Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  “Engaged! I never knew! Who to?” Annie asked.

  Annie’s mother mentioned the name of a local pig farmer, and Annie was much entertained. Mavis with her lofty ideas and her thorough dislike of pigs! How would she manage? Hers must be a love match indeed.

  Annie missed her mother after she had gone. Starved of company, she felt lonelier than ever, and while Ernest did seem to be making some effort, there was no real companionship between them.

  Once, only once, did he refer again to the circumstances surrounding her pregnancy and the timing of their marriage.

  “No one is to know about it. No one. Do you hear me? I come from a respectable family, and I’ve my reputation to think of. As far as anyone else is concerned, Billy arrived early. If my mother ever came to hear about it, it would kill her.”

  Annie couldn’t help smiling. Even she knew that eight-and-a-half pounds was on the heavy side for a seriously premature infant. Besides, wasn’t Ernest being a little over-dramatic? After all, they were married, weren’t they? Did it really matter that Billy had been conceived before rather than after the event? As for what people would think, they had few friends, and most of those lived many miles away, and Ernest’s mother still lived up in Yorkshire. Annie had never so much as met her. But she readily agreed to comply with Ernest’s wishes. She certainly wasn’t going to do anything to endanger the fragile peace which had been established between them.

  How could she have guessed that one day she would come to look back on the first six months of Billy’s life as a period of relative happiness?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Andrew

  “I have fallen for someone. I have fallen for a girl half my age, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Andrew’s words broke the still atmosphere of the small study, seeming to interrupt the gentle ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the sound of birdsong from the garden outside. How many times had he sat in this room with this kindly, spiritual man, discussing his struggles to enliven the sleepy parish of mainly elderly churchgoers who constituted his flock, and his own rather uncertain spiritual journey. Up until now, he had looked forward to these sessions, and usually came away feeling invigorated and at peace. There was no one else who would listen to him the way Father Matthew did; no one who seemed to understand quite as well or whose wisdom he so respected.

  But today, as he sat looking down at his hands, unable to meet Father Matthew’s eyes, he was filled with apprehension and, for the first time, a deep feeling of shame. He had let his mentor down, of that there was no doubt, and he dreaded losing the respect of someone who had indeed come to be a kind of father to him.

  “You don’t know what to do,” Father Matthew repeated.

  Andrew shook his head.

  “Who is this girl?”

  Andrew told him about Ophelia; of how he’d met her, of his feelings for her, and how his thoughts of her were beginning to dominate his life.

  “I can’t seem to escape her,” he said now. “I can’t read, I can’t pray, I can’t sleep. Everything I do, everywhere I go, it’s all Ophelia. Which doesn’t really make sense, because we’ve never been anywhere or done anything together.”

  “So, there’s no harm done.” There was humour in Father Matthew’s voice although his tone was serious.

  “Well, no, I suppose not.”

  “But?”

  “But.” Andrew sighed, and looked up. His companion’s gaze was level and untroubled. There was none of the surprise and disappointment he had expected, and he took courage. “But I can’t — I can’t keep away from her. I simply can’t.”

  “Can’t you?”

  “Well, of course I can, but — and I know this sounds ridiculous — she offers hope. My life’s a mess at the moment, and she’s become the light at the end of the tunnel. I may get to the end of the tunnel and find there’s nothing there — no light, no hope even — but I have this compulsion — this longing — to go after it. In case.”

  “And this will make your life less of a mess, will it?”

  “Yes. No. No, of course it won’t. Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Does Janet know about this?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “How do you think she would feel?”

  “I don’t know.” And this was true. Andrew had no idea how Janet might feel if she knew what was happening to him. There would be indignation, he was sure, for Janet’s occupation of the moral high ground was second to none; hurt, perhaps; sadness, possibly. But would she mind? Would she really care if Andrew were to find someone else? It might even be a merciful release for her as much as for him. After all, she would emerge blameless, and he would be shown to be the weak-minded fool he felt she had always thought him to be.

  “Is this girl — is Ophelia — beautiful?” The question was unexpected, and Andrew smiled.

  “No. Oh, no. Attractive, yes. In her own way. She has a freshness, a naturalness. But not really beautiful. Not in the conventional sense, anyway. Of course, I find her attractive, but it’s so much more than that. It’s almost as though we match, if that makes any sense.”

  “Pity.”

  “Why a pity?”

  “It’s so much easier to disentangle oneself from an attraction which is purely, or mainly, physical.”

  Andrew wondered that an unmarried man — a celibate who had, he knew, chosen to live his life alone so that he could better serve his God and his church — should show such understanding. Prior to his retirement, Father Matthew had for many years presided over an Anglo-Catholic parish, hence his preferred title, but there had been no need for him to choose the single life. He could have married, had he so wished.

  “You’re wondering what I know about it, aren’t you?” Father Matthew looked amused.

  Andrew blushed.

  “Well, no. Or rather, if I am, I have no right to. And I certainly have no right to make assumptions.”

  “You can make assumptions. Of course you can. You can assume that I’ve spent a blamelessly pure life, untouched by human passion. And, of course, you’d be wrong. I have loved, and I have lost, and like you, I have had to make painful decisions. Because whatever decision you make, there will be pain. For you, and for others. There always is.” He took a sip of the cooling cup of coffee at his side. “Does she know? Does Ophelia know how you feel? And does she feel the same?”

  “I don’t know. We’ve never spoken about it. We’ve hardly ever been alone together. But there’s something very strong between us; I know there is. Something I’ve certainly never felt before. In many ways I wish she were not so young. It’s such a cliché, an older man falling for a young girl. But I think I would feel like this about Ophelia whatever age she might be. It’s got nothing to do with age. It’s something so much — so much more.”

  “If nothing’s been done or said, no one need ever know.”

  “No.”

  “But your mind is made up.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  “Not really. No, of course not. I wouldn’t have come to you if I’d already decided what to do.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” Father Matthew pushed his coffee cup away. “I think you might. Maybe you just needed someone to talk to. Someone to tell. Sometimes when one has a shocking secret — and this has the potential to shock a great many people — it helps to, as it were, get it out in the open. I believe that’s why you’ve come here today. I’ve known you some time, Andrew. I like to think we know each other quite well. Whatever you may say, I don’t believe that any words of mine will make you change your mind. I think you’ve already decided what you’re going to do.”

  “Am I that obstinate?”

  “Not obstinate. No. But you’ve been very unhappy for a long time, and you think you may have found the answer. You’ve made this assumption on what sounds to me to be pretty fragile evidence, but there it is.”

  There followed a lengthy silence in which Andrew pondered Father M
atthew’s words. Had he really made his mind up? It hadn’t occurred to him before he came here today that this was the case; he’d come to talk, certainly, but also for guidance, for help, for advice. Or so he had thought. But now he had to admit that Father Matthew was right. After all, what could he say to Andrew that he hadn’t already said to himself a hundred times over? They were both priests. They both knew right from wrong, and from a moral standpoint, this was a perfectly clear-cut case. A married priest, a young girl, the potential damage to his calling, his marriage, his reputation and perhaps to Ophelia herself didn’t need to be spelt out. And yet nothing in the world seemed more important than that he should see her again.

  “I can’t stop seeing her grandmother,” he said now. “She really does need me. And with Ophelia now living with her, I can’t avoid her. It would look very suspicious if I were to check that she was out of the house every time I visited.”

  But even as he spoke, he realised how feeble his words sounded. Whatever he might say, it was quite clear where his duty lay. Since any special relationship between himself and Ophelia was as yet unacknowledged, there was no need to go out of his way to avoid her. All he had to do was ensure that the two of them spent as little time as possible in each other’s company. It would be perfectly possible to do this. He knew it was what he ought to do. Otherwise he was risking everything he had for a possibility — and that was all it was — of a happiness he didn’t deserve and which would hurt people who didn’t deserve to be hurt.

  Father Matthew looked at him quizzically, but made no comment. “I shall be here,” he said. “If you need me. And now, would you like to pray?”

  “Please.”

  But while Father Matthew prayed — the familiar words of the Lord’s Prayer, followed by prayers for Andrew: for guidance, for help, for strength and the courage to make the right decision — Andrew barely heard the words. The sun filtering through the leaves of some shrub outside the window threw bright coins of sunlight onto the patterned carpet; in the garden, a blackbird was singing; the clock ticked steadily on: Ophelia, Ophelia, Ophelia.

  Father Matthew was right. Andrew had already made his decision.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Annie

  Annie always said she could tell when it was Billy on the phone. Ophelia told her that this was probably because hardly anyone else ever phoned her, but Annie privately thought that the sound the telephone made was that bit more demanding when Billy was on the other end of the line.

  “Mother.” Billy always came straight to the point. “Where’s Ophelia?”

  “Well, she’s here, of course.”

  “No, I mean when is she coming home? She’s been with you for nearly two weeks and her mother —”

  “Needs the car,” Annie finished for him helpfully, thinking that it was rather sad that Sheila appeared to think more of her car than she did of her daughter. For no one seemed to be missing Ophelia.

  “Yes. It’s very thoughtless of Ophelia to take off like that in Sheila’s car. Very inconvenient all round.”

  “She didn’t take off like anything. She came to stay with me,” Annie said. “You told her to,” she added.

  “Well, it’s high time she came back and found herself a job,” Billy said.

  “Oh, it’s all right. She’s going to stay with me and find a job here. And I’m giving her Dad’s old car, so Sheila can have hers back. It’s all arranged.”

  “She’s what?”

  “She’s staying with me and getting a job here and —”

  “Yes, yes. I heard you.”

  “Then why ask me to say it all over again?”

  “Mother, please allow me to get to the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  “The point,” Billy said, “is that Ophelia hasn’t bothered to let us know any of this. That it’s quite out of the question her staying with you. It would be utterly impractical. As for the car, Ophelia can’t possibly afford to run a car of her own. It’s absurd, when she hasn’t even got a job.”

  “Who does the car belong to?” Annie asked.

  “Well, I suppose it belongs to you now. Yes, of course it does. Dad left everything to you.”

  “Well then. I can give it to whoever I like, can’t I? I’ll pay for the petrol and Ophelia can drive it.”

  “Ah, but it’s not just the petrol, is it? I don’t suppose either of you has thought about the insurance and the tax and —”

  “Yes we have,” Annie said. “We’ve thought of everything, and Andrew’s been very helpful, and —”

  “Who’s Andrew?” Billy interrupted.

  “I keep telling you. He’s the nice vicar you sent round.”

  “Oh, him.”

  “Yes. And we can use it for shopping and the hairdresser, and Ophelia will have it for when she gets a job. And we’re going to redecorate her room. I suggested some nice wallpaper, but Ophelia doesn’t want wallpaper. She says it’s too difficult to —”

  “Mother, I haven’t the time to discuss all these cosy little domestic arrangements you and Ophelia seem to have made! It simply won’t work, the two of you living together like that. Let me speak to her.”

  Annie covered the mouthpiece and turned to Ophelia. “He wants to speak to you,” she said.

  “I’m out,” Ophelia mouthed. “I’ll ring him back later.”

  “She’s out. I’ll get her to phone you later.”

  “Are you sure she’s out?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “She’s — well, I think she’s —”

  “Looking for a job,” Ophelia whispered.

  “That’s right. She’s looking for a job.”

  “What sort of job?” Billy wanted to know.

  “Oh, I’m not sure.” Annie wished Ophelia wouldn’t leave her to answer all these questions. She wasn’t able to think as quickly these days as she used to. “She’s down the job centre,” she said, with sudden inspiration. “Yes. They’ll give her the right sort of advice there. They’ll soon sort her out.”

  “Well, just you make sure she rings me the minute she gets back,” Billy said. “I’ll be in my office until four, but then I’ll be in a meeting.”

  “Well done, Gran,” said Ophelia admiringly, when Annie had put down the receiver. “You’re getting quite good at this, aren’t you?”

  “That’s as maybe, but you’re going to have to speak to him yourself next time,” Annie said. “You can’t keep hiding from him like this.”

  “No. But it gives me time to concoct a good story.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell him the truth?” Annie asked.

  “Up to a point. But it’s always easier to tell Dad what he wants to hear. It saves a lot of hassle.”

  Why had Billy turned out so — difficult? Annie wondered, as she sliced carrots for their evening meal while Ophelia scanned the local paper for job vacancies. She hadn’t noticed it so much when Ernest was alive, but that could be because Ernest was even more awkward than Billy. But now it seemed that Billy had taken upon himself the mantle of the patriarch, and was making it his business to organise everyone else’s lives.

  “It’s very tiresome,” she said aloud, putting the carrots in a saucepan.

  “What is?” Ophelia asked.

  “Your father. He’s getting so bossy.”

  Ophelia laughed. “Dad’s always been bossy. It’s just that you probably haven’t noticed before.” She turned back to the paper. “They need sheet metal workers and tyre-fitters. D’you think they’d have me?”

  “Would you want them to?”

  “Probably not. What about a bus driver? I’ve always fancied driving a bus. Full training given. Imagine what Dad would say to that!”

  “You’re probably too young,” Annie said. “I’ve never seen a very young bus driver.”

  Ophelia had to admit that she hadn’t either.

  “Teaching assistant, evening cleaner (that always sounds so odd, doe
sn’t it?), pig person.” Ophelia pealed with laughter. “A pig person! What do you suppose that means?”

  “Anyone can tell you weren’t brought up in the country,” Annie said. “They’re not allowed to say pig man like they used to because of the sex discrimination thingy, so it’s pig person. Looking after pigs. That’s what it means. I used to like pigs,” she added, “but I don’t think you’d be much good at it. Isn’t there anything else?”

  “Small boutique requires sales assistant,” Ophelia read. “That sounds quite fun, and I’d probably get a discount. You might, too, being family.”

  Annie tried to imagine herself wearing the kind of clothes she had seen in small boutiques, but failed.

  “Don’t worry, Gran. They probably sell cardigans and pinnies as well as your haute couture. Designer cardigans and pinnies, of course. You know, I think I might go for that. I’ve always fancied serving in a shop.”

  “It seems to me there’s a lot of things you’ve always fancied,” remarked Annie. “How come you never did any of them?”

  Ophelia ignored the question. “I can tell Dad I’m working for a fashion house, which will be true in a way. Fashion house, house of fashion. Same sort of thing.”

  “How do you know they’ll have you?” Annie asked.

  “You’re right. They’ll probably say I’m over-qualified.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. Of course I’m not. Joke,” explained Ophelia. “I’m not really qualified for anything,” she added wistfully.

  “Neither am I,” said Annie. “Never did me any harm.”

  But, of course, it had, she thought now. If there hadn’t been a war, if she’d been able to stay on at school, if she’d had qualifications ... So many ifs. With the right job, and then the right husband, and, although she hardly dared even to think it, for it seemed so disloyal to Billy, the right children, life might have turned out so very differently.

  “You must think I’ve wasted my opportunities,” Ophelia said, for Annie had told her something of her girlhood and the war. “You’d have made a lot more of yourself than I have if you’d had all that money spent on you.”