‘The only other thing . . .’ He was steering a stray peanut across the table with his fingertip. ‘Would you find it helpful to talk to a female member of staff? I expect life here can be jolly frustrating for women in ways we chaps can’t begin to imagine.’ Annie blushed scarlet, fearing he had imagined precisely the right kind of frustration. She took another gulp. ‘Why not have a hobnob with Pauline?’ Annie was obliged to sit for several seconds with a mouthful of coffee to avoid choking and spraying him. She swallowed carefully.
‘Good idea.’ Pauline Dodds, known popularly as Pauline Corpus, taught New Testament. Annie had always warmed to her, although they had never really hobnobbed in the true sense of the word.
‘Whacko!’ said Tubby, with disastrous timing. Annie sat for another long moment with her last mouthful of coffee. ‘More barm bread?’
She swallowed and stood up. ‘Thanks, but no. It’s delicious, but I’d better . . .’
‘Megs soaks the dried fruit in cold tea overnight,’ said Tubby. ‘That’s what gives it the flavour. Let me see you to the door.’
Annie glanced down the street as she was going back into college. She saw Megs heave into view, smock flapping in the headwind, and various children bobbing in her wake. As a challenge to gender-stereotyping, the little boys were dressed in clothes Annie would have hesitated to foist on a girl. ‘Look at that spider’s web, children!’ came her voice as the door swung shut.
From Bishopside, and motherhood and recycled cold tea, Good Lord, deliver us, thought Annie.
CHAPTER 8
Her prayer was not answered. Or rather it was, only the answer was no. Bishopside was immovably fixed on the divine agenda. Annie woke on the morning she was due to go there and reflected that if she were a different kind of person, less dutiful, more devious, she would simply sit in a café in Bishopside for a couple of hours then report back to Tubby and say, ‘Sorry, old stick. No dice.’ And if she was really devious she wouldn’t go to Bishopside at all. She’d go shopping in Newcastle instead. Tubby would never know.
God would know, however. It struck Annie, while she was getting dressed, that she had turned God into someone rather like her mother. Always checking up and catching out. Always prophesying disaster then saying, ‘Well, I did warn you, Anne.’ When Tubby and other right-on liturgists insisted on the importance of God as Mother, Annie wanted to crawl under a pew and die. God as Father was bad enough. Her own father was the opposite of what one looked for in a deity. Omni-impotent and omni-absent, even when actually in the room. The only godlike attribute he displayed was durability. From everlasting to everlasting he sat with his newspaper or accounts while his wife rabbited on.
Annie knew that she would go obediently to Bishopside and pray and wander round. God, she felt sure, would say, ‘Spend a term in Bishopside’, because he could see how profoundly unwilling she was. This was her Nonconformist background coming out. She had grown up in the belief that what she really deserved was to burn in hell. Anything else was a bonus. You couldn’t seriously expect to be called to something you enjoyed. The benign God of Anglicanism (who declared his almighty power most chiefly in showing mercy and pity, etc.) was getting obscured behind the wrathful fumes of judgement seeping back from her childhood. She could still glimpse him staring down benevolently through the smoke, hand raised in vague blessing, like a wall painting in a burning church.
‘So, today’s the day, is it?’ boomed Edward at breakfast.
Annie went on spreading marmalade. They all knew. She had managed to mumble something to her Coverdale group about Doubts and Working-through-various-issues. They had all been supportive and non-judgemental. She had gritted her teeth and told Edward afterwards.
‘What problems?’ he had demanded. ‘What sort of issues? What do you mean, you don’t know? How can you not know?’ Non-directive counselling was not Edward’s strongest suit. He pointed her to several helpful passages in the Bible and lent her a book. Dear Edward. She knew he was praying faithfully for her. ‘We pray for Annie Brown, Lord, an ordinand in her second year at Coverdale Hall . . .’ How might the prayer go on? Annie Brown, who’s sadly going off the rails?
‘Why don’t you call in on William?’ asked Edward. ‘He’ll show you round. Give him a ring.’
‘No fear,’ said Annie.
‘What? What do you mean? He’s not that bad.’
‘I think most of us found him just a wee bit abrasive,’ put in Ingram.
‘Nonsense!’ said Isobel. ‘He was perfectly civil.’
‘It’s just his manner,’ agreed Muriel.
‘I’ll ring him,’ decided Edward.
‘But I need to be on my own,’ protested Annie. ‘I’m supposed to be meditating.’
‘Well, you can see him after you’ve meditated.’
‘Edward, I don’t think you’re quite hearing Annie,’ said Ingram. ‘She’s saying she doesn’t want –’
‘Annie can speak for herself,’ snapped Edward.
‘But you’re not letting her,’ pointed out Isobel. ‘She quite clearly said she wanted to be on her own.’
‘I think we should respect that, Edward,’ added Ingram.
‘Yes,’ said Muriel. ‘It’s her decision.’
Annie looked despairingly across the table at Ted. His eyes twinkled at her. The others continued to argue about what she wanted and what she was trying to say until Edward finally gave his word not to phone William.
Annie walked up the steep path to the station. Tubby was right. She badly needed a close woman friend to confide in. Unfortunately Pauline Dodds wasn’t quite in that category yet. Annie had enjoyed their hobnob, a mellow affair over a bottle of wine, but it was too soon for real intimacy. Pauline was in her fifties and had a calm air, as though she had reached some high plateau and could call down reassuringly, ‘Actually, it evens out a little up here.’ Annie admired her. She envied the short silvery hair, the Celtic earrings, the muted slate greys and duck-egg blues that Pauline wore. They had talked about the Church and college life, but despite that second glass of wine, Annie hadn’t managed to say anything about lurve and wanting a man. It had all seemed a bit crass.
As she stood waiting on the platform the real reason why she had said nothing dawned on her. It was because she wanted to keep the sin option open. The thought made her blush. She would have to tell Pauline. It would act as a safeguard. Not that her life was bristling with opportunities for the kind of sin she fancied.
The train headed north. Annie found a seat and reached in her bag for her notebook and reread the last bit she had written. She felt a sudden impatience with her characters. Isabella was so dim, despite being at Cambridge. This wasn’t necessarily a problem. Annie had met any number of thick undergraduates in her time there. People who got starred firsts in medicine but were clearly not the sharpest scalpel in the kidney dish when you met them socially. Perhaps she was making Isabella too much Barney’s dupe? And it was a bit Mills and Boonish, all these conflicts and will-they-won’t-they? scenes. The hero older and wiser, the heroine wilful and turbulent. But – cackle cackle – he was going to get his comeuppance at the Latimer ball when he tangled with Isabella in her outrageous black dress. What price your celibacy now, my friend? Annie shut her book with a smile. They were approaching Newcastle.
Her heart rose as it always did when the train crossed the Tyne. All those bridges, different levels, styles, ages, crowded into a short stretch of river. She loved the height of the buildings dropping down to the quayside, the wheeling gulls, the energy of the place.
Her heart sank again as the metro train crossed back into Bishopside. She came up from the underground station and stood looking round. She felt lonely and bewildered. Buses roared past. What am I supposed to do? She was reluctant to get out Tubby’s A–Z in case someone asked her where she was trying to go and she couldn’t answer. Children with brutal haircuts were playing in the undergrowth on a steep bank above the bus station. Why weren’t they in school? Their shouts floated
down to her. A large Victorian church stood on one street corner, the Co-op on another. She guessed it had been built in the Sixties. What had been pulled down to make way for it? An ugly grey concrete multi-storey car park loomed behind the other buildings.
Annie began walking towards some shops and this led her on to what she supposed must be the high street. Dirty Victorian buildings, tatty modern shop fronts. Everywhere was selling things at bargain prices. It felt like a foreign country. The people looked different. Their accent was impenetrable. She felt raw, as though every tiny brush against someone scraped an exposed nerve. More shouting. She flinched, but it was only a bantering exchange. I can’t distinguish between joking and aggression. Her heart pattered fearfully as she skirted round some old filing cabinets standing on the pavement. Someone in the doorway called a friendly greeting, but she wasn’t sure if it was meant for her. She smiled nervously and hurried on. How has this happened? How have I become so scared of my fellow creatures? She reminded herself that this was the North, the home of legendary friendliness.
By now she was among tower blocks and flyovers. All the shrubs and railings were full of blown litter. Walkways, subways, grey concrete, grey sky. Oh, why am I here? Annie felt like crying. Is this where you’re calling me to live, God? There’s nothing beautiful here. Nothing to feast the eyes on. It felt like an affront to her soul. Is this what you want, Lord? For a second an answer seemed to come. Not a yes, not a no; but a ray of light reaching down, as though in the midst of his myriad concerns God had paused and looked on her, totally absorbed for one second in Annie Brown and what she might do next. And whatever she chose, that same unwavering interest would follow her.
After a moment Annie walked on. It was disconcerting to be offered this level of responsibility; to have God imply that even if she wilfully made a bad choice, his love would still be extended. The implications of sin became graver. No longer just a fear of being caught and punished. It was a breach of trust.
She shivered and huddled in her coat. At least hell would be warm. She walked faster, hoping to get her circulation going. Before long she was lost. She had been walking without paying any attention to direction, and now she found herself in a less run-down part of town. The old terraced houses she was passing would have been worth quite a bit if they had been miraculously transported to the right part of the South-East. The wind was blowing, flipping idly through the pages of a magazine dropped on the pavement. Ahead of her she saw dark figures, young men clutching at hats and running in the wind with their black coats flapping. Orthodox Jews. The scene, which had been seeming more familiar, grew alien again. Haredim running down rainy European streets in a forgotten era.
She rounded a corner. Mothers with buggies, small children, old people. They were going in and out of a building, obviously a – Help. A doctors’ surgery. What if it were William’s? She edged closer and her fears were confirmed. Dr W. Penn-Eddis leapt out from among the other names on the brass plaque. Libby let out a strangled yelp and dragged Annie off along the street. Don’t act dumb. I bet you brought me here on purpose, you stupid hound! Supposing he had seen her? But before she could congratulate herself on her narrow escape there was a voice behind her: ‘What are you doing here?’
Him! She whirled round, bag clutched to chest like a shoplifter facing a store detective.
‘Oh!’ The eyes! Libby let out a high keening note. He was looking more like a GP today. Jacket and tie, Barbour. ‘Hello.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Annie,’ she couldn’t resist prompting.
‘I know your name.’ Either he had another cold or his voice was always that sexy. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said again.
‘Nothing,’ she pleaded. ‘I mean, just wandering around, and . . . I was sent here by the Warden of Coverdale. Um, to see if . . . There are these placements we have to do, you see, and . . .’ She floundered into silence.
‘Have you finished?’
‘Burbling, you mean?’
The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘“Wandering around.”’ She remembered his ravishing smile and wondered what she would have to do to provoke one.
‘Oh, yes. Um . . . probably, that is.’
‘Lunch?’
‘Lunch?’
‘Do you want to have lunch with me?’ This was said slowly and distinctly, as if to a simpleton. ‘I’m on my way home now.’
‘Now? Er, um, yes. Thanks.’ Libby yanked at her lead, implying she’d rather raid a dustbin.
He set off along the road hardly seeming to care whether she was trotting after him or not. She tried to fall in with his long strides. Why on earth had he asked her?
‘So how’s Edward?’
‘Edward?’ she bleated like a foolish echo. ‘Same as ever.’ Maybe he’d forgotten that she and Edward weren’t . . . Was that why he was being polite? They turned into another street, passing by privet hedges and neat front gardens. Their feet echoed. She tried to think of some suitable topic of conversation. The welfare state? GP fundholding?
‘Why the Cerberus act?’ he asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘Edward. Standing guard over you. Telling me not to bully you.’ He stopped abruptly.
‘He . . . he probably thinks I need protecting. Or something.’
Oh, yeah, yeah, said his expression.
Why was he just waiting like that? He gestured to a gate and she realized. They were at his house.
Annie waited in the hall while he switched the alarm off. He was wrongfooting her at every turn and she suspected he was doing it on purpose. She handed over her coat and followed him meekly to the kitchen. Some angular classical music was playing, but she couldn’t identify it. He took off his jacket and tie, poured her a glass of wine, then began to make a salad bristling with things she passed over nervously at the supermarket because she couldn’t pronounce their names. The violins scraped on. She sipped her wine and looked around her. A child’s picture was stuck to his fridge door, a stick man with a huge smile. His hands were like two little suns with rays of fingers radiating out from the palms. Dr William, said the wobbly letters underneath. Her eyes moved on. She was still wondering what to say.
‘Nice saucepans.’
This earned her a long hard stare. ‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘No, no. I really like them.’ French cast iron – God’s way of telling you that one day you would own an Aga.
He carried on with his preparations, working swiftly and precisely, like a surgeon on a tight schedule. There was an edgy nervousness to him. No, not nervousness. More a taut energy. He moved like a cat, she suggested to herself, busy fictionalizing the scene as it was unfolding. Avocados. Prosciutto. And he hadn’t been expecting company. I’m having lunch with the kind of man who has avocados and prosciutto lying about his kitchen. He looked up before she could wipe the smirk off her face.
‘What?’
‘Didn’t Cerberus guard the gate of Hades?’ she asked, for something to say.
‘So?’
‘I was wondering what that made me.’
‘The devil’s gateway, honey,’ he drawled. ‘Shall we eat?’
She managed not to flip vinaigrette over the table as she helped herself to salad. Why am I letting him reduce me to a fifteen-year-old? For a while they ate in silence. Annie began to wonder if she could get away with admiring his kitchen knives.
‘So tell me,’ he paused, ‘Annie, why the ordained ministry?’
She was asked this all the time, but now, under his assessing misogynist’s stare, her explanations sounded fatuous. She tried to describe her growing dissatisfaction with teaching.
He interrupted her, ‘Running away from something you hate doesn’t constitute a vocation.’
She flushed. Part of her had often feared that this was all her calling amounted to. ‘There’s a positive aspect, too,’ she said, trying to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. ‘The sense of being called. It’s difficult to define.’
‘Give me a chance.’ He waited. She was beginning to feel hounded. ‘It was . . . little things. I just had a growing sense that God was calling me to be ordained.’ It was feeble, but after another brief stare he let it pass. Her upper lip was starting to sweat. She continued to eat, conscious of every clank and scrape of her fork. Please don’t let him spring another question while I’ve got watercress dangling out of my mouth.
‘Why Bishopside?’ he asked. ‘You want to work in a UPA?’ Urban Priority Area. She remembered he was a vicar’s son.
‘I haven’t ruled it out,’ she lied.
He was looking her over sardonically. She could tell he was thinking she wouldn’t last five minutes, like Ingram’s car. ‘You honestly think you’re cut out for this?’
‘Well, the Bishop’s selectors obviously did.’ She drank some more wine. It was already going to her head.
‘I asked what you think.’
‘Listen, if I didn’t think I was –’
‘What about the isolation?’ he butted in. ‘Can you cope with being on your own? And the responsibility. We’re not just talking about the cure of ten thousand souls. There’s the finances, the church fabric, the committee meetings, all the admin involved with running a parish. What kind of management skills have you got?’
‘I –’
‘Or isn’t that a problem for you? Faith will see you through, will it? We’re talking a hell of a lot of faith, here. Faith in God, faith in the Church – that’s a tall order, but never mind. Faith in yourself. Have you got what it takes?’ To her horror she could feel tears welling up, ready to spill over and prove his point. ‘I’m not getting at you,’ he added in surprise.
‘Well, I’m afraid that’s what it feels like.’
There was a silence.
‘Hmm. Actually I probably am, come to think of it.’
‘But why?’
‘Well, if you cry I’ll have to comfort you, won’t I? Then one thing can lead to another and oops! There we are making love.’
The Benefits of Passion Page 10
