by Jane Anstey
The thought sent a shiver of fear down her spine. The money Clive had made over to her would last three or four months, and then she would be reliant on benefits. But she was determined not to burden Liz with this. There was nothing Liz could suggest other than she had all those months ago, and in any case she looked tired and worn herself. This was such an unusual state of affairs for Liz, who always seemed to sail through all the demands made on her with no diminution of either energy or grooming, that Rose found herself wondering what had brought her so low. But she felt she had no business to ask. Vulgar curiosity, that’s all it is, she reproved herself.
Unfortunately this fear of intruding on her hostess’s privacy by seeming inquisitive, along with Liz’s unwillingness either to ask Rose about her situation post-Clive or to share her own current unhappiness, stifled any conversation almost totally.
“Robert’s settling down at school again well,” said Rose, trying a new tack.
“That’s good,” responded Liz. “Fran’s such a good headteacher, and the children are lucky to have her for their class teacher this year, too.”
Rose agreed. She asked whether Lorna was happy at the Winchester comprehensive school she attended.
“She’s fine,” said Liz. “She complains about the amount of homework they get, but they all do that. She said today she’d prefer to do practical training rather than A-levels, which might be a good idea––she’s not an academic type like Mike. But it’s early days to decide that, I told her.”
“Yes,” said Rose. “I’m sure I had no idea at all what I wanted to do with my life when I was thirteen.” And I don’t have much even now, she thought sadly. Why do some people know so early, and others never find out? It had been enough, when she was thirteen, to continue doggedly with her education in the face of changes of schools and friends forced on her by a peripatetic existence. She had had no chance to develop ambition or expectations. How lucky Lorna is, she thought, to have some choices.
Liz seemed to hear an echo of this behind her actual words––for she knew something of Rose’s early life from previous confidences. “It’s hard for you, all this business about Clive,” she said, sensitively not mentioning Rose’s childhood, but making sure that Rose nevertheless knew she understood it made everything worse.
In her turn, Rose was conscious of the effort that sympathy had taken. “Things aren’t always easy for you, either,” she answered. “I always admire how you manage everything, with the family to look after and your own work, not to mention the playgroup. But sometimes it must be a bit much.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Liz nodded, her face tight as she bit back the emotion that threatened to well up. She hesitated, and then went on: “I wouldn’t tell everyone this, Rose. But I trust you to keep it to yourself.”
Rose wondered what was coming. It was rare for Liz to share something so personal that it needed a security tag.
“I’ve seen this job advertised, in Oxford. It’s just up my street, but I can’t apply for it because it would mean moving Remy and the family and disrupting all the things we’re settled into here. But I’m really minding about it, and particularly because Remy isn’t very happy here at the moment––don’t let him know I told you that, will you? He’s very secretive about such things. I feel I’m giving up something that matters to me to help him stay in a job that’s doing him no good. Can that be right?”
Rose didn’t know what to say. It was so unusual for Liz to ask her advice––could that be what she was asking? It certainly seemed so––that she felt she should try to come up with some solution to the problem. But how could she expect to know about anything better than her clever, capable friend?
The question hung between them, while she wracked her brains for anything to say that might not sound too stupid or irrational.
“I suppose,” she tried at last, feeling sure her idea was too obvious to be helpful, “I suppose you have to think of what’s best for everyone––not just you or Remy or the children, but the family as a whole. But I don’t know what that would be, Liz. I’m not very good at thinking things through––as you know!” Rose smiled as she said the last few words, and received an answering smile, though Liz’s eyes were misty.
“I’d better go now,” she said awkwardly, placing her cup carefully on a coaster on the polished table. “You must have lots of things to do.” Coward. You’re just running away before she can tell you what a fool you are.
Liz got up. “Thanks, Rose,” she said. “It sounds obvious, you’re right. But I hadn’t really thought about the problem that way. Looking at the bigger picture, as it were.”
Rose brightened. Her contribution had not been altogether wasted, it seemed. “Thanks for the tea,” she said. “And for everything, Liz. I hope you can find a decision that feels right for all of you. But….”
“But?” Liz prompted, as she paused.
“I don’t want to lose you all––and it sounds as though you might have to move away, if you do get that job.” She could hear in her voice the raw sense of loss she felt as she thought of St Martin without Liz and Jeremy. No Simon and no Swansons. Even no Clive. What on earth would she do?
Liz went over to Rose and the two women hugged––a little shyly, because it was the first time they had felt close enough for that kind of physical expression of affection, but warmly nevertheless. Rose was conscious of a new equality in their friendship. Liz had shared a problem with her, had trusted her discretion with something that would affect the parish and shouldn’t be shared with anyone else and had been grateful for her suggestion. Perhaps Rose Althorpe was worth something after all.
Much emboldened, she put on her coat and walked home.
~ * ~
Liz took the tea tray into the kitchen thoughtfully. What was best for the family as a whole? she asked herself. Moving the children from schools and friends would be difficult socially. But happier parents and a higher income were worth something, too. And there was so little for the older ones here in rural Hampshire. Oxford would offer them many more opportunities.
But then, how would Remy feel about the idea?
She poured herself another cup of tea and took it upstairs to the little den, once an extra bedroom, where she kept her laptop and her private papers. The Oxford college’s website was listed on her favourites screen, and she brought it up quickly and read the job description through again. It did sound so tailor-made for her that it almost seemed churlish not to consider it further, and the fact that the job had come up rather late, within the normal half-term notice period, meant that not many people would be able to apply because they wouldn’t be able to start next term. Her evening class, by contrast, operated on a zero hours freelance contract and no notice needed to be given, except by courtesy.
Feeling guilty, yet at the same time breathlessly excited, she downloaded the details and an application form and saved them in her own passworded section of the computer, safe from prying eyes. The children didn’t use the laptop, as they had their own old desktop in the playroom, but Jeremy occasionally borrowed it if he needed a computer to take with him on parish business. She didn’t want him to know about this yet; it probably wouldn’t come to anything anyway. Even after the half-term deadline, there would probably be other better qualified people applying, who had more of the right kind of experience.
But it couldn’t do any harm to think about it a little more, even though she knew that would make it harder to bear when––if––she had to reject the idea.
Twenty-one
When two Sundays passed without Rose appearing for the morning service––including a Family Service, in which she and Robert usually took part––Jeremy became concerned that something––something new, or maybe just the old something––was wrong. Next morning, ignoring the fact that it was officially his day off, he went round to Sundials to find out.
“I just don’t want to be part of the church any more, or be a Christian,” she told him. “It’s lik
e a relationship that’s failed––it’s over.” The underlying comparison was clear between this relationship and the one with Clive that had collapsed so recently.
“Rose! But why?”
“Clive is leaving us for good in a couple of weeks,” she said, confirming his suspicions about the comparison. She sounded very angry, and he could hardly blame her.
“Oh, Rose! I’m so sorry. But I suppose you did expect it.”
She glared at him. “He’s spending Easter at Whitehill Abbey, then going up to Birmingham to the monastery where he’s spending the next three months. God can have him, Remy. And he can have God. I don’t want to have anything more to do with either of them.”
Her face was set in stubborn defiance, an expression he had never seen it wear. Perhaps, he reflected, it was the only way she could deal with the devastating blows that had been meted out to her. But she sounded so determined that he found he had nothing to say. No new arguments, no words of wisdom or persuasion occurred to him that might sway her, or comfort her.
“Rose, how will you cope?” he asked instead. He wasn’t sure whether he meant financially, emotionally or spiritually, or perhaps all three.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “But I will. Somehow. I’ll find my own way.”
“And Robert?” he enquired gently. He was very concerned about Robert, who had, even before the traumatic events of the autumn, struck him as a very parentified little boy. With Clive gone, Robert might feel it incumbent on him to look after Rose, and their already close relationship might be in danger of developing an unhealthy absorption in each other that would allow neither to move forward emotionally. All of which was difficult to put into words, especially with Rose in such an unwelcoming mood. There wasn’t much anyone could do without Rose’s co-operation. The situation hardly called for social services intervention––at least, he very much hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
“Robert will be fine,” Rose declared. “He’ll miss having a father, but Clive hasn’t ever made much time for him, so there won’t be that much to miss. We may have to move out of here eventually, but I’ll face that when it happens. But I’m grateful for your concern, Remy,” she added. It sounded like a polite afterthought, lacking the normal warmth with which she expressed her gratitude.
She said nothing about Simon or where he might fit in this new equation. Clearly she didn’t want to confide in Jeremy to that extent. She hadn’t even offered him coffee, as she always had in the past. They had remained on their feet in the hall throughout the conversation. He was clearly no longer welcome in her life, however much she had valued his help in the past. This hurt him, in view of all that he and Liz had done for her in the autumn. Perhaps Liz would be able to reach her where he could not.
He accepted her decision, said goodbye to her as warmly as he felt was appropriate, and left her standing implacably in the doorway like a guard on duty.
“I blame Clive,” he told Liz on his return to the rectory.
“Absolutely,” agreed Liz. She was mending a pair of Chris’s jeans, where one knee badly needed patching.
“If he hadn’t decided to leave them like this—”
“Or hadn’t been unfaithful and unkind in the past—”
“Or had tried the least bit to work at the marriage instead of running off to a monastery like a medieval sinner—”
Liz laughed. “We’re sounding like a Moral Majority double-act,” she said. “You know I’ve always viewed Clive as a waste of space, relationship-wise. But it’s coming to something when you start criticising him, too.”
“I know,” sighed Jeremy. “I shouldn’t. I’m his pastor. I should try to understand and be supportive. But how can I do that for both of them? Clive hasn’t even tried to talk to me about it, and Rose is the injured party here, surely. My first care has to be for her and Robert.”
“Clive seems to have found his own spiritual support and understanding at Whitehill,” Liz observed, taking care not to sound too negative about the abbot’s involvement this time. “His spiritual needs at least have been taken care of.”
“But why does Rose think it’s any kind of solution to abandon her faith?” persisted Jeremy, clearly homing in on the aspect that really troubled him. “You know what they say––‘Give up on God, and you’re left alone with your problems.’”
“Maybe it’s all been too much stress for her, what’s happened recently,” suggested Liz, with sympathy for her much-tried friend. “Christian women do sometimes feel that God is hard on them, you know, Remy. Muslim women, too, I expect. There seem to be so many restrictions, so many responsibilities, in practical terms, however great the spiritual rewards.”
“Not you too, surely, Liz?” he asked with incredulity.
She hastened to reassure him. “Not really, no. There have been too many things I can’t explain any other way than divine intervention. And it seems so inherently unlikely to me that the natural world would turn out like it has without any designing Creator behind it that I couldn’t stop believing in God. But sometimes it’s hard work being a Christian when you can see other folk who don’t have to listen to their consciences finding personal fulfilment while you struggle on trying to do God’s will.”
There was a disturbing note of frustration in her voice. Jeremy looked at her anxiously. It was bad enough trying to keep parish business afloat and have any sense of mission left over without having to contend with religious doubt in one’s own family. Plenty of other clergy had to do that, he knew. But he hadn’t thought the problem would ever affect him. Liz had always been rock-solidly behind what he was doing.
“‘Et tu, Brute?’” he asked, trying to keep his voice light, the quotation whimsical.
“Maybe,” said Liz cryptically, and bent her head to her mending.
Jeremy left her to it, for once finding no comfort in her presence and no helpful insights in her comments, and being deeply conscious of the absence of both. He resisted the tide of self-pity that lapped around him, tempting him to list his problems rather than count his blessings, but it was a tougher struggle than usual. There seemed suddenly little point in continuing to follow a vocation that seemed so barren, and which demanded so much of his family. Liz had always seemed to find a calling of her own in her support role, so they worked as a team. Mike, it was true, had never been very interested in religion or ritual, though he seemed happy to give his parents practical support as he grew up. Lorna, however, showed some glimmerings of a fairly practical theology, and the twins had always happily attended Family Service and taken part in activities the church put on for children. He had come to feel that, as a family, they represented something special in the village––a witness to a life underpinned by faith and untainted with materialism. Had he been living in Cloud Cuckoo Land all this time?
He put on his cassock and cloak and went out into the village, hoping the fresh air would clear his head and give him a sense of perspective. Walking across the Green to buy a newspaper in the shop, he met a number of parishioners, all of whom greeted him in a more or less friendly fashion. One or two stopped to chat inconsequentially about village matters, or to tell him about their children or their grandchildren––ordinary, friendly village gossip.
He found himself wondering how deep their commitment was to him and his mission. They were almost all churchgoers to a greater or lesser extent, their attendance ranging from regular weekly participation on the one hand to annual occupation of the pews for Christmas services on the other. Not many would have described themselves as atheists or even agnostics. But how much did it really mean to them? He found he didn’t know. Where was the overt witness, the enthusiastic and charismatic participation one heard of in the urban evangelical churches? Could that be duplicated in a rural parish where a Broad Church approach was all that was sustainable, where every shade of Anglican opinion had to be accommodated if a viable number of parishioners were to be attracted inside the doors week after week? And if it wasn’t possible to evo
ke such fervour in the kind of churches over which he presided, was it worth plodding on from week to week anyway? Plodding. That’s a good word for it. I haven’t got much enthusiasm or fervour left. That’s just the trouble. How can I help them to blaze with the Spirit when the fire has died down in me, too? He smiled to himself. Perhaps I need a retreat, like Clive. Perhaps I’d better go to Whitehill Abbey and come home with a vocation to be a monk. Now that would be helpful, wouldn’t it?
He thrust such nonsensical ideas aside and tried to look about him, to enjoy the signs of early spring, late but welcome after the bitter winter. A few daffodils swayed and bobbed in the grass round the big oak tree in the centre of the village green, and every cottage seemed to have pots of bulbs by its door, all in bud or in bloom. The trees themselves were bare and black still, their new leaves tightly curled and dormant. But many of the shrubs in front gardens were beginning to unfurl their spring blossoms or leaves, and the hawthorns by the church lych-gate were in early leaf. The coming of spring usually lifted his heart and gave new impetus to whatever he was doing, whether spiritual or practical. Easter was on the way, with its core Christian celebration of new life. But today his heart seemed weighted down, still gripped by winter, laid in the tomb rather than triumphant in resurrection.
On his day off, he ought to be focusing on the family. But considering their needs only served to emphasise how much he had let them down and was continuing to do so. For a moment, he wondered whether leaving the parish and seeking work elsewhere would be any help to them. But finding another job with the security and comparatively generous stipend of a rector would not be easy, and he had no appetite for climbing the career ladder by way of a rural deanery or cathedral canonry, or for aiming at a suffragan bishop’s post. After some years of writing scholarly articles for theological journals, he had let his grip of current research and thinking slip, so academic posts were also most likely out of reach. It seemed that all the paths he might have considered in other circumstances seemed barred for one reason or another. He had not entered clerical life with any ambition other than to serve God and the people under his charge. Anything else had seemed beneath contempt, or at least beneath his notice. Pastoral care had been at the centre of his life as a parish priest and, until the last few months, had satisfied him deeply.