The Rector's Wife

by Joanna Trollope

  ‘That’s a dry Martini. There’s no pick-me-up like it.’

  ‘Heavens,’ Anna said. She took the glass gingerly.

  Marjorie Richardson sat down opposite with her own much fuller glass. She waved it. ‘Cheers,’ she said.

  Anna took a tiny, electrifying sip. She said, after a moment, ‘Harry did something very kind. He got the diocese to offer me a cottage for five years. I’m terribly touched, but I’m afraid I’ve turned it down. It was such a kind idea.’

  ‘It was mine,’ Marjorie said.

  Anna stared.

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘Yes, I thought it would be easier to accept from them than from any of us.’

  Anna put her glass down. ‘Then I’m even sorrier I turned it down—’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Marjorie said. She crossed her handsome legs. ‘I’m not surprised. I’d have turned it down too.’

  ‘What—’

  ‘You’ve had enough, haven’t you? You’ve had an absolute basinful of being towed along behind some male institution, haven’t you? I think you want out.’ She paused and took a swallow. ‘I think this because I think it too. Church or Army, what does it matter, they’re all the same. Fill a man with notions of duty and obligation and then expect his wife to feel privileged to fall in with him. Makes me sick.’

  Anna leaned forward. She wondered briefly if Marjorie had begun on the gin some time before her arrival.

  ‘But you’ve always disapproved of me being a maverick! You were furious over Pricewell’s—’

  ‘Fury born of envy and admiration. I never had your guts, you see, I never had the guts to rebel. I went along with Harry and the Army for forty-three years, while everyone told me what a brick I was and ideal for an Army wife. Even Harry began to believe it. I don’t think it’s crossed his mind to wonder if I can look back on my life with even a fraction of the satisfaction he can look back on his. These male institutions—’ She paused, took another swallow and went on. ‘I’ll tell you something. Our elder daughter, Julia, was married to a sailor. He’s a bit older than her, and he was a captain during the Falklands War. While he was away, Julia became responsible for all the wives and mothers and girlfriends of the men on his ship. They rang at all hours, all the time. She travelled all over England seeing these women, in her own time, at her own expense. When the Task Force returned, her husband was promoted, went off with a WRNS officer and the Navy never even said thank you. Not a postcard. Nothing. As a service wife she was expected to do all that and feel honoured to do it. You should hear Julia on the subject. You’d like Julia.’

  ‘Marjorie,’ Anna said, ‘you’ve absolutely taken my breath away.’

  ‘I owe you an apology, really,’ Marjorie said. ‘I’ve been pretty hard on you. I suppose suggesting the cottage was part of a wish to make amends. I’m glad you’ve turned it down. Now you’re free, stay free. Would you let me lend you some money?’

  ‘No,’ Anna said gently, ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Damn. Though I don’t see why you should take it just to make me feel better. You aren’t drinking your drink.’

  Anna picked up her glass. ‘I’m rather startled by it. The combination of it and you has made me feel as if I’d already drunk several—’

  ‘Where are you going to live?’

  ‘Woodborough,’ Anna said.

  ‘Good. So I can come and see you? You’ll accept veg and stuff—’

  ‘Oh yes. I’d love to see you.’

  ‘I’ll bring Julia.’

  ‘I’d love to meet Julia. Marjorie,’ Anna said, ‘will you tell Harry about the cottage? Will you explain that I’m so grateful but that I must be independent now? I’m afraid – I’m afraid that the cottage I was offered sounded rather—’

  ‘Grim? I bet it did. Of course I’ll tell Harry.’ She looked at Anna and then tossed off her drink. ‘Funny old fellow. Terribly protective, without one clue as to how we tick. Not one. I hope you’ll keep in touch, let me know where you are, what’s going on. I’m stuck now, of course, but I don’t half get a kick out of watching you throw over the traces.’ She brandished her glass. ‘Want the other half?’

  Anna hadn’t been in Sister Ignatia’s study since the day of Flora’s interview. Sister Ignatia seemed quite unsurprised to see her, but then, she reflected, nuns did not seem to go in for visible surprise about anything. Anna sat down and let Sister Ignatia tell her all that St Saviour’s was doing to comfort Flora over the loss of her father. Anna felt that the expression in Sister Ignatia’s sharp eyes did not quite match the gentle platitudes of her speech. She said how grateful she was, what a difference the school’s sympathy made to Flora. Then she waited. Sister Ignatia Waited too, for a few seconds, to allow her a decent transition of mood, and then she said, in quite a different tone, ‘And how can we help you?’

  ‘I need a job,’ Anna said.

  Sister Ignatia nodded.

  ‘I’m qualified to teach French and German in language schools, but not in the state system. I have also taught English as a foreign language.’

  ‘And why have you come to me?’

  ‘Because you don’t have the same requirements as a state school, and because I know you a little and because I saw your advertisement in the Woodborough Echo for a languages teacher.’

  ‘It might not benefit Flora.’

  ‘It would do her no harm to learn to accept it.’

  They looked at one another. Sister Ignatia remembered that Mrs Bouverie had concealed Flora’s free place from her husband. She also remembered that, after her initial surprise, she had remarked to herself that Mrs Bouverie doubtless had her reasons.

  ‘You are my first attempt at getting a job,’ Anna said. ‘I won’t be surprised if you turn me down. But I’d like to teach here, I think.’

  Sister Ignatia folded her hands under her scapular.

  ‘I thought you might come to me.’

  ‘And did you think what you might say to me when I did?’

  ‘I thought I might agree. At least to a term’s trial.’

  ‘I’d be very grateful.’ Anna leaned forward. ‘How did you know I’d come?’

  ‘You’ve a very ecumenical archdeacon here in Woodborough.’

  ‘No!’ Anna said. ‘Not Daniel! This isn’t a plot, is it, between you and Daniel Byrne? Will I never be free of the Church?’

  Sister lgnatia gave a tiny, ironic smile.

  ‘Oh Mrs Bouverie,’ she said, ‘it’s not the Church you’ll never be free of—’

  When she left St Saviour’s, Anna made her way to the market-place. It was market day, and busy, and the busyness added to Anna’s sense of elation. Sister Ignatia had offered her a term’s trial of full-time French and German teaching, a position to be reviewed at Christmas. It was, Anna could not help realizing, exactly the kind of job that would have earned Peter’s approbation. It was also, she could not avoid admitting, exactly the kind of job she would not take while he was alive. Flora would, of course, be most indignant. Anna’s presence at St Saviour’s would unquestionably cramp her style.

  ‘A most imaginative child,’ Sister Ignatia had said.

  ‘Do you mean not strictly truthful?’

  Sister Ignatia hadn’t smiled. ‘I simply mean what I said.’

  Anna’s goal in the market-place was the clutch of estate agents’ offices, which huddled together for safety, rather as building societies and antique shops tend to do. Her errand was, she thought, quite simple; she wanted a house to rent with a minimum of three bedrooms. A garden would be nice. A garage didn’t much matter. The first two agents she visited said they had nothing to rent whatsoever and the third offered her a sad-looking bungalow behind the fire station. All three said she would find rented property very scarce; very scarce indeed. They shook their heads. They tried to interest Anna in small houses they had for sale, dull little houses on residential estates. Anna said she had no capital and could thus make no down payment. They looked at her pityingly, but made it plain that it was n
ot their business to do any more for her.

  The fourth agency produced two houses. One was a sturdy villa in a suburb of Woodborough, the property of a businessman currently living in the Far East, the second a narrow slice in a Victorian terrace. Anna said she would like to look at it. The agent urged the villa.

  ‘But I’d rather be in the middle. And it’s cheaper—’

  ‘Nothing like so pleasant, though. And only three bedrooms.’

  ‘May I see it? May I?’

  The agent sighed. He knew it would be a waste of time. The house had been on his books a year. He called a girl from a back office where she was photocopying particulars.

  ‘Debbie. Take Mrs Bouverie to 67 Nelson Street, would you?’

  ‘You won’t like it,’ Debbie said to Anna, on the pavement.

  ‘Won’t I? Why won’t I?’

  ‘It’s ever so dark. Creepy.’

  ‘Is this a very good way to do business, do you think, putting clients off before they even get there?’

  ‘Only trying to help,’ Debbie said. It might be a stupid errand, but anything was better than the photocopier. ‘You’re the ninth person I’ve taken. That’s all.’

  Nelson street was five minutes from the market-place. It was too narrow, and it lacked front gardens, but the far end of it opened into the old abbey grounds, an eighteenth-century park designed picturesquely round the ruins of Woodborough’s medieval abbey. Number 67 was exactly like its neighbours; flat-fronted, built of brick, with a window beside the front door, two above it, and one in the top-floor gable, under cuckoo-clock eaves of painted wood.

  ‘Terrible, isn’t it?’ Debbie said.

  Anna did not think so. She took the key firmly from Debbie and opened the front door. A smell of old, damp newspapers greeted her. The hall was narrow and dark, with a sharply rearing staircase, but beyond it Anna could see sunlight through a back window and something green further off. She turned to Debbie.

  ‘Why don’t you go off for ten minutes, and I’ll explore on my own?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to do that. I’m not allowed to leave the client.’

  ‘Even if the client refuses to look at the property with you standing scowling at her?’

  Debbie gaped.

  ‘Go away,’ Anna said. ‘Go away and come back in a quarter of an hour.’

  ‘Mr Rickston—’

  ‘I’ll deal with Mr Rickston.’

  ‘Barmy,’ Debbie said. But she backed away through the front door. Anna shut it behind her.

  ‘Now,’ she said to 67 Nelson Street.

  It waited. It allowed her to open doors and windows and climb the staircase and investigate cupboards and trap doors. It let her look into the bathroom (very bad) and the kitchen (worse) and observe the discouraging boarding-house décor. Not until she had looked out through the back windows and seen the wholly neglected little garden surrounded by old brick walls, in which an apple tree was growing (an apple tree laden with infant fruit), did it begin, tentatively, to defend itself. Coming away from the window – the garden was full of sunlight – Anna saw that, although the walls were covered in embossed and terrible papers, and the paintwork was ochre and lime-green, the fireplaces and mantelpieces were still original, there were proper cornices and deep skirting boards, and, above all, an unmistakable atmosphere of profound benevolence.

  ‘I don’t think you’re dark or creepy,’ Anna said out loud. ‘Nobody could hope to look their best under salmon-pink gloss paint.’

  The doorbell rang hoarsely. Anna Went down the stairs and opened the door saying, ‘That wasn’t quarter of an hour—’

  ‘What wasn’t?’ Jonathan said.

  ‘Jonathan!’

  ‘I followed you. I saw you in the market-place. Are you going to live here?’

  She drew him in. ‘I might. I think I like it.’

  He looked round. ‘I have no eye at all. Never know what I like in houses.’ He looked at her. ‘Only in people.’

  She took his hand. ‘Come and see. There’s room for all the children and a garden.’

  ‘Is there a room for a lover?’

  ‘Not as well as the children.’

  He kissed her.

  ‘Worth a try—’

  She led him into the kitchen and pointed out through the window. ‘Look. An apple tree. And lovely walls. I’m going to teach at St Saviour’s.’

  He put his face into the back of her neck. ‘Try not to be too self-sufficient Try to need me a little. There are my feelings to consider after all.’

  She said, ‘It was you who said seize the moment.’

  ‘That was before I was as deep in as I am now.’

  She turned and put her arms round him. ‘I’m in love too, you know. It’s just taken me in rather a different way. Just as Peter’s death has taken me in a way I never dreamed of.’

  He regarded her for some time. Then he smiled and said, ‘I understand, you know. And you thrill me, the way you’re behaving, you really do. Now, show me your house.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The new Rector of Loxford had not been ordained until he was forty-five. He’d been an insurance agent before that. He was called Philip Farmer and he had a wife called Dorothy and two grown-up sons in the computer industry. He was a big, solid man with a genial expression and spectacles, and he told the Parochial Church Councils of the five parishes that it had been his and Dorothy’s dream for ten years to come to a rural living, and that they felt very privileged to have been accepted.

  Dorothy Farmer was evidently capable. Within weeks of her arrival, new curtains of her own making blew out of the constantly, healthily, open Rectory windows and the WI Friday market had benefited from jars of her excellent chutney. The parish group found themselves somewhat disconcerted. Celia Hooper, Trish Pardoe and Elaine Dodswell had all paid an eager early visit to the Rectory, to explain their willingness. Dorothy Farmer had shown them into the newly painted, trimly furnished, almost unrecognizable sitting-room, with a single picture (a quiet landscape) hanging dead centre over the fireplace, and a row of African violets in copper pots on the gleaming windowsill.

  ‘Now then,’ said Dorothy Farmer, bringing in a tray of coffee and home-made biscuits, ‘tell me about yourselves.’

  They tried. They told her about the Brownies and the old people and the Sunday school Christmas play and the difficulty of finding volunteers for the church-cleaning rotas. They attempted to explain delicately about their efforts to help Anna. They pointed out what a lot of work five parishes gave a priest, and how they knew that clergymen and their wives were under a lot of stress these days and that it was their fervent wish to help alleviate this.

  Dorothy Farmer listened. She made notes in a notebook. She smiled a good deal, and nodded, and looked at them through her well-polished spectacles. When they had finished, she let a little pause fall, and then she picked up the coffee pot, and went round their cups with it saying, ‘I can see you’ve had a very difficult time. I’m so pleased Philip and I are here. I shall of course, being a trained physiotherapist, do a bit of work at the hospital to keep my hand in, but the rest of the time I shall be here, in the parish.’ She paused and smiled again. ‘Very much so, in fact.’

  They watched her. She sat down again in her neat oatmeal chair.

  ‘Between you and me,’ Dorothy said confidingly, ‘I think there’s a lot of nonsense talked about clergy stress. It’s a question of attitude, to my mind. If you ask me, most clergy wives these days are a lot of moaning minnies.’

  Anna was invited to Philip Farmer’s induction service. Laura was staying with her at the time, and so she came too, in the gilded velvet coat she had worn for Anna’s wedding. As she had just signed a contract for a new series of Irish stout advertisements – the first batch having become a cult success – she bought a new hat. It was a straw cartwheel with the crown swathed in golden satin. Laura added artificial flowers and ears of corn and a huge glistening brooch shaped like a dragonfly. Her final appearance
made Anna feel very affectionate.

  Apart from regular visits to Peter’s grave (it had no headstone yet because there were arguments over the lettering), Anna had not lingered recently in Loxford. She had not, for one thing, had time, and for another, it seemed only fair to stay out of Dorothy Farmer’s way. She had paid a single, brief courtesy visit to the Rectory and come away astounded. ‘You wouldn’t believe,’ she said to Luke, ‘that it was the same house.’ Luke, who had contentedly painted his attic room in Nelson Street black all over, merely grinned. Life in Loxford seemed to him, at times, already as remote as the moon.

  Loxford church was not as full as it had been for Peter’s funeral. It looked tremendously clean – almost too clean, Anna thought – and there were the usual lovely flowers which bore the mark of the skilled hands of Lady Mayhew and Miss Dunstable. In the Rectory pew sat Dorothy Farmer in a fawn-checked two-piece, and beside her, two large sons and one small daughter-in-law. They were, from head to foot, impeccably brushed and polished.

  Anna and Laura sat at the back. Several people turned round and made welcoming faces and grimaced at them to come further up the church. Anna shook her head. She wished Kitty was there, but Kitty had refused to come. She had sent Anna her amethysts, with a note saying that, as she might as well be dead, why didn’t Anna have them now? Anna had sent them back, saying that (a) nobody could enjoy a present sent in such a spirit and (b) she wanted, please, Kitty to stay alive as long as possible. Kitty had sulked after that, and refusing to come to the induction was part of the sulking. ‘Poor Kittykins,’ Laura said, ‘she thinks it makes her glamorous.’

  The Bishop conducted the service. Daniel was there too. Philip Farmer looked very pleased at the whole proceeding and beamed confidently at his new flock. He had plans for them, evangelical plans, plans that he had been shrewd enough not to reveal in front of the likes of Sir Francis Mayhew and Harry Richardson, before they had finally accepted him. He thought he would start with the music; a good modern song book, some young mothers with guitars, a few Taisé choruses. Then he would turn to the services and replace Rite B with Rite A. It would be nice to encourage the congregation to participate in the services; some personal confessions, perhaps (surely even Loxford had a reformed alcoholic or two – even perhaps a drug addict?), and the warm exchanging of signs of peace. Loxford needed bringing to God, he could see that, plain as the nose on your face. It had got fossilized, poor old Loxford, fossilized by notions of ‘the Church’. Well, Philip didn’t call it ‘the Church’, and nor did Dorothy. They called it ‘the Jesus Movement’. Dorothy had played the recorder at services in their last parish and she would undoubtedly do it again here; it was a wonderful ice-breaker, a wonderful way to bear witness to the Lord. Philip Farmer’s smile grew and grew. He looked upon his unsuspecting parishioners with love. He had so much to share with them.