The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  Was it for her, then, to seek a reconciliation? It was still not too late to do something about it. Several times, her hand reached for the phone so that she could contact the mobile that Clifford kept especially for her messages, and on each occasion, she withdrew it. Despite her part in the afternoon’s events, she wasn’t ready yet to step down and apologise. She would wait and see what happened.

  But nothing happened. A week passed, and Mavis received no word from Clifford. In all the years of their relationship, they had never been out of touch, and Mavis began to be seriously worried. It had been all right to have the row — understandable even to part on such bad terms — but no contact at all? It was unheard of.

  Gradually pride was replaced by fear. For what if she were to contact Clifford, only to be told that he no longer wanted her in his life? How would she cope with that? It was sobering to discover that she had come to identify herself as much by her illicit relationship as she would have by marriage. Without Clifford, she was — what? A rather ordinary, fifty-something spinster who lived with her mother and sold socks and handkerchiefs. How dull. How terribly ordinary.

  And yet, did she love Clifford? Did she truly love him as she once had? Certainly in the beginning, she had been very much in love with him, but over the years, things had changed, and now she wasn’t so sure. Mavis’s heart had never been broken; now she wondered whether it was in Clifford’s power to break it. Certainly if he were no longer a part of her life, he would leave a huge gap, and she would miss him sorely. But was that the same as love? Or was there also an element of fear that if he were to go, no one else would ever want to fill the vacancy that he left behind him, that no other man would ever want her?

  By the end of the second week, Mavis had almost resigned herself to her situation. She would have to concentrate on her job and looking after her mother, and get used to a life without Clifford — a life that would be without interest, without the little outings that punctuated her otherwise humdrum existence, and above all, without sex. She got out the little box from under her bed and looked longingly at the device inside. Would it ever be called into service again? She knew that women used these things on their own — Clifford had told her that that was what they were designed for — but the very thought made Mavis blush. No, she couldn’t possibly do that. Besides, the Catholic Church had strong views on the subject of solitary sex, and old principles die hard. She climbed into the loft and hid the box in an old trunk, where it would waste away over the years among the cobwebs and the dead flies and the dust.

  The very next day, Clifford phoned.

  “Shall we go to Dennis’s?” he asked as though nothing had happened. “Would you like me to take you to Dennis’s?”

  And forgetting all her doubts, Mavis replied without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Oh yes!” she said, her whole being glowing with relief. “Yes, please!”

  Gabs

  Gabs had a problem.

  She had always prided herself on a relatively trouble-free existence, for she was not by nature a worrier, and such problems as she did have, she tended to keep to herself. On this occasion, however, she decided to confide in Steph.

  “I think I’m falling in love,” she said, leaning on a kitchen worktop and watching her sister stirring something complicated in a saucepan.

  “What?” Steph dropped her wooden spoon and hugged Gabs. “Thank heavens for that! Oh, Gabs! I’m so happy for you! I knew it would happen eventually, and now of course everything will change, and you’ll have to —”

  “Steady on. Not so fast,” said Gabs, pushing Steph gently aside and rescuing the spoon. “I haven’t told you everything.”

  “Well, go on, then. Tell me. Who is he?”

  “Are you ready for this?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, it’s Father Augustine.”

  There was a very long, very shocked silence.

  “But you can’t!” Steph cried when Gabs’ news had sunk in. “Gabs, you can’t. You just can’t!”

  “Oh, but I can.” Gabs dipped her finger in the saucepan and licked it.

  “No, you can’t. He’s a priest, our curate. He’s only just arrived; he’s hardly had time to settle in.”

  “And he’s celibate,” said Gabs helpfully.

  “And he’s celibate. Besides — oh, Gabs — he’s so young!”

  “Yes, isn’t he?” Gabs grinned. “Bloody gorgeous, too.”

  “Gabs, this isn’t a game. You can’t do this to him. It isn’t fair.”

  “I’m not doing anything to him,” Gabs said. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “How did you meet him? You never come to church.”

  “He sat in on one of Father Cuthbert’s meetings once. Heaven knows why. Probably some mad idea of the bishop’s. Anyway, I’ve seen him around, and we nodded to each other. Then I bumped into him in Boots the other morning, and I just knew.”

  “But you don’t know him at all.”

  “Maybe not. But I intend to.”

  “Have you even spoken to him?”

  “I asked him the time.”

  “How original.”

  “Steph, don’t try to be sarcastic. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “You can’t suddenly decide you’re in love when you barely know the other person. It’s ridiculous!”

  “Ah, but I know men. I’m a very good judge of men. And trust me, Steph, this one is special.”

  “I know he’s special,” Steph wailed. “We all think he’s wonderful. So please, Gabs, keep your hands off him. For my sake, if not for his.”

  “I would if I could,” Gabs said, and there was genuine regret in her voice. “But he’s the one. I’m certain of it. It’s just tough that he happens to be a priest.”

  “Not tough. Off limits. Absolutely off limits.”

  “No one,” said Gabs, “is off limits.”

  “Married men are. You always said you’d never pinch another woman’s husband.”

  “True. But this is different.”

  “No, it’s not. He’s married to the church. He’s a bride of Christ.”

  “Oh please, Steph. Don’t be so pompous.”

  “I am not being pompous! It’s the truth. It’s what he’s been training for all these years. He has a vocation. But of course, you wouldn’t know anything about vocations, would you?”

  “If he decides that his vocation is the most important thing in his life, I shall certainly respect it,” Gabs said. “Don’t worry. I shan’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. That’s a promise.”

  “I don’t trust you,” Steph said. “I don’t trust you one little bit.”

  “And I don’t blame you.” Gab sighed. “I’m not sure I trust myself.”

  To be fair to Gabs, despite her words to her sister, she did try to put Father Augustine out of her mind, but as everybody knows, the harder you try not to think of something, the more it keeps edging its way back into your thoughts. As she led Gerald round on his lead, as she spanked Anthony (never Tony; always Anthony) and frolicked on a waterbed with a well-known cabinet minister, she thought of Father Augustine. His fresh young face, his clear and surprisingly deep voice, his dark hair and eyes, and (strangest of all) his transparent integrity — all of these haunted Gabs’ thoughts by day and her dreams by night. There seemed to be no getting away from him.

  “You’re not yourself today,” Gerald grumbled as he squatted on the floor barking.

  “Sorry. I’m just a bit tired.” Gabs shook herself (the dog thing seemed to be catching).

  “Do you mind if I die for the queen? That’s one of my favourites.”

  “Go ahead,” said Gabs dreamily.

  “But you’ve got to watch,” Gerald said. “It’s not the same if you don’t watch.”

  Gabs watched.

  “And — and tickle my tummy?”

  Gabs tickled his tummy. But her heart wasn’t in it, and Gerald was upset.

  “I’ve paid extra for today, and it’s n
ot — I’m not —”

  “Getting your money’s worth?”

  “Well, yes. I mean, you’re very good and everything, and I don’t know anyone else who’d do what you do, but still…”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Gabs smiled and patted his head. “Come on, then, good dog. Good dog, Gerald. Walkies? Shall we go for nice walkies?”

  “That’s better.” Gerald beamed. “I’ll go and fetch my lead.”

  On her way home, Gabs told herself that Steph was right. She was being ridiculous. She hardly knew Father Augustine, and besides, there were lots of other men out there. She should know. If Steph was annoyed that she had “picked on” a Catholic priest, Gabs was even more so. Of all the men she’d come across — many of them very nice, intelligent, presentable — why this one? What was it about him that she found so irresistible? After a long, honest look at her feelings, Gabs decided it was largely due to his unavailability that Father Augustine’s charms outshone those of any other man she’d met. Those men she came across were mostly by definition available, at least for most purposes, and if she was honest, Gabs had to admit that there was a part of her that despised them for that. Father Augustine was different. He also represented a challenge. Gabs had never been one to turn her back on a challenge.

  But it wasn’t just Father Augustine’s lack of availability or even his physical charms that had got to her. There had been a moment at Father Cuthbert’s when she’d caught his eye, and she had been struck by something in his expression, which was a mixture of attraction and reproach. And looking away, Gabs had done something she’d hardly ever done in her life before. She had actually blushed.

  The emotion behind that blush hadn’t lasted, but the effect of Father Augustine had, and for the first time, she had a glimpse of what it might be like to bridge the gap between sexual attraction and real love, to have a relationship that was based on something more important than sex. She had had a moment’s insight into a depth of feeling between a man and a woman that was greater than anything she had known, and while up until now she had cheerfully done without it, suddenly she knew that it was the only thing that would complete her, the one experience that would make her fully a woman.

  So what should she do? Of course, she knew what she ought to do; Gabs did have a conscience even if she generally chose to disregard it. But supposing — just supposing — she had what it took to offer Father Augustine the chance to share an experience such as the one she dreamed of? Would it not be wrong to deny it to him? Of course he could well already know what it was to be in love; vows of celibacy didn’t bring any guarantees of immunity. But Gabs felt — no, she knew — that she could give him something he had never experienced before, and it wasn’t just sex, either.

  She spent several days brooding and plotting, and eventually she came up with a plan. She would start by going to Mass.

  This wasn’t easy, as she didn’t want Steph to find out, and her sister was an assiduous churchgoer. Sundays were definitely out as there were always so many people and she would be sure to be noticed. She would have to risk going on a weekday.

  The first time was a disappointment, as the service was conducted by the parish priest himself, Father Pat, a dour old Irishman with no sense of humour and a penchant for threats of hell and damnation. But a judicious phone call confirmed that the Wednesday morning Mass would be taken by Father Augustine, and so Gabs went along.

  Part of her had genuinely hoped that the attraction would have worn off, that seeing Father Augustine in his priestly robes would have a deterrent effect on her burgeoning affections, and she could forget about him and get on with her life. But of course, it had quite the opposite effect. Not to put too fine a point on it, Father Augustine looked divine. How could it be, Gabs wondered, that a man could look so enchanting, when to all intents and purposes what he was wearing was simply a long frock? Gabs had never liked men in kilts, and this wasn’t so very different, was it? It was. The robes suited Father Augustine down to the ground in every sense. Idly, Gabs wondered what he was wearing underneath. She knelt down and closed her eyes, the better to aid her imagination.

  Father Augustine conducted the service slowly and thoughtfully (Father Pat tended to race through the Mass as though it were some kind of competition), he smiled at the congregation (Father Pat rarely smiled), and he shook hands with everyone as they made their way out.

  Awaiting her turn, Gabs felt ridiculously nervous. Would Father Augustine recognise her from his visit to Father Cuthbert’s? Quite possibly not. She had removed all the rings and studs from her face, borrowed a subdued jacket of Steph’s, and was without make-up. She might just get away with it.

  The woman in front of her had some kind of problem, and it seemed that Gabs would have a lengthy wait. She wiped her sweating palms on her skirt (she must give a dry handshake) and resisted the temptation to adjust her hair. She looked up at the ceiling (red brick; the church was a modern one) and across at a statue of the Virgin Mary. She counted to ten, and then she counted backwards. And she waited.

  Finally her turn came.

  “Good morning.” Father Augustine’s handshake was firm and cool. “I haven’t seen you here before, have I?”

  Good. He hadn’t recognised her.

  “My sister’s the churchgoer,” Gabs said, as though that gave her some kind of licence to be made welcome, like borrowing someone else’s membership card. “She’s Steph.”

  “Ah. Steph.” Father Augustine smiled. “A great worker in the vineyard.”

  Gabs experienced a stab of jealousy. “I’m Gabs,” she said, resisting the temptation to say that hers was a different vineyard, with far sweeter grapes.

  “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Gabs. Shall we be seeing you again?”

  “We” rather than “I.” What a difference a single word could make. Gabs’ heart sank a little. “Oh, I expect so,” she said.

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Yes. Me too.”

  And that was that.

  Reflecting on the meeting on her way home, Gabs decided that Father Augustine seemed to be everything she had imagined, and more. It was true that his manner had been just a little cooler than she might have hoped, but presumably in his position, he had to be careful. It was more than likely that she wasn’t the only girl to have noticed his remarkable personal qualities, and he might even have had to fend off other approaches.

  But there was something else about him, something that she hadn’t noticed before. Gabs imagined that she had detected a sadness behind the smile, as though he carried some secret burden that he was attempting to conceal, and she thought that she recognised that look. It was loneliness. Father Augustine was lonely. Well, of course he was, living as he did with Father Pat and the sour-faced housekeeper, who guarded the presbytery against unnecessary visitors and untimely phone calls. It was unnatural for a young man to live like that, with no one of his own age and no fun. Fun played a big part in Gabs’ life, and she found it hard to imagine how others contrived to conduct their lives without it. Father Augustine needed some fun in his life, and who better to provide it than Gabs herself? But first, she needed a one-to-one encounter with him, and she knew just how to arrange it.

  The following Saturday, she went to confession.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she whispered, perching on the small and very uncomfortable seat provided for penitents. She could see through the gauzy partition of the confessional the outline of Father Augustine’s features, his brow resting on his hand, his eyes closed in concentration, and she wondered whether he would recognise her voice.

  “How long is it since your last confession?” he asked her.

  “Oh, ages,” said Gabs. “Absolutely ages.”

  “I see.”

  No, you don’t, Gabs thought sadly. You don’t see, and you’d be appalled if you did. There followed a short silence. Father Augustine coughed encouragingly.

  “I haven’t really come to confes
s anything,” Gabs said. “Well, not at the moment, anyway.”

  “We all have sins to confess,” said Father Augustine. “You could make your confession while you’re here, couldn’t you?” He remained silent for a few moments. “Take your time.”

  Gabs hadn’t expected this.

  “Oh, no!” she said.

  “Why not?” Father Augustine lifted his head and shifted in his seat. “Perhaps you’re struggling with your faith at the moment?”

  Gabs reckoned that more or less summed it up, but decided not to say so.

  “It’s complicated,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “I just thought — well, I thought it would be nice to get to know you a bit better.”

  “Ah.” There was a long, thoughtful pause. “And why is that?”

  “Well, we met at — at Father Cuthbert’s a few weeks ago, and I was at Mass last week. I’m — I’m Gabs.”

  “Ah!” A different sort of “ah” this time.

  “You — you remember me?”

  “Yes, I remember you.”

  “And?”

  “What do you want me to say, Gabs?”

  “I don’t know.” This was not going the way Gabs had hoped (although she had little idea of what she had expected).

  “Well, something must have brought you here today. What is it that you want from me?”

  I want you, thought Gabs wildly. I want your body, your mind, all of you!

  “Just to have a little chat, I suppose,” she said.

  “Well, that can be arranged, of course, but not here. I’m here to hear confessions.”

  “Yes. Of course you are. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s quite all right. Would you like a blessing?”

  “Yes. Yes, please.”

  Father Augustine gave Gabs a blessing. But still she didn’t move. It was as though she had been glued to her seat.