Felburgh

by Ivan B

  “The registrar on duty told me that they would have to undertake a full assessment of Joanne and told me to come back the following day. He scared the life out of me as he said that I wasn’t to worry and they wouldn’t let her commit suicide. Apparently there were numerous cuts to her arms, wrists and thighs. She had also badly broken her nose - the registrar thought most likely by running into a wall, but I thought it was the van windscreen - and most of the fingers and bones in her right hand. She let the nurses attend to her hand, but went hysterical when they tried to touch her face. The registrar also asked me what nationality she was as they had not managed to get single intelligible answer out of her. Later, as I drove home, I realized that I felt nothing. I’d just seen a young girl who would have been the spitting image of my daughter, and was my niece, committed to a mental institution, and in a really desperate state, and I felt nothing. It was like I was watching a film; an observer looking in, not a participant.”

  Margaret stopped talking and gathered up the plates.

  “I’ll go and get the puddings; Sid can tell you what happened” and she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Sid looked a bit embarrassed.

  “When Rosie died I just couldn’t accept it”, he said. “I kept expecting her to walk through the door. I couldn’t shut off like Margaret and if it wasn’t for Father Michael I think I would have gone under. We used to play cricket together in the village team and even though I’m not a Catholic he was the person I turned to for support. We cried together, got drunk together and talked for hours on end. Finally I came to terms with Rosie’s death; the grief doesn’t go away, but you learn to live with it and not let it dominated your life. At least I had memories of the seven years we spent together.” He stopped for a moment and swallowed hard. “I had just finished a stint at the Citizen’s Advice Bureau giving free legal aid when Margaret rang from the farm. I’d been there the month before trying to make sense of Bert’s papers, I was the executor of his estate, he hadn’t left any will. When I arrived this time it was like a battle zone. There used to be a full dinner set for eight people on the Welsh dresser in the kitchen. Eight large plates, eight small plates, eight soup bowls and so on. There were only two plates left, the rest were on the floor of the lounge in pieces, or scattered on the front path, I guess where they smashed on the van. Margaret wasn’t exaggerating when she says the kitchen was a tip. I think Jo had been living in it and nowhere else for three weeks. There were motions all over the floor beside the ‘fridge, vomit all over the waste bin and blood trodden in everywhere. There was not a scrap of food anywhere, the larder was empty, the ‘fridge was empty and the only thing in the deep freeze was her dog. I found out later that it was twelve years old and had died the day of Bert’s funeral, she didn’t know what to do with the body and had popped it in the freezer and there it stayed. When Margaret arrived back we did what we could, but it took us three days to get the farmhouse looking respectable. That’s three days I never ever want to repeat. Then it was Sunday and we went to church.”

  Just then Margaret re-appeared with a giant meringue and an apple pie.

  “I’ve got to the Sunday love,” he said.

  Margaret sat down and they went through the dishing out the pudding process; as Margaret was pouring custard on her pie she started talking again.

  “We went to church that morning not really knowing what else to do; we couldn’t visit Joanne until the afternoon and we’d finished at the farm for the time being. It was a communion service and as I knelt at the altar rail I mentally said to God ‘This won’t do, I’ve closed down and cannot love any more, please do something’. I don’t know what I expected, but what I got was an overwhelming feeling of love, like being held in your Mother’s bosom when you are young multiplied a thousand times. I couldn’t move,- I was totally rooted to the spot. I knelt at the end of the communion rail throughout the whole of communion and most of the way through the final hymn. Then I had the inexorable impression that God said to me ‘That is how I love you, now go and do likewise’. From then on my emotions returned and I found that I could love Joanne as if she were my own daughter.”

  Sid interrupted.

  “You know the story of Moses’ face glowing after he’d met God, that’s what she looked like when she finally came back to her seat. I knew just by looking that something had happened to her.”

  Margaret smiled sheepishly.

  “From then on it is as if Joanne has become our daughter, not the daughter we lost, she will forever be Rosie; no, another daughter. At first it was very difficult with Joanne in the hospital; it was about three months before I had even a small conversation with her in English. During those three months I found that the best thing I could do was to cuddle her. She would arrive in the visiting room, I was not allowed in the secure ward, speaking her multi-lingual gibberish and more often than not, crying. I just held her, and after a few minutes she would calm down and sleep. The nurses said it was the only sleep she got in those first few months. After about four months it was as if a switch was being thrown on and off: she would spend days being ‘normal’ and then days being abnormal. Eventually the normal periods became longer and the abnormal periods shorter. The weirdest thing was the more normal her personality became the more peculiar her make-up got; it was like some sort of bizarre trade off. The psychiatrist told us not to worry and that people learned to cope in different ways and somehow this was part of her coping mechanism, although he had never seen it before. After a year she had her first clear month. Later we all carefully worked towards her leaving the hospital. We would have had her here, but as Sid looks a lot like Bert, the psychiatrist thought it unwise. Anna-Marie was marvelous; she had sat with Joanne three afternoons a week, even during the bad periods. She took Joanne back to her flat without a moment’s hesitation. It was the best thing for Joanne, to be living with someone her own age and feeling independent. She never looked back and progress from then on was rapid. She got most of her old confidence back, found a new job, one that I didn’t like, mark you, and rebuilt her life.”

  Sid broke in again.

  “Mind you, it was a bit of a shock when she said she was going to be Danielle’s guardian.”

  “Aand even more of a shock,” laughed Margaret. “When she arrived with that blooming great ring in her nose, and she used to have such a lovely nose before the breakdown.”

  Sid spoke again.

  “So now we have a second daughter and a surrogate grand-daughter. When Rosie died the world was bleak, but now the world is full of life again.”

  “Coffee.” announced Margaret and disappeared back in the kitchen.

  “Margaret hasn’t quite told you the whole story” said Sid. “Once Jo was back on her feet Margaret started work as a volunteer with the local charity called Time Off. She looks after seriously disabled children in their own home so that their parents can have a rest. She regularly looks after three children and occasionally we have a child for the weekend. Last year we spent six weeks in the summer at a summer camp. It was exhausting, but somehow rewarding. I think I have caught some of Margaret’s overflowing love,” he chuckled. “Anyway I wouldn’t change our life for the world now. I think we’ve both learned that being willing to receive love is as important as being willing to give it.”

  Just then Margaret appeared and put the coffee on the table and spread the cups around. She busied herself pouring out the coffee and then sat down. She paused for a few seconds before reaching out and touching Peter’s hand.

  “You do realize what you are taking on don’t you? Joanne is not mentally unstable, but she can be…” She paused to find the right words. “Emotionally fragile. Some people have a bad accident like you had and their back forever gives them the occasional twinge. Sometimes Joanne has an occasional emotional twinge, at those times she needs support.”

  “Be fair Margaret,” said Sid butting in. “Joanne hasn’t been back in the hospital for nearly seven years now, even then it was only for a
few weeks, and she wasn’t hysterical; she booked herself in before she got to that stage.”

  Margaret shook her head.

  “I don’t mean that. Sometimes people say careless things, or Joanne worries about something and then all of a sudden there is…”

  Again she paused to find the words.

  “Then there is what you might call a wobbly,” said Peter.

  Margaret nodded.

  “That’s just it; she has a wobbly. The support that she receives then makes all the difference between the wobbly becoming something more serious or passing by.”

  Margaret gave Peter a serious look.

  “Joanne means the world to us, and neither of us wants to see her ill again. I’ve no doubt she loves you, but if you pulled out now she would survive. Go a little further down the line, when her emotional investment in you is higher, and recovery would be more difficult. What I’m trying to say is-.”

  Peter held Margaret’s hand.

  “I understand what you are trying to say. I love Jo and I will support her to the best of my ability. I will not leave her emotionally bereft and I will love and care for her as long as I live. It’s a two way thing you know and I have a feeling that together we will both be stronger.”

  But Margaret hadn’t finished.

  “One more thing Peter, as we are being honest with each other. When she came out of hospital the psychiatrist said there are two things that will help her more than anything else. First that she needs people around her who will love her and boost her self-esteem, and secondly a regular life. Transition is difficult for Joanne and the transition from single mum to vicar’s wife will not be easy for her. Please don’t push Joanne too far in changing her appearance; I don’t know how but it is coupled into her well being. I’ve approved of the changes she’s made so far, but…”

  Again Peter stopped her.

  “I’ve told her I’d still love her if she came to church covered in Zulu paint.”

  Margaret relaxed. Sid chuckled.

  “But beware if she wears dark-green lipstick.”

  “Bad sign?”

  “Very bad sign – it means that she’s on the warpath about something.”

  Margaret added.

  “And watch out for tea drinking. She always drinks coffee, but if she goes over to tea something is bugging her.”

  Peter smiled.

  “I’ve already spotted that one.”

  Peter got up to go and thanked Margaret and Sid. At the door Sid shook Peter’s hand.

  “I hope you’ll both be very happy. All things considered Joanne is a grand lass and I think you’ve chosen a good one there.”

  “So do I Sid, so do I,” he replied earnestly.

  That evening the church council resumed its suspended meeting. As it was a resumption and not a new meeting, Peter did not have to wade through all the usual preliminaries. But just as he was about to re-commence the discussion on the church money, the Major stood up.

  “Before we start I would like to offer my congratulations to Peter on his engagement,” he fixed Derek with a fearsome gaze. “I hope that he and Joanne are very happy and I’m sure I speak on behalf of all of us.”

  The council broke out into a fit of clapping. Peter thanked them and then quickly moved on to talk about Charmian taking the eight o’ clock services and the re-introduction, on a temporary basis, of evensong. This was more to cover his embarrassment than to speed things up. The council did not object and thought that it was worth trying an evensong service once a month. There seemed to be a feeling of nothing ventured, nothing gained. Peter then moved on to the item on the use of the church funds. There was a fair amount of discussion, but the subject matter seemed to have changed with no-one noticing. They were now discussing how to go about a church centre cum community hall with attendant housing rather than should they build a church centre. In the end they oscillated down to finding the correct architect who could put some flesh on their ideas. Peter was actually more pleased about the feeling within the council; the backbiting and recalcitrance had disappeared and they all appeared to be working towards the same objective. In the end, Henry agreed to lead a sub-committee to find an architect and then place before the church some concrete proposals.

  As the meeting ended Peter cornered the Major just before he was about to leave. He handed the Major the cheque for £80,000.

  “Please could you pass this on for me?”

  The Major was initially taken aback, then he said, “The St Cedd Benevolent Society? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It was just a short time fund that was formed to give away a large bequest to worthy causes.” Peter replied carefully.

  The Major was clearly moved; “This will make such a difference you know. We’re always grateful for small donations as they keep things running; but a donation like this can make a substantial change. Thank you. Is there anyone I can write to?”

  Peter shook his head.

  “No need. I’ll pass your thanks on. Use the money wisely.”

  The Major obviously had some kind of lump in his throat and just nodded.

  Saturday brought the coach trip to the Cathedral and as this was the first time many of the church members could give their congratulations to Peter and Jo they suffered a large number of hugs and handshakes. The ordination itself was the usual mix of celebration and ceremony, but everyone appeared to enjoy it. Charmian was overjoyed and delighted that so many people had come from St Nathaniel’s, especially considering that she had not been there very long. Peter’s only regret was that he could not sit with Jo during the service; as a priest he was expected to fulfill his part in the ceremony. In any case Charmian was his curate and he wanted to be one of the priests who laid hands on her during the ordination.

  Later that evening he was just about to start getting ready for bed when the phone rang. Peter looked at his watch; it was nearly midnight. He groaned inwardly, phone calls at this time of night usually meant bad news, or a crisis, and Peter was not feeling ready for either. He answered the phone, and to his surprise it was Danielle. She sounded frightened and apprehensive.

  “Peter, could you come over, it’s mum.”

  Peter fairly dashed to his Land Rover and drove like a maniac round to Jo’s flat. As he arrived outside Danielle opened the front door. Once inside Danielle pointed.

  “She’s in her bedroom, she can’t stop crying. She went in her bedroom just after we came home and has been crying in there ever since, I can hear her through the wall.”

  “What happened?”

  Danielle shrugged her shoulders.

  “I don’t know, but it could be to do with the old biddies.”

  “Old biddies?” said Peter

  “They were sitting in front of us in the Cathedral. Just before the service the one with the fruit salad hat said to the other one, in a voice loud enough for us to hear: ‘It’s all very well the vicar marrying her, but she will have to change; we can’t have the vicar’s wife looking like a badly retouched Picasso, can we?’ I know mum heard because she rolled her eyes at me and tried to make a joke of it. But I know my mum and it wasn’t a joke.”

  Peter walked to the door of Jo’s bedroom and knocked on the door. He got no response. He looked at Danielle, who made a door opening motion to him. Peter opened the door. Jo was sitting on the floor squeezed between her bed and the wall sobbing her heart out. She had obviously been crying for some time as her make-up had run in rivulets down her face. As Peter entered Jo looked up, but didn’t speak as she was still sobbing. Peter sat down on the floor beside her and put his arm around her. At first, she tried to move away, but the space was too small. Eventually she buried her head into Peter’s chest. Peter saw a movement in the doorway and looked up; Danielle was in the doorway and she also had tears running down her face. Peter held up his other arm and Danielle came and sat on the floor on his other side. The three of them stayed like that for some time. In due time Jo’s crying ceased and she sat up and blew her
nose on a fragment of paper tissue. Peter gave her his hankie and she blew it again. Danielle said, “Cup of tea mum?” and Jo nodded.

  Jo snuggled into Peter’s side again and he fondled her hair.

  “Danielle should never have called you; I don’t like you seeing me like this.”

  “Yes she should, and yes I should. We’re together. You don’t have to go through this sort of thing on your own.”

  Jo blew her nose again.

  Peter asked gently.

  “Was it the two old biddies as Danielle so delicately put it?”

  Jo nodded just as Danielle called ‘teas ready’ from the Lounge. Peter tried to get up, but he had no leverage points; his legs were tucked too far back and he was squashed too tightly against the bed to use his arms to push himself up. He said to Jo, that he was stuck.

  “What do you mean you’re stuck?”

  “I’m stuck, I can’t get up.”

  Jo then saw his predicament and started to giggle. She pushed his shoulders and rolled him over; from there he could crawl away from the bed and stand up. They went into the lounge and Jo immediately went over to Danielle and gave her a hug.

  “Sorry if I frightened you.”

  “That’s OKmum, but I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know whether to phone Auntie Margaret or Peter.”

  “You did the right thing, but I am not sure you should call him Peter.”

  Danielle was about to answer when Peter stepped in.

  “I think she should. I don’t want her to call me vicar; she can’t really call me dad, so why not Peter?”

  Jo was too worn out to fight and in any case she could see the sense of the argument. Jo gave Danielle another hug.