Could anything good, they would say, come out of Scunthorpe?
These reflections occupied a few minutes. During the remainder of the meeting only one other thing distracted him: the memory of a burial service he had conducted that same morning. It was a death which had bothered him all week.
A man whom Simon hadn’t met had hanged himself in a local wood. He was twenty-three and had been out of work for five months. He left a widow of nineteen who was pregnant with their third baby—which even yet the doctors were struggling to save. The man’s father hadn’t attended the funeral either, “because, if you must know, I’m just too bloody well disgusted by that bloody boy!” Nor had the man’s mother, a recovering alcoholic. There had been eleven mourners at the service; these had included Mrs Madison and seven other members of the congregation who also hadn’t met Jerry Turner. The remaining three were a former workmate, a schoolfriend and a teenage Pakistani boy, the son of a neighbour. They stood around the graveside in warm sunshine under a cloudless sky, awkward, their dark clothes incongruous, and as they came away the schoolfriend said—there were tears on his pockmarked cheeks—“And he was always so sodding cheerful!” He had hung in the wood for nearly a week before he’d been discovered by two eight-year-olds playing at being savages.
Well, as a vicar, of course, you had to guard against becoming bitter. Either bitter or sentimental. Simon now chewed his lip again—a habit his mother kept trying to break him of—and suggested giving a party at the vicarage for this other unknown young man who would be stopping there for a weekend, en route, eventually, for Nigeria. “Better than having the kind of get-together here in the hall where you’re half afraid no one will turn up!”
The meeting ended. As he locked the office he saw Paula waiting for him by the main door.
“I was wondering if you’d heard on tonight’s news, Simon, about the vicar who’s just resigned from his parish near Stoke-on-Trent?” She was forever storing such snippets for him and—as usual when they were alone—spoke more breathlessly than at other times. “He’s caused a split in his congregation by setting up a rival church nearby!”
Simon shook his head. He guided her onto the pavement and locked the outer door.
“And can you guess why?” she hurried on. “Because his son went to Lourdes and was cured of his convulsions! Imagine something inspirational like that, Simon, creating so much controversy and so much bad feeling!”
“Strangely it often seems to.”
“And after seventeen years! Feels drawn to Rome! It’s wonderful about his son, of course, but I really can’t see—”
“Perhaps he thinks the Church of England pays too little attention to miracles? Perhaps, what’s more, he could be right. But excuse me, Paula, I’m on my way to an appointment.”
“Of course,” she said. “Please give my love to your mother,” she called across the broad expanse of pavement.
4
Josh Heath had gone to the pub. Dawn hastened to excuse this by declaring that it was for the first time in months; and then, although Simon wasn’t in the least offended, realized the excuse itself could need excusing.
This worried her for a bit—until she saw it didn’t matter. Tonight, nothing mattered. Her sons had been picked out by God for a glorious revelation and whatever Mr Mad—, whatever Simon, might have said earlier about queer tricks of the mind, now he would recognize the truth of it, simply by listening. Soon the whole of Scunthorpe would recognize the truth of it; the whole of Humberside; the whole of England.
She had the tea and biscuits waiting.
Both her boys sat on the sofa: William wearing jeans and jumper, Michael in pyjamas and dressing gown. William had acne. Michael wore a brace across his teeth. Each appeared small for his age. Simon, who’d have sworn he had never seen either of them before, thought they looked intelligent.
There was about them an air of quiet excitement. Naturally.
“Stand up,” whispered Dawn. “Stand up and shake hands with the vicar.”
The sofa was part of a three-piece suite whose chairs also looked towards the television—Simon asked if he might pull one round. Needlessly, but likably, William stood up again and helped him. They drank their tea and Dawn chattered about St Bernadette: recently they’d seen the film and Dawn offered this fact itself as though it might be significant, a form of preparation. She asked him vaguely about Fatima. Simon answered her questions as best he could but wondered whether he ought to be interviewing the boys individually and without their mother. Yet he didn’t want to seem like a policeman, and besides, if they were meaning to deceive him, they’d have got all the details worked out beforehand. He asked about school. They said they didn’t see themselves as being in any way unusual. They found religious education boring, apart from the occasional debate. (Yes, they’d both been confirmed; when Mr Apsbury was vicar.) In English they were thought to have strong imaginations. William was fairly interested in politics, Michael wasn’t. Simon didn’t know if he’d hoped to deduce anything of value from this line of questioning.
“What were you talking about as you came away from school?”
They listed a few things, none of them obviously relevant to heavenly visits.
Of the two or three minutes prior to their encounter they could remember nothing.
“All right. When you saw the angel what can you remember then?”
Simon had to prompt them further.
“Did you feel surprise? Astonishment? Fear?”
“No,” said William. “It seemed…it sounds silly…just natural.”
“How do you mean, natural?”
“Like meeting somebody you knew.”
“And liked,” added Michael.
“I see. Well, what happened then? How did he greet you?”
William shrugged.
“He said hi, asked how we were, didn’t want to shake hands or anything. Knew our names. Called us Mick and Bill, the way most people do.”
“Did he tell you his own name?”
“No.”
“You automatically assumed he was an angel?”
“Not really. It was Mum who did that. To us he was only a person dressed in white.”
“Because he didn’t have any wings, you see,” said Michael. “I thought at first it might be Jesus.”
Dawn, who was being good about not interrupting, made a slight movement, indicative of worry.
Michael turned towards it, briefly. “But then I changed my mind,” he said. “Because he didn’t have a beard, either.”
“So he could almost have been just an ordinary man, you’re saying, dressed in—what—a robe? Sandals?”
“Except there was all this brightness which shone round him,” agreed William. Simon had forgotten about the light.
“But you didn’t need to screw your eyes up?”
“No, I don’t think so. Did we, Mick?”
“I didn’t. And he hadn’t got sandals. I remember wondering about the soles of his feet: whether they’d be dirty or not. Or maybe I only thought about that afterwards.”
“You see, it’s hard to tell now what we noticed at the time and what we pieced together later, by comparing notes.”
“Because it was really what he said that mattered.”
Simon drew a deep breath. “All right, then.” He looked slowly from one to the other. “Now what exactly did he say?”
“Who do you want to hear it from?” asked William.
“Whichever you like. Why not you?”
“Okay. We can both remember it off by heart.” He paused. “Well, after he’d asked if we’d pass on a message for him, the first thing he said was that God’s pretty cheesed off with the world, and now more than ever…”
Here Simon noticed that William’s eyes were closed.
“‘Don’t you see? You have the know-how, you have the means. If you’d wanted, you could have put an end to such quantities of suffering. All it needed was the one ingredient which your so-called realist dis
misses as naiveté but which we describe as love. That’s all it still needs. But only look around you. What do you mostly find? Grab, grab, grab on the part of the big fry; helplessness, or an equal lack of concern, on the part of the small. This can’t go on. You’ve got to learn, all of you, you’ve got to learn to let go. To have faith. To care about one another. It’s really not so hard and it even feels good, too. But it is urgent. People have to be made to realize, wake up, take action. To move forward generously, insistently and without fear. In the name of the Lord. It can be done, you know.’”
William opened his eyes.
Michael had been gazing at his brother, Dawn had looked flushed and shiny-faced with pride. Simon’s own eyes had been directed mainly at the carpet.
There was a lengthy pause.
“And then he…just disappeared?” asked Simon, finally.
“Yes. He ruffled our hair, said, ‘Well, good luck, see you both again someday,’ and was gone. It was over. We realized we were in the car park behind Tiffany’s.”
“Feeling what?”
“Tremendous.”
“We haven’t squabbled at all since then, not once,” Michael said. The brothers looked at each other with affection.
“Uh-huh. Let’s hope you can keep that up.” Simon bit his lip. “Do you think one of you could write me out a copy?”
“We already have.” Michael had taken a piece of lined paper out of his dressing-gown pocket. It was folded into four.
“Thanks.”
Simon then spoke as much to the mother as her sons.
“Look. For the present I don’t want to make any comment. I need to think this whole thing over, quietly and alone. But I’ll be back before the weekend. In the meantime I’d suggest you try to keep it all very much to yourselves.”
He paused.
“And, William, Michael, if anything else occurs to you…well, of course you’ll let me know.”
But driving home he wondered if it would have been better simply to come out with it: “I can’t believe in this. How could you expect me to? A message so incredibly banal!”
Then, on impulse, he made a small detour. He stopped the car outside the church.
Yet the half hour which he again spent before the altar, on his knees and in the dark, supplied no sense of certainty or calm.
When he arrived back at the vicarage it was after twelve. He went into his study, poured himself a large whisky and telephoned the hospital.
“Can you tell me how Mrs Turner is tonight?”
“Oh, yes, Reverend Madison. She was allowed home after supper. Dr Patel thinks the baby’s going to be fine. Naturally, she’ll need to take things easy for a while.”
“What, with a baby in the house and two young children to see to already? And a mother-in-law who—even when she’s around—has a problem with the drink? Still,” he said. “Thank heaven for Dr Patel.”
He wished the sister a peaceful night but didn’t feel that he himself would have one. On his desk there stood a framed photograph. He picked it up and for a moment merely stared at it. Then he kissed the glass. There were tears in his eyes.
“Oh, Ginny,” he said. “My Ginny…”
5
“Ginny,” said her mother, “you know that table in the window, the one I thought of bagging for ourselves? Too late. But at least the newcomers look interesting.”
“Appearances must be deceptive.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re the only interesting people who ever came to this place. Lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same dump.”
“They’re certainly more decorative than Mr and Mrs Simpson.”
“They could be a dozen times more decorative and still make Quasimodo seem like a sex symbol.”
“Clearly you are feeling better. Excellent. So do you think you’ll be getting up soon?”
“I suppose so.”
“There’s my good girl! But when Daddy phones this evening you won’t speak of Sea View as a dump, now, will you? Which it isn’t, anyway. And it would only worry him.”
“Hmm. I’ll see. Tell me about these people whom you find so fascinating.”
“They’re a mother and son.”
“Yes, that does sound fascinating.”
“He’s blond and very handsome. And about twenty.”
“Have you spoken to them?”
“No. I smiled across the dining room most pleasantly.”
“Then how do you know he isn’t her boyfriend?”
“Because when you’re a woman of a certain age, to have a young man like that in tow you have to be very rich indeed. (I mean, I’m guessing; I haven’t made inquiries.) And when you’re very rich indeed you don’t come to stay at a place like Sea View.”
“Because it’s a dump?”
“From the point of view of giving the most lyrical expression to a grand illicit passion…yes.”
“Anyhow, I’m quite impressed with the reasoning. So let’s see what you make of this. If they’re indeed a mother and son and he’s about my age why are they down here together? Eastbourne doesn’t seem the most exciting place for any truly interesting young man who, remember, doesn’t yet know I’m in it. Could it possibly be that he’s still tied to the apron strings?”
“Darling, I’ve noticed recently that you’re becoming very cynical. I hope it’s just an act. I think I prefer the softer centre.”
Ginny at once pushed back the bedclothes and kneeling on the rumpled sheet put her arms around her mother’s neck. “Oh, of course it’s just an act. I approve of people who like their mothers.” She added: “Especially when they’re very handsome.”
Mrs Plummer returned a quarter of an hour later, when Ginny was dressed.
“Are you really feeling better?”
Ginny nodded. “And I don’t intend to waste even one more minute of a sunny Saturday.”
“You know, the further I consider it, the less happy I am with regard to Mr Heddingly. I honestly do believe we’ll have to find another gynaecologist.”
“Oh, hell. Oh, hell. Well, at least let’s make it one who doesn’t tell me, every time, to go and have a baby!”
“How I agree! Even your father’s jokes are marginally less wearing. But, turning to more cheerful things, I came back because I’ve just spoken to Miss Bryanston in the office. Their name is Madison. They come from Basingstoke.”
“Oh, do they now? But why should I feel this is really the right moment to remind you…?”
“His name, by the way, is Simon. Miss Bryanston says that he’s delightful. Remind me of what, dear?”
“Of how when I was younger you were always trying to pair me off with someone else my age, saying, ‘She looks nice,’ or, ‘He looks nice, you’re bound to have a lot in common, now run off together and have a good time!’ And we never had a good time; we never had more than a dozen words to say to one another! I’ve got no confidence that things have greatly changed.”
“No, darling, you may be absolutely right. How glad I am, though, that you’ve chosen to put on that particular frock. We always agreed it was your prettiest.”
“I didn’t suggest I wasn’t still part of the human race. All I do hope, however, is that there’s no connection in your little brain between all this and what Mr Heddingly has said—and said—and said again—”
“Oh, Ginny, don’t get me wrong! I’m talking about a fleeting holiday friendship, not a lifelong passion, nor (dear God forbid) a regrettably pregnant daughter when we go back to Gerrards Cross! Good heavens, quite apart from anything else, how should we ever explain it to Mr Gatling?”
Mr Gatling was the vicar, an exceedingly sweet man but definitely one of the old school. The thought of having to explain it to Mr Gatling gave them both hysterics; they had to hold each other up and wipe away their tears, as their delicate attempts to break the news to him grew ever more incomprehensible, even to themselves.
6
The following evening, providentially, had been ea
rmarked for Saints Alive, a course whose object was to explore the workings of the Holy Spirit and one which Simon conducted every fortnight for the house group leaders. By eight o’clock the sitting room was full. His mother, invited from the outset to be a member of the group, had handed out the last mug of coffee and resumed her seat. There were no absentees tonight, a fact which, seeing what it was he had to say, made Simon feel especially glad. The various shifts at the steelworks rendered such a turnout rare.
“Early yesterday evening,” he began, “Dawn Heath phoned.”
There were one or two flippant rejoinders but after that he spoke for about ten minutes with scarcely an interruption. Finally he read from the sheet of paper Michael had given him.
The silence which followed that reading was like the one after William’s own delivery.
“I think that first, before we start to discuss this, we ought to try to prepare ourselves, both individually and together.”
So there ensued several minutes of contemplation, several more of spoken prayer.
“Right, then. Who would like to begin?”
After a moment his mother looked around with the breezy encouragement of a hostess. “No answer, came the stern reply!”
Simon was asked to re-read the message.
During the previous night he had discovered he could recite it wholly accurately and without effort but for the present he preferred to keep his eyes upon the paper.
“Well, it’s true enough, isn’t it?”
“What is, Jack?”
Like four of the other men in the room, and two of the women, Jack Owen worked for British Steel. He was a burly fellow, with hair that was prematurely white, whiter than his high-necked cable-stitch sweater. “Grab, grab, grab. That describes the world’s leaders to a T. Wouldn’t you say so, love?”
Dulcie, auburn-haired, a good foot shorter than her husband, agreed readily. “And helpless just about sums up the rest of us. Well, I know it does me.” She gave a nervous laugh.
Everyone murmured that she wasn’t on her own.
Such Men Are Dangerous Page 3
