The Rectory

by Ivan B

  “You said I had to wait ‘till coffee for my birthday present,” she purred.

  I put my hand in my jacket pocket and slipped a CD into her hands. On the front was a picture of her in her ball-gown and me at the piano, her eyes became like saucers.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I asked Sam to run one off for me; told him it was your birthday.”

  She ran her fingers over the cover and then peered at it.

  “He’s got the title wrong, it should be ‘An Evening with Yolande, and Richard Holmes,’ but he’s missed out the comma so it looks as if we’re married.”

  I took a small package out of my pocket, went down on one knee – not easy in that confined space I can tell you – and held it out to her.

  “I’m not good at speeches, but I wondered if you would like to marry me?”

  She sat perfectly still, I remember that she sat perfectly still. Time seemed to go into suspended animation and then she took the ring and whispered.

  “Before I answer, can we talk? Just for two minutes can we talk and then I’ll answer.”

  I wondered what next, I had half expected a flat ‘no,’ but not a ‘can we talk.’

  “Of course.”

  I replied nonchalantly knowing in my heart that if a girl doesn’t say ‘yes’ she means ‘no’.

  I somehow managed to get myself onto the settee without knocking the coffee over and waited. Waited for the ‘you’re a great bloke, but…’ or ‘perhaps it’s best if were just friends,’ or ‘I really value your friendship, however…’ Yolande meanwhile poured out some coffee, placed the ring between the cups, held onto my hand and looked me in the eyes.

  “I thought that you might propose this evening and I’ve been thinking a few things through.”

  Here it comes I thought, the axe of doom. She continued to look into my eyes and said somewhat shyly.

  “And I want to tell you that my answer has nothing to do with your inheritance, if you were still a bank clerk I’d give you the same answer.”

  I suppose ‘no’ is ‘no’ in any language no matter how you dress it up. She took a sip of coffee,

  “Secondly I want you to realise that I don’t particularly want fame and fortune, well not the fame bit anyway. If our record is successful I don’t want to go on endless tours living out of suitcases in hotels, I just want to live at home and do the occasional live concert. I’m a home-bird really.”

  Was this the you may come so close and no closer bit? She hesitated.

  “And I think you ought to know that I want children, not lots of them, but maybe one or two; whatever God provides really.”

  Children? She was talking about children? Maybe there was hope even yet. She took another sip of coffee as if steadying herself; steadying herself to say no? She put her cup down and gripped my hand in both of hers.

  “And I want to add that I’ve been proposed to once before and I said no. I said no because I knew that as much as I liked being with him I could not love him; that’s a few years ago now and I know I made the right decision then.”

  I waited for the axe, if she’d said no once she could say it twice, after all she’d had practice. She squeezed my hand.

  “But with you it’s different, that’s why I know I was right last time. I didn’t love him, but I do love you.”

  My heart did a somersault, I swear it did a double back flip with a twist. She suddenly let go of me

  “So in the light of all that do you want to ask me again, or have a think yourself?”

  What was there to think about? I knelt on one knee again and held the ring out; before I could say a word she smiled, said “Yes” and grabbed the ring. She then kissed me on the forehead and helped me back onto the settee, thus preventing any major coffee spills. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “For one moment I thought…”

  She grinned as she examined the ring on her finger.

  “And once the meal had finished I thought you weren’t going to.”

  I held her left hand, “The ring is OK? If you don’t like it…”

  She laughed.

  “Is it the one from the jewelers in Aldeburgh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s perfect.”

  I picked up my coffee cup and realised that my hand was trembling, but she had said yes – she had just said yes!

  Now I am sure that we had deep and meaningful discussions that night on that settee, after all she did not go to the karaoke session. However, to be truthful I remember little of it as I was so overwhelmed that she had said yes. Said yes knowing that I was prone to disaster and had ears like a pair of jug-handles. I do, however, remember two things, mainly because they were important. I remember that she wanted a low-key church wedding and I remember realising as we talked that she wanted to live in the rectory. In her mind there was no selling it for a huge profit, we were restoring it to be our home. By the end of the evening we had it all worked out; she would have the downstairs study as an office and I would have an electric organ installed in the piano room. We would sleep in the master bedroom and grow tomatoes in the conservatory. For the first time, the very first time, I began to consider the rectory as home; my what a difference a woman makes!

  If Thursday was a huge success then Friday proved Newton’s law was right; to every success comes and equal and opposite disaster. I should have known, should have been prepared; after all during the whole of my life I had never had anything good happen without some disaster being hot in it’s heels. Like most good disasters in came in stages with each stage adding to the other. The mail was the first stage; there was only one letter, but it was a death-knell to my currency speculation. Vera had resigned from the bank, the letter didn’t say why. In her place I was offered spotty William. One phone call put an end to that idea and I pulled out of any speculative investments while I considered my options. At least Vera had made me £3001 in the few week she had had the money so all was not lost.

  The next disaster segment arrived mid-morning in the form of Alice my half sister. She had developed into a young thin rat-faced woman and was clearly following in her mother’s footsteps. She declined to come in the house so we stood on the doorstep. She placed her hands on her hips like some sort of scolding matron and turned her nose up.

  “Mum says that you ought to know that Mark is in hospital.”

  There was something in her tone that disturbed me; why should she ensure that I know?

  “In Italy?”

  “No, in Ipswich.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  She turned up her nose, sniffed and curled her lip; she was definitely following in her mother's footsteps.

  “Why don’t you go and find out?”

  I snapped back a reply, Alice always had that effect on me.

  “I don’t want to have to go there to find out if you already know!”

  She grinned, she’d already won the battle, that is wound me up in as few words as possible.

  “You need to go; they want his next of kin.”

  “Isn’t Effie with him?”

  She sniffed again, oh how I hated that sound.

  “She is, but she’s not his next of kin she’s his trollop.”

  I would have given a smart retort, but she’d already turned to leave and I just pitied the poor guy who had placed the engagement ring on her finger, no man deserved that.

  After texting Yolande (we had been due to met for lunch) I went to the hospital. Mark was on an obscure ward towards the back of the medical wing; either it was my imagination or it was grimier and less well staffed than the other wards I had visited. I stumbled upon Effie in the day-room, she looked years older than I remembered. I cast my mind back and realised that it had been over twelve years since I had seen her; still she seemed to have aged twenty years and aged badly. She was thin and flabby, as if she had lost stones in weight, but the deeply tanned skin hadn’t shrunk; her face still had the same weasel like features but with he
avy wrinkles around the eyes and huge sad bags under her ever-moving dark blue eyes. Only the hair remained the same, bright ginger, but I suspected that a bottle had something to do with that. I sat down next to her and she gazed suspiciously at me, then realisation dawned.

  “Richard?” She gasped.

  “The same, how are you Effie?”

  In response she coughed, not the gentle noise of throat clearing, but the dreadful hack of someone with fluid in their lungs.

  “Not too bad, bit of pneumonia that’s all.”

  “On antibiotics?” I asked casually.

  She shook her head.

  “Not under the NHS are we, been out of the country too long.”

  I was appalled and then mystified, I’d understood every word she had said.

  “You’re accents changed since we last met.”

  She gave a half-hearted smile

  “Earned a living teaching English as a foreign language, there’s not much call for Glaswegian as a foreign language so I had to learn to speak proper like.”

  I changed the subject.

  “What’s up with Mark?”

  She looked away and took on the disposition of a turkey at Christmas.

  “Kidney failure, he caught some nasty infection in Bangladesh and we hoped that by moving to Italy the climate would help him recover, but it only postponed the evil day.”

  “Both kidneys?”

  She sighed, a deep longing heartfelt sigh.

  “One’s gone and the other is going fast.”

  I realised as she spoke that she loved him and thought that he was going to die.

  “Alice told me that they wanted a next of kin, but I thought that you were married.”

  She grimaced.

  “We are, but we married in Bhutan and there is some doubt if the marriage is valid here as it was conducted by a local Buddhist monk and we have no paperwork to prove it. In any case it’s not next of kin by marriage they’re after; it’s his biological next of kin they’re seeking.”

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand the implications of that statement and I patted her on the knee and made for the ward. Even though I was firmly told that it was out of visiting hours I was allowed in to see him, after putting on a gown and mask that is. Mark was lying on a bed that should have been sent to the scrap yard years ago and I suddenly realised that this was the outside-the-NHS budget treatment that the Government had been crowing about as a means of reducing what they called health tourism. He turned and looked at me and then, somehow managed a grin for he looked dreadful, unbelievably dreadful.

  “Well if it isn’t my younger brother, I would say that it’s good to see you, but the environment is not what I had hoped for.”

  I sat down on a bare wooden chair with peeling varnish and torn leatherette.

  “You never said that you were ill.”

  He sat up with the painful slowness of an ancient of days.

  “Didn’t think that you’d be interested.”

  “Well I am interested, you’re the only brother I’ve got.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “I’ve missed you bro, I’ve not missed England or that harridan we call a step-mother, but I missed you. I just didn’t know how to say it and somehow never got round to it.”

  I realised that I’d missed him too and held his hand. He suddenly looked at me.

  “Will you do something for me bro? Will you find a priest to marry Effie and I in here? I know I’ve married her once already, but I want our marriage to be recognised here.”

  I knew as only a brother can know that he meant recognised as a legal widow. He expected to die and was trying to do the best he could for Effie. I swallowed hard.

  “Of course, but what about a kidney transplant?”

  He gave a hollow laugh

  “No chance. First I’d have to find a kidney and secondly I’d have to find £20,000 and even you couldn’t get your bank to give me a loan so it’s not worth asking.”

  I realised that he still thought that I worked for the bank, that was reasonable as I hadn’t told him otherwise. I patted his hand.

  “Don’t work there any more and £20,000 is no problem, not for a brother.”

  He looked mystified.

  “I came into an inheritance from an eccentric industrialist so although I’m not loaded, I’ve more than enough to cover this.”

  He smiled weakly.

  “You’re joking, my brother with that sort of money?”

  “It’s a long story, I’ll tell you when your well.”

  I left that rat-hole of a side-ward and sought out the charge-nurse; she look harassed and war-weary and was clearly expecting an argument as she fired the first shot.

  “Look, before you say anything I do the best I can; this is a Government policy, it’s not my policy, OK?”

  I pointed to Richard’s side-ward.

  “I want him moved to a private wad and I want his wife to be given antibiotics; I’ll foot the bill.”

  She stepped back in surprise.

  “It’ll cost you £300 a day minimum.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  She seemed to accept that and made a phone call. The response was swift, outrageously swift as my brother was moved within the hour. It was clear that the hospital governors were content to run such a ward and equally content to fleece me of my money as fast as possible. I wandered back to the day room and found Yolande sitting on the floor with Effie and holding her hand. I squatted beside them.

  “I’ve had Mark transferred to a private ward and told them to give you some antibiotics.”

  Effie looked up like a grateful puppy, well a grateful wrinkled and war-torn puppy. She rattled off a series of hacking coughs as a nurse appeared, a neatly scrubbed and unharassed looking nurse, who first squatted beside her and then took her off for an antibiotic injection. Yolande looked at me.

  “This is terrible.”

  I nodded.

  “You hear about these Government policies, but never realise what they mean. In their case it means that they don’t get NHS treatment as they’ve been outside Europe for too long; and if they don’t get NHS treatment they don’t get any expensive medication unless they can pay the full market price.”

  Yolande gave me an odd look.

  “I mean Mark’s kidney failure and the fact that they have nowhere to live.”

  I leant against the wall.

  “I guess one of my kidneys will fit him.” I was trying to appear nonchalant and give the image that I gave away one of my kidneys every day of the week.

  I saw fear flit across Yolande’s face, just for a microsecond; she covered it up quickly, but it was there.

  “I thought that you weren’t close.”

  I half shrugged.

  “He’s still my brother and he’s not going to get a donor any other way in time.”

  She came a squatted next to me and held my hand.

  “I’ll support you in this you know, if I had a sister I’d do the same.”

  I wondered if she realised that I was terrified; I didn’t like hospitals at the best of times, but voluntarily putting myself forward for a major operation with my track record was really stretching the point. Yolande massaged my hand.

  “They’ve got nothing you know. They invested all their money in a scrubby vineyard and lost the lot with some form of root fungus.”

  She paused watching my eyes.

  “We’ve got plenty of room.” She murmured.

  The thought had already crossed my mind, but I was glad that it was Yolande who brought the subject up.

  “I’d thought of that too, but I didn’t really want Effie to move in first in case it became Effie’s house and not your house.”

  She kissed me on the cheek.

  “Silly, they wouldn’t stay, not for too long; they’ve got the wanderlust in their souls.”

  I knew that she was right.

  “You make the offer to Effie, It’ll sound better com
ing from you.”

  She nodded,

  “There’s something else you ought to know.”

  She paused as if choosing the right words.

  “Mark doesn’t blame you for your mother’s death, least not any more. Effie lost a child four years ago and nearly died herself. Apparently they were miles from any hospital and the baby was breech and six weeks premature. He realised then that it wasn’t your fault, but has never been able to tell you.”

  I was gobsmacked,

  “She was pregnant and he never said?”

  Yolande nodded slowly and said softly.

  “She’s had two miscarriages and lost both near full term.”

  I came to grips with the fact that I’d always assumed that my brother was swanning around the world having a wonderful carefree existence when in fact he’d had his share of tragedies and was now at death’s door.

  “Tell her she can move in as soon as she likes and I’ll try and organise a bed.”

  She put her hand on my arm.

  “They’ve got a container full of furniture at Felixstowe docks, well half a container. According to her it was their bedroom furniture and a three-piece suite; it’s all they salvaged from their vineyard.”

  She looked out of the window at the sleeting rain.

  “I’ll tell them that they can have bedroom two as their bedroom and set up a lounge for themselves in bedroom four, OK?”

  “OK.”

  I left Yolande talk to Effie while I went and checked that the bedrooms were at least clean and to buy a cheap set of pots and pans.

  The next phase of my disastrous day was a phone call from Miss Bryony Carrington-Greeves. She carefully explained to me that she had been wrong. The Institute of Radio Manufacturers had intended to pick up the bill for the Bradleys patent litigation, but they had gone bankrupt before the bill was paid. The upshot was that the Institute’s administrator had only paid out 74.5p in the pound and Bradleys were now after their remaining £50,000. She tried to finish by saying that she would pass the bill onto me. I decided to argue.