Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  I’d trained a few of the less heavy wisteria branches around and over the roof of a shepherd’s hut, which was perched at the bottom of the garden, so that right now it dripped with blooms. The hut, painted tasteful pale green, stood at a jaunty angle in the corner. I’d bought it thinking I might work there in the summer, but Michael had been against it, so it had become a garden shed. Unfortunately, it was the only thing I hadn’t got round to sorting out yesterday and my prospective tenant was even now making his way … oh God. I sprang into life and hastened after him. As he opened the door – too late, a large rake sprang out, hitting him squarely on the head.

  ‘Ooow!’ He bent over in agony, holding his forehead.

  ‘Oh Lord – I’m so sorry.’ I rushed up, horrified. ‘It is rather full. It was literally the one place – are you all right, Joshua?’

  ‘Josh!’ he roared, rather unnecessarily, as he straightened up. ‘And I’m fine.’ He glared at me. ‘Do you always set traps for prospective tenants?’

  ‘Of course not, and it was hardly a trap. How was I to know you’d go in the shed?’

  ‘Well, call me optimistic, but I thought it might yield something more promising. I thought I might work in there, actually.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Yes, well, so did I. That’s why I bought it.’

  ‘So why didn’t you? he asked accusingly. I stared at him. His bespectacled face was quizzical, intense. But not unattractive. If you like that sort of thing. I swallowed. Impossible to tell him, of course, that Michael had wanted me right under his nose, where he could see and hear me, and not making calls or sending emails at the bottom of the garden, so I told him instead that the windows were too small.

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘Not enough natural light.’

  ‘Exactly. And cold in the winter.’

  ‘But you’ve got a stove in there?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘So how come you’ve got a chimney?’

  I felt I was on Any Questions. And he wasn’t playing Just a Minute, either. ‘It came with it,’ I said testily. ‘The stove can be fitted at a later date, if required. If you must know, I liked the look of the chimney. I thought it looked quaint and rural. I saw a picture of David Cameron’s. His had one.’

  ‘Ah.’ He looked pleased. As if that summed me up, which of course it didn’t. Well, a bit, but not entirely. Not by a long chalk. ‘So it’s purely cosmetic?’ God, he was annoying. We were making our way back to the house now.

  ‘Until it’s appropriated, converted and therefore operational, yes,’ I said, as if pedantry was clearly required. As we emerged through the French windows Ned glanced up from his phone and took in our faces.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Josh wanted chapter and verse on the shepherd’s hut, that’s all.’

  ‘Hardly! I just didn’t expect to be ambushed by it!’

  ‘Ambushed?’ asked Ned.

  ‘A rake fell out and caught him,’ I said smoothly, aware I was behaving rather badly but unsure why. ‘And I’m terribly sorry,’ I added stiffly. ‘It was my fault. It’s too full.’

  ‘Not at all,’ came back an equally stiff rejoinder.

  Ned sighed and drained his coffee, none the wiser.

  ‘Yes, well, you might want to empty it, Mum, before you go. I’ll give you a hand, if you like. And fascinating though this slice-of-life drama is, I feel I must be getting on my way. I have a funeral to conduct.’

  Josh glanced at him, alert. ‘You’re a vicar?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘How interesting. I often wonder if I should have liked that.’

  Ned and I both blinked at him in surprise. Joshua Cohen was not a name to automatically suggest an Anglican vocation.

  ‘For the other team, obviously. A rabbi. Or a doctor, perhaps. But there we are. The decisions we make early in life do rather constrict us, don’t they?’ He looked rueful.

  Ned smiled. ‘Not necessarily. I only became a vicar a few years ago. Changed horses in mid-stream.’

  ‘Oh? What were you before?’

  ‘A hedge fund manager. Bye, Mum.’ He pecked my cheek. ‘Don’t see me out, I’ll manage.’

  ‘Oh no, I’ll come down.’ I hastened after him to the door. When I’d opened it for him and we were out of earshot on the step, I muttered: ‘God. Rude, isn’t he? Typical Parisian. He’s clearly been there too long.’

  ‘I rather liked him,’ he said consideringly, glancing back beyond me down the hall. ‘At least he says what he thinks.’ He turned back to me. ‘Anyway, don’t forget the thrust of my little mission here today, hmm?’

  ‘What was that?’ I genuinely had forgotten.

  He eyed me kindly. ‘To do things for yourself. To stop worrying about other people.’

  ‘Oh. That. Yes, of course I will,’ I lied.

  He gave me a funny, sad smile, and then he sauntered off down the steps to the street. I watched him go, his thin shoulders hunched in his leather jacket against the chill wind.

  When I went back to the kitchen, Josh was turning up the collar on his own coat. ‘I must be off. I’ll be in touch. I’ve got one more to see in Prothero Road, but I might not bother. When do you want to move out, incidentally? I mean, if I decide to take it?’

  ‘Oh, I’m ready to go now. I’m going home, you see.’

  He frowned. ‘Home?’

  ‘I mean, to my parents. For a bit,’ I added, in case that looked sad.

  ‘Oh, OK.’ He couldn’t look less interested, actually. ‘Well, I’ll be in touch. Via the estate agent, of course.’

  ‘Yes, quite.’ No need to communicate directly was implicit.

  I led him to the front door and opened it for him. I managed a bright smile as he went out. He looked at me thoughtfully.

  ‘Nice chap, your son,’ he said. ‘Interesting.’

  He descended the steps into the street in his rather oversized black overcoat. Perhaps that was the Paris look this season? He certainly had the carefully knotted à la mode scarf. I watched as he went down the road in the opposite direction to Ned, but also, I noted with some relief, in the opposite direction to Prothero Road.

  9

  It wasn’t strictly true, what Ned had said back there in the kitchen, but I knew what he meant. He hadn’t changed horses: he just hadn’t initially been allowed to get on the one he wanted. He’d been keen to go into the Church from an early age, ever since he was confirmed at school. The lessons he’d received in preparation for it had fascinated him, and he’d come home wanting to talk about them, discuss it. Added to which he was a chorister, so he was in chapel a lot. He said there wasn’t much he heard in there that he disagreed with. At Oxford, his environment became equally ecclesiastical since he was on a choral scholarship, and I must admit, on the occasions I went to Brasenose to hear him sing, sitting in the intimate, ancient chapel, the sermons, often given by visiting preachers, were inspirational. I wasn’t surprised he was impressed, although Imo, a non-believer, would mutter cynically that if you couldn’t get a motivational speaker somewhere like that, where could you? After university, however, he’d been persuaded by Michael to at least look at other jobs. Ned had explained that what he planned to do wasn’t exactly a job, it was a calling, and Michael had flown into a terrible rage. He said he hadn’t spent all that money on a private education for his son to fritter it away in some country parish giving sermons to one man and his dog, and he could bloody well think again.

  Ned had put up a fair amount of resistance, helped by me and Imo, but he was a sensitive soul, and one day, after Michael had taken him out to lunch – suit and tie job at Simpsons in Piccadilly – he’d caved in. Said he’d be happy to try banking, like Imo. He’d been very pale when he’d returned. I’d asked him to tell me what his father had said, but he wouldn’t. Imo had tried too. Obviously Michael and I had a huge row about it, which had been absolutely vile, and had taken ages for me to recover from, but neither Michael nor Ned were ever going to tell me what had gone on. I knew that.<
br />
  So Ned, on the strength of his CV alone, and with no strings pulled from us because we didn’t know anyone, had gone for a few interviews in the City, and, against all the usual old boy network odds, had secured an internship, and then a coveted job at a hedge fund. To his credit, he said he found the job interesting, and of course, it was highly rewarding, financially.

  I’d been surprised at the way he’d been able to seemingly effortlessly suppress his real desire, and I’d tentatively brought it up with him when he’d been there for a while. He’d smiled.

  ‘Just because I’m religious, doesn’t mean I’m not ambitious. I’m making a shedload of money here, Mum.’

  I was even more surprised.

  And then, one day, exactly five years to the day after he’d started in the City, he resigned and enrolled at St John’s College in Durham, to prepare to be ordained. He was a grown man now, with resources enough to do exactly what he wanted. I wondered if that had been his game plan all along, to accrue some money and then go his own way. Even Michael knew when he was beaten. Ned barely talked to him anyway at that stage, and Michael made no attempt to persuade him; he just harrumphed about it being a total waste of brain power.

  ‘How so?’ asked Ned, on one of the few occasions when we’d gathered as a family. It was Christmas Day, I believe. With my parents, at Pope’s Farm.

  ‘What – hedge funder to parochial parson? You can’t see that isn’t a waste?’ he’d spat, over the turkey. ‘Who’s going to listen to you, anyway? I’m surprised the Church has even accepted you. You’ve compromised your belief – sold your soul. You’re tainted with the whiff of money.’

  Since it was Michael who’d forced him to compromise, there was a collective intake of breath around the table. But Ned stayed calm.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to have hindered Justin Welby, does it? Eleven years in the oil business before he was ordained. And by the way, I fully intend to be an archbishop.’

  This silenced even Michael, who’d gaped at him like a goldfish over the parsnips. My father’s eyes had gleamed with delight, and as I followed him out to the kitchen with some empty plates, I heard him mutter ‘touché!’ as he tossed a sprout to Hector, who caught it in his mouth.

  No one ever said anything like that in public, though: no retorts, no jokes made, no teasing. Certainly no one mentioned the fact that, unbeknownst to Michael, yet quietly celebrated by the rest of the family, Ned had already published papers on the relationship between finance, ethics and religion, which had been commented on by various bishops, and was making quite a name for himself at Holy Trinity Brompton, where he worshipped. Anything like that was kept firmly under wraps. We, including Dad, who had been in the Special Forces, were far too scared to stir the pot. I was scared that if I took Michael on, he’d take it out on the children. Dad was scared that if he squared up to him, he’d take it out on me. The children were scared on my account and – well. You get the picture. In fact, I’m almost certain that Michael had suggested something along those lines at his lunch with Ned, hence Ned’s willingness to drop his dream so quickly. But I don’t even want to think about it. Nor, indeed, did I have to, now. Michael was dead. And no one, amongst his immediate family, was going to pretend that was anything other than a relief. Except Amanda, of course.

  Amanda was on the phone most days, sobbing and wailing, wondering how I was. And of course I had to sort of pretend I was bearing up, which was strenuous, so in the end, I’m afraid I didn’t always take her calls. Maybe one in three. Because she’d be on the phone for hours. And recently, she’d been rather insulting. Calling me hard-hearted. And the odd thing was, when he was alive we hadn’t really heard from her much, because it seemed to me they disliked each other so. Michael called her a dismal old bitch and on the odd occasion I had lunch with her, in some smart Chelsea restaurant of her choice, she’d complain bitterly about him, wondering how on earth I stood him, before frowning at the end of the meal, and wishing she could remember who paid last time. I’d sigh and reach for my purse. Like many rich trust-fund children, Amanda was tight. I felt sorry for her now, because after all, her only remaining blood relative had gone, but as Helena said, I really didn’t need to land myself with Amanda, when I was finally free of Michael. And now she’d taken to popping round. Sure enough, just as I was gathering my strength to work out what I’d need to clear out before the lodger moved in, the doorbell rang and there she was on the doorstep.

  ‘Just don’t answer the door!’ Helena said later on, when she and the girls called round for tea. They’d found me limp and exhausted on a sofa in the sitting room. Amanda had just left. My sister plonked herself down on the end of the sofa. I curled my legs up to accommodate her. ‘You’ve got a spy hole – use it! Then if it’s her, creep upstairs and lie doggo on the bed till she’s gone!’

  Hard to explain to Helena the feeling of physical terror Amanda inspired in me, courtesy of her connection to Michael. She’d think I was mad if I told her that recently, when the doorbell went, at increasingly odd times and with no message beforehand, that old terror would literally take over my body. I’d notice my hand trembling as I reached for the doorknob.

  ‘Yes – or,’ exclaimed Maudie, fresh from school and still in her hockey kit, muddy knees included, ‘when you hear the bell, lie under the window seat like this!’ She demonstrated by flinging herself to the floor and lying like a corpse, eyes shut, hands on heart.

  ‘But what if she creeps right up to the window before she rings the bell and Luce hasn’t got time?’ said Tess, wide-eyed. ‘Or, even worse, sees her make a dash for it?’

  ‘Turn to stone,’ commanded Maudie, leaping up from under the window and demonstrating. ‘Like musical statues. There’s a disease you can get, which turns you literally to stone. It’s called Stone Man Syndrome.’

  ‘Stop it.’ Tess was gripped. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘It’s in Ant’s medical bible, that big black one. Remember when he thought he had a stomach ulcer? Almost called an ambulance? It’s the next one down.’

  ‘Calm down, girls, that’s enough. Lucy is wrung out enough without your hysteria,’ Helena told them.

  ‘Speaking of ambulances,’ Tess turned to me avidly, ‘did you hear that Ant had one on their holiday last week? Blue flashing lights, sirens, the lot! He thought his heart had stopped.’

  ‘I did hear,’ I said, trying not to smile as Helena rolled her eyes.

  ‘Only the third time we’ve had an ambulance on holiday,’ she muttered dryly.

  ‘It always happens on a romantic mini break,’ Tess told me quietly, perching next to me. ‘I can’t imagine why, can you? Too much for the old ticker, perhaps?’

  ‘And this time, it was in Paris,’ Maudie informed me. ‘Quelle drama on the Champs-Élysées.’

  ‘And quels fit doctors at the hospital. If only we’d been there.’

  ‘Ah monsieur,’ Maudie affected an outrageous French accent, ‘ees thees your petite fille? But she is soo beautiful!’

  ‘Ah, mais une autre fille! Très, très belle, far more belle than the other one!’

  ‘All right, girls, enough,’ scolded Helena, but not ferociously.

  ‘He couldn’t feel his pulse,’ Tess confided, reaching for my wrist and finding mine. ‘And Helena had popped out to do some secret shopping at Chanel while he had a nap, so he panicked. And you’d think he’d be so good at it by now, wouldn’t you? After all, he takes it twice a day. Ooh, Luce – yours is raging! Met someone already? Ned says you’ve got a hot lodger.’

  ‘Ignore them,’ Helena told me. ‘Ned called by this afternoon with some books he thought the girls might like. He just said he was nice.’

  ‘Actually, he’s neither,’ I told them. ‘He’s a rather surly Parisian. Well, English actually, but he was living in Paris until things went pear-shaped with his wife. And not bad-looking, I suppose.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound too terrible,’ Helena mused. ‘Not that you want anyone,’ she added quickly, seeing
my face.

  ‘Ooh, that’s not what you said earlier,’ said Maudie. ‘To Ned. You said Lucy didn’t need a mourning period, given that the marriage was over long ago.’

  ‘Girls, I do wish you wouldn’t listen on the stairs to adult conversation. No good can ever come of it. Ned did say, though,’ she said, turning to me, ‘that you’re not writing. Is that right?’

  ‘Just for the minute,’ I told her, not wanting to expand. Not wanting to explain, as I had done to Ned, about how I no longer felt the need to control a cast of characters, in a way that I couldn’t control my own life. I no longer needed that power. And it was a power. It was I who rounded their personalities, moulded them into shape, gave them little traits, peccadilloes, foibles; I who delved into their past, their families, discovered what made them tick. The autonomy I lacked in real life was exerted on my cast – my friends, actually. They were so real to me, and I became so close to them, that I always felt genuinely sad to say goodbye. And then needed that gap, in between books, before I could take my leave of them, and create some more. Except Susie, of course: she was my constant. She prevailed in every book. My best friend. I could rely on her, always. But I didn’t need her now. And that had been such an extraordinary revelation. A bombshell, actually. Susie was as dead to me as Michael was. Helena hadn’t lived here as Ned had done. She wouldn’t fully understand. She’d question, pick holes. Talk about displacement mechanisms being what drove many people to creativity, but that couldn’t be the whole picture, she’d argue: find other ways to enable me to pick up my pen. Because, of course, if I was busy, my family didn’t have to worry about me. She’d settle down to flex her argumentative muscles, which I really didn’t want. Luckily, the girls were nudging each other, and seemed to be building up to something.

  ‘Go on, spit it out.’ Their mother sighed, easily distracted by her offspring.

  ‘Apparently,’ Tess turned to me, perched back on the window seat beside her sister, ‘Imo said that when you tidied up the house, you found some clothes of hers. She said you saved them for us. She texted us.’