‘And all your Christmases be white…’
James shivered again and decided that it was perhaps time to re-join the merry throng inside. He nodded to another partygoer who had come outside to smoke a pipe and wandered back into the function room.
‘There you are, Dr Armstrong!’ said Jane, spotting him as he tried to cross the edge of the dance floor. ‘We thought you had abandoned us. Come and have a dance.’ With that she dragged him into the centre of the dance floor, which the surgery staff appeared to have successfully monopolised.
James’ arms were enthusiastically waved in the air by Jane on one side and Christine on the other as Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ filled the function room. Across the floor, a reluctant Dr Slater was receiving similar assistance from two of the nurses, Sandra and Alison, who, moments earlier, had decided to join forces in an attempt to prise him off his barstool. In the corner, Ian McGarva held Lizzy, the senior dispenser, in a bear-hug of an embrace and continued to shuffle around in an uncoordinated version of the foxtrot despite the change of musical tempo. Her colleagues steadfastly ignored her facial expressions of despair, taking amusement at their own refusal to rescue her from such a predicament. Of Richard Carey and Jackie, there was no sign.
And so the evening wore on, each new song being tackled with appropriate gusto and few signs of diminished stamina from the staff as they went through their paces with an almost fanatical dedication. Handbags cluttered the centre of the floor and most of the women danced in stocking-clad feet, their shoes long abandoned.
The announcement that ‘Auld Lang Syne’ was about to be played resulted in Charles Hawkins being roused from his slumbers, as well as effecting the almost nonchalant re-appearance of Jackie and Richard Carey.
‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot…’
Arms linked, everyone battled their way through the refrains in the time-honoured way, the fact that few understood what they were singing not seeming to make the slightest difference.
‘We’ll tak a cup o’kindness yet…’
Much to his surprise, James found himself giving voice to the ancient words with as much enthusiasm as everyone else, the smiles on the faces around him infecting him with the communal sense of bonhomie.
‘For auld lang syne.’
With the completion of the final chorus, arms were unlinked and people started to drift from the dance floor. James cast a glance at his watch: seven minutes to twelve. The coach was due at midnight. In the background, ‘Lady in Red’ started to play. On hearing it, several couples stayed on the floor to make the most of the final slow dance. James turned to head towards the exit and, in doing so, came face to face with Anna.
‘I think this one is mine?’ she said, her voice as soft as ever, her blue eyes, for the second time that evening, meeting James’ gaze with a gleaming intensity as though defying him to deny her this simple request.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ replied James, returning her gaze and acknowledging her invitation with a slight bow of his head. Taking her right hand, he placed an arm gently around her waist and stepped off into the familiar steps of a slow foxtrot, as Chris de Burgh danced with his ‘Lady in Red’.
Anna moved her right hand onto James’ shoulder, her body closing in to his. He responded by holding her more tightly to him and she nestled her head into the side of his neck. With wisps of her long, fair hair falling across his face, he breathed her gentle perfume as they swayed to the rhythm of the music.
The song’s lyrics were seductive, and he was unprepared for the powerful emotions that started inside his chest and then flowed through the rest of him. It was a desire like none other he had experienced. A longing; a tenderness even, directed towards the woman he now held in his arms. A raw mesmerising desire directed towards someone who was not his.
As the music faded their heads turned and their lips met and held as though confirming the unspoken longing in each other’s heart, the echoing words of the song saying all that was needed.
‘Are you two lovebirds coming with us?’ Tom Slater’s voice cut through their reverie.
Slowly, ignoring Tom’s entreaty, their lips parted and their eyes absorbed each other’s gaze.
‘Thank you,’ Anna whispered.
‘The pleasure was mine.’ James’ reply was almost inaudible; his heart pounding and his eyes still firmly focused on hers. He wanted to savour this moment. To remember every detail. This, the first time anyone had filled him with a yearning so great that he truly felt his heart might burst with the intensity of it. He wanted to be able to resurrect this in his mind whenever he wanted to.
‘Hurry up, you two, the coach is waiting.’ Again, Tom’s voice urged them on. ‘Yes, sorry, on our way,’ James called back. Then to Anna, ‘I think we ought to go.’
‘If we must. I was just beginning to enjoy myself.’ Anna smiled and linked her arm into James’. ‘I need to collect my coat.’
They moved into the foyer where he helped place her coat around her shoulders before opening the door to the night air and the waiting coach. On board, Anna walked to the rear where two seats remained empty. James watched her go. It was tempting to join her, but something internally restrained him. Instead, he pulled down the spare seat normally reserved for tour guides and started to engage the driver in conversation.
* * *
Once back in Bishopsworth the coach made several stops as it made its way through the outskirts of the town, allowing people off at points closer to their homes. Anna was one of the first to leave, giving James little more than a sideways glance as she passed him. He watched her go, once more feeling his chest tighten as he reflected on what an unexpected evening it had turned out to be.
Once at the surgery, the remainder of the staff disembarked and made their own way home in groups of two or three.
‘Goodnight, Dr Armstrong,’ Sandra called, as she crossed the road to her car.
‘Goodnight, Sandra. Goodnight, Lizzie.’
‘Bye. See you in the morning.’
‘Bye, Christine.’
The chorus continued back and forth as the various members of the group dispersed.
James stood for a moment and watched them go.
‘Quite an evening, James. Spirited lot. I think you’ve made your mark there.’ Tom Slater paused to light a cigarette, flicking the spent match into the gutter. He deeply inhaled and continued. ‘You know Anna’s married, don’t you?’ His words were accompanied by a faint wisp of smoke.
‘So am I, Tom. So am I. Tonight was just being part of the party.’
‘Not from where I sat, James. Seen it all before. Bought the tee shirt a few times. Just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.’
‘There’s no need to be concerned on my account, Tom. But thanks for your advice all the same.’
‘Forget it. No more said. I had better be getting Dr Finlay there off home before his wife sends out a search party.’ Tom gestured towards his Volvo, where Ian McGarva was sitting in the passenger seat, his head to one side, eyes closed, mouth wide open. Even from across the car park, it was clear that he was snoring.
James grinned at the sight of the senior partner.
‘Quite the John Travolta, isn’t he?’
‘He likes to think so. I don’t think the women see it that way, but he makes them laugh.’ Tom threw the butt of his cigarette onto the path, a small shower of sparks issuing from it before it lay smouldering.
‘Goodnight then, James.’ ‘Goodnight, Tom.’
He watched as Tom secured a seatbelt around Ian’s slumbering form, started the Volvo and turned out of the car park. Then, alone, he ambled through the narrow streets, yet again relishing the crispness of the cold night air.
The market place, now deserted, was like an empty stage, the cast long since having taken their curtain call following that evening’s performance. He looked up towards the dark windows of his flat and paused. The words of John Ruskin, which he had read earlier that evening, now returned to
trip easily off his tongue as though they were part of a Shakespearian play.
‘When we begin to be concerned with the energies of man, we find ourselves instantly dealing with a double creature. Most part of his being seems to have a fictitious counterpart, which it is at his peril if he do not cast off and deny. Thus he has a true and false faith, a true and a false hope, a true and a false charity and a true and a false life.’
He paused before asking the silent window, ‘Am I still a spectator or have I become an actor within my own play?’ as though expecting a reply from his alter ego as it leant against the window frame observing him from on high. He shrugged. ‘I guess I shall have to wait until the next Act to find out.’
Taking a key from his pocket, he crossed the market place and entered the narrow alley leading to the rear of the shops where the entrance to the flats was concealed. There he paused again, this time looking questioningly at the now overcast sky.
‘Or do I have any say in how it is written?’ he asked aloud, his eyes roving the clouds for signs of a possible answer.
10
Barminster, East Yorkshire
December
Christmas Day 1990 fell on a Tuesday. It started with a dry, overcast morning; a brisk easterly wind lending a significant chill factor to the northeast coast of England.
James had risen early, showered, dressed and was now sitting in his favourite pew at St Peter’s Church, Barminster, for the service described in the Parish magazine as a ‘Family Eucharist’.
First irony of the day, thought James as he glanced at the empty space next to him, Janice having declined to accompany him. He looked around the half-empty church. The congregation was predominantly composed of couples or families. Children of all ages had accompanied their parents, bribed into attendance by the ability to bring their favourite present with them. Scattered between them all were a few solitary, elderly individuals who he knew to be either widows or widowers. They were in church on that particular morning, as much for the contact with other human beings as to pay homage to the Lord on his birthday. James felt the loneliness of those who lived alone. It can be lonely enough for some of us who still have a spouse alive, his thoughts continued ruefully. For most of the year, he did not mind attending church on his own. However, his solitariness on Christmas Day did seem to render his marital situation even more poignant than was usually the case.
The smell of incense brought his attention back to the service. James stood and watched the Reverend Ewing pass the thurible to an altar boy before turning with upturned palms to the congregation, announcing:
‘The Holy Gospel is written in the first Chapter of the book of St John, beginning at the first verse.’
James bowed reverently as the prescribed Gospel for Christmas Day was read aloud.
‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through Him…’
James closed his eyes, the better to absorb the sound of the Holy Scripture. It was familiar territory and the words brought great comfort. Just the act of listening to them spiritually recharged him and helped to restore a sense of inner peace.
‘In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness had not overcome it.’
He knew he needed God’s help to find the strength to persevere with his relationship with Janice. He needed God’s light to shine in the darkness of his own life. Perhaps even more so now after his revelatory experience at the staff Christmas party. The almost electric sense of passion between Anna and himself had filled him with unease. Over the past week, he was troubled by his inability to remove the thoughts of that evening from his mind. The memory was insidious. During any quiet moments of his day, it came seeping back like a tide refusing to ebb. When he closed his eyes at night his mind was instantly filled with vivid flashbacks: the intensity of her blue eyes, the softness of her voice, the feel of her hand on his shoulder, that kiss…
‘And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth.’
For the second time that morning his attention had wandered off the contents of the service. That also troubled him. Normally he was so absorbed in the liturgy that little could distract him.
‘This is the Word of the Lord,’ the vicar continued.
‘Thanks be to God,’ responded James along with the rest of the congregation.
He forced his attention on the remainder of the service, partaking of the Communion with a more focused mind and singing the traditional carols with a modicum of enthusiasm. After the Blessing he remained seated as the organist gave a fine rendition of a Toccata and Fugue by Bach. Then, as the final refrain echoed around the vaulted roof, he rose, bowed to the altar and joined the flow of parishioners towards the west door.
‘Good morning, Mrs Moorhouse,’ he said, recognising the somewhat rotund little woman standing next to him in the aisle. Mrs Moorhouse had been a patient of his whilst he had been working in the training practice in Barminster.
* * *
‘Why, if it isn’t Dr Armstrong! Good morning to you,’ replied the butcher’s wife, turning to see who had spoken. ‘How are you getting on in your new practice? We all miss you here, you know!’
‘Very well, thank you. It is not unlike being in Barminster, except that the patients are not quite as nice as those I was used to here,’ said James, returning the compliment with a smile. ‘Oh, you always did flatter us.’ She blushed as she spoke, a matter that James had always found amusing. At the age of sixty-two, Mrs Moorhouse clearly continued to have the mind of a much younger woman. ‘Are you all on your own today?’ she continued, glancing round.
‘Yes, sadly, I am. My wife has stayed at home.’
‘I do hope she is not too unwell?’ Mrs Moorhouse’s assumption that only illness would keep a wife from being together with her husband in church on Christmas morning was typical of her Christian belief in the sanctity of marriage. She had strong ideas as to how relationships were supposed to work.
‘Eh, no, thank you for your concern. Nothing which nature cannot cope with,’ James replied evasively, not wishing to expand on that particular line of discussion. ‘Good morning, Mr Moorhouse,’ he called across the aisle to her husband.
‘Top of the morning to you too, Doctor,’ the equally rotund spouse replied. His reddened face suggested that he was looking forward to removing the rather tight suit and collar his wife had made him squeeze into for the morning service.
Whilst speaking, they had almost reached the west door of the church. James excused himself from the Moorhouses and walked between the rear pews. There was a personal matter he wanted to attend to before departing.
To the left of the doors was an old iron stand upon which half a dozen or so candles were burning. Placing a 50p coin in the nearby collection box, he selected a new votive candle and carefully lit it from one of those already alight. Placing it firmly into a holder in the centre of the stand, he stood and watched its flickering yellow flame.
‘Lord, I light this candle from the light of someone who has come in your name before me. I offer it as a piece of my own spirit that it may act as a statement of my re-affirmation of the vows once made to be true to your teachings within my daily life and, most importantly at this troubled time of my life, of the marital vows once made to Janice. I pray that by doing so, your own light will continue to burn within me, that my actions may remain true and honest, and that the light of those actions will in turn bring light and peace to all those within my life. Amen.’
James’ lips moved slowly as he spoke, his voice almost inaudible as he found the words of his prayer. He crossed himself and stood silently for a few moments more, his eyes focused on the flame of his candle. Finally, he walked over to the west door and squeezed behind the last group of parishioners in an attempt to slip out without the need for further conversation.
‘Happy Christmas, James.’ The vicar’s voic
e carried over their heads just as he was about to exit. He paused, looked back and raised his hand in acknowledgement.
‘Happy Christmas, Michael,’ he re-joined. Whatever that means in reality, he thought to himself as he set out on the short walk home.
* * *
‘Good service?’
The question could not have been more casual than if he had just been to see a new blockbuster at the local cinema.
James closed the front door and started to unbutton his coat. In front of the window stood a small tinsel tree, the multi-coloured lights doing their best to bring some gaiety into the room. At its base lay several presents, all neatly wrapped: evidence of the commercial distraction of the day’s great festival away from its spiritual significance.
‘Yes, it was a good service,’ he replied, doing his best to ignore the pungent smell of air freshener. Today was not the day for such battles.
Janice sat in an armchair with her back towards the door. She neither looked up nor attempted to rise to greet him. Her fingers continued to flick through the Christmas edition of the Radio Times as she spoke.
‘Mum rang. They’ve had some snow in Shropshire and may not make it here tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I am sorry. Another time perhaps?’ replied James, quietly relieved that Boxing Day was not going to be spent trying to make conversation for hours on end with two people with whom, try as he might, he could find very little in common. He draped his coat over the stair bannister post and walked across to the second armchair.
Janice looked up and eyed him suspiciously.
‘You might at least make it sound as though you actually mean it, James. You are not sorry at all. I know you don’t want them here. You never have liked my family.’
‘Janice, not now. Not today of all days. Of course I want them here if it will make you happy. Let’s put our differences to one side, eh? Can we not at least try to have a pleasant Christmas Day together?’
Janice closed the Radio Times and dropped it onto the floor next to her chair. ‘Lunch is booked for one-thirty. I’ll drive,’ she said, changing the subject.
Lamplight in the Shadows Page 9