He was rather less impressed, however, by the review of the Harty show which he read the following morning but by then he’d had further harsh reminders of the perfidy of the press and couldn’t discount the possibility of prejudiced reportage. He had read, ‘Vicar claims he could set the world to rights!’ (Daily Express), ‘Car park angel urges Brake fast at Tiffany’s!’ (Sun), and an editorial in one of the so-called quality papers which spoke of ‘the clergyman in the case who couldn’t drive a base suspicion from the mind of at least one viewer that he hoped everyone would soon be playing a well-known game called Simon says.’ That same editorial concluded with a sentence even more disquieting. ‘Such men,’ it summed up, economically, ‘are dangerous.’
The Chronicle had followed up its ‘exclusive’ with a wholly neutral and therefore very welcome report on what Simon had said outside the school—and on the sentiments of the Scunthorpe community at large, with special emphasis on the people among it who actually knew the Heaths—as well as on the reactions of other local, and national, figures in the Church. All the dignitaries spoken to had been predictably guarded; Dr Runcie cheerful but entirely non-committal. There was only one clergyman, reportedly, who had cried “Hallelujah!” to the press and even his comment was merely to the effect that he was prepared to believe the thing was true rather than that he actually did…which, of course, was fair enough, thought Simon. As for the politicians—Mrs Thatcher had remarked with good-humoured tolerance that the way to hell was paved with good intentions, while the other party leaders had been less indulgent but equally dismissive. (Referring to the PM’s remark David Steel, leader of the Liberal Democrats, had said she wasn’t just coining a phrase, she really did know, although he admitted doubt as to the accuracy of her adjective.)
Simon didn’t notice that the byline wasn’t By Geraldine Coe until she rang him later in the day. He’d been working on his sermon for next Sunday—it felt almost strange that the ordinary things could still be going on—while his mother and the church secretary had been sharing the job of filtering his calls. Elsie collected Simon from the sitting room and the two women went to make their first pot of coffee of the afternoon.
“How are you?” asked Geraldine.
“Strictly no comment. I think that can be regarded as the standard answer of the moment from henchmen of the Church.”
“But then you’re not the standard model. You’re allowed to branch out.”
“In that case, I suppose I’m very well, thank you. Albeit a bit tired. How are you?”
“Did you see I’ve been demoted?”
“In what way?”
“I’m no longer covering the Madison assignment.”
“The Heath assignment. But why not?”
“My editors weren’t much pleased by that interview I had with you. That non-interview. I can’t for one moment think why, can you?”
“I’m really sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be.” She laughed. “I still don’t know what happened, though.”
“I do. I was feeling angry. And you countered.”
“But I could understand your anger. And, anyway, you got over it. In fact I saw the way you stood before the crucifix and how it steadied you. I think I mentioned that I’ve always been agnostic? While watching you, however, I suddenly felt something stir.” She laughed again. “My friends say it was sex, I claim it was religion. Or, if you like, religion plus sex.”
Simon hesitated. She added quickly: “I hope that hasn’t shocked you.”
“No. No, of course it hasn’t.”
“As I get older I seem to grow more forthright. Anyway, to return to the other evening, that’s when I began to behave badly: just at the point I was thinking, well, if someone like you could so clearly draw such strength from your belief…”
“In a way,” he said, “it’s reassuring: the very fact that you did begin to behave badly.”
“Reassuring? How so?”
“Well, they say that when the Holy Spirit starts to move in somebody, that’s when the devil goes to work as well, shaking up all the rotten things inside and sending them straight to the surface.”
“It’s strange you should say that. I kept telling myself it must have been some demon who had got into me—although I then thought it was purely a figure of speech, nothing more.”
“Not a bit strange.” There was a pause. “Anyhow, even if nothing else comes out of all this, we may still be able to feel it was worthwhile.”
“All this, for one believer?”
“For one finally staunch believer? Every time.”
“I think that you must be…pretty close to being a saint.”
“That’s nice. And how would you define a saint?”
She thought a moment and then said slowly: “As someone who can give other people a vivid glimpse of the kingdom of God.”
He was surprised. He had expected her to say, “As a person who leads a very good life,” or something of that sort. Recently he had heard one definition given by a Franciscan friar: as someone who, when lying sick in hospital, cares more about the recovery of the patient in the next bed than about his own. He told her this and then mentioned that on such a rating he was light-years away from being a saint, especially if there was any question of acute physical suffering involved. “You see, I’m such a baby, I would possibly make the most complaining patient in world history! This modern age may not be perfect but thank God they’ve at least done away with such things as the stake and the rack and the thumbscrew!”
“You mean, in hospital?”
He laughed but then swiftly changed the subject. “Are you phoning from the office?”
“Yes.”
“Then you haven’t had the sack?”
“Not yet. No, I rang simply because I wanted to let you know I think I believe in your angel—I know I believe in his message—and I know I believe in you. What’s more,” she added, “I thought you might find it encouraging to hear that six of the women in this office say they believe implicitly in everything that’s happened.”
“I do,” he said. “Thanks.”
“And they’re merely the ones who’ll admit it. Now if in just one office—I agree, of course, it’s certainly a large office but to counteract this it’s a Fleet Street office and where could you find a place reputedly more sceptical than that?—if in just one office there are six people who freely declare that they’re with you, not to mention many of their children, mothers and spouses, then only think about the kind of following you’ve got throughout the country. Simon, it seems to me that you should mobilize those followers, take the nation by storm, not allow a single one of them the time to draw breath…”
He laughed. “Then all I’m left with is a lot of dead followers.”
“Oh, please don’t make a joke of it. Doesn’t that excite you?”
“That’s why I make a joke of it. I must confess it’s an idea which isn’t wholly new to me.”
“And you could do it! I know you could do it! You’d be like Henry V leading the English towards Agincourt!”
“That strikes the right non-jingoistic note.”
“I warn you: I shall start to believe that you and Josh Heath are interchangeable!”
“But you forget, there are still the more orthodox lines of approach, even if they have had the ground cut out from under them.”
“That sounds defeatist. And slow. It doesn’t fit in with my image of you.”
“I grant it would be slow. But if we believe that God has everything in hand, will do all he can, other than interfere with free will, to help us propagate his message, then we know he’ll take very good care of the timing.”
“Yet how do we know he isn’t doing precisely that right now, in urging you to throw all caution to the winds?”
“I suppose we don’t.” His tone sounded grudging. She was not deceived.
“Isn’t Christianity a creed for heroes? Not for those timid souls who work only by the book?”
; “It depends on the book,” he answered, more briskly. “You’re a very persuasive young woman. Possibly a dangerous one. You must give me time to think.”
“Of course. Though I should add that at the moment I don’t object to being considered dangerous. It throws me into rather good company.”
“Dangerous company. It sounds like you’ve read that editorial?”
“Indeed I have. It made me very angry.”
“Simon says…”
“Pure jealousy.”
“I don’t know about that. There could be truth in it.”
“Well, my next remark isn’t going to help. And who cares, in any case?”
“What is your next remark?”
“You’ve spoken about God having chosen those two Heath boys and what an appropriate choice he made.”
“Did I say that? How patronizing! Forgive me, Lord.”
“But do you know what occurred to me? It might have been you, not them, whom God was choosing.”
“No. Don’t say that!”
“Too late. Already have. Yet if it makes it any easier to listen to I can modify it slightly. You as well as them.”
“Geraldine, stop! You’re appealing to my basest instincts.”
“As I’ve already suggested, that’s irrelevant. And, anyway, base instincts were made to overcome. Lucky you! It seems to me you have an interesting array of challenges to rise to.” Her tone remained light. “But to revert to more prosaic things. Would you mind if I returned to Scunthorpe for the weekend?”
“No, of course not. Why on earth should I?”
“Because by now it must be fairly obvious I’m throwing myself at your head and I wanted to discover your attitude towards women who do that.”
He considered. “Well, in the normal way, I reach for my running shoes. In this case, however, I don’t feel any particular urge to do so. Not yet. Is that a satisfactory answer?”
“Yes, thank you. Perhaps a trifle unenthusiastic but satisfactory. May I just ask: is there anyone else at the moment?”
“No. No one since my wife.”
“When did she…?” Geraldine faltered. “How long ago was it she…?”
“More than fourteen years.”
“Good God,” she said.
“Yes.”
32
They’d been sitting over breakfast when the letter came. “But surely we’re not just going to give up?” said Ginny.
“What else can we do?”
“Find another house.”
“We’ve looked at over a dozen already. This one was perfect. You know it was.”
“I thought you had more fight in you than that. For something which you really believed in.”
“Fight? It’s Sharma that I’d like to fight! Do you realize it’s for months he’s been stringing us along? First one evasion, then another. And all the time he was waiting to see if he could get a licence to…to bloody well compete with the casino at Brighton or at bloody Monte Carlo.” He again threw down the letter, in inexpressible disgust. “Oh, hell! The only thing this world cares about is money, money, money. ‘I’m all right, Jack. I couldn’t give a toss about what happens to the rest of you.’”
Yes, it had seemed the perfect house and at a rent that was viable. The others they’d explored had all been in North London but this one was to the south, at Lee Green. Most recently it had been a guest house: with roughly twenty good-sized rooms on three floors, quite pleasant furnishings, unfussy wallpapers: the whole place giving an impression of cleanliness, airiness and light. There had been two staircases, an excellent kitchen, washbasins in every bedroom, enough bathrooms and lavatories, central heating, oatmeal fitted carpet. There had also been a splendid garden with fruit trees, flowerbeds, plenty of lawn and a large vegetable plot. Miss Calthrop from the Old People’s Welfare Association had come to invesigate, spent a whole afternoon discussing possibilities, had declared herself delighted. Their bank manager, too, was sufficiently impressed—by them, their workings-out, the property itself—to promise them the figure they had mutually decided on. An officer of the fire brigade had stipulated fire doors and made several recommendations, not all obligatory, he’d stressed, but highly desirable. Although he’d spoken with the air of one who realized cost would inevitably outweigh good intentions he’d soon been told he was mistaken—Simon had a phobia regarding fires, nearly all his nightmares were inspired by it. Accordingly Mr Butcher had agreed to increase the loan and Simon had written a confirmational note to the fellow from the fire brigade.
And it was not, they said, going to be just another old people’s home, charging iniquitous prices and run with clinical efficiency, like so many they had gone to inspect on the pretext of having an aged relative to settle. This one was going to be a home; with lots of interesting and self-expressive things going on in it and plenty of younger people being roped in—for between them they had many friends—to entertain and stimulate and listen. Mrs Madison had offered to help with the housekeeping and the cooking, and an older sister of Ginny’s best friend, who even had several years’ nursing experience to contribute, was also going to move in. The ‘staff’ would all live on the top floor, leaving the two lower ones for those who found the stairs more difficult, and it was all going to be great fun, both for themselves and the residents. They wouldn’t even think of it as an old people’s home. More as a kind of commune.
And now—this.
“Well, we can’t pretend we didn’t see it coming,” said Ginny. “You kept asking why there should be such holdups with the contract.”
“I still can’t believe it.”
“Because you close your eyes to things.”
“Nonsense.”
“You expect everyone to be as straightforward as you. You feel all hurt and bewildered when they don’t do what they’ve said they will. You see something as being self-evidently good and can’t understand why anybody should ever choose to get in your way.”
“You know, I’m really not in the mood for character analysis. Or are you just getting something off your chest with your usual impeccable timing?”
“Like what, for instance?”
“Perhaps you’re trying to say I’m bossy? Demanding? Self-centred? Perhaps you’re trying to say I’m immature? Live in cloud-cuckoo-land? Which is it, then? Or does it happen to be the whole lot?”
“Perhaps I’m trying to say you’re taking it out on me, what Sharma’s done. Perhaps I’m trying to say it seems an easier alternative to do that than think positively about the future. Perhaps I’m trying to say you’ve got no trust, since it obviously hasn’t occurred to you that just maybe there’s a purpose to all of this and just maybe we’re not getting this house because there’s an even better one waiting for us someplace else.”
“Oh—please—don’t give me that shit!”
“I thought I was giving you hope. I thought I was giving you love. It must be you who turn things into shit.”
“You make me sick,” he said. “Thank you for your sympathy. It’s always nice to know you’ve got a sympathetic wife when times are hard.” Flushed, ashamed, disconsolate, he pushed back his chair.
“Where’re you going?”
“Out.”
“Good riddance! Thank God for a moment’s peace, a moment’s freedom from self-pity. Go out and have another breakdown!”
It was a Saturday, one of those in every three he got off. Ginny was no longer working; complications had developed to do with her pregnancy. If she didn’t rest at home, her doctor had warned, she would have to be taken into hospital. Normally, therefore, during the week she spent the whole morning in bed…unwillingly. But today they had been planning to go down to the house and if the weather was fine—as it was—to eat a picnic lunch in the garden.
At the door he stopped.
“Funnily enough, it isn’t just myself I’m thinking of. What about those dozen or so names Miss Calthrop had earmarked for us? What about my mother? What about Jenny? For Mother it was mor
e or less a lifeline, this chance to start anew, have other people to work for, other people to live with and to care about.”
She answered: “I notice that you don’t spare much thought as to where I’m going to have my baby.”
Her elbow had been resting on the table. Now she put her head down on her forearm and began to sob.
He watched her for a moment in exasperation. Exasperation cooled to helplessness. He went to stand behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, wordlessly squeezing.
“No, go away!” she said.
“Ginny, I’m sorry. Of course I hadn’t forgotten about you and the baby.”
“Go away!”
“God knows why I act like this. Forgive me. He’s my baby as well, you know.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“What!”
At last she raised her head. “Sometimes I feel he’s just mine. Nobody else’s. I’m the one who really cares. You only pretend to.”
Such Men Are Dangerous Page 18