by Hilary Boyd
But when they bumped into each other, they were both excruciatingly polite, nothing more. Even if he does have feelings for me, she told herself over and over again, which he’s certainly given no indication of beyond a couple of looks and his hand over mine that day—and that was, she was certain in retrospect, just a comfort thing, as she’d told Maggie—he will never be in a position to follow through. So get over it, girl. But it wasn’t proving easy. Each time she saw him, even if it was with his wife and daughter—a salutary reminder of why he would never be available—her heart raised its beat, her breath became shallow. It was thrilling and thoroughly depressing and she felt pathetic, almost helpless to do anything about it.
“If we up the admission fee, then it will exclude a whole slew of people,” Martha, a tough investment banker, was saying.
“But I’m only suggesting fifty pee more. Two pounds is hardly a lot these days. I checked out other fêtes and most of them charge at least that,” Jeffrey, a retired judge, insisted.
“Well, I did too, and the ones I found charged maximum one pound fifty with children free.”
“I’m not saying we charge for children,” Jeffrey objected. “But that extra fifty pence would be pretty useful against costs.”
“These fêtes can be quite expensive once you’ve got past the gate,” William put in. “Especially if you’ve got kids clamoring for treats and toys and stuff. It’s not a cheap day out.”
“Compared to one of those theme parks, it is. Even the parking in those places practically bankrupts you,” Jennifer said.
“Yes, but we’re not offering nearly such a wide range of amusements,” Karen said. “I’m with Martha. I think we should keep it at the usual one pound fifty.”
Nothing is ever quick in a committee, and it was at least twenty more minutes before it was agreed not to raise the price of admission. At one point Karen caught William’s eye and they both smiled.
It was nearly nine before the group broke up. The storm that had been threatening had turned the sky to the west a deep blackberry, but there was still no sign of rain as they all headed back to their separate houses. Only Karen and Will were walking, all the others having brought cars or bikes. They were silent at first as they made their way across the village, awkward at suddenly being alone.
“I thought Jeffrey would never shut up,” Karen said.
“Yes, he’s like a dog with a bone. I suppose that’s what made him a good judge—rigor and attention to detail.”
“You don’t know he was a good judge,” she said, making him laugh.
“I suppose not. He’s good at the bells, if that counts.” He gave a small sigh. “There seems so much to do and each committee meeting only manages to address a tiny proportion of it all.”
“It’ll be alright on the night, I promise you, it always is.”
“I hope so. My grandmother sometimes used to open the one in our village when there wasn’t a handy local dignitary to do the honors, and it was hell.”
“Why?”
“She made me stand up on the podium next to her and hand the committee chairman a posy of flowers. And one year, as I stepped forward, I tripped over the wire to the microphone and fell flat on my face and everyone laughed. I was only seven. It’s tainted my view of fêtes.”
Karen couldn’t help laughing. “Pretty traumatic for a small boy. You should have thought of that before you became a vicar.”
“I suppose. But neither of my other posts had fêtes.”
“Listen, I’ve done . . . how many? Eleven? Maybe more, I’ve lost count. It’s a nightmare, but we muddle through somehow.”
Another silence.
“So how are you, Karen?” William asked softly, making her heart contract.
She took a long breath. “Getting there.”
“I’m . . . we haven’t had a chance to talk since . . . I’m so sorry . . . if you felt I overstepped the mark . . . on the bench . . .”
“I didn’t, Will. Not at all.”
“Maggie looked pretty fierce.”
“Yeah . . . she thought there was something between us, that she’d seen something. But I assured her there wasn’t.”
Silence.
She thought her heart might burst out of her chest as she tried to control the urge to tell him the truth. Don’t be so selfish, she admonished, and managed somehow to hold her tongue.
But Will had stopped and was looking intently into her face. They were in a small lane, a cut-through between two rows of houses, the hedges high on either side, the light fading fast.
She held her breath.
A dog barked in a nearby garden. It was as if the air around them were physically vibrating.
“No, please, don’t say it,” he begged as she began to speak.
So she didn’t. But she couldn’t help reaching up and holding her hand to his warm cheek. She heard his soft intake of breath as he put his own hand over hers and kept it there for what seemed like a lifetime.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, then turned abruptly and strode off down the cut without even saying goodbye.
Karen was shaken. She stood without moving for a minute or two, before walking unsteadily toward her house.
*
“What’s up with you?” Sophie was getting out of her cream Mini just as Karen reached the drive. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Do I? I’m OK. It’s the weather . . .”
This unsatisfactory explanation seemed enough for her stepdaughter, who wasn’t big on other people’s problems, unless they directly involved herself.
“I’m bloody glad I’m home before the lightning starts,” Sophie muttered.
Soon after, the storm erupted. Terrifying bolts of electricity lit up the night, one after another, forked as if they were maliciously seeking a target on earth, followed immediately by deafening booms of thunder right overhead which reverberated, echoing around the skies. When the heavens finally let loose the torrential sheets of rain, it was as if someone were tipping a huge tank of water over the house.
Largo whimpered in his basket, Sophie went and shut herself in her room and hid under the duvet. But Karen welcomed it. She’d never been afraid of thunderstorms, even as a child, although Johnny certainly had been.
Tonight, though, the extreme weather felt cathartic, as if anything less would have been an inadequate backdrop to her tormented happiness.
*
Maggie had gone. Karen went round to see her off, watching her friend wave goodbye through the taxi’s rear window en route for Gatwick. They had not spoken about William again. Karen knew Maggie would have wanted to trust her when she said there was nothing between them, but she also knew that her friend’s practical, straightforward nature would mean that Maggie would believe the evidence of her own eyes. So in the days before she left, there had been a certain constraint between the two friends. On Karen’s part, she was almost relieved that Maggie wouldn’t be around for a while to watch.
Not that there was anything to see. She and William, although nothing had actually occurred beyond a hand pressed to a cheek, had crossed a line that night in the cut-through and she saw no way that either of them could allow there ever to be a repetition. There was too much at stake—for everyone, not just for William. Karen had no experience of what it was like to be a home wrecker—the woman people pointed at and reviled—and she was not keen to find out.
It had been bad enough dealing with Harry’s ex. Because although Theresa had decided she couldn’t be married to Harry herself, she was less than keen—like her daughter, Sophie—for anyone else to have him. Whenever she saw Karen, which was mostly when she visited the office to discuss things with her husband, she would walk past Karen as if she did not see her standing there, as if she did not exist. And if she spoke to Karen on the phone, it would be with a froideur that literally made her shiver.
But if Harry, as head of his own company, had chosen to have affairs with half his workforce—and by all accounts there w
ere a few—there would only have been the odd disapproving eyebrow raised. If there were even a whiff of William straying from his marriage, it would, as Maggie had so sternly pointed out, be over for him—not to mention the trauma for his wife and daughter. Karen liked and respected William far too much to let that happen.
But the pull of their connection was unique, like nothing she had ever experienced—even with Harry, where the balance between them had been so unequal. He had been her boss, her hero, imbued with charisma, power, money and seniority. William was her equal, her friend, the person with whom she felt completely at home.
*
“Come to church with me tomorrow,” Sophie asked the following evening. “It’s Easter Day. Go on, just this once. For Daddy.”
They were eating fishcakes and salad at the kitchen table. Things seemed to be improving between them. Karen wouldn’t say they were exactly friends yet—they still avoided each other most of the time—but they were finding a way to live together without rancor now. Maybe, she thought, it was just weariness of hostilities on both their parts, but Karen wanted to keep it this way.
“Why do you want me to come?” she asked, curious as to her stepdaughter’s eagerness.
Sophie grinned. “S’pose I just want to see if I can make you. Dad never could.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“So? Will you? Easter’s fun, the kids join in. William’s very good with them.”
“I’m sure he is. But I don’t believe in all that stuff about resurrection and taking away the sins of the world. Even if Jesus did rise from the dead, what good did it do any of us? People still suffer in their millions despite their beliefs.”
Sophie looked alarmed. “Whoa, don’t expect me to answer any deep theological questions.”
Karen laughed. “Sorry. I just don’t get it, though.”
“So come along and see if William can shed any light. What have you got to be afraid of?”
Her stepdaughter was clearly enjoying baiting Karen, and she didn’t mind.
“Wouldn’t it be hypocritical to come and sit there pretending?”
“You don’t have to pretend anything. No one’s going to test you on your faith.” The wariness eclipsed for once, Sophie offered her a fully disarming smile.
And Karen gave in. Not, as Sophie thought, because of her powers of persuasion, but because it gave her a chance to see the Reverend Haskell doing what must mean so much to him. She had longed to watch him in action for a while now—it was a huge piece missing in the jigsaw of who this man was. The only thing that kept her away had been the possibility that William might suspect her motives and be angry.
*
The Norman church was large and light. It smelt pleasantly of cold stone. Karen had been into it a number of times, but usually to show friends around who visited at weekends. She had once been to Christmas matins with Harry when they were first married—she hadn’t yet learned how to say no—but she had not been to a service since then, except the odd funeral or christening. Now, as she and Sophie took their seats, Karen realized her dogged resistance to God had been as much to do with not being bullied by her husband as a dislike of the ritual itself. It was a beautiful, peaceful place in which to sit. The five-light, leaded-glass window behind the altar shed a soft beam across the choir stalls, and the Easter flowers positioned all around the church perfumed the air. As she waited for the service to start, she felt a welcome calm descend on her.
A calm that was destroyed as soon as she saw William in his surplice and gold-embroidered stole. He looked so happy, so completely in his element as he looked out at his unusually full congregation. At least seventy-five people, Karen reckoned, and only the odd one over ninety. It was as if she were watching him as the star of a play. She tried not to catch his eye when he stood up in the pulpit to give the sermon, which was both witty and passionate. But if he saw her, he did not react, so involved was he in delivering his Easter message.
“It’s all about trying,” the vicar told them, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. “None of us is perfect, far from it. Perfection isn’t human, only God is perfect. And because being perfect is such a distant, unattainable goal, many of us think it’s not worth trying to get there. But it is. We should all be striving to find a better version of ourselves, throughout our lives. I say ‘better,’ not ‘perfect.’ And we do that by being true to ourselves, by being honest and authentic in all our dealings with each other and the world. And this is where God can help. God is our conscience. If we listen to him he will always tell us when we get it right, when we stray. And he will set us on the right path if only we let him.
“Easter, with the resurrection, is a time of new life and new beginnings, a time to set new goals . . .”
As he spoke on, he became more and more animated, his words reverberating around the church in his desire to reach his congregation. Karen knew he meant what he said, and knew that his words had a deep personal relevance to himself, and to her.
*
The reverend stood at the door of the church after the service, shaking the hands of his parishioners as they filed out into the warm spring day. Karen would have escaped the receiving line—she could see Janey and their daughter, Rachel, up ahead and had no desire to engage with them—but Sophie was urging her toward William.
“Ah, Sophie, lovely to see you.” He patted the girl on the arm then turned his attention to Karen. “So glad you came,” he said quietly, giving a small bow of his head rather than taking her hand.
“Don’t you think I need a medal, getting Karen to pitch up?” Sophie was saying. “Daddy would have been astonished.”
William laughed. “Yes, wouldn’t he? Lovely you both could be here.” He was already looking behind them to the next person in the queue.
“See?” Sophie said, as they walked home. “You didn’t get struck down.”
“No . . . I enjoyed it, surprisingly. Enjoyed being in the church, at least. There was a real energy in there.”
Her stepdaughter looked sideways at her. “That’s the vicar for you. Reverend Parkin’s services were the worst and seemed to go on forever—I dreaded them—but with William it’s kind of inspiring.”
Karen silently agreed, but her heart had contracted at his guarded welcome to her. She understood that it had to be like this from now on, but it broke her heart.
*
The fête committee—eight had turned up today—stood in a circle on the lawn of Karen’s house. It was large and perfectly cut by Ron Daley, who had been looking after the garden for thirty years, through all the different owners of the rectory. But the last quarter of the garden sloped downward quite steeply toward the stream that ran along behind the house to the duck pond in the center of the village, and this always caused problems when mapping out the stalls.
Jennifer held a pink clipboard in front of her, fastened to which was a penciled plan. She pointed to the far corner.
“We’ll have the tea tent there, as usual, meaning everyone has to go past all the other stalls to get there. It’s always the most popular.”
They all nodded.
“The tombola there, cakes and jams there . . .” She consulted her plan. “Then I thought the church stall could come next, with the tea towels and mugs and information about the tower fund.”
They nodded in unison.
“The trouble is, we’ve got four more craft stalls this year, which is wonderful, but I don’t see how we’re going to fit them in, if we have the children’s area taking up that side, and duck racing by the stream.”
“What about the Pimm’s tent?” Jeffrey asked, only to receive an eye-roll from the chairman.
“That goes on the drive, as usual, Jeffrey. We don’t want the children getting muddled up with it.”
“Muddled up?” The judge’s cold eyes sensed a challenge.
“You know what I mean. This is a family day out, not an opportunity to get drunk. If I had my way I’d ban it. But they’re very generous sp
onsors, so I keep my mouth shut.”
“We are trying to raise money here, Jennifer.” Jeffrey had a thin smile on his lips as he looked around for support from the rest of the group, getting a grudging nod from Bernard, the secretary. “The tent’s immensely popular.”
“Yes, well . . . shall we get on?”
Karen was standing beside Janet, the organist, and Will was on Janet’s other side, but Karen was intensely aware of his presence. She hadn’t seen him, not even out and about, for nearly two weeks now and she was desperately pleased that he had come. But he looked pale and distracted this evening and had barely greeted her when he arrived, his eyes anywhere but on her face.
Karen shivered, wrapping her arms around her body. It was a cold evening, the sky threatening rain, and she wished they could go inside. But since almost every decision Jennifer made with regard to the stall plan was challenged by someone or other—mostly Martha or Jeffrey—it looked as if it would go on all night.
She longed to talk to William, to find out what was wrong, but since the meeting was being held in her house, there would be no opportunity to walk home together.
*
“Bloody man,” Jennifer muttered when everyone but Karen, William and herself had left. “If he wants to be chairman, he only has to say. It’s not like I volunteered.”
Karen indicated the sofa. “Sit down, I’ll make a fresh pot of tea, or something stronger if you’d prefer.”
The vicar didn’t move. “I should be getting home.”
But Jennifer, sinking gratefully on to the sofa, waved her plump arm imperiously at him. She reminded Karen of Hyacinth Bucket from the nineties TV series, with her exaggerated accent and innate bossiness. But she had a good heart and worked tirelessly for the village.
“Make mine a large gin and tonic, please, dear. I’ve had quite enough tea for one day,” she told Karen, before turning back to William. “Could you spare a couple of minutes, Reverend? I know you’re busy, but I really need to talk to you about Gardner Moss.”
