The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  “You mean, I’ve been difficult for a while.”

  “No, not just you. Us. The situation.”

  “You mean — the baby?”

  “That too. I know how hard it must be for you, darling, but what can I do about it?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do. Nothing either of us can do.”

  Jay took her hand. “Let’s go indoors. While the champagne’s still cold.”

  Much later, as they lay together in bed, watching the thin curtains shifting in the breeze and listening to the distant hooting of an owl, Alice was filled with foreboding.

  “It’s nearly over, isn’t it?” she whispered. “You and me. We can’t go on for much longer, can we?”

  There was a long silence, and then Jay sighed.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. I really don’t know. But just for now, let’s try and live in the moment. Let’s make the most of what we have.”

  “You’re right.” Alice moved more closely into his arms, resting her head in the curve of his neck. “Actually,” she said, “asparagus is my favourite vegetable.”

  “I know.” Jay laughed. “Why do you think I brought it?”

  Gabs

  Gabs’ life was becoming complicated, and at the moment she could do without complications.

  For a start, there was Steph. Steph, in fact, was becoming less of a problem since the dreaded visit to Father Pat, for contrary to everyone’s expectations, Father Pat had been surprisingly helpful. He had praised Steph and Clive for “doing the right thing” (apparently choosing not to mention the fact that all this was because they had started off by doing the wrong thing) and being “good Catholics” (Gabs cringed).

  “He was so nice, Gabs,” Steph said. “You’d hardly believe it was the same man!” (Gabs didn’t.) “He had lots of ideas and said that the baby might bring us closer, in which case we could get married.”

  “He what?”

  “He said — he said that Clive and I might end up by getting married.”

  “Steph, if you marry that wimp, I’ll never speak to you again.”

  “Well, it’s unlikely; of course it is. But Clive is being very sweet at the moment.”

  Gabs tried to imagine Clive being sweet, and failed. “Well, it’s your funeral,” she said.

  “Don’t be like that, Gabs. I’m doing my best.”

  “I know you are, and I’m sorry, but the thought of my little niece or nephew being brought up by Clive…”

  “It’ll be Clive’s child, whether he’s there or not,” Steph reminded her.

  In fact, Clive had taken to coming round rather a lot, and while at first Gabs suspected it could well be because he wanted to chat her up again, he did seem to be genuinely caring where Steph was concerned, and that was no bad thing. At the very least, it meant that she wasn’t the only one supporting her sister, and for that alone she was grateful. Their father, when Steph had finally told him her news, had been outraged, slamming the phone down before Steph had time to say anything more, and they hadn’t heard from him since. So there was unlikely to be any support coming from that quarter.

  Then there was Gabs’ job at the agency. While Gabs and Mrs. Grant had — and probably nurtured — a thorough dislike for each other, Gabs did enjoy the work. She didn’t need the money — her other activities took care of her needs more than adequately — but she loved the clients and would miss them were she to leave. But Mrs. Grant had a niece coming over from Australia, who was a trained nurse and was interested in working for the agency, and Gabs feared that this would be a perfect opportunity for Mrs. Grant to get rid of her. She had had the statuary three written warnings, so there would be nothing to stand in the way of her dismissal. It occurred to her that she could pre-empt any decision by resigning before she was sacked, but that would be giving in, and Gabs had never been one to give in easily.

  Mavis, too, was becoming something of a responsibility. Since Maudie’s stroke, she had taken to phoning Gabs up to talk about her worries and ask her advice.

  “You know about these things,” she would say. “What do you think?”

  And Gabs would have to explain that she wasn’t medically trained; she had clients who had suffered from strokes, but she wasn’t qualified to advise on a particular case.

  Maudie had regained consciousness and rallied a little, but she was unable to move her right side, and her speech was all but gone, and Mavis was beside herself. The doctors had told her that Maudie might recover some of her lost faculties, but she was old, and it had been three weeks now. Any recovery tended to happen early on, and the longer Maudie continued in this state, the less likely she was to recover much more.

  Gabs had visited her twice — she was fond of Maudie and sorry for Mavis — but privately she didn’t hold out a lot of hope. While Maudie appeared pleased to see her, she continued to stare at her strange new world with wild, bewildered eyes, as though seeking explanation where there were none. Her words — jumbled sounds, punctuated by little cries — were almost impossible to understand, and she gripped Mavis’s hand in a pathetic attempt to prevent her from leaving.

  “I know how hard it must be, but you have to start letting go,” Gabs said over coffee in the hospital canteen. “Something was bound to happen sooner or later. She’s old, Mavis. She can’t last forever.”

  “But not like this.” Mavis wiped away her tears with an embroidered handkerchief. “I never wanted it to happen like this.”

  “I know.” Gab sighed. “Peacefully in her sleep, at home.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Isn’t that what we all want?”

  “They’re talking of her going into a home,” Mavis said. “They can’t keep her here much longer; they need the bed.” She bit her lip. “I promised her that she would never have to go into a home.”

  “Mavis, you meant it at the time. But you can’t look after her yourself. She’s a heavy woman; she needs round-the-clock nursing. How would you manage that?”

  “I could get help.”

  “Help’s expensive, and it’s never there when you need it. Where’s the help in the middle of the night, or if she falls?”

  “I suppose a home wouldn’t have to be permanent,” Mavis said. “Just till she’s a bit stronger. I could tell her it was just for convalescence, couldn’t I?”

  “Yes. Give it a try. She might enjoy the company of other people. She does spend a lot of time on her own, doesn’t she?”

  On her way home, Gabs pondered Mavis’s predicament and thanked her lucky stars that she was unlikely to find herself in the same position. Her mother had been dead for years, and her father had all but disowned her. Gabs wouldn’t put it past him to demand filial duties of his daughters should the occasion arise, but she would have no hesitation in reminding him that he hadn’t earned the right to expect anything from either of them. He had already told her that he had disinherited her (not that there was a lot to inherit); well, two could play at that game. And given his reaction to Steph’s condition, he certainly shouldn’t expect anything from her.

  But the biggest problem facing Gabs was her campaign to win over Father Augustine. She had missed two opportunities because of a bad cold, but fortunately for her, he had suffered some kind of setback and was still off work. However, this situation couldn’t last much longer, and if she was to succeed, she needed to do something this Wednesday. The housekeeper always went into town on her day off, and Father Pat took Mass in the local Catholic school on Wednesdays. This was Gabs’ last chance.

  Gabs had no idea what she was going to do or say if she were fortunate enough to find Father Augustine in and on his own, but she reckoned that love would show her the way. It was true that hitherto, love had never shown her anything, but then she had never been in love before. She felt — no, she knew — that when the time came, the right words would come, and anything that happened afterwards would follow naturally.

  But the right words didn’t come. Father Augustine was certai
nly in, and he appeared to be on his own, but what Gabs hadn’t expected was Father Augustine in his dressing gown.

  “Oh.” For a moment she was lost for words. “Good morning, Father.”

  “Good morning. I’m afraid I have to ask you to go. I was about to have a shower. As you see, I’m not prepared for — for visitors.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter. This will only take a moment.” Gabs edged her way past him and into the hallway. “I brought you these.” She handed him some very expensive chocolates. “I’m so sorry you’ve been ill.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” He took the chocolates. “But I really have to insist that you go. This is — this is quite inappropriate.”

  “Don’t worry.” Gabs shrugged off her jacket. “I’m in the caring profession. I’m used to people in dressing gowns.”

  “But I’m not. I’m not used to being seen like this.” Father Augustine put the chocolates down on a chest and tried to usher Gabs toward the door.

  “Oh, goodness. I feel a bit faint.” Gabs sank into a chair. “Could I — could I ask you for a glass of water?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Father Augustine hurried off to fetch the water, leaving Gabs to gather her wits and cobble together a plan B.

  “Thank you.” Gabs sipped her water. “I think I’d better put my head between my knees.”

  “Do you need a doctor?” Father Augustine enquired. From her upside-down position, Gabs noted that his legs were bare, and it looked very much as though he wasn’t wearing anything under the dressing gown.

  “No. No doctor. If I could just lie down for a minute? I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “Oh dear.” There was a note of panic in Father Augustine’s voice. “I’m not sure where — oh dear!”

  “A sofa, perhaps?” Gabs murmured. “Just for a few minutes?”

  “A sofa. Yes.” Still her host remained rooted to the spot. Gabs noticed that his legs were pleasantly hairy, his feet long and pale, the toenails neatly trimmed. Sensing that things were about to grind to a halt, Gabs tilted sideways, and Father Augustine gave an anxious little cry. “A sofa. Yes. I’ll help you, shall I?”

  “That would be kind.”

  Gingerly Father Augustine placed an arm under Gabs’ and helped her to her feet. Together, they tottered down the hallway and into a small sitting room.

  “I think I’m going again,” Gabs said, leaning against him with her full weight.

  Father Augustine strengthened his hold on her. By this time, he had both arms round her, and Gabs’ head was resting against his shoulder as he tried to lever her across the room.

  “You’re — so — kind,” Gabs murmured. Slowly, very slowly, she manoeuvred a hand through a gap in Father Augustine’s dressing gown, resting it on his stomach.

  Father Augustine started. “Please — please be careful,” he said, trying to remove the hand.

  But Gabs, feigning confusion, slid the hand gently downwards until she found what she was looking for, and let her fingers brush lightly against Father Augustine’s groin. She was pleased to find that at least part of Father Augustine was pleased to see her, and she strengthened her hold.

  “Oh, please. Please don’t!”

  Poor Father Augustine. He was obviously on the horns of a terrible dilemma. Either he let Gabs fall, or he continued the journey to the sofa, now horribly aware that she knew what was going on in his head.

  “Please don’t,” he said again. “Please.”

  Now, Gabs knew perfectly well that if she really loved Father Augustine — loved him in that altruistic, unpossessive way that is supposed to be true love (although she suspected that there was no such thing) — she should stop now. There was still time to rescue the situation, not to mention spare Father Augustine further embarrassment, but she too was reaching the point of no return. She knew — who better? — that in a sexual encounter, there often comes a “what the hell” moment — a point where judgement and ethics go out of the window, possible repercussions are forgotten, and raw animal passion takes over. In that moment, Gabs knew that if she went ahead, there would be problems, decisions, and pain for one or both of them, but she was beyond caring. She had planned and dreamed of this moment for so many weeks, there was no way that she was going back now, even if she could.

  “Where’s your bedroom?” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Your bedroom. Where is it?”

  “We shouldn’t. We can’t. Oh, please!”

  “Yes, we can.” Gabs stroked and caressed, and Father Augustine gave a little moan. “No one need know.”

  “Don’t. Please, don’t. Oh, God!”

  “Your bedroom. Where’s your room?”

  “Upstairs. Oh, God!”

  “Come on, then.”

  Her supposed faintness forgotten, Gabs half pushed half pulled Father Augustine up the stairs and into the only room whose door was open.

  “This one?” she asked.

  “Yes. Oh, please don’t. Oh, God forgive me!”

  Gently Gabs pushed Father Augustine back onto the bed, and undoing his dressing gown, she set to work on his body with all the skill born of years of practice.

  “Oh dear. Oh, God!” Father Augustine’s voice was despairing, even if his body no longer resisted her attentions.

  “Just let it happen,” Gabs whispered. “For once in your life, just do what comes naturally; do what you want to do.”

  “But I can’t. I can’t!” He tried to cover his crotch with his hands, but Gabs gently moved them away.

  “You have a beautiful body,” she said, looking down at him. “Just beautiful.”

  And it was true. Father Augustine’s body was slim and pale, his chest dusted with just the right amount of hair, his hips firm and narrow. Gabs felt a surge of tenderness when she saw the thin red scar running down the side of his stomach, the marks left by the stitches still clearly visible. Gabs looked at his cock — magnificent, erect, and strong — and was overwhelmed with pity. It was surprising that that poor neglected member hadn’t wasted away over the years, tucked away out of sight, forbidden any kind of pleasure. There could be no guilt-free sex for a priest, for even that of a solitary nature was frowned upon by the church. But she would make up for all those wasted years; she would show him what his body was made to do, and she would make sure that he enjoyed it.

  “Please. Please don’t,” Father Augustine moaned, trying to sit up. “Please.”

  But Gabs took no notice and set to work with her fingers and her tongue until he was rendered speechless.

  “That’s better,” Gabs murmured. “That’s much better.” She undid her blouse and drew his hand inside, guiding his fingers to her nipple, which stiffened under their touch. He gave a gasp, but he didn’t remove his hand, and Gabs was encouraged. She was almost there. This longed-for moment was just minutes away.

  “We shouldn’t — oh, God!” said Father Augustine again.

  “Shhh,” Gabs said, as though she were soothing a small child. “Just let yourself go. Leave everything to me. It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”

  Very slowly, she removed his hand from her breast and drew it down her body, stroking it over the smooth skin of her belly and hip, brushing it against her pubic hair, and finally settling it between her legs, guiding him to the right place, hearing her own small gasp of pleasure as his fingers, which had taken on a life of their own, began to caress her.

  After a few more moments, she carefully manoeuvred herself on top of him, and lifting her hips, she guided him inside her. “There,” she whispered. “Isn’t that what you want? Doesn’t that feel good?” She rocked her body slowly back and forth, making the most of the moment, gazing down into Father Augustine’s eyes, in which she could see what appeared to be a mixture of terror and amazement. “Just take your time,” she said. “Take your time. Enjoy this moment, my darling. I’m doing this for you.”

  Poor Father Augustine. He didn’t hold out for long. How could he? After
(presumably) years of celibacy, it was a wonder he’d managed to hang on at all, and when he came, it was with a cry that was so fierce, so agonised, that Gabs was frightened.

  “It’s all right.” She slid carefully off him and tried to put her arms around him. “It’s all right, darling. Everything’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not.” Father Augustine’s normal voice appeared to have returned. “I’ve done a terrible thing.” He sat up and grabbed his dressing gown, wrapping it tightly around himself. “A terrible, terrible thing.”

  “No, you haven’t. You’ve done a natural thing. A good thing.” Gabs tried to stroke his hair, but he pushed her hand away.

  “May God forgive me.” He held his head in his hands. “May God forgive me for the terrible thing I’ve done. And I’ve taken advantage. I’ve taken advantage of a young woman.”

  “No, you haven’t.” This was not at all the reaction Gabs had expected. “Of course you haven’t. If anyone’s taken advantage of anyone, it was me. I took advantage of you, if you want to put it that way.”

  “But I’m a priest. I should be able to control my passions.” To Gabs’ horror, she saw that there were tears in his eyes. “I’ve let everyone down. My church, my vocation, you…”

  “You haven’t let me down!” Gabs sat down on the bed beside him. “And I have no regrets. What we did was — beautiful. How can you regret that?”

  “This — what we did. It belongs in marriage. That’s where it belongs. Nowhere else.”

  “It belongs to people who care about each other! You care about me, don’t you?”

  “I care about God. My life belongs to him.”

  “But God can’t give you — this. What we’ve just had.”

  “Sex is a gift from God, but not like this; and not for me.” He was weeping openly now, but although Gabs longed to comfort him, something prevented her. “Oh, what am I going to do? I shall have to go away!”

  “Yes. Yes! We’ll go away. Together.” Gabs felt a surge of hope. “We’ll start a new life together. We can —”

  “No. No! I can’t be with you. I can’t see you again. I can never see you again.”