shopping at the last minute, as usual.
‘When will she be back?’ Graham was asking.
‘I’ve no idea.’ Marian scanned the whiteness, hoping that she wouldn’t see Joanna’s car, hoping that she would. It was a perilous world.
‘Can I come in and wait?’
‘No, Graham,’ she said. ‘You can’t.’
He looked surprised. He actually looked surprised.
‘I’ve got to talk to her,’ he said again.
‘Then I suggest you come back when she’s here.’
‘But—’ He turned and waved a helpless hand at the blizzard.
‘I can’t help that. I don’t want you here. I’m sorry.’
He dropped his eyes again. ‘I can understand that,’ he said.
Then go away, Marian thought. Go away and leave Joanna alone.
‘I’ll never forgive myself.’
Marian didn’t speak. All she could do was pray that Joanna wouldn’t forgive him. Not this time. Surely not this time.
‘Is it all right if I come back after lunch?’ he asked, half turning to go. ‘If I get something at the pub, and come back? Will she be back then?’
Marian wouldn’t answer, and he walked through the snow back to his car. She watched until it had driven away before she closed the door, her legs weak, her hands shaking. For a moment, she stood with her hand on the door-handle, gathering herself together.
It was about half an hour later that Joanna appeared, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed. ‘It took me over an hour just to drive from Stansfield,’ she said, depositing bags round the kitchen, where warmth could be ensured in the draughty old house. She unwound her scarf, pulling a face at the wet folds of wool. ‘I’d better hang this up,’ she said. ‘It’ll drip everywhere – that was just coming from the car.’
‘Graham was here,’ Marian said baldly. There wasn’t any way to dress it up.
Joanna’s smile vanished. ‘When?’
‘A little while ago. He says he’s coming back.’ She watched as Joanna sat down at the table, her fair hair bedraggled, her hands tight around the scarf. ‘He says he wants to talk,’ she carried on, sitting beside her. ‘You don’t have to see him, Jo.’
‘I do,’ she said.
‘Not yet. Not today.’ Marian took the wet scarf from her, and hung it over a chair. ‘You can see him when you’re ready.’ She held Joanna’s hand in hers.
‘Now’s as good a time as any,’ Joanna said, as the front door banged. Her grey eyes looked apprehensively into Marian’s.
‘We’re going to get snowed in,’ George said, as he came in, rubbing his hands and walking to the fire. He stood with his back to it, and looked at them, frowning slightly. ‘What’s up?’ he said.
Joanna let go of Marian’s hand, and left the room.
‘What’s wrong?’ George said again.
Marian told him. He exploded, as she had expected.
‘Coming back, is he?’ he said, angrily rebuttoning his coat. ‘That’s what he thinks. The pub, you said?’
‘George,’ Marian said wearily. ‘Joanna wouldn’t thank you.’
‘I’m not looking for thanks! I won’t have that little rat in my house – not today, not ever.’
‘He’s her husband.’
‘Marian – he’ll talk her round again. She’ll go back with him.’
Marian rubbed her eyes. ‘She’s got more sense,’ she said.
‘She didn’t have more sense the other times!’
‘She hadn’t left him.’
‘She forgave him, though.’
‘But she hadn’t left him,’ Marian repeated. ‘It’s been two months. She won’t go back to him. She hasn’t even said she’ll see him.’ She stood up. ‘Now,’ she said briskly. ‘Lunch is ready. Give Jo a call.’
George stared at her. ‘How can you behave as though it wasn’t happening?’
Because it was the only way she could deal with it. George could fly into rages, could go marching off to the pub, and make a scene. But Marian had to think about problems, and work out a strategy for dealing with them.
‘You still have to eat,’ she said stubbornly. ‘He isn’t here now, so there’s nothing we can do.’
‘There’s something I can do!’
‘But you’re not going to,’ Marian said, deliberately barring his way. ‘Take off your coat, and tell Joanna her lunch is ready.’ She looked up at him, aware suddenly of their relative strength; aware that the only reason she could actually stop him leaving was because George, like most men, operated a voluntary handicapping system.
He reluctantly unbuttoned his coat again, and threw it over the chair with Joanna’s scarf.
They ate lunch in near silence, until George gave up his brief attempt at minding his own business. Minding other people’s was his job when all was said and done, Marian supposed.
‘Well?’ he said belligerently, looking up at Joanna.
‘I’ve got to talk to him,’ she answered.
George stabbed a piece of potato, ‘I don’t want him here,’ he said.
Joanna laid down her knife and fork. ‘There’s nowhere else,’ she said, reasonably enough, in Marian’s opinion.
‘You don’t have to see him at all.’
‘I do, Daddy! He’s right. We have to talk. If it can’t be here, then I’ll have to go there.’
Marian, her head turning from one to the other, saw the angry colour rise in George’s face.
‘Well then,’ Joanna said, putting away her volley. Advantage.
‘If you’re seeing him, I’m going to be here.’
‘No,’ said Joanna. ‘Anyway – you’ve got the carol service.’
‘That can be cancelled.’
‘No, it can’t,’ said Joanna. ‘And how do you expect me to talk to him with you and Mummy outside the door, listening for—’ She broke off. ‘Just go to your service. And you go and do your Santa Claus bit,’ she said to Marian. ‘I’d much rather be alone when he comes back. He finds it difficult here anyway.’
‘He finds it—’ George began, his face purple.
‘It’s my problem, Daddy. I’ll deal with it.’ Game. Joanna pushed her plate away. ‘Thank you,’ she said, getting up. The handshake at the net. ‘I know you want to help. But I’m just going to talk to him, that’s all.’ And she left.
George looked at Marian. ‘Are you still going out?’ he asked.
‘I have to, George. And I think I should. I don’t want her t
o feel she’s got an audience – it would only make it more difficult for her.’
George sighed, and finished his lunch. Marian was sure he had no idea what he was eating. ‘I’d better get changed,’ he said.
‘Where’s your tie?’ asked Marian, suddenly realising that it was his open-necked casualness that was making George look different.
His hand went to his collar. ‘Oh – I took it off,’ he said, ‘I must have put it down somewhere.’ He stood up. ‘Maybe I’ll have a more Christian attitude to that little toad when I’m dressed for it.’
Marian began to clear away.
‘What if she goes back to him?’ George asked.
‘She won’t,’ Marian said resolutely, squirting washing-up liquid into the bowl. ‘Not this time.’
But she looked anxiously back over her shoulder when she and George left the house, an hour later. Perhaps he won’t turn up, she told herself.
And she kept looking at the phone while she was talking to the matron of the children’s home, barely following what the woman was saying.
It’s none of your business, Marian Wheeler, she told herself severely, as the matron repeated what she had just said, and Marian still wasn’t listening. You can’t phone her. Wait until you get home. She won’t go back with him. She won’t. She’s got more sense.
*
‘You’re just not listening to me, are you, Graham?’
Graham picked up her father’s decanter, and waved it at her.
‘No. And I don’t think you should have any more,’ she said.
‘Mustn’t drink all Daddy’s whisky? I’ll replace it.’
‘You’ve had enough, Graham. You’d had more than enough when you got here, and that’s your third!’
He saluted her with his glass. ‘One of the perks of bachelordom,’ he said. ‘You can get pissed without being nagged.’ He dropped his hand, and sat down, his head bowed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I just wish you’d come home and we could sort it out on our own.’ He looked up. ‘I can’t – I can’t get through to you here. It’s too—’ He shrugged. ‘Too nice, too Enid Blyton. I’ll bet you’re back in your old room, as if I’d never happened.’
‘Why have you had so much to drink?’ she asked. Drinking, despite what he’d just said, was not one of Graham’s faults. ‘Why?’ she asked again.
‘No reason,’ he muttered.
‘Because you were coming here?’
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Forget it. Look – Jo. Just come back. Don’t stay here. Shouldn’t your father be telling you that? I mean – isn’t he supposed to believe all that about those whom God hath joined together?’
Joanna’s eyes widened. ‘Graham – you’re talking as if I had left you on a whim.’
‘I know,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I know what I’ve done. It won’t happen again.’
‘It will.’ She got up and went to the window, watching the snow fall from a darkening sky as the silence enveloped them. It was cold in the sitting room; she had chosen it as the site for negotiations rather than the cosy, homely kitchen, where she might be lulled into a false sense of security.
‘Joanna, I swear. I’ll never, never do it again.’
His voice was suddenly close to her, and she turned to find him behind her.
‘Don’t look like that,’ he said. ‘Please. Please don’t be frightened of me.’
‘I am frightened of you.’ She turned away again.
‘But it isn’t me,’ he said. ‘You’re not frightened of me.’ He put his hand lightly on her shoulder, and she faced him again. ‘Something gets into me. Something just snaps.’
‘Then you should see someone. Talk to someone.’
‘No. I can work it out for myself.’
‘Not with me.’ She pushed past him, and put as much distance between them as the room would allow.
‘It has to be you. You’re my wife.’
‘And you think that gives you the right?’
‘No!’ He drained his glass. ‘But—’ He sighed. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I will see someone. I promise.’ He waited for her response, which was not forthcoming. ‘I promise!’ he shouted.
Promises. As though they had never had this conversation before.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, striding across the room.
Joanna moved away again, as he picked up the decanter.
She closed the curtains on her reflection. ‘Why are you drinking so much?’ she asked again. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. No reason.’
‘Is it because of me?’
‘Nothing to do with you. I met—’ He paused. ‘I met someone. Nothing – no one. Forget it.’
He wasn’t making sense. ‘Don’t drink any more,’ she said.
‘Why not? What do you expect? You walk out on me—’
‘I didn’t exactly walk out,’ she said sharply.
‘Oh God, Jo,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.’
‘See someone,’ Joanna said. ‘Tell them what happens to you.’
He put down the decanter, his face growing a painful red. ‘I couldn’t,’ he said.
‘Because you don’t want to admit it?’ She took a deep breath. ‘Well, that’s what you’re going to have to do,’ she said. ‘If you do that – if you prove to me that you’re trying to get help . . .’
‘You’ll come back?’ he said eagerly.
‘You have to do it first,’ she said.
‘I will, I will.’ He came towards her. ‘Don’t walk away from me, Jo,’ he said. ‘Help me. I’m not sure how—’ He waved a hand. ‘You know. How to go about—’
‘I’ll do that. I’ll find out who you should see. And I’ll go with you. To the doctor, or whatever. We’ll get advice.’
‘Yes. Good.’ He put down his empty glass. ‘Thank God,’ he said.
Joanna looked at him for a long time. ‘It’s your last chance, Graham,’ she said.
‘I know. I know.’ He took her hands, ‘I know,’ he said again, kissing them. He smiled, and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘No, Graham. You’ve got to make the first move.’
‘But you said we’d do it together.’
‘We will. But you’ve promised before, Graham. I’m not going back until I know you’re doing something about it. I will help you. I will. But I’m living at home until I’m sure.’
The clock whirred quietly, preparing to chime, as Graham dropped her hands. She knew the faintly puzzled look.
‘What did you say?’ he asked, and she knew the tone of voice.
She knew what came next.
Chapter Two
Eleanor had played at the carol service, catching his eye only to indicate in mime, her back to the congregation, that he had left his tie there.
He had told the children about all the people in the world who didn’t have turkey and Christmas pudding, and had smiled gravely at the earnest, concerned faces which had looked back at him. If only that concern could last, he thought, into Cabinet Ministerhood. But it couldn’t. By then, delicate international situations would seem much more important than feeding hungry mouths.
He locked away the collection money – he must have convinced some of the adults too, because there was even a fiver in there. He picked up the cash-box, then paused, and opened it again. Another fiver joined the first, and he locked the box again. He’d make sure it went to Save the Children or someone. The church roof could wait. Church roofs didn’t cry.
He walked out into the already black night, and looked up at the starless, snow-laden sky. He’d have to get the tie back some time. He wondered about Eleanor’s reasons for not bringing it with her. In case someone saw her give it back? Or because she wanted him to have to go back for it? Either way, it was a complication that he could have done without.
He should have worn boots, for the snow was covering his shoes, and he looked round for clear g
round, but there was none. Sighing, he turned up his coat collar as a flurry of snow went down the back of his neck. He needn’t worry about his sermon for tonight, he thought. He’d be the only one there.
As he rounded the church, the wind hit him. Head bowed, he set off to where the road could still just vaguely be seen, a faint fold in the white blanket. He heard the car as he walked along what he thought was the verge; he moved to the side, but it hooted. He lifted his head to see Marian.
‘Lift?’ she said, reaching over and opening the passenger door.
George got into the car, and pulled the door shut. ‘Oh boy,’ he said.
‘The Stansfield road’s blocked,’ said Marian.
‘Great.’
Marian drove a little more quickly than he would have done under these circumstances. As the car shimmied round into the vicarage driveway, she slowed down. ‘His car’s still here,’ she said, pulling up outside the house. She looked at him. ‘She won’t go back to him,’ she said. ‘She’s got more sense.’
‘Not where he’s concerned.’ George got out and ran up the porch steps. As he opened the front door, he heard the bedroom door close upstairs. ‘Jo?’ he called.
He and Marian exchanged glances.
‘They just want some privacy,’ Marian said.
‘They could be private downstairs,’ George said darkly.
Marian stood for a moment, looking anxiously upstairs. Then her eyes went slowly to George’s. ‘She won’t go back to him,’ she said defiantly.
George felt that a closing bedroom door was hardly a sign of irretrievable breakdown. But she couldn’t, she mustn’t let herself be persuaded to go back. He felt helpless; all his working life he had helped people in trouble, and all he could do was fight with Joanna, as though it were her fault.
‘What can we do?’ he asked.
‘Not much,’ Marian said, with another glance upstairs. ‘I think we should carry on as normal.’
‘Go out, you mean?’ He and Marian always spent a couple of hours in the village pub on Christmas Eve. It had been Marian’s idea – she said you were more likely to get people into church if you were manifestly seen to be a person. ‘What if he wants to come with us?’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’
