She went on: “You’re never going to believe this.”
“Good.”
“You’ve met my boys, of course.”
“Your boys? I know I’ve met your husband.”
He tried to think back: to the early weeks of his incumbency, about three years previously, when he’d visited the home of every member of his congregation.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “In the past they haven’t been to church a lot but you’d certainly have seen them every Christmas and Easter.” She laughed self-mockingly. “At those times they didn’t have much choice!” Dawn herself attended twice a week. “From now on, though, it’s going to be different!”
“Great,” replied Simon. He was having to adjust his expectations.
“You don’t remember them, do you?” A strange mixture of disappointment and mild accusation suffused by tolerance and joy.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, William’s nearly sixteen, Michael’s a year younger. They’re good boys, both of them, not too noisy, helpful round the house.” (Flat, wasn’t it? One of those awful high-rise buildings near the town centre?) “Oh, sometimes they squabble a bit; I’m not saying they’re perfect. But they don’t tell lies. No. They never have.”
These last words came out sharply—oddly—cutting a swathe through her serenity.
“Has anybody said they do?”
“Not yet.”
He looked at her more curiously.
“Usually, you see, they don’t come home together.”
He thought you see, if intended to convey a sense of logical progression, might be overoptimistic.
“You mean, after school?” he asked. “Well, I imagine that each has his own friends.”
“But today it was different.”
It occurred to him he would have liked a glass of wine with his Bolognaise. Yet he supposed he oughtn’t to let it seem he began to drink at half-past-five.
“They always walk the same way,” she said. “Along Doncaster Road. Past Tiffany’s. You know? That disco place that used to be a cinema? Big car park behind?”
He’d have thought Tiffany’s, with its strident shades of blue and yellow, was garish enough for anyone to notice. Anyone. Even a vicar.
Yes, I often go there looking for girls. Again he wondered what sort of response this might elicit.
“Well, then. Something made them go round the back.”
“What do you mean, something?”
“That’s just it. They said they didn’t know they’d done it. Not until afterwards.”
He felt his stomach tighten. She was staring at him with eyes which were wide and challenging and gave the faint impression of a squint. He knew he wasn’t a patient man. Let him at least remain a courteous one. “Dawn, I’m sorry. What are you trying to tell me?”
“Well, you see, it’s like this. At the back of Tiffany’s my two boys saw an angel.”
Her tone was almost matter-of-fact. There hadn’t been any slight pause for effect. And yet those last three words in some way glittered.
“Saw an angel?” Simon said.
Count up to ten, he advised himself. Count slowly up to ten. He counted up to five.
Dawn Heath leant back in her chair; ceased playing with her wedding ring; now gazed at him with more than just her earlier assurance. Now gazed at him in wonder.
“And he spoke to them,” she added.
Without haste, Simon put his tray on the floor, the food unfinished. He wiped his napkin across his mouth, scarcely aware of doing so. He sent off a silent prayer for assistance.
“So what did he say?”
“That we were heading for disaster.” The expression in her eyes was more suggestive of delight. “And how we’d have to mend our ways.”
“Heading for disaster and needing to mend our ways?” Again Simon had resorted to unhurried repetition in the hope this might provide a moment for reflection. “Anything else?”
“Well, the boys will be able to tell you better than me. I mean, I made them repeat it several times but I couldn’t take it in.”
“And what did he look like?”
“Oh, like you’d expect. Wore a white robe. Was all bathed in light.” And she opened her arms to indicate the spreading radiance she was sure there’d been.
Simon stood up.
“Listen, Dawn, it strikes me it isn’t you I ought to hear this from. Supposing I come round tomorrow after the boys are home from school?”
“Tomorrow?”
“If your sons have truly had a vision,” he pointed out gently, “it’s not going to evaporate by then.”
“But you don’t really think they have, do you?” Now her tone came as something of a shock: the very flatness of it. “You don’t believe they have.”
“Dawn, at this stage how can I possibly say?”
“You think they might have made it up.”
“There could be other explanations.”
“How could there? They both saw it.”
“There’s a thing called shared fantasy,” he said. “The mind can play strange tricks.”
“Why should it? Why suddenly like that?”
He shrugged. “On the other hand, of course, there’ve been plenty of similar experiences in the history of the Church.”
They stood regarding each other in silence. She half turned towards the door. Sullenness gave way to supplication.
“Please can’t you come tonight? Otherwise they won’t sleep.”
“I don’t suppose they’ll sleep much anyway. Nor you either. But all right.”
He paused.
“Expect me around ten.”
2
His mother was reading The Zebra-Striped Hearse. “Help yourself to pudding,” she said. “I’ve just come to a good bit. Has her husband got a job?”
For a stupid moment he imagined this the current point of interest in her book. “No.”
“What did she want, then?” She again directed his attention to the fruit salad.
“To tell us that her sons have seen an angel.”
“What!”
“That her sons have seen an angel.”
“Holy Moses!”
“No,” he said. “Holy Gabriel.”
“She isn’t serious?”
“Never more so.”
“And since it’s Dawn Heath we’re speaking of, that certainly does mean serious. I forgive you now for having left your tray.”
He stared down at the table; pursed his lips; shook his head.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“God knows.” Finally he stirred himself. “For the moment, go to play Ping-Pong.” He kissed her. “I shan’t be back till late. See you at breakfast.”
“Bless you, my love. All part of life’s rich pageant. Win the tournament.”
After he had gone, she finished clearing up then watched the end of an old Frank Capra comedy: Mr Deeds Goes To Town. She liked films in which you knew good was good, bad was bad and right would be triumphant. And for vaguely the same reason—although the issues here were less clear-cut—she enjoyed books by Chandler and Simenon and Macdonald. The fictional private eye, Simon considered, was part of the apostolic succession reaching down from Sir Galahad.
These days, indeed, he reminded her of someone like Lew Archer: bent on doing good, at times almost fanatically so, despite his occasionally appearing a shade too cynical, a shade too detached. And yet she herself knew (who better, still living?) of the capacity he’d once shown for deep emotional involvement and unashamedly romantic belief. He was thirty-three. She wished he would get married again—or at the very least find a really good friend.
After the film she put on a cardigan and walked briefly in the garden. It was mid-September and the twilit air smelled fragrant. She was proud of her dahlias and roses and chrysanthemums, proud now of the garden as a whole. When they had come, this new vicarage had only just been built, with the land around it mainly mud and hillocky grass—though bless
edly there’d been a few good trees. It was a mile or so from the church, which Simon regarded as a disadvantage since it clearly made him less accessible; but she herself felt grateful for the distance. Also, St Matthew’s stood in the poorer—poorest—section of the town; and there they might have had little more than a back yard. The very thought could make her shudder.
Mrs Madison didn’t like Scunthorpe. Granted, it wasn’t nearly so bad as those who’d never been there had relentlessly implied. The town was far more open and green than she’d expected, with pleasant parks and in many places wide and tree-lined roads. But she had much preferred their time in Bournemouth where Simon had worked as a curate before opting to move north. She had preferred it not simply because the climate had been softer and she had liked the sea but because she had felt closer to the people who lived there; life had seemed more civilized with its nice little tearooms and bookshops—here, there were no bookshops, except for Smith’s. Maybe all these factors were superficial. Simon had certainly reckoned them so. But…well, the truth was, she supposed, she had grown into a snob.
“Sally Madison, you’re a snob!”
She said it aloud and gave a little laugh.
“An unmitigated, unregenerate snob!” And yet her laugh was only partly an acceptance. It was also a reminder she’d once blamed her own parents for precisely the same thing. She had met Henry Madison in 1948 when he had first served her at Francis Edwards’.
“But, Sally, the book trade! How far will he ever go in that?”
She stooped and put her nose to one of the warm pink flowers of a Wife of Bath. “Though that—my sturdy, aromatic friend—wasn’t really the heart of it. Oh, not at all. Henry was illegitimate! Adopted at the age of four! An errand boy when he was twelve! A factory hand soon after that! But a factory hand who went to night school and who even managed to go on learning as a soldier in the war. And if only…oh, if only…!” But now she wasn’t talking any longer to the rose bush; she had straightened up and put her hands into her cardigan pockets and was walking abstractedly across the grass. “If only he were still here, how proud he’d be of Simon’s progress: his knowledge and his position in life! Oh, my darling one,” she smiled—and this to her husband, not her son—“you certainly did work for it!”
Oh dear.
She remembered the time when Simon had been promised a bicycle: on condition he received a first-rate end-of-term report. The poor boy had talked incessantly about this beautiful machine, literally dreaming of the day when it would be taken out of the shop window, an almost unimaginable possession, already christened Argo. The report had been excellent—in all but one subject: Scripture. Simon needs to try a little harder.
“But I did try! I did try! He’s muddling me with someone else. He often gets confused, he’s famous for it!”
Yet when that bicycle left the window it was for some other child. Simon had cried himself to sleep for three nights in succession and Sally, listening helplessly outside his door, had argued and cajoled on his behalf. But Henry, who was usually no tyrant, was fanatical about Simon’s education. Dr Jekyll, she had sometimes mentioned to her son, had also been a Henry.
A year later, of course, the bicycle was still a welcome acquisition but it was no longer that passionately desired and dreamed-of trophy. “And next time,” said his father, “make sure you do so well in everything there’s just no possibility of anybody ever mixing you up with anybody! If you do that, we’ll have a holiday in France!”
Heigh-ho!
Mrs Madison sighed.
Happy days.
As she went in she became aware again, just a little, of the demoralizing arthritis which she suffered in one knee (but she was sure it wasn’t as bad as it had been before Simon had prayed over it) and also—more annoyingly—of the fact that the telephone was once more ringing. Ye gods, that made it the fifth time since Simon had gone out, or was it the sixth? She responded with defiance. “Sorry, zey theenk thees ees ze wrong nomber, very pardon.” She replaced the receiver, took it off again and laid it on the blotter with the happy sensation of being an alumna of St Trinian’s.
Much later, when she was in bed and practically asleep, trying not to think about the funeral she’d been present at that morning, she recalled the disconnected telephone; and after a great deal of effort forced herself to go downstairs to reconnect it. Oh, thank heaven she’d remembered! It was a foolish thing to be scared of incurring the displeasure of your own son—a son, moreover, who very seldom grew impatient with her and who had never addressed her with the least desire to hurt—but there it was: she would rather have provoked anyone’s annoyance than Simon’s; and that had nothing to do, so far as she could make out, with the fact that she loved him and didn’t want to cause him grief.
Sometimes she even wondered whether it had more to do with the possibility she really did find him…on the very rare occasion…just a little frightening.
But why?
Was it because he was so single-minded, so driven, so…? Well, no, he was never as demanding of others as he was of himself—not nearly so—but, still, his standards were obsessively high. This could be daunting. Uncomfortable. You wondered if you’d ever have a hope of meeting them. And you remembered that his father had also been—even if purely in one sphere—a person you could call fanatical.
3
Simon was good at table tennis but to his chagrin—as well as relief—was beaten in the third game of the finals.
The chagrin came because at heart he was a bad loser and would never have played less well than he could; the relief, because it would have been despicable to deprive a lad, already sufficiently deprived, of a victory bound to develop self-respect. “Christ, I beat the fucking vicar!” he heard Earl Davis bragging afterwards, in whispered awe.
Yet, whatever Simon’s form of self-reproach, almost nothing but the game itself had mattered whilst in progress and his absorption in it had been both merciful and marvellous. At seven-fifty, when he went into the empty, darkened church and spent several minutes kneeling by the altar, his gratitude for the tournament was the one uncomplicated thing he felt travelling between himself and God.
The youth centre not only abutted on the church, it was an extension of it. St Matthew’s itself dated from the twenties. Other additions included a new main entrance—made chiefly of glass—a vestibule and an office. Because the office was one of the easier parts of the building to warm, most of the church committees chose to meet in it. Simon left the altar rail shortly before eight.
Education and Mission had only five members on it, all of them women. They began light-heartedly: a few holiday reminiscences; hilarity at his and the youth leader’s rashness in allowing wet sponges to be thrown at them during a recent fête. More aggression had been unleashed than had been bargained for—“Some of it mine!” laughed Simon, who had slightly lost his temper. “And all for just tuppence a throw!”
“But talking of aggression, have you seen our Reginald’s latest in tonight’s edition?” Alison was about forty, shortish, dark-haired, lively. “My husband thinks the pair of you must be doubling the paper’s circulation.”
“Well, Reg certainly isn’t doing it with his syntax,” answered Simon. “So it must be with his sarcasm.”
“Let’s hope it isn’t with his prejudice!”
“What sweet new fascist principles is he flaunting for us now?”
Before Alison could reply, however, one of the others spoke. This was Paula, who was in charge of St Matthew’s Sunday school—Pious Paula, closely related to Devotional Dawn in every way excepting that of actual family tie and the fact that she was single and evidently ‘stuck’ on him: his mother’s terrible expression when teasing him with her own macabre vision of what the future might be offering, unless he took strong action to avert it. Pious was roughly his own age and rather dumpy. She wore a pancake makeup over a coarse complexion but she had a pleasant smile and she always smelled nicely of Bluebell. (She had told him recently, with a
violent blush, that that was what it was—“Do you really like it?”)
“Oh, Simon, I just don’t know how he can be so rude to you! He should respect you. Not only because you’re a vicar and write much better letters than he does but also because you’re the vice-chairman of the Community Relations Council and really ought to know what you’re talking about. That’s what I say, anyhow.”
He took compassion on her flustered countenance. “Thank you, Paula. That’s what I say, too. But now I honestly feel we’d better do some work.”
Tonight there were four main topics they wanted to discuss: problems to do with house groups; the forthcoming visit to Nigeria of a missionary who was going to keep a link with St Matthew’s during his time out there; the possibility of some Franciscans coming to work in Scunthorpe; and what improvements could be made to the parish magazine. Throughout all this Simon did his best to concentrate and it turned out to be a satisfactory meeting, with some practical decisions reached.
When his concentration did lapse, furthermore, the direct cause was less Dawn Heath than a newspaper which the church secretary, who came in every Wednesday, happened to have left behind. This was folded in four but still revealed a couple of typically disquieting headlines: more provocative comment from Reagan at the expense of Russia and the death of yet another soldier in Belfast. There was also something about the government making further drastic cuts in services to the old and the mentally ill. Simon bit his lip. Well, he said that we were heading for disaster. And told us how we’d have to mend our ways.
Hmm.
It reminded Simon of nothing so much as the sort of ‘encouraging’ message delivered with such vibrant intensity at séances. Yet you’d think an angel could come up with something a bit more convincing. Surely?
And why on earth should he choose to deliver it in Scunthorpe? Scunthorpe of all places! The very name was a music hall joke; the easy butt of every second-rate comedian. Over the past three years Simon had become genuinely fond of the town and was often vociferously indignant at the rotten press it received. But the fact remained that, by and large, Scunthorpe was not a spot that the British media, or indeed the British population in general, treated with much seriousness.
Such Men Are Dangerous Page 2