by Jill McGown
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘We do have cups and saucers,’ he said.
And still, teeth gritted, Judy didn’t allow the very cross words she was thinking to pass her lips. They would have shocked Michael even more than the mugs had.
‘George – come in.’ Eleanor Langton had decided to stop calling him Mr Wheeler the last time they had spoken, but she hadn’t had the nerve. She waited apprehensively for his reaction, as though he might tell her off.
‘Thank you,’ he said, brushing snow from his coat as he came in.
‘I’d take my coat off, if I were you,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit warm in here.’
‘Thank you,’ he said again.
‘Is this a social visit?’ she asked, as he slipped off his coat. ‘You’re in civvies.’
He smiled. He really did have a lovely smile, she thought. It made him look about six years old.
‘I’ve come to beg a favour,’ he said.
‘Anything. I must owe you several favours.’
‘What for?’ he asked.
Eleanor indicated a chair. ‘Listening to my moans,’ she said.
‘You don’t moan. And if you did, it’s a vicar’s job to listen.’
Eleanor brushed her blonde hair back from her face. ‘What favour?’ she asked.
‘My organist has let me down, or turned up trumps, depending on your ear for music,’ he said. ‘In any event, he can’t play, and I’ve got a children’s carol service this afternoon. Nothing tricky,’ he added. ‘Just the usual carols to the usual tunes.’ He paused. ‘Will you play for us?’ he asked.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I only play an electric organ.’
‘It is electric,’ George said. ‘It used to be a harmonium, but I didn’t see why the church shouldn’t move with the times.’ He smiled again. ‘No pumps, no bellows,’ he said.
‘I’d love to,’ said Eleanor. ‘I was taking Tessa anyway.’
‘Wonderful.’ He sat back. ‘Where is she?’
‘At the film-show. Mrs Brewster took her, bless her.’
‘Oh, yes. In the church hall. I’d forgotten about that.’ He sat forward a little. ‘Eleanor,’ he began, slightly hesitant. ‘You – you’re not going to be alone tomorrow, are you?’
‘No. Richard’s mother’s coming – well, she was. If this goes on much longer . . .’ She shrugged, glancing out of the window at the snowflakes dancing through the air.
‘Well, the vicarage is at your disposal,’ he said. ‘Marian always buys an enormous turkey – it lasts until about April.’
Eleanor laughed. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said. ‘Will you have a Christmas drink with me? It’s almost lunch time.’
‘I’d love to. I feel as if I’m playing truant,’ he said.
‘Why?’ Eleanor stood up. ‘What should you be doing?’
‘Writing tonight’s sermon.’
‘Oh dear. You’re cutting it a bit fine. I can only offer you whisky or sherry, I’m afraid.’
‘I’d better have sherry,’ he said.
‘Is the sermon proving difficult?’ She handed him his sherry, and sat on the sofa.
‘Yes,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Do you mind if I take my jacket off? It’s a little—’
‘It’s very,’ Eleanor said. ‘The boiler has two modes – off or equatorial.’
He took off his jacket, but he didn’t sit down again. He walked over to the sideboard and picked up the photograph of Richard. ‘Your husband?’ he asked, turning.
Eleanor nodded.
‘Is this your first Christmas without him?’
‘Not really.’ She could talk about it now. There had been a long time when it was impossible, when the tears that were denied her at the time would suddenly surface. But she was over that now. ‘Richard was in a coma for a very long time,’ she explained.
George carefully replaced the photo. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Tessa never knew him, not really. I took her to the hospital when she was born, but—’
George looked horrified. ‘Oh, forgive me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know the circumstances—’
‘It’s all right,’ Eleanor assured him. She took a breath. ‘It was a motorbike accident. Head injuries.’
Driving without due care. That was all the driver had been charged with. Her life was shattered because someone drove without due care. It was anger that she felt now, more than grief. More than anything. But that would pass too.
‘He only died in October,’ she said. ‘But – well, this is the third Christmas without him.’
George sat down beside her. ‘How dreadful for you,’ he said.
‘It was,’ said Eleanor. ‘To start with. They said I should talk to him – you know? At first, you feel self-conscious, but in the end, it became—’ She paused. ‘A habit, I suppose,’ she said, looking away from the hazel eyes that she was saddening. She hadn’t meant to talk about Richard. ‘After he died,’ she heard herself saying, try as she might, ‘I kept a diary. Telling it the things I would have told Richard.’ She looked up. ‘But I haven’t had to do that since I started working here.’
George stroked his upper lip for a moment before he spoke. ‘Did you have your family to help you?’ he asked.
‘Richard’s mother. I’m not from Stansfield. My brother came down as often as he could—’ She broke off. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I really didn’t mean to bend your ear with all this.’
‘I told you,’ he said gently. ‘That’s what vicars are for.’
‘I don’t think that’s why I’m telling you,’ she said quietly, and there was a silence.
The man wasn’t just married, he was a vicar. A vicar. The first man in whom she had had a flicker of interest, and he was a married vicar. ‘I’m supposed to be listening to your problems,’ she said, her voice sounding false, even to her.
‘My problems?’ He loosened his tie slightly.
‘With your sermon.’
‘Oh, that.’ He sighed. ‘That’s easy. I don’t think I have the right to preach to people.’
‘Then don’t,’ she said. ‘Just tell them what’s on your mind,’
He looked at her, into her eyes, and smiled, ‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea,’ he said.
Eleanor closed her eyes for a second; George loosened his tie some more. Another silence. She had to say something, do something. ‘I’m sorry it’s so hot,’ she said.
‘Have you had anyone to look at it?’ he asked.
‘The castle said they’d get someone, but they haven’t yet.’
‘I could look at it for you.’ He smiled. ‘I’m quite good at that sort of thing.’
‘Would you?’
He put down his drink. ‘Lead the way,’ he said, getting up.
‘Oh – but you’re too busy just now.’
‘It might just be that the thermostat’s set too high,’ he said, following her into the little outhouse which had been tacked on to the cottage. The cottage itself had been built on just after the Civil War, to accommodate the family while they repaired the ravages of Roundhead occupation.
George caught his breath as he walked through the wall of heat to which Eleanor had become acclimatised. ‘You could grow tropical fruit in here,’ he said.
Eleanor watched as he pored over the yellowing manual, and she fetched screwdrivers and pliers when requested, like a nurse assisting a surgeon.
He mopped his own brow, however, and stood up, ‘Why they want to put the damn thing in the most inaccessible—’ he said, and bent to his task again, his tie trailing in the dust at the back. He stood up again. ‘Would you undo my tie?’ he asked. ‘It’s getting in the way, and I can’t let this go.’
He kissed her as she undid his tie, as she had known he would. Just a gentle kiss.
She slowly pulled his tie from his collar.
‘A dog-collar wouldn’t have afforded me the opportunity,’ he said, with a little laugh. ‘Maybe that’s why I came
in mufti,’
Eleanor didn’t speak, because she couldn’t.
‘Are you angry with me?’ he asked, after a moment.
She shook her head. There were so many things she wanted to say. About the months and months of willing someone to live, but waiting for him to die. About the relief when the end finally came, and the resultant guilt at that relief. About being locked into a kind of limbo, neither married nor widowed, with a baby to bring up. A limbo where you shrivel up inside. About how it simply wouldn’t do for the person who broke through that terrible barrier to be him, of all the men it might have been. Her tongue couldn’t find the words. Any words. But she reached for him, and it found a different kind of eloquence until the doorbell made them spring apart.
‘Tessa,’ Eleanor said.
He nodded. ‘I think I have mended your boiler,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t just a ploy.’
Eleanor stepped back to let him pass. ‘We’re not going any further with this, are we?’ she asked.
George shook his head. ‘I don’t think we’re cut out for it,’ he said, as they went along the corridor to the sitting room. He put on his jacket. ‘I love my wife,’ he said, but it merely undermined the effect of his previous statement.
She handed him his coat.
‘But I don’t want to pretend that it never happened,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not sure what I want.’
‘You mean we should keep it in reserve?’ Eleanor asked, smiling.
‘Perhaps I do.’
Eleanor went to the door. ‘What time’s the carol service?’ she asked, as Mrs Brewster came in with Tessa, who immediately turned shy.
‘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 to 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.’
