The Benefits of Passion

by Catherine Fox

‘Coffee?’ said Annie desperately.

  ‘White with two sugars,’ said Johnny sitting down. ‘Bad-tempered bastard, isn’t he?’

  ‘And what does that make you, I wonder?’ asked Will, without looking up.

  ‘Ah, no. I’m a bastard with a bad temper. There’s a big difference.’

  Annie fumbled with the mugs. What on earth am I going to do?

  ‘So,’ said Will putting down the newspaper. Annie recognized the glint in his eye and knew he was about to pick a fight. ‘Still smoking, I see.’

  Johnny’s hand went to the cigarette behind his ear. ‘Aw, don’t start, man.’

  ‘And what about your cholesterol levels and drinking habits?’ went on Will. Johnny rolled his eyes at Annie who was hovering, helpless. ‘Don’t you care about your heart? When are you going to get yourself down to my surgery for a health check?’

  ‘The day you get yourself down to my church for confession,’ replied Johnny. ‘Or don’t you care about your heart?’ He put the cigarette between his lips and waggled it insolently.

  ‘Just get out of my face,’ snarled Will.

  ‘Fair enough. Stay out of mine.’

  This is awful, thought Annie. Awful. There was a long taut silence.

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’ asked Johnny.

  Will laughed and the tension broke.

  Annie made the coffee. The two men began talking about the cricket like old friends. She watched Will and decided she might as well give up any attempt to cover for his unspeakable rudeness. Her efforts to apologize or mitigate would only make things worse.

  ‘What time is the service tomorrow?’ she asked Johnny.

  ‘Ten,’ he replied. Then he looked at his watch, swore and leapt to his feet. ‘I’m late. The wife’ll play war with me. No sex for two hundred years. Oh, shit, shit, shit.’ This was said in Will’s laconic drawl. Annie stifled a giggle. They went with him to the door.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, lighting his cigarette at last. ‘Ah, that’s good. That’s so good.’ Annie had never seen smoking turned into a lewd act before. Will was laughing again. ‘That’s a good woman you’ve got there, William. Take care of her.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Good,’ said Johnny. ‘I hope I’ll hear you say that again one day. In a more religious setting.’

  ‘Piss off, Vicar.’

  Johnny went away laughing.

  ‘Did you put him up to that?’ asked Will, closing the door.

  ‘No, honestly.’

  ‘All my worldly goods, yes. Wedding bells, no. Got that?’

  ‘What about forsaking all others?’ she asked. ‘Till death us do part?’

  ‘I’ll think it over.’

  She felt a shadow of fear. ‘You mean you might find someone else, then?’

  ‘Would a wedding ring stop me? Look around you, honey child. Marriages are breaking up all the time.’

  ‘I know. It’s just that I feel a bit insecure.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry.’ He put his arms round her. ‘What can I say? I love you. I’m besotted with the idea of being a father.’

  ‘You are?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘Of course I am. Look, I could make all these rash promises about it being for life but we’ve got to be realistic. Let’s have lunch.’

  They made love in the afternoon. Afterwards he lay stroking her belly. Besotted, she thought. If only I shared his enthusiasm for parenthood.

  ‘Chosen any names yet?’ she enquired.

  He laughed. ‘Well, it’ll have to be something simple. Penn-Eddis is bad enough without –’

  ‘Excuse me. Who said it was getting your surname?’

  ‘Hah.’ He rolled away, pouting.

  ‘I know,’ she couldn’t resist saying, ‘what about Edward if it’s a boy?’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘He might be pleased.’

  ‘I don’t want him to be pleased. I want him to apologize.’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘Well, he should. Narrow-minded hypocrite. He’s only pissed off because I did what he was too fucking pious to do.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Her cheeks flamed. ‘Edward’s not interested in me.’

  ‘You should hear him on the subject of your stocking tops some time.’

  ‘Oh! The ball. But that was . . . He . . .’

  Will laughed at her confusion.

  ‘Stop it! Anyway,’ she persisted, ‘couldn’t you make the first move?’

  ‘No, I fucking couldn’t. I did my bit getting the police to drop the charges.’

  ‘What? He was arrested?’

  ‘The receptionists called the police before I came round. Now shut up about Edward bloody Hunter.’

  They lay without speaking for a long time. So it had happened while Will was at work. She pictured Edward charging into the practice like a mad bull, as Isobel put it, pawing the ground in the waiting room . . .

  ‘Did he –’

  ‘I said shut up.’

  She slid a glance at him. He was scowling in much the same sulky way Edward had done when she said goodbye to him. Big babies. Annie turned away to hide a smile, but she wasn’t quick enough. Will pinned her down and began exacting his own specialized brand of revenge. She was gasping and pleading with him when the phone rang. ‘Leave it,’ she begged.

  But he reached across her laughing and answered it. Suddenly his expression became serious. ‘Yeah. She’s right here.’ He handed Annie the receiver. ‘It’s your mother.’

  Annie sat up and clutched the sheet to her as if her mother could see. ‘Hello, Mum.’ Will put his head next to hers to overhear.

  ‘That was him, was it?’

  ‘Yes. His name’s Will.’

  ‘The one who makes dirty phone calls,’ said Mrs Brown.

  ‘Shit,’ mouthed Will.

  ‘I never forget a voice,’ said Mrs Brown. There was a silence.

  Annie knew her mother was not lost for words, merely loading up and taking aim.

  ‘Your father took it very badly, Anne. He’s not a young man, you know. You might have thought of that. It’s not me I’m worried about. I’ve not got much in my life to boast of, I know. I never went to college or had a fancy career, but at least I could be proud of my home and of bringing up a happy, decent family. Well, it looks like I can’t even say that any more, doesn’t it?’

  Annie had been expecting this, but she couldn’t stop the tears trickling down her cheeks. Will slid an arm round her.

  ‘Mum, it’s nothing to do with the way you brought me up. It’s –’

  ‘Oh, it’s always the mother’s fault. I know that, Anne. I know better than to complain. You’ve got your own life to lead.’ Annie sensed the tirade heading off on a new tack. ‘I’m just worried about you, that’s all. You modern thinkers, you’ve got it all worked out. Living together. Free love. Pah! Nothing’s free in this life, Anne. It’s all very well to start with, but you’ve got no security. He’ll be up and off and you’ll be left holding the baby. Free love’s not going to pay the bills, is it? That’s why the Bible’s so clear about marriage.’

  ‘Mum –’

  ‘This man of yours, he can do what he likes, can’t he? You should’ve thought of that before you leapt into bed with him. How do you know you can trust him?’ Annie winced to hear her own fears so tactlessly articulated. ‘He’s got no legal obligation to –’

  Will took the receiver. ‘Hello, Mrs Brown, this is William. Today’s Saturday. On Monday I’ve got an appointment with – no, you bloody well listen to me – I’ve got an appointment with my solicitor. I’m changing my will. If I die Annie gets everything. I’ve already arranged for her name to go on my bank account and credit cards. Satisfied?’

  Annie stared open-mouthed.

  ‘Let me talk to my daughter,’ Mrs Brown was saying. Annie took the receiver back. ‘You make sure you get that in writing, Anne.’

  ‘Mum –’

  ‘Promises are all very well. If he was a decent ma
n he’d have married you by now.’

  ‘What’s so fucking wonderful about marriage?’ muttered Will.

  ‘Will, please.’

  ‘Disgusting language!’

  ‘Mum! If you’d only –’

  ‘Well, it’s your business, Anne. But I must say, I don’t know how you put up with him. I suppose it’s the sex.’ Mrs Brown spat the word violently. ‘Sex isn’t everything, you know, Anne.’

  Will took the receiver from Annie and laid it down softly on the bedside table. He began kissing her tears away. ‘Forget her,’ he whispered.

  Annie could still hear her mother’s voice ranting away tinnily five minutes later. Will was on top of her parting her thighs. All very well, but what if . . . Annie fumbled round and replaced the receiver.

  CHAPTER 24

  In contrast to Annie’s parents, Mr and Mrs Penn-Eddis responded with joy to the news. They were much too civilized to express any dismay that their eldest son had impregnated an ordinand. Annie was cordially invited with Will to attend the Penn-Eddises’ fortieth wedding anniversary party. The prospect filled her with dread. She suspected that they would prove to be one of those highly competitive and fearsomely gifted families that flourished in North Oxford, and that she would be completely out of her depth. They would wonder what Will saw in her, although they wouldn’t dream of asking.

  Her morning sickness gradually subsided and Annie began to feel brighter, although a vitriolic letter from her mother cast a blight over her life for several days. ‘Your father wants to make one thing clear,’ wrote Mrs Brown. ‘You’re not welcome in this house until you get married. He’s a deacon, you know. What will the church think?’ There were two whole sides devoted to Will. The language was so violent that Annie went as far as shredding the letter and dropping it in the bin. Her mother’s vicious words continued to stab away in her mind.

  But at least she had caring, accepting friends. Isobel and Muriel visited one afternoon, bringing with them tiny baby clothes. Annie fingered the little vests incredulously. They really believe I’m going to have a baby, she thought. Muriel asked various midwifey questions about blood pressure, and Isobel remarked that Annie was very brave.

  ‘I don’t feel brave,’ confessed Annie.

  ‘But you’re going through with it,’ said Isobel, turning slightly pink. ‘A lot of women wouldn’t.’

  Afterwards Annie pondered this. She had assumed that for Isobel there would be no question of abortion. Bravery was neither here nor there; one just got on with it.

  Ted phoned a couple of times to chat. Annie was glad he’d be living in Bishopside next term. He had received a letter from Edward, who was spending the summer in Uganda. Ted was angry with him for being so judgemental. ‘I hope he doesn’t take such a hard line when he’s in a parish,’ he remarked.

  Ted’s daughters sent her a version of Marvell’s ‘To His Coy Mistress’ (‘Had we but wormwood enough and tin,/ This crab apple, Lady, were no criminology’). They also sent a collage of Will assembled from a body-building magazine, a gardening catalogue and a detail from a postcard of the Cerne Abbas giant. It was called ‘Dr Sex Does The Garden’. Annie giggled and left it lying around for him to find.

  She knew her mother’s accusations had riled him. He reiterated his belief that marriage was an outmoded institution, but was doing everything he could to set Annie’s mind at rest. She was overwhelmed by the speed with which he was making over his worldly goods to her. Every day there were new forms to sign, new cheque books arriving. Everything was in their joint names, even the house and the cottage. She tried to reciprocate by putting his name on her savings account, but he refused to sign the form.

  ‘You can take me to the cleaners if I bugger off with someone else,’ he said. ‘Reassure Mother on that score.’

  But Annie felt crushed by it all. She couldn’t bring herself to spend any of his money, despite his insistence that it was now hers as well.

  ‘I feel I’ve got no right to it,’ she told him.

  He was reading a novel and giving her about an eighth of his attention. ‘Mmm.’

  ‘It’s all so one-sided if you won’t take my money. What am I giving you?’

  ‘Your lovely self,’ he drawled.

  ‘Seriously, Will. I feel bad about it.’

  He put his book down. ‘You’re giving me my child.’

  ‘That’s nothing,’ she said crossly. ‘I can’t exactly help it, can I?’

  ‘You could spit in my face and have it aborted.’

  ‘Don’t!’ she cried. ‘That’s hateful, Will.’

  ‘Then don’t say it’s nothing.’ He returned to his book.

  After a moment she gave up and opened her notebook to remind herself where Barney and Isabella had got to. She had just lost herself in their honeymoon when her book was thrust aside and Will was on his knees burying his head in her lap.

  ‘Will! What’s wrong?’

  His fingers gripped hers tightly as though she might slip away from him. He tried to speak but couldn’t. She watched helplessly. Then a sick possibility occurred to her: some other woman had done that to him – spat in his face and got rid of his child.

  ‘Bad memories?’ she asked.

  He nodded against her stomach, still clinging to her. After a while he sat up and sighed. ‘Ancient history,’ he said. ‘Just . . . Oh, just some woman I lived with in London. Years ago. The most god-awful relationship, looking back, but somehow I couldn’t seem to extricate myself. I did in the end, of course.’ He fell silent.

  ‘Was she pregnant?’

  ‘I don’t know. She claimed she was. Faxed me at work with the news she’d had my disgusting foetus aborted.’

  ‘Will!’

  ‘Yeah. That’s about the level we’d reached.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry.’

  ‘Well.’ He shrugged. ‘As I said – ancient history.’ She put her arms round him and hugged him tight.

  ‘Um, I know you find it difficult, but do you have anyone you can talk to? Are you still seeing –’

  ‘My father confessor? Yeah. Once in a while.’

  ‘He’s a therapist?’

  ‘Of a kind. He’s a Franciscan.’

  ‘Not . . . not Gabriel? That’s who the Warden sent me to see.’

  ‘Shit!’ He was furious. ‘So the bastard’s heard both sides of the story.’

  ‘He’s nice!’ protested Annie.

  ‘Nice? He’s got the manners of a fucking rattlesnake. He spots a weakness, then voom!’

  ‘Well, he was kind to me.’

  ‘Hah.’

  Annie remembered suddenly how Gabriel had laced his hands together like two halves of a puzzle. She found it reassuring that there was someone who knew them both, whose mind encompassed both their stories.

  Will hugged her close again. ‘I need you so much, Annie.’

  This admission was worth more than all his worldly goods. Annie had never felt needed before in her life. At best she’d felt tolerated, provided she didn’t make a fuss. Her spirits rose.

  She was still lonely, however. Church had not provided the immediate circle of friends she had been expecting. The congregation was friendly but she found no real kindred spirit. There was some comfort in attending worship again, but it was also painful. She felt left out and judged during communion as the rest of the worshippers went up to the altar. Each week she was surprised by the pang of regret she felt that she would never be a minister herself.

  Will showed no interest in going to church with her, and she hesitated to suggest it. He would hate it, Annie felt sure. She guessed his taste was for sung eucharists in exquisite cathedrals. Johnny’s informal style was stamped across the liturgy and even Annie, who had a professional interest in these things, never felt quite safe. You can’t do that! You can’t say that! she kept wanting to cry. But he seemed to get away with it. The congregation accepted him and he was achieving the impossible: getting some of the ‘unchurched’ into church.

  But
each Sunday was harder than the last. ‘Don’t go if it makes you feel miserable,’ snapped Will. Johnny was aware of her feelings, however. He invited her round to the vicarage. Annie wondered if this was just a pastoral chat or whether she would be introduced to his wife who never went to church. Perhaps she was about to meet the friend she needed so badly.

  It was early evening. As she walked across Bishopside she tried to picture what Johnny’s wife might be like. ‘Curvaceous blonde’ sprang somehow to mind. Someone with the same unabashed attractiveness as the vicar himself. An unmistakable modern boxlike parsonage came into view. It was the only detached house for miles around and Annie found it mildly shocking to come upon it like this after streets of terraced housing and council flats. She rang the doorbell. She had just begun to ask herself if she’d got the wrong day when she glimpsed movement in the hallway. The door opened and a tall thin woman waited with an unfriendly stare.

  ‘Um, hello,’ said Annie, her eyes veering away from the woman’s nose ring. ‘I’d arranged to see your . . . the vicar.’

  ‘He’s not in.’

  Annie hesitated. ‘Um . . . I’m afraid I’m a bit early.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘You can come in and wait, if you like,’ said the woman grudgingly.

  ‘No, no. I’ll come back later.’

  The woman appeared to have some swift debate with herself. She opened the door a fraction wider. ‘No, come in.’

  Annie crept over the threshold. ‘Thanks. If you’re sure . . .’

  The woman turned and Annie followed her, envying the long thick black plait that hung down her back. She led Annie through to the sitting room and gestured for her to sit. Annie watched another fierce inner struggle take place. The woman had an oddly expressive face with intense pale grey eyes.

  ‘If you’re busy . . .’ began Annie, guessing what the struggle was about. The woman was evidently tempted, but not quite rude enough to abandon Annie.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Um, just water, if that’s not too . . .’

  She had already left for the kitchen.

  Annie looked round the room. It was crowded with vivid bursts of colour. She ran her eyes round greedily after the austerity of Will’s décor. Rich brocade curtains and cushions, huge brass candlesticks, dark carved wood – had someone been pilfering from the church? The plants were so vast that a machete would come in handy for reaching the bookshelf. There was a sumptuous savagery not usually encountered in a vicarage. It was curiously at odds with the dour brooding abstracts on the walls.