Sidney Chambers and The Persistence of Love

by James Runcie

  The choir sang the ninetieth psalm, ‘Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations’, with the resonant admonitory line: ‘The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.’

  Threescore years and ten. Hildegard had not even made it to fifty-four.

  Jennifer read from 1 Corinthians 13, the choir sang ‘O Welt, ich muss dich lassen’ and Purcell’s ‘Evening Hymn’, and Malcolm took the prayers.

  Leonard then gave the address, just as he had done at Sidney and Hildegard’s wedding. He remembered first meeting Hildegard, the welcome she had given him, and recalled how difficult it had been for her in Cambridge after the war.

  He did not shy away from mentioning the death of her first husband, the suffering and sorrow that had followed, and the miraculous grace that came after her union with Sidney. Their wedding had been almost fifteen years ago, it had taken place on a glorious autumn afternoon and he had quoted Blake at the time: ‘I give you the end of a golden string. Only wind it into a ball. It will lead you in at heaven’s gate. Built in Jerusalem’s wall.’

  He was convinced that Sidney and Hildegard still had that golden thread between them and that it could not be cut by death. Their love had made it unbreakable, and Anna was testament to that love. Anna was Hildegard’s gift to the world. Her continuation. The pearl on the golden string.

  He asked the congregation to thank God for all that he had given them through his love, and to pray now, especially, for Hildegard; for her loyalties, her affection and her example. He suggested that they remember her whenever they heard the music of Bach or thought about things that made them laugh with delight, for she was a woman who, despite suffering and tragedy, was determined to make the best of things, wasting neither time nor life. If she had been taken too early then at least she had achieved so much while she lived, through her music, her family – here Leonard asked people to pray particularly for Anna – and her service to others.

  After long labour there was rest, after toil there was peace. It was a life well spent and her reward was everlasting.

  There were more prayers and a final blessing and the service finished, just as Sidney and Hildegard’s marriage service had ended, with ‘Now Thank We All Our God’ to the tune of ‘Nun danket’.

  The committal took place in the burial ground outside the North Transept. The rain had eased slightly by the time the little family party emerged from the cathedral but the wind was still up. The undertakers removed the flowers from the top of the coffin and laid them by the side of the grave. Then they took up the cords with Sidney, Geordie, Leonard and Malcolm, and together they lowered the body into the grave.

  The dean led the mourners:

  ‘Hildegard has fallen asleep in the peace of Christ.

  We commit her, with faith and hope in everlasting life, to the loving mercy of our Father

  And assist her with our prayers . . .’

  Anna was given a special linen bag of soil. She threw the earth down onto the wooden coffin.

  ‘Eternal rest, grant to her, O Lord,’ said the dean.

  To which the mourners all replied: ‘And let perpetual light shine upon her.’

  The dean continued: ‘May her soul and the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.’

  And then, at last, came the final ‘Amen’.

  It was over. Anna held on to her posy for a moment longer, then knelt down and dropped it into the darkness below.

  The rain started up once more.

  They held the wake at Canonry House. Amanda had provided champagne and canapés to celebrate Hildegard’s life rather than mourn her death (she was solvent again, even rich, now that her inheritance had come through) and she was acting as the principal hostess, much to Miss Morgan’s disapproval. This was made manifest by the determined way in which an alternative option of tea and sandwiches was offered.

  Sidney could not worry about all this. His mother sat in a chair, her memory already fading, wearing a black dress that had once been useful for cocktail parties but now only did for funerals. Alec Chambers began conversations with strangers, trying his best to be interested in what they were saying but gave up around the fourth sentence, unable to concentrate on anything other than his daughter-in-law’s death. Anna stuck with Sophie, disappearing upstairs, returning only to get more food and, it seemed from their behaviour, alcohol. Well, if they got drunk, Sidney thought, how could he blame them?

  There were other conversations, repeated consolations: all such a shock, who could have foretold it, so young, such a lovely woman, I wish I’d gone to one of her concerts, there was so much I still wanted to talk to her about, poor little Anna – although she’s not so little now, is she – will you be all right do you think, is there anything I can do?

  The only person who didn’t, couldn’t and wouldn’t speak to Sidney in a similar fashion was Rolfe von Arnim. But it was impossible to ignore him. He was wearing a trim dark suit, white shirt and a black tie and in his buttonhole was a pale-yellow rose and a cluster of red berries. He must have made it himself. It reminded Sidney of the sweet peas he had once given Hildegard and that made him angry all over again, and even more furious that he couldn’t show it: not now, not on this day.

  ‘I thought perhaps I shouldn’t have come,’ said Rolfe. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to say goodbye.’

  ‘You are as welcome as anyone else.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want me.’

  This is not about you, Sidney wanted to say, but retained his politeness. ‘Hildegard was very fond of you.’

  ‘She was such an inspiration.’

  ‘She was to so many people.’

  ‘But especially to me. As a musician.’

  ‘Und auch als Deutscher!’ Trudi interrupted, taking Rolfe by the arm and leading him far, far, away. ‘Erzählen Sie mir doch bitte alles über meine Schwester. Ich habe sie in den letzen Jahren so wenig gesehen. Wir haben bestimmt sehr viel zu besprechen.’

  She had all of Hildegard’s tact and directness. For the first time, Sidney thanked God she had come.

  He went upstairs. He needed to go to the bathroom and then compose himself in his bedroom for a few moments – the crowd, the heat, the tension of the day. He was getting a headache, the first since his wife had died, and he thought then of the pain that had killed her, the swiftness of the attack. What if he were to die now too? He really wouldn’t mind.

  As he came back out onto the landing he could hear Miss Morgan arguing with Amanda in the kitchen: Hildegard’s kitchen.

  ‘You are not the hostess,’ his volunteer housekeeper was saying, ‘and you shouldn’t pretend that you are.’

  ‘I’m not pretending to be anything.’

  ‘It’s embarrassing. Your presence here, Mrs Richardson, is not helping matters.’

  ‘Do you mean in the kitchen or with Sidney? I think I know what is helpful and what is not.’

  There was a clatter of teacups, washing-up probably, and then Miss Morgan’s not-so-subtle mutter: ‘You have never been any good for him.’

  ‘How dare you say that? Sidney is my best friend.’

  ‘And how dare you dishonour his wife’s memory by showing off like this? Shame on you.’

  Amanda began to leave but Anna stopped her in the doorway. ‘Don’t.’

  Then she turned to Miss Morgan. ‘I know you are trying to help but please don’t speak to my godmother like that. She is my friend too.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Miss Morgan replied. ‘I didn’t mean it. I was defending your mother.’

  ‘She doesn’t need defending. Everyone loved her.’

  Sidney leant against the wall to steady himself. He closed his eyes and wondered if he might faint. Then he could fall down the stairs. Perhaps he might even kill himself. That, too, would be a good thing.

  He heard his daughter coming up the
stairs and felt her arm supporting him. ‘What’s wrong, Dad?’

  He stopped, uncertain for a moment where he was or what he had done, guilty about his thoughts, his momentary desire for death.

  ‘You sound just like her,’ he said.

  After everyone had gone home, Sidney and Anna returned to ‘normal life’, whatever that meant: school and the cathedral, home, work and holidays. Sidney thought of his soon-to-be teenage daughter and his responsibility over the next years as she tried to work out whether the woman she was becoming was the woman she actually wanted to be.

  Anna tried her best to hide her grief in front of her father but it manifested itself in other ways, in an increasing lack of confidence, sometimes in silence and withdrawal, at other times in defensive attack. It was a quiet resentment that, although combative, was also fragile, as if she was pushing at the limits both of Sidney’s patience and her own self-confidence.

  I don’t want any supper. My bedroom’s tidy enough. I don’t need to put anything away. There isn’t any washing-up in there. I like taking my socks off. I’ll pick them up later. I don’t have to do my geography. It’s not due until next Tuesday. Why are you always having a go at me?

  There was the vegetarianism and the failure to recognise the connection between food intake and skin condition (a diet that seemed to consist entirely of tomato soup, peanut butter, white bread and Sugar Puffs was hardly going to help). Then there was the way Anna let her hair fall over face, her refusal to tuck in her school blouse, her strange attitude to personal hygiene – especially teeth cleaning – and her belief that walking around in boots with untied shoelaces was fashionable.

  How had his little girl, once so eager to gather wild flowers, paint and draw and dance and roll down hills, turned into this?

  In the past he had been expressly told by his wife not to comment on or react to any of his daughter’s provocations but to let her ‘find her own way’. It was important to know Anna’s secrets but not to let on that they knew, to allow her the privacy of secret rebellion. That was all very well, but how was he going to manage this on his own? He could hardly bear to talk to his daughter about sex and boyfriends and he wondered who might do that. Sophie’s mother? Her doctor? His sister? Jennifer was the safest option, but she didn’t have Hildegard’s ability to combine rigorous discipline with a sudden ability to let go, to throw it all away and abandon herself to the joy of the present moment.

  He realised how much his wife had done and how she had protected him from the grind of everyday life; although how had she been able to do all this and teach and play the piano was something of a miracle, especially when Sidney had spent so much time away from her. She had once referred to his parenting as ‘the night shift’.

  The greatest mystery was why God had allowed her to die; and how could Sidney live without the presence of someone he was used to speaking to every day? There was no piano, no singing, no conversation, no laughter, no admonition, no argument.

  Even the silence was different. It was no longer companionable, bordered by the possibility of interruption, but a void without meaning. He was used to the silence of prayer, but that wasn’t the same thing at all. It included the meditative, a sense of apprehension, a spirit of waiting, but there was no point waiting for a dead wife.

  Now he resented every minute that he had left her or wanted to be on his own or thought that he had better things to do. Why couldn’t he have listened to her and why could he not remember more? Perhaps he could go away somewhere and dwell in her memory, letting the moments come to him, recovering his past and healing his future?

  He wondered, even, if he should give up being a priest. He remembered a bombed-out chapel in Italy, in wartime, when he had thought that he could not bear any more suffering. He had reached the limit of what a human soul could take and he had stopped everything and thrown himself before the ruined altar and asked for mercy. Then faith had somehow, he didn’t know how, returned to his soul, filling him with grace, giving him light and hope. Now he felt one great emptying, as if even the blood in his body was evaporating, his bones collapsing. How much longer would he be able to go on walking or stand upright? There was nothing to support or sustain him any more apart from his daughter. That, at least, was one thing he still knew he could not give up on. He might be able to give up on his faith, but he couldn’t abandon her.

  He went to see the dean and they sat drinking whisky until Sidney wanted to close his eyes and fall asleep. Felix Carpenter spoke slowly and kindly (they, too, had their silences) and told him that sometimes you only see the light when you look up from the bottom of the well.

  ‘I don’t know if I can do that, Felix. Sometimes my head is so heavy I can hardly lift it. I know that sounds pathetic.’

  ‘If it is what you feel, how can it be pathetic?’

  Sidney could not give up on faith because, like the light, it always came back from the night. It refused to give up on him.

  ‘Remember the vows you took at your ordination,’ said Felix. ‘You have been called and chosen and invested in the tradition of the laying-on of hands and the invocation of the Holy Ghost for the office and work of a priest in the Church of God. You have to persist.’

  Sidney had once said the same thing to Leonard.

  ‘Our life is a testing ground, Sidney; we all walk in the valley of the shadow of death. Now you have been tested and asked to come back out into the light.’

  ‘I think I was prepared for anything but this.’

  ‘We are all cut flowers,’ said the dean.

  Amanda drove up from London and took him down to Grantchester. She wanted to return to the place that he had always gone for respite when he was a vicar; a hillside view just off the Roman Road for Wandlebury Ring and the Iron Age forts of the Gog Magog Hills.

  That’s what you sometimes had to do when you were unhappy, she said; go back to the place in your past when you were happiest.

  It was Armistice Day. Sidney had kept the eleven o’clock silence that morning and remembered those who had lost their lives in war, dying far younger than either he or Hildegard. It made him feel guilty that he had not been more grateful for the joys he had known rather than sorrowful for the love he had lost.

  They left Byron at home, since he was too old for long walks (he would surely be the next to go), and parked in a lay-by off the main road, allowing room for movement through a five-bar gate. They then made their way up a familiar muddy track scattered with gatherings of water that would freeze that night. Fieldfares and redwings circled in the sky. Already there was a mist in the lower field. It would be dark by a quarter past four. They wouldn’t have long.

  They talked about all that had happened and how, when they had first come to this place, they couldn’t possibly have imagined that their lives would turn out this way. Amanda had broken off her engagement to Guy Hopkins, Sidney had hardly met Hildegard, and now here they were, both widowed and still in their fifties.

  ‘I’m sorry about the wake,’ Amanda said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The argument in the kitchen with Miss Morgan.’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It reminded me of Mrs Maguire all over again. She’s very proprietorial.’

  ‘It’s good to have someone on hand.’

  ‘But you don’t even like her!’

  ‘I am grateful for her support.’

  ‘Anna was very kind. You had a funny turn. Was it the stress of the day?’

  ‘Probably. I don’t know, Amanda. The day passed in a daze. I could have fainted at any moment.’

  ‘I was worried that you were going to fall down the stairs.’

  ‘I think I wanted to.’

  They walked on, the only sound coming from the voles, shrews and mice in the hedgerows and a squadron of jackdaws crying out in greeting and alarm, wheeling above them.

  It was the kind of companionable silence that Sidney had almost forgotten, and then he said, idly, without r
eally thinking what he was saying (perhaps it was just for something to say): ‘It’s odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They have them in comedies . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Falling downstairs, the pratfall, the big farcical moment, and yet in real life people can die as a result. How do actors signal that it’s funny?’

  ‘I suppose it depends what comes before and after.’

  ‘Like life.’

  ‘No sermons, Sidney.’

  ‘At the moment, Amanda, I don’t know if I can ever preach again.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  They approached a couple of male pheasants, past their moult and in feathered prime, pecking at the remains of some long-scattered seed and then abruptly taking off. Guns from a shooting party sounded in the distance. It was hard to tell if the birds, prey only to the perils of chance, were flying into their path or not.

  ‘Have they given you some time off?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘As long as I need. They don’t really mean that, of course.’

  ‘And what will you do?’

  ‘I don’t know. The important thing is to spend some time with Anna.’

  ‘If you need my help . . .’

  ‘It probably has to be the two of us.’

  ‘I meant money. If you want to go away. It must be terrible.’

  ‘It is.’

  Sidney did not know what more he could say. He felt guilty now about being out and about with another woman, a guilt he would never have felt when his wife was alive.

  ‘I’m not sure whether I should tell you this . . .’ Amanda began.

  ‘You’ve started.’

  ‘Hildegard once asked me to look after you.’

  ‘Why? When?’

  ‘She said that she never worried too much because if anything ever happened to her, you would always have me. I told her that it was different, that we were different, but she said it didn’t matter. She knew that you would be all right.’

  ‘But I’m not all right.’