by Hilary Boyd
“He’s only been dead seven months,” Sophie was saying, the disdain clear in her brown eyes. She stood up, still holding the mug. “But you never talk about him. It’s like you’ve deleted him from your life. It’s like he never existed.”
“Of course I think about him,” Karen said, truthfully. She got up too, went to her stepdaughter and, not quite daring a hug, laid her hands on Sophie’s arms, gave a gentle squeeze. “I’m so sorry. I should never have spoken about William to you, it’s absolutely inappropriate. But you know I loved your father very much, don’t you?”
The girl eyed her but said nothing, working her lips between her teeth.
“This thing with Will is so different. It’s got nothing to do with the love I had for your dad. That will never change.”
Sophie took a deep breath, moved away from Karen’s touch. “Yeah . . .” She drifted toward the door.
“Please, Sophie. Don’t just leave. Let’s talk about this.”
The girl turned, her face set in the old guarded sulk that Karen hadn’t seen in a while.
“Listen, it’s your business what you do with the vicar. I really don’t care one way or another.”
“But you think I’m being disrespectful to your father’s memory.”
Sophie’s eyes suddenly flashed. “Well, face it, Karen, you are. Dad was hardly buried before you started drooling around after Reverend Haskell. What am I supposed to think?” She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, the mug dangling from the fingers of her right hand.
Karen didn’t know what to say. It was a fair comment. But she was surprised at the girl’s reaction. When the subject had come up before, Sophie had seemed quite sympathetic. She was annoyed with herself for not being more sensitive to her feelings.
“And the whole village obviously knows about it now. Everyone must be laughing at Dad behind his back. It’s humiliating.”
“No . . . no, I’m sure they aren’t. No one knows anything.”
Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s not true, is it? Someone does—the person who told Janey whatever they told her—and this village is like a tinderbox when it comes to gossip. One spark and the whole place goes up.”
“Maybe someone saw us together and said something vague. She can’t know anything else if William didn’t tell her.”
“So there is something else to know?”
Karen looked away.
“Right,” Sophie muttered. “You realize this will end badly for everyone?”
“Yes, I do realize that.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Nothing. Janey said William’s up for a bishop. She made it totally clear that I would ruin his life if I didn’t leave him alone.”
“And will you?”
“I don’t have any choice.”
Sophie continued to stare, clearly not believing her intentions.
“I don’t,” Karen insisted, hating Janey’s implication that William was the spineless victim of his own ego and she the pathetic love-struck widow.
“So will you go back to the coast?”
“I don’t know what I’ll do.”
The girl lowered her head at this. “At least if the vicar makes bishop he’ll leave. You won’t have to keep bumping into them all the time.”
“True,” Karen said, although the prospect didn’t hold much joy for her at that precise moment.
Sophie’s phone rang, and she pulled it out of her tracksuit pocket, checking the screen.
“Daisy . . . I’d better get this,” she said, telling her friend to hold on as she hurried toward the door and upstairs.
Karen sat down on the sofa again. She hoped she hadn’t ruined her relationship with her stepdaughter, just when it seemed to be getting on a more even keel. She wanted so badly in that moment to have a friend to confide in. If only Maggie were here, she thought, then remembered that her friend would probably be as unsympathetic as Sophie—and with reason. Maggie sent emails about every two weeks or so, but they were mainly telling Karen of all the incredible things she was doing and seeing in India. And when Karen replied she kept it short, filling her friend in on the most general items of village gossip. She didn’t feel able to confide in Maggie in an email, when she couldn’t properly explain her position.
Doing what she was doing, falling in love with a married man, was a very lonely business.
*
The following morning as she took herself through the village toward her favorite walk on to the Downs, Largo bouncing along at her side, she found herself fervently hoping to bump into Will, and also dreading it. It was as if her brain and her heart were running along parallel lines. She was equally balanced on both, like a train carriage on tracks, and both, although diametrically opposed, were vital and made total sense.
End it? her mind would ask. Yes, obviously the right thing to do.
Continue to love him? her heart countered. Well, of course, why wouldn’t she?
And as she rounded the bend at the top of the hill, she saw a figure slumped in the dawn shadows on the bench she and Will had chosen in the past. Largo rushed up, nuzzled his hand, tail wagging, barking a welcome. But Karen, as she came close, was shocked at the vicar’s appearance. He was very pale, unshaven, dark hair sticking up at all angles, dressed in jeans and a lumpy gray sweatshirt, his eyes red and blinking up at her.
She sat down next to him. “What happened?”
He shot a quick glance at her, looked away again. Talking to the hills, he spoke in a low, strained voice. “I’ve failed. I’ve failed everyone. Janey, Rachel, you . . . everyone who believed in me. And God. I’ve failed God. I’ve been so selfish.” He fell silent for a moment. “I knew, from the first time I saw you, there was something . . . that day Harry asked me and Janey round when we first arrived. Small thing . . . I noticed the way your hair curled up on the back of your neck as you poured the tea . . . so beguiling. I should have ignored it. I told myself to ignore it. And I did try. But that’s not good enough, is it? I didn’t try hard enough because . . . because it’s heaven being with you and I was too weak to give you up.” He stopped his diatribe and turned to her. “Please forgive me, Karen. I have done the worst thing to you.”
She didn’t know what to say. The sun was just coming up over the hill, fingers of light spreading across the last green of summer. The air was cool and she thought how heartbreakingly beautiful it was up there.
He grabbed her hand, held it tightly in his own cold, clammy one, gazing at the sun. She was aware of the callous on his index finger, just below the first joint. A legacy of his bow-string, he fiddled with the hard skin often.
“How did Janey know?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me. I need to know who knows about us.”
He sighed. “It was Felicity Hill. I’m sure she didn’t mean any trouble by it, just mentioned to Janey in passing that she’d seen us sitting together at the concert. And because I hadn’t told Janey about bumping into you, she smelt a rat. That’s all. So Felicity doesn’t really know anything.”
“What does Janey think has gone on between us?”
“She thinks I’m in love with you.”
Shocked, Karen asked, “Did you say you were?”
“No, but I didn’t have to. She knows me too well.”
There was silence, just the early-morning birdsong, the drone of a distant tractor engine.
“She said you’d done this before . . . had a thing for one of your parishioners, not that I’m exactly one of your parishioners. I’m the fourth, apparently.”
William’s expression barely changed. “That’s not true.”
But he didn’t say any more, didn’t seem interested in defending the accusation, although whether from innocence or guilt, Karen couldn’t tell.
“She also said they’re considering you for bishop. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it’ll never happen, Karen.”
“Do you want it to
happen?”
He just shook his head wearily. “None of this is what I want.” He straightened up, held his hand to his back as if he were in pain.
“What will happen with Janey?”
William began to say something, then hesitated, cleared his throat instead. “Janey’s tough.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she’ll ignore it like she ignores everything else personal between us.”
It was the first time he’d ever made any comment about his marriage, his matter-of-fact tone suggesting this was not a new observation.
Neither spoke for a long while. They both sat side by side on the rickety wooden bench, linked by this indefinable connection, yet lost in their own thoughts.
“I can’t bear to lose you,” Karen whispered, almost to herself.
“I can’t bear it either.”
“You could run away with me. Leave all this, just take off and we’ll find a new life together.” She was only partly serious, but although she spoke with bravado, the tears ran down her face.
William pulled her into his side, his arm around her shoulder. “I’m not worth it, Karen.”
“You are to me.”
“No . . . honestly, I’m not. You deserve better.”
She sat upright, turned to face him. “So that’s it, is it?”
But he wouldn’t look at her.
“How can it be, Will? How can what we had go for nothing?” A desperate anger welled in her chest. “Why did you hunt me out, make love to me? Why didn’t you just leave me alone? I could have coped before, but now . . . now it’s so much harder.” She stood up, tugging her jacket around her body. It wasn’t cold but she felt freezing.
He stood too, grabbed her arms. “Look at me, Karen,” he said. “Just look at me. I’m a wreck, a weak, indulgent wreck posturing as a man of God. Why would you want to be with me?”
She thought this was a pretty stupid question. “Because I love you.”
William shook his head again. “No, you don’t. You love who you think I am.”
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
At that moment, Jeffrey crested the hill, followed by his cocker spaniel, Daisy. Karen and William sprang apart.
“Morning, morning,” the judge said, waving his hand at them. “Glorious day.”
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Karen said, when William said nothing.
Jeffrey seemed not to notice anything was wrong. “Did pretty well yesterday, I thought, Vicar, despite the bloody rain. Let me know the take, will you?”
“Of course,” Will muttered, his expression dull and exhausted.
The judge whistled up his dog and stomped off with a backward wave. They stood, looking after him, not speaking.
“I’d better get back,” William said. “I’ve got matins.”
“Right.”
“Bye, Karen.”
Karen stood watching his retreating figure, hardly believing he had gone. It felt as if he were taking her heart with him as he tramped away, yanking it by the strand that bound them so that all she was left with was a scraped-out cavity, raw, burning, throbbing, so painful she wanted to scream.
Don’t go, she yelled silently. Please, please don’t leave me.
Slumping back on to the bench, she closed her eyes. Her body, held rigid with despair, seemed to block her breath.
What did you think he was going to do? The chant in her head was whispering but unequivocal. He’s taken, he doesn’t belong to you, never has. He belongs to Janey and Rachel and God. He’s done it before, done it before, done it before.
Karen couldn’t even cry, she just felt cleaned out, empty, as she plodded slowly along the path toward home.
*
When she got to the rectory, Sophie was in the kitchen, despite the early hour.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, eyeing Karen with a frown.
“Nothing.”
“You look awful.”
Karen just shrugged and sat down, her jacket still on.
“I’ll do you some coffee.”
“Thanks.”
The radio was on, an annoyingly upbeat male voice insisting they send him texts “right now” telling him how they were feeling and what they were doing this sunny Sunday morning.
You don’t want to know, thought Karen as she slowly sipped her warm coffee.
“Why are you up so early?” she asked Sophie, suddenly jolted out of her misery to register the girl’s pale, too-thin face opposite.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Was it our discussion last night that freaked you?”
“No . . . I always wake early these days.”
“Really?”
Sophie seldom surfaced from her room till nearly midday.
“I don’t get up usually, but I’m not asleep.”
“Is there any reason? Are you worried about something?”
The girl pulled a face, didn’t answer.
“Stupid question,” Karen conceded.
“So are you leaving again?” Sophie asked after a silence, during which they both listened to a song Karen found vaguely familiar with a chorus that repeated “You-oo . . . are, you-oo . . . are, you-oo . . . are” over again.
“I haven’t made any plans to.” Karen wasn’t sure if her stepdaughter wanted the answer to be yes or no.
Sophie nodded slowly.
“Why, are you dying to get rid of me so as you can move your boyfriend back in?” It was a poor attempt a lightening the mood and Karen instantly regretted it when she saw the flash of despair on her stepdaughter’s face before she dropped her eyes. “Sophie, are you OK?”
“Yeah, fine,” the girl mumbled.
“You seem so thin and pale . . . and the not sleeping . . . maybe you should go off somewhere, get a break before winter.”
Sophie raised her eyebrows. “Like I can afford that.”
“I’ll help out.”
But the girl shook her head. “I don’t feel like going anywhere, not even London right now.”
Karen frowned. “I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
“Why don’t you ask Daisy down for a weekend?”
“Nothing for her to do down here, is there?”
“Have you talked to your mum?”
“She’s in Greece. Nanu’s not well . . . Mum’s been there all summer.”
Karen felt bad she didn’t know this, and realized how self-absorbed she’d been, leaving Sophie alone for such a long time without any thought for the girl’s well-being.
“Maybe you should go out there, get some sun, lie on the beach for a bit.”
“Nanu lives in the center of Athens in a tiny flat. And anyway, like I said, I’m fine here.”
“OK . . .”
She was trying to think of a tactful way to suggest that Sophie make an appointment to see Tom, the doctor—she seemed so depressed—when her stepdaughter abruptly got up from the table, took her mug to the sink, flicked off the radio and left the room without another word. Karen watched her go, wondering what she could do to help.
The noise of her phone interrupted her thoughts.
“Morning, Mike.”
“Hi, Karen. How’s it going?”
“Been better. You?”
“Yeah, you know . . . busy.”
Karen waited for him to state his business; Mike wasn’t one to ring for a chat.
“OK, I’ll get to the point, you don’t fancy a few more days at the seaside by any chance?”
“Why?”
“Just bloody Gina’s taken off to Fuengirola with the lout. Not the family come down with Ebola for a change, which I suppose is a blessing, but she gave me zero notice and there’s an arts festival in town Thursday. Plus the weather’s going to be scorching and I’ve no sodding help. I’ve asked everyone and his dog, but no joy. Don’t know how you’re fixed, but if things aren’t so great, you could take your mind off real life and come and pull some coffees for me. Chance of a lifetime, no? I’d
pay you, of course.”
Karen laughed. “This week?”
“Thursday to Sunday.”
She didn’t have to think for long. Sophie wouldn’t mind being left alone for a long weekend. In fact, she probably liked it better when Karen wasn’t there, although it was hard to know. She said it was weird being alone, but she didn’t seem to take advantage of having Karen around. Nothing else was keeping her in the village except her unreasonable expectations.
“Sure, I’ll come.”
She heard Mike let out a huge sigh of relief. “God, Karen, that’s outstanding. I properly owe you for this.”
“You know me, the eternal runaway. I’ll be there Wednesday around seven.”
*
Karen felt every nerve in her body begin to calm down as she drove out of the village late on Wednesday afternoon.
The last two days had been horrible. She had been obliged to spend Monday afternoon with William and the rest of the fête committee. They had met in the dusty, drafty church hall, sitting around the table on plastic chairs while Bernard droned on about “housekeeping,” as he called it, which meant a detailed inventory of who needed to be paid, who needed to be thanked, who had behaved well, who badly—only the ice cream vendor came in for some stick because she hadn’t stuck to the allotted patch for her stand and as a result had upset the ladies selling marmalade.
Karen placed herself as far away from William as possible—but that wasn’t far, as there were only six people present. And it seemed every time she looked up, he would be staring at her. His eyes told her nothing, however. They just looked tired and distant. At the end of the meeting, she made an excuse to Jennifer and hurried off before Will could speak to her alone, although he’d made no move to do so.
And then, on Tuesday, Janey had come round to pick up the teapots. Karen had made the arrangement, then asked Sophie to deal with the vicar’s wife, making sure she herself was out. Better for both of us, she thought. She’d spent the afternoon in town, wandering aimlessly from shop to shop, with no desire to buy anything. But when she got back the boxes were still there—Janey had rung to say she couldn’t make it till the evening.
“I can’t face her.”
“She’ll know you’re here, the car’s outside,” Sophie had said. “Just give her the boxes, you don’t have to ask her in. But you can’t hide, it looks bad.”