Is There Anything You Want?

by Margaret Forster

  She didn’t tell Martin where she had been and what had happened. Better that he shouldn’t know how she’d been let down. But it was Martin who heard something drop through the letter-box just as they were going to their respective beds. He came back holding an envelope with her name written on it in beautiful italic handwriting. She snatched it from him. ‘It’s from the vicar,’ she said. ‘Church business.’ Martin stood there looking puzzled in that irritating way of his. ‘What church business?’ he asked, but before she needed to reply he’d lost interest. She put the letter in the pocket of her cardigan and went upstairs, determined not to open it until the morning. She didn’t want to be spoken to by that man even on paper. She put his letter on her bedside table, face down, and turned the light off. But as she lay there, sleepless and stiff with indignation, she suddenly realised that the letter might not be from the vicar. She’d assumed it would be, but she’d never seen his handwriting. Who could it be from, then, hand-delivered like that and so late at night? It must be from the vicar. Annoyed, she sat up and put her lamp on and reaching for the letter ripped it open in one violent tearing motion. Yes, it was from the Rev. Maddox.

  Only five lines and none containing the word ‘sorry’. Instead, she read that the vicar ‘regretted’ being unable to help her, and that he was ‘concerned’ that she might have hurt herself in her unfortunate ‘tumble’. He looked forward to her calling again, when they might explore the benefits of prayer in more detail. Ida tore the letter into tiny pieces, but that was not enough. She picked up the fragments and dropped them into the glass of water she kept beside the bed, then she stuck her finger into the soggy mess and pushed it further into the water until all the liquid had been absorbed. Flinging herself back down onto her pillow, she tried to compose herself for sleep, but her face was burning and her body hot, and finally she got up and went to the window and opened it. It was a cold night, though the day had been warm. She leaned out, hurting herself on the window-sill. The moon was so bright, and so yellow, it could have been the sun, except for the blackness behind it. Below, on the bricks of the patio Martin had laid out, she saw a tiny animal scoot across. If she fell, she’d fall onto the bricks, but she couldn’t fall, she’d have to climb up and throw herself out and she was too fat, the window too small.

  Instead, she got back into bed, feeling cooler and less hysterical. She was never going to see that man again, never go into the church so long as he was vicar. But it couldn’t be done. It dismayed her to think how little she would have in her life if she took church and church events out of it. Going to another church further away wouldn’t work, it wasn’t as though the town was big enough to offer her alternatives. St James’s was the only Church of England church. And in any case, it was special, special to her, it was hers, not this new vicar’s, and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, let him take it away from her. No other church could give her the comfort it gave her. She went into it and immediately felt reassured even if this reassurance disappeared the moment she stepped outside again. She’d been baptised there, confirmed there, married there – the church knew her through and through. But the vicarage was a different matter. She could vow never to set foot in it again. And the church hall was not sacred. If the Rev. Maddox turned up at any meeting or event held there, she could leave. With this decided, she drifted off to sleep.

  But in the early hours of the morning, she woke up, thinking she didn’t want that man to bury her. She would have to make some sort of declaration to that effect, written instructions that the Rev. Maddox was not to conduct, or be present at, her funeral. She would write this request – no, it was an order, a command – down, and then make Martin promise to see to it. He wouldn’t let her talk about death or funerals but she would make him listen and make him promise to carry out her wish. One thing, Martin was dependable. Once she got his attention and his agreement he was trustworthy. This thought calmed her again but she couldn’t get back to sleep. She kept seeing the Rev. Maddox’s face, his distaste, his repugnance when he looked at her, as though she horrified him, and it made her rage all over again. What was wrong with the man? He was a man of God, supposed to be understanding and sympathetic and able to offer comfort and enlightenment. She’d brought him her troubles, her very real troubles, and he’d recoiled from them. She dozed, then woke up, then dozed again, tossing and turning and desperate for real sleep. It came only half an hour before Martin brought her her tea.

  She felt awful. Ages after she’d drunk the tea, she still felt awful, and thought about staying in bed for the day, but it was a charity shop day. She had to get up. Her head ached, and the whole length of her spine hurt, but she forced herself to get up and wash and dress, and was ready, just, when Martin shouted it was nine o’clock and was she coming, or not? It was a Tuesday, and on Tuesdays he usually went to Mrs Hibbert’s, dropping her off at the shop first. He chattered all the way there about what he was going to do in her garden, as if she wanted to hear. He knew she had no interest in gardens. Gardens did nothing for her. She felt only a momentary pleasure at seeing the flowers bloom, however pretty they were. How Martin could get so excited about the first rose opening out, or his sweet peas climbing up the trellis, she couldn’t understand. He took to marvelling at how plants survived cruel winters, as though he wanted to send her a message but, although she understood this more than he perhaps realized, she refused to be comforted by it. ‘Life goes on,’ Martin said, surveying his garden in spring. The only life she was interested in was her own, and she was not a plant.

  She didn’t speak all the way to the shop, but there was nothing unusual in that and Martin hardly noticed. Lucy Binns had opened the shop up and was in the back trying to sort out some newly donated sacks of clothes. ‘The mess!’ she cried, as Ida walked in. Ida stood and looked at all the black bin-liners she was untying. She could tell at a glance that most of the stuff was rubbish, jumble sale standard, jumpers none too clean and with holes in them, blouses with perspiration marks under the arms, trousers with broken zips – people had a cheek dumping such rags in a charity shop, knowing perfectly well they were not good enough to sell. There was only one bag that looked promising. It wasn’t a bin-liner. It was a large carrier bag but not one Ida recognised, it didn’t belong to one of the chain stores with which she was familiar. She said this to Lucy, pointing the bag out with her foot. Lucy said she’d been told a vicar had dropped it off, so maybe it would have decent items of clothing in it. ‘We need good-quality men’s clothes,’ Lucy said. ‘You unpack that one, Ida, and see what you think. Here, I’ll lift it onto the table, you don’t want to be doing any lifting.’ Ida stood aside, pleased, while sturdy little Lucy swung the bag up. She liked Lucy, who was always so considerate and who never forgot Ida had had cancer. Other people in the shop did. Adelaide Priest had forgotten totally. She came out all the time with remarks that showed a complete lack of consideration for the perilous state of Ida’s health, and if she was reminded, if Ida, aggrieved, said she couldn’t do something because she hadn’t the strength due to her operation, Adelaide would say, ‘Oh, what nonsense, Ida, you’re as fit as a fiddle, you don’t want to be treated like an invalid, do you?’ This was precisely how Ida wished to be treated, but she could not, of course, admit it. Instead, she glared at Adelaide and said that in fact she was very far from fit and had been told never to over-exert herself. This was not true, but she reckoned that as long as she had to continue to have check-ups at the clinic she was entitled to pretend it was.

  The contents of the carrier bag were all neatly folded and obviously hardly worn, but they were puzzling. If Lucy was right, and a vicar had brought them in, then they were very unusual garments for such a man to possess. Ida had anticipated dark-coloured trousers and jackets, with maybe a few white shirts, but the bag contained pale linen slacks and multi-coloured short-sleeved shirts. There was also a panama hat which was so clean round the inside headband that Ida felt it could hardly have been on any man’s head for more than a few minutes. She hu
ng the clothes on wire hangers and put them on the rack to await Mrs Jarrett’s inspection – it was she who decided whether things should be put through the dry-cleaning machine or sponged down or simply gone over with that vacuum thing. She wondered as she finished doing this whether this vicar had once been a missionary. The missionaries in the pictures in the books they’d been shown at Sunday school when she’d been a child had all worn white suits and panama hats. They’d all been thin and rather frail-looking, like the Rev. Maddox. She flushed as she made the comparison and tried to banish the image of that man in a white suit.

  The shop was empty, but then it was still early. There was a chair behind the counter where people came to pay, and Ida was always encouraged to sit on it by Lucy. She needed no urging. If anyone came to the counter, she always stood up to take their money, but otherwise she sat and pretended to read a book, and watched Lucy flit about doing quite unnecessary things to keep herself busy. She was still thinking about missionaries when Dot Nicholson came into the shop. Everyone, except Ida, felt sorry for Dot. She couldn’t see why people thought Dot worthy of such sympathy. Nothing bad had ever happened to her, surely. Her husband might be a bully and a miserable person but why that aroused such pity for Dot she failed to appreciate. He’d been a catch, in his day, Adam Nicholson, son of a master butcher with two shops, and certain to inherit the family business. Dot had never known want in her life. Of course, Ida reckoned, this ‘poor little Dot’ business was because she was so very little. Big people didn’t get the same sympathy, she knew that. Dot Nicholson was not feeble, but she looked it and her appearance made people want to protect her. If she’d had breast cancer then the sympathy would’ve been overwhelming. But then, Ida reflected, Dot had no breasts, or none to speak of. She’d never had any. Flatchested since schooldays. Now that was to be pitied.

  Dot had come up to the counter. Ida tried to smile, feeling guilty at the malicious thoughts she’d been having. ‘I’m here to find a present for Adam,’ Dot whispered. ‘He’s 75 on Sunday.’ Why the woman was whispering, Ida couldn’t think – it was hardly an intimate confession. Only Dot would go looking for a present for her husband in a charity shop, of course. Typical. ‘What treasure can I offer you?’ Ida asked, knowing she sounded sarcastic but that sarcasm would be lost on Dot. Lucy came up to the counter at that point, and Ida took pleasure in repeating, very loudly, that Dot was looking for a very special present for her husband’s birthday. ‘Well,’ said Lucy, brightly, not at all amused or surprised, ‘how about a book? We’ve got some practically brand-new books at the moment, I don’t think they’ve even been opened.’ She took an eager Dot over to the shelves and showed her the volumes she meant. Ida knew Dot wouldn’t choose any of them, and she didn’t. ‘A tie?’ she heard the helpful Lucy suggest. ‘Ties are over here, they’ve all been dry-cleaned.’ They were dreadful ties. Even Dot would see that. Drab brown and navy striped things which had indeed been cleaned but the cleaning hadn’t managed entirely to remove the worst of the stains. Besides, Adam Nicholson probably never wore a tie these days, now that he rarely left home. He wouldn’t wear a tie on his weekly outing to have his feet done, Ida was sure of that, and Dot had said that was the only time he left the house these days. But Dot had, as expected, spumed the ties. She was scrutinising a table set out with boxes and small ornaments and cufflinks and other clutter. Ida saw her pick up a wooden box and then put it down again. What she finally chose and brought to the counter was a large china mug decorated with a brightly coloured picture of a huntsman and hounds, with the words Tally Ho! printed on it.

  ‘How much is this?’ she asked Ida. Ida turned it over. ‘A fortune, Dot,’ she said. Dot took her absolutely seriously, her anguish comical. ‘Twenty p,’ Ida said, ‘can you afford it?’ Dot laughed, and produced the money. ‘Adam used to hunt,’ she said. ‘It’ll remind him of happier days.’ Ida couldn’t prevent herself snorting with derision – happy days? Adam Nicholson? – but Dot was oblivious. Lucy had joined them, and was asking if there was going to be a party, or celebration, for Adam’s birthday. Dot shook her head. ‘We’ll just have a quiet day,’ she said, as though that in itself was a treat. ‘I’ll go to church in the morning and then I’ll come home and cook a joint of beef, sirloin, with roast potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. Adam’s favourite.’ Lucy said that sounded delicious. ‘Which church do you belong to, Dot?’ she asked, clearly just trying to make conversation since there was nothing left for her to straighten or fold, and there were still no other customers. Dot said, ‘St James’s.’ ‘Oh,’ said Lucy, suddenly genuinely interested, ‘that’s where the interesting new vicar has just come, isn’t it? What’s he like?’ Dot said he was very nice, quiet, gentle, quite different from the last one, and ever so clever.

  Ida waited until Dot had gone, and then waited some more while a young mother pushed a twin buggy round the crowded shop, the twins clutching at clothes and pulling half of them down, which had Lucy chasing round putting them back, and then finally, when there was peace again, she said as casually as possible to Lucy, ‘How did you know about the new vicar, then? You don’t go to St James’s.’ Lucy said that her sister, who lived in Manchester, had written saying that their vicar who had had a nervous breakdown had been moved to a quiet parish near where Lucy lived. ‘A nervous breakdown?’ said Ida, taking care not to sound too interested. ‘That’s what she said,’ Lucy agreed, ‘a nervous breakdown. Not something you expect clergymen to have, is it? Not with them believing in God, if you know what I mean.’ ‘What was it about, the breakdown?’ Ida asked. Lucy said she hadn’t been told, but her sister had said – and at that moment there was a sudden rush. Three middle-aged women came in together, all carrying large leather shopping bags, and began sorting methodically through all the racks of clothes. Ida could tell at once that they were experts at spotting bargains and were probably going to resell what they found and make a nice profit. They fingered the materials, turning any garment they were interested in inside out, looking for labels and washing instructions, and examining them closely for wear and tear. She and Lucy were silent, both watching the women intently, knowing they were quite capable of stealing even if this was a charity shop. But they would be forced to buy what they’d selected, and they would haggle over the prices. She hoped Lucy would be as firm as she intended to be: absolutely no reductions.

  By the time these women had made their purchases (and Lucy was as gratifyingly unyielding as herself) there was a lot to be done. All the colour-co-ordinating Lucy had nobly laboured over was wrecked and she had to start again, with Ida assisting. It was impossible to pick up once more the conversation about the vicar’s nervous breakdown and yet she so badly wanted to, feeling she had not yet drained Lucy of every scrap of information imparted to her by her sister. She’d felt such a frisson of excitement run through her at the mention of mental instability associated with the Rev. Maddox – she felt desperate to know what had prompted his nervous breakdown and what form it had taken. No wonder he was of no use to her if his own head was in a mess. But instead of this making her forgiving towards the vicar, it only made her angrier. If he knew what it was like to feel you were going mad, why hadn’t he been sympathetic towards her tears and panic? He was a fellow sufferer, and as far as she knew he hadn’t any excuse, and yet he’d looked at her, and she did have a reason to be distraught, as though she were the lowest of the low.

  Later, when there was another lull, and she and Lucy were having a cup of tea at the counter (though they were supposed to have any refreshment separately in the back room) Ida asked Lucy if she saw much of the sister who lived in Manchester. Lucy said yes, she did, quite a lot. They took turns to visit each other for the weekend about once a month, though she was fonder of going to Manchester, where she loved the shops, than her sister was of visiting her. ‘She’s coming this weekend, though,’ said Lucy. ‘I wish I’d had a sister,’ sighed Ida, deciding to be oblique in her next approach. Lucy agreed it was nice having a sister, and said that she
was fortunate to have two, though she wasn’t as close to the other one. Ida was hardly listening. ‘What will you do with your sister this weekend, then?’ she asked. Lucy said that was always a bit of a problem, Janet couldn’t sit still, she liked to be out and about, and as Ida knew there wasn’t a lot to do here. ‘Will you go to church on Sunday?’ Ida asked. Lucy said, ‘Probably.’ ‘Well,’ said Ida, very, very lightly, and turning away to remove their cups and saucers as she did so, ‘why don’t you come to St James’s and your Janet can see how her old vicar is getting on?’

  Lucy seemed quite delighted with this idea. She became more and more enthusiastic, carefully checking the time of morning service with Ida, who was smiling at the success of her plan when Martin picked her up. She wasn’t sure exactly what she hoped to achieve by confronting the Rev. Maddox with a former parishioner who knew about his nervous breakdown, and maybe the cause of it (some scandal?), but she was sure she would achieve something. It would mean, of course, having to break her recently made vow never to go into St James’s while that man was still there, but then she reminded herself she’d decided only the church hall was out of bounds. Or had she? She couldn’t remember, but it didn’t matter. Her smile broadened as she got in the car. Martin thought it must mean she had had a good day, and he in turn smiled back. She was bursting to tell someone about the Rev. Maddox’s nervous breakdown and Martin was the only person available, so she told him, without any preamble, as soon as they were on the road home. Martin’s smile faded. ‘Poor chap,’ he said. This annoyed her. Nervous breakdowns were not cancer. His instant compassion was, in her opinion, overdone. He kept saying it over and over again, poor, poor chap, when what she wanted was for him to speculate as to the causes of this breakdown, to show some real curiosity. He had none. She thought about describing to him how she had been treated at the vicarage the day before, to make him understand why she felt no sympathy for the vicar, but that would only lead to questions she didn’t want to answer. Instead, she would ignore Martin and his ‘poor chaps’. But just as she was deciding this, he said something else.