by Pam Rhodes
“You’ve been hurt, Wendy,” said Margaret, putting a comforting arm around the younger woman’s waist. “Badly hurt. I know you were – are – deeply fond of Neil. You saw a future with him – your future as a vicar’s wife, a role which you would have filled superbly. You weren’t alone in thinking that you would make wonderful partners, because just about everyone else at St Stephen’s thought that too.”
“Except Neil, apparently.”
“Well, that’s where we all got it wrong. Your relationship with Neil made perfectly good sense, but we don’t fall in love with our heads, do we? It’s our hearts that lead the way. And that…” Margaret nodded in the direction of Neil and Claire, “… is where his heart has taken him.”
It might have been a snort of disgust that Margaret heard from Wendy then, but more likely it was a sob of pure misery from the way her voice was shaking when she next spoke.
“But the problem isn’t just that she’s not a Christian. Surely that’s bad enough. But she openly admits she doesn’t even believe in God! How can Neil accept that? How can he possibly think he could share his life with someone like that?”
“We don’t know he’s planning to share his life with Claire. This could be a very short-lived affair. We who love him simply have to stand alongside him and support him as we can.”
“I can’t bear to see them together...”
Hidden by the darkness of the room, Margaret could tell Wendy was crying.
“I know, love, I know – but you have your own life to get on with, and I believe, with all your gifts and talent, you have so much potential for happiness and fulfilment ahead of you.”
“Not without Neil…”
“Well, that’s up to you. Be everything you can be for yourself, not someone else. Maybe, in the end, Neil will be the man for you – but just maybe there’s someone else completely different in your future, with whom you will find much greater contentment. Let Neil go, Wendy. Save yourself the pain. Just let him go.”
Shaking her head miserably, Wendy couldn’t answer. Instead, she gave Margaret’s arm a grateful squeeze before heading towards the exit.
* * *
“I’ve made a decision,” announced Iris a couple of weeks later.
Neil was about to leave the house to visit a bereaved family and help them plan a funeral for the following week.
“Is this a decision that takes a lot of explaining?” he enquired. “Or could it wait until I get home later?”
“No,” said Iris, “this really won’t take long. It’s very simple. I’ve decided to move to Dunbridge!”
Neil was already heading towards the front door, but her answer stopped him in his tracks. His mother living permanently here in the town that was both his home and work place? How did he feel about that?
His thoughts were interrupted when he turned to look properly at Iris’s face. He was used to her customary expression of belligerence and self-righteousness, but at this moment she actually looked quite nervous, and anxious to hear his response.
“Well, that would be nice,” he said slowly. “What’s brought you to that decision?”
“Loneliness,” she said simply. “I’m lonely in Bristol. I don’t really know my neighbours. I used to enjoy playing bridge, but two members of the club have recently died, and I’ve got no time for most of the other ladies who go there. My brother David has his own family. He doesn’t need me. I feel useless, without purpose and very alone.”
“I see,” said Neil, still uncertain how he felt about this revelation.
“On the other hand, Neil, I think perhaps you do need me.”
She must have caught sight of the gleam of panic in Neil’s eyes, as she continued, “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t mean you aren’t perfectly capable of doing your job. Actually, much to my surprise, you’re becoming rather good at it. You’ll never make a fortune, of course, and you would have been much better off as an accountant, like your father…” She lifted her hand to stop Neil as he spluttered an objection. “But, in spite of what you think, I do recognize you have your own life to lead, and you no longer need your mother trying to wipe your nose all the time. You’ll probably learn better from making your own mistakes.”
“Have you thought about where you might live?” asked Neil, hoping she wasn’t thinking of moving into 96 Vicarage Gardens with him.
“No, I need to do a bit of house-hunting. I did notice a bungalow for sale in the next street up, Ransom Road – number 60, I think it is. It actually backs onto Harry’s garden. I’ve made arrangements to take a look at it later this week.”
“Have you spoken to Harry about this?”
“It was Harry who suggested it.”
“Really?”
“Harry Holloway is a very wise and wonderful man,” said Iris softly. “He’s a good friend to me.”
“He is,” agreed Neil. In all honesty, he had often worried about whether Iris was in danger of becoming an overpowering burden that the gentlemanly Harry suffered politely.
“And I’m a good friend of his,” added Iris.
“Yes?”
“We’re not quite the same generation, but we come from the same era. We have a similar approach to manners and family and relationships and priorities. We laugh at the same jokes. We remember the same song words. We have a lot in common.”
“I can see that,” was Neil’s careful reply.
“We’re companions,” continued Iris. “We like one another. He brings out the best me, and he says I do in him.”
“Right.”
“Harry’s dreadful at looking after himself, especially now his health is such an issue, and I’m dreadful at being on my own with no one to look after – so…”
“So you plan to keep each other company?”
“Precisely.”
“And Harry suggested this?”
“He did. He insists he’s coming with me to look at that bungalow.”
“Well, that seems settled then. What about your own house in Bristol?”
“I put it on the market two weeks ago.”
“You mean, you knew before you came that this was what you wanted?”
“Absolutely. I was considering the possibility of living here when I left before Christmas, but thought I should go home and think it all through in the cold light of day. And my life there is cold. It bears no comparison to the warmth and friendship I’ve found here.”
“You know, Mum, I’m only a curate in this town. I’ve got one, maybe two years to go before I take on my own parish – and that could be anywhere!”
“Then you’ll just have to move on, Neil. I understand that, and it’s only right and proper. Wherever you move to will become your home – but this is mine. I want to make my home in Dunbridge. I like the smallness of this town. I like the fact that when I walk through the market square, people recognize me enough to say hello. That’s why I want to stay here.”
Neil moved closer to put his arm around her shoulders. To his surprise, her news was beginning to grow on him.
“And who knows?” she continued. “You might need me sometimes. I’d like to be helpful.”
“You are, Mum. You always are.”
A wave of fondness came over him, and he did something that previously would have embarrassed him and infuriated her. He really hugged her. And, wonder of wonders, she hugged him back.
* * *
On the last Thursday in April, as they returned from Evening Prayer, Margaret suggested that Neil pop into the vicarage to collect some papers he needed for the morning. It was a beautiful evening, with shards of golden sunlight breaking through reddened clouds to create an almost magical sunset.
Margaret was in good humour. They’d had a busy but productive day when they’d found themselves acknowledging that the fellowship and Christian purpose of St Stephen’s was going from strength to strength. The church was beginning to take its place as a focal point for all sorts of events and activities within the town.
“Just
the way it should be,” commented Margaret, as she swung open the front gate. “Churches were built to be communal meeting places not just for worship, but for everyday life. It’s good to see that start to happen again in St Stephen’s.”
Pulling the key out of the front door lock, she took off her coat as she headed up the stairs.
“Those papers are in the back room, Neil, and Frank’s probably in the kitchen, if you want to say hello.”
Thinking it best to find the notes he needed first, Neil went to search for them among the piles of papers of all sorts and ages that were balanced rather precariously on the large dining table in the centre of the room. It was at that moment that he heard a scream that chilled him to the marrow.
“Neil!” It was almost unrecognizable as Margaret’s voice, shrill and shrieking. “Neil! Oh, God, no! Neil!”
In no time at all, he was racing up the stairs two at a time.
“It’s Frank,” she wailed. “I think he’s dead!”
CHAPTER 12
Frank had probably been dead for an hour or more before they found him. That was the opinion of the local GP, Dr Jones, who was summoned by the ambulance team and police. Margaret had refused to leave the room, in spite of the suggestion by the emergency officials that she might be more comfortable downstairs while they got on with what had to be done. With help from the ambulance man, Neil had finally managed to prise her off the floor where, for more than half an hour, she’d been sitting cradling Frank’s head on her lap. Eventually she allowed herself to be helped up and led across to the bedroom chair on which Frank’s favourite jacket was still neatly hanging.
While Neil pulled up another chair beside her, Margaret simply sat, glassy-eyed and deathly pale, staring at her husband’s body as the doctor pronounced him dead. The exact cause would have to be determined at the post-mortem. At that point, Neil felt a shudder go through her as she sat, trembling and wordless, beside him. Her hands were cold, so Neil laid his large hand over hers in a futile attempt to offer her the warmth of his loving care along with a measure of physical warmth.
She didn’t respond as the doctor gently examined her, but when he delved into his bag to draw out some medication to help calm and settle her, her hand moved with surprising speed to knock the offered pills away.
“I don’t want those,” she whispered. “I don’t want to sleep.”
“You’ve had a terrible shock, Margaret,” said Dr Jones. “These are just to help you relax a little.”
There was disbelief in the sharp look she shot at him. “I just want to know what happened,” she said, her voice thin and choked. “What happened to my darling? What caused this? Was he in pain? Was he lying there in agony and fear, not able to get hold of me? Was I too busy, the way I’m always too busy, to be there when he really needed me? Was he calling out again and again, and I didn’t come? Is that the last memory he had before he… before he...”
The doctor looked at her steadily as he answered. “I can’t be sure what caused his death, but providing you don’t hold me to it, I could probably make an educated guess. This looks to me like a ruptured abdominal aortic aneurism – a break in the main blood vessel to the heart. If that’s the case, Frank would have known very little about it after the initial rupture.”
“But why? What would have caused that?”
“His age, maybe? He’s in his late sixties now, isn’t he? Or his diet, perhaps?”
“We eat well. Frank’s the cook. He’s always going on about us needing a low-fat diet now we’re not getting any younger!”
“His lifestyle? Was he stressed, do you think?”
“Never. I’m the one constantly climbing the wall with stress. He’s the calm one, taking everything in his stride.”
“Well, the post-mortem will answer a lot of those questions,” continued Dr Jones, “but honestly, this condition isn’t unusual in a man of his age. In the end, there probably isn’t one single trigger for something like this. It just happens.”
“Well, it shouldn’t have!” There was vehemence in Margaret’s voice. “This shouldn’t have happened to Frank. He’s the sweetest, kindest, most wonderful man in the world, and he doesn’t deserve this! He doesn’t!”
“We’re ready to move him now,” said the ambulance man standing beside Frank. “Is it OK for us to take the body, Doctor? Have you finished your examination?”
“Where are you taking him?” demanded Margaret. “He belongs here. I didn’t say you could take him. He wants to be here…”
“Margaret,” said Neil softly, tightening his clasp on her hand. “They have to move Frank to make him more comfortable. You don’t want him to stay on the floor as he is now, do you?”
Thoughts seemed to be churning in her head.
“He could lie on the bed. That’s our bed. He wants to lie there…”
“They need to find out what caused this, Margaret. They have to take him to the right place to do that.”
“The mortuary, do you mean? It’ll be cold there. They’ll open him up, won’t they? I don’t want to know what happened if it means they have to cut him open. I can’t bear the thought of them cutting him open…”
With an almost animal-like wail of pain and despair, Margaret practically slid off the chair as she rocked to and fro, sobs racking her body, tears running through her fingers as she covered her face with her hands. She cried and cried for so long that she wasn’t even aware that the ambulance team had gently picked Frank up and laid him on a stretcher so they could carry him out of the room and away from the house.
“I need to ring her daughter,” Neil whispered urgently to the doctor. “Could you stay with her for a minute while I do that?”
Once he’d located Sarah’s number, Neil so dreaded the thought of breaking the unbearable news that he almost hoped she wouldn’t answer. But she did. Her voice sounded bright and friendly and welcoming – pleased, but slightly curious, to hear from Neil out of the blue. Moments later, all Neil could hear was her shock and dread as she tried to take in what had happened.
“I’ll come as soon as I can. Hang on, I’ve got Edward here. Martin’s not home yet. He won’t be home until about seven…” Her mind was plainly racing with all the logistics. “I’ll ring him. I’ll call him straight away. We’ll come together. I just need to sort out Edward. Maybe my neighbour can help? I’ll ring her. I’ll ring my neighbour. Oh God, I can’t believe this. Dad always seemed so fit and well. I can’t take this in…”
Neil hesitated about whom to call next. He knew without any doubt that the person who would be the best company for Margaret right now was her dear and trusted friend, Cyn Clarkson. Should he call her, even though her own emotions were still raw from her little granddaughter’s death? Was that fair to Cyn? He thought about her, the strong matriarch of the Clarkson clan, the organized, welcoming churchwarden, and he knew instinctively that Cyn would cope with this tragedy with the same practical good sense and compassion with which she approached everything. He was floundering in his own grief and shock. Cyn would get beyond that. She would know what Margaret needed right now.
And so it was that, an hour later, Neil wearily made his way back up Vicarage Gardens, knowing he simply couldn’t face the emptiness of his own house. His knock on Harry’s door was answered by Claire. She had no idea what had happened, what he had gone through, but she simply opened her arms to draw him in as he collapsed against her.
* * *
Sarah and her husband arrived later that night, and the next morning when Martin had to leave again for work, Sarah stayed on with her mother until Frank’s funeral a fortnight later.
Neil called in at the vicarage every day, hoping to see a sign that Margaret was regaining some of her usual character and temperament, but she remained hollow-eyed and pale, saying little, eating nothing, and wide-eyed and sleepless both night and day.
He’d thought she would want to play a full part in planning Frank’s funeral, but her withdrawal from reality made him wonder i
f she even knew it was going on. When Sarah announced that she’d made arrangements for the couple’s previous parish priest, Richard Cole, to come out of retirement to take Frank’s funeral service, Neil was awash with relief. Normally the job would fall to him, and he feared it would be impossible for him to lead this service without breaking down himself, especially as the service would be deeply emotional for everyone associated with St Stephen’s community. Whoever led the service had to be capable of a professional detachment that would put the needs of others first when it came to channelling the grief of so many who loved Frank. Neil knew he was not that man. His own sense of loss was too overwhelming for him to feel detached about anything.
In fact, he felt that any skill he’d acquired over his theological training and two years as a curate was completely inadequate in the face of this shocking tragedy. He had often reassured grief-stricken relatives while planning funerals at St Stephen’s, and he knew he’d learned most about that from Margaret herself. She had always seemed to know exactly what to say and how to respond when she was faced with other people’s confusion and sadness. Shouldn’t he be the one to offer the same sort of Christian support and reassurance to Margaret herself in her time of need?
One afternoon several days after Frank’s death, he sat down beside her with his Bible on his lap. Margaret stared out of the window, silent and withdrawn as usual.
“Margaret,” he said quietly, “shall we pray together?”
She didn’t move except to close her eyes as he carried on.
“We could start by reading the Bible – some of the passages from the gospel that reassure us of God’s eternal care and love for us, especially at times of great sadness like this.”
At first he thought she wasn’t going to respond, but then he found himself almost holding his breath as she slowly, very slowly, turned her head to look properly at him.
“There is no God,” she said. “If there was, Frank would still be with me.”
And with that, she closed her eyes again to shut out both Neil and the world in which she no longer had any interest.
