‘You’re frustrated with –’
‘Too right, I am. I’m a builder, not a bloody maintenance man.’
‘So . . . Church planting, then?’
‘Aye. Are you in?’
‘Um . . .’ Something of his excitement reached her. ‘Yes. Yes, I think I am.’
‘Great.’ His face lit up. ‘It’ll be pretty radical. I’m seeing the Bishop next week to talk it over.’ She watched his eyes sweep round as though he could see it already. He’s another born parish priest, she thought. What if this is the place I’m called to? Bishopside. It had been offered once before by Tubby and she had run, dodging and weaving, hoping to elude the hand of God. But here she was again, right in the heart of Bishopside.
Building something new, she thought, as she walked home. A church stripped of the clutter of tradition. Radical. Starting from scratch. He’s mad. It’ll be terrifying. But think what we’d be free from: the Bridge Illustration, the evangelistic supper party, Christian paperbacks – all those wonderful worthy things, which made her want to scream.
She paused. She was on the spot where she had felt the presence of God months before. A benevolent eye looking down intently at Annie Brown to see what she would do, what she would make of the life and gifts and opportunities she had been given. Gabriel’s words whispered in her mind like a prophecy: Your disaster will be the thing that sets you free.
Annie was lying on a hospital examination couch. The waiting room had been full of other women in various states of bloom. The afternoon, like a good evangelical sermon, could be summarized under three headings: Weeing, Weighing and Waiting. She was now at the latter stage. Every so often a midwife would pop her head round the curtain and say, ‘Mr Jones won’t be long now.’
Annie knew about Mr Jones. She had been to a coffee morning earlier in the day and had met several young mothers and mothers-to-be. She had not known there were so many middle-class professional women lurking in Bishopside. They were going to be a useful mine of baby-related information. Mr Jones was a new consultant. He was young and forward-looking. The other consultants were old-fashioned. The women swapped birth stories. Perhaps one day Annie would be grateful for their companionship, but at the moment they just made her feel desperate. I’ll turn into Megs, she thought. I’ll breastfeed in public and discuss poo and snot at the dinner table.
A midwife stuck her head round the curtain again. ‘Mr Jones will be with you in a minute.’
Annie began to suspect Mr Jones was a convenient hospital myth invented to soothe and subdue worried women. But then the curtain swished and a large man came in.
It was Barney.
Annie gawped in shock.
‘Hello, I’m Mr Jones,’ he said. He was already riffling through her notes and she got a grip on her facial expression and mumbled hello. It was the man she’d glimpsed in the Cambridge University Library catalogue room so many years before. She’d forgotten he was real. As his large hands began to feel her stomach she noticed with amusement that he had thinned out just as Camilla had predicted Barney would. Mr Mark Jones, said the badge on his jacket.
‘So,’ he said, starting to run through her notes and ask questions. He conveyed the impression that he was pushed for time but not in so much of a hurry that she was being a nuisance.
‘Anything worrying you?’ he asked. ‘Any questions?’
‘Not really,’ she said. She could hardly ask, Weren’t you at Cambridge twelve years ago?
‘I’ll see you again at thirty weeks,’ he said. He gave one last glance at her notes and paused in surprise. ‘William Penn-Eddis?’ He looked at Annie as though she were suddenly far more interesting than just another patient. ‘Good God. I was at Cambridge with him. Isn’t he a GP in Bishopside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Send him my regards.’ He chuckled. ‘Not that he’ll remember me. In fact, I doubt if he has more than the haziest memory of his Cambridge days.’ He saw Annie’s surprised expression and cleared his throat. ‘That was the seventies, of course.’ He handed her file back and left her wondering what he had meant.
Will laughed when she mentioned it to him.
‘What did he mean?’
‘That I spent half my Cambridge career stoned.’
‘You didn’t!’
Annie longed to tell him that she had unwittingly put her consultant into her novel, but she still hadn’t found a way of mentioning her book. Will read such highbrow fiction that she feared hers would be beneath him.
While he was out at his evening surgery she wrote up the boeuf Wellington episode. At quarter to eight she set off reluctantly for the vicarage. They had been invited for dinner. Will was to come later. Annie supposed that she must construe the invitation as further evidence that Johnny was right and his wife liked her, but she was not looking forward to it.
The vicarage smelled of garlic and fresh basil. Johnny was out. Annie’s heart sank at the thought of prising conversation out of Mara until he returned. She was wearing a dark red dress and had her long hair loose. She looked so stunning that Annie decided to put her in her next book and give her peptic ulcers. ‘Can I do anything?’ she asked, as they went into the kitchen.
Mara shook her head. She poured Annie some wine.
‘Could I see some more of your pictures?’ ventured Annie. She expected Mara would be regretting the offer by now, but the other woman went off at once and came back with a large portfolio.
‘Have a look through,’ said Mara. ‘I’ve got to do the salad.’
Annie knelt on the sitting-room floor and began to leaf through the drawings. There were sketches of Bishopside, lofty flyovers against the sky. Annie began to see that they were the basis of the abstracts on the wall. She looked at the paintings with new interest and thought she glimpsed sense in them – rushing of wind, a mad, dizzy drop, sky between blocks of concrete.
There were more drawings of people. Lightning sketches done in cafés and trains, then some portraits, possibly of Mara’s parents. There were some of Will’s cousin (Little Shit), still looking incredibly pleased with himself. Annie peered at the tiny writing underneath. Andrew Jacks. Annie smiled at the way Mara managed to weave her opinion of the sitter into her pencil strokes.
She turned to the next sheet and gasped. It was Johnny, lying naked. She looked away in confusion, feeling gauche and unsophisticated. Didn’t he mind his wife doing this? She fumbled hurriedly to the next picture and started in shock. It’s art, she reminded herself, blushing. But how could Mara let another woman see her husband’s erection? Yet it was drawn so tenderly. Annie was moved by the devastating honesty, the naked love that showed in every line.
Mara rushed back into the room. ‘I’ve just remembered –’ She caught sight of the picture. ‘Shit.’ Her face was crimson.
‘Oh! I’m sorry,’ cried Annie. ‘I thought you meant me to –’
‘Shit. I’d forgotten they were in there.’ Mara was yanking savagely at a strand of her hair. Annie turned swiftly to the next picture. The same.
‘Oh! Um . . .’ What if there were dozens? ‘I won’t if . . .’ They were both blushing furiously.
‘Well, you’ve seen now,’ muttered Mara. ‘Go on.’
Annie hurried on until she reached a picture of the cathedral. ‘What lovely Norman arches,’ she remarked. A second later they were overcome with giggles.
‘Don’t you dare tell him,’ said Mara at last.
‘You could donate one to the tombola at the Autumn Fayre,’ suggested Annie. Off they went again.
‘That’ll give them something to think about.’
‘I’m afraid it’s crossed most of our minds already,’ Annie admitted.
‘William’s very attractive, too,’ said Mara. Then she blushed again and retreated to the kitchen muttering, as though she was unversed in this kind of girlish exchange and despised herself for trying.
Annie continued to work through the portfolio, envying Mara’s skill. She got to the end, then went sneakily back
to the pictures of Johnny. There was the sound of his key in the door. She shut the portfolio and tried to look negligent. He came in.
‘Hiya, sweetheart.’ He pulled out his dog-collar. ‘She’s been showing you her pictures, then?’
‘Yes. They’re very good,’ said Annie brightly, at a loss to know quite where to look.
‘Yeah,’ he said affectionately. ‘She’s amazing, isn’t she?’ He stooped to leaf through, then stopped abruptly. Annie gazed out of the window twiddling her wine glass in her fingers. Johnny swept the pictures up in his arms and strode through to the kitchen. He shut the door after him, but Annie could still hear him swearing and expostulating.
Oh, no! This is awful. Awful, she giggled to herself, as she sat on the sofa. The doorbell rang. Johnny and Mara were still arguing. In the end Annie went. It was Will. She whispered what had happened and he laughed out loud.
‘Ssh!’
They went through to the sitting room and waited. Silence had fallen in the kitchen. Eventually Johnny emerged. ‘Dinner is served,’ he said. When Annie finally dared to meet his eye she saw he was grinning. Mara was looking a little flushed when she appeared to serve the pasta. But perhaps the kitchen was hot.
‘By, this is funny lettuce, pet,’ remarked Johnny, prodding at a radicchio leaf with his fork.
‘Pillock.’
It was a happy evening. Johnny kept them entertained with scurrilous stories and impersonations of prominent churchmen. Annie had never seen Will so relaxed and able to laugh at himself. This was fortunate, since Johnny included in his repertoire an impression of Dr Orlando Penn-Eddis performing an internal examination.
‘Stop it!’ protested both women. ‘It’s not funny.’ The drooling expression, the pulling-on of surgical gloves – Will was helpless with laughter.
He was still chuckling as he and Annie walked home.
‘Why does he call you Orlando?’ she asked, after a moment.
‘Because that’s my name,’ said Will.
‘What?’
‘Mothers,’ he said darkly. ‘William’s my middle name.’
‘You didn’t tell me!’
His good humour evaporated. ‘Well, there’s plenty you don’t tell me.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like what you’re writing.’
‘He told you!’ she cried in shock.
‘Who’s he? Johnny, I suppose. Oh, great. You tell him, but you don’t tell me. What else does he know?’
‘He’s a vicar,’ she protested, hurrying to keep up with his furious strides.
‘So what are you writing all the time? If you can bring yourself to tell me.’
‘Nothing much. A novel.’
‘Can I read it?’
‘It’s just a draft.’
‘But you’ve got copies? Annie, you idiot! What if you lose it? Why haven’t you got a word processor?’
‘I can’t afford one.’
‘Yes, you can. How often do I have to say money’s no problem?’
‘It is! It’s always a problem, whether you’ve got it, or whether –’
‘Don’t be so fucking stubborn! I’m going to buy you a computer.’
‘You can take your money,’ she cried, suddenly angry, ‘and stick it up your arse.’
‘Oh, well done!’ he applauded sarcastically. ‘Let’s see if we can improve on that, shall we? “You can take your fucking money and stick it up your arse.” Say it.’
‘Sodding money,’ corrected Miss Brown, getting the hang of it. ‘You’re mixing your metaphors.’
They strode on in angry silence for a while. Then he relented and took her hand. ‘Oh, come on. Don’t be mad at me, Annie. I want to buy you things. It makes me feel good. Please.’
‘Why do I let you get away with this?’ she asked in despair.
‘Because you’re basically a good sweet obedient girl.’
They reached the house. He led her upstairs.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To find you a study.’
They went up the last flight to an attic. Annie had never been up there, although she was aware it existed. It was a large room, bare, apart from a couple of leafy plants.
‘They’re pretty,’ said Annie. ‘What are they?’
‘Oriental tomatoes,’ he said, after a short pause. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll shift them.’ She crossed to the window. Bishopside lay spread out in the dusk. In the distance were the hills.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed.
‘Why don’t you get it done out?’ he suggested. ‘Choose a carpet, curtains, a desk. Whatever.’
‘Can I use colour?’ she asked.
He nipped her arm and she squealed. ‘Do what you like. Blow all my money.’
He slid his arms round her and they stood looking out across the town. The street lights wavered and winked in the haze. She could hear the wind stirring the sycamore leaves and the sound of traffic on the distant by-pass. His lips brushed the side of her neck.
‘I don’t suppose,’ he murmured, ‘there’s anything else of mine you’d like to blow?’
CHAPTER 27
When Annie woke the following morning her stomach fluttered. She pressed her hands on the growing bump and moved restlessly. There was another tickling sensation. Wind, she thought. All that garlic last night. Pregnancy is so glamorous.
Will stirred. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Indigestion, I think. It’s sort of fluttering . . .’
She saw a wide grin dawn. ‘It’ll be the baby moving.’
‘Oh!’ Her heart leapt. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Yes.’ He slid his hand over her stomach. ‘You’re about seventeen weeks, aren’t you?’
‘They think so. I’ve got a scan this afternoon, so . . . Oh! It’s doing it again. Tickling.’
‘I love you, Annie.’ There were tears in his eyes.
‘You big softy.’
Annie phoned the vicarage later in the morning to say thank you. Mara answered the phone. They exchanged a few polite nothings and were about to hang up when Annie said on impulse, ‘I don’t suppose you’re any good at spending money, are you?’
‘Why?’ asked Mara suspiciously.
Annie explained about the study and twenty minutes later Mara was there casting her artistic eye round the attic. ‘Cannabis!’ she said in surprise, pointing at the plants.
‘Oh!’ Annie flushed. Oriental tomatoes – I hate you, Penn-Eddis. ‘He’s getting rid of them,’ she mumbled, hoping Mara wouldn’t realize she hadn’t known. The other woman was grinning.
‘I’ll help you decorate, if you like,’ offered Mara.
‘That would be wonderful. I’ve got a special dispensation to use colour.’
They caught the metro to Newcastle and, under Mara’s direction, Annie spent a quite staggering amount of money.
‘We can’t carry all this,’ she protested.
‘Have it delivered,’ said Mara, with a shrug. Her pale stare swept assessingly over Annie. ‘You could have your hair cut while we’re at it. And what about some clothes?’
Annie gave in meekly, chastened by the thought that Mara had been itching to get to work on her dowdy image.
‘Let me buy you lunch,’ said Annie, when the orgy of buying was over.
‘Actually, I don’t feel too good,’ Mara replied. ‘Stomach ache.’
‘Oh! I’m sorry. You should’ve said. I –’
‘It’s nothing.’ But she was looking pale. At Annie’s insistence they got a taxi back.
Remorse set in that afternoon. She sat in the bedroom among piles of carrier bags and felt guilty. I’m as bad as Isabella, she thought. Why had she allowed Mara to talk her into spending so much money on clothes? Her hand wandered to the nape of her neck where the hair had been cropped short. She crossed to the mirror and examined herself. It was the first time she could remember looking chic and grown-up. Even Isabella would not have scorned the honey-coloured silk dress. Perhaps she could face the assembled Penn-Eddis clan that
weekend with some degree of equanimity. Yes, you’ve done rather well out of all this, sneered a little voice inside her. Her reflection began to appear calculating to her. She went back to the bed and lay down.
She was woken by the phone. It was nearly seven o’clock.
‘Annie. Henry Melville here.’
‘Bishop! Um, goodness, hello.’ She sat up on the bed and smoothed her hair. ‘I’m coming to see you next week,’ she stuttered.
‘Yes. Now, it’s come to my attention that you’re cohabiting.’
‘Um . . .’
‘This is quite unacceptable,’ he said testily. ‘If I let you do it, everyone else will want to, and then where would I be?’
‘Um . . . I’m sure . . .’ What had come over him? There was a hiccup at the other end and it occurred to her that he was drunk.
‘It’s not easy being a bishop, you know. Everyone carrying on with everyone else. Finances . . .’ He trailed off with a sob. ‘Forgive me. I shouldn’t burden you like this.’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ Help! Then the sobbing gave way to laughter. ‘Johnny?’
‘You never fell for it!’
She seethed and wished she could swear with Will’s insouciance.
‘How is old Henry these days?’ he asked. ‘He was Principal of Jesus when I was at Coverdale. “We don’t have to ordain you, John.”’ He laughed again, as if remembering some disgraceful episode. ‘Listen, is your man there?’
‘No.’
‘Get him to give us a ring, pet.’
Annie remained silent.
‘Ha’away, I’m sorry.’ He blew her some kisses down the line.
“Vicars shouldn’t behave like that,’ said Miss Brown primly.
‘Like what?’
‘Playing tricks. And flirting,’ she added.
‘It puts bums on pews, flower.’
Annie squeaked with indignation. ‘Some of us come because it’s the nearest evangelical church!’
‘Goodness! Heavens, Annie! I didn’t mean you.’
She recognized her own voice and seethed again.
‘Get him to ring us. Please. It’s important.’
‘All right.’
They hung up. Seven o’clock, she thought suddenly. Where was Will? A voice in her mind suggested he was dead or had gone off with another woman. To silence these fears she rang the surgery, only to be told that he had left an hour earlier. For the next half-hour she tried not to conjure up the tread of police footsteps on the path. At last she heard Will opening the front door. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he called. ‘Come and give me a hand.’
The Benefits of Passion Page 29
