A Drink of Deadly Wine

by Kate Charles

  Gabriel observed him with mixed feelings, this relic of a long-ago past. After the anticipation of the last few days, he now felt an odd detachment. This man had once meant something to him – for a time had meant everything to him – but now he seemed a stranger. Older, greyer, lines around his hazel eyes. But then at last David spoke, and the illusion of strangeness dissolved; the dry voice, the ironic, self-deprecating smile instantly recalled the David of old. ‘So where’s this famous Comper chapel I’ve come all this way to see, Gabe?’

  Gabriel flinched almost imperceptibly at the name. ‘No one . . . calls me that,’ he said in a soft, controlled voice. ‘No one else ever has. Perhaps it would be better . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . Gabriel. It just came out.’ David looked away, the pain almost too great to bear; he’d foolishly thought that Gabe no longer had the power to hurt him.

  Daphne joined them at that moment. ‘You’re looking uncommonly smart today, Daphne,’ Gabriel greeted her in quite a different voice. He was surprised to see her blush – something he would not have thought possible.

  ‘You’ve never seen our church, David?’ He assumed the comfortable official role of Vicar and tour-guide as they strolled about; he pointed out the Morris & Co. windows and the Burne-Jones reredos in the Lady Chapel, the Bodley rood screen, the Bainbridge Reynolds metal-work, before leading the way down the spiral staircase which led from the Lady Chapel into the crypt.

  David caught his breath, his attention truly captured at last. ‘Why, it’s stunning! Absolutely stunning!’ The three of them stood silently for a moment, drinking in the blue and gold richness of the chapel. After a while, David went on, ‘This is even better than the one at St Mary Magdalene, Paddington. I can’t imagine why it’s not better known.’

  ‘But as you can see, the damp has really got in. Here,’ Gabriel pointed, ‘and over here. And here on the roof, the gilding is flaking off. Something really needs to be done.’

  ‘Yes, well. I suppose that’s what I’m here for. Not that I know any more about it than either of you. I learned everything I know from Daphne.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ she interposed. ‘I may have got you started, but you passed far beyond my knowledge a long time ago.’

  ‘And I learned everything I know from you,’ Gabriel finished. ‘So no false modesty will be tolerated.’

  ‘Everything you know?’ David dared, shooting him a significant look. ‘I thought it was the other way around.’

  Gabriel ignored the implication. ‘Everything about church furnishings, certainly,’ he replied neutrally. But while Daphne was inspecting a bit of peeling paintwork, he said rapidly, in a low voice, ‘I must talk to you. Tomorrow. Come to early Mass. Half past seven.’

  After a simple supper, David and Daphne sat companionably in the overstuffed chairs of her sitting room, drinking and reminiscing. The rain was again beating a steady tattoo on the window, and in spite of the season she’d lit a small fire against the chill of the night air.

  David sipped his whisky appreciatively. ‘I’ve always blamed you for my taste for whisky. I don’t think I’d ever tasted good whisky before I met you.’

  Daphne smiled, and he regarded her fondly. To him she seemed little altered in twenty years. She had appeared old to him then, or perhaps timeless, with her cropped grey hair and her comfortably shapeless figure. Strange to think that he was now as old as she’d been then; the intervening years had somehow narrowed the gap between them.

  A bright summer morning, full of promise. His cases packed, the guidebooks endlessly perused and marked. A fortnight in the churches of the West Country ahead. Then Daphne’s arrival, the confused explanations and excuses. A holiday in shambles, a friendship mortally wounded. Rejection . . .

  David looked at her again, wondering. They’d never spoken of it since. But why the hell not, he decided. ‘Why did you cancel that holiday? Why wouldn’t you ever tell me what happened?’

  Daphne regarded him over the rim of her glass. ‘You really don’t know?’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  She lowered her glass and looked at him gravely. Seeing him sitting there, so much the same David and yet so different, was more painful than she would have thought possible; she’d convinced herself that she’d got over these feelings years ago. But now she felt as though her heart would break all over again, as the light from the fire caught the burnished glints in his hair. ‘It was all a long time ago.’

  A late summer afternoon, sunlight slanting through the clerestory windows of the church, motes of dust dancing. The smell of the flowers she was arranging. The muted murmur of voices in the chapel. ‘I hear they’re going away together again. Doesn’t she realise how ridiculous it looks?’ ‘Obviously not, the silly old cow.’ ‘Why, he’s only half her age – if that!’ ‘She’s obviously besotted with him. Well, you can’t blame her for that, but honestly!’ Shock, automatic denial, then . . . Sleepless night, agonised realization . . .

  She took a quick gulp of whisky to fortify herself, then said rapidly, ‘People were talking. I decided it wasn’t a good idea to leave you open to that.’

  David stared, incredulous. ‘But there was nothing to talk about! It’s ludicrous even to suggest it! You were – well, you weren’t young, and I was scarcely more than a boy, and . . .’

  The hand that smoothed back her hair hid the pain in her eyes as she repeated softly, ‘It was all a long time ago.’ When it came to revealing the secrets of her own heart, her characteristic honesty would take her this far and no farther.

  CHAPTER 8

  O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness: let the whole earth stand in awe of him.

  Psalm 96.9

  Although the bed in Daphne’s spare room was more comfortable than his narrow bed at home, David had not slept well. At six o’clock he lay awake, listening to the rain on the window and replaying in his mind everything Gabe had said to him yesterday, everything he’d said to Gabe. He’d had rather too much whisky last night, and felt that he needed some fresh air; he got up, opened the sash, and leaned out, drawing in deep breaths of damp, smoggy London air. Was Daphne an early riser? He thought she was, and couldn’t face the prospect of cordial chit-chat and English Breakfast tea (with one spoon of Darjeeling), so he shaved and dressed quietly, found his umbrella, wrote her a quick note, and slipped out of the flat. It would be an hour before he could decently turn up at St Anne’s, but Kensington Gardens were just around the corner, and he spent an hour walking in the rain, thinking about yesterday, about Gabe, about today, about . . . Emily. Today would probably be the day he’d have to confront her, or tomorrow at the latest.

  When he arrived at St Anne’s, still half an hour before early Mass, the door was unlocked, though no one else seemed to be about. Yesterday, in the emotion of meeting Gabe again, David had absorbed only a general impression of the church, even during their tour. Now he decided to explore it himself, and to concentrate on its features.

  David’s extensive knowledge about churches, their architecture and furnishings, was something that he had acquired on his own, through reading and through many years of visiting churches, as well as from Daphne, whose shared interest in churches had been the basis of their friendship. He was passionately interested in the subject, and he often wished that he could have made some sort of career for himself in that field. But his mother would never have approved, and somehow at the time it had been easier to take the path of least resistance and to read law.

  His family had never been a church-going one, and David’s first exposure to any church had been as a young boy on a school visit to Wymondham Abbey, the ancient monastic church in the town where he’d grown up. It had been a case of love at first sight; he’d wandered away from the other, bored children, entranced by the beauty of the church, hungry to explore it on his own and to learn more about it. The massive Comper screen, with its nearly life-sized figures of saints and its impressive canopy, had stunned him with its splendour, and had inspired
his special interest in the work of Sir John Ninian Comper.

  David had returned to that church again and again as a boy, first just to soak up the sense of beauty that was so lacking elsewhere in his young life. But eventually he’d begun to attend services; there a beauty of a different kind gripped him, and faith was born. Thus David’s faith, born in beauty, was inextricably bound up with his interest in the church buildings themselves and his response to them. His God was a God of beauty; it was inconceivable to him that God could be worshipped in an ugly building.

  He had found Gabriel a kindred spirit in this respect. Although Gabriel’s knowledge was not so extensive as David’s, he, too, was moved by the beauty of the Anglo-Catholic approach to worship, and the awe and reverence which it inspired. His sense of his vocation for the Church was strong; David had always envied him that, and envied him as well the strength of character which had driven him to follow that sense of vocation in spite of a fair amount of opposition from his wealthy, aristocratic family.

  David wondered now, as he explored St Anne’s, how it was that he had never been there before, especially as its Comper chapel was so splendid. He and Daphne had spent a lot of time visiting the churches of London, all those years ago, when he’d been a student. It was a lovely church – Gabe must be very happy here, he thought.

  Eventually he became aware that people were arriving; it must be nearly time for Mass. Early Mass was held in the Lady Chapel, and was attended by only a handful of the faithful, David noted as he slipped into a pew near the back. There was an imposing-looking elderly woman towards the front, and a man and a woman, both in grey and looking very alike – both had the corners of their mouths turned down, permanently it appeared – in the middle. Wandering around the edges, trying first one seat and then another, was a rather odd old woman, dressed very smartly but wearing enormous padded moon-boots. An elderly man in a black cassock, small and squat with a beaky nose, small bright eyes and bushy white hair and eyebrows, bustled up to the altar and lit the candles. David knelt and tried to pray, but was distracted by the wonderful Burne-Jones reredos, the huge central panel depicting the Annunciation. Mary’s face was averted, perhaps from the temptation of the terrible beauty of the angel. The Angel Gabriel . . .

  When the Vicar entered, and the odd woman moved yet again, David realised that she was positioning herself to get the best possible view of him. Maybe she’s not so crazy after all, he observed wryly. She’s got good taste in men, anyway. Gabriel looked splendid in a silvery-green chasuble, and David had forgotten how movingly and how reverently he had always celebrated the Mass.

  After the Mass, Gabriel waited at the door to greet his small congregation. The little grey couple rushed away, presumably home to their breakfast, and the odd woman was not far behind, with a last, fond leer at Gabriel. David lingered on his knees while the elegant old woman spoke with the Vicar, but as their conversation became prolonged he decided that his devotion was too conspicuous, and joined them at the door.

  Gabriel welcomed him with a smile. ‘Lady Constance, you must meet David – he’s a friend of Daphne’s. David Middleton-Brown, this is Lady Constance Oliver.’

  Lady Constance extended her hand and gave him a searching look. ‘You must be the clever one that Miss Elford was telling me about: the one who’s going to see to our chapel for us. We’re so grateful.’

  ‘I don’t know what she’s been telling you about me, but I’m not a bit clever,’ he protested with his self-deprecating smile.

  ‘I shall judge that for myself, thank you, young man. You must come to supper some evening. You and Miss Elford. Monday?’

  David glanced at Gabriel, who gave an imperceptible nod. ‘Thank you, Lady Constance, I shall look forward to it very much.’ He bowed slightly as she turned away.

  Gabriel watched until her straight back was out of sight, then turned to David. ‘Come home with me for breakfast. Then we’ll talk.’ David waited at the north door while Gabriel went to the sacristy, returning a moment later in a black cassock and carrying an umbrella.

  ‘Does your . . . does Emily know that you’re bringing a guest to breakfast?’ David asked as they walked the short distance to the vicarage.

  ‘No, but she won’t mind.’

  I’ll bet she’ll be just thrilled to meet her husband’s old lover. Or maybe it’s something she’s used to, he thought bitterly.

  He knew he hadn’t been the first for Gabriel, as Gabriel had been the first – and only – for him. Not that Gabriel had ever been promiscuous; one relationship at a time was more his style. Gabriel had never actually told David the details of the experiences he’d had before they met, but he knew that there had been a few. Gabriel’s sexual education had probably started very young, at the exclusive, expensive boarding school where he’d been sent as a boy.

  The vicarage was a large brick Victorian house, just across from the church and built at the same time. David looked approvingly at its spacious aspect as they approached; in a moment they were inside. ‘Come on through to the kitchen.’ Taking a deep breath, David followed Gabriel through the door as he announced, ‘Darling, I’ve brought someone home for breakfast.’

  The woman who turned, smiling, from the cooker to face them was so opposite to David’s expectation that he almost cried out in protest, ‘But where’s Emily?’ He tried to assimilate her appearance, to make it fit somehow with the calculating character he was sure she must have, but his mind just wouldn’t take it in. Small-boned and delicate in her dressing-gown, she wore no make-up; her dark brown hair, cut close at the nape, curved forward at chin-length to frame her face, with its small pointed chin and softly rounded cheeks, a face dominated by large, warm brown eyes and transformed by the look of love she turned on her husband. An enchanting face, without artifice and without guile. There must be some mistake.

  ‘Darling, this is David Middleton-Brown, an old friend of mine, and a friend of Daphne’s. He’s come to stay with her for a visit.’

  The smile of welcome that lit her face was entirely sincere; she was glad to see her husband, and she was glad to see his friend. ‘David! How lovely to meet you at last! I’ve heard Daphne speak of you so often.’

  ‘Oh?’ was all he could say.

  ‘In fact, don’t we have you to thank for having Daphne here at all? Didn’t you recommend her to Gabriel for the Sacristan’s job?’

  ‘Well, yes. I knew she was looking for something to do when she retired from teaching, and when I saw Gabe . . . Gabriel’s advert in the Church Times, I thought . . . well, why not?’

  ‘How thoughtful of you. We’re entirely in your debt, then – Daphne is absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘Well, she does know her stuff.’

  ‘So do you, from what she tells me. Anyway,’ she added impulsively, ‘it’s lovely to meet an old friend of Gabriel’s. Maybe you can fill me in on what he got up to before I met him!’

  David stared at her aghast, at a loss for words. She doesn’t know, he thought. She probably thinks we went out looking for girls together.

  She noticed his stricken expression. ‘Is something the matter?’ she asked with concern.

  ‘No. That is, well . . . I mean, you’re not what I expected,’ he blurted.

  She laughed delightedly and put her arm through Gabriel’s, looking up at him; the unselfconscious intimacy of the gesture hurt David more than he would have imagined possible. ‘Darling, what have you been telling this man about me? You didn’t tell him about the second head, did you? I forgot to put it on this morning.’

  Gabriel’s answering laugh was strained, as he looked from one to the other of them, from Emily’s animated face to David’s curiously blank one. ‘I told him . . . that you’d give us some breakfast.’

  ‘And so I shall, in just a minute. Why don’t you go into the breakfast room and sit down, you two. Have some tea while you’re waiting – the kettle’s just boiled.’

  David sat down across the table from Gabriel and made an effort at con
versation. ‘The children. Aren’t they up yet?’

  ‘They’re not here. Didn’t I say? They’ve gone to Emily’s parents in St Albans for a week or so. They’ll probably come back spoiled rotten. You know how grandparents are.’

  ‘I thought . . . well, I suppose I had the impression that Emily’s parents lived around here. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Oh, they used to. Emily grew up in this parish. But when her father retired a few years ago, they wanted to move out of London. They like it in St Albans, but they quite miss the grandchildren.’ Gabriel poured the tea. ‘Do you take sugar, David? I don’t remember.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  It wasn’t English Breakfast, but it was hot and strong, and as he sipped it David felt himself reviving a bit, regaining his equilibrium. In a few moments his breakfast was before him: eggs, bacon, sausages, tomato, sautéed mushrooms, fried bread. And then there was toast and home-made marmalade. Just the sort of breakfast he loved and so seldom got – his usual fare was cornflakes – but he found he wasn’t very hungry.

  Emily sat down beside him. ‘When did you come down from . . . Norwich, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just outside. Wymondham. Yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, Wymondham, that’s right. How long have you lived in Wymondham? You were in Brighton at the same time as Gabriel, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I . . . knew . . . Gabriel in Brighton. But I grew up in Wymondham, and went back to look after my mother, when my father died. That was nearly ten years ago.’

  ‘Wymondham is somewhere I’ve always wanted to see. The abbey is supposed to be splendid.’

  ‘It is splendid. You must come up to stay some weekend,’ he found himself saying, totally against his will.

  ‘We’d like that very much, wouldn’t we, Gabriel?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Perhaps in the autumn, if you really mean it,’ she went on. ‘We could leave the children with my parents for the weekend. I don’t imagine you’re up to entertaining six-year-old twins, are you?’