by Angela Huth
It was early January, a colourless morning. Outside the window the bare apple trees made a complicated sketch in the sky and the two Jersey cows stood head to tail, disinclined to graze on the frosty grass. Earlier, Prue had gone out with Ag to milk them. They had led them into the rickety shed, sat on stools, balanced buckets between their knees and pulled at the cold teats. When the first familiar sizzle of milk against tin sounded, Prue laughed so much she almost fell off her stool. ‘This is the life!’ she shouted. ‘This is what I’ve been missing, Ag. This is what I want to get back to. Chickens in a Manchester garden, walking a giant horse round the fields – rubbish. This is the real thing. You’re so lucky.’
‘Not so lucky milking at dawn in freezing weather, rain coming through the roof.’ Ag lifted her head from the russet flank of her cow. Prue could see her smiling. ‘One day, perhaps, we’ll have milking machines for our herd.’
Their post-breakfast chores finished, Desmond kissed his wife on both cheeks and left for work. Ag picked up the pot of coffee he had left for them on the stove. She sat at the end of the table, pouring it into old mugs. Prue’s fingers gripped the edge of the table. This was the third morning of her Devon stay and time was racing in an alarming way. The length of her visit had not been discussed. Dreading her return to Manchester, she hoped they would not mind if she stayed for at least a week. She loved the cottage, despite the cold, though in the kitchen, with its log fire, it was warm. Her bedroom under the eaves was icy, but with a hot-water bottle each night and plenty of blankets, she had slept better than she had for months. Each morning she had woken at dawn, looked out of the small window onto the orchard and the ruddy Devon earth of the rising fields beyond, and her heart had contracted. This was where she was meant to be, she thought – this sort of place.
It reminded her of Hallows Farm in so many ways, especially the kitchen. Mrs Lawrence’s way of doing things had brushed off on Ag: the random arrangement of objects, pictures of pre-war prize cows on the wall, mugs hanging on the dresser among faded plates from local markets. And somehow the smells were the same: the coffee, the slow-cooking stew, the sharpness of wet earth clinging to carrots waiting to be scraped.
‘Crikey, Ag,’ said Prue. ‘It’s all wonderful here, utterly wonderful.’
‘It’s going to take a long time to get it into shape,’ said Ag, ‘but we like that. Slow progress has its own pleasures.’
Prue had recounted a detailed story of the birth of her son the night she arrived – she had wanted it out of the way – and also told them of Barry’s suggestion that they separate. She had made light of this, even made them laugh with her descriptions of Barry and his cigars, his flapping hands. They had understood the seriousness of the decision she had to make, but come up with no immediate solutions.
‘What do you think I should do, Ag?’ Prue now asked.
‘I think you should probably live on your own for a while. Solitude’s nothing to be afraid of as long as you don’t indulge in too much rumination.’
‘I’ve never tried it. Dare say I could manage it. But where? Where would I go? I couldn’t ever live in a city again. But if I was somewhere miles from everywhere, like here, wonderful though it is, who would I find to have a laugh with in a pub? Where could I go dancing?’
Ag laughed. ‘There are plenty of young farmers back from the war. If you found somewhere with a pub and a village hall you’d have no problem at all – knowing you.’
Prue giggled.
‘Talking of which . . .’ Ag got up and took a small leg of lamb from the fridge – swapped with a neighbouring farmer for two dozen eggs: she explained that there was much happy bartering in the village. She pulled a jar of honey out of a cupboard and, with a knife, began to spread it over the meat. Then she shook powdered ginger over it. Prue watched her in amazement. She was so competent, Ag. Whatever she put her hand to, she did well.
‘Talking of which,’ Ag went on, now pulling spikes of rosemary from their stalks, ‘Desmond and I are aware you’ll have a very quiet time here. It’s far from a giddy life. We don’t know many people, yet, and those we do aren’t the sort of people you’d be naturally drawn to.’
‘Oh, Ag, don’t be silly. I don’t want entertainment, meeting people. It’s just wonderful to be with you both in this perfect cottage, catching up, getting your advice . . .’
‘But we’ve managed to lay on one man for you—’
‘A man?’
‘A very unalarming man, doesn’t know what flirting is.’
‘There’s a challenge! Listen, Ag, I don’t want another man of any kind for a very, very long time. What’s he called? What’s he like? What does he do?’
‘He’s called Paul Simmons. He’s a kind of low-key charmer, sublimely sympathetic . . .’ Prue laughed.
‘Is he a young farmer?’
Ag took some time arranging the lamb in a roasting tin and covering it with a dishcloth, then took it to the fridge. Her back to Prue, she finally answered the question. ‘He’s our vicar.’
‘A vicar? Don’t be utterly daft, Ag. How would I cope with a vicar? What vicar would want anything to do with me, bursting with sins?’
‘He’s only coming to supper.’
‘I don’t know how to talk about God.’
‘He doesn’t talk much about God over supper.’
Prue sighed with relief. ‘How old is he?’
‘Possibly thirty, possibly not. Hard to tell.’
‘Oh, lawks, another older man.’
Ag laughed. ‘He’s rather nice, honestly. He lives in an enormous cold vicarage near here, looked after by his sister. She’s a bit – unusual. We haven’t asked her. Once was enough.’
‘I’m used to unusual,’ said Prue. ‘You should’ve seen Dawn Gander.’
Ag returned to sit at the table. She opened a tin of homemade biscuits. ‘These were Mr Lawrence’s favourite. Remember?’
‘What shall I wear?’ Prue asked.
‘Honestly, Prue, don’t give clothes a thought. I mean, just keep on your dungarees. There’s no dressing up here.’
‘OK,’ said Prue, a touch disappointed. ‘I’ll just put on my spotted bow and a flick of mascara.’
‘You haven’t changed, thank goodness,’ said Ag, smiling.
That evening, soon after Prue and Ag had shut up the chickens and checked the cows, Desmond arrived home with three bottles of wine. He brought with him a flurry of cold air, a touch of frost that cut into the thick warmth of the kitchen. He piled more logs on the fire and a new flare of heat was added to the old.
Prue asked how she could help. Ag suggested she lay the table.
‘I’m just off up to my room,’ she said. ‘Then I promise I’ll do it.’
In the cold of her bedroom she sat huddled under several cardigans contemplating what to wear. She had given her word that she would not appear overdressed, but was determined to change out of dungarees that smelt of hens and cows. She opened the small wardrobe where the ‘few’ things she had chosen to bring were jammed together. After much contemplation she chose a soft violet jumper with a dipping neck and a scattering of diamanté leaves – she’d seen a picture of Rita Hayworth in something similar. She put on a black skirt and judged it needed cheering up so chose her scarlet patent shoes with ankle straps. Finally, she fixed her best satin bow – scarlet with white spots – in her hair. In the poor light it was hard to be accurate with her makeup but she did her best to plaster her long eyelashes with mascara – she loved the routine of spitting on the brush and scraping at the black stuff in the small box – then made her mouth a perfect bow with a fiery red lipstick. Had she overdone it for a vicar in a kitchen? Probably, but she didn’t care. She wanted Ag to see she hadn’t given up trying.
She went cautiously down the steep stairs and into the kitchen. The table was already laid, candles lighted.
‘Crikey, I’m guilty,’ she said to Desmond. ‘You’ve beaten me to it.’
He smiled at her. ‘My job,’ he sai
d.
Ag, whose only concession to sartorial change was the rolling up of her sleeves, turned from stirring something on the stove.
‘Have I gone over the top?’ Prue asked.
With a straight face Ag looked her up and down. ‘I don’t suppose you have,’ she said, ‘by your standards.’
‘You look fantastic,’ put in Desmond, quickly. ‘Paul will be dazzled.’
The compliment had a deliquescent effect on Prue: it was a very long time since anybody had remarked on how she looked. She didn’t give a fig about Ag’s disapproval. Ag had always had her prissy moments.
Desmond handed her a glass of wine.
‘Gosh, you two are so kind having me here,’ she said. She had wanted to choose better words, but they came in a rush, no time to think. ‘I love it here so much. Thank you.’
She tottered over to Ag, high heels uncertain on the rough stone floor, put her arms round her. They stood locked for a moment, arms about each other. Ag made no comment about her friend’s sparkly jersey, more suitable for a nightclub than a vicar. Prue moved on to Desmond. She felt his skin on her cheek, the momentary pressure of his huge hand on her back, and a flicker of mercury went through her. Quickly she backed away. Not for anything in the world would she try it on with Desmond. But if they were left alone on a desert island, she reckoned, they wouldn’t ignore the opportunity.
The doorbell rang. Desmond went to answer it. Prue pushed down the floppy wool neck of her film-star jersey.
Paul Simmons followed Desmond into the kitchen. He carried a bottle of sherry and was smiling a smile that looked as if it had been arranged for some time and was cracking at the edges. He was extraordinarily pale, with a wide, weak face framed by tufts of prematurely greying hair. From a distance, Prue thought, he might be mistaken for handsome. But there was something – not quite detectable – spoilt the first impression. And he was not exactly manly, like Desmond. Tall and thin, concave chest, bony fingers fashioned to pray, Prue supposed. You couldn’t really ask him to pick up a heavy suitcase or a dead sheep. They were introduced, shook hands. ‘Crikey!’ squealed Prue. ‘A dog collar! You really are a vicar.’
The smile fell from the Reverend’s face. ‘I’m afraid I am,’ he said. Then, guilty of disloyalty to his beliefs, he added, ‘Though before my calling I was in the navy.’
‘You fought in the war?’
Paul Simmons blushed. ‘Unfortunately not. On account of asthma. It took a turn for the worse just as Germany invaded Poland.’
‘Crumbs,’ said Prue.
Ag, wary of this first encounter, was eager for everyone to sit down at the table. She produced her triumphant Greek lamb, deep in its sea of cider and rosemary, and dishes of bright vegetables. Prue sat opposite Paul and was quickly aware he found it difficult to turn his opal eyes away from her. She flashed her eyelashes at him, to encourage him just a little, and listened to his story about one of his parishioners, who had run off with the chairman of the parish council, with an air of intense interest.
As Ag had promised, Paul did not talk much about God. Hardly a mention. After a good many glasses of wine he became bolder, and dared make a few jokes. Not a natural humourist, they were funny enough to make everybody laugh slightly and, yes, thought Prue, Ag had been right. The vicar had a certain charm, not least in his self-deprecating stories. Luckily nothing went wrong in church, he said, but in the real world everything conspired against him. His car had a habit of breaking down on the way to funerals, his surplice was ruined at the cleaner’s, his paperwork was in such a state of chaos you’d have thought some pernicious spirit had been at it in the night. Once, on the occasion of a visit from the local bishop, he had found himself in the pulpit without his sermon. ‘All I could do was ask God’s blessing,’ he said. ‘And, well, though I say it myself, words miraculously came to me. The bishop congratulated me on a certain . . . freshness.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Prue.
‘But oh my goodness, what a time.’ He was filling his glass again.
Prue, who found his language funnier than his stories, laughed encouragingly. He looked a little surprised, though grateful that his contribution to the evening was so appreciated by Ag’s friend.
After they’d finished the Sussex Pond Pudding, Mrs Lawrence’s recipe, they sat round the kitchen table drinking till almost midnight, when Ag said she had to go to bed if she was to be up at five. Desmond, having dealt with the washing up, said he must join her. Paul claimed he was about to walk home: the night air would clear his head.
When they were left on their own, Prue filled his glass again. ‘Know something?’ she said. ‘I’ve never, ever met a vicar before.’
‘And I’ve never met a girl like you before. Glorious, glorious, glorious,’ he added. ‘A free spirit. A true wonder.’ He gave a small, almost soundless laugh.
If laughs were animals, Prue reflected, this one would have been a snail. She blushed, and giggled. She, too, was feeling the effects of more wine than she usually drank.
‘Get away with you, Vicar,’ she said. ‘I was worried you were going to talk about God all evening.’
He gave a small frown. ‘No point talking about God when it’s inappropriate,’ he said. ‘I’m always thinking about our Maker, mind. He’s always with me, every moment of the day.’
‘Gosh, golly, gosh,’ said Prue.
‘But I leave Him alone until I feel called upon to ponder on Him. This evening wasn’t that sort of occasion.’
‘I can see that. Mr and Mrs Lawrence, whose farm Ag and I worked on in the war, they were believers, but they kept quiet about it. I found that rather inspiring.’
‘Quite. For God to be appreciated, He must fit in appropriately – though that’s not something I learnt in my training. Well, I’d say I’ve had more than enough to drink . . . Think I’d better be going.’ He stood up, wavered a little. ‘How long are you here for?’
‘Not sure. A week, perhaps.’
‘Then I hope you’ll wander over to the vicarage, let me show you the church.’
‘I’d love to.’ Prue managed this with conviction.
She followed him to the front door. An oil lamp was lighted in the hallway. It made long umber shadows that cut into the small space. Prue put a hand on the latch. She could feel Paul standing very close behind her, his wine breath strong. With what she imagined was a fierce expression that would deter him from any hanky-panky, as her mother called it, she turned to face him. Startled – so the expression must have been successful – he took a step backwards. Then he raised one hand slowly, as if it was a heavy weight, and held up two fingers in a V. Prue was puzzled as to whether he was copying Winston Churchill’s famous victory sign, or whether it was something rude. The fingers made an uncertain flight to her shoulder, where they alighted for just a moment, then moved to her cheek. Prue allowed them two seconds’ rest before she flicked them away with a toss of her head.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that all evening,’ he whispered.
If that was all he’d been wanting, Prue thought, then she was happy to oblige for a moment, despite the danger of one thing leading to another. ‘You are a one,’ she said.
‘Yes, I am a one.’ The vicar sighed. ‘You could say that. I am indeed a one. But then it’s not very often that living in this rural place a one has the opportunity of running into anyone as . . . delicious as you.’
‘Suppose not,’ agreed Prue. The word ‘delicious’ seemed odd, coming from a vicar. Not something she’d ever been called before. She wanted to hurry along with the weird farewell now. Go to bed.
Paul aimed the V towards his dog collar. When his fingers reached it, and tapped to make sure of its certainty, the small click of his nails chipped the silence. ‘Well, I really must be on my way, difficult though that is. My whole being wants to stay a while longer, but that would be untoward, would it not?’
Prue considered the question not worth a reply. She opened the door. A blast of night air flew in.
&
nbsp; ‘God bless you, dear Prue.’
‘Good night, Vicar.’
‘I trust you’ll come and see my church?’
‘I might.’
‘Dear Prue . . .’ He wavered down the path shaking his head, his gait that of a much older man.
‘Cripes,’ said Prue to herself, and shut the door.
Prue’s habit of early rising was broken next morning. She woke with a headache at ten o’clock and came down to the kitchen in her pyjamas. There was no trace of last night’s supper: everything was orderly, the cat asleep on the window-sill, breakfast laid just for her.
‘Christ, I’m sorry, Ag,’ she said. ‘I meant to help with the milking.’
‘Desmond’s here on Saturdays. He did it. He likes it. He’s getting quite good.’ Ag smiled, poured coffee. ‘Anyhow, you cast your spell as usual. I’ve had Paul on the telephone already. He wants you to “take tea”, as he calls it, at the vicarage. He’s dying to show you the church.’
‘OK, OK.’ Prue rubbed her forehead. ‘Have you got an aspirin?’
Ag handed her a bottle from the dresser. ‘You don’t normally drink that much,’ she said.
‘Not often, no. Though you remember the dance? When Joe carried me home? But I’ve given up most of my wicked ways. Barry’s not a keen drinker, though he likes champagne. He flashed a lot of it when we were courting – if you can call it that.’
Desmond came through the back door carrying a large cabbage and a knife. He wore an ancient weatherproof jacket that cracked as he moved. His eyes went at once to his wife. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine,’ said Ag.
Desmond put the cabbage on the table. ‘Got a touch of frost, but it’s OK.’ Again he looked anxiously at Ag. ‘You’re not feeling . . .?’
‘No. I’m fine.’
A look swift as light passed between the three of them. Desmond moved to Ag, put a hand on her shoulder. Despite her muzzy, aching head, Prue quickly guessed the reason for his unease. Perhaps he and Ag had agreed not to mention babies – hers or theirs. She conjured a smile. ‘It’s such good news,’ she said, ‘your baby. It’s wonderful. I’m so pleased. How much longer?’