You Owe Me Five Farthings

by Jane Anstey

  He smiled at Clive, and warm with the sensation produced by the smile, Clive walked back to his own room. It seemed a long time until tomorrow afternoon, but Jan had given him a task to do. He felt doubtful whether his attempts would produce any concrete results, but at the same time he had faith in Jan and in Jan’s wisdom. One step at a time. That’s all I can take. I don’t know where I’m going, or why I even feel I’m on a journey.

  He put the little paperback Jan had given him on his bedside table and lay down on the bed. Within moments he was asleep.

  He woke an hour later from a vivid dream of his childhood, in which he was back in his old bedroom at his parents’ house in London, shaking with terror as he had so often done in reality. He could hear his father shouting at his mother, berating her for some imagined misdemeanour. In a moment his father would come and shout at him, too, for as soon as he became angry he would take out his bad temper on everyone, whether or not they had done anything to annoy him. He and his mother tried hard to keep his father happy, for each other’s sake as much as for their own. Yet sometimes he felt he had to betray her and fail to defend her against his father’s criticism––for if he tried to take her part, his father would grow still more furious with both of them and accuse them of ganging up on him.

  He lay for a while trying to compose himself and escape from the remembered emotions of the dream. He had not thought about his father for years. His mother had died five years ago, and not long afterwards his father had developed dementia and Clive had arranged for him to be taken into a specialist care home in the London suburbs. He had not wanted to visit his father, for he had had nothing to say. Why had talking to Jan set off this dream of his childhood?

  He raised this with Jan when they met again the following afternoon.

  “It may be significant,” agreed Jan with some caution. “Tell me about your relationship with your father. Was he always angry?”

  Clive thought about that for a moment. “I think we always sensed the anger was there, simmering somewhere, though he was a cold man in many ways. I never felt I had a real relationship with him at all. I was always struggling to satisfy him, to keep him happy, but never sure I could. And when he let rip, he was quite terrifying, though in fact he never laid a hand on either my mother or myself, as far as I can remember.”

  “What kind of things made him angry?” enquired Jan.

  “He liked to be in control,” remembered Clive slowly. “He didn’t like arguments or disagreements, contrary opinions, things like that.”

  “Did he have strong prejudices?”

  Clive didn’t answer for a few moments, concentrating on controlling his emotions as the memories rushed over him. “He was homophobic,” he said at last, rather thickly.

  “You have been wondering about your own sexuality,” said Jan, as though stating a fact rather than asking a question.

  Clive met his eyes. “Yes.”

  “And yet all your sexual conquests in the past have been women?”

  “That’s true.” He took a breath. “When I was a teenager, I wouldn’t have dared even think of anything else.”

  “But you aren’t a boy any longer. As a man, you have still chosen to pursue women, not other men.” He paused for a moment. “Do you still see your father?”

  Clive explained about his father’s dementia. “I don’t want to see him anyway,” he averred, and his voice sounded slightly petulant even to his own ears. “I don’t have anything to say.”

  “And thus you have cut yourself off from your fears,” observed Jan.

  Clive nodded slowly, and his heart began to pound. “I suppose I have. I realise that my ambition, all that striving to do well in my career when I was young, came out of trying to please my father––to make him proud of me. But it runs deeper than that.”

  “Gay men do not commonly run after women as you have done,” Jan commented. “Not exclusively, and I think not even in these exceptional circumstances, where to acknowledge divergent sexuality would be to invite condemnation. You must know that. Why do you now think your true orientation may be homosexual?”

  The dark eyes met his calmly but firmly. Jan clearly felt the question was important and wanted him to face up to whatever the answer turned out to be.

  Clive’s eyes fell like a boy in trouble at school, but Jan’s voice had not been like his father’s, heavy with anger and condemnation. It had been serene and supportive. “Two reasons,” he answered after a moment. “The first is that I’ve never been deeply in love with a woman––I know that now. I’ve always used them, for instant gratification mainly. In Rose’s case, to found a family.”

  “Do you feel you have followed the role model of your father?” asked Jan neutrally.

  “No!” said Clive in indignation. “I haven’t been like my father. More distant than I should have been, maybe, particularly with Robert, but that’s partly because he’s such a Mummy’s boy that I don’t get much of a look-in. But Sarah and I get on well, and we always have.”

  “You do not see yourself as a controlling husband and father?” Jan persisted.

  “No! At least … I suppose Rose might see me that way.” It was an unwelcome thought, and Clive turned it away.

  “And the second reason?”

  Clive’s eyes fell again. “Because of you,” he said. “When I met you, I felt I could love someone, really love them, for the first time.”

  There was silence. Clive looked up hesitantly, with some anxiety, and found that Jan was smiling at him. “I am not angry,” he said.

  Clive laughed suddenly, with relief. “I expected you to be, didn’t I?”

  “Clearly,” Jan agreed, smiling. “But I am not your father, though spiritually I may stand in that role as confessor.”

  “That isn’t how I’ve thought of you,” Clive admitted. “Even as confessor, you are mentor and friend, not father.” He thought of the word lover, but it didn’t seem appropriate to voice it.

  “No,” agreed Jan. “And how you need to think of me is as a fellow-Christian, a companion on the journey, perhaps. A soul friend––a brother. That is all that I have to give you, and it is better than any other relationship I might offer.”

  So Jan had heard what he hadn’t said, and had answered it.

  “I do not know whether you are gay in any sense,” Jan went on serenely. “Not exclusively, that is clear. You could not have engaged in all that rampant straight sexuality if you had been. It is possible you are bisexual, and your homosexual side was suppressed by your early fear of your father’s homophobia. That would fit the facts, I think, though I am not a specialist in sexual therapy.”

  He paused, but Clive said nothing. He felt even more confused than before about his orientation. Did bisexuality mean that you could just switch your preference either way at will? Was Jan asking him to sublimate his sexual feelings altogether?

  “However,” Jan went on, “there is no reason I can think of why you should not be able to revive your marriage. You clearly have a capacity for heterosexual relations, even though it has been misused in the past. That has now been forgiven and laid to rest, however, and you need to bring this capacity to build a new relationship with your wife.”

  Clive looked at him in horror. “But I tell you, I’ve never loved a woman‒‒as a woman. I thought I’d explained that. This being in love‒‒it’s all new to me.” I love you, Jan. Can’t you see that? “You don’t want me to use Rose again, do you?” he finished, in desperation.

  “Certainly not,” replied Jan tartly. “But I think you are running away again, this time from your past mistakes. There is room in this relationship to build real married love, not romance or sexual hijinks but serious commitment. Rose has indicated her willingness to try, in spite of her own feelings, in spite of her past wrongs at your hands. She is willing to forgive you. That is what you should aim for. You cannot go on running any longer.”

  Clive put his head in his hands. How could he even begin to follow Jan’
s prescription? Yet he had put himself in Jan’s hands as spiritual director and must take his advice seriously.

  “You will not be alone in your endeavour,” Jan assured him, his voice gentle. “You will have my support and can come here to talk at any time you need to. We will start Catholic instruction and bring you into the Church as soon as possible. Most of all, you will have God’s help. Trust Him and rely on Him, and all will be well.”

  ~ * ~

  Jan watched Clive go out to the car and hoped that he had not been too hard on him. It was a lot to ask, this leap of faith, but it had seemed to him that pure trust in God was what he should suggest. Clive needed to learn to listen to God and find the way forward for himself rather than relying on Jan for spiritual direction, especially given that he had expressed inappropriate feelings towards him.

  Yet he was an interesting man. Jan rather admired the way he had overcome his childhood fears, which would have crushed many boys, and had forged a successful working career, however much emotionally his life seemed to be stunted. He would have liked to meet Rose, who sounded a brave and unselfish person deserving of deeper love than Clive had yet been able to give her, and he hoped that the new Clive would be able to win her love again. A fulfilled marriage, a fresh start, must be the right thing for Clive to strive for, he thought, whatever doubts the man might currently be having about his own sexuality. It was the ideal the Church promoted, and for good reason, Jan thought, especially where there were children involved.

  As for Clive’s declaration of love for him, the abbot spared neither time nor energy even to consider it. A passing phase, he was sure––more akin to hero-worship than true romantic affection. Though perhaps, the disturbing thought came to him, it was similar to his own youthful love for his childhood protector and rescuer, who had then become his lover and master. Truly gay love was sometimes like that––a younger man looking up to an older one, coming under his spell to a greater or lesser extent in an unequal relationship that might yet contain an element of love. The Greeks of Antiquity had made a social institution out of it that privileged such relationships above others, and in the process had sidelined marriage, which was reserved solely for procreation––a travesty of Christian love which Jan had come to reject utterly.

  He had told Clive the truth. Celibacy was a state he had embraced utterly when he entered the religious life. Even though his old lover had come to join the community in recent years, he had not felt tempted to renew their relationship. He had not even called him by his old name, thinking of him only as a brother under his charge. He wondered suddenly whether Brother Andrew shared that view.

  He felt a twinge of concern for the old monk, who had seemed on occasion recently to be behaving slightly oddly, even irrationally, though no one else seemed to have noticed. Could he be suffering the beginnings of dementia? If so, they ought to watch him more carefully. Perhaps he should talk to Brother Luke, the infirmarian. He had been a hospital doctor before he retired to the religious life and usually had his medical eyes open where the members of the community were concerned.

  Sixteen

  At the end of January Rose decided, after much dithering, to take part in the quarterly ringing outing arranged by the local branch of the Guild of Bellringers. It was the first time she had been considered proficient enough to be invited on one of these affairs, which were intended for the more competent ringers who loyally supported their local towers week in and week out and who were often ringing methods far below the level of which they were capable in order to keep the tradition alive and prevent rural towers having to disband. Only at the district practices that were held one evening a month could they indulge themselves ringing such advanced methods as Stedman, Treble Bob, and London Surprise, and thus keep their own finer skills honed. So, every three months or so, the District Ringing Master organised an outing, usually involving a coach trip to a neighbouring county, to give them a chance to enjoy the delights of handling unfamiliar bells.

  Rose herself was not convinced of her own ability to ring in this exalted company, but Geoff had been reassuring, and to her surprise, Clive had insisted that she go.

  “I’ve left Robert with you for an awful lot of weekends lately,” he pointed out, as they discussed it that week. “It’s only fair that you should have some fun and Robert and I should have some time together. I’ll stay at home next weekend and you can go out and enjoy yourself on the Saturday.”

  Rose looked at him and tried to work out what was behind this. He still hadn’t given her any idea where he had been these last few weekends, although it was obviously important to him, and she had decided not to ask again and risk sounding suspicious, even jealous, which she certainly was not. It didn’t seem to occur to him that she might like him to spend a weekend at home with her and Robert, just their little family together. They saw little of each other on weekday evenings. Clive came home late much more rarely, but he often shut himself up in his study after dinner. They continued to sleep in separate rooms, and to her relief, Clive had not tried to visit her in bed. She was baffled by it all and sometimes irritated, but the only clear thought in her mind was that she must wait for him to work it all out for himself––whatever “it” was. In any case, the temptation to go on the ringing outing, where Simon would be sure to be present, proved irresistible.

  Rose found herself sitting beside Lesley Trant on the coach on the outward journey and could think of nothing to say to her, though they exchanged some banal trivialities. But fortunately, Lesley discovered a soulmate in one of the other Deanery ringers whom she had not met before, and after the first couple of towers they visited, Rose was left alone in her seat. Simon also, she noticed, was occupying a double seat, since the coach wasn’t quite full. But she dared not change seats to join him. He had not looked at her or made any sign to suggest that he would welcome anyone’s company, and he certainly would not thank her for making them a focus for gossip. It would be an exquisite kind of torture, anyway, to be so close to him and yet not able to touch him, or speak and respond freely. She sat resolutely in her solitary place as the coach moved from church to church across south-west Wiltshire.

  Two of the towers they visited stood out in her memory in the years to come. At St Nicholas, Semley, the six bells were so heavy that some of the local ringers had come to help raise them. Two men at a time were needed to raise the largest three bells, in a combined rhythm that impressed her with its absolute co-ordination, and even Simon worked up a sweat. The other was St Mary, East Knoyle, a few miles to the north of Semley, which was the last stop on their day’s tour. Here the windswept churchyard swooped up a steep incline to a tiny lane from which there was a view southwards towards Shaftesbury and Cranborne Chase beyond. The first-floor ringing chamber was rather small for the numbers on their tour, so they rang in two groups, the second of which contained all the St Martin-on-the-Hill ringers. Geoff took charge of this latter group and led them through a long and complicated touch of Plain Bob Minor, and then one of St Martin’s Doubles, for Rose’s sake, since she was familiar with the treble’s role in that method from last year’s quarter-peal.

  Geoff, seeing the expression on her face, smiled at her reassuringly before they began ringing. “Count your places and you’ll be fine.”

  She must still have looked very anxious, for before she could suggest that she hand over the treble to one of the more experienced ringers, Geoff and Simon had exchanged glances, and she found herself with the bell rope in her hand and Simon standing beside her against the tower wall.

  “It’ll be all right,” he reassured her. “I’ll help you if you get lost.”

  Uncomfortably conscious of his presence so close to her shoulder, she had feared she wouldn’t be able to concentrate or to listen to his instructions. But when he spoke, his calmness soothed her, and the bell was an easy one to handle, without the disconcerting peculiarities of some she had tackled that day in other towers. She settled down to try at least to make the touch a succes
s for the sake of the other ringers. Lesley on the second and Geoff himself on the fifth nodded and smiled to her as their bells passed hers, hunting, dodging, making places, creating the distinctive music of the method, with the tenor ringing sonorously and steadily behind them. Once Simon reminded her when she should lead, and several times he pointed out the bells to follow, but mostly she managed the task herself. Where at the beginning of the touch she had felt his closeness as a disturbing factor, arousing emotions and desires that she had no business––or desire––to feel, by the end she knew it as a rock of resource and safety, offering help when required and silent support in between. Something steadied and settled between them in those few short minutes which she felt would never quite be lost, even if they were parted forever.

  They rang the Knoyle bells for another half an hour, then climbed carefully down the steep open-tread stair from the ringing chamber to join the other group of ringers as they left the church, straggling along the path that led down towards the village hall, where they were to be given a cream tea by the local churchwomen’s guild before the journey home.

  Reluctant to leave, stirred by the unobtrusive communion between Simon and herself that had arisen during the touch of St Martin’s Doubles, and obscurely miserable that the day was coming to an end, she let the rest of the ringers move on in their chattering groups of two or three down the path to the village hall and instead turned left up the steep path to the top of the churchyard. There, in the chill of the late winter afternoon, with the sun dropping away behind the hill at her shoulder, Simon came up beside her and put his arm around her, as though he had the right. For a while, the two of them lingered together in the soft pink light of the sunset, looking southwards across the valley towards Shaftesbury. They were quite alone.

  As she felt his hand on her shoulder, she half-turned towards him, the fractured nature of their relationship for a moment forgotten.

  “Isn’t this view wonderful, Simon? There’s nothing like this in Hampshire.”