‘It’s called Jane Eyre and was written by Charlotte Bronte,’ she replied at last, when the sniggering became unbearable.
‘Ooooh, Jane-Eyre-by-Charlotte-Brontty,’ mimicked Isobel Kirby, glancing at her friends for approval and then making a sudden swipe for the book. But Eleanor held fast, crossing her arms and pressing the novel to her chest. ‘It looks swotty. Don’t you think?’ Isobel threw another look at her smirking companions. ‘And who does she think she is anyway? I only wanted to take a look at the fucking book, didn’t I?’
Inwardly, Eleanor quailed. At home, the Lord’s name wasn’t allowed in vain, let alone any swear words. Even Isobel’s followers exchanged awestruck glances.
‘Maybe it’s poetry,’ sneered Isobel next, taking a step closer. ‘Well, here’s some poetry for you: Swot and Spot. How about that? Spotty Swotty.’
Eleanor hugged Jane Eyre tighter, hooking her chin over the top of it. Out of the corner of her eye, she was aware of Kat still hopping on the other side of the fence, her fizz of white hair bouncing half a beat behind. Eleanor kept her gaze on the dusty tarmac under her legs, not speaking, not moving. Jane Eyre had tried to be nice and it had got her nowhere, and when she had finally retaliated – fighting back at the bullying John Reed – the consequences had been even worse. The thought had no sooner formed in her mind than Isobel’s leg swung out from the folds of her rucked-up school skirt and delivered a sharp, penetrating kick to Eleanor’s shin. The troupe pressed in a closer circle, sensing blood.
In spite of her recent resolution, Eleanor decided to pray for the bell. It was the only thing she could think of that might break the spell, release her.
But, instead, the narrow peaky face of her English teacher appeared over the heads of the girls. ‘Ah, Eleanor, there you are. I need you a moment.’ The gang parted, meek and defused. ‘There’s an essay competition I think you should go in for and Mrs Mayfield agrees. Come along now, I haven’t got all day. And you lot, find something to do other than loafing, can’t you? If you like Jane Eyre you could write about that,’ Miss Zaphron added briskly as they walked away. She cast Eleanor one of her arch smiles, peering down her beaky nose at the book, still clutched in Eleanor’s white-knuckled hands, keeping her afloat, it felt like, in the stormy seas of another difficult day.
A wasp hung over the dirty mixing bowl, dropping every now and then to dunk itself in the ridges of lemon and sugar. The back door had been propped open with an upturned bucket. A loaf of bread sat half out of its bag, greyish and rock hard.
Vincent ran himself a glass of water from the kitchen tap, fighting irritation as he surveyed the scene. After the walk from the church, he was hotter than ever. He could feel pools of moisture trickling from his armpits and down his sides. He opened the fridge, reaching with some difficulty past the green jug, full to the brim now with bright yellow liquid, and the several foil-covered dishes stacked round it, to pick at the bony carcass of last night’s chicken.
‘Con,’ he shouted, aiming his voice at the hall, ‘have you had lunch? I’ve only got five minutes.’
The ground floor of the vicarage echoed back at him. Tearing off the one drumstick still with a few threads of meat left on it, Vincent stepped outside the back door to check that he hadn’t dreamt seeing the car in the drive. He hadn’t. It was still there. As of course it had to be because he had the keys. He scanned the garden, tossing the chicken bone into a bush and licking the grease off his fingers.
‘A husband is for life but never for lunch, is that it?’ Vincent called, chuckling at his own joke as he stepped back into the kitchen and hastily cobbled together a meal out of cheese, a slice of the stale bread and an apple.
He ate doggedly and quickly, for fuel rather than pleasure. The wasp had been joined by several relatives. It was ridiculous – wasps so early in the summer, and not good for Kat, who was allergic. Vincent batted at them with one of Connie’s magazines, managing to kill a couple. If the sticky lemon dishes weren’t washed up, soon more would come in.
Vincent booted the back door shut and tried calling up the stairs. ‘I’ve got to go.’
The clank of bathroom plumbing echoed back at him. From their bathroom by the sound of it. She often took a late bath these days.
Vincent started up the stairs but checked himself. He didn’t want to crowd her. Nor did he have time for an argument. ‘Okay. I’m off then. When you’ve washed yourself, the kitchen could do with some similar treatment. Wasps all over the place. Not good for Kat, remember?’
He hurried out to the car only to realise he had forgotten the bulging manila folder in which he kept everything relating to matters of church management. Striding back inside, along the hall to his study, the thump of pipes upstairs assailed him again. Vincent fought down a wave of deep frustration. Nothing in the vicarage worked as it should. The entire place needed rewiring, replumbing, reroofing. As a bachelor such things hadn’t mattered, but with a family, they mattered greatly. His London accommodation had eventually deteriorated into a condition of such dire need that he had fought to be moved into a small terraced house instead, a supposedly temporary solution that had lasted until they left.
The mess on and around his desk dampened his spirits further. He was a preacher not an administrator. Why did one have to be both?
Having located the folder, Vincent paused, arrested by his desk photograph of Connie on their wedding day. She was holding her bouquet and had her head thrown back, her mouth open, laughing. Confetti floated across her face like snowflakes.
Vincent picked an old envelope out of the mayhem on his desk and scrawled: Darling Connie, came home for a 10-minute lunch. I love you. Vx.
He propped the message on the bottom stair and raced out of the house.
‘It’s a pity, vicar, that’s all I’m saying. A great shame. One expects… well, you know, there is a certain expectation, is there not?’ Hilda de Mowbray paused, teapot poised over her cup. She had offered Vincent a refill and he had refused. The other members of the meeting had gone. Vincent too, had tried to leave but had been pressed back into his chair with an urgent request for a private consultation. It was a conspiracy, he realised now. They had all got to Hilda’s before him to agree tactics: letting the meeting proceed, covering the usual nuts and bolts and then withdrawing to leave Hilda to corner him about this other matter, the one he had feared, but coming at him from not quite the angle he had feared it. Having prepared himself for atmosphere, maybe some exchanged looks, he had been entirely caught out by what was apparently a mandate to speak for all of them.
She was loving every moment, Vincent realised with some wretchedness, noting the twitch of Hilda’s thin pastel pink lips as she continued to seek the right words to tell him that his wife was not a sufficiently bright beacon of godliness.
‘You mean she doesn’t go to church enough.’
Hilda hesitated. ‘Yes, that. Partly.’ She patted the thin mousy helmet of her hair. ‘Not that how people live their lives is anyone’s business.’
No, it is not. Vincent let the retort reverberate inside his head where it could do no harm. He needed this woman’s allegiance. He needed Broughton. ‘Indeed,’ he said instead, giving the word great emphasis. ‘Freedom to worship as we each choose is important.’ He spoke with the sort of put-on pious tone he had once despised, but which he had learnt could be lapped up by certain types of parishioners. ‘I entrust that freedom to my wife, as I do to anyone else.’
‘Quite.’ Hilda replied. ‘Are sure you don’t want me to freshen the pot?’
‘Quite sure, thank you. I have a busy afternoon. I really can’t stay long…’ Vincent faltered, suppressing an eagerness – a bomb inside him it felt like – not just to be gone, but to charge, hollering profanities, out of Hilda’s pristine museum of a home, with its fussy tie-back curtain tassels and exactly positioned lace doilies, ideally making sure he barged the two stone cherubs on her doorstep as he went and, for good measure, trampling her preciously manicured front flow
er beds until every stem was snapped and their flowers mashed to a pulp. He let his big dark eyes meet hers, filling them with all the calm power he possessed. ‘I would also ask you to take into account that my wife has been struggling somewhat with the transition from London. She is still finding her feet. She supports me as much as she can. She has, in addition, been poorly lately, a nervous condition, barely able to leave the house. In such circumstances, I would never command her to attend church. What sort of priest, or husband, would I be then?’
‘I am sorry that your wife has been unwell, naturally. I am only trying to help and… to do what is right.’ Hilda fiddled with the delicate handle of the teacup, shifting sideways in her chair.
She had thick ankles, Vincent noticed viciously.
‘The fact is,’ she continued crisply, ‘one might feel obliged, at a certain point, to say something to the Archdeacon.’
Vincent stood up, involuntarily, as if the bomb inside him was starting to go off. ‘I really do not think that would be either necessary or… or… charitable.’
Her sharp grey eyes darted up at him, steely, but with a trace of indignation. ‘I can assure you I am the most charitable of women. I give freely of my time, and money, both to the church and several other deserving organisations. I also care dearly for this parish and the members within it. I speak only with their welfare in mind. And, as you may know, Reverend Cope set the highest standards.’
Vincent clenched his toes inside his shoes. He would have liked to clench his fists but knew that would not do. He tried to open the door inside his chest, the one to the guiding voice he needed. Help me God, with this abominable woman, he prayed. Help me love her and understand her and not cross her.
‘Your commitment to this parish is wonderful, Hilda, no one could disagree on that. But I can assure you, so is mine. I will, of course, speak to Connie, express some of your concerns. But can I ask in return that you give her a little more time to… settle… that you are not too quick to judge?’ He managed a smile, and then somehow got himself out of the sitting room and into the broad hall, past the pedestal sporting a vase of lilies and the vast oil painting of a schooner on a stormy sea.
Hilda trotted behind him, her stout heels smacking on the polished herring-boned floor. On the doorstep she fiddled with the large pearls studding her small, pale earlobes. ‘Rest assured, I shall take no further action at present. I just felt something had to be said. I hope no offence has been caused.’
Of course it hadn’t, Vincent assured her. He quite understood. He would look forward to seeing her on Sunday as usual. It was simply splendid that she had volunteered, again, to read the Lesson.
Getting out of the drive required a three-point turn. He was aware of Hilda, framed between her cherubs, watching the entire manoeuvre, the solid orb of her permed hair shining in the sun. There was a wasp in the car, beating its head against the passenger window. After a few minutes, Vincent pulled into a layby to lean across to release it, thinking of Connie as it bounced off into the hot blue air.
Connie walked fast, the train timetable leaflet flapping in her hand. She had taken all the big decisions in her life quickly. This was something to be proud of, she told herself, something to hold on to amid all the mess. Leaving home, the first abortion, then the second, accepting banishment by her family, finding her own way in London, tripping over and getting up, only to fall again, each time further, each time harder. Attaching herself to men who let her down, or dragged her down, or both. She made mistakes, but always moved on, with speed. That was something she had learned how to do at least.
Picking out Vincent had been a quick decision too, one of those light-bulb moments. Near the end of yet another tether (there had been so many), Connie had seen the hunger in his dark earnest eyes and resolved, instantly, dripping mop in hand, to target him, see where it led. Such an impressive bear of a man, with his blazing faith, he had seemed a sure bet, the surest of her life. The way he loved her, displaying a flatteringly feverish intensity she had never previously encountered, had been disarming too. It had been easy to place her trust in such powerful emotions, easy to imagine that they would more than make up for the flakiness of feelings on her own part, deriving as they did from an instinct for self-preservation rather than love. Marrying Vincent, Connie had believed she was boarding a ship; a big strong ship, that would keep her steady.
It shocked her still, the myriad ways in which such a belief had proved misguided: the corrosive, daily struggle to live well, the rebel in her fighting at every step, wanting to succumb to the pull of her own demons. Most shocking of all, however, had been Vincent himself, not a ship as she had supposed, but a man overboard, floundering in his own ocean, grabbing at whatever he could – God, her – to keep his head above the waves.
The girls had helped for a time. And then not helped. Made things worse. Even as babies, Vincent had been jealous of them, their needs, the time they took.
Connie slowed. Sweat was pouring into her eyes, making it hard to see. She mustn’t think about the girls, except that she had failed them. The sun was pounding her head, making her dizzy. The horizon of fields skirting the scrag-end of the Downs zigzagged in the distance, a series of unreadable lines. She had drunk the bottle too fast, that was the trouble. Digging it out of the earth like a dog, she had been too relieved at the sight of its smeared glass and half-torn red label to hold back. It was just a half-bottle, the last of her treasured stash, painstakingly acquired during the recent, gradual constriction of her world, funded first from savings eked out of her meagre housekeeping allowance and then, as Vincent tightened his vice, from coins rootled out of every dusty corner of the vicarage – under furniture, between floorboards, behind cushions, in jars and the occasional gift of a note in the gritty bottom of a trouser pocket. Wretch that she was, the girls’ piggy banks were lighter too. She had been scouring the house for weeks. There was nothing left to draw on.
Connie forced herself to walk on, wrenching her ankles as her flip-flops slid between the lumpy blocks of compacted earth. Money mattered. She had always known that but had taken a while to realise quite how much. It was freedom. And she had none. Back in the day, walking away from her family, she had imagined that her looks would see her through, open doors. Which they had, only the wrong ones. It was a measure of how parlous her situation had become that she had alighted upon Vincent as the opportunity for financial as much as emotional security. A Church of England salary was meagre, but at least it was steady and came with a free house. Vincent had a big heart too, or at least he had seemed to when they met, always eager to give her extra money when he could, for treats like nice clothes, nice shoes. Because she was blessed and beautiful, he would say, tacitly exacting payment in the form of the dominating sexual embraces he preferred and which she had been more than willing, in those early days, to give.
But then the girls came, bewitching and bewildering, draining. There was neither time nor money for treats like new clothes. Vincent’s generosity soured into possessiveness. Responding to his endless physical demands, keeping him happy, was something Connie had learned to wring out of herself, from a knot of sheer willpower. Sex was proof she still loved him, he would say, applying a force that contained extra relish if ever he detected a hint of reluctance. After the girls, he began to tighten his hold on other aspects of her life too. He started watching, interrogating, distrusting. It had begun to feel as if she was living under a microscope, pegged out for scrutiny.
The day she decided to drink again was joyful; like stumbling across a lost soulmate. She would keep it under control, she vowed, save it for when her energies were at their lowest. And for a time she had managed. For a time there had been balance. Until Vincent realised and the portcullis came slamming down in the form of the secret applications to get them to Broughton, away from dear Maria and the couple of other friends she relied on to see her through. Contact with London had been forbidden from the start. It was the only way to break the cycle, Vincent said
. From the first glimpse of the vicarage, its grey roof-tiles poking over the bone-white trees as they rounded the bend in the long-overgrown drive, Connie had felt he might as well be burying her alive.
Connie reached the stile and leant on it to catch her breath. An image of Kat came to mind, curled up in the middle of their bed the night before, her head tucked under her arms like a puppy, seeking refuge – again – from the new emptiness of her bedroom. Connie’s heart had fluttered with the old joy – the feel of a new-born in her arms, drifting in and out of sleep as she suckled, Vincent powerless and curious beside them. But Vincent had scooped the child off the bed without a word, carrying her back along the corridor and then locking their bedroom door on his return. There were things he needed, he said, his eyes glittering at her in the way that they did; things only a wife could provide. It was about love, he growled, coming round to her side of the bed; about her proving it was still there. Connie had turned over before he asked, thinking of the roll-up she would sneak out for afterwards, and the precious half-bottle still buried by the back gate, a reward for being good.
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