by Jane Anstey
“You gave up Simon for Robert’s sake more than for Clive’s,” he reminded her, wondering how much this had been a decision based purely on Christian morality and obligation, and how much one taken out of love, because Robert needed her. “Surely that was worth doing?”
She bent her head, clearly reliving that earlier spiritual and emotional struggle. He saw the tears seep over her hands and drip dolefully onto her skirt.
“Clive won’t even give me a divorce,” she went on, bitterness creeping into her voice. “He says he’s a Catholic now and they don’t believe in it. I’d have to make do with a legal separation, he says, if I want his consent.”
“You weren’t married in a Catholic church,” he pointed out. “Wouldn’t that invalidate Clive’s position? In fact, come to think of it, the Catholic church may not officially recognise Clive’s marriage at all, in the religiously-indissoluble sense, anyway.” It was frustrating not to know how a sister Church would consider the matter, but Catholic thought on moral issues was arcane, even to him.
“That doesn’t let me out legally, though, does it?” she said. “I’m still married to him. Unless I divorce him myself.”
“That would be possible,” he agreed. He had reservations about divorce in principle, in common with many Anglicans, but in this case it really wasn’t reasonable to put them forward. Legally, she certainly had more than enough grounds to divorce her husband, and many would argue that, even from a religious point of view, his desertion and adultery had broken the relationship irrevocably. “But in any case, I’m sure the Benedictines will say that Clive has to fulfil all his obligations to you and Robert, whether or not they recognise the marriage as binding spiritually. They won’t let him just abandon you and go into the cloister.”
“Yes,” she agreed miserably. “You’re probably right. And he isn’t doing that, really. He’s leaving things as settled as he can. But Remy, I’m not sure I can face any of it. He says he won’t agree to a consent divorce, though he won’t contest it if I divorce him. But I don’t know whether he’ll keep to that, when it comes down to it. And it would mean going through the lawyers, and everything. Oh, it’s all too much.”
Jeremy patted her arm sympathetically. “Give it a bit of time,” he said. “See how you feel in a few weeks’ time. You don’t have to institute divorce proceedings immediately.”
Rose hesitated, her mind running madly over the possibilities, as it had done for the last few days. What if she told Simon her marriage was over? How final had that final goodbye really been?
“When is Clive leaving?” asked Jeremy.
“In a few weeks. Before Easter, anyway. He says he doesn’t want to stay with us, even if he can’t start his novitiate formally yet. They’ve suggested he live in a monastery up in the Midlands for three months, apparently, to be sure of his own mind––but he’s obviously made it up already. I don’t think he’ll change it again.”
“How have...other things...been left?” asked Jeremy, wording his question carefully.
“Clive doesn’t want anything material to take with him,” she went on, understanding him at once. “Apart from one or two books. He’s going to give most of his clothes to the charity shops. And we have a joint account for housekeeping and so on. I’m to have all the money in that. He’s paid off the mortgage on the house and transferred the deeds to my name. He’s put money aside to cover school fees in the future. He’s even giving me some money to tide me over for a few months. It’s all very generous, but what am I to do after that? Clive’s quitting his job. If he goes all out for this poverty idea, he won’t have any money to give us, even if the Church thinks he has an obligation to us. I don’t have any qualifications or experience. The bills and the upkeep for Sundials will be too much for me to manage on my own. But I don’t want to uproot Robert just now. And I don’t want him to be brought up in poverty.”
The last sentence came out fiercely, desperately, and Jeremy knew at once that this was the nub of the matter. Rose would deal somehow with the emotional consequences of Clive’s desertion if they affected her alone, even though she might resent them. But she was distraught that Robert might suffer as a result of his father’s defection. And her own childhood, he remembered, had been blighted by poverty and insecurity.
Poor Rose, he thought. It really was too bad of Clive. He had clearly found something desperately important to him spiritually, and Clive-like was pursuing it single-mindedly and without much thought for the consequences to other people. Jeremy reflected that it was just as well after all that Liz wasn’t party to this conversation. He could imagine what she would say about Rose’s errant husband.
“Just remember one thing, Rose,” he said, as she got up to leave. “If God is using this whole messy situation to bring Clive nearer to Him, it doesn’t mean He’s abandoned you and Robert. If you trust Him, it will all turn out right, you’ll see.” How lame that sounds. He believed it was true, believed that the “mysterious ways” in which God proverbially performed his wonders often reflected the actual lived experience of Christians. But he also knew how difficult Rose would find it to take that on board in the face of the buffetings she had suffered over recent months.
She shook with sobs.
“And we’re here, Liz and I,” he added––even more lamely, it seemed to him. Would that they could be more help––but what could they do? “Liz will be back later. Do you want to stay on and talk to her? Shall I ask her to phone you?”
She looked up at him and smiled suddenly. “It’s one of the best things I have,” she said. “Such good friends to support me. I really appreciate it, Remy.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, leaving him in a state of complete surprise, with the tears starting in his own eyes.
~ * ~
As she walked home, shivering in the bitter cold snap that had descended over the country at the end of winter, Rose thought over their conversation. “It’s too much to take,” she said to herself again. The fear of poverty––even perhaps of homelessness or the kind of vagrant life she had led as a teenager with her mother after they left her violent stepfather––filled her with terror.
God asks too much, she thought suddenly, indignantly. I’m not superhuman. Rebellion welled up in her, rejecting the belief in Christian self-sacrifice that had sustained her through so many of her recent trials. She had been willing to give up so much––even the prospect of happiness with Simon––for the sake of Robert and Clive, out of duty to the idea of marriage, out of love for her son. Clive’s latest decision felt like a physical blow, as though all her offering of herself had been thrown back at her rudely, indifferently, even scornfully. God seemed ready to go on demanding self-sacrifice from her even when it wasn’t really needed. If I had gone to live with Simon and taken Robert with me, we would all have been happier, she said to herself. And now it’s probably too late.
At that moment, dawning like an angry red sky full of scudding clouds, came the realisation that she had had enough of religion. If God was really there, He was too demanding, too much the overbearing unreasonable parent rather than the loving Father Jeremy preached. She couldn’t live up to His high standards. Why bother to try to please God when clearly the task was impossible? Besides, so many people didn’t seem to believe He existed at all––Simon didn’t, for one.
I will stand on my own two feet, she thought resolutely. Simon can do without religion, and so can I. It might be too late for her and Simon, as she had said to Jeremy, but at least she would not feel guilty about her desire for him. She would no longer have to tiptoe around Clive or try to fit her actions into any conventional sense of morality. Whatever she felt was right, she could do. And God, if He was there somewhere in the background, either wouldn’t care, or wouldn’t notice. She was clearly too insignificant for His interest, and He was too uncertain and shadowy for her to reach. She would become an agnostic and think for herself.
She smiled suddenly. Simon would certainly approve of her decision, ev
en though she might not have a chance to tell him. What Jeremy would have to say about her new stance, she didn’t like to think. No doubt he would be horrified, maybe even hurt or offended, and she hated to cause him and Liz pain after all their kindness. But it was no good. You couldn’t go on believing for someone else’s sake, however good they were, and however much you owed them. Religious belief couldn’t be drummed up out of nothing if it wasn’t really there. It was a relief to let it go, and not struggle on against the tide. But she feared the relief would only be temporary. When the real decisions had to be made, how would she fare with no moral code to fall back on, with no hope of guidance from above?
~ * ~
Jeremy found himself waiting for Liz to come home, longing to talk over the problem with her, deeply worried that this last blow might be too much for Rose, especially since it carried financial and practical implications that she was not well-placed to deal with. But when his wife arrived, tired and stressed by the difficulties of filling in for a colleague in an unfamiliar subject area and without adequate resources, she had nothing to offer beyond the ascerbic comments he had half-expected from her about Clive’s selfishness.
“I really don’t know what to say, Remy,” she said, rather distractedly unpacking the twins’ lunchboxes. “Except that she’ll be better off without that rotten husband of hers. Does he never think of anyone but himself?”
Jeremy attempted to explain to her Clive’s deep sense of vocation, though it went against the grain to defend him. “At least he’s wanting to turn over a new leaf, even if it is in a direction that seems a bit extreme. I think he’s probably sincere, although I wish it hadn’t had to impact on Rose and Robert like this. Perhaps I should talk to him myself.”
Liz snorted. “We could all feel a sense of calling, couldn’t we, if it happened to suit us? What happened to his sense of responsibility, that’s what I want to know? Why couldn’t he try making a go of being married––make up to Rose for all those years of unhappiness?”
Jeremy sighed. “I know what you mean. But perhaps there’s more to it than we know. Maybe he has tried. Clive hasn’t told me anything. I’ve only heard Rose’s side.”
“He’s found the abbot of Whitehill more congenial than you, that’s what it is,” retorted Liz. “Less critical, too, probably. A convert with a sense of vocation. That’s a good trophy for the abbot, I should think.”
“I don’t think you’re being altogether fair to Jan Petrowski,” protested Jeremy. “He’s a good man and a good priest. We don’t know what he’s said to Clive about all this. I do know that Clive hasn’t been welcomed into the community with open arms. Rose said he has to serve a probationary three months in another monastery before he’ll even be able to enter the novitiate. Maybe Jan has reservations about the situation, too.”
Liz shrugged. The conversation had touched a nerve, for she was uncomfortably aware that Jeremy himself was struggling in his commitment to the priesthood, perhaps even starting to question whether he was in the right job––although he hadn’t stopped caring about pastoral ministry or about individual parishioners. She had seen the warning signs over the last six months or so, and it worried her. What was the point of her continuing to support him and give her time and effort to parish affairs if the central pivot, his own vocation, was wobbling? She felt exasperated with the whole situation. Even the idea of vocation sometimes seemed nebulous, even unreal, to her, though she knew it meant a lot to Jeremy. Maybe in that sense he understood Clive better than she did.
She watched him leave the room, his shoulders sagging a little, and wished she could have found something more positive to say, some better insight or more compassionate understanding to bring to Rose’s situation. She wondered whether Rose would share it all with her, as well as with Jeremy, and if so what she should say. Truly, Rose had her deepest sympathy. Although it had not taken him away from them personally, Jeremy’s vocation had imposed all kinds of sacrifice on the family, which perhaps increased her sense of irritation with Clive’s more extreme espousal of the same calling. She reflected that at least in taking Clive away from Rose and Robert, it would give them a chance to rebuild their lives without him. She had not believed Clive would stick with his marriage for long, whatever his contrition for his past misdeeds, and although she felt very sorry for Rose, there was a certain perverse satisfaction in being proved right.
Twenty
Liz’s temper was not improved by discovering the next day, in the course of her normal internet trawl, the perfect job––a full-time job teaching science and technology at a further education college in Oxford. She read the job description in detail and found herself longing to be able to apply. Her qualifications and experience were tailor-made, and there were clearly opportunities for rapid career advancement for the right candidate. The closing date was early March, which meant that, unfortunately, there was over a week before it would be safely out of reach, if she was tempted to apply. And she was sorely tempted, more than for any job she’d seen.
But it was utterly impossible. Not only was it out of reach geographically, requiring a move for everyone, but it would cut across Jeremy’s consistent desire to be chief breadwinner, leaving her the family role alongside part-time earnings that she had always taken. When the children were little, she had been happy to do it. Now that the twins were in their ninth year and the older ones were teenagers and able to babysit, the situation was different. Financially, the job would make them better off, too, though living in Oxford might, she supposed, be cripplingly expensive.
Fighting off the desire to broach the subject with Jeremy made her irritable and touchy all week, and by the weekend she felt weary and wretched, so that when Chris and Bethan wanted to ask Robert round to play at the rectory once more, she almost refused. But realising that if Robert didn’t come over, Chris would ask to go to his more undesirable friend Darren’s instead, she picked up the phone to speak to Rose.
“Are you sure that’s all right, Liz?” asked Rose when the invitation was issued. “He seems to spend half his time at your house.”
“He really isn’t any bother,” Liz assured her truthfully. “But I’m afraid I never do anything interesting with them. They just amuse themselves in the playroom most of the time.”
“Robert always seems to enjoy himself, anyway,” Rose told her. There was a moment’s pause. “Are you all right, Liz? You sound awfully tired. Can I do anything to help?”
The offer was made so humbly that Liz was touched.
“You’ve been so very good to me over the last few months,” Rose went on, in the same rather diffident tone. “I’d love to repay it somehow.”
This was what happened, Liz thought, when someone was always on the receiving end of help. They began to feel that their own resources were permanently inadequate for anyone else’s need––and that was all wrong.
“You’re my friend,” she told her. “You don’t need to repay anything.”
“No, but it isn’t like that, Liz,” said Rose more assertively than usual. “It may be that I can’t do anything for you, but if you’re tired or worried, I’d like to try. Otherwise you’re not letting me be your friend. It cuts both ways.”
There was a lot of truth in that, Liz thought. “Come and have a cup of tea with me when you bring Robert,” she invited Rose, on impulse. “And we can catch up a bit. It seems ages since we sat down and had anything approaching a real chat.”
“Yes,” agreed Rose at once. “I’d like that, Liz. We’ll be round in half an hour or so.”
Liz supposed Rose would probably want to air her own grievances against Clive, or talk through her dilemma as to how to deal with the new situation. She sighed. She didn’t feel she had the emotional resources to support Rose in this new difficulty, though she knew she should. A simple chat about village matters or the children was about all she felt able to cope with. I shall just have to try to steer the conversation away from Clive. It can’t be that difficult.
“Lorna!” she called. “Can you keep an eye on the children, please? Robert’s coming to play with Chris and Beth, and I want to have a quiet cup of tea with Rose.”
Lorna appeared from the dining room, her glasses falling down her nose and her hair curling wildly around her face. “Can I just finish this bit of homework, Mum? I’m in the middle of some maths, and I don’t want to forget how to do it.”
Liz smiled at her daughter. “Of course you can. Rose and Robert will be half an hour or so and, in any case, the children will probably look after themselves most of the time. I don’t want to stop you doing your work.”
Lorna nodded cheerfully and pushed her glasses back up her nose. “That’s fine, Mum. I’d love a reason to take a break. Why do they give us so much homework, d’you think? It seems to get worse every year.”
“Unfortunately it will,” prophesied her mother sadly. “You’re stuck with that, I’m afraid, darling, right the way through to A-level.”
“I don’t think I’ll stay at school till I’m eighteen,” Lorna told her. “I’d rather do something practical––an NVQ in childcare, maybe. Or an apprenticeship. A-level sounds too much like hard work.”
Liz laughed. “We can talk about it sometime. You’ve a way to go yet before you get to make those kinds of choices.”
Lorna nodded again. She pushed her hair back off her face and went back into the dining room to continue wrestling with geometry.
~ * ~
As Liz poured her a cup of tea, Rose found herself recalling the afternoon last autumn when she had last sat down with Liz for a sociable chat. Then she had been concerned about what she would do with herself if Robert were sent away to boarding school, and wondering what employment she might be able to take on. But that had been for the sake of something useful to do, some independence from Clive, perhaps even a bit of rebellion in the face of his affair with Olivia––not out of any need for money. Now the situation was very different, but she was no nearer finding a way into the job market.