Going to church needn’t be such a problem either. Ophelia had often thought that attending church must be a nice comforting thing to do, provided you could persuade yourself that there was something in it. When she was fourteen, she had spent two terms at a Catholic boarding school (her parents had heard that it did wonderful things with under-motivated girls), where she had been much taken with the gliding tranquillity of the nuns, and had even toyed with the idea of becoming one herself. She had imagined herself becoming sickly and spiritual, like St Thérèse of Lisieux, dying young and going on to perform posthumous miracles of healing and enlightenment for the benefit of those left behind. Her parents would at last realise how special she had been, and would weep with remorse at her graveside, and she wouldn’t have to pass any more exams. Unfortunately, all these plans were put paid to when she and one of her classmates were summarily expelled for smoking behind the chapel after Sunday Mass.
Lastly, there was her grandmother. Andrew was really Annie’s discovery, not hers, and Ophelia was reluctant to trespass on this new and evidently highly valued territory. But perhaps they could share him? After all, their interests in him were very different, and could be compatible, and Ophelia and Annie were becoming quite close. Annie might even approve.
But there was still the married thing, and there was little Ophelia could do about that. There were no children, which made it slightly less problematic, but she had never thought of herself as the kind of person who would willingly break up another person’s marriage, even if that marriage were less than satisfactory. And a priestly marriage must, of its essence, be more sacred and thus its downfall more damaging than a secular one.
Ophelia sighed. Maybe it’s just a stupid crush, she thought. I haven’t enough to think about at the moment, with no job and no real home of my own. I’m just treading water, keeping my widowed grandmother company, spending my days doing footling jobs about the house and getting excited about an old car I can’t afford to keep. From downstairs, she could hear the distant sound of her grandmother’s voice. Andrew had come round for another of their mysterious chats, and after making tea for them both, Ophelia had made herself scarce. She looked at her watch. Andrew had been here for over an hour. Should she offer more tea, or leave them to it? Ophelia was very curious as to the content of these conversations, but respected her grandmother’s privacy. It was true that Annie had started to take her into her confidence over the past few days, and Ophelia had learnt quite a lot of things she hadn’t known before, but the secrets which had been hinted at had so far remained secrets.
Ophelia closed her diary and placed it on the bedside table. Lying back on the bed, she picked up a book, and leafing through the well-thumbed pages, began to read. It was a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, its brown paper cover ripped and smudged with ink, its margins marked in pencil where the schoolgirl Ophelia had made her notes. On the label inside was her name: “Ophelia Bentley, form Vb”.
Ophelia Bentley. Ophelia Rose Bentley, to be more precise. Her initials — O.R.B. — had given rise to a series of nicknames: The Orb, of course, (not least because she had a tendency towards what her mother unkindly referred to as puppy fat) but then, following on in logical sequence, The Ball, Balloon, Balloony and finally, triumphantly, Loony. Loony Bentley. Poor Ophelia had been known as Loony for the last three years of her school career, only shedding the hated label on the day she finally stuffed her school skirt and blazer into the dustbin.
But she had hung on to Pride and Prejudice (after all, surely that wretched school owed her something), a novel of which she never tired. She dreamed of having the sweet nature and the looks of Jane and the sharpness and wit of Elizabeth, comforted herself that these girls had had to put up with a mother even worse than her own, and dreamed of Mr Darcy in the same way that her friends had dreamed about popstars. When she first made their acquaintance the Bennet sisters had almost certainly been older than she was, but now she had probably overtaken Elizabeth, if not Jane, and was certainly older than Lydia (who had even managed to find herself a husband, albeit a scoundrel). These heroines would remain forever young and beautiful and full of hope, and would certainly never fall into the trap of loving a married man. To Ophelia, the heroines of Jane Austen inhabited the golden age of romance, when men swooned at the sight of a well-turned ankle, no girl was ever expected to show her legs, and no one tried to put their hand (or, come to that, anything else) inside your knickers.
A door opened, and she could hear voices in the hallway. If she was to have another glimpse of Andrew, Ophelia would have to get a move on. Forgetting that she had resolved to try and avoid seeing him any more than was necessary (and this was hardly necessary), she threw aside her book and ran down the stairs.
“Ah, Ophelia,” Andrew said. “Thanks again for the tea.”
“Would you like some more?”
“No, bless you. I have to be getting back. Janet’s expecting me. We eat early on a Monday because of her women’s group.”
So her name was Janet — not a name Ophelia liked much (but then she wouldn’t, would she?) — and she was the kind of woman who went to meetings. An ideal wife for someone like Andrew then, she thought sadly, wondering what the sex was like.
“But perhaps I’ll see you again, if you’re staying on?” He was looking at her now, with that half-smile she found so irresistible.
Ophelia swallowed. “Yes. Yes, of course. Of course you’ll see me again. In fact I was thinking of coming to your church,” she added, surprising herself, because up until a few minutes ago she had been thinking of no such thing.
“You never said you wanted to go to church,” Annie said.
“Didn’t I? Well, now that I’ve found out that I was christened there, it seems a good time and place to give it a go.” Ophelia blushed, realising that this was hardly a mature approach to church attendance. “Perhaps you’d like to come with me?”
“Well ...” Annie didn’t look too sure. “It’s been a long time.”
“All the more reason to start again now.” Ophelia turned to Andrew. “What time are the services?”
“Nine-thirty Communion at St John’s, eight-thirty once a month at your little church. Matins every third Sunday. Oh, and Evensong, of course.”
“We’ll be there,” said Ophelia, showing him out. “It’s the least we can do,” she added, as she walked with him to his car.
“The least you can do?”
“After all your help. Looking after Gran, and changing the tyre and everything. We owe you one.”
“You owe God one, more like.”
“Do you believe in God?” Ophelia asked.
“What an extraordinary question! Of course I do. You could say that my job depends on it.” Andrew laughed, then turned to unlock the door of his car. Ophelia noted that the car itself was in need of a good clean, and wondered whether she might offer to do it for him.
“I suppose so. But what on earth would you do if you stopped believing? I guess you’d have to pretend. Like the royal family.”
“Do you think they pretend?” Andrew lowered himself into the driving seat and wound down the window.
“I’m sure some of them must do. After all, they can’t all believe, can they? They’re more — born to it, like unveiling things and watching tribal dances and making speeches. It’s part of what they do, poor things,” said Ophelia, thinking of the orderly processions of hatted and gloved royals photographed attending morning service at Sandringham.
“You may be right.”
“I’d hate to be one of them, anyway,” Ophelia said, prolonging the conversation as long as she could.
“I thought all girls dreamed of being princesses.” Andrew smiled, starting up the engine.
“Not this one. I had enough trouble living up to being my parents’ daughter. Royalty must be sheer hell.”
“I really have to go now.”
“Yes.”
There was a moment’s silence. Andrew started doing up hi
s seatbelt, then seemed to hesitate. “I wonder — I mean would you —”
“Yes?” Ophelia felt the blood rush to her face.
“Nothing.” Andrew sighed, and his shoulders seemed to sag. “It doesn’t matter. It was just a silly idea.” He looked at his watch. “Goodness. I really must be off. I’ll be in trouble if I don’t get a move on.”
“Yes.”
“Goodbye, then.”
“Goodbye.”
But not goodbye. Not really, Ophelia thought gleefully, as she made her way back into the house. He had been about to ask her — what? If he could see her on her own? Take her out? Something, anyway. There had been another of those moments between them; another wordless communication of mutual attraction and, on Ophelia’s part at least, of longing. And while Andrew had obviously thought better of whatever it was he’d been about to say, there would be other opportunities, of that she was sure.
“You took your time,” Annie said, as Ophelia closed the front door behind her.
“We were just talking.”
“What about?”
“Oh ... God, the royal family. That sort of thing.”
“Hmmm.” Annie turned back to the vegetables she was preparing.
“What do you mean, hmmm?”
“Just hmmm,” said Annie, plopping a potato into a saucepan of water. “I’m not as daft as I look, you know. You be careful, my girl, that’s all. You just be careful.”
“Careful?” Ophelia patted her grandmother on the back. She could almost feel the disapproval filtering through the robust cotton of the flowered pinafore. “I can’t think what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you can.” A more aggressive plop this time, splashing the draining board and Annie’s own sleeve. “You’re not stupid either, Ophelia. I rather think you take after me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Annie’s Story
The infant Billy screamed and screamed. It seemed to Annie that he barely paused for breath between one fit of enraged crying and another. Red-faced and rigid, his tiny fists clenched in fury, he yelled as though all the hounds of hell were after him, and nothing Annie did seemed to make any difference.
Ernest, meanwhile, did little to improve matters. His manner towards Annie had softened since Billy’s birth, and he was obviously proud to have fathered a son, but he also made it clear that the baby was her responsibility.
“Can’t you quieten that child?” he would ask, from behind his newspaper. “You must be doing something wrong. I’m sure babies aren’t meant to cry like that.”
Annie, who had never in her life had any sort of contact with babies, had no idea what they were meant to do, but she too felt that it couldn’t be normal for any human being to display so much misery at so young an age, for nothing in his life seemed to give Billy any pleasure or her any respite. He cried when she dressed or changed him; he cried when she bathed him, his soapy wriggling body nearly slipping from her inexperienced hands; he cried when she took him out in his pram. He even managed to cry when she was feeding him.
Annie often wondered whether she had been wrong to opt for bottle-feeding, but Ernest had told her that the whole idea of breastfeeding was distasteful to him, and at the time she hadn’t felt that it was a matter worth arguing about. But now she thought that perhaps Billy might have derived some small comfort from the warmth and softness of her breasts rather than the hard glass bottles with their rubber teats which seemed to bear so little resemblance to her own nipples.
The nights were particularly difficult, for Ernest expected to get his full ration of sleep; as he explained to Annie, he had a job to go to. She only had to look after the house and the baby; he had a living to earn. So not only did Annie have to forego much-needed rest, but she had the added problem of trying to keep Billy quiet.
One night, when Annie was almost at her wits’ end, Ernest stormed out of the bedroom, and took the baby from her.
“For goodness’ sake, Annie! Can’t you see you’re not doing him any good? Let me have him.”
Annie gaped. Ernest had only held Billy a couple of times since she had returned home with him, and she had assumed that that was the way it was going to be. And now here he was, walking up and down the room with the baby over his shoulder. And Billy had stopped crying.
“There. You see? You just weren’t doing it right,” Ernest said, doing another circuit of the small living-room. “He’s fine now.”
“But that’s just what I have been doing!” Annie said. “I must have walked miles with him. He’s probably worn himself out.”
“He just needs a bit of love, that’s all,” Ernest said, patting Billy’s back as though he’d been soothing small babies all his life. “Just a bit of love.”
And maybe he had a point. Annie hadn’t really thought much about her feelings for the baby, so occupied had she been with the job of looking after him, but Ernest was right. If she was honest with herself, she didn’t love Billy. She found herself unable to hug him to her in the way she had seen other mothers hug their babies; her kisses were dutiful rather than affectionate. She cared about him, and she certainly wished him no harm, but such feelings as she had couldn’t really be described as love.
“Are you — are you glad we had him? Are you pleased with Billy?” she asked now. It was a question she had often wanted to ask, but hadn’t liked to for fear of what Ernest’s answer might be.
Ernest looked down at Billy, who was now fast asleep in his arms.
“He’s my son,” he said, his face softening as he touched the baby’s cheek. “Of course I’m pleased with him. He’s a bit noisy, but he’ll be all right, will our Billy.”
Annie was touched, and opened her mouth to say something; to thank Ernest perhaps for his acceptance of this child he had never wanted, or simply to show her appreciation for his help. But she decided against it. Maybe it would be unwise to make an issue of what was, after all, a relatively unimportant exchange. It was enough that Ernest was happy with Billy; perhaps even happy that they were now a proper family. Once again, she wondered whether Billy just might be the making of this ill-fated marriage, as well as its cause.
That night proved a turning point in Ernest’s relationship with Billy. It was as though they had each found in the other something they had been searching for, and while Billy began at last to settle down and find a degree of contentment, Ernest too seemed more cheerful.
Annie didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, she was grateful and relieved to have Ernest’s help, but she soon began to feel excluded.
“Where’s our Billy, then?” Ernest would say when he arrived home from work, and he would pick the child up and hug him and throw him in the air. Billy would laugh and crow, and pat Ernest’s face with his fat little hands. He hardly ever smiled for Annie.
“So what’s he been doing today? What’s new?” Ernest wanted to know, and he would nod and smile over each little development, almost as though Billy’s small achievements were his own.
“But I’ve not had such a good day,” Annie ventured once, hoping that perhaps Ernest might show a little interest in Billy’s mother as well as Billy himself.
“So, your mother’s complaining again, is she? What’s she got to complain about, with you to play with all day, eh?” Ernest tickled Billy under the chin, and the baby laughed delightedly.
“I’m not complaining,” Annie said, the tears springing to her eyes. “It’s just that I’ve hardly spoken to a soul all week, and the only person you seem interested in nowadays is Billy.”
“So you’re jealous! Is that it? You’re actually jealous of your own baby! He’s just a helpless mite. You should be ashamed of yourself, Annie!”
Annie forbore to say that the helpless mite had spent much of the day grizzling, had spat out all the food she had painstakingly prepared for him and had then contrived to vomit all down his clean smock. Ernest wouldn’t understand that looking after a small baby on her own, day in day out, queuing for food with the restless B
illy squawking for attention, trying to clean the flat while he had his nap when she would much have preferred ten minutes to put her feet up, added up to a life which was humdrum, exhausting, and at times deeply boring.
But whatever Ernest might say, Annie was determined that he would never be able to find fault with her as a mother. She might not be the most doting of parents — after all, she couldn’t help how she felt, could she? — but Billy would want for nothing if she could help it. She kept him scrupulously clean, fed him the best food she could afford (and find) and made sure he had a daily outing in his pram, whatever the weather.
And Billy thrived. He might not have been the happiest of infants, but he put on weight and reached all his milestones in record time. Annie’s mother, who had at last managed to find the time to make the long train journey up to visit them, was impressed.
“Well, you’re certainly doing a good job, our Annie,” she said, as she held her new grandson on her lap. “He looks very well.” Billy cooed obligingly and played with the buttons on her blouse. “And how are you and Ernest? How’s married life? You’re certainly looking very well on it.”
“Am I?”
“Of course you are. And so you should. A nice little flat all of your own, and this lovely baby. You’re a very lucky girl, our Annie. When I had you, I was helping your father out on the farm as well as everything else. You’re quite the lady of leisure.”
Annie bit her lip. She could see that there was no point in telling her mother of the loneliness and isolation she felt, of her longing for her family and her hopes and fears for her marriage. Her mother would only hear what she wanted to hear, and that was that she and Ernest and Billy were well and happy. The hasty marriage and the events leading up to it had, it seemed, been conveniently forgotten.
Meanwhile, Annie’s mother was full of news, and Annie was eager to hear it. Tom was doing well with his artificial leg, and Jack was expected home on leave. Derek had mysteriously disappeared, but was not much missed (“I never trusted that one”) and Mavis was engaged.
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