The Benefits of Passion

by Catherine Fox

  The hymn ended and the procession arrived at the front.

  ‘The Lord be with you,’ said a polite disembodied voice from a speaker on a nearby pillar. Isabella craned her neck. The Bishop.

  ‘And also with you,’ rumbled the congregation.

  Then the Bishop said a prayer. Everyone sat for a reading. Isabella’s mind wandered to the subject of bishops in general. This one was a pleasant surprise. The ones you usually saw on television were either wintry or unctuous. They waved their hands around and chopped the air while they spoke. They wore horrible glasses with heavy black tops to the frames. Surely in this image-conscious age the Church should have an Episcopal Eyewear Advisory Committee? And a good haircut should be compulsory. No more draping of bald patches. Closet slapheads must be outed.

  Whoops! Everyone was standing again. A psalm, followed by another reading. Isabella began to get bored. The sermon was a wash-out. The PA system seemed to have taken against the preacher’s voice and bestowed on him a sharp British Rail announcement echo. A reference to a wireless operator was distinguishable, but little else.

  They stood for the Creed. After a few sentences Isabella began to mumble. Then she fell silent. She couldn’t in honesty say she believed in all this. She gazed up at the vaults and felt tiny, like some kind of insect that had scuttled in. Perhaps God would simply sweep her back out again. A nasty sense of unworthiness crept over her. No right-minded deity would give her the time of day. What was she, after all? Just a silly undergraduate who thought about nothing but sex, and squandered wicked sums on clothes when two-thirds of the world went to bed hungry. She bowed her head and looked down at her empty pleading gloves.

  If there’s anyone there, then I’m sorry. I want to be different. I want to be . . . good. Worthy. She broke off. The words seemed clumsy. She couldn’t express the longing she felt. But as she stood helpless a voice seemed to speak:

  You’re accepted.

  Her heart jumped. Me? How could she be? She felt so completely unacceptable. But the words wouldn’t go away. You’re accepted. Then Isabella felt a wild yelp of jubilation welling up inside her. She bit her lips. Yodelling for joy was probably not the done thing in cathedrals. The Creed ended and everyone sat down. She felt as though she had looked at the finals results board and seen her name up among the firsts when she knew she should have failed. I don’t believe it. I’ve gone and got myself converted.

  Annie looked at what she had written. She had planned to put so much more into this chapter, to produce a conversion scene that would move the reader to tears of repentance. But how can I? How can I sit there writing about grace and conversion when I’m planning to fly in the face of God’s law? A Bible verse rose up to accuse her: The works of the flesh are plain: fornication, impurity, licentiousness . . . Those who do such things will never enter the kingdom of God. I’ll finish it later, she promised. I’ll come back to it when I’m in a better frame of mind.

  The final hymn ended and the cathedral began to hum with excited chatter. New priests and deacons were reunited with friends and family. Everyone was pressing towards the exits. Isabella stood on tiptoe, hoping to catch sight of Barney.

  ‘There he is,’ called a sister. ‘Yoohoo! Barney-boy!’ He was waving from the steps near the door in a black shirt and dog-collar. Eventually they reached him. Isabella stood on the sidelines while he was hugged and congratulated and slapped on the back.

  ‘Well, well, well. Not bad, son. Not bad at all, eh?’ said his father, rubbing his hands together. ‘You’ll have to behave yourself from now on. There’ll be no more –’ A hiss from his wife silenced him.

  ‘When do you get a purple shirt, then?’ asked a brother-in-law.

  ‘When pigs fly,’ said a sister. ‘Look at you, Barney! You’ve got dandruff. And your hair’s falling out.’ She flapped at his shoulders.

  ‘Leave the poor bugger alone,’ his father protested.

  Barney pushed his sisters aside and reached Isabella.

  ‘Thank you for coming.’

  He kissed her cheek and she stifled a giggle. It felt odd to be kissed by a man in a dog-collar. She couldn’t quite take him seriously. It was like seeing a well-known actor miscast in a bad film. ‘You look like something off The Thorn Birds,’ she said.

  ‘Except he’s not good-looking,’ said his sisters.

  Isabella frowned. They treated him like a little brother who must be squashed and kept in his place. They were nearing the Bishop now as he stood greeting people just outside the cathedral.

  ‘Hello, Barnaby,’ he said, as they shook hands. Barney’s family were all introduced. Isabella felt overlooked.

  ‘And this is Isabella,’ he said at last, not adding ‘my girlfriend’, or even ‘a friend of mine from Cambridge’.

  ‘Hello. I’m his concubine,’ said Isabella, shaking the Bishop’s hand and giving him a dazzling smile. Barney covered his face in despair. ‘I think you’re wonderful, by the way. Not at all like a bishop.’

  ‘Er, thank you,’ replied the Bishop.

  Isabella felt Barney grip her elbow and steer her away. ‘’Bye,’ she called.

  The Bishop smiled and turned to the next group.

  ‘Well,’ said Barney as they walked off. ‘There go my chances of an early preferment.’

  ‘Are you mad at me?’ He smiled down at her. The bells were pealing, the sound tumbling joyfully down around them. Before Barney could reply he was told to hurry it up by an impatient sister.

  What a weird day, thought Isabella in the train on the way home. Strange to see Barney in two new lights: as a clergyman and as a member of the Hardstaff family. If only they’d had more time together. She wasn’t used to sharing him like this. He’d had dozens of people to talk to over lunch. The afternoon sped by, and in no time it was Evensong. After that there had been a bunfight in the church hall with Barney endlessly circulating and being charming to grey-haired women in nylon jersey dresses. A horrible sense of foreboding seized her: if she married Barney then this could be the first of many such occasions for her. Her eyes rested in dismay on the vicar’s wife with her pageboy haircut and fifteen-year-old Laura Ashley smock. I’d have to kill myself! She clutched her plate of quiche and crisps. Barney caught her eye across the crowd in front of the urn and smiled. Why couldn’t you be a merchant banker, for God’s sake? Or a farmer, even, like your father.

  ‘I’m just running Isabella to the station,’ Barney had said, when it was finally all over.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said his father, eyebrows waggling. His wife cuffed him. ‘I’ve said nothing!’ he protested.

  ‘I think God spoke to me in the cathedral,’ said Isabella, as they drove off in Barney’s new and disappointingly staid car. ‘Do you think that’s possible?’

  ‘What did he say?’ She explained. ‘Yes. Sounds like God.’

  ‘I think I might have been . . . converted. Or something.’ It occurred to her that he might expect some evidence, some alteration in her behaviour. She glanced back through the day and saw herself vamping the Bishop and despising the vicar’s wife. Hmm. Barney took one of her hands in his and kissed it.

  ‘Good.’ They drove the rest of the way in silence.

  ‘I know I’m not perfect,’ she gabbled on the platform, ‘but I’ll change. I’ll –’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ he said. ‘It’s God’s job not yours. And it’s a slow process. A lifetime’s work.’

  ‘Really?’

  He grinned. ‘Well, he’s been working on me for about eight years and I’m still a bastard.’

  ‘You aren’t! I won’t let you say that.’ The train was approaching.

  ‘Isabella, you’ve got no idea.’

  ‘Yes I have. I’m a world expert on men. I know a bastard when I see one.’

  But he only smiled and shook his head at her.

  CHAPTER 12

  Annie stared at the page. Christus Victor. Penal substitution. Redeemer. Messiah. Second Adam. She sketched some arrows between these i
deas, hoping that this would trick the long-awaited essay framework into appearing. The Bridge Illustration drifted into her mind, GOD and MAN divided by SIN. All the fault of WOMAN, of course. Eve and the fruit of the tree. Annie reached for a book and turned to a passage she had marked earlier, where one of the early fathers roundly blamed Eve (and, by association, all women) for the death of Christ. ‘You are the devil’s gateway,’ she read. That sounded familiar. She remembered with a jolt of surprise that it was what William had called her. A different man – Ingram, say – would have added casually, ‘Tertullian, by the way.’ William hadn’t cared that his erudition went unremarked, or that she might think he was expressing his own misogynist views.

  She’d be seeing him in a couple of hours. The passage of time always amazed her. Here she was standing on one bank looking across. That evening she’d be on the other side looking back. What would it be like, that icy tide in between? Did Eve circle round the tree, eyeing the fruit, knowing it was inevitable that one day her hand would reach out, her lips taste, and that she would know at last?

  The train crossed the Tyne and drew into Newcastle. Annie clamped her arms tightly round herself. She hadn’t felt this sick with nerves since her Cambridge interview when she was eighteen. She wanted to curl up under the seat and stay on the train till Edinburgh. Why hadn’t she rung him and said she’d changed her mind?

  He wasn’t on the platform. A dozen fears fluttered about in her head. What if he’d changed his mind? What if she’d got the wrong day or time? People surged past her. An announcement echoed. She would have to wait. But for how long? She began crossing the footbridge. What if he never came? But then she caught sight of him on the concourse. For a few seconds she was able to watch him from above. He made a dramatic impression in his long black coat, scowling, shifting impatiently from foot to foot, glancing at his watch. It dawned on her that he might be as nervous as she was. She hurried down.

  ‘Annie!’ His face lit up. ‘You came.’

  ‘Well, I said I would.’

  ‘You could have stood me up. Something tells me I deserved it.’

  ‘A little voice inside you?’ she asked. ‘We call it “conscience” in the trade.’

  He gave her a nasty look. ‘I won’t ask what state your conscience is in.’ She blushed. ‘Come on.’ She had to trot to keep up with him as he headed for the car park. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘I tried to.’

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Terrified.’

  He tossed his keys into the air and caught them with a grin. ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘Um . . .’

  He unlocked the door for her and she got in. ‘The moors? The coast? Say something. Choose.’

  ‘Whichever’s easiest.’

  ‘Right. The coast.’ He slammed the door. She cringed down into her coat, knowing her feebleness provoked him.

  ‘Look,’ she tried, ‘sorry I’m being –’

  ‘Stop apologizing,’ he interrupted.

  ‘Sorr –’ Help! She clamped her mouth shut.

  He started the car and pulled out of the station. It was raining heavily. She glanced at his profile as he drove, but couldn’t decide whether he was angry or amused. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. Before long they were out of Newcastle and heading for the coast. The weather worsened. Annie watched as the windscreen wipers thrashed backwards and forwards. Dared she talk about the weather? She was starting to giggle.

  ‘Just look at it,’ she said.

  ‘Mm. Don’t you love it?’ She glanced again, doubted, and said nothing. ‘Well? Do you love it, yes or no, for God’s sake?’

  ‘The rain?’

  ‘Yes, of course the rain.’ His tone accused her of smuttiness. She looked out of her window to hide a smile. Would they ever achieve a straightforward conversation? The rain slashed across the window as she gazed out.

  ‘Um . . . No. I don’t. Didn’t you mention a tea-shop with an open fire?’

  ‘Too late.’ His fingers drummed on the steering wheel in time with the rain.

  ‘Do you love it?’

  He flared his nostrils at her. ‘God, yes.’

  She bit her lips. He’s mad, she decided. There’s no point trying to understand or placate him. What if – daring thought – she was just herself, like the agony aunts in women’s magazines always recommended? Just be yourself. It had always struck her as dangerous advice. He was whistling through his teeth, something jaunty and baroque-sounding. I bet he’s itching to put the radio on. Edward would be chemically bonded to the television by now.

  ‘Do listen to the rugby, if you want to,’ she said.

  He chuckled. ‘Kick-off’s not till three.’ He smothered a yawn. ‘Sorry. Two a.m. call out last night. Always buggers me up.’

  ‘Anything serious?’

  ‘Yeah. She should’ve gone straight to Casualty really, but she wanted to see me because I’m so kind and understanding.’ He slid her a look. ‘Hard to credit, hmm?’

  ‘Er . . . what was wrong with her?’

  ‘Broken nose. Concussion. Classic symptoms of a congenital tendency to walk into doorframes.’

  ‘Is that congenital?’ asked Annie, in surprise.

  ‘No. Well, only in the sense that women with violent fathers tend to pick violent partners.’ He saw her puzzled expression. ‘Her man beat her up.’

  ‘Oh! Will she leave him?’

  ‘No. The flat’s in her name. Everything’s in the woman’s name in that bit of town. All the benefits, and so on. They’ve got the power. The men just run around doing the shagging.’

  ‘And the beating up.’

  ‘Yes – because they’re emasculated. Don’t think I’m condoning it,’ he added. ‘It’s what the system does to people.’

  ‘She could throw him out,’ said Annie, hoping to avert a political tirade.

  ‘Another woman would take him in. Look. There’s the sea.’

  Annie stared at the grey stripe low on the horizon. She was depressed by Will’s bleak view of society. He parked the car. The rain spattered on the windscreen in the silence. They got out and she heard the waves booming on the shore. Cold rain lashed her face.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted, above the wind. They ran hand in hand down the steps and staggered across the sand. He was laughing out loud.

  He really does love it. ‘You’re mad!’ The wind tossed her words away.

  He flung his arms wide and shouted, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

  Another wave crashed in and he sprinted to meet it. She watched him down at the water’s edge conducting the storm. For a moment it looked as though he really was calling up wave after wave, a demon impresario with the elements at his bidding, his long black coat swirling in the wind. She envied him his total abandon. He was gesturing her to join him. She went as far as she dared. A wave raced at her and she danced out of its path.

  ‘I’ll get wet.’ He strode towards her. The sea was foaming round his feet. ‘No!’

  But he reached out and pulled her to him. Icy water seeped into her boots. He began kissing her. Cold lips, hot tongue. She clung to him, feeling the shore sliding under her and the sea booming in her head. Another wave surged in, drenching them to their knees. Annie screamed. He dragged her higher up the beach, laughing. The sea chased them.

  ‘Yes! It’s coming in, Annie.’

  ‘I know!’ she wailed. ‘Now I see why the Northumbrian saints used to stand in it to mortify the flesh.’ He was kissing her again, salt on his lips, icy hand undoing her jeans. She squealed.

  ‘Stand still.’

  ‘Someone will see!’ A sea gull screamed on the wind. ‘Does it feel weird doing this without gloves on, Doctor?’ she asked. ‘O-oh ah!’

  ‘Stop thinking and start feeling.’

  But I’m feeling too much already. She tried to fight it back but it rose as swiftly as the tide. ‘At least kiss me,’ she pleaded.

  He laughed. ‘I want to watch your face.’

  She was burning up
like a heretic saint, martyred on his icy fingers. Help! Think about something else. Seven times table. Seven sevens are . . . Am I the first woman in history trying to fake not having an orgasm? Forty-nine!

  ‘Mm-ah!’

  ‘Bloody hell. I’ve hardly started.’

  ‘Sorry.’ They stared at one another in surprise.

  ‘Are you always like this?’ He sounded almost annoyed.

  ‘No. Not . . . It’s you, not me.’ Some expression flickered in his green eyes. She shivered. Her feet ached with cold.

  ‘My God, Annie. What are we standing here for? Let’s get back.’ He grabbed her hand and ran with her to the car.

  They drove in silence. Annie hugged herself and shuddered. Whatever must he think of me? And they were speeding to his house for more. Underwear doubts assailed her. Her knickers had looked all right in Coverdale, but how would they seem against his (doubtless) pure white Egyptian cotton sheets? Then a worse thought occurred.

  ‘Um . . . I’m not on the pill, or anything . . .’

  ‘Actually, honey child, down here on planet Earth we all use condoms these days.’

  They lapsed back into silence. Annie began to wish they would crash or that the Second Coming would take place before they got back to Bishopside.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m still nervous.’

  ‘You’re nervous. What about me, for Christ’s sake? You’re only the instrument. I’m supposed to be the maestro.’

  Well, if his bowing was on a par with his fingerwork she could look forward to a virtuoso performance.

  ‘Are you laughing at me?’ he asked.