Isabella adjusted her vast rose-trimmed hat one last time, and they were off.
As she went down the aisle on her father’s arm Isabella was amazed at the waves of goodwill that surged from all sides. All those smiling faces. She was a newly launched vessel and here were all her friends and family crowding the slipway to cheer her on. God bless this marriage and those who sail in her! And God did indeed seem to be beaming down on the proceedings. She reached Barney and he turned and gave her his wonderful slow smile.
They emerged in a swirl of confetti as the bells pealed joyfully. Isabella was made to be a bride. Self-effacement was not among her talents. Oh, heaven for one brief day! To revel unashamedly in the limelight, to queen and preen and float and gloat, to be, for all practical purposes, the only woman present.
It flew past too quickly. In no time they were sitting for the speeches. Isabella’s father said the usual things about not so much losing a daughter as gaining a second row forward. Barney rose to reply, thanking everyone courteously and expressing his particular gratitude to his new parents-in-law for the lovely gift of their daughter. ‘I look forward to unwrapping her later,’ he concluded, amid cheers and scandalized expressions.
Not much later, as it turned out.
‘Barney, we can’t possibly!’
‘Why not? We’re married.’
She was still stupid with surprise as they got into the car and left for the honeymoon. The laughter and cheering faded behind them. Barney stopped in a quiet lane to remove some of the clanking cans and streamers. The silence of the countryside was vast. A bird sang in the hedge. Isabella felt herself telescoping dizzily downwards, shrinking from being the centre of the universe into nothing but a tiny dot in the landscape. Barney got back into the car and smiled at her. It’s only him and me now, she thought.
They drove for a while in silence. That’s it, thought Isabella. We’ve done it. We’re actually man and wife. Her mind still boggled at Barney’s precipitous consummation of their marriage. But she must remember he was a rookie. She would have to guide him. But how to drop a little hint without offending him?
‘Bloody hell, Barney. That was a masterful performance back there.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Incredible. Straight in at the meat course. Maybe we could have something by way of a starter next time. You know, a bit of foreplay.’
‘Foreplay,’ he repeated thoughtfully, as though it was something he must remember to get along with the milk at the corner shop. She stole a glance to see if he was hurt and caught him wiping a grin off his face.
Annie paused and did a quick calculation. If they left the reception at four or five and it was a six- or seven-hour drive . . . No, they’d have to break the journey to Northumberland. She promptly called up a beautiful old country hotel in the Peak District and ushered Barney and Isabella into the bridal suite.
‘Right,’ said Barney, picking Isabella up and flinging her on to the four-poster bed. ‘More foreplay, was it?’
‘Yes, please.’
He stripped her bare and set to work. It rapidly became clear that he needed no little hints from her. More hors d’oeuvres than she’d ever encountered in her life before. He hadn’t learnt this at Latimer Hall. She whimpered and struggled, but he pinned her down, kindly but firmly, savouring, devouring, gorging until she pleaded with him to stop. At last he relented, rolled her over and pulled her to her knees.
‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘I’ve never –’
‘You have now,’ he said.
‘Oh, God!’
Like animals! And what with her squealing and him grunting it was more like a barnyard than a bridal suite. He ended with a mad taurine bellow and collapsed, exhausted. She stared down at him. He lay like a felled oak diagonally across the bed. There was no rousing him. She was forced to curl up bewildered and laughing in the space he had left. It was a long, long time before she fell asleep.
She woke the following morning and reflected that, in more ways than one, she’d been had. He’d deliberately fooled her into thinking he was inexperienced. She sat up indignantly. He was lying on his back still fast asleep. She gazed into his beloved face. He looked so innocent and cherubic that she forgave him. She pulled back the covers stealthily. He didn’t stir. Sunlight gleamed in the golden hair on his chest. She lay down and rested her head on his warm belly. She was eye to eye with Hardstaff himself, who was all primed and ready to go although Barney was still dead to the world. She dropped an indulgent kiss on him. At once a hand was on the nape of her neck encouraging her down. She recoiled. I can’t! The hand fell away.
Isabella cursed inwardly. Why had she always projected such a worldly image of herself? She thought in dismay of all the other things commensurate with her supposed experience that he might expect her to perform. A tear trickled down her cheek.
‘Are you crying?’ asked Barney. She snuffled into his belly. ‘Isabella! What’s wrong?’ He sat up and cradled her in his arms. ‘Don’t cry.’
‘It’s just that I’m not very experienced,’ she bawled.
‘I know you’re not.’
She stared aghast. ‘You mean I was lousy!’
‘Lousy?’ He laughed and stroked her hair. ‘I mean, I’ve always known you were basically a good girl just pretending to be bad.’
‘And you,’ she accused, ‘are a bad boy pretending to be good.’
He gave her an angelic smile and lay back down. ‘A very bad boy indeed, I’m afraid.’
She glared at him. ‘How many girls have you slept with?’
‘I didn’t exactly cut notches in the bedpost, Isabella.’
‘Come on,’ she persisted. ‘More than ten?’ His eyes went round with shock, but this time she wasn’t fooled. ‘More than twenty?’
‘I don’t know. Possibly.’
‘I bet you know exactly. What number was I? Go on.’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Perhaps this will focus your mind,’ she said sweetly, taking a firm grip between his legs. ‘How many?’
‘Honestly, I can’t – Aargh! Sixty-three. Let go!’
‘Sixty-three?’ Isabella had only managed five.
‘Over eight years,’ he pleaded. ‘That’s less than ten a year. It was before I was a Christian.’
‘Did they all go down on you?’
‘Aargh! About half. For God’s sake, Isabella!’
‘Hah!’ She dealt him a final squeeze and let go. Was she going to be outdone by so many predecessors? She frowned thoughtfully as he moaned and clutched himself.
‘That’s probably what gave me the idea of going into the Church,’ he remarked when he’d recovered. ‘Seeing so many women on their knees.’
She spluttered in shock. ‘I cannot believe you just said that, Barney!’
‘I always returned the compliment,’ he assured her.
‘No!’ she shrieked, as his blond head disappeared between her thighs. Isabella had never been able to take cunnilingus seriously. It always struck her as an absurd party game, like trying to eat avocado with your hands tied behind your back, or something. But – ‘Oh, Barney!’ – she gradually began to see the point.
‘Everything all right?’ asked the hotel owner, as they checked out.
‘Wonderful, thank you,’ said Barney politely.
‘You’re telling me,’ said Isabella.
Annie giggled as she went downstairs. She tried to eat some breakfast, but could only manage half a piece of dry toast. The post came and there was still no reply from her parents. You can just stew in your own juice, Anne, her mother would be thinking. The long silence was all part of the punishment. ‘Ring them, then,’ Will had suggested. ‘Take control.’ She went out for a walk, sucking another mint imperial.
As the day passed her euphoria seeped away. By the evening she was battling, as usual, with tears.
‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’ asked Will, when he got back from work.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I just feel . . . I k
now I should be happy, but . . .’
‘Why should you?’
‘Well, because . . .’
‘Look, you’ve lost one of the most important things in your life, haven’t you?’
For a moment she couldn’t think what that was. ‘My vocation, you mean? But you never believed in it!’
‘You did, though. What happened to it? Did it just vanish? How are you going to make your peace with God?’
‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘It’s bad enough without you –’
‘Come on, you’ve got to face it some day, Annie.’
‘I know! I can’t get my mind round it. It’s all too much.’
‘Why don’t you go to church? Find some nice vicar to talk to.’
‘Maybe I will.’ Her voice lacked conviction.
‘Please, Annie,’ he wheedled, taking her hand. ‘For my sake. I feel like such a shit when you’re miserable. Like I’ve robbed you of your salvation.’
‘All right,’ she said crossly. ‘You’re shameless.’
‘That’s me,’ he agreed.
The following day was Saturday. Annie set out to find a church of the right flavour. The streets near Will’s house were full of Jewish families going to synagogue in their Sabbath best. The nearest church didn’t look particularly evangelical. It was locked so she couldn’t snoop around and peer at the hymn books and décor to gauge the churchmanship. She wandered towards the town centre. This was the place she had found so depressing the day Tubby had sent her to look round. Now she sensed a cheerful stoicism in the air as people went about their shopping. Up above a little aeroplane was circling busily, towing a long ribbon across the blue sky. Annie squinted up. A rock concert. She ran the back of her hand across her forehead.
‘Warm enough for you?’ called an old woman at the bus stop.
‘Yes, lovely, isn’t it?’ replied Annie, conscious of her southern accent. On impulse she drew closer. ‘Is there a church round here at all? I wanted to go tomorrow.’
Immediately three or four other people in the queue joined the conversation. Annie listened to a lament for lost churches. All those lovely old buildings. All pulled down. Terrible, terrible. They’d pulled the old St James down. St Mary’s near the bridge, well, that was an auctioneer’s now. Ee, it’s a shame. Lovely old church. Before it was burnt. Ee, terrible, terrible. Holy Trinity, just over there on the High Street, that was closed, too – No, it wasn’t – It was, it was a community centre – Aye, but the old bit was still a church, our Kayleigh was christened there. Oh, aye, aye, she’s right.
‘Well, perhaps I could try there,’ said Annie, who was struggling with nausea again.
‘Just down there on the High Street. Opposite Woolworths.’
She thanked them for their help.
‘It’ll be locked, mind,’ they called after her.
The church turned out to be Victorian. She crossed the road for a better look. Part of it was obscured by scaffolding, but seemed very old indeed, possibly Norman. The Victorian bit had been tacked on to the side. There were builders up on the scaffolding who might – or might not – bawl down at her. This unpredictability was their menace. She told herself not to be so feeble. While she hesitated one of them began to sing full-bloodedly from the roof top.
‘“Amazing grace! How sweet the sound . . .”’ He sang slowly with a great deal of semi-satirical ornamentation. ‘“Tha-at saved a-a-a wretch li-ike me”’. Annie listened. He seemed to be revelling in his voice, or the view, or the glorious day. She was depressed at the thought that he sounded as if he knew more of the grace of God than she did. The other men began to bay like wolves. There was laughter and shouts in the baffling local accent.
‘I once was lost, but now am found.
Was blind bu-u-ut now I-I see.’
Annie scurried beneath them and tried the door. It was locked as the women had predicted.
A face looked over the edge of the scaffolding. ‘Do you want in, pet?’
‘It’s not important.’
But the man was already roaring up to the roof. ‘Vicar! Vicar!’
A dark man in his thirties came swinging down the scaffolding. He was wearing a hard hat and overalls. Clearly not the vicar, but he was in possession of a bunch of keys.
‘“I’ve got the keys to the door . . .”’ He was the one who’d been singing.
‘Sorry to be a nuisance,’ began Annie. ‘I only wanted –’
‘Nee bother.’ He unlocked the door. ‘Ha’away in.’ He held it open with a strong brown arm. Her eyes skimmed the tattoos and glanced timidly up into his face to thank him. He grinned. Too close! Too good-looking!
‘Thanks,’ she gasped.
The door swung shut. She stood in the gloomy silence listening to the pounding of her heart. It was a small, plain building. Various Northumbrian saints stared down from the stained-glass windows. She stared back at them blankly, seeing instead the man’s dark face and piratical smile. Libby! Walkies. But Libby remained curled in her basket. Annie was impressed. She had never regarded Libby as a loyal hound. Perhaps she was ailing.
A moment later Annie had to race from the building and throw up humiliatingly in a small shrub. There were shouts. Before long the man with the keys was at her side handing her a glass of water. She let him lead her to a low stone wall where she sat trembling and clutching the glass.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
He asked her something. She waited, but the alien sounds failed to resolve themselves into a meaning. He repeated the question.
‘I’m fine,’ she hazarded. ‘It’s morning sickness.’
‘Congratulations. When’s it due?’
‘Goodness. Um, I don’t actually know.’ He sat beside her and took his hat off. She looked away. He was too much to contemplate entire. She’d have to take him in in a series of glimpses.
‘New round here, are you?’
Glance: overall arms tied round waist, vest showing off impressive muscles. ‘Um, yes. I’ve just moved in with my . . . boyfriend.’
‘What do you do, then?’
Glance: fading lovebite at base of throat. ‘I was a student. Until . . .’ She flapped at her stomach.
‘Oh, aye. Surprise, was it?’
‘Yes.’ Row of gold earrings, cigarette behind ear. Still no sound from Libby. I’m going to get you to the vet, girl.
‘What does he do? The boyfriend.’
She wondered suddenly at his questions. Was this simply the legendary northern friendliness? She drew away slightly. ‘He’s a doctor.’
‘Where do you live, flower?’
‘Um, not far from here,’ she hedged.
One of the other men called down to him from the scaffolding. He called back. It was banter, but she couldn’t follow a word of it. He had been modifying his accent for her.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Annie,’ she said reluctantly.
‘Are you lonely, Annie?’
Her eyes flew nervously to his face.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. Then he fished in his overall pocket and improbably pulled out a Filofax. ‘Tell me your address and I’ll visit you.’
‘Oh!’ she said in relief. ‘You really are the vicar.’
His laugh rang out. ‘Why, aye. I thought you were looking at me a bit funny.’ He handed her one of his cards. The Rev. John Whitaker, Vicar of St Columba’s, Bishopside.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed again. ‘You’re –’ Johnny Whitaker. The boozer and bonker. ‘You trained at Coverdale. They still talk about you.’
‘Never. It was ten years ago! What do they say?’
‘That you . . . um, drank . . .’ she settled on eventually.
‘Just putting the fun back into fundamentalism,’ he said. ‘Anyway, that’s all in the past. I’m a respectable man of the cloth these days.’
She risked another glance at his face and saw a frank honk-if-you-had-it-last-night type of sexiness that no vestments were going to render respectable.
‘So you were at Jesus College, were you?’ he asked.
She gripped the glass tightly. ‘Coverdale, actually.’
There was a pause as this sank in. ‘Oops!’ He chuckled and put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Well, God is good, Annie.’
Her eyes filled with tears, then to her amazement she began to find it funny. They sat outside the church laughing in the sunshine.
‘Ee. What are we like?’ he said. The enfants terribles of Coverdale Hall.
‘Why are you dressed like a builder?’ she asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.
‘Because I’m a builder,’ he replied. ‘Or was, until –’ He drew his finger across his throat as though a dog-collar were a garrotte. ‘Chunks of masonry keep falling on the old ladies. Thought I’d better take a look. Forty-five grand, it’s going to cost. You’re well out of it, pet.’
‘I know.’
‘So where do you live, then?’
She told him. He wrote it down, then sat tapping his pen on his teeth. ‘This boyfriend. It wouldn’t be Dr Penn-Eddis, would it?’
‘You know him?’
His laugh rang out again. ‘What did he say when you told him you were pregnant?’ Before she could answer he reeled off a string of obscenities in Will’s voice. She stared in astonishment. Even his facial expressions were right. ‘I play him at squash,’ said Johnny, in his own voice again. ‘The only person in Bishopside whose language is worse than mine. Listen, will he be in now? Why don’t I run you home and I can offer my congratulations?’
‘Um . . .’ said Annie, mistrusting the look on his face. But, as always, she let herself be overruled by a stronger personality.
She opened the front door wondering how Will was going to react. She led Johnny through to the kitchen where he was reading the paper.
‘Um, I’ve brought the vicar.’
He looked up and saw Johnny. ‘Did you have to?’
‘Will!’ Annie cast him a pleading look.
‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ said Johnny, grinning broadly. Will returned to his paper disdainfully. ‘Well, that’s the last time I send the wife to you for family planning,’ remarked Johnny.
Will gave him a withering glance.
The Benefits of Passion Page 25
