by Jane Anstey
This is no good. I’d better go home, she thought desperately. But then the bells were up, and Simon was calling “stand,” and the spell was broken––at least for the moment.
She found that Geoff was handing her an A4 sheet of paper with details of a ringing outing proposed for late January.
“I thought we’d join in with the district outing,” he explained in his slow burr. “They’re going over Wiltshire way this year––there are some nice rings of bells over there. Why don’t you come, Rose?” He smiled at her. “It would be good experience for you, ringing some different bells.”
“I don’t know, Geoff,” she said. She tucked the piece of paper into her handbag. “I’ll have a look at the dates and see whether that Saturday is free. Thanks for asking me––I appreciate it.”
She watched him hand out similar sheets of paper to Lesley and Simon and wondered whether Simon would be likely to go on the outing. It was the kind of thing he would like to do, she realised suddenly. She should make an excuse not to go. It wasn’t fair to get in his way and spoil something he enjoyed just by being there and upsetting him. But at the same time, how wonderful it would be to have a whole day in his company, even though they would have the other ringers with them. She hadn’t ever been able to go on a proper date with him or even talk with him for long alone except for the evening of the abortive tower meeting when Robert had disappeared and she had had to rush home to start the search for him. Even when they had met once out on the footpaths when she was walking the dog, their happy conversation had ended with Simon’s discovery of a body in the copse. Nothing long-lasting could have arisen between them on so little acquaintance, so little shared experience. But even while she averred this stoutly to herself, her heart told her that she was wrong. The strength of her own feelings was sign enough that she would be better not to play with fire and go on the outing if Simon were there. It was tempting, but she knew she should resist.
To her surprise, when she got home, Clive seemed to disagree. He looked at the family calendar, hanging on a hook in the kitchen, and then at his own diary.
“That weekend’s completely free,” he told Rose. “I’ll take Robert out for the day, perhaps, or we’ll do something here. You should go, Rose. It would be good for you to have a day out––and if Geoff thinks it will be useful ringing experience for you, all the better.”
She looked at him helplessly, in a quandary. He had volunteered her services as a bellringer eighteen months ago and had always encouraged her in the pursuit, though she couldn’t understand why.
“I trust you, you know,” he said, unexpectedly. “Is that what’s worrying you? You’ve made a commitment to our marriage, to Robert, just as I have. You can’t avoid Simon forever. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”
Rose turned away. He saw too much, and he trusted her too much––more than she trusted herself. But she realised after a moment that it was merely that he didn’t understand the situation. Clive had given up philandering, it seemed, at least for now. But there had clearly been no deep emotion in his relationship with Olivia, and less still in that one-night stand with Maddie next door, about which she preferred not to think too much. He seemed to be able to switch off such relationships at will, and evidently expected her to be able to do the same. A picture arose in her mind of Simon and herself standing in the tower at the end of the practice that evening, trying to part without saying goodbye, trying to pretend they were the friendly acquaintances they had once been. The hurt and bafflement in Simon’s face and the pain in her own heart––would those be the same every time they saw each other, for months, for years––forever? Or would it all fade, so that she could go back to being a wife and mother in peace, free to take the second chance at married happiness that Clive seemed to want to give her? Perhaps if she saw Simon often, on these practical, social occasions, it would become easier in time? But in her heart, she doubted it. She resolved never to be alone with him or the emotional embers might flare up again, and who knew where it would lead?
~ * ~
Simon set off next morning for Gatwick. He parked his car in the secure car park and took the shuttle for the terminals. His bag was light, for he had decided to leave his skiing gear behind. But his heart was heavy as he took his seat on the plane and gazed absently at the dull grey skies above. The trip didn’t feel like a holiday, or even the hoped-for escape from his frustrated love for Rose, which he carried with him like a tightly packed ball of misery in his chest. He wondered whether it would ease, now there was no possibility for a time, at least, of chance meetings, no near-certainty of encountering her at ringing practice or before Sunday service. In running away, he had made sure that he would not see her and had thought it would be a relief. Instead, he knew it was a loss. He needed her, and even the knowledge that meeting her would hurt him did not lessen that need in the slightest.
But she wants me to let her go, he told himself desolately. She wants to make her life with Clive and Robert, and not with me.
Six
Headteacher Fran Baker had mustered some of the St Martin’s schoolchildren to sing “Oranges and Lemons” again at the Family Service on Christmas Eve, and out of this, Jeremy manufactured an impromptu Christingle service, in which the children decorated oranges while he commentated on the different elements as they added them. The activity was spontaneous and fun, as Jeremy’s Family Services usually were, and everyone was in a holiday mood by the time they had finished.
The children went back to the pews, Christingles in hand, to blow out the candles safely under the supervision of parents, while Jeremy turned a little more seriously to the idea of gifts.
“Put your Christingle on the Christmas dinner table,” he told them, “And let it help you remember that at Christmas, God sent us Jesus to be the Light of the World.” Keep it simple, he reminded himself. Tonight, at the Midnight Communion, he intended to spread himself a little more on the topic––and ruffle a few feathers, he feared.
As Jeremy encouraged parents and children to be grateful for Christmas gifts both material and spiritual, Rose sat wondering, in a daze of conflicting emotions, whether she would ever be able to be grateful to God for anything again. Except for Robert, she reminded herself; his life would always evoke her thankfulness. But that thought took her straight back to Simon, whose prompt actions had so recently saved Robert’s life; Simon whose brittle face and glittering unhappy eyes at their last meeting still haunted her. He didn’t want my gratitude, she reminded herself. But I couldn’t give him what he wanted. And I never can. Remy would agree––I know he would. And so would God. That last thought drove her back to the first one, that it was impossible to be grateful to a God who asked so much: the price seemed to her too high.
She avoided Jeremy on the way out of church, skirting round him as he shook hands with Ben Cartwright’s wife, who had stopped to give him her comments on the service.
“Well, Reverend,” said Mrs Cartwright. “You’m getting quite teasy in your sermons nowadays. But them children did ought to learn how to be grateful, ’tis true. Same as us all,” she added, nodding.
Jeremy smiled and wished he had had a chance to speak to Rose, whose flight had not escaped his notice. “How’s your husband, Mrs Cartwright?” he asked instead. “We haven’t seen him in church lately. Does he need me to pay him a visit?”
“That’d be kind, Reverend, if you can spare a moment. He’m proper poorly with ’is chest, this winter. Couldn’t step outside this week, in the cold and damp, without that cough starting up again.”
“I’ll pop in one day this coming week if I can,” he promised, hoping he would be able to deliver on it. He smiled at her, and turned to greet the next member of his congregation. There was time today to stay and greet them all, unusually, as he had no other service to take until late in the evening.
As he left the church in the wake of the last of the congregation, leaving the churchwardens to tidy up, to his surprise he found the two Althorpes w
aiting on the path for him.
“Rose!” he said with real pleasure, and beamed at Robert beside her. “Happy Christmas, my dear. How are you?”
“I need to talk to you, Remy,” she said. “I know this is a busy time for you––but sometime when you aren’t so busy, perhaps you could come over. Would you mind?”
He thought rapidly of the things he was hoping to do in the week between Christmas and New Year. There were some parish items of business––for a start, he must visit Lucinda Warrendon, George’s wife, who had been remanded in custody until her trial for manslaughter and attempted murder. And George, who was under threat of prosecution for obstructing the police in their enquiries, needed his support as well. Not to mention his promise just made to Mrs Cartwright to visit Ben. Then he had hoped to spend some extra time with the children over the holiday and catch up with a number of boring yet necessary household DIY tasks. And there was the matter of taking Mike to Whitehill Abbey to return their book.
But he looked at Rose’s face and felt that he shouldn’t put her off.
“This week isn’t that busy,” he said, consigning all but the most essential DIY tasks to oblivion for the present and hoping he wasn’t guilty of lying by omission. “Once Christmas is over, I’ll get a breather. I’ll ring you and fix a time. Why don’t you come over to the rectory one day, and Robert can play with Chris and Bethan?”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” she said gratefully. “I’ll do that.”
~ * ~
“Can we find a time for Rose and Robert to come over?” Jeremy asked Liz as they met briefly that evening at supper. “Rose asked me this morning.”
Liz looked at him, mindful of the proverbially big ears of the little pitchers around the table. “I’m sure we can,” she said, perceiving that it was important. She, too, had been hoping for some purely family time over the holiday, and Christmas Eve was not the most convenient time to be thinking of inviting people over the following week, as there were plenty of things still to do before midnight. But Rose was a friend, as well as a parishioner, and they had agreed she was in need of support.
She reached down the big diary from its place on the shelf behind her. “I promised the twins we’d go to the pantomime in Southampton on Thursday, and I’ve booked the tickets, so that’s solid.” She smiled at the twins, reassuring them that promises were to be kept, and they grinned back happily, obviously looking forward to the treat.
“I can mind the kids, Dad, if you and Mum want to talk to Rose on your own,” Lorna offered.
“That’s very kind of you, Lorna,” replied Jeremy. “And it’s a good idea, too.”
He looked at Mike. “I haven’t forgotten that we’re going to try to get over to Whitehill Abbey this week.” How difficult it was juggling parish work with family life––but no more difficult, he supposed, than for other men––and women––in other lines of work.
“Are you coming with us into Southampton, Lorna?” Liz asked. “You wanted to go to the sales, didn’t you?”
“I’d rather go another day if we can,” said Lorna slightly wistfully. “You haven’t come clothes shopping with me on my own for ages, Mum.”
Liz looked at her in surprise. Lorna was not usually very interested in clothes, and Liz had assumed she would be going to the sales to buy CDs or posters. She thought of the bottom line of the Swanson bank account and wondered how much of her clothing allowance Lorna had left. If she was starting to be interested in her appearance, it would be a pity not to encourage her by applying some extra money to the project. But on the other hand, extra money, especially at Christmas, was not easy to find.
“I’ve got Friday free,” she said, trying to banish her instinctive response that it would be a nuisance to have to take the car into Southampton twice in as many days. The traffic was always heavy in sales time, and it was often difficult to park when you got there. But there was no railway station in St Martin-on-the-Hill, so driving was the only realistic option if you didn’t want to spend hours on the bus.
“I’d like that,” her daughter said quickly. “Perhaps Rose and Robert could come over on Wednesday, Dad?”
Jeremy looked at Liz.
“I can do Wednesday morning,” she said. “No pre-school this week, thank goodness.”
“I’ll check with Rose,” said Jeremy. “Now, before I forget. And then I must go and write my sermon for the midnight service. Are you coming tonight, Liz?”
“I’ll try,” she promised. She directed a look of enquiry at her elder son. “Perhaps Mike will stay home with the twins?”
“Okay,” agreed Mike, who disliked attending church but didn’t mind babysitting. “You’re leaving it a bit late, aren’t you, Dad?” he went on. “Writing your sermon, I mean? Don’t you usually have sermons ready two or three days before?”
Jeremy grimaced. “I have an idea for this one,” he said. “But in many ways I’d prefer not to have this particular idea, and I’m resisting it.”
He did not often share the inner workings of his mind with his children, and it was clear that Mike was not the only one listening to this reply.
“If it’s God’s idea,” observed Lorna. “Then wouldn’t it be better not to resist it?”
Jeremy smiled at her. “I wish it were always that simple,” he said, and he went away to phone Rose before the helter-skelter of Christmas removed it from his mind.
~ * ~
Rose was digging out a Christmas stocking for an excited Robert when Jeremy rang. His stocking, a wide L-shaped felt creation in a rather outlandish tartan, given him somewhat rather unimaginatively by his older sister Sarah the previous year, had found itself a hiding place deep in the back of a drawer, and it had taken Rose quite a while to unearth it.
“Rose!” called Clive. “Remy on the phone.”
Rose handed Robert the sock and got up slightly stiffly from the contorted position she had assumed in order to reach into the back of the drawer. “I’ll just see what Jeremy wants,” she said. “And then I’ll be back. It’s nearly time for bed, darling, and we’d better tidy your room up or Santa won’t be able to get into it. You’ll have to hang the stocking on the door handle outside!” She smiled at him to show she was joking, and went downstairs.
“I’ll take it in the kitchen, Clive,” she said, hoping he would take the hint and go back into the sitting room. She didn’t want him to overhear her conversation with Jeremy, even though she wasn’t planning to say anything particularly confidential.
Clive turned back into the other room without a word, but Rose could tell he wasn’t pleased to be excluded. She shut herself into the kitchen. “Hallo, Remy.”
“Is Wednesday morning okay for you to come over, Rose?” Jeremy’s voice said briskly. “Liz will be here if you want her to join us, and Lorna’s going to look after Robert and the twins. We seem to be a bit busy later in the week, but I’m sure we can fit in something the following week if you prefer.”
Rose was assailed suddenly by an attack of cold feet. Did she really want to talk over her situation with Jeremy? If she didn’t know even which direction she was facing, how could Jeremy disentangle the route she should take? And did she want to follow his route anyway? She experienced a moment’s unaccustomed rebellion against the Church and its morality. Either the Church went all liberal and woolly, in which case morally one might as well not try to follow Christian values at all, or it was dogmatic and judgmental, and one wished one hadn’t taken account of its views.
She sighed. She knew that rant wasn’t fair to Jeremy. He might be a clergyman, but he wasn’t living in an ivory tower. And he had helped her in the past when she had talked over a problem with him. But this time she had made her own decision, and for Robert’s sake it had to be the right one. Did she just want Jeremy’s reassurance that she was doing the right thing? If not, why take up his time? Bother the Church and its approval. Why couldn’t she just accept the decision she’d made and live according to it?
“I’m––I
’m not sure,” she stammered to Jeremy, realising that she had taken a long time to respond to his invitation. “Can I check the calendar and let you know after the holiday?” You could have said you’d found the calendar was full for this week, she told herself. But she didn’t want to lie to Remy.
“Certainly,” he said smoothly, as though he understood the undercurrents of her uncertainty perfectly well. They were probably busy at the rectory this week, she told herself. He’d sounded quite relieved not to have to fit her in.
But then he added: “We’re here when you need us, Rose. You know that.”
“Yes, Remy. Thank you.” And she was grateful. She really was. But it isn’t Remy and Liz I want, she thought, with a desperate beat of the heart. It’s Simon.
Jeremy was thinking of Simon, too, as he put the receiver down. He had promised––weeks ago––to invite Simon over for a meal. Nothing had come of it and he had forgotten again. He couldn’t remind Liz about it at that moment, though. The Christmas helterskelter had begun, and his wife’s brain would be full of festive food preparation, present-wrapping and stocking-filling and other seasonal matters. While he himself ought to be putting the finishing touches to that sermon he had to preach at the Midnight Eucharist. He went over to the study door and closed it firmly.