by Jill McGown
Marian felt a little numb. ‘It was her idea, was it?’ she asked. ‘Shakespeare?’
‘Yes. Not the Bible. To thine own self be true. I’m not true to myself.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘No!’ he said, with disgust. ‘I’m not a vicar, Marian. I’m pretending to be one. I don’t believe in any of this. You do,’ he said.
‘That’s why you’re breaking commandments?’
He smiled, and Marian didn’t recognise this man. ‘It’s a start,’ he said.
Marian shook her head, the sturdy common sense rising again. ‘Don’t you see?’ she said. ‘All this is because of how you feel about her. You want to go to bed with her, it’s as simple as that. And you think you’ve got to throw everything up because of it.’
‘The Church wouldn’t take too kindly to it,’ George said.
‘The Church wouldn’t know,’ said Marian. ‘Unless she told them. Is that what’s worrying you?’
George didn’t speak for a long time. Then he sat back, and looked at her. ‘I have never heard of any other man sitting down and discussing his potential adultery with his wife,’ he said.
‘She’s making you ill, George. And if I thought telling you to forget her would work, that’s what I’d be saying.’
‘But you think that indulging my fantasy will do the trick?’
‘What?’ said Marian, guardedly.
‘You think if you give me permission, you’ll put me off the whole idea,’ he said.
Marian didn’t answer. Yes, that was the hope at the back of her mind. It had certainly been her hope when she had suggested it before. But now . . . now she didn’t care what George did as long as it helped. And there was no way that Eleanor Langton could live up to George’s fantasy. He’d find out what a ridiculous waste of energy it had been. She didn’t even blame him. Eleanor Langton was blonde, and beautiful, and young. She was lonely and vulnerable, and she had sought reassurance from George. He was flattered, of course he was. But she wasn’t worth all this soul-searching, and he’d find that out if he turned his fantasy into reality.
‘I just don’t want you to feel like this,’ Marian said.
George sighed. ‘That’s not why I’m sick,’ he said.
‘Of course it is,’ said Marian. ‘You’ve been sick ever since you started spending half your time over there. Is that where you were this morning?’
He nodded.
‘Why? What do you find to say to her?’
‘We’ve a lot in common,’ he replied. ‘Graham Elstow, for one thing.’
Marian stared at him, speechless.
‘Elstow was responsible for her husband’s death.’
She couldn’t have heard him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He was driving the car that hit her husband,’ George said. ‘He was in a coma for almost three years.’ He shivered. ‘Three years,’ he repeated.
‘Have you told the police?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘What do you mean, of course not? They should know.’ Marian’s head was spinning. Eleanor Langton?
‘It’s up to Eleanor whether she tells them or not,’ said George. ‘For all you know she has.’
That’s what was making him sick. Marian couldn’t take it in. George thought that Eleanor Langton had killed Graham Elstow, and he was keeping information from the police. Her mind wouldn’t cope with the rest. Faint, vague feelings of betrayal; none that she could put into words. He’d watched her being arrested – practically forced them to arrest her . . . She looked at the gun, at George, his face ashen.
‘She didn’t do it, Marian,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.’
‘What difference does it make?’ asked Marian, her voice weak.
‘None.’ He clasped his hands, laying his forehead on them, and he looked as if he was praying. Marian hoped that he was.
She stood up slowly. ‘Will you let me have the gun back?’ she asked.
‘Take it,’ he said. ‘I don’t want it. Throw it away.’
Marian took it, and left the study. She was on her way to the sitting room, when she realised that she couldn’t keep it in the house. She didn’t know this George. She didn’t know what he’d do. She walked out to the car, and opened the boot, automatically checking the gun before putting it in.
The cartridges stared back at her, two eyes gleaming in the light from the door.
Chapter Ten
Joanna glanced at her watch as she got out of the car. Almost nine o’clock. She crunched over the ashes to the front door, gloomily aware that her mother wouldn’t be pleased. She hadn’t even told her where she was. She had been at the house all day; cleaning, dusting, tidying, until it looked like her house again. She felt better, now. But it would be difficult, telling them she was going back there to live. Still, she would do it. Tonight.
The vicarage seemed strange; normally, she could hear her parents talking, or movement, at least. Had the car been there? She opened the door again. No. That was odd; her parents were creatures of habit. Her mother, at any rate. Her father’s behaviour over the last few days was far from normal. She went into the kitchen, and stood for a moment at the doorway, a frown forming. This wasn’t right. The table was set, but no one had eaten; she could smell the food. She opened the oven door to find a dried up casserole, and she switched it off, beginning to feel panicky. Had there been an accident? She should have rung them, told them where she was. She ran out of the kitchen, and through to her father’s study.
He sat at his desk, staring at a lined pad, his pen in his hand. He had written nothing. He didn’t look up, or speak. Joanna swallowed, and went over to him, almost afraid to make a noise.
‘Daddy?’
He looked up, his eyes not really taking her in. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Where’s Mummy?’
‘Isn’t she here?’ he said, but there was no interest in the question. Just an automatic response.
Joanna shivered. ‘Did she say she was going out? Did you forget to eat?’
He shook his head.
‘What’s going on?’ Joanna cried. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing,’ he said mildly.
‘It’s freezing in here,’ Joanna said. ‘Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you something to eat.’
He stood up, and followed her.
‘She must have told you to get your own dinner,’ Joanna said. ‘You must have forgotten.’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Where’s she gone?’ Joanna asked again. ‘What’s wrong? What’s the matter with you?’
He looked at her then, for the first time. ‘Your mother thinks it’s a nervous breakdown,’ he said.
Joanna stared at him. ‘Has she gone for Diana?’ she asked.
Her father smiled. ‘They can’t listen to your chest for a nervous breakdown,’ he said.
‘Are you ill?’ Joanna asked, bewildered, slightly suspicious.
‘Your mother thought I wanted to kill myself,’ he said, and his voice was calm now. Rational; conversational, almost.
‘Why?’ demanded Joanna. ‘Why did she think that?’
‘Because of the gun,’ he said.
‘Gun?’ The word chilled her. ‘What gun?’
‘My father’s shotgun.’
‘Were you going to kill yourself?’ Joanna still wasn’t sure that she was dealing with a breakdown.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
‘Where is she?’ Joanna looked round helplessly, as though her mother might materialise.
‘She might have gone to Diana’s,’ he said, as though she had never mentioned it.
‘Did she say that was where she was going?’
He frowned slightly. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked mildly. ‘It’s late, isn’t it?’
Oh, God. He couldn’t stay on one subject for two seconds; it was hopeless. ‘Have you taken something?’ she asked, alarmed by the thought.
‘A couple of pills.’
‘What pills? How many?’
‘The ones you got after you came home from hospital. Just a couple. I thought they might help.’
Joanna ran to the medicine chest, and the bottle was there, still with a good supply of pills. She let out her breath, and took the bottle out, putting it in her pocket.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked again.
‘At home,’ she said with a sigh.
‘Were you?’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Were you in your room? I thought you were out.’
Joanna closed the medicine chest, and turned to look at him. ‘My home,’ she said.
He stared at her uncertainly, then mumbled something, and fled.
She listened to the now familiar sound of her father’s feet pounding upstairs, and sank down at the table. The table set for dinner. The dinner which was dried up and ruined in the oven. Something had happened. Something terrible. Slowly, she rose and went into the hall, but she arrested her hand as it reached for the phone.
She was being silly. Her mother wasn’t here, that was all. She had told her father to serve himself, but he had forgotten, mixed up by the pills. It wasn’t late, not yet. Not really. She had just heard the clock chime the half hour. Half past nine wasn’t late. She mustn’t let her father’s nervous state get to her. She heard him walking about upstairs; he wasn’t well. Her mother had probably gone to get Diana. But she would have phoned Diana, said a voice in her head.
She looked at her watch. Quarter to ten. That wasn’t late, no matter how you looked at it. So what was late? Eleven, she decided. She would give her mother until eleven. Then she would start ringing round. There was no need to panic. She must be somewhere. Joanna glanced anxiously upstairs. She must be somewhere, she told herself sternly.
She must be somewhere.
Eleanor Langton got out of the bath, and towelled herself dry, pulling on her bathrobe, and rolling up its sleeves. She had, after a great deal of thought, decided against going to the party. Instead of a quick bath and an evening out, she had had the long luxurious bath she had promised herself, and was washing her hair.
She had been getting ready to go out, having decided that perhaps she could face it, after all; she was coming out of her prison, making a new start, and a New Year party seemed appropriate, even if it was two days shy of the end of the year.
But then she had looked at the ticket. They seemed to think you’d bring a partner, and she had thought that she might feel conspicuous without one. The others had said that lots of people were going alone, what with husbands on shift-work, or husbands who wouldn’t go to a disco if you paid them, but they might have just been saying that to make her feel better about not having a partner. Everyone else, she had thought, might turn up complete with a man, and she’d be left alone at the table while they all danced.
Someone might ask her to dance. Eleanor had wondered, then, if she could handle that. But what was there to disco-dancing? You hardly knew who you were dancing with. She had never actually danced at a disco, because Richard had run one for years in his spare time and she had helped. She had even played keyboard in a short-lived group that Richard had got together, before they were married.
Another Eleanor, another life. Now she played the organ for the carol service.
She had looked at herself in the mirror, and hadn’t been sure about the dress. Perhaps it should be separates; jeans, even. And reflected in the mirror, she had seen the bedroom, so obviously solo. Going to a party might help, she had thought; she might meet someone.
But she had met someone; slowly, Eleanor had unzipped the dress, and stepped out of it.
She had just put on the second lot of lather when the knock came to the door. George. She lifted her hair up and looked at her watch on the windowsill. It was after ten. Surely it was George. She squeezed some of the water out of her hair, and opened the bathroom door, dripping shampoo on to the floor. ‘I won’t be a minute!’ she shouted anxiously. ‘Don’t go away!’
George picked wonderful moments to call, she thought, as she rinsed the shampoo out of her hair. She was pleased that he’d come, that he still needed her. This morning he had been so distant, and odd. And yet, for a moment, she had thought that at last they would make love, and keep the promise that they had been holding in reserve since Christmas Eve. But it had only been for a moment.
‘Coming,’ she called again, as she wrapped her hair in a towel, and ran along the corridor, throwing open the door.
Again.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Marian Wheeler. ‘I know it’s a bit late. But I’ve got to talk to you.’
Eleanor felt a surge of panic. This wasn’t fair. ‘Yes, of course,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Come in.’
In the sitting room, she waved a hand vaguely at the chairs, and Marian took off her coat, and sat down.
‘I’d better come straight to the point,’ she said. ‘George isn’t at all well, Mrs Langton. But I expect you know that.’
Eleanor nodded. ‘He told me it was a nervous reaction,’ she said. ‘That he always got like that if there was an upheaval of some sort.’
‘Yes,’ Marian said. ‘That’s true. But I think this time it’s worse than that.’
‘Do you think he’s really ill?’ Eleanor asked, alarmed.
‘I think he’s having some sort of nervous breakdown,’ said Marian. ‘I’m here because – well, I’m here for several reasons, to be quite honest.’ She took a breath. ‘Tonight, I found him with his father’s shotgun. He said it wasn’t loaded, but it was.’
The words hung in the air, while Eleanor stared at Marian, open-mouthed. George? George, who joked about keeping their tentative affair in reserve? George, who winked at her behind Mrs Brewster’s back? But no, not that George. George, who could barely think straight any more. George, who had called at six o’clock in the morning, then had hardly even spoken to her. That George.
‘Why?’ she whispered, ‘Why?’
‘I’ve brought the gun with me,’ Marian said, hesitantly. ‘It’s in the car. I wondered if you could possibly put it in the gun room here – I daren’t leave it in the house.’
Eleanor agreed, automatically, with a distracted nod of her head. ‘Thank God you found him,’ she said.
‘He may have been waiting for me to find him,’ said Marian.
It seemed odd to Eleanor that Marian was here. If George was that bad, shouldn’t she be there?
‘Shouldn’t someone be with him?’ she asked.
‘Joanna will be back by now,’ said Marian. ‘I just wanted to get that gun out of the house.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Eleanor.
‘I think George needs help,’ Marian said firmly.
‘Yes.’ The word came out with a shudder, like a sigh. ‘I had no idea he was that bad.’ Her mouth felt dry. ‘Look – can I get you something? A drink, perhaps?’
‘Coffee would be lovely,’ said Marian.
‘Coffee. I’ll . . . er . . .’ She pointed vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’
She almost ran along the corridor again, and stood for a moment in the kitchen, taking deep breaths. What was coming next? A third-degree on her and George? Eleanor made coffee, the situation beyond her. And surely not of her making? But that was what Marian thought, or she wouldn’t be here.
‘Can I help?’ Marian appeared in the kitchen.
‘You could help yourself to milk and sugar,’ Eleanor said.
‘Thank you.’ Marian took her time, obviously working on her next reason for being there.
‘You see,’ Marian went on, ‘I’ve spent all evening just sitting in the car, trying to work out what’s happened to George.’ She looked up, and gave a little shrug. ‘You happened to him,’ she said.
‘We’re not lovers,’ said Eleanor. ‘If that’s what you think.’
‘Oh, but you are,’ said Marian. ‘In the old-fashioned sense.’ She stirred her coffee. ‘It might be better,’ she said, ‘if it was in the physical sense.’ S
he sat down. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘I think you’re the only one who can help him.’
Eleanor’s head shook slightly. This wasn’t happening. Marian Wheeler wasn’t here, practically inviting her to have an affair with George. This wasn’t happening.
‘Shall we have the coffee in here?’ Marian asked, for all the world as though they were swapping recipes.
Eleanor sat down too, still bemused.
‘At least get him to see a doctor,’ said Marian. ‘He will, if you tell him. I know he will.’
George didn’t need a doctor. No one thing had happened to George. It was a mixture of all the things that were happening to George. Meeting her; his crisis of faith; Joanna, Graham Elstow – Marian’s love, smothering him. And was Marian here, now, out of that love? Was she seeking help for George, no matter what she had to do to get it? Protecting him, forgiving him. And not even his attempted romp through the ten commandments could put her off.
‘He needs your help, Eleanor.’
Eleanor didn’t speak. There were things she could say: Mrs Wheeler, my relationship with your husband consists of a few frantic moments in the out-house, and hours of listening to him tell me that you love him, and that he loves you. That doesn’t make me responsible for his welfare. That doesn’t mean that you can lay the blame for this at my door. She didn’t voice her thoughts; what did it matter who or what had driven George to this point?
But it did matter, of course, and as George would doubtless have said, it was up to her what she did about it.
‘He seems to value your opinion very highly,’ said Marian, and there was no trace of sarcasm.
Eleanor lifted her eyes slowly to Marian’s. ‘But it isn’t my opinion that he should see a doctor,’ she said. ‘It’s yours.’
Marian tutted impatiently. ‘He must see a doctor,’ she said. ‘And he won’t listen to me. You’re the one who has done this to him, Eleanor. You’re the only one he’ll listen to.’
‘No,’ said Eleanor quietly. ‘I haven’t done this to him. It was already done before I met him. George wants—’ She broke off, then decided to go through with it. ‘He wants freedom,’ she said.
