On that particular afternoon, he stood on the northern edge of Lincolnshire looking across the Humber River towards the southern boundary of East Yorkshire and wondered at how the geography so closely reflected the topography of his current life. Two counties separated by the wide expanse of the waters of the Humber but loosely held together by the thin ribbon of the Humber Bridge. In his mind, he pictured Bishopsworth and Barminster, two market towns in two different counties. The two very distinct halves of his existence. In one was his medical practice, in the other his marriage and home. The Humber Bridge once again served as the physical connection between the two. But how tenuous, he wondered, is the spiritual link that bonds them together?
He sat down on the grassy bank. As he did so, his mind slipped into neutral, as though refusing to accept the difficult psychological terrain it was asked to negotiate. Instead, he watched as a small yacht languidly tacked across the grey waters. A flock of waders fed at the very edge of the mudflats, their feathers giving off flashes of white as they moved in the bright sunshine. They were too far away for James to positively identify them. He lay back on the grass and stared at the clear blue sky. Why could life not be this simple all the time? No stress, no uncertainties, no difficult decisions, and no conflict of desires. Just a harmonious, peaceful existence. Such, perhaps, was the substance of a monastic existence, he pondered. Maybe the religious brothers had the right answer: cloistered away from the secular world, devoted to the worship of God. He smiled. A life of celibacy? No, that was not his ideal way of life either.
* * *
‘No.’
It was an evening in early July and they were sitting in the small back garden of their house in Barminster. The air was warm and, despite the time being near to nine o’clock, bees were still humming around the flower borders.
Although the answer was that which he had come to expect, the rejection of his latest proposition was perhaps the hardest to understand. He knew that Janice had some annual leave available to her. With that in mind, he had voiced the belief that a week off within the summer would be good for them both. It was a belief unshared.
‘If we are not going abroad, then I want to save my leave until Christmas.’
‘And spend it in Shropshire with your family?’ The very thought made James inwardly cringe.
‘Yes.’
James watched the glowing tip of her cigarette change from orange to red as she drew deeply on it, the ash on the end considerably lengthening in the process.
‘But we could spend the time together – just the two of us – whilst the weather is good. We can look at a few of the local attractions that we haven’t yet found the time to tackle. We keep promising ourselves that we will go to them.’
‘Such as?’ A long plume of bluish-grey smoke followed the question as, with lips pursed, she exhaled into the evening air.
‘I don’t know offhand, there are so many; we could decide on the detail later. The point is that some quality time together might do us both good.’
‘I’d rather go abroad.’
‘To simply lie on a beach for a week.’ It was a statement, not a question. Janice answered, nonetheless.
‘Yes.’
‘Which is hardly exciting.’
‘Neither is your idea of walking around lots of ruins.’
‘Oh come on. Archaeology is fascinating if you allow it to be. With a bit of imagination you can really bring the past to life.’
‘Maybe it works for you. I would prefer the beach.’
He studied her half-turned back, noting the crossed legs and left arm held across her body. It was becoming her habitual posture when in his company. Only the cigarette in her right hand kept her from tightly folding her arms. Just what would Freud make of this?
‘Ok, I accept that. Nevertheless, why are we arguing about something that is not going to happen this year? We decided months ago that we are not going abroad this August. Let’s just take a week and tour some of the places in England we haven’t yet been to.’
‘Like some National Trust houses?’ Janice’s sneer reflected the tone of her voice. ‘They are nearly as boring as the ruins.’
‘We don’t have to. I can make many other suggestions. Why don’t you come up with a few of your own and we can put them all into the pot?’
‘Forget it, James, I’d rather go to Shropshire at Christmas.’ She flicked her cigarette stub onto the earth, where it lay smouldering.
‘But I am unable to take a whole week off from the practice at Christmas. You know that.’
‘Then I will go alone and you can join us for Christmas Day.’
‘I can’t persuade you otherwise?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I need to use my leave up sometime, so I may as well take a week in August anyway.’
‘Do as you like, I’m not particularly bothered,’ she replied, taking another cigarette from the packet beside her.
A dozen or so swifts flew high above their heads, their shrill calls piercing the evening calm as they hunted for insects. James followed their darting flight, fascinated by the way a slight twitch of their blade-like wings could send them sharply off in a completely different direction. He envied their freedom.
‘Do you still love me?’ It was a question he had not planned to ask. It just bubbled to the surface of his mind and flew from his tongue before he had a chance to weigh up the possible repercussions. He glanced towards Janice and waited whilst she exhaled yet another long plume of bluish smoke. Idly, part of his brain wondered whether the swifts enjoyed smoked insects, just as he enjoyed smoked salmon.
‘I think so. At least some of the time I do, and some of the time I don’t. Most of the time I don’t know what I think.’ She glanced sideways towards her husband and then, just as quickly, looked away again. ‘I suppose the answer ought to have been a simple “yes”.’
‘I always prefer an honest answer, even if the truth hurts a little.’
‘What about you? Do you still—’
From within the house, the sound of a telephone ringing interrupted her question.
‘I’ll get it.’ James stood and walked indoors, somewhat relieved at not having to find a way of answering his own question when fired back at him. Being truthful was easy, but only if he was sure of the right answer. In respect to Janice, he simply was not sure what he felt anymore. Which, so it seemed from Janice’s own reply, made two of them.
‘Dr Armstrong speaking.’ The caller’s voice was instantly recognisable. ‘Ah, hello. Yes, I will just call her. Janice, it’s…’, but there was no need as she had followed him in. She took the receiver from him, covering the mouthpiece with one hand as she did so.
‘You don’t, do you?’ The question was for James, who was now halfway back to the garden. He paused, turned and met her gaze.
‘I, eh…’
‘Hello, Mum.’ Janice did not wait for his reply. The hesitation told her enough. ‘No, you are not interrupting anything important. James and I were just playing charades. He is not very good at it. He thinks he can win, but he won’t. He just doesn’t realise it yet.’
Discomfited, James turned away and walked into the garden. Above him, the swifts continued their acrobatic display, their effortless agility leaving him with an even greater sense of inadequacy.
* * *
The summer of 1991 continued. A personal cold war privately played out on the backdrop of a public demonstration of domestic harmony. The subject of their personal feelings for each other was not raised again. Both now knew how the other felt and that was where it was left. A case of stalemate in the great chess game of their marital life. In fact, that brief evening’s discussion, if indeed it could be called as much, led to a new level of understanding in which neither party was inclined to alter the status quo. It was though the tension of the unknown had been released, allowing them to get on with the mundane process of daily living. What little interaction there was occurred in a polite, albeit reserved manner, rath
er like two hotel guests under the same roof. Although it was not stated, they both suspected that their relationship was becoming a marriage of convenience, with neither one of them being motivated to change.
15
Autumn
‘It has been almost two years since we first met. What are your true feelings at present, James?’
‘I am not very sure anymore. I feel so unsettled; so unfocused. I used to be so certain of everything. I knew what I stood for and where I was. I was so clear about where I was heading. Now everything is just a muddle. My whole life seems to have inexplicably become one big confusion. It is as though my head can no longer think straight. I just feel, well, bewildered, I guess.’
Outside, distant thunder rolled around the grey-laden skies. After a few weeks of late summer sunshine, with temperatures hovering around 26°C, the weather had finally broken. James watched as the heavy rain pounded the last remnants of flowers in the herbaceous border, his view semi-obscured by the curtain of water running down the glass of the doors leading into the garden.
Inside, the table lamps were turned on; a necessary act even though it was only early afternoon. The soft light against the backdrop of the storm gave the study a warm, cosy feeling.
‘How did you spend the summer?’
The Archdeacon leant forward to re-light his pipe as he spoke, his words punctuated by small puffs of aromatic smoke as the tobacco started to burn. James watched him for a moment before replying.
‘Mostly at the surgery, although I did take a few odd days of leave here and there as well as one week towards the end of August.’
‘What did you do with the time?’
‘I went to the Driffield Agricultural Show in July and spent time visiting York and Lincoln in August. It was good to have some time to quietly sit and reflect; to simply absorb the detail of the Minster and Cathedral at leisure.’
‘The Driffield Show? It is some years since I went there. Are you from a farming background, James?’
‘No. However, I lived in a small village and, as a child, used to stay on farms during the summer holidays. I love the atmosphere of the agricultural shows. I suppose that, in a romantic way, they echo a lifestyle I envy: honest but satisfying toil within a rural setting.’
The Archdeacon chuckled. ‘I understand what you mean, although I am not so sure that many of the farmers would agree with your analysis these days. The reality for many is less romantic than it sounds.’
James smiled ruefully. Before he could reply, a bright flash of lightning forked across the garden, followed by a deafening crash of thunder that broke almost above the house. The rain doubled in intensity; pounding the windows, forming large puddles on the lawn and rebounding off the stone-flagged path.
The door to the study swung open with none of the usual courtesy of the Archdeacon’s housekeeper and in bounded a small chocolate Labrador. Whimpering, it tried to push its head into the space behind the Archdeacon’s feet and the bottom of his armchair. He leant down and stroked the dog’s head, offering soothing words as he did so.
‘An addition to the family?’ asked James, remembering the old golden Labrador he had seen on his previous visit.
‘No, unfortunately, a replacement. Theo died of old age about eight months ago. This is Thea, who is not quite two years old and has far more energy than I can cope with, haven’t you, girl?’ He gave the dog’s head a brisk rub and she responded by thumping her tail hard on the rug. The storm for her was now nothing more than a mere distraction.
‘Theo, from the Greek Theos, meaning God. I did not realise there was a female equivalent in Thea.’ James grinned and looked quizzically at the cleric in front of him. ‘Isn’t that a slightly pagan act for an Archdeacon?’
‘The answer to your initial statement is that you clearly need to brush up on your Greek. In response to the question, the answer is “yes”. We are all human. Each one of us has a bit of the devil in us. Otherwise, we would not need God’s forgiveness for our sins. For my part, I simply cannot resist goading our dear bishop. He rises to my provocations so quickly that it gives me hours of amusement at his expense. Very un-Christian, I am sure, but quite harmless, I assure you!’
‘I thought for one moment you were going to tell me that you are a follower of the fashion to invoke the concept of the Sacred Feminine.’
‘Oh no, James.’ He chuckled, his pipe giving little rhythmic puffs of smoke in emphasis. ‘I haven’t strayed that far from Church of England doctrine. Having a joke with the naming of my Labradors is about as far as my revolutionary zeal goes. I leave debates such as the one you are commenting upon for those reactionaries who get excited by the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls.’
Before James could reply, there came a tapping on the door and the Archdeacon’s housekeeper entered bearing a tray of tea.
‘Mrs Jennings, you are a dear. Thank you so very much. Just there will do nicely.’ He removed a copy of the Church Times from a small side table, enabling Mrs Jennings to set the tray down.
‘The tea is Earl Grey. I’ve left you some milk as well as lemon, as I wasn’t sure how Dr Armstrong prefers it.’ She gave a timid smile in the direction of James before continuing. ‘There are also a few shortbread biscuits. I made them myself, so I hope you find them to your liking.’
‘I am sure that both James and I feel quite spoilt, Mrs Jennings. You look after us very well.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace. If that will be all, I have some shopping to do once the rain subsides.’
‘Think nothing of it, Mrs Jennings. I am sure we will survive for a short while in your absence.’
Mrs Jennings stopped nervously rubbing her hands together, gave a small bow and retreated from the study. The two men’s eyes met and both smiled simultaneously.
‘You appear to be very well looked after.’
‘Mrs Jennings is an absolute dear. She has been a stalwart member of the Church for more years than I can remember. She lost her husband about six years ago and found it difficult to survive on a widow’s pension. So, when I asked her whether she would possibly know of anyone who would be interested in being my housekeeper, with a couple of rooms rent free, she positively jumped at the chance.’ He poured two cups of tea as he spoke. ‘Milk or lemon?’
‘Lemon, please.’
‘She is a stickler for formality, though,’ the Archdeacon continued, passing James a cup in the process. ‘I once suggested that she could call me by my Christian name if she so wished.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She wouldn’t hear a word of it. Became quite embarrassed, almost shocked, I would say. She told me that it would not seem proper and that she did not intend to allow others to start whispering about our relationship. All very considerate of her, of course. Hence, I return the favour by sticking to “Mrs Jennings” as a form of address in her respect.’
‘The arrangement seems to work well for you both.’
‘It does indeed, James. If it wasn’t for Mrs Jennings and Thea, then it could be a very lonely existence here on my own.’ Hearing mention of her name induced Thea to flick her tail a few times as a lazy response. ‘Loneliness can be a dreadful thing. It slowly eats into the soul and can quite destroy a man if left unchecked.’ He took a sip of tea, glancing towards James as he did so. ‘Do you ever get lonely, James?’
The question took James by surprise and he took a moment before replying.
‘I’m not really sure. I have never really thought about it. I suppose that I have so often been alone throughout many years of studying that I have become used to my own company. Why do you ask?’
‘Because you implied that the activities you undertook during your days off in the summer were undertaken alone.’
‘Did I?’ James thought back to what he had said earlier. ‘I hadn’t intended to make it sound like that.’
‘But it is the truth of the matter, is it not?’
‘Well, yes, it is. I have called it my summer of discontent.’ Ja
mes grinned sheepishly. ‘How did you know?’
‘You spoke only in the first person. Additionally, I would suggest that it is hard for anyone to “quietly sit and reflect”, as I think you put it, unless you are without the distraction of the presence of another person.’
‘That is very perceptive of you.’
‘It is part of the job of dealing with other human beings, James. People rarely come straight out with what they are really feeling. Sometimes they feel embarrassed. Quite often it is simply a fact that they do not understand the true nature of their emotions.’
‘And you think that I am lonely and do not realise it?’
‘What I think is not as important as what you think and feel.’
‘Janice didn’t want to take any leave during the summer. She preferred to save it in order to be at home with her family at Christmas.’
‘And you?’
‘I needed to use some holiday and cannot take it at Christmas.’
‘So you did your own thing, in a manner of speaking.’
‘For the reasons I have said.’
‘Do you think Janice is lonely?’
‘She has never said as much. She seems to have plenty of friends from her workplace and goes out with them fairly often.’
‘So, do you have your own set of friends or do you have some who could be termed as joint friends?’
James looked thoughtfully at the Archdeacon, who in turn remained impassively patient as he waited for the answer he felt was coming.
‘No. That is, we do not have any joint friends and I have never really felt the need for personal ones.’
‘I guessed as much. You know, we are all sometimes in need of a friend. Even the most solitary and independent of us needs at least one person to turn to from time to time. For some, their spouse is that person. However, and forgive me if I am treading on sensitive ground or have the wrong perception, I suspect that your wife does not occupy that role.’
Lamplight in the Shadows Page 13