by Jane Anstey
“Go down to the hospital and pray for him,” she advised him. Some kind of activity would at least keep Remy from getting too depressed. At all times, he took his duties very seriously, but none more than when he felt he had failed a parishioner. Jeremy in deep gloom was more than she could cope with at the moment.
Jeremy picked up his coat and went out to the car without another word. He sat beside George’s hospital bed for an hour, praying for healing both emotional and physical, and felt obscurely comforted himself, though George, totally immobile and festooned with cables and tubes linked to a variety of dials and sensors, gave no sign of being conscious of his presence. Whatever Liz said, there was no knowing what he could hear or sense. Medical science was only just beginning to be able to penetrate to the experience of coma victims. That was why there was such a dilemma about turning off life support machines for people in a vegetative state. But he tried not to let his mind begin analysing the theological ethics of this debate as he waited for George to stir.
~ * ~
After he had gone, Liz sat in the drawing room for a few minutes to gather her thoughts. She reflected that George could hardly have chosen a worse moment for his action this afternoon. She needed to talk to Jeremy, and urgently, about something completely unrelated to parish business, but goodness knows what time he would come home from the hospital and in what state of mind. She knew there was a PCC meeting at Southover, an important one to fix the agenda for the Annual Church Meeting due next month, but if Jeremy wasn’t back by six, she would have to phone one of the churchwardens and give his apologies. That would need tact, and she didn’t have much energy for that today either. And if he came back in time to attend the meeting, what time and energy would he have left to listen to her later?
She patted the pocket of her trousers, where she had tucked the letter that had come from the Oxford further education college that morning. They had written offering her an interview. She was excited, but at the same time full of apprehension. Should she just ring up and say she couldn’t come––didn’t want the job after all––or should she go ahead with the interview? Whatever she did, it couldn’t be kept secret from Jeremy any longer. She felt guilty at having applied without telling him, even while she was exhilarated to have been shortlisted for the job against possibly stiff competition.
Jeremy arrived home just after six, to find the family at supper and his attendance at the PCC already graciously dispensed with.
“I’ll just have a plateful of that lasagne you’ve made, Liz, and then I’ll go on down to Southover. They won’t have got far, I expect.”
“No, you won’t,” Liz told him. “You’ll get indigestion, and in any case, they shouldn’t have fixed a meeting for a Monday.”
“They will do it,” he agreed. “It’s quite hard to get everyone together, you know, and then they forget that Monday’s my day off.”
“Well, I’ve cried off for you,” she said, “And just this once, you don’t need to tell them you’re back just in time to come if you bolt your supper and rush straight off again.” She took a breath. “Besides, I want to talk to you. I was going to anyway, thinking it was Monday and there might be time, before I looked in the diary and found that dratted PCC meeting.”
“How was Mr Warrendon?” asked Lorna, before her father could argue any further. She aided and abetted her mother in releasing him from as many commitments as possible on principle, reasoning that he shouldn’t be expected to work a sixty-hour week––a work schedule which could often happen once you counted in baptisms, funerals, weddings and the time spent preparing for them, never mind evening meetings.
“Hard to tell,” he replied, sighing. “He didn’t move at all while I was there, but I think he was still half under the anaesthetic. They’ll know more later, they say, but it may be a long haul. I’ll go in and see him after I’ve said Matins tomorrow.” He finished his plate of food and refused Liz’s offer of a second helping.
Mike held out his plate for more lasagne, and his mother handed him the serving dish. “You might as well finish it off, Mike, if no one else wants it.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
Lorna got up from the table. “I don’t want any dessert, Mum. I’ve got masses of homework tonight, even though it’s only Monday. There’s some geography project work I should do––I got behind with it at the weekend. And then Madame Ançy would give us extra French. Can I be excused from the washing up, please?”
Liz smiled at her. “I’ll get Dad to help, if Mike can’t,” she nodded. “Try not to get too bogged down in the project work, won’t you? It’s easy to end up doing far too much on those open-ended questions.”
“The trouble is that if I don’t do enough, I shan’t get a good grade, and then I’ll be put into the lower group for Geography GCSE next year. I don’t want that––the B group just mess around.”
Liz was struck by her daughter’s comment. The local comprehensive, she feared, was rather mediocre academically and suffered from discipline problems, which is why they had put the more academically inclined Mike in for a scholarship at the independent school in Northchurch. Lorna hadn’t seemed to worry about this very much when she was younger, but lately that had changed. Clearly she was unimpressed with her friends’ attitude to schoolwork. If I were to get that job in Oxford, Liz thought, Lorna would be able to go to a really good girls’ school there, and leave that bad crowd behind.
“Would you mind helping Mum, Dad?” asked Mike. “I’ve got some GCSE History coursework I have to hand in next week and I’m nowhere near finished.” He chose a fruit yoghurt from among the pots on the table, peeled off the lid and ate it quickly, then pocketed an apple for a snack later.
Liz smiled at Jeremy. “You won’t mind, will you, Remy, as you aren’t going out after all? And that’ll give me a chance to talk to you, too.”
She chivvied the twins through their dessert and made sure that they had everything they needed for the night. “I’ll come up and say goodnight to you a bit later,” she said. “Don’t forget to clean your teeth.”
“Yes, Mum,” they said in unison, and disappeared in the direction of the stairs.
Jeremy stacked dishes beside the sink while Liz ran hot water and detergent into the washing-up bowl. They had had a dishwasher once, when they first arrived at the rectory, left behind by a former occupant, but it had broken down irreparably after two or three years and had not been replaced. Even so, both Mike and Lorna were normally willing to assist with domestic tasks, and it was unusual for their parents to be left washing up the dishes together after supper. In spite of his anxiety about George, Jeremy was aware that what Liz wanted to discuss must be important. There was a suppressed tension about her that had communicated itself to him. Besides, she never bothered him with inessentials. He wondered what on earth could be troubling her so much, and as she was not normally an anxious person, his own worry levels went up in anticipation.
“Spit it out, Liz,” he advised, after a few minutes’ silence broken only by the splash of water and the gentle clink of cutlery and crockery. “Whatever it is, it’ll be Better Out Than In.”
Liz smiled at his use of their old family phrase, usually employed to comfort the children when they had been sick, or occasionally in toddlerhood after a tantrum. She took a deep breath, and launched into the tale of how tempted she had been by the job, seemingly tailor-made for her personally but requiring her to uproot the entire family and transfer them sixty miles northwards. “It would be too far to commute,” she said. “At least, I think it would. Even on the train, it’s a heck of a way to travel every day. I ought to have just binned the thing, really, but in the end I couldn’t bear to.”
Jeremy looked at her curiously. “So what did you do?”
“I applied for it.”
His eyes widened. “You did? Goodness, you did want it badly, didn’t you?”
“Can you blame me, Remy?” she asked, defensively. “It’s a lot more money in a single salary than
we can make with you as rector and me working part time, and it’s a better area for the kids, too––better choice of schools, more going on socially.”
“And you wanted the job.”
She nodded, finding herself unable to meet his eye. “I did. It’s the kind of job I’ve always wanted, using my qualifications, my skills, my interests, everything.” She paused. “Do you blame me, Remy? I know I should have told you about it, but I thought nothing would come of it anyway, and you had enough to deal with. I know things haven’t been great for you lately.”
“So why have you told me now?” he asked.
“I would have told you eventually, you know I would. Don’t I always? But today I realised I had to do it sooner rather than later.”
She dried her hands and pulled the letter out of her pocket. It had got rather crumpled, travelling around with her in a confined space, and she had to smooth it out before she handed it to him.
“This came this morning. I’m not sure what to do about it.” She washed another pan, while he read it through, and then said, in rather a small voice: “What do you think?”
There was a moment’s silence while Jeremy re-read the summons to interview. Then he flung his arms round her and lifted her off her feet, soapy hands and all. “It’s terrific. Well done, Liz. I haven’t looked in the diary to see what I’m committed to that day, of course. The run-up to Easter is always such a busy time, but I’ll come with you if I can––if you’d like me to. It’s the best thing that’s happened to us for ages.”
She looked up at him in amazement. “But what if I get the job? What on earth will we do then?”
“We’ll see. It could be marvellous––an answer to prayer. And if you don’t get it, at least you’ll have had a lovely day in Oxford and you’ll know you gave it a try.”
“I didn’t think you’d be so positive,” she said, trying to fathom his reaction. “What about the people here in the benefice? What on earth would the bishop say about it? And what about your career in the Church? Would you be willing for us all to move to Oxford and risk not getting another benefice nearby? Or do you want me to try commuting?”
“I wouldn’t dream of letting you commute. If you get the job and you want to take it, then we’ll move. If I don’t need to earn our living in the Church, then there are other options—a chaplaincy at one of the colleges, perhaps, or I could take a non-stipendiary post as a curate and do a bit of teaching. I’ve been agonising over what I should do here for ages. My life here seems to have stalled, somehow. I’ve told you a bit about how I’ve been feeling, I know, but probably not the half of it.”
“I’d certainly no idea you felt so bad that moving away would be a relief. You really should have shared that with me, Remy,” she said severely.
“The way you shared how you felt about applying for that job?” he asked, his eyes dancing with mischief.
She laughed. “Okay, I asked for that. Oh Remy, I’m so glad you’ve taken it this way! I was really worried you’d feel I was asking you to give up your life here, and that would cause a whole lot more agonising.”
“Well, it won’t,” he said firmly, and she could see from his face that a load had been lifted from him. “You go for it, and we’ll see what happens.”
Twenty-five
Clive left Sundials as planned early on the Tuesday before Easter. He said goodbye awkwardly to Rose and Robert, feeling simultaneously a warm affection for them and an impatience to leave and be free of the tentacles of family life. Robert hung round Rose uncertainly and didn’t want to kiss his father goodbye, while Rose seemed preoccupied, her usual state these days, it seemed to him.
He gave his wife a peck on the cheek and picked up the single suitcase of belongings that was all he had allowed himself for his new life. “I’ll see you sometime,” he said.
“Maybe,” said Rose. “But not for a bit, you said.”
“No. I’ll be at Whitehill for Easter, then in seclusion for a few weeks––prayer and meditation, deep discussion with a retreat director, that kind of thing.”
Rose looked at him reproachfully. “Clive, I wish you wouldn’t approach all this like a business project. I’m sure that isn’t the right way at all.”
He laughed. “I don’t mean to. I’m just... ” he hesitated.
“Moving on,” she supplied.
His laughter died. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. That’s how it must seem to you. I’m sorry, Rose.”
“I don’t want to keep you,” she said defiantly, “if you don’t want to stay.”
Robert looked up at her, hearing the determination in her voice, and then buried his face against her. She put her hand down and stroked his head gently.
Clive saw there was nothing more to be gained or given by staying. He opened the front door and walked away down the path, got into the car, and rolled it gently down the drive to the open gates.
At the gates, he turned to wave, and saw the pair of them, hand in hand, standing on the doorstep. Robert’s face was turned towards him rather than buried in his mother’s shirt, but neither of them responded to Clive’s wave of farewell. Instead they exuded a stoic immobility that showed quite clearly how they felt. But Clive felt no answering sense of guilt or betrayal. He was aware only of relief and an upwelling of joy and fulfilment. He had no doubt about his vocation, whatever the Church or even Jan might say. The light was clear before him and he must follow it. He waved cheerfully to his dependants and drove on, his mind already turning to the future.
He drove through the village slowly, saying farewell to fifteen years of his life. He passed the church lychgate guarding the graveyard behind its encircling wall and thought of the change of faith that had led him towards the religious life. He realised that he had never spoken to Jeremy about what had happened to him at Whitehill. Though Jeremy had tried to help him when he was suspected of murder, it was Jan who had perceived his spiritual prison and enabled him to find release. But he felt no particular gratitude to Jeremy, nor did he speculate what the rector might have made of his leaving his family. At heart, Jeremy was on Rose’s side, he knew––and she would need that, in the days to come. It was better to leave it as it was.
He drove past the village hall, scene of many a St Martin’s fete and ball, and remembered the weekend the previous November when he had abandoned Rose and gone to Scotland with Olivia. Fateful that had been, but not in the way that might have been expected. He wondered for a moment where Olivia had ended up. On her feet, landing like a cat, he had no doubt.
The school stood on the opposite side of the road from the village hall, and he passed it quickly. He wondered whether Robert would ever go to a decent school or whether Rose would insist on keeping him tied to her apron strings locally. He had given her the money to pay for a good education, but he hadn’t insisted on it. It’s up to her now.
Church End Farm and the rectory came next, but he wasted no time on mental goodbyes there. He had been horrified to hear of George’s attempted suicide and had prayed earnestly that he might live, since suicide imperilled the immortal soul. Rose had seemed very upset by the incident, but Clive had never had much to do with George or Lucinda, and in any case, his concern was with the principle rather than the suffering individual.
He rounded the bend where Brian Warrendon had died and was glad that no shadow of suspicion about that death still hung over him. It was ironic that so serious a sin as adultery had given him an alibi for the time of death. Jan had granted him absolution for all of those past sexual lapses, and he had received it gratefully. He knew, rationally, that his marriage to Rose had been the one sexual relationship of which the Church would wholeheartedly approve. Yet it seemed to him that the love he had brought to his marriage had been so shallow and inadequate as to negate completely its Christian metaphor of the relationship between Christ and the Church. For him, it had not been a sacrament, merely a more legitimate and acceptable expression of a sexuality that had always been flawed.
But
he no longer worried about his sexual orientation: he had put that confusion behind him. As Jan had said, it didn’t matter now. His new identity would be a religious brother, neither gay, straight or even bisexual. He felt willing to embrace celibacy, because it was what Jan believed in, what Jan lived out, and his love for Jan was all-embracing. Perhaps even all-consuming, he thought uncomfortably. Jan would accuse him of idolatry, if he knew its depths. But he couldn’t share his feelings with Jan, because the love was and always would be unreciprocated. If Jan could accept him as a brother, as a friend, that would be enough. The rest could be burnt off, like chaff, in the fire of his new spiritual zeal. It was sufficient that he had the opportunity for a new start, and could take it with a peaceful heart. He had done his best for Rose and Robert, and that was all he could do.
Easter at Whitehill. Bliss. He turned out onto the main Northover road and accelerated, leaving the past behind.
~ * ~
Rose watched the car drive away, outwardly calm but inwardly with very mixed feelings. In one way, she had to admit, she was glad to see Clive go. His departure removed from her life the running sore of watching him prepare to leave: smiling, humming to himself, unable to hide his delight, his joy at the prospect of a life without his family. She had been hurt and disgusted by his attitude, unable to understand how he could so easily slough off a relationship which, however deeply flawed, had been part of his life for twenty-three years. She had minded for Robert, too, that Clive could leave his only son with so little heart-searching, so little regret.
But Robert seemed philosophical, if a little puzzled. “I don’t understand why he wanted to go, Mummy,” he said, as they went into the kitchen to eat their breakfast after Clive’s departure.
Rose sighed. “I don’t understand very well either,” she said. “But it’s what he wants to do, to live in a monastery. Perhaps he’ll be happier there than he was with us. Though he does love you, Robert, I’m sure of it.”