Undercurrent

by Frances Fyfield

  'Francesca came here regularly,' he explained, admiring Henry's leather boots, while wishing he had the sense to accept the offer of a pair of Wellingtons.

  'Not as a believer, you understand,' the vicar interrupted in his fluting voice, which fitted better inside a warm and empty church than it did round a dinner table. The voice belonged in here; it invited an echo and the enunciation of prayers. The exaggeration of his precise syllables seemed to have a purpose in this space. 'More as a person, quite candidly in search of an insurance policy.

  Not for herself, although she did like the ambience, she told me, but for the children.

  She bought Tanya Hulme here when she was first adopted and not so long after. Harry as a babe in arms. She was perfectly honest about her motives, she always was.'

  'Motives?' Henry queried. He eyed the ornate carving of the pulpit and visualized the priest enjoying his robes.

  'Oh come now, Mr Evans, all who seek religious observance have a motive. Membership of a club, perhaps, the opportunity to wear a hat, perhaps, peace and quiet, perhaps; the chance to observe one another and be observed. The chance to spend an hour in a pretty place. And we do try with the flowers, don't we, Peter?'

  Peter was arranging stems of winter foliage in a tall vase, standing back to gauge the effect, nodding.

  The church was Victorian antiquity, heavy rather than refined, but the pews were polished and the kneelers lovingly sewn. 'I'm quite sure if we didn't she might have gone to the Methodists for the sake of better hymns, but she wanted the children to get used to the idea. To gain the blessing of God in case there was one, she told me. Let them reject it later if they wanted, she said, but not on the basis of ignorance I quite understood. If I insisted on believers, I'd never have a congregation at all.'

  'So now I know what she did on Sunday morning...'

  'What we did,' Peter interrupted.

  'But it doesn't help me much with her problems,' Henry continued, earnestly. 'I mean if you were her priest, in whatever form, and Harry was a parishioner, why didn't she come to you for help? You didn't do much, did you?'

  The priest and Peter exchanged a glance of resignation.

  Two persons, noticing in unison how Henry was not diplomatic in the posing of questions.

  'I did help. I put her in touch with people who cared deeply. She'd no family left, you see; when you're conceived by relatively elderly parents as she was, you tend to lose them. I found her these two ' he nodded in Peter's direction - 'to help with Harry, but there was nothing I could do about the darker reaches of the night. Nothing. I couldn't make her invoke the aid of a God in whom she didn't believe. In any event, help wasn't the problem.'

  He sat heavily on one of the highly polished pews, curled one hand round the carved pommel and stroked it. His hand was dry and chapped, grazed with rough work, which Henry found endearing. Peter and Timothy had hands like that; so, he imagined, did Christ's disciples. It gave the vicar credibility, removed him further from the alternative image of the dilettante, dinner party guest with a fistful of wine. Henry waited. The priest continued to stroke the wood, as if it were a magic lamp, able to produce words.

  'The problem was that she was such a good person. Is, or was, I don't know, but good. By which I mean blessed with a natural virtue which requires no outside nourishment. She wasn't good out of fear of the consequences; she was simply good. She had a quick tongue, all right, but she was incapable of harbouring malice. She could complain, but she couldn't retain a mean thought or harbour resentment, not to save her life. She had a unique capacity for nurturing others. Loving them, you might say. And if it weren't heretical, I'd say she could teach a Christian God a thing or two about forgiveness and generosity. She didn't need to pray for them.'

  Peter coughed, embarrassed by the oratory. Henry winced. 'So what's the problem with that?'

  The vicar heaved himself upright and clasped his hands in the lap of his cassock. It was not a dapper garment, and slightly grubby.

  'A person blessed with a singular and natural goodness and great sensitivity, especially if matched with a handsome face and physical agility, is a draw for the weak and the lame. For the wicked and the afflicted, as well as the needy. They become indispensable. But they also repel, Mr Evans. Virtue is difficult to endure. People resent the bright spotlight of pure goodness. It makes them feel deficient.

  Which is why,' he added, 'I myself make a good vicar.' He grinned and Henry warmed to him again.

  'My flaws and my boredom level are all too apparent.

  I lack the charisma of goodness, you see. The blessing and the curse of it. Nobody gets angry with me when I haven't got the time. They did with Francesca.'

  Peter stepped down off the small ladder he had mounted to reach the vase behind the pulpit. His movements were noisy, his sighs gusty.

  'This arrangement doesn't work,' he said. 'Won't last in this awful heat.' It was an overambitious arrangement of holly and laurel, wobbling. Henry adjusted his spectacles and nodded.

  'Yeah, it's crap,' he said. He turned back to the priest.

  'So it was goodness that made her spend so much time and energy on Tanya Hulme and her mother.

  They were a pretty inseparable foursome, I gather.

  Was that goodness? And who was it good for?'

  'Ah, that. That, I think, was simply love. She fell in love with the child. And it was good for a highly strung, beautiful little girl who needed a bottomless pit of unreserved love to make up for the damage done to her. If you'd seen that terrified little savage, your heart would have gone out to her, too.'

  " 'Does she come to church now?'

  'Oh dear me, no. I don't think her mother wants any influence on the child other than her own. She may be right: consistency's the thing.'

  Peter's arrangement overbalanced with a crash.

  Henry moved to help him pick up the pieces.

  'I think these should have stayed on the tree,' Peter said ruefully.

  'Yeah, perhaps.' Henry patted him on the shoulder, realizing as he did so that it was the first time he had touched him. Peter grinned broadly.

  'There you are,' he said. 'We don't bite. Are you going to be in for supper? Only we're having a musical evening.'

  'Perhaps not,' Henry said, 'But thanks.'

  No one had ever mastered the challenge of heating the castle. It was entirely natural that no one should; it was not designed to be heated, or even to be pristine clean, Neil remembered as he retrieved a flying polythene bag from the legs of a cannon and hurried back inside. The billets of the common soldiers would never have been clean; the kitchens might well have stunk. Where the desire for comfort had intruded into the quarters occupied by the officers of the military, there would have been tapestries and hangings to forestall the draughts. There remained a couple of fine wood-panelled rooms, superior ranks for the use of.

  The painted panels bore portraits or photographs of heavily be-whiskered wardens of the keep from 1800 until the last was made redundant.

  Chisholm's was not only the last face, but the only one without facial hair and with the temerity to smile. Bad idea to banish living accommodation from the central keep, Neil thought, although he could see it was ridiculously expensive to maintain, but the lack of a family living at the heart of a fortress garrison encouraged the proliferation of ghosts, who could wander round these sombre rooms and make obscene gestures at portraits of the masters. Up yours, wardens of the keep; we rule now.

  The castle was officially closed for the day; he was here, checking stock for the next, sorting the postcards and guidebooks, making it neat in preparation for his own day off and, although he was absorbed in the tasks, he was anxious. There were better things to do beyond these heavy walls. 'Get laid,' he said to himself. For ever.

  The weekend had been brilliant; she was gorgeous and the future worried him extremely.

  Viagra. The doctor said he was only allowed enough for three or four experiments; after that, the cost was private and am
ounted to a small fortune. Would his stupid, uncooperative prick decide after a while that his body had cracked the code and behave all by itself? Would he have to increase the amount? Would he even have enough for a week? Where would he find a supply now his life was unimaginable without it? Would he lose his girl like he lost his wife?

  He collected three packets of peanuts, dismissing the slight guilt at failing to check downstairs and risk being late; why should he? Mustn't be late for Tanya.

  Angela would kill him. He hurried over the drawbridge, pulling the hood of his anorak over his head.

  There was a posse of people, huddled by the notice at the entrance.

  'Excuse me, are you open?'

  Neil put his face close and breathed salty breath.

  'No, mate. Closed for exorcism

  He had enough Viagra pills for tomorrow, maybe a couple more times and that was all.

  Maggie faced her shiny clean face away from the sea and walked towards the back of the town. Slush melting on pavements and the sky leaden. She loved it.

  She wished she had no purpose other than to walk. She reached the humpbacked bridge which traversed the railway line. The train rumbling from the distance looked like the Toytown Express and she paused on the high point to feel it pass beneath her feet, the bridge trembling slightly as the engine slowed. There was a view from the bridge of the park and the town, peacefully calm and pacified by snow. The restlessness in her died. She did not want to be on the train out of here. There was really nowhere else to go and no one would know her when she got there. Life was remarkably consistent.

  Snow had settled in the park next to the gym club.

  Indoor activities had been abandoned In favour of the novelty and kids were outside. Snow had settled on the grass; it layered the bushes on the borders. A snowman had grown in the middle of the space, rapidly built into a round trunk of a body and the semblance of a head too small in proportion.

  Someone had provided a carrot to make a nose on an otherwise featureless face; there were gloves on the hands folded over the fat torso, but no ears or eyes to give the head expression. The omissions were under loud debate, while Tanya Hulme, lissom and chestnut haired, hung back from the surrounding crowd. Skinny legs poked out of an overpuffed jacket and led to enormous, black trainer-clad feet which kicked the snow. The best-dressed kid in town and no one wanted to know her.

  Maggie waded across the snow in her direction, soaking the cuffs of her trousers.

  'What's up, Tanya?' Maggie remembered not to use any diminutive of her name. If you did not know about children, you did not know what they liked, except their own dignity, perhaps.

  Tanya kicked the snow until she found the grass beneath, went on kicking.

  The laces of her trainers were undone. 'Someone else found the carrot,' she whispered, pointing. 'And I wish it was me. I tried to get it off her, so they told me to sod off.'

  'Hmm, I see black stones, perfect for eyes,' Maggie said, stooping to the pathway. 'And then we can have leaves for ears, plenty of leaves. You can have my hat for his head.'

  'Why?' There were furious tears in her eyes.

  'Because when you give him a face, he'll smile at you.'

  The child stared suspiciously, grabbed the stones, backed off, guarding them, turned swiftly and ran into the crowd, offering eyes for the face. Then shewas back alongside, like a puppy. What about them fucking ears? Laurel bushes framed the pathway:

  Maggie shook them free of snow and plucked leaves which frayed at the tip, brown at the ends, curling inwards. They looked earlike; Tanya grabbed them as if they were salvation and ran towards her tribe. The ears appeared on the head. She cantered back to Maggie, still full of urgency.

  'Your hat! I need-your hat. Pleeeeease.' Maggie bent her head.

  'Tan, stoppit,'

  Tanya paused for a second to look at Neil who had slouched to a halt beside them;, sprang away with the hat in her hand, screaming back to the group, waving it. The hat next appeared on the lopsided head of the snowman and there was the sound of ragged applause.

  'Sorry about that,' Neil said. 'I'll get it back for you in a minute.'

  'Doesn't matter,' Maggie said. 'I don't like hats.

  Shawls are better.'

  They watched the children. By common decision, the class had decided that the clumsy creation of their hands was now a suitable target for destruction. They were forming snow into solid lumps and flinging them. Maggie's hat was the target and Tanya was the only one to hit it. The hat was replaced at a rakish angle and the onslaught recommenced to the high, shrill sound of shrieking.

  'It helps to be mad,' Neil said.

  'I don't think I regret not having children,' Maggie said.

  'The American you phoned about,' Neil said diffidently.

  'Going to work for Fergusons. If I talk to him, do you think he'd get me some Viagra?'

  'It works then, does it?'

  'And how.'

  'Be careful, won't you, Neil? You've got to be careful with any drug.'

  'Oh, God, you sound just like Francesca, endlessly caring. But could he ...?'

  She flushed pink with sheer annoyance. 'Oh, I'm sure he could. He's got a suitcase full of pills in his room. Guards it carefully.'

  'Probably peddling them to poofters. In his room?

  Like that, is it, Maggie? In his room often, are you?'

  'No, Neil, it isn't like that. And I don't know how

  Henry Evans might help. Tell you how to get it, perhaps.

  All you've got to do is talk to him.'

  'Me? I haven't got anything to say. I didn't know what was going on, did I? I was always excluded. Oh, not by Francesca; she did try and get us back together, but by Angela. She didn't want a man near that child.' His feet scuffed the grass where Tanya's had cleared the snow. 'I'd no idea about Fran's life.

  Only knew that Angela resented her a bit. Harry took up time she'd given to Tan, not that she always liked that either. Difficult to please, Ange.'

  'Well, let our Henry buy you a drink. Persuade Angela to have a chat with him.'

  'You must be bloody joking. Tell you what, schools closed tomorrow and she's doing my duty at the castle with Tan. Send him there, I would.' Neil closed his eyes and thought of the plans made for his day off.

  A trip to France, a meal to be cooked in the evening and ... He waved towards Tanya. 'She gets better all the time, though. She makes me laugh.'

  The children were losing momentum; slower shots, chapped hands beginning to bite, mothers on the sidelines beginning to fuss until the girl alone went on with unabated enthusiasm.

  The snowman withstood the onslaught with shapeless stoicism. Maggie's hat had disappeared.

  'I have to admit that little Harry fair gave me the creeps,' Neil went on, frankly. 'He was like this sponge, absorbing energy without giving very much back, as far as I could see. But then, I wasn't his dad so I'm not qualified. Never could understand how he got to the end of the pier on his own, though.'

  Tanya was tiring, stopping to blow on her fingers and warm them. Neil turned to Maggie.

  'Whatever Francesca did for us, she took it all back. She cancelled it all out. She made herself indispensable and then, boom . . . and then she has the nerve . . .oh look, she's finished ... Better get her home. I want to go fishing.'

  Tanya raced towards them, waving Maggie's hat and to her pleasant embarrassment, she curtsied and presented it. Then she hugged her. Maggie was taken by surprise. 'Swing me,' she demanded of Neil. She was just the right size and weight to swing in a circle, legs flailing, screaming as if she was tickled. He put her down, breathlessly. 'Again, again!' she shouted.

  'Enough,' he said, and she moved ahead, obediently.

  'She wouldn't have done that a year ago,' Neil muttered.

  'What? Hug someone?'

  'No, bring back the hat.'

  She left them, then, unable to bear it. She could see it all, now. Neil, careful and responsible with a child he could never have fat
hered. And herself, going between them all, occasionally witnessed, like a ghost. Francesca's engineer, the bit part player who never engaged, the sort of understudy who learned the lines someone else would always say and stayed around at the end to pick up the pieces. Helping Henry rake over ashes, looking for some unidentifiable bone and knowing she had no choice.

  They needed him. They needed a stranger.

  Number 40 in the block, where Francesca had lived, was reached by anonymous stairs.'

  Took lease here after husband left. Friend and daughter live other side of same building.' A prudent and convenient arrangement to live close to friend, etc., but no one wanted to live in it now. Can't flog it, rent it or any damn thing, Edward Burns said. Desirable residence, ha, ha, ha. Bloody white elephant, even with sea views.

  The lock was awkward; there was the noise of a television, muffled by walls as Henry fiddled with the key and felt like a burglar. The interior was an enormous disappointment, but then the House of Enchantment had spoiled him. Warm in temperature, anonymous in style; a big, sea-facing living room with the remnants of indifferent, fitted furniture of the kind she might have bought from the previous occupant, nothing new or distinctive and all of it worn. Shelves full of books, cupboards beneath with chipped doors and a carpet which looked as if it had been used as a playing field with the central area stained and worn to the thread.

  A swivel chair by the window with a coffee table alongside and a shawl folded over the arm.

  Henry picked up the shawl and held it to his face.

  Inferior quality, faintly musty, and he tried to remember if Francesca had ever had a scent peculiar to herself. Perhaps, but he had not known it; he had no olfactory memories. She had a style, though; a definite style; a knack even with travelling clothes and a way of pinning her hair in a dozen different ways.