by James Runcie
The première of the film was, to everyone’s surprise, a Royal Gala Performance in the presence of Princess Margaret at the Odeon Leicester Square. Nigel Binns sent a car for Sidney and Hildegard bought a new black cocktail dress with some of the fee they had received. She told her husband that she had put on a little weight recently and wanted something with a bit of ‘give’ in it that, at the same time, would not make her seem dowdy among the starry throng. Amanda lent her a string of pearls to complete the look.
The film had gained enormous pre-publicity from the recent trial for murder of Ray Delfino and Leicester Square was packed when they arrived. Daisy Playfair bounced up to Sidney and gave him ‘a proper smooch’. Roger de la Tour and Nigel Binns signed autographs, while Veronica Manners posed for the photographers, remarking bitterly that nothing sold a film better than a dead husband.
Once inside the cinema they took their seats in the grand circle, and then stood up for the National Anthem and the arrival of Princess Margaret. (‘She’s tiny,’ Hildegard remarked, ‘but what a tiara!’)
At last the film began with opening credits, an establishing shot of Grantchester at dusk, the street sign of Fenchurch St Paul, and Lord Peter Wimsey’s car coming off the road. He then sought shelter at the Wheatsheaf pub and the audience had its first sight of Sidney.
People tittered at his driving which was made to look even more uncertain than it had been, and laughed out loud; first when he ate a muffin with too much eager relish and then when his hat blew off in the wind. It was worse than Sidney had ever imagined it might be. He had portrayed a comedy clergyman after all, and the situation was not improved by the editor’s choice of reversals and reaction shots that made him seem distinctly eccentric. The idea that the glamorous Veronica Manners could realistically be his wife was absurd, and the gloom of watching the film was only relieved by a first sign of Dickens looking elderly but endearingly loyal, the embodiment of patience and good temper.
‘Dear old Dickens,’ Hildegard whispered. ‘You can tell he’s fading a bit even there.’
‘So lovely to see the old boy again. Look, he’s trying so hard to keep up.’
‘He was old and ill. Oh look, it’s you again . . .’
‘I cannot bear to watch.’
‘You look like your father.’
‘I think this film is terrible,’ her husband replied.
‘No, it’s good.’
‘It’s awful.’
‘Think of the money.’
‘Reputation matters more than money.’
‘I don’t think people are here to see you, meine Liebe,’ Hildegard whispered before being shushed by film fans behind them.
She was proved right when, in the royal line-up after the screening, Princess Margaret failed to recognise Sidney from the film but, having noticed his clerical garb, asked if he was there because he had allowed them to use his church.
Sidney was somewhat mortified by this oversight but his wife reminded him that he could not have it both ways. If people did not know it was him in the film then he could go about his business anonymously. However, if he was recognised, then he might be expected to chase after his hat every time the wind blew or perform comedy pratfalls on a daily basis. ‘We don’t want people thinking you are Norman Wisdom.’
Sidney was aghast. ‘No one thinks I look like him, do they?’
‘You must learn to be teased, my darling,’ Hildegard smiled. ‘You may like to do so yourself but you are not so good when you are on the receiving end.’
The reception party was as dauntingly glamorous as they had feared, and they felt so like country bumpkins in the presence of the Duchess of Devonshire, Viscount Astor, Diana Dors, Hattie Jacques and Max Bygraves that it was a relief to get back into their chauffeur-driven Daimler and return to Grantchester. After murmuring that it might be nice to travel like this all the time, Hildegard fell asleep on her husband’s lap and Sidney mused on the events of a long day and how out of place he had felt. Amanda would have known how to waft through the entire première with her airy beauty but he was not married to Amanda and this was not his world. Instead, he really would have to get better at being a priest. There had been enough frivolity and distraction already this year and he knew that he would be in further trouble with the Archdeacon when the film secured its general release. He sighed, and stroked his wife’s golden hair as she slept.
It was almost midnight when they arrived home. Sidney offered to make the cocoa before bed.
Hildegard took off her coat wearily and left it on the sofa rather than hanging it up. ‘That would be nice.’
‘You don’t seem to be yourself.’
‘I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘You had a good sleep in the car.’
‘I know, but . . .’
‘Was it the film? The terrible drowning? The sight of dear old Dickens again? What?’
‘That was sad, but . . .’
‘Then what is it, my darling?’
Hildegard turned to face her husband. ‘Hold me.’
Sidney was suddenly frightened. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s all right, meine Liebe. Just hold me. I have something to say.’
‘Of course.’
Sidney wondered if he had done anything wrong. She couldn’t be harbouring a grievance about his slightly over-enthusiastic reunion with Daisy Playfair, could she?
‘It’s important but I haven’t told you. I think I was worried. I’m sorry. I should have confessed. And now it’s late at night and I don’t want to alarm you.’
‘Tell me, my darling. I am here.’
‘I’m pregnant,’ Hildegard replied.
Sidney kept hold of his wife. Then he took his head from her shoulder and looked into her eyes. He started to cry. His heart was full. He had never known anything so wonderful and he had never felt so responsible or been so scared. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ he asked.
‘You’ve been distracted.’
‘I’m always distracted.’
‘I know.’
‘But not so much that I can’t take in momentous news.’
Hildegard tugged his arm. ‘I hope you’re pleased?’
‘There are no words.’
‘None?’
‘Nothing that can do justice to this moment.’
Sidney’s wife took a little step backwards and then gave him a playful punch on his right shoulder. ‘So that is yes?’
‘I never thought it possible. I don’t know what to say.’
She smiled. ‘“Thank you” would be a good idea perhaps? Or “Well done”. Or “Aren’t we lucky?”’
‘It’s more than any of those. It’s more than anything I can say.’
‘Then, hold me.’
‘I owe you the world.’
‘I don’t need the world, Sidney,’ Hildegard replied. ‘I just need you.’
Christmas, 1963
In late November, Sidney attended the funeral of C.S. Lewis at Holy Trinity Church, Oxford. The great Christian thinker had died four days earlier, but the news of his death had been overshadowed by the assassination of President Kennedy on the same day.
Sidney had brought a copy of Surprised by Joy to read on the train and his thoughts were much possessed by death. He sat next to a former tutor who was disturbed that so many of his friends and former colleagues were dying. The old don was finding it hard to live in Christian hope and the general trajectory of his thoughts was retrospective rather than anticipatory. He had recently met his first wife in a pub for a drink and he had expected, foolishly and romantically, that they might speak about the love that they had once shared and what might have been had they stayed together, but instead they had talked about growing deaf, their arthritis, and how much time they had left on earth.
‘Old age strips life of its poetry,’ the man said.
Sidney wondered how much that was true. The transience of life had always made him determined to enjoy the youth he still had left in him; appreci
ating each day as it came and counterbalancing the future threat of death by living as vigorously and cheerfully as he could.
Soon it would be Christmas, and this year it would not only be a celebration of Christ’s arrival into the pain and darkness of the world, but the moment when Sidney’s first child was to be born. This advent he was going to find it so much easier to imagine himself into the nativity scene at Bethlehem; the night on which the Christ child stood for all children and all humanity, when the word of God became flesh and dwelt among us.
He had no doubts about Hildegard’s talents as a mother but was anxious about his own paternal potential. He wanted to talk to his father about it and remembered his own childhood as he thought about the questions he might ask his parents and the advice he might seek. He called to mind the natural authority they had displayed in their provision of a home. It was a place in which there may have been anxiety about health, money and, above all, war, but where love had been unconditional.
How had his parents achieved this? He wondered.
They had been exemplary. Sidney had never seen his father drunk or heard him swear. He had always answered his telephone calls cheerfully no matter how busy he was (‘Ah, Sidney, how good to hear your voice!’) and they had ease in each other’s company, particularly when watching cricket. Now, Sidney thought, he had to step up to the wicket himself. He had to play with a straight bat, cover the field, anticipating danger and alert to unpredictability, ready for the first and most important delivery of his life.
Duty had called him to the funeral of C.S. Lewis but he made only the briefest of appearances at the wake. Although the baby was not due for a few more weeks, Sidney didn’t like leaving Hildegard alone for any period of time and certainly not overnight. He looked out of the train window at the encroaching winter darkness and told himself firmly that he had been absent from home, pursuing ridiculous crimes, for long enough. All he wanted was the safe haven of the vicarage and the consolation of his wife’s company.
Preparations had been made for Advent Sunday and Hildegard had decorated their home in the German tradition. She insisted that Sidney fill his shoes with hay and carrots for the coming of St Nicholas. She placed a wreath on the table with four red candles, and made sure that each morning they opened the Advent Calendar her mother had sent: a snowy German street scene dusted with glitter.
Hildegard cooked with determined enthusiasm throughout her late pregnancy, perhaps hoping that all that energy spent standing, mixing and stirring would encourage the baby to arrive in good time for Christmas, perfectly formed and beautiful, just like the Stollenbröd and gingerbread men she made or the Hansel and Gretel cake with white icing which she studded with Smarties for the Sunday School party.
She baked frosted biscuits in the shapes of stars and half-moons which she hung from the Christmas tree with red ribbon. Sidney loved coming home to see his wife’s industrial organisation as she kneaded the dough for the Vanillekipferl, beat egg whites until they were glossy, and mixed in hazelnuts, cinnamon and zest for the Zimtsterne. She made loaves of sweetbread, filled cakes with candied fruits, warmed brown sugar, honey, molasses and butter for her Lebkuchen, and created gingerbread snowmen as treats for the children’s concert. Despite the rain and the daytime darkness, the vicarage kitchen was warm, light and filled with the smell of baking. This was his own home at last, Sidney thought. He was no longer a child who needed to return to his mother to feel safe at Christmas. He and his wife were creating something new, a sanctuary ready to welcome its new addition.
Hildegard sang as she prepared their meals; German folk songs, carols, snatches of Bach. She showed few signs of stress. Only occasionally did she lose her composure: when Sidney dithered around her, for example, half-heartedly offering to help while plainly hoping to be let off any household chores; or when, it seemed, he was almost deliberately getting in the way; or at other times when lady parishioners of a certain age made unannounced visits and implied that they had a special, private, understanding with the vicar that Hildegard, as a foreigner, could not hope to appreciate. She became especially on edge when the Archdeacon called in for sherry after evensong and pointed out that their Christmas tree wasn’t straight. Sidney had to move swiftly to her defence.
‘I think you’ll find that it’s not crooked if you are in the main body of the room,’ Sidney explained patiently. ‘It’s rather like life. It all depends on the way in which you look at it.’
Then the fairy lights would fuse, and Hildegard would almost snap, saying that all she wanted was for everything to work, and for her husband to replace the faulty bulbs when they broke and not wait for God magically to turn them on again.
Consequently Sidney would get down on his hands and knees and sort out the lights and try and straighten the tree without knocking it over and quietly retire to his study until the next meal.
He made Hildegard cups of tea first thing in the morning and mugs of cocoa before they went to bed. He kissed her on the back of the neck unexpectedly when she was at the piano or in the kitchen. He gave her as much affection as he could, and he told her frequently that he loved her. The couple privately acknowledged that they were more anxious about the baby than they were prepared to say out loud, as if admitting their fears might jinx the birth.
The grandmothers-to-be had both been knitting for their respective countries. Hildegard’s mother, Sibilla Leber, had sent a package of cardigans, mittens, booties and baby outfits from the DDR in socialist red, thereby avoiding the pink or blue conundrum. Iris Chambers had bought a second-hand Moses basket and lined it in tactfully chosen lemon-yellow sprigged muslin with a prodigious number of ribbons and bows. She had also crocheted a reversible shell blanket in innocent white. The due date was 15th December, and Sidney had been careful not to say anything about the additional Christmas parish duties he would have to attend, knowing that first babies could often be late, hoping and, truth be told, praying, for the safety of a Boxing Day arrival.
Hildegard diligently attended antenatal classes and saw her doctor more regularly than other mothers-to-be might do because, now in her late thirties, she was considerably older than young parishioners like Abigail Redmond (a mere stripling at twenty-two who was also pregnant and proud). It was felt that Hildegard needed closer monitoring and a little extra attention.
As they waited, the couple enjoyed talking about what their child might be called. Sidney favoured the name of an apostle for a boy (Mark, Luke and James) and a Shakespearean heroine for a girl (Rosalind, Viola, Imogen or Miranda). Hildegard held out for Christian names that would work equally well in German (Frank, Paul, Max, Thomas; Anna, Julie, Stephanie, Sophie) but was prepared to compromise with James or Imogen. She would know exactly which name would be the right one immediately she saw the child, she said.
Hildegard was worried about hers being unflatteringly termed a ‘geriatric pregnancy’ but some of the younger mums-to-be were so insouciant about their impending births she found their lack of nerves rubbed off on her and gave her confidence. Abigail Redmond was particularly sympathetic, and when her baby boy was born prematurely, weighing in at just over five pounds, Sidney made a point of going to see her in hospital: both as a pastoral visit to thank her for her kindness to his wife and to get an idea of what lay in store for him in the all-too-immediate future.
He had an uneasy relationship with the Redmond family. Agatha Redmond, the matriarch, organised the flowers in the church and was a well-respected dog breeder who had supplied him with his beloved, and now much lamented, Labrador. For some reason that had never been explained, most of the female members of the family had names beginning with the letter ‘A’. Abigail, the new mother, was Agatha’s daughter with a colourful past which had involved a liaison with a photographer who had burned down his own studio, and then a brief affair with the local garage mechanic who had failed in his attempt to become a pop star. She was currently the paramour of Colin Sampson, the wayward son of the local solicitor.
Abigail was sitting up in bed in Addenbrooke’s Hospital, her mother was by her side holding the baby, while the new father seized the opportunity provided by Sidney’s visit to take a fag break. They bumped into one another in the corridor leading to the ward. ‘You don’t mind me nipping off now you’re here, do you, Vicar? This isn’t really the best place for blokes and I’m meeting some mates in the pub to wet the baby’s head. Just as well the little nipper came at the weekend. I can’t miss work.’
Sidney touched the man’s arm in a gesture of solidarity. ‘You must be very proud,’ he said.
‘Well, Vicar, it was an accident, to tell you the truth. We got carried away; and with a girl like Abi, well, once you start you don’t want to stop.’
‘I think I can imagine.’
‘I’m sure you can, Vicar. She told me you were keen on her yourself once. Is that true?’
‘No, it is not,’ Sidney replied firmly.
‘Not that it matters. She’s my girl now. I hear your old woman’s up the duff and all.’
‘She’s not old.’
‘Abi made us laugh when she told us about her being pregnant . . . said she’s about old enough to be her mum.’
Even Colin saw that the conversation was not going well and adjusted accordingly. ‘But she was very kind to our Abi at the antenatal class, I’ll say that for her. How long are you stopping?’
‘I thought I’d just offer a prayer and a bit of support.’
‘I’m not sure she needs that, really. Although people have got a bit panicky, to tell you the truth. I think it’s because he was premature. The nurses keep taking him away for tests but he looks all right to me. That’s why I’m off; I won’t be long.’ Colin did not wait for an answer.
Sidney entered the ward and looked at the small, red-faced baby in Mrs Redmond’s arms. ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ she said. ‘Look at his tiny toes and fingers.’
