Sidney Chambers and The Persistence of Love

by James Runcie

‘Cathy Keating’s taking it. Geordie wondered why.’

  ‘He doesn’t know?’

  ‘No, and she won’t tell him. She says it’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Well, Sidney, I am afraid it definitely is something to worry about. It’s a new and quite controversial treatment for cancer.’

  ‘You don’t prescribe it?’

  ‘Certainly not. And I’d like to know who did.’

  The next day, Helena came to see Sidney to ask him to put pressure on the police to do more. He had influence and responsibility, and he was one of the few people who had taken her seriously.

  ‘My mother asked me how I could have “allowed this to happen”; my father thinks it’s entirely my fault and my sister is relieved it’s not her. I sometimes wonder if I am to blame after all; not just for the night itself but for not choosing a different career like teaching or writing or working overseas for Oxfam or the Red Cross: anything that might make a difference and change the world. But whatever I would have been doing, it was always going to be about getting to the truth of things. I can’t just brush this all aside as if it was a mistake or part of some male fantasy.’

  ‘You don’t have to. We must continue.’

  ‘And yet at the same time Malcolm is frightened. I have no one to talk to. You and Geordie are the only people who believe me. I don’t know what to do. Perhaps I should withdraw the charge?’

  ‘You have never given up before. Do not abandon this now.’

  Helena couldn’t stop going over events, particularly worrying whether she had left the door to her hotel room locked or unlocked. She kept hearing doors opening and closing, the sound of keys turning, bolts crossed and unbolted, creaks and slams.

  ‘Is there such a thing,’ she asked, ‘as the fear of doors? Is there a name for it? I’m worried it’s becoming a phobia. I keep checking them all the time.’

  ‘I am sure we can find you someone to talk to; a female therapist.’

  ‘The last one of those I saw was terrified I was going to have an abortion. She referred to it as medical rape. Keeping the child will, apparently, teach me how to forgive.’

  ‘I think that’s for you to decide.’

  ‘I’m worried about the baby, Sidney. When will I have to tell her what has happened? How old will she be (I have to think it’s a girl. I’m not ready for it to be a boy) and will it always be difficult to explain? Who else will we have to tell and how often? Perhaps it will be like giving my statement again and again. What if my child looks like the man who raped me? What if she has his smile or his laugh? I feel he will be jeering at me through her.’

  ‘You could choose adoption.’

  ‘I’m so terrified I don’t feel I can choose anything; to have that violence growing; something evil inside me.’

  ‘Or something to love, Helena, some fragile hope, however far away that seems.’

  He wished he could talk more to Hildegard about the situation. There were so many occasions when the right words had not come out, when he could not really trust what he was saying, when he would have preferred the silence. But his wife had begun rehearsals for a performance of the St Matthew Passion in the cathedral. She was not only singing in one of the two choirs, but had also been offered a soprano solo, ‘Aus Liebe’, which she was due to perform with her new friend Rolfe von Arnim. He was going to accompany her on the flute.

  They had much in common. A small, neatly dressed man in his early sixties, Rolfe had originally come over from Hamburg in the 1930s. He taught music with his wife, Inga, and they bought a small cottage just outside Ely, where they had brought up two children very happily. Then, five years ago, Inga had been killed when out walking on a country road. The driver hadn’t been drunk or anything like that. He had sneezed at the wrong moment, lost control of the car and run straight into her.

  Rolfe had stayed on in Witchford to bring up his daughters. He was a popular, kindly man but demanding when it came to musical performance, insisting on extra rehearsals at Canonry House. He was helping Hildegard to control her breathing as she sang, letting the sound emerge naturally from each silence.

  Sidney envied their quiet ease with each other and knew that he wasn’t supposed to interrupt, but he felt that their practice had gone on for long enough. He had to ask his wife about Helena. He hoped she would be able to help him how to think. He didn’t want another man in her life.

  He popped his head round the door of the sitting room and offered to make a pot of tea.

  ‘I should be going,’ said Rolfe.

  ‘No, do stay,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me interrupt.’

  (Even though he just had. Why was he doing this? he thought. Was he jealous?)

  Hildegard adjusted her music on the stand. ‘We won’t be long, mein Lieber. I just have to finish this. “Aus Liebe”.’

  She nodded to Rolfe and they began to play once more. The music resounded through the house; flowing, breaking off, recapitulating, halting, continuing and then stopping again. It was a matter of examining each phrase perhaps, Sidney wondered, as if it were a piece of evidence in a crime scene.

  He returned to his study and tried to work on the Lenten meditation that he was due to lead the following week, but he couldn’t concentrate. He kept thinking if there was anything more he could do for Helena and, indeed, for any other of his parishioners.

  It had been such a difficult time of year. The cold weather and the intermittent electricity had made his congregation fearful to leave their homes. Some of them had died in the big freeze, victims of what the undertaker called ‘post-Christmas needle-drop’. Church attendance had fallen, the Valentine’s Day dance at the rugby club had been cancelled, and there was chaos in town every time the traffic lights blacked out.

  Sidney fell into further gloom when he took a break from his thoughts and looked to The Times for relaxation. There, he read that a friend who was an army chaplain, a priest with whom he had studied at Westcott House, had been killed in an IRA bomb attack at a barracks in Aldershot.

  ‘In all times of sorrow,’ he prayed as the sound of Hildegard’s singing and Rolfe’s flute continued.

  ‘In all times of joy,

  In the hour of death,

  And at the day of judgement,

  Good Lord, deliver us.’

  Sometimes you just had to say the words, he reminded himself, before letting the silence fall.

  ‘Make our hearts clean, O God,

  And renew a right spirit within us.’

  He prayed again for Helena. ‘Support her in her grief, love her in her suffering, sustain her confidence. Assuage the doubters. Protect her child. Love her as you loved your only son.’

  He heard Rolfe saying goodbye. He wondered if Hildegard had kissed him. He wouldn’t ask.

  When he next interviewed the accused, Keating asked if Frank Downing had ever been in a similar situation before.

  ‘I’m no angel,’ the photographer replied, ‘but I’m good to the women I meet. I’ve never had any complaints, put it that way.’

  ‘Always a first time . . .’

  ‘There’s no sign of any violence, though, is there? My lawyer told me that, in most cases, unless the woman’s knickers are ripped, she’s got no chance.’

  ‘You’d get a lighter sentence if you confessed.’

  ‘I don’t need inducements and there’s nothing to confess. Why don’t you admit, Keating, that you’re only doing this because Helena’s such a very good friend of yours?’

  ‘I’m doing it because it’s my job. I don’t know her that well.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I just wonder, do you think you would have done the same thing if you had had the same opportunity?’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘I know you fancied her once. She told me: you and the clergyman. She’s let me know about both of you. Perhaps you’re only pursuing this case because you’re jealous. I’ve been where you can’
t go and you can’t accept it. You probably aren’t getting enough at home and you can’t stand the fact that you’ve missed out.’

  Geordie waited for a moment, uncertain how to respond to the challenge. He then punched the accused in the face, pushed him to the ground and walked out of the station.

  It was impossible to go back. Downing filed a complaint and Geordie was suspended, pending an enquiry. He took a train to Ely, summoned Sidney away from a meeting about a new initiative, ‘Clowning for clergy: the pursuit of holy folly’, and insisted that they had a drink in the Prince Albert. But on this occasion, the open fire, warm beer and hearty exchanges of the regulars failed to provide consolation.

  ‘What a bastard,’ Geordie began, unable to concentrate on anything else. ‘He provoked me deliberately, as extra insurance, knowing that it’ll increase his chances of getting off. He’s used to charming his way out of any situation. As far as he’s concerned, this is probably just kids’ stuff.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’

  ‘No, but he’s got a black eye.’

  ‘Don’t the police have means of explaining away that kind of thing?’

  ‘In the past. It’s harder to do so these days. And Downing’s well connected.’

  ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sidney. I’ll be punished in some way. At least that would give me more time in the garden. And then I could find out what’s going on with Cathy.’

  ‘There’s nothing “going on”, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh, you are, are you? You’re too trusting.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  Geordie went on a mock attack. ‘What about that German your wife’s seeing?’

  ‘I’m not worried about that. He’s older than me. He’s also smaller, has got a moustache and he plays the flute.’

  ‘They’re the ones you’ve got to watch.’

  ‘I think she feels sorry for him.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what she wants you to think? You can’t be too careful, Sidney.’

  ‘I’m not. And I don’t think Cathy’s having an affair, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  Sidney was surprised by his friend’s change in tone. It moved abruptly away from the jovial and towards the nervily hostile. So often their friendship had survived its testing times through a strange mixture of trust and banter. Now that didn’t seem to be working. ‘She’s just not the type,’ he said.

  ‘I thought we weren’t supposed to put women into categories.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘You don’t know my wife.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that I’m pretty sure it’s not an affair.’

  ‘Well, I can’t be so generous with my trust.’

  ‘You should be, Geordie.’

  ‘Don’t you tell me how to conduct my marriage.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  Sidney was dismayed. They had known each other for so long that he now thought they could say anything. But perhaps, as was the case in so many male friendships, any in-depth opinion about each other’s marriage was off-limits.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘It’s not an affair, Geordie.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  He couldn’t say. It wasn’t his business. ‘Ask Cathy.’

  ‘I bloody well have. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘Ask her.’

  ‘Do you want a punch in the mouth?’

  ‘Calm down, Geordie.’

  ‘You know something, don’t you, Sidney? Why does everyone tell you things? Why do you know more about my marriage than I do myself? What the hell has all this got to do with you?’

  ‘Geordie, I think Cathy’s got cancer.’

  Sidney returned home to find that Hildegard was only just back from her rehearsals of the St Matthew Passion in the Lady Chapel. She muttered that they should have eaten before she left and now she was starving. (‘And don’t tell me that starving is a relative term.’)

  She was peeling the potatoes, a task she had specifically asked her husband to complete if he got back first because she knew the babysitter would never get round to them. Sidney decided to prevent further criticism by going on the attack.

  ‘How was Rolfe?’ he asked.

  ‘Very well, thank you. There were other people at the rehearsal.’

  ‘I should imagine there were.’

  ‘He thinks we have a long way to go. It’s difficult music. At one point, just before the end, there are nineteen bars of singing with only a quaver rest. You have to plan your breathing. It takes practice so that it sounds as if everything is natural and you haven’t practised at all. That’s the ironic thing. And “Aus Liebe” is always rehearsed at the end when everyone else has gone home.’

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t alone?’

  ‘No, Sidney. There are two oboe da caccia players with us. But then, sometimes, we have tea afterwards or we go for a walk. It’s perfectly innocent. Sometimes,’ she repeated, ‘after all that music, we don’t speak at all.’

  ‘Is Rolfe still in mourning for the loss of his wife?’

  ‘It was five years ago. Yet I think he misses her every day.’

  ‘And does he ask about us?’

  ‘Not really. He knows about you. And Anna. But no, we don’t talk about you, Sidney. We don’t need to. Sometimes, as I’ve just told you, we don’t say anything at all.’

  ‘But when you do, what do you speak about?’

  ‘Why do you need to know?’

  ‘I’m just curious. Is it all about music and how you miss Germany?’

  ‘Yes. And children and old age and the fear of the future. It’s also about how we can become better musicians and better people too. Have you been to see Helena?’

  ‘I was with Geordie. But we spoke about Helena: the case.’

  ‘You know that when she has the child she will be the same age as I was when I had Anna. If it turns out as well for her then she will be blessed. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d rather have a drink.’

  Sidney poured himself a glass of wine from last night’s bottle and Hildegard continued with the supper, deliberately making more noise than normal, pointing out Sidney’s domestic failures through sound alone.

  ‘When do you think she’ll tell her child what happened?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Sidney, laying the table in order to prove that he could at least do something. ‘We still haven’t told Anna everything.’

  ‘About my first husband?’

  ‘About any of that.’

  ‘I thought eighteen . . .’

  ‘Sometimes it is better to remain silent about these things. Perhaps she and Malcolm should bring up the child as their own.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Do you think we tell each other everything?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Hildegard. ‘But I hope you feel that you know everything you need.’

  ‘I don’t always find that reassuring.’

  ‘And why do we have to tell each other everything? Can’t we have secrets, Sidney? Shouldn’t there be an air of mystery between us? I thought you like mysteries.’

  ‘Not in my marriage.’

  ‘Why must you know all there is to know?’

  ‘It’s not a question of everything. It’s a question of understanding what matters.’

  ‘Perhaps there are things that will make you worry too much?’

  ‘You think I need protecting from the truth?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sidney. Sometimes I think you need protecting from yourself.’

  There was no sign of spring as the dark Lenten weather folded into March. People were still using candles for parts of the day and there was little sense of their magical ability to carry the Christmas spirit of hope towards Easter. Even the undertakers had threatened to go on strike.

  Sidney left for his retreat in Walsingham. Geordie sai
d that he fancied coming too but his friend told him that it was only for nuns and clergy; a time when he could attempt to reclaim the words ‘God’ and ‘Christ’ rather than accepting everyone else’s use of them as expletives during criminal investigations.

  ‘I do try not to blaspheme in your presence, Sidney, but it’s hard.’

  ‘We keep silence for most of the time. I’m not sure you could stand it.’

  ‘I have plenty of silence at home,’ Geordie replied. ‘I think Cathy and I are frightened of telling each other too much.’

  ‘You’ve had the conversation?’

  ‘It wasn’t very good. But I know now. Breast cancer. They think they can get it in time. I certainly hope so. I’m sorry I flew off the handle. I’m grateful you told me. It’s difficult, though. If we speak our fears out loud we’re worried they might come true.’

  ‘You don’t have to say everything.’

  ‘I thought you were an advocate of the total truth?’

  ‘I am. But it doesn’t have to come out all at once. Sometimes it’s better to do things in stages.’

  ‘But then you never know how much more there is. I keep asking Cathy “Have you told me everything?” and she tells me that it is as much as she knows.’

  ‘She’s probably right. Do you think Helena’s told us everything?’

  ‘I hope so. They’ve put Dave Hills on the case now.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘People think he’s old-school, but he can still take you by surprise. If anyone can get something out of Downing, it’s him.’

  ‘If there’s anything more to confess?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘We’ll just have to see, won’t we? Downing’s probably not going to come out with very much more. It’s not looking good for Helena, I have to say. She should have told us sooner.’

  The police station had that winter aroma of stale gas, cigarette smoke, tea and disinfectant. It was hardly the smell of justice but, after some encouragement from his friend, Sidney still thought it worth a visit to see Dave Hills.

  ‘Keating’s told me all about you. I suppose you want to listen in?’

  ‘If I can be of any help.’

  ‘You’ll have to watch behind the glass. I can’t have you in the room. But it might be useful to have another pair of eyes. I only hope you’re not shocked. My methods are a bit different.’